Tuesday, June 03, 2008

The summer doldrums

seem to have begun in spring.  Global warming, I presume.  It seems quiet and sort of half hearted around the poetry areas where I read.  Perhaps the activity is all taking place in a Room of Requirements or a new branch of the He-Man Woman-Haters' Club*, undisclosed to me.  I attribute the silence here to a general sense of awe, readers struck dumb by wonder.  Occam might suggest a simpler explanation.

*Are allusions to The Little Rascals still generally comprehensible?  If I sing the "Happy Birthday, Mr. Hood" song, will anyone know what he got as a gift?

4 comments:

Anonymous said...

Or it could be that no one really gives a flying fuck what you write since it all sucks anyway. That could be it. I mean, let's face it, you really haven't accomplished much have you? And your writing is stilted, old and tiresome. Try something else. Anything but writing. Thanks o behalf of all of us.

RHE said...

Impressive act of moral courage. Is Anonymous your first name or your last?

epsteinsternator said...

An MLA search on "Little Rascals," much to my surprise, turns up nothing. A search on "Our Gang" turned up essays on Roth, but nothing else. Low-hanging fruit for cultural critics everywhere. . .

RHE said...

I'm shocked, shocked, I tell you. Buckwheat and Stymie and Darla alone should have provided endless grist for the academic mill.