Celebrating 20 Years of Crap

Well, yesterday I finished the fourth and final volume of OUTLAWS OF THE MARSH. It didn’t end the way I thought it would! Checked in with Jimmy, but he has only recently cracked open volume three, so I have no one to talk to. But that’s not why we’re here, is it? As sorry as I am to admit it, today marks the 20th anniversary of the "blog." What a waste of time! What a monument, indeed, to the wasting of time. Just in case you don’t want to go back and read all 6,455 previous "posts," I am going to attach "hyperlinks" to the single greatest "post" from each year. Ballots were sent to Nobel prizewinners, movie stars, and rulers of nations. Results were tabulated by an army of robots. 2006: I mash my middle finger while attempting to get the suitcase out of the trunk. 2007: I think I see a spider on the hand soap dispenser. 2008: I drop a French fry on the floor. 2009: Emily shows me her wisdom teeth. 2010: G. Gordon Liddy’s commercial for gold. 2011: Is it 2011 already? Many (ha ha!) would assume my big long list of books with owls in them to be the obvious choice here. But there’s a problem with that! Though initiated in October 2011, which date it retains, the owl list has been regularly updated ever since and so cannot be said to belong exclusively to that year. The list of books with owls in them is for all time! And all people! And all owls! No, the greatest "post" of 2011 was when I eavesdropped on a conversation about someone who displayed dinosaur bones at her wedding reception. That being said, remember when I cleverly observed that James Ellroy simply can’t resist the term "night owl"? Well, I was too busy to tell you, but last week I was reading a different James Ellroy book than the one which provoked the comment, and I have to admit this one is comparatively light on night owls. He’s exercising uncharacteristic restraint! In the 300 or so pages I’ve read so far, he does use it twice with a hyphen ("night-owl"), as an adjective. So that’s exciting. 2012: A guy pulls my teeth while telling me a story about B.B. King. 2013: A cool name for a dog. 2014: I out-crazy an authentic New York City crazy. 2015: Lawrence Welk’s sexy daughter-in-law. 2016: Scarlet fever isn’t all that. 2017: Critiquing a quip that Arnold Schwarzenegger makes to a dead alligator. 2018: A bone falls out of the sky (photographic evidence included). 2019: An omelet named after my novel has been taken off the menu. 2020: Counting wienies. 2021: We sit around the house talking about Jonathan "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" Edwards. 2022: What they put on pancakes in Sweden. 2023: The New York Times throws its considerable weight behind Skippy brand peanut butter. 2024: Prayed over by a fudge manufacturer in an airport. 2025: The fork I’ve been eating with for close to sixty years is lost forever. 2026: Ending on another bummer, as seems appropriate, I leave my hat behind at my parents’ house. So many things lost. Forks, hats, omelets, time. All right! There it is, the "blog" in one neat package. See you on September 27, 2056, for the 50th anniversary. In hell! (Pictured, the hat, in 2019, at the Los Alamitos racetrack with Pendleton Ward.)

Shaft Punctuation

Well, now that the Million Dollar Book Club has finished its most recent selection - which, as Megan and I were discussing, is mostly a list of people having sex in piles of rotting garbage for art - I have returned to the final volume of OUTLAWS OF THE MARSH, in which our army of former bandits has come up against a military formation called... wait! Remember when McNeil was trying to get me to worship "The Monad"? So, they come up against a formation called "The Great Monad." Can this be a coincidence? Or does everybody just have monad fever? Anyway, these guys are completely flummoxed by the Great Monad! And nothing gets to these guys. The last time they were this upset was back when they were still bandits, about 400 pages ago, and they ran into their greatest adversary... a guy who is good at throwing rocks! I'm not kidding. Individually and as a group, these guys have triumphed over impossible odds again and again, but all of a sudden they're saying "Ow! Ow!" and falling off their horses because they met - seemingly for the first time in their lives - someone who can throw rocks. Don't worry, they eventually get the rock thrower - whose nickname is the Featherless Arrow - to come over to their side, so they can use his rock throwing powers for their own purposes. And yet not even this guy who is good at throwing rocks will be much use against the Great Monad! I'll keep you posted. So, the other night it was Dr. Theresa's birthday and we were driving around singing the theme from SHAFT. One thing we saw was a bunch of golden glinting orbs in a thicket, and then a baby raccoon emerged, and the golden glinting orbs were the eyes of its many brothers and sisters. But the point is we were driving around before that, singing the theme from SHAFT, and to my surprise, when we got to "no one understands him but his woman," Dr. Theresa belted out, with great confidence, "Joan Shaft!" And I said WHAT! Well, it turns out that for her whole life, Dr. Theresa has heard, I suppose, a comma after the phrase "no one understands him but his woman," a comma leading to a syntactically very logical end to that sentence, which would be giving the name of the woman to whom Isaac Hayes is referring, one "Joan Shaft." Dr. Theresa's theory was further bolstered by the fact that prior to the supposed introduction of "Joan Shaft," the protagonist Shaft is referred to by his surname alone. I had to burst her bubble on her birthday and inform her that there is no Joan Shaft. The backup singers are, of course, supplying us with Shaft's full name, John Shaft. Then, as a refreshing break from my mansplaining, the baby raccoon came out of the thicket. It was just like that Walt Whitman poem about the astronomer.

