The Kids' Buffet

      And how it got here, I haven't a clue....   (But how many of them blew out their flip-flops?)

Hot Teen-On-Teen Action

      As if there weren't already enough reasons to kick the Dubster's ass right out of office, he's committed The Greatest Sin Imaginable:   he has appeared on Dr. Phil.   Check out Slate's discussion of the spectacle.   But, alas, John He'll-Kerry-A-State-If-He-Can and Tessie the Ketchup Lady will be up to the same silliness in a week.   *deep, heaving sigh of unimaginable regret*   Suddenly, Fred Clintstone's (type this very carefully, Doctor J) sax-blowing on the Arsenio Hall Show is seeming the very definition of decorum.   But then again, we know how he'd have responded to the Philistine's question about the "epidemic of oral sex."     

      (And, hark, behold: the Not-So-Good Doctor is behaving himself and resisting all temptation to joke about spreading things!   Now, tell me, how many of your hearts just stopped?)

      Word In The Ear Of Falter Johndale: Tonight, as soon as you possibly can, turn directly into the camera and say, "What this country needs is a serious discussion, and not just pious platitudes about why either of us should be elected. To allow for this discussion, Mr President, let us set aside these copiously-negotiated 'rules of debate' and simply talk about the matters plainly, clearly, and directly.   Let us talk.   Let us be more than candidates for the highest position in the land; let us be statesmen."   I guarantee you, the giant flushing sound you would hear right afterwards would be the sound of Karl Rove's bowels evacuating in panic.

Antonin, The Triple Pillar Of Salt Of The Western World

      Supreme Court Justice Antonin ("Shoot 'Em, Dick!") Scalia is out to court the college crowd, it seems.   Key quote, with a dastardly pun built-in: "I even take the position that sexual orgies eliminate social tensions and ought to be encouraged.” Oh, Tony, you card you.... No word, though, on whether or not he would encourage gay or bisexual or omnisexual or herbisexual (!) orgies, or how people should deal with the possible consequences of participating in such fleshy festivities.

      (Pause: Would you really want Justice Scalia-- take a good look at him, people; doesn't he look like James Garner after a decade on crystal meth?-- there to encourage you to take part in an orgy, probably sounding like an Italian-American Burgess Meredith shouting, "get in there, Rock, get in there!?"   I thought not.)

      (Pause again to consider the irony of Justice Scalia advocating orgies at the JFK Jr Forum.   Dare we contemplate the rocks from which we've been hewn?)

      In other judicial news, part of the Patriot Act has been struck down by a federal court judge.  

      Unconnected Post-Script: Flogger continues to be a ranklesome bitch. Methinks there are some big problems with Google, as Gmail has been just as bad of late.

How To Impress The Wife

      It's a good thing this guy wasn't married to Karla Homolka.

"Well, His Death Took Us All By Surprise...."

      This blog ain't goin' there.... (Remember: if the joke's too easy, it's really not worth it.)

One At A Time: Graham's List Of Favourite Prostitutes

      The New Yorker offers yet another review-that-isn't-really-a-review of Norman Sherry's long-awaited volume three of the life of Graham Greene. As an article it's mildly interesting (and, as with so many reconsiderations of Greene, interested almost exclusively in the books produced before 1960), but once again it seems Sherry's not being taken much to task; it seems every reviewer of late esteems him- or herself a belated obituarist.   Such reviews I invariably find frustrating because the subject text becomes little more than a platform to discuss other matters, and so the subject text becomes little more than a pretext.   This whole process seems spurious, but it's also quite typical of far too much literary criticism these days.    *sigh*

      The picture at left has no reason for being included here, except that I stumbled upon it and like it-- despite that ridiculously clichéd cross in the offing.   I like it much more than, say, this one of Alec Guinness.   It's rather neat being able to look up now-historical figures to see them rendered in more specifically "popular" representations.   Check for yourself: I'm sure Hitler's "Man of the Year" cover is in there somewhere, much to Time's everlasting chagrin.

      But the new information about Greene suggests that I really should start developing my own list of favourite hookers, call-girls, ladies-of-the-evening, concubines, and consorts.   I feel so inadequate nto having one.   *pout, sniff*   I'm reminded of Colin Mochrie performing a scene in the style of Fellini: "Aya wanta a fat prostitute!"   Devilishly funny.   Graham would have liked it, methinks.

Pookie and Diddums

      You've all by now, I'm sure, heard about the ridiculous "rules" of the American presidential debates that will basically turn the debates into alternating commercials for each candidate.   The New Yorker, however, has run with matters a bit, though not much more than a bit.      Here's this blog's favourite section:

Paragraph Forty-two: Language.
Candidates shall address each other in terms of mutual respect (“Mr. President,” “Senator,” etc.). Use of endearing modifiers (“my distinguished opponent,” “the honorable gentleman,” “Pookie,” “Diddums,” etc.) is permitted. The following terms are specifically forbidden and may not be used until after each debate is formally concluded: “girlie-man,” “draft dodger,” “drunk,” “ignoramus,” “Jesus freak,” “frog,” “bozo,” “wimp,” “toad,” “lickspittle,” “rat bastard,” “polluting bastard,” “lying bastard,” “demon spawn,” “archfiend,” or compound nouns ending in “-hole” or “-ucker.”

What about "festering political maggot?" "Simpering media whore?" "Dickless wonder?" "Gaping, infected wound on society's already swollen arse?" "Anne Obrien Rice"?

      Some of you, by the way, might find this of interest.   Let me predict who'll win here: the guy who's probably going to lose on November 2nd....

Jolie Good Show

      Christie is really, really, really going to hate me for this, but reading this story called up one reaction from the Not-So-Good Doctor, this one:   .  

      Here is another article that should send you reaching for your barfbags.

"Above And Beyond The Call Of Duty"

      I'm not sure whether to describe this story as sad or sweet.... Awwww.....

"Moychandising, Moychandising, Moychandising!"

      This news will no doubt send some of you into states of rapturous glee. Oh, good Lord: I remember seeing the original in the cinema almost twenty years ago....   I know, I know, if were a horse, they'd have shot me by now.... Yes, we're going to have to go to ridiculous speed....

      It makes me wonder, though, how many Blast-From-The-Past sequels might still be in the works. Wall Street Part Deux? The Gods Must Still Be Crazy (After All These Years)? Resumed Innocent: The Sabitch Is Back?   The Lords of Even Flatter Bush?   Gooderfellas?   The House Of The Increasingly Long Shadows?   Mr Mom 2: After The Divorce?   Hannah and Her Great-Granddaughters?   It's enough to make this agnostic turn to prayer.

Al & Nick & Bruce

      Today's NYTimes has a trio of interesting pieces to which I'd recommend your attention. To start at the bottom of the pile: Al Gore has some advice for John Kerry, the ironies of which are best left unstated. Then there's this piece by Nicholas Kristof that manages to be both chilling and and hopeful at the same time (and implicitly points to one of the major failings of the Bush campaigns in Iraq and Afghanistan, the timorousness of its concern with sexual equality). It's simply jarring. And then, there's Bruce Weber's piece about the donation of the 60,000 volume Danowski library to Emory University; it's a nearly unfathomable donation, a boon of almost Alexandrian proportions.   Modern poetry people are suddenly feeling all gooey and moist, you know, down there. Wow.

He's Bleedin' Deee-signed!

      Now this is what this blog calls Good Use of Technology.      (No, it isn't. Yes it is! No it isn't!)

