Chasing the rasshopper
When I turned fifteen years old, I had a fierce desire to shave my head. Not because I was enthralled by the U.S. Marine commercials playing on television at the time or because I wanted to dance with the orange-robed Hare Krishnas handing out books at the entrance to Chicago’s Union Station. The truth was that I wanted to take a razor to my unkempt blond shag because I ached to be a disciple of the Shaolin priesthood. It wasn’t because I completely understood the strict discipline of those Buddhist precepts that made me want to give my life over to their religion. I was more enticed by the spirited male bonding I witnessed on the dramatized television series Kung Fu and the air of nonviolence that seemed to pervade their lives. Though I saw no proof of it, I was convinced of their covert but tangible maleto-male erotic love. And I wanted to find out for myself.