Sporkin' Around

      It's Belabour Day, and summer is officially waning.   Most people I know are often on some sort of excursion, enjoying their last gasp of fresh air before the autumn sets in.   And here I am, stuck at home with some 'glitzy' (as a friend puts it) copywriting to do, of course as the house is abustle with distraction.   You can measure my bliss with a spork.

      Alas, I missed the Van Morrison concert on Friday night.   Reading some of the reviews (like this one and this one), it sounds like I missed a professional but less-than-transcendent show, though it's obvious that the dailies seem to have sent ignoramuses to review it; I describe them as such not because of the less-than-rapturous reviews, but because they seem like idiotic tsk-tsk-tskers that expect concerts to be demonstrations of what they know of an a musician rather than expansions or reilluminations.   This blog suspects these people would have clucked in disapproval when Dylan went electric.

      Interesting bit of trivia I learned the other day: that the name "Dylan" in Welsh means, roughly, 'son of the swelling sea,' the equivalent of the Greek Oedipais, probably the original form for Oedipus ("swollen foot"), you know, he who defined the term MILF.   But Dylan as 'son of the swelling sea'? Poor Mr. Thomas never had a chance, did he? Makes one think anew of A Prospect Of The Sea.   There's your peculiar trivia for the week, courtesy a casual reglimpsing through Robert Graves' The Greek Myths (though Graves isn't always the most reliable source).

      Yes, I used MILF and Robert Graves in the same paragraph.   Call it six degrees of literary bacon.   Speaking of six degrees of cleaved bacon....

      Yes, I'm procrastinating.   Robustly.   Writing about fluid beds isn't as interesting as it may sound.   I think it was Thoreau who said that you couldn't kill time without injuring eternity.   I want to prove that as wrong as some people I know have proven that John Donne was wrong with that whole "no man is an island" bit. (Some of them may eventually be considered for Survivor locations.)

      Yesterday, in part, saw me going through scads of books that had been shunted away out-of-sight and out-of-mind like so many geriatric relatives, and rediscovering some classics I'd forgotten I had: Raymond Chandler, Christopher Isherwood, James Thurber, Francois Villion, even Margaret Drabble.   My shelves runneth over like Zell Miller's spit-valves.

      Yes, I'm now wondering if I can manage to begin every paragraph with the syllable "yes."   Molly Bloom would be proud.

      Yes, there's at last only two months or so left in the American election campaign, and there are still people who say they don't really know John Kerry at all, and that they don't know where the candidates stand on issues.   The Canadian election campaign was called and done with in less time than now remains in the American campaign.   I'm sure John Kerry's already getting ready for those long nights of dejection, getting pissed on VSOP brandy, and singing If you don't know me by now....   Dubya will celebrate by reading My Pet Swift-Boat to preschoolers with the grin of a shit-eater.   Canadians everywhere are thanking their individual deities they're not stuck with a year's worth of nattering political coverage.   Wolf Blitzer is thanking his anti-deity for the small fortune he's milked from all this.  

      Yes, I'm still procrastinating-- and blabbering.   Hey, Eternity, how ya doin' back there?

      It's time to staunch this, move on, get to work.   But I guess such a rambling, digressive post is perfect for Belabour Day.   Have a beer or ten, my readers.   Enjoy the last of the summer's slouches.   And remember those of us stuck with our sporks.