      [link courtesy The Brat]

Colour This Blog Perthurbered

      Funniest search result in a lonnnng time: someone actually got directed to this blog based on this result; and, worse, this blog's listed all by its lonesome.   Hilarious.   If the searcher ever sees this post, I hope s/he knows that s/he made my day.

      Actually, I don't mind Thurber-- haven't read him in years, though-- and some of you might enjoy his stuff.   Here's a small collection of his stuff.

Leaving Something On The Pillow...

      Why does this blog get the feeling that Dave will find this story profoundly titillating?   Must be his current roommate fascination.... (Sorry, Dave, I couldn't resist.)  

      Key quote: "We are hoping that thousands of students will take part, which aims to give everybody on the campus - lecturers too - a chance to interact."   Sniff.   "The Emeriti pounded me in the corner!"   (The pleasures of retirement....)

This Can't Be Serious....

      Oh crap, it is.... Oh.   My.   Gawd.   (Magnum!)  

      Honestly, truly, sincerely: I wouldn't hit that with a shovel.... Well, okay, maybe a shovel: a big, heavy, lead one.

Making His List, Checking It Twice

      Oh, the silly quizzes & checklists are making their ways around the blogs. Here's one that's been making the rounds, with a few annotations. All remarks that read "no [insert f-related word here] comment" should be end stops to those points....

01. Bought everyone in the pub a drink    (several times, actually)
02. Swam with wild dolphins
03. Climbed a mountain   (local escarpments don't count)
04. Taken a Ferrari for a test drive
05. Been inside the Great Pyramid
06. Held a tarantula.
07. Taken a candlelit bath with someone   (I think so, but it's fuzzy now)
08. Said ‘I love you’ and meant it   (several times, actually, and regretted it more often than not)
09. Hugged a tree   (too Wordsworth)
10. Done a striptease   (yeah. right.)

check out the rest?

11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris   (I assume they meant France, but Paris, Ontario I have, so there)
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea
14. Stayed up all night long, and watch the sun rise   (several times, actually)
15. Seen the Northern Lights
16. Gone to a huge sports game
17. Walked the stairs to the top of the Leaning Tower of Pisa
18. Grown and eaten your own vegetables
19. Touched an iceberg
20. Slept under the stars
21. Changed a baby’s diaper
22. Taken a trip in a hot air balloon
23. Watched a meteor shower
24. Gotten drunk on champagne   (not REAL capital-C Champagne)
25. Given more than you can afford to charity   (students...)
26. Looked up at the night sky through a telescope
27. Had an uncontrollable giggling fit at the worst possible moment   ("Norm!!!" A long story.)
28. Had a food fight
29. Bet on a winning horse   (once, when I was a kid)
30. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill   (wound up in Montreal once for such a thing)
31. Asked out a stranger
32. Had a snowball fight
33. Photocopied your bottom on the office photocopier
34. Screamed as loudly as you possibly can
35. Held a lamb
36. Enacted a favorite fantasy   (sadly, no.)
37. Taken a midnight skinny dip
38. Taken an ice cold bath
39. Had a meaningful conversation with a beggar (once, many moons ago)
40. Seen a total eclipse   (again, many moons-- pause-- ago)
41. Ridden a roller coaster
42. Hit a home run   (that depends on what you mean--- er, okay; once, just once)
43. Fit three weeks miraculously into three days   (kinda sorta)
44. Danced like a fool and not cared who was looking   (there's video somewhere, I fear)
45. Adopted an accent for an entire day
46. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors
47. Actually felt happy about your life, even for just a moment   (no comment)
48. Had two hard drives for your computer
49. Visited all 10 Province + 3 territories
50. Loved your job for all accounts   (kinda sorta)
51. Taken care of someone who was shit-faced   (innuuuuuuuuuuumerable times)
52. Had enough money to be truly satisfied   (never)
53. Had amazing friends   (er, argh, hmmm; awkward one)
54. Danced with a stranger in a foreign country
55. Watched wild whales
56. Stolen a sign
57. Backpacked in Europe
58. Taken a road-trip   (looooooong time ago)
59. Rock climbing
60. Lied to foreign government’s official in that country to avoid notice
61. Midnight walk on the beach
62. Sky diving
63. Visited Ireland   (I only wish)
64. Been heartbroken longer then you were actually in love   (no fuckin' comment)
65. In a restaurant, sat at a stranger’s table and had a meal with them
66. Visited Japan   (interesting story there: was almost sent as a teen, and then everything farked up)
67. Benchpressed your own weight   (I had an advantage in this regard)
68. Milked a cow   (and a goat, too)   (and a few involuntary lact---- never mind.... )
69. Alphabetized your records   (yeah, right.....)
70. Pretended to be a superhero   (comically, several times)
71. Sung karaoke   (vaguely, kinda, once; dragged in on background on a chorus, to my very great chagrin)
72. Lounged around in bed all day
73. Posed nude in front of strangers   (strangers? no. are you kidding? they'd be suing me)
74. Scuba diving
75. Got it on to “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye   (maybe, I don't remember; it probably happened once, so I'll give myself the check on this, as that's a favourite song)
76. Kissed in the rain
77. Played in the mud
78. Played in the rain
79. Gone to a drive-in theater (again, not since I was a kid; remember seeing The Nude Bomb at one)
80. Done something you should regret, but don’t regret it.   (No frickin' comment.)
81. Visited the Great Wall of China
82. Discovered that someone who’s not supposed to have known about your blog has discovered your blog   (probably; not necessarily sure)
83. Dropped Windows in favor of something better   (I wish)
84. Started a business
85. Fallen in love and not had your heart broken   (once; KL, whom I haven't seen in around 10 years)
86. Toured ancient sites
87. Taken a martial arts class   (again, when a kid; actually got to Yellow Belt)
88. Swordfought for the honor of a woman   (no, but if you're gonna die, there aren't many better ways to go)
89. Played D&D for more than 6 hours straight   (no: I have a life)
90. Gotten married   (though it seemed like it once, no; insert pause here, followed by eighteen-and-a-half minutes of head-shaking)
91. Been in a movie   (not that I know of, anyway; have been on TV a few times)
92. Crashed a party
93. Loved someone you shouldn’t have   (no frickin' comment)
94. Kissed someone so passionately it made them dizzy   (no frickin' comment, again)
95. Gotten divorced   (well, kinda, sorta, but not quite; see #90)
96. Had sex at the office   (no frickin' comment; shut-up, shut-up, shut-up!!!!)
97. Gone without food for 5 days
98. Made cookies from scratch
99. Won first prize in a costume contest
100. Ridden a gondola in Venice
101. Gotten a tattoo
102. Found that the texture of some materials can turn you on
103. Rafted the Snake River
104. Been on television news programs as an “expert”   (on horror films, of all things! years ago)
105. Got flowers for no reason   (got or given; I assume they mean given)
106. Masturbated in a public place
107. Got so drunk you don’t remember anything   (mercifully)
108. Been addicted to some form of illegal drug
109. Performed on stage   (not in years, though; lecturing doesn't count, I assume)
110. Been to Las Vegas
111. Recorded music
112. Eaten shark   (a little bit, years ago; also *shudder* cow tongue)
113. Had a one-night stand   (sigh, shrug: several; guys like me have to take what we can get; alternately, this becomes much easier when one's belief in love is comparable with one's belief in the wit and wisdom of Tommy Chong)
114. Gone to Thailand
115. Seen Siouxsie live   (who tha fuck is Siouxsie?)
116. Bought a house
117. Been in a combat zone   (does York count?)
118. Buried one/both of your parents   (mercifully, no)
119. Shaved or waxed your pubic hair off   (why the hell?)
120. Been on a cruise ship
121. Spoken more than one language fluently   (kinda; my French, for my age, used to be really good; but it's now as rotten as tourquoise ham)
122. Gotten into a fight while attempting to defend someone   (And "won" -- i.e., he apologized and fled, surprisingly enough, defending a waitress at a bar I once frequented; the most shocked person in the place was me)
123. Bounced a cheque   (not intentionally)
124. Performed in Rocky Horror
125. Read - and understood - your credit report
126. Raised children
127. Recently bought and played with a favorite childhood toy   (The favourite childhood toy of men does not need to be bought and it is played with regularly enough.)
128. Followed your favorite band/singer on tour
129. Created and named your own constellation of stars
130. Taken an exotic bicycle tour in a foreign country
131. Found out something significant that your ancestors did   (once, but I'll be damned if I remember now)
132. Called or written your MP or MPP   (and worked for one, but not my own)
133. Picked up and moved to another city to just start over
134. …more than once? - More than thrice?
135. Walked the Golden Gate Bridge
136. Sang loudly in the car, and didn’t stop when you knew someone was looking   (yeah, but I wasn't alone; happened while driving to a bachelor party in Owen Sound)
137. Had an abortion or your female partner did   (This isn't one I'd ever answer; it's totally inappropriate for this sort of thing, and involves a privacy greater than this sort of tripe recognizes.)
138. Had plastic surgery
139. Survived an accident that you shouldn’t have survived.
140. Wrote articles for a large publication   (Depends what you mean by 'large,' though.)
141. Lost over 100 pounds   (*pause* I'd be 15 pounds if I ever had)
142. Held someone while they were having a flashback   (no comment; also, sadly, while one was completely, well, gone)
143. Piloted an airplane   (I have a stark fear of becoming Karen Black.)
144. Petted a stingray
145. Broken someone’s heart   (awkward, 'cuz it's presumptuous of me to speak for whether or not I did; but I'll count this as a half)
146. Helped an animal give birth   (does shouting "Ride that b*tch!" count? Just kiddding.)
147. Been fired or laid off from a job   (not really; just haven't been brought back after contract expiration)
148. Won money on a T.V. game show
149. Broken a bone
150. Killed a human being
151. Gone on an African photo safari
152. Ridden a motorcycle
153. Driven any land vehicle at a speed of greater than 160 KM/h
154. Had a body part of yours below the neck pierced   (no farkin' way)
155. Fired a rifle, shotgun, or pistol
156. Eaten mushrooms that were gathered in the wild
157. Ridden a horse   (yeah, years ago; also had to take care of a trio of them)
158. Had major surgery
159. Had sex on a moving train   (on a TRAIN? er, no; close, though)
160. Had a snake as a pet
161. Hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon
162. Slept through an entire flight: takeoff, flight, and landing
163. Slept for more than 30 hours over the course of 48 hours   (once, years & years ago, after having been awake for 72 hours straight, finishing five essays in three days)
164. Visited more foreign countries than Canadian Provinces
165. Visited all 7 continents
166. Taken a canoe trip that lasted more than 2 days
167. Eaten kangaroo meat
168. Fallen in love at an ancient Mayan burial ground
169. Been a sperm or egg donor   (well, not in the CLINICAL sense....)
170. Eaten sushi   (I assume 'sushi' is meant literally and not euphemistically....)
171. Had your picture in the newspaper (kinda sorta)
172. Had 2 (or more) healthy romantic relationships for over a year in your lifetime   (HEALTHY? No Such Thing)
173. Changed someone’s mind about something you care deeply about
174. Gotten someone fired for their actions
175. Gone back to school
176. Parasailed
177. Changed your name
178. Petted a cockroach
179. Eaten fried green tomatoes
180. Read The Iliad (and taught The Odyssey)
181. Selected one “important” author who you missed in school, and read (so many, you don't even want to imagine)
182. Dined in a restaurant and stolen silverware, plates, cups because your apartment needed them
183. …and gotten 86'ed from the restaurant because you did it so many times, they figured out it was you
184. Taught yourself an art from scratch
185. Killed and prepared an animal for eating   (not an animal; fish, yes)
186. Apologized to someone years after inflicting the hurt   (no; I seldom take that long; it's called Canadian apologizing)
187. Skipped all your school reunions.   (actually, don't know if there have been any, but if there have been, I've skipped em)
188. Communicated with someone without sharing a common spoken language (does grunting count?)
189. Been elected to public office   (am assuming elections to committees don't count; was elected, when a teenager, Leader of a Party To Remain Unnamed, at a Model Parliament, despite only entering the race an hour or so before the vote)
190. Written your own computer language
191. Thought to yourself that you’re living your dream   (my dream? never. my nightmare? regularly)
192. Had to put someone you love into hospice care
193. Built your own PC from parts
194. Sold your own artwork to someone who didn’t know you   (have you seen how I draw?)
195. Had a booth at a street fair
196: Dyed your hair
197: Been a DJ
198: Found out someone was going to dump you via LiveJournal
199: Written your own role playing game
200: Been arrested

