Allow Me to Explain

Here is something Witold Gombrowicz writes in his diary: "A man on a horse is as weird as a rat riding a rooster, a chicken riding a camel, a monkey riding a cow, or a dog riding a buffalo." Got it? All right. Now. Surely you are familiar with the 19 mighty "blog"trospectives that form the pillars of our great work for humankind. Some of them are updated frequently... I think of the one on sandwiches, the one on movies, and, especially, of our big long list of books with owls in them. Others languish. Hardly ever do I have occasion to make a new entry in "Feeding a Possum." Another one that lies there withered and forgotten, much like its author, me, is "Monkeys Riding Dogs." You may ask yourself, "Does Gombrowicz mention monkeys riding dogs?" No. But monkeys and dogs are pretty close together in that sentence. And if he had kept thinking about it, he would have made it to monkeys riding dogs. Why he distinguishes between a rooster and a chicken rather than, say, having a rat riding a parrot or an owl riding a camel, is a question for a future date.

You Go Uruguay

The title of this "post" alludes to a Groucho Marx joke which I will not explain or contextualize because I know you don't care. And you know what? It hurts. Another thing you don't care about is a certain kind of coincidence I like. "Like" is a strong word. Anyway, I'm going to tell you about it. So, I was reading in this Witold Gombrowicz book about his reaction to the works of Simone Weil, and I was thinking, I don't know anything about Simone Weil. And then I watched a Godard movie the same day and a character repeatedly brought up Simone Weil! When I emailed Megan with this exciting news, I put an extra L in Weil... that's just how little I know about Simone Weil, which is just an extra detail especially for you not to care about. Later that day, or maybe it was the next day, my brother told me that he had purchased one of my books from a used book store, and he texted me a photo of the inscription, in which I had praised the previous owner of the book to the high heavens. You wouldn't believe how lovingly I inscribed this book. My brother was incensed that the guy had ditched it. Though the the book was inscribed to him using his first name alone, I am almost 100% sure I know who the guy is, though I was surprised by how seemingly devoted I was to him at one time, or maybe I just tend to gush. I wondered to myself with my simple childlike brain, gee, where is that guy now? Whatever happened to him? So I looked him up, and he moved to Uruguay some years ago. I wasn't mad to begin with, but if I had been, how could I have stayed that way? I wouldn't pack up any books by me if I were moving to Uruguay! Okay. We're not to the end of this story yet! So then I picked up Gombrowicz again and he's taking a little trip on a boat, during which (from the translation by Lillian Vallee) "we practically reach the green shores of Uruguay." Now, I bet you think those are all the things you're not going to care about. But there's more! Here's where the ouroboros comes in. So! As you may not care about recalling, the diary of Witold Gombrowicz is an official Million Dollar Book Club selection. All right! Here's the thing... the guy who unceremoniously (I assume... or maybe there was a ceremony!) dumped my lushly inscribed book before moving to Uruguay is the editor of one of our future Million Dollar Book Club selections! (We have a list.) Or I should say he was the editor of one of our former future Million Dollar Book Club selections, for I immediately made a motion, which was seconded and passed (as there are just two of us) for him to be crossed off all of our lists until the end of time. I wasn't mad, but it was what Witold Gombrowicz would have done. Half his diary consists of taking stuff like that personally!

Everything That Is Torpid

"Everything that is torpid astounds and excites me." - Witold Gombrowicz

The Sweet Potato

Hey! Remember when Dr. Theresa wanted me to order a quesadilla and I had ALREADY ORDERED ONE? Due to our psychic abilities? Well, yesterday I texted Dr. Theresa to please pick up a sweet potato just for a change of pace, for me to put in my signature dish "beans 'n' greens," which, to be clear, the sweet potato, that is, has never before been an ingredient in the aformentioned speciality of my own invention. Well, Dr. Theresa texted me back with some excitement a photo of her shopping cart, into which she had ALREADY DEPOSITED A SWEET POTATO. She appended a caption, which was, I believe, "Get out of my head, witch."

No One Is Talking

Well, it was back in December when my enormously popular yet mysteriously obscure feature ACE GOES TO HOLLYWOOD, on the "web" site Flaming Hydra, came to its gently burbling conclusion. I can't say that I was inundated with cards and letters asking me what might come next. In fact, the query was raised by no one, nor was the finale itself a source of rueful celebration. The subject of the column in question, of course, was my friend and neighbor Ace Atkins, in particular his work on the Pauly Shore film JURY DUTY. And something did come next! That something was, and is, KENT GOES TO CHELMSFORD, the thrilling story of how Kent Osborne got cast in the starmaking Brendan Fraser vehicle SCHOOL TIES, which I believe came out within a year of Pauly Shore's JURY DUTY. We're already on Episode 3 of KENT GOES TO CHELMSFORD! Which I only mention because Kent talks about eating chicken in Episode 3 and, as you know, I have kept a careful tally here on the "blog" of Kent's chicken-eating activities, insofar as they relate to me personally... it would not be within the scope of even our mightiest computer systems to maintain a record of every time Kent eats chicken, which he does with neither remorse nor surcease. He's probably eating a chicken right now! If one were to "click" on the proper "hyperlink" shortly to come, one would find that the chicken in Episode 3 of KENT GOES TO CHELMSFORD is Chicken Française... a spoiler in which I do not mind indulging as I thought you might like to know that Chicken Française is the same thing as Chicken French, to which I was introduced by James Whorton in Brockport, NY, a stone's throw from Chicken French's place of origin, Rochester. If I recall correctly, Jim told me that he had originally (and wrongly) assumed the name "Chicken French" had something to do with French's brand mustard, the French's Mustard company, it may shock and delight you to learn, having historical ties to Rochester! What a world. On that same trip, Jim fed me something called a "garbage plate," an incident fictionalized in a story of which I could not remember the title as I tossed and turned last night, contemplating "blogging" about it upon awakening, which, as you can see, I have done. Anyhow, the story about the garbage plate appeared in the Hingston & Olsen SHORT STORY ADVENT CALENDAR for 2019 and it was titled, as I just confirmed, "The Wild Man of Mississippi." Who cares? Nobody! Which was my original point. For example, I have also heard literally nothing about Frowny 'n' Smiley, my big hit characters who made their debut on Adult Swim around the same time that ACE GOES TO HOLLYWOOD came to its sputtering halt. I was told recently - without asking! - that Frowny 'n' Smiley are "in rotation," but the only true evidence I have for their existence is in the commercial breaks for the BEHIND THE ELEPHANT special that I recorded off the TV one morning some hours before sunrise. I have had no verification of a Frowny 'n' Smiley sighting from any independent source, and the chances are good everything is a delusion. Yes, everything.

