Despite his poverty, he had thickened into a burly man, a diesel-powered tank, with M-16 fingers and a grenade of a nose from which he was squeezing out the blackheads. Stringy yellow stubble grassed from his pores as he hunched over a hand mirror on the kitchen table. Sedentary suburbia had fat-armored his five-foot-three structure to two hundred pounds. Muscles shelved his shoulders, sloping to the dome mountain that was his head of baling-wire hair, a galvanized gray. His boulderish face bunched and twitched with excitement over his plot for resurrecting a Nationalist army. He wanted to overthrow the Vietnamese Communist government and reclaim what was rightly his. The Colonel looked up and commanded his proposition to me in attack terms: “SOLAR POWER!” I choked on a mouthful of spinach. My girlfriend, Trieu, and I were having our weekly dinner with her father—the Colonel—and his second wife. He puffed on his cigarette and scanned my face for reaction. I made a show of coughing on the smoke and reached to crack open the window.
What do You think about Catfish And Mandala (2011)?