Once Upon A Cow

      A cute little parable from cbeck. (Or should that be "Once Below A Cow"?)   Moo.

Trying One On

      Paul Graham provides a lengthy, but very interesting (and alternately questionable and laudable), essay on, of all things, The Essay.   He is, though, entirely right about the misconceptions that are ingrained during one's high school years, at least in North America.

"Discreet and Comfortable"

      This blog ain't gonna say it.... And it certainly would never, EVER, entertain even for a second the thought of linking to this in response....

Your Seductive, Inky Touch

      Leave it to the New York Post to report on the matters that concern us most.   As for Tommy Lee, this blog suspects that erect it reads "Pamela," but flaccid it reads "Pa," for whom the darned thing might also be relevant.   What comes around goes around, perhaps?

      Continuing today's sing-along, all together now: I saw the needle and the damage done....

      (As for the title of this post, Zozo should be flashing back to about-- yikes!!-- thirteen years ago....    )

I Said, "Ooooooh-oh Domino...."

Roll me over, Romeo.  
      There you go.
      Lord have mercy....
      (You HAD to know the Not-So-Good-Doctor was going to link to that article.   )

      Be sure to check out the bits about *cough, cough* The Vaseline Man and what happens "When Cheerleaders Attack."   (Gulp.   Me sez nussing, me sez abzolewdly nussing.)

      On the Domino theme-- considering that "Domino" is a former nick of Yours Only-Sorta-Truly:   it seems this blog is now within shouting distance of reaching (natch, nary and nay!) 10,000 hits, and could well do so before the end of the month.   You could roll this Not-So-Very-Romeo over with a feather, or something equally light and implicitly kinky. Welcome to The Grump Report....

      Okay, all together now, in your best Bob Dylan voices: Hey, Mr. Vaseline Man, play a song for me....

The Patience Of Job

      Sniff, sniff: I have seen MY FUTURE.  

"They Have To Earn It"

      For all of you, er, art buffs out there.   I guess the photo constitutes a Money shot.   (Yes, you may all commence groaning.)

The Big Bubba of Rebellion

      Two words: Dylan's.    Memoirs.   How's that for cognitive dissonance?

      (Truth be told, I always thought Ginsberg would have done the job, but he never did.   For some good accounts of Dylan in his early days, check out Marianne Faithfull's autobiography from some years ago, a book that's surprisingly readable although more than a bit, er, uncomfortable, especially when you get to, er, the Mick Schtick, a term you can interpret any way you bloody well please.)