Events Spiral Out of Control

What's a typical day like for me, you ask? What? You didn't ask? Who are you? Where am I? Most days I sit around looking up stuff like how many calories in an apple. Yesterday was different. I went out to see Beth Ann Fennelly onstage at the launch event for her latest book THE IRISH GOODBYE. I got into town a little bit early because the tradition is to have a quick drink at City Grocery Bar before the reading, at least that has always been my personal understanding. And look, I don't make it out to the bar as much since the famous unpleasantness of almost two years ago. So I was disinclined to miss out on my special treat. But get this! City Grocery Bar was closed for a private party! That happens from time to time, enraging me. It can strike at any moment! The private party, not the rage. Although that can also strike at any moment. There is no warning for either one. Anyway, Bill Boyle arrived early as well, so, with a little more than half an hour to go, we departed the venue (Off Square Books) and walked around the corner to Proud Larry's, which even the bartender there referred to as the "backup" for literary whatever the hell it is. Life? Bill didn't want a drink. He was just keeping me company and keeping tradition alive. So important! That's what I said to the golden-brown liquid in my glass so it would know it was not being consumed in vain. Anyway, we had a nice talk (Bill and I, that is, not the glass and I, though we got along great too) and then we moseyed back over at 5:31 PM, just one minute after the event's official start time. And let me tell you something: we couldn't even get in! Not only was every chair occupied, the rear of the store was packed with a standing-room-only crowd AND there were people kind of smushed up in the doorway and spilling out onto the sidewalk. Well! I wasn't really surprised by the turnout, especially for Beth Ann, though I have long assumed that literature is dead. An unsuspecting Dr. Theresa, meanwhile, was on her way, having just finished teaching a class, and I had to tell her to come pick me up at Proud Larry's instead. Please be assured I had already purchased my copy of THE IRISH GOODBYE upon my arrival. Anyway, back around the corner we went and I sat at the bar with Bill again and ordered some to-go food for Dr. Theresa and myself... our go-to order at Proud Larry's, yes, our to-go go-to, that's right, or our go-to to-go would probably be a more proper way to put it, two grilled chicken salads with the lemon-red wine vinaigrette. And, if we're really feeling daring, we cheat and split a quesadilla. And boy were we feeling daring last night! And look, you're not going to believe this incredible tale, but I had already ordered the quesadilla before looking at my phone to discover that Dr. Theresa had texted her request for a quesadilla. Yes, you read that right! That's the kind of magic that thirty years of marriage will get for you. What a night. What a world. What times we live in.

Hey!

As I'm sure you saw coming, the latest Million Dollar Book Club selection is the DIARY of Witold Gombrowicz. "Hey!" I hear you objecting. "Hey! Hey there! Listen to me! Hey! Isn't, by your own admission, the purlieu, if you will, of the Million Dollar Book Club the so-called 'celebrity tell-all'? And, if so, how do you figure Witold Gombrowicz fits in? How do you figure THAT, my good sir?" That's a great question, and I'm not going to answer it. I will say that the solution of the puzzle resides in the fact that I have no money. It stems from that. I can elaborate no further at this time. "Hey!" There you go again. "Hey! Isn't it 'ironic,' if that is the right word, for a member of the so-called 'Million Dollar Book Club' to have no money?" Well, maybe. Do you know what that reminds me of for some reason? Now, this is gettiing far afield, speaking of purlieus, of what I wanted to tell you about the diary of Witold Gombrowicz. But you know what? A distinct advantage of being broke and unemployed is how much time you have to ramble incoherently about whatever you want. So, as I was saying, your question somehow puts me in mind of... well, to explain it, we have to go back in time to when I was in the hospital and Tom Franklin brought me a bunch of old comic books to cheer me up. And after that, I was buying old comic books for myself, at least for a little while, and there was one comic book from my youth that it took me some time to track down, because I couldn't recall the name of it, nor of the characters within it. But I kept seeing flashes of the cover in my mind. And at last I figured out that I was thinking of something called "The Green Team," some adventurers who were "boy millionaires," just to show you how the insidious, curdled influence of the loathsome Richie Rich wormed its way even into the halls of the noble DC Comics corporation. And, the way I remembered it, there was one "boy millionaire" who kind of got into the club under the wire, on a technicality. So that's what I was reminded of. But the thing I wanted to tell you about the diary (or DIARY) of Witold Gombrowicz is that within it... and this is a first! Hold onto your hats!... within it, old Witold is reading the diary of Franz Kafka... itself a former Million Dollar Book Club selection! You heard right. For the first time, the subject of a Million Dollar Book Club selection is reading a different Million Dollar Book Club selection! I don't have to explain the cosmic repercussions to you, do I? Because I have time.