"It Did Affect Me A Wee Bit"

      This story is just too cute.   All together now: Awwwwwwwww....

      In marginally-related news: It looks like Kerrying the day is unlikely, unless there's some major shift in the next (ugh!) month-and-change.   Possible?    Perhaps.   Probable?   John "Inertia-Boy" Kerry?    Media coverage that is more interested in style than substance?   Nay.   The Rest of the World (i.e., those of us mice stuck sharing the bed with that elephant, according to Mr Trudeau's analogy) despairs.  

The Gift Half-Understood

      As The Preacher said, there is nothing new under the sun.... In my experience, it was as much about unlearning what the poor kids had drilled into them in their high-school days.... As Rodney Dangerfield says in Back to School, lusting after his English professor played by Sally Kellerman: "I like teachers. You do something wrong, they make you do it again."

      (Pardon this blog an unbelievably childish moment: Gene. Bottoms.      So much for Darwinism....)

And To All A Good Knight

      It has occurred to the Not-So-Good Doctor that he never did get around to looking into W.S. Merwin's new translation of the marvellous Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (which, serendipitously enough, has been released by "Bloodaxe"). Merwin-- a well-known and fine poet in his own right-- has basically set out to do the same thing that Seamus Heaney did with Beowulf [extract available here] a few years ago in offering a facing-page translation that would attend as much as possible to changes of idiom while maintaining (again, as much as possible) the structural principles of the original.   The Guardian's review of Merwin's success whets the appetite somewhat, and the note in the final paragraph is intriguing, as it picks up on some of the five-patterns so apparent in the poem but seldom meaningfully discussed (the N-S-G-Doctor says, recalling how much a onetime paper/lecture of his did with it almost a decade-- yes, a DECADE     -- ago).   Another review of Merwin's translation can be found at the Blackheath Poetry Society.   For those interested, a less-than-enthusiastic review of Heaney's Beowulf can be found here, and there's an old interview with Heaney on the poem's translation to be found here. There's also an interesting essay available here.    We all need some good stories of knights and heroes now and again, especially in these patently unchivalrous days.

      (Perhaps, but not necessarily, interesting aside: I used to describe myself to my incoming students-- as some of you reading this may or may not remember-- as their Green Knight, the dissheveled figure that would chop off their heads if he had to, but if they faced matters sincerely and conscientiously, would discover they could probably face down the knight and emerge with merely a knick in the neck. It was a bit of bluster, of course, but not untrue, either. Those without at least a tinge of fear never do feel there's anything real at stake. As Mr Joyce once said, "no fear, no brains.")

      Clicking about The Net also brings to the N-S-G-Doctor's ever-decreasing attention this piece about "The Problem With Poetry."    Unfortunately, I find myself in strange agreement with the assessment of Malcolm Bradbury with which the article's author takes issue, although I do agree with the commentator's conclusion that "the problem with poetry is that you have to read it" (i.e., go out and find it and read it).   But, alas, the more I go out and read New Material, the more I agree with Bradbury, and the more I find writers like Heaney and Mark Strand and Merwin truly "above the pack."   It's peculiar, though, that the more we talk about "decentering the canon," the more rare truly central our better poets become, however artificially, and however much as a satiary need. It also makes me wonder if the relative fecundity of bad and mediocre poets these days has something to do with a general disconnection from, or reluctance to engage intimately with, the past.  

Heave Ho

      Now we know: the Simp also rises.   Now will someone tell me why-- oh why?!?-- do I have the words "left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot" buzzing about in my head? Argh!   Left boob, right boob, left boob, right....   

Errant Spelling

      .... let's call the whole thing off....

      In related news: once again, timing is everything....

Suddenly, Wagner Doesn't Look So Bad....

      I don't care what the reviewers say: there are three words that in collision with one another will forever flay my rotten, gangrening soul: Margaret, Atwood, and Opera.   *shudder*   This is the stuff of a lifetime's bêtes-noires.

Mo' Better Blues

      Filter out a bit of her typical thump-thump-thwacking, and Maureen of the Dowdy makes a few salient points in her piece for the Times this morning on the Iraqi (interim) Prime Minister's visit to the United States.   Mr Allawi's wagon is as hitched to the Bush bandwagon as Nick Lachey's career is to his wife's inexplicably-endearing idiocy.   I don't envy Mr Allawi, his position largely untenable; but we make a grave mistake if we think even for a moment that he speaks for the people of Iraq, he the second-choice after Mr Chalabi proved to be laden with too much questionable (and Tehranian) baggage.   Without over-speculating, let's simply admit that there was a reason Mr Allawi was appointed to his current position, as he so aptly demonstrated this week. He evidently knows what to say to that inescapable question,"Who's Ya Daddy?"   (This blog has with some sense of deference edited out the word "b*tch" that normally concludes that question, as well as the word that rhymes with "brother-tucking" that regularly pops up in the middle.   Who says courtesy and respect are dead?)   

Disinter-estedness

      Hark!   A glimpse of the Not-So-Good Doctor's future?   Probablement, je crois....   To alter the words of Father Mulcahy from M*A*S*H: Singularity, singularity!!!

      In other Meh-wijj news, this has to be read to be disbelieved.   No word if J.Lo's in line yet. Or Mickey Rooney, for that matter.

It's Not A Tumour....

      Infer from this what you will.   (Frankly, there are so many possibilities, this blog wouldn't even know how to begin litanizing them....)

      Alas, that reminds me: it's been a year today. Why do lamentable things always seem to fall on the 25th or the 26th? Argh.   Grumble McGrumble Grumble. Crikey: it occurs to me, too, that tomorrow it will be 5 1/2 years (double crikey: 5.5 years = 66 months; odd numerical repetitions there) since, well, Since.   It's been a very long time. Strange to think, he says repeating himself, the things we end up checking at the door....   Now gods stand up for inveterately miserable bastards.

The Day His What Went What?

      You decide which is worse: that this exists, or that this soon will. Seems a toss-up to this blog. Both are solid forms of entertainment; solid, that is, as opposed to runny or tooth-pasty.

Wedgies and Weights and Origami Condoms

      Dave Barry's column this week rings a smidgen close to the Not-So-Good Doctor's permanently-disgruntled heart, or the miniature onyx shards of it that remain. Why? In part because it's a whinge of the puny (or, as we prefer to be called, "the undermassed"), but also because of this lovely little touch that is oh-so-very-very true:

It was a difficult time for me, but one day my mom, bless her heart, had a talk with me. She told me that girls were not interested only in looks - that the qualities that really mattered were brains and a sense of humor. That little talk was long ago, but it taught me an invaluable life lesson I have never forgotten: Moms lie when they have to. The truth is that - and I speak here as a trained humor professional - women are definitely more interested in muscles than a sense of humor. You will never hear a woman say: "I wish Brad Pitt would put his shirt back on and tell some jokes!"

Hail, hail.... Brains and a sense of humour.... Oh, that chestnut never gets old, does it?  

      See also Gene W's column on those infernal 411 services.   Remember the days when you could actually ask another person for assistance? No? I don't either....

Advanced Citizenship

      Okay, let me get this straight: The American President says that he wants to bring democracy to Iraq, and yet on the homefront criticism of his policies is tantamount to subverting that process-- that it is, even "a threat" to American activities.   As Mr Bush asks, "What kind of message does it send our troops, who are risking their lives and who see firsthand the mission is hard, but know the mission is critical to our success?"   Okay, so everyone should just blindly stand behind the Presidential stance on matters and put on their rose-coloured glasses for fear that those poor troops might hear dissenting opinions.   Hmmm, that strikes me as profoundly antidemocratic.   (After all, those poor fragile troops, who are expected to suffer grenade launches and car bombings and fear of capture and possible torture, will suddenly be demoralized by a presidential candidate's criticisms of government policy?   Or, God forbid, those troops might be allowed to think about the matters that have created the situation in which they now find themselves.   How utterly insulting.)   But, then again, Mr Bush, though he likes to talk about the importance of democracy, has never really had much respect for criticism or dissent-- or democracy, for that matter, unless it has worked to his own advantage.   For a religious man, Mr Bush doesn't seem to understand the principle of practicing what one preaches.   Those that disagree with him are "hurting the war on terrorism," or are giving solace to America's enemies, even those that have disagreed with him include military leaders and counter-terrorism officials.   And this is exactly what makes President Bush the worst embodiment of democracy: everything he says is lip-service, empty platitudes he does not hold dear.   He talks about the bravery of America's soldiers, but then insults their intelligence by suggesting that they can't bear to hear alternative opinions on how things should be handled; he talks about democracy in Iraq, however partial and incomplete it will be, and it will be perfectly acceptable if some parts of Iraq aren't able to vote in January; and those that do not savantishly repeat his mantras of optimism are undermining The War On Terror-- or, more precisely, they are undermining him and his judgment.   That arbitrary defensiveness smacks of authoritarianism; it doesn't quite reach that stage, but the Bush attitude is closer to it than it is to a sense of democracy.   The American President would, I think, have been more comfortable in the days of the Salem Witch Trials and the McCarthy proceedings, and the sad thing is that more people don't realize this.   Mr Bush would rather matters were of Basic Citizenship rather than Advanced Citizenship-- would rather people accept his chiaroscuro notion of right and wrong, of "you're with us or against us." Oh, yes, it's oh so simple.   The interesting thing will be to see what happens in January.   If it looks like Iraq is going to "elect" a government that wouldn't be so embracing of the United States, particularly a party with greater roots in Islamic fundamentalism, will he accept the results of that "democracy," or will he dismiss the results?   Will he trumpet that election as a victory for the Iraqi people?   Er, methinks not. He may have to find a way to supersede the election results.   But the American President would never do that, would he? P'shaw!

A Sort Of Review

      The third (and final) volume of Norman Sherry's epic biography of Graham Greene has finally been released, and the preliminary word of mouth on it is less than complimentary.   (Sherry in the previous volumes demonstrated a copiousness of detail that suggested completism taken to a ridiculous extreme.)   Bookforum's review (by Matthew Price) makes some good remarks about Greene, but in yet another example of what seems to be developing into a trend, there's very little discussion of Sherry's book, maybe three paragraphs total.   It makes me wonder why we even bother issuing reviews in journals anymore if the reviewers are simply going to use their publication space to make their own pronouncements on the subject's career rather than focussing on the specific work in question. Don't misunderstand me: I'm always interested in new observations about Greene (and some of Price's are quite good; others, er, not so much), but I'm not comfortable with this general pattern of subjectival misdirection, the result of which is that such criticism is more platitudinous pretense rather than direct consideration of new material.   I also have to find it interesting that Price spends a lot of time talking about the material that is beyond the third volume's purview (1955-91). It tends to render the article rather suspect-- and frustrating.

Yippee-ki-yay, Mr Falcon!

      A clever, flip little article here from The Guardian about one of the Not-So-Good Doctor's pet peeves, the inane degree of censorship in American broadcasting.   It reminds me, once again, how glad I am to live in Canada where CTV airs The Sopranos uncensored, Bravo still shows all the stuff they shouldn't show, and even TVO and CBC tend to leave adult films (not pornographic films but films for adults instead of teens and tweens) in tact; and then there's Showcase, which airs everything, including films that (pardon the pun) ride that fine line between art and pornography, ejaculations et al. And all those are stations on basic cable.   Blessèd be, blessèd be, else (who knows) maybe I'd be stuck thinking that the rapists in Deliverance, suddenly having developed Boston accents, tell Ned Beatty to "squeal, little porker, squeal!"

He's Kind Of Skippy

      Stanley Fish-- author of Is There A Text In This Class? and Surprised By Sin-- has a piece in today's NYTimes that John Kerry should be reading with great care and attention.   More than anything what Kerry needs, as former alcoholics call it, is a moment of clarity; or, rather, a month or two of it.   (Then again, The American President needs simple words: we've seen what he can do to language.)

Shnicks and Giggles

      As if we needed further proof that Bill O'Reilly is a humourless, derisive, self-important ass, check out his disgustingly defensive interview with Jon Stewart as transcribed and hosted at Wonkette's site.   Stewart, as always, is a delight, managing to keep going past the Riled One's snide remarks, but it worries me to think that someone like O'Reilly actually has a constituency that follows his sickeningly insulting and xenophobic pule.   (Then again, so did Hitler.)   But what do I know?   I'm just a stoned slacker.  

New York Martini

      Somewhere, Woodrow Wilson is muttering to his spectral self, "That's not what I meant, that's not what I meant at all...." Gee, I wonder how Mr Martin's proposal could be spun to legitimate just about anything, like, say, an invasion of Iraq?   This blog actually thinks Mr Martin's heart is in the right place, but his proposal seems to be flawed form the outset-- and, frankly, too easily corruptible. (Addendum: Chantal Hèbert has an intriguing piece on Mr Martin's position within his own party, and I think she's very much right with this observation that "One way or another, the next election is likely to be his last.")

      But the world (and the UN) has become a caricature of its former self-- with W using the podium for his own reelection purposes, and Robert Mugabe receiving applause for his lambasting of the West.   Damn, do we ever need a Mike Pearson again.

      Digression: last night I was sitting at a local haunt, partaking of a draft and doing the National Post crossword puzzle. With most of the blasted thing done, I was stymied on a word that referred to some sort of Yoga position.   The bartender and I wound up talking about the only Yoga position either she or I knew, the lotus position, and remembering doing it as kids. Sitting on the step, she tried to fix herself into position but couldn't do it.   Sitting in my chair, I wound up trying to do the same, and eventually-- and with great PAIN-- managed to contort myself accordingly.   This self-prostration lasted for a grand total of seven seconds (eerily close, I now realize, to bull-riding durations) before one leg sprung out like a broken coil.   The good thing about this experience: now I won't have to have a vasectomy, because it's sure as hell guaranteed that I'll not be having any children now. Oy. And yes, this is the stupid stuff that happens when one mixes lager with crossword puzzles.

If America Were Iraq

      Juan Cole's discussion of said proposition really should be read by those so gung-ho about the Iraqi occupation.   Like, say, The American President.   But, oh, that's right-- he doesn't like to read.  

Just Browsing

      Well, at least they're not going to call it Goozilla....

      BTW, this blog has to say that it quite likes Google's little Ray Charles icon, posted to celebrate what would have been his birthday today (September 23rd). Cool. It's also, one supposes, my crank cat Trouble's birthday today, something determined entirely arbitrarily what now seems an eternity ago. As Trouble would say, "Mrow."

Boobs For Boobs

      Susan B. Anthony would be soooooooooo proud. (Definitely not safe for work, and probably not safe for those with aesthetic sensibilities.)   See also this piece, which serves to remind this blog why chivalry is all but dead; pathetic, really.

      Which reminds me: RK sent this amusement:

A woman in a hot air balloon realized she was lost. She lowered her altitude and spotted a man in a boat below. She shouted to him, "Excuse me, can you help me? I promised a friend I would meet him an hour ago, but I don't know where I am."

The man consulted his portable GPS and replied, "You're in a hot air balloon approximately 30 feet above a ground elevation of 2346 feet above sea level. You are at 31 degrees, 14.97 minutes north latitude and 100 degrees, 49.09 minutes west longitude."

She rolled her eyes and said, "You must be a Democrat."

"I am," replied the man. "How did you know?"

"Well," answered the balloonist, "everything you told me is technically correct, but I have no idea what to do with your information, and I'm still lost. Frankly, you've not been much help to me."

The man smiled and responded, "You must be a Republican."

"I am," replied the balloonist. "How did you know?"

"Well," said the man, "you don't know where you are or where you're going. You've risen to where you are due to a large quantity of hot air. You made a promise that you have no idea how to keep, and you expect me to solve your problem. You're in exactly the same position you were in before we met but, somehow, now it's my fault."

Beautiful.

"You Would Not Believe How Far Away The Door Was"

      For my fellow Hosers, all of whom I'm sure found the recent negotiations over health-care as bewildering and nonsensical as a David Lynch movie or a Britney Spears life-decision, Paul Wells offers a new way of looking at the insulting-cum-absurd-cum-bathetic spectacle.   Oh, Mr. Martin.... And thanks for the "asymmetrical federalism," an idea that will soon blow up in our collective faces like a gunpowder birthday cake better-suited to an Itchy and Scratchy cartoon.   Welcome to Runnymede.   (Cue Homer Simpson: Mmmmm..... Runny mead....)

      And before any of you bother saying that "hehe, you wrote cum-bath," I know, I know, I know.... D'Oh!  

      Whoa, this blog really is indulging in Canadian Content today, isn't it?   Well, that's a good thing sometimes.   Especially since this blog is rather proud to be Canadian right now.   Why?   Well, here's ONE good reason.   Unnn-huh....   (You've got the right one, bay-bays....)  

      By the way, for those Star Wars nuts, one theorist has posited a Canuckistani connection to the film, though it's certainly what Huck Finn would have called a "stretcher." Make of it what you will.

      Okay, have I now blogged enough stuff for everyone for today? Now go listen to some Leonard Cohen-- or, better yet, go read him. Cheers.

"The Heart Goes On Cooking, Sizzling Like Shish Kebab"

      Ah, yes, it's Canada's Byron's 70th birthday today, he not only the subject of Doctor J's one-time Master's thesis but also the Not-So-Good Doctor's forefather in poetical and habitual rakishness. And there's news too, according to The Star:

Age has not sapped Cohen's creative powers.   [Ed: what a horribly clichéd sentence. Ugh.]   On Oct. 26, his latest album Dear Heather will be out from Sony, presumably not named for the owner of Indigo Books & Music.....

Next year McClelland & Stewart will publish The Book Of Longing, his first book since his collected poems and lyrics Stranger Music appeared in 1993.

"It contains new and unpublished poems, some written a long time ago, and his drawings," says Ellen Seligman, his editor at M&S. "I have not yet received the manuscript."

Cool, even if The Book of Longing has been in the works for as long as I can remember..... (Actually, it's been 20 years since Cohen's last book of new material, The Book of Mercy.    See also celebratory pieces here and here.   And then there's this piece by Robert Fulford who rightly observes a key matter of context: "Canada has known Cohen so long that we've lost our sense of his wondrous oddness." Well, Leonard, you old rotter: happy birthday. May there be many more.

      (Asides: To My Canadian Readers: Notice that he's the only poet in Canada who'd be treated this way? Interesting. Take that Margaret Atwood. To My American Readers: It's probably impossible for you to imagine the peculiar position Leonard now has in Canadian culture, but let's simply say he's probably the closest Canada has ever had to a literary celebrity. The only thing odder than understanding this, however, is trying to explain it, although, for some peculiar reason, Scandinavians and Slavs tend to get it instinctively. Go figure. But if you're not in the know, here's a "starter kit" from the Belfast Telegraph that's wholly unsatisfactory but will have to do for you for now.)

      See also, by the way, "70 Things About Leonard Cohen At 70" from the Guardian.

Practice Makes Perf------

The Air Force insists the bomb was being used for practice and did not contain the plutonium trigger needed for a nuclear explosion. [Emphasis added]

That sentence, like the story from which it comes, manages to be as distressing as it is assuring.   See also this bit: "The United States lost 11 nuclear bombs in accidents during the Cold War that were never recovered, according to the Brookings Institution, a Washington think tank." Oh. Shades of Richard Jordan's response to Joss Ackland in The Hunt For Red October?   Natchety-natch....

Shrill Magnolias

      Forget Helen Hayes and Irene Worth and Jessica Tandy and Elaine Stritch: meet The Next Generation.  

      Somewhere, Christopher Plummer is laughing his farking arse off and imagining her as Cordelia against John Crosbie's Lear.   Picture it, if you dare.... Muahahahahaha!  

      (Actually, it might be fun to watch her try to play Lavinia.   Oh, to savour that sweet, sweet irony....)

The Stool Pigeon

      So much for kissing the Blarney Stone....

      Key quote: "I'm coming back to work soon, but I'm not sitting on that stool again."   And another: "And we were all bumping into each other behind the bar."  

      ^~~Don't know much about history, don't know much biology....^~~

Another 48 Hours

      Infer, dear readers, whatever ye will. But this blog has one question: trainer laces?!?!?  

      In "related" (?) news: let's hope this doesn't give the Kabbalah Gal any ideas for her next video prclaiming the moderation of her innocence....

The Cock-Eyed And The Dukakiied

      As much as this blog is hesitant to refer approvingly to words from Michael Moore, a message from yesterday on his blog is worth reading, especially for those of us massaging our eyes to alleviate our "How-the-hell-did-Kerry-end-up-blowing-things-this-badly" headaches.   It's at this point, though, that I should reaver my cynicism, albeit MY definition of cynicism (i.e., that 90% of the time things will turn out for the worst, but one secretly, quietly, prays for that 10% of the time that one is wrong).   Kerry's wooden, and awkwardly patrician (for an American, anyway), disposition has made him an easy pinata for the Bushies, and he seems to suffer from the Dukakis disease of not retalliating with full-force against the spurious charges of his opponents: Kerry has demonstrated no "fire-in-the-belly," no capacity for gravitas, and if he doesn't do it soon, he'll go down not in history not as one of the Gores or the Carters, but as one of the Mondales and Dukakii. Here I suspect Mr. Kerry should take a page from Mr. Bush's book, that of figuring himself as a Man With A Mission, that mission being to lead the United States out of the international quagmire into which President Bush and his cronies led the country. He has to offer not just an "I'm Not Bush" candidacy, but a difference of course (i.e., direction), and he has to articulate the graveness of his concern, that he sincerely believes that the re-election of President Bush may have irreversible and dangerous consequences, as evidenced so clearly by recent events. He has to ditch the "Let America Be America Again" mantra, which was flimsy to begin with; he has to point to the disastrous ramifications of trusting again in the poor judgment of a cadre of leaders whose pet project (Iraq) has now cost just under a third of the number of the lives that were lost on September 11th; he has to demonstrate that he's not just a political hanger-on, but a man of direction, strength, and purpose.   In short, he has to steel himself and comport himself with a Reaganesque (or even Clintonian) sense that what he offers his country is what his country desperately needs right now. And he's got to do it fast. If he can't start breaking up the logjam in the next two to three weeks, we can all begin gathering the juices and start making the gravy, because despite what Mr. Moore and others (including the pollster John Zogby, cited by Moore), those disaffected "I-didn't-vote-last-time-but-I'm-so-mad-I'm-gonna-vote-this-time" voters tend, like fairweather friends, not to materialize. (Just ask Jack Layton and Stephen Harper.) Unless Kerry can initiate a tectonic shift soon, the rest of us may as well start settling in for two things: Four More Years, and perhaps, just as badly, Four Moore Years.

      BTW, as for the Dan Rather/CBS controversy , I don't want to sound conspiratorial, but the ease with which the documents were proven to be false (see also the implications of this in relation to the Now-Feeling-Very-Important Blogging Community) reeks of a setup-- and this blog has a sneaking suspicion that Karl Rove is sitting in his office like the President of Evian muttering to himself, "I can't believe they bought it!" And, of course, now the Bushies have some trump cards to play. Either that, or this was a Democratic smear tactic, and if so, this has to go down as one of the ineptly-handled conspiracies since, well, those nasty little weapons of mass destruction. Yikes.

      But perhaps there's another surprise lurking in the wings, as this blog anticipated (perhaps a little too wishfully) some time ago, but it seems there are shadows shifting about in the back, almost rustling (if shadows could rustle), as The Nation reports, also perhaps a little wishfully. We shall see.   The fact is, though, that a major break on either side of this campaign could prove the determining factor, and no one is in a better position to influence matters than McCain. This blog's holding to an assertion it made months ago: that McCain could prove the Warwick of this campaign-- even though poor Colin Powell is looking more and more like the Dionne Warwick of it. Walk on by....

      And, it seems the Bushies are still unable to distinguish between Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden.   How comforting.   Make sure you have a studious gander at this piece from the New Yorker on the politicization of Iraq, which contains this very striking paragraph:

In refusing to look at Iraq honestly, President Bush has made defeat there more likely. This failing is only the most important repetition of a recurring theme in the war against radical Islam: the distance between Bush’s soaring, often inspiring language and the insufficiency of his actions. When he speaks, as he did at the Republican Convention, about the power of freedom to change the world, he is sounding deep notes in the American political psyche. His opponent comes nowhere close to making such music. But if Iraq looks nothing like the President’s vision—if Iraq is visibly deteriorating, and no one in authority will admit it—the speeches can produce only illusion or cynicism. In what may be an extended case of overcompensation, so much of the President’s conduct in the war has become an assertion of personal will. Bush’s wartime hero, Winston Churchill, offered his countrymen nothing but blood, toil, tears, and sweat. Bush offers optimistic forecasts, permanent tax cuts, and his own stirring resolve.

He remains Henry V with Henry VI's intelligence. Frightening.

      And, at last, an idle but slightly-hushed speculation, one most of you may not want to read, and which I surely would rather not get much attention. Click here if you dare to read it.

      Much of the talk in the States has been about an attack on American soil before the election, with Bushies claiming such a move would be an attack on the President, while most uninvolved prognosticators figure it would actually be an electoral boon for him. (The latter makes more sense to me, esp. since it seems Al Qa'eda would prefer that Bush stay in office, the President proving so amoenable to isolating his country from the international community and for initiating gestures that would stir anger on the so-called Arab Street.) As we near the American election, though, this blog's becoming more and more uneasy, because for all of Al Qa'eda's lunacy, its tactics have been anything but stupid. I'm worried there's a misdirection technique coming-- that Al Qa'eda won't strike into the American heart, but against an American ally so that attack would catch the Americans off-guard (and unable to act in defense), and would disallow some of the electoral spin that might otherwise be put on it. This blog has a funny, funny feeling the targets are going to be less-obvious ones, and perhaps more alternately-intimate ones: Australia, the U.K., though attacks on those countries won't send shudders down American spines (witness Bali, even Madrid). Perhaps Israel, too, but decades of such attacks have almost incurred a callous to attacks against Israel in the American media; yes, they're horrible, but they're not perceived to be immediately threatening.

      No, this blog has a queasy, uncomfortable feeling that there's a different target right now, one that's been right under the radar until now, which has been threatened but not yet hit. One nobody ever thinks about. One right in America's backyard, and this blog isn't talking about Mexico. Call it a paranoid hunch, or call it a different reading of terroristic strategy, but this blog has a troubled sense that, until the American election is over and done with, the country with the target on its back isn't the United States but Canada. Why? Because deranged killers, when confronting a more powerful opponent, don't go right after their opponent; they go after their opponent's friends and family, and they try to strike as close as they can get to their target without actually attacking the primary target per se. It's the lesson of the indirect message that rings clear as a bell. It's Kevin Spacey hitting Gwyneth rather than the Pittster, or an attack on Amber instead of Boston Rob, if you need some cruder analogies-- it's the "look how close I can get to you," or the "since I can't get you, I'll get the next best thing" move. The overall effect could be to subvert the Monroe Doctrine (or the larger notions derived and extrapolated from it) that girds the Bush Doctrine, as if to suggest how close terror can strike without actually entering into the dominion in which America can legitimately respond. The shockwaves would be profound: sure the President can do everything within his power to protect his country, but can he do anything about anywhere else, even if "anywhere else" is close enough to be within fallout distance? The possible consequences of such an attack-- including the implications on NATO and NORAD, and the redefinition of notions of sovereignty and continentalism-- could be more staggering, and more perilous, than we've yet imagined, let alone anticipated. And that too is significant: we can't afford, either in Canada or the United States or anywhere else, any more failures of imagination.

      All that said, let's just hope Osama and his company aren't thinking as this blog fears they may be thinking. But this blog hopes CSIS and the PM are paying extra special attention to the possibility-- especially as cities like Vancouver and Montreal and especially Toronto seem as viable as targets as New York or Washington. Especially right now. And on this, this blog would most gladly like to be wrong, very, very wrong, indeed. For God's sake, do let me wrong on this one.

The Pleasure Of Such Rude Groomes

      Today In Literature informs me that it is from this day in history to which we owe the first printed mention of a little-known playwright whose plays were merely trifles and his poems awkward accidents.

On this day in 1592 Robert Greene's "A Groats-Worth of Wit bought with a Million of Repentance," in which appears the first printed reference to Shakespeare, was entered in the Stationers' Register. Greene's caution to his fellow playwrights that Shakespeare is "an upstart Crow, beautified with our feathers," is interpreted as jealousy of a rising star, or even a charge of plagiarism.

A little Greene with envy, perhaps? (Oh, and what a truly risible title.) You can check out a few bits from Greene here.

Pardon Me, Is That A Dianoga Poo-Poo?

      Ten things -- apparently-- you probably didn't know about the original Star Wars films (commonly known as "The Good Ones"), at least according to The Edmonton Sun. I'm sure there will be more such things filtering out as the geeks pore over their recently-ordered copies of the trilogies (because, of course, all of them will order it online for fear of leaving their houses).  

      As for Lucas' perennial tinkering with movies a quarter-century old, it seems he's never heard of Samuel Beckett's truism, that there's no such thing as a finished poem, only the thing we let go.

Some Random Twisted Ruminations

      A gift certificate, as Dilmom once observed, is about taking perfectly good and tenderable cash and giving it to someone in a much more restrictive form.   See also tuition.

      It's generally believed that post-structuralism has something to offer the literary critical community, but, really, how can you be Saussure?

      Pity Michelangelo's David: he had his first erection 500 years ago, and it wasn't the one he wanted.

      Cunnilingus rethought: The only thing that remained in Pandora's, er, "box" was that which every man desires, Hope, even though Bacon says Hope is a good breakfast but a bad supper. This should come as no surprise from a man named Bacon. But we all know that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Right? Right. So there. And it's so much better than Denny's. Oh, and boys, I'm warned to remind you not to forget the eggs.... (Mind you, if a protein shake is what else you'd prefer, so be it....)

      A friend once said I had low self-esteem. I told her to come down here and say that.

      T.S. Eliot is an anagram for "toilets." Casts The Waste Land in a new light, doesn't it?

      If we can have Girls Gone Wild, how long is it until we have Girls Gone Feral?    (Leave it alone....)

      Proof that God exists: Eudora Welty didn't have a child with Peter Boyle. (Think about it.)

      A young boy is a lad, and a young girl is a lass.   Now tell me how we got the word "lady."

      Shouldn't The Gap really be a wholesale operation? (Word to whit: if you buy your clothes from a place with that name, you get what you deserve, Lenny Crevice ads et al.)

      “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” (I Cor. 13:11) You see, it's okay to eat kids. The ghosts of Jonathan Swift and Vladimir Nabokov are issuing "I told ya so"s from beyond the pale.

      Would you worry if an Islamic person wanted a slice of pie à la mode?

      What did Whitman used to do on Whitsun?

      Shouldn't a tampon really be called a tamp-in or a tamp-up? The tamp is questionable, but the on is just plain wrong. (And I'm sure the damn things don't have anything to do with tams. Or pons, whatever they might be.) Also, try actually fucking off. This blog is relatively sure that something going off won't be fucking anything for long.

Argh. Perhaps more later. In the interim: dare to consider the various implications of the term "gag reflex." Kinda puts your girlfriend (or whomever) in the same boat with kidnappers and Groucho Marx, doesn't it? What a curious gaggle, n'est-ce pas? Now repeat after me, ten times fast: "Felicia's felicitous fellatical facility fascinated the famously flaccid faculty fellows." Again...

Charms and Riddles

      It's forgotten more often than not these days that a lot of early poetry (in just about any language) is what we now call "riddle poetry," appropriate considering that the verb "to riddle" has at its etymological roots the ideas of sifting through things, distinguishing between things, and, in fact, the very act of reading.   (One might remember that the ability to solve a riddle was once associated with heroism, as in the story of Oedipus.) There is a lot of this sort of poetry in English, the principle being the identification of a thing based on a description, a process which tied language, and its imaginative implications, with things tangible and real. Yes, the principle is simple enough, but perhaps worth reinforcing in this age more inclined to descriptive language than to metaphorical language. But a doddering through a few anthologies tonight turned up this (anonymous) piece from the tenth century, a poem translated from the Welsh by Joseph P. Clancy; I'm going to leave it untitled for now and see if anyone can solve the riddle.

Make out who this is:
Formed before the Flood,
Powerful creature,
Fleshless and boneless,
Nerveless and bloodless,
Headless and footless,
No older, no younger,
Than when he began;
He is not put off
By terror or death;
He's never unneeded
By any creature
(Great God, so holy,
What was his origin?
Great are His wonders,
The Man who made him);
He's in field, he's in wood,
Handless and footless,
Ageless and sorrowless,
Forever hurtless;
And he's the same age
As the five epochs;
And he is older
Than many times fifty;
And he is as broad
As the earth's surface;
And he was not born,
And he is not seen,
On sea and on land
He sees not, unseen,
He's unreliable,
Will not come when wanted;
On land and on sea
He's indispensable;
He is unyielding,
He's beyond compare;
From the four corners
He'll not be fought with;
He springs from a nook
Above the sea-cliff;
He's roaring, he's hushed,
He has no manners,
He's savage, he's bold;
When he goes cross-country
He's hushed, he's roaring,
He is boisterous,
The loudest of shouts
On the face of the earth;
He's good, he's wicked;
He is in hiding,
He is on display,
For no eye sees him;
He is here, he is there;
He hurls things about,
He pays no damages,
He makes no amends,
And he is blameless;
He is wet, he is dry,
He comes quite often.
One Man fashioned them,
All created things,
His the beginning
And His is the end.

It's not a bad translation, except in a few spots ("cross-country," for example; and the increasingly obvious turns toward the end). The translation loses, too, I'm sure much of the original poem's incantatory feel, though certainly not all of it. Reminds one very well of the the very nature of poetry: to charm with sound, and then to allow for meaning, or at least the idea of meaning, to break that charm, or to release us from its mystification: yes, it's about two forms of order, the first of sound, the second of sense. Both orders, however, don't automatically exist: instead they are built, accumulated, or (shifting metaphors a bit drastically) accreted. Neither order is ever total, ever perfect. And that's the beauty of it: the orders are always being created (rather than standing in some monolithic completion), because poetry, like music, has to exist in at least a version of time, as your eyes run across the page or as your voice sounds it out. (Try looking at all of the words of a poem at one time: it can't be done. Not even with poems about red wheelbarrows.) But the idea of an implied answer to a riddle (a metaphor itself for 'a sense of meaning') allows us to stop that particular movement of time, to step out and view that movement from a more distant stance. (And, oh, how readers today stand there waiting to be told "the point" of things, or what a piece of writing "is all about....") To solve a riddle is to understand an order of meaning, to grasp it, to see completeness, function, and thus feel free from that order. Surrender and liberation, always key principles of poesis and literature-- and so many other things, for that matter. Food for thought, especially for my unfortunate American friends now mid-charm.

      Some of you might wonder why I'm thinking about this. Well, it's always been to me a central tenet: rethink the obvious, start with the basics, and reconsider what they do. And then work outward. It's inevitably the obvious that we forget as we niggle over complexities.

If It Absolutely Has To Get There Tomorrow....

      Try Federline. (A rare name that sounds both like a courier service and a phrarmaceutical.)

      By the way, young Federline, you couldn't possibly have had worse timing. Ye are so screwed when she J. Blows you to the curb.

The Ned Flanders of American Cities

      Rex Murphy on Toronto's trash: and I don't mean the Raptors.  

It's Olivier Now, Baby Blue

      I'm not sure about any of you, but I'm probably one of the very few people with no desire whatsoever to see Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. Sure, it's getting some positive reviews, but it looks awfully hokey-- and worst of all, it proves one of my greatest fears: that not even Death Itself will keep Laurence Olivier, fifteen years into The Great Beyond, from chewing any and all scenery within his reach into a fine pablum-appropriate powder. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust....  

      Coming soon: his cameo in the sequel to Saving Silverman, in which he shouts madly at guest star Neil Diamond: I hef no torso!!!! (All those of you scarred by The Jazz Singer are surely as terrified as I am.)

      Mind you, if this experiment in digital recreation-- and lining Joan Plowright's pockets-- works, I bet George Lucas does stick some images of Alec Guinness into Revenge of the Sith. Any takers? Eh? EH? (Of course, it won't actually be Guinness, but a digital Guinness; we all know Lucas doesn't like dealing with people anymore.)   And I bet, too, the dowager Plowright will lead the campaign, with a ferocity that would embarrass Henry V himself, for Larry's ultimate coup de grace, the Academy's first Deathtime Achievement Award.

      Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so....   (Rave on, Mr. Donne....)

      (Aside: RK, you should find this as interesting as I did. This blog likes the last paragraph especially.)

Alimentary, Dear Watson....

      In a word: Duh.    In other news that would make Betty Friedan cringe, this blog declines to make any association between these items. Oddly enough, these headlines occurred all in a row at Ananova, which suggests something about the site editor.    This blog can't imagine what....