Zoological Adjustments

Well, well, well. I guess you'd think I was pretty foolish if I went out and bought the first few books of Aristotle's METAPHYSICS just so I could fact-check Thomas Aquinas when he says there's an owl in it. But that's just what I did. And hold onto your hats! There's NOT an owl in it! Here's what it says in my brand spanking new (by which I mean 1933) translation of the METAPHYSICS: "just as it is with bats' eyes in respect to daylight, so it is with our mental intelligence..." That's right! It's bats! Not owls! NOW what are you saying? I bet you're saying "Money well spent!" I troubled myself to scrounge about halfheartedly on the "internet" to find out why Aquinas says owls instead of bats. And you know, I found out a couple of things, sort of. I skimmed over a scholarly article called "Power and Limits of the Human Mind: On the Arabic Reception of the Analogy of Bats and Daylight..." Look. There's more to the subtitle but I'm getting tired of typing. It's like an email I got from McNeil this morning. He was writing about the movie DOCTOR, YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING! but had the energy to type only "Dr. ... kidding" (ellipses McNeil's). And I mocked him for it! But look at me now. Anyway, if I'm reading it correctly, this guy (his name is Amos Bertolacci) says that when translating from Greek to Latin, people began subsituting "owl" for "bat." And he explains why, but I don't think I understood it. Here, I'll quote it for you: "The interpretations of the bats’ analogy in Latin philosophy and theology have a different character from the ones considered here: Latin translators from Greek made Aristotle’s text less problematic by means of zoological adjustments, i.e. by identifying Aristotle’s bats with other night animals (night ravens or owls)." Then he goes on to say that some people even substituted eagles for bats! That's just crazy. (The latter being my conclusion, not Mr. Bertolacci's.) The article led me to another "web" site containing, in full, Thomas Aquinas's critique of Averroes's gloss on Aristotle's metaphysics, where I read with my own two eyes and my own pea-sized brain Aquinas taking Averroes to task for his bat observations... leading me to conclude (and bear in mind "I ain't no doctor with a degree" to quote Aretha Franklin) that Aquinas knew very well that they were bats in the original, not owls! All of this is to come to the shocking point: for the FIRST TIME EVER, I am going to REMOVE a book from my BIG LONG LIST OF BOOKS WITH OWLS IN THEM. So long, Aristotle. You had your chance! And you blew it. To quote Bill Boyle imitating Robert De Niro in COP LAND, "YOU BLEW IT!!!!!"

Aquinas Mania!

I'm sure you've been keeping up with the adventures of Jerky the Li'l Jerk, that rascally rapscallion who has stolen America's heart by telling people to go to hell. In that case, there is no need to remind you of Jerky's recent encounter with Thomas Aquinas. In order to compose that little masterpiece, I first fetched my "concise translation" of the SUMMA THEOLOGICA. Well, friends, that "concise translation" was a little TOO "concise"! Ha ha, what a fix. So I had to crawl around on the "internet" in search of the mot juste, as I call it. Then I started thinking, "Jack," I started thinking, "why don't you have a COMPLETE edition of the SUMMA THEOLOGICA in several volumes like a normal person?" So I tracked down just such a set. I made it to page three of the first volume, you will be impressed to hear. And that's where I read about "the weakness of our intelligence, 'which is dazzled by the clearest objects of nature; as the owl is dazzled by the light of the sun.'" As you can plainly see, due to my expert rendering of the punctuation, Aquinas is quoting from something there, which appears to be, based on his note, the METAPHYSICS of Aristotle. All right! That means that not only does the SUMMA THEOLOGICA have an owl in it, it borrows that owl from another work with an owl in it, a nesting phenomenon, if you will, which we have examined before, and I would include a "hyperlink" to prove it, but I'm starting to depress myself. And you! (Please "click" on this important correction.)

Old Guys

The most important thing is that Sonny Rollins died. My hero! It's no exaggeration to call him my hero. At the bottom of this "post" I'll put a playlist I made based on the massive biography of Sonny Rollins by Aidan Levy, which Megan and I read for the Million Dollar Book Club. One of our most monumental undertakings. If he's not your hero already, maybe you'll read it and Sonny Rollins can be your hero too. Or just listen to him! Also valid. The playlist is not all Sonny Rollins. It's also music that is important to him or has a special place in the book. But it's somewhere to start. Now to turn to lighter matters. Remember that Virginia Woolf book I was going to read on the airplane but then I started OUTLAWS OF THE MARSH instead? Well, now Virgina Woolf's BETWEEN THE ACTS is my "nighttime book," in which last night I read "She became, of a sudden, solemn as an owl" and that is why it is going on the list I began in 2011 of books I read with owls in them, no one knows why. Well, soon I'll temporarily put aside either Virginia Woolf or - more likely, because the adventure will be easier to take up again when the time comes - my "daytime book" (the aforementioned OUTLAWS OF THE MARSH) because the Million Dollar Book Club has finally recovered from the DIARY of Witold Gombrowicz. We're going to read Charlton Heston's journals from 1956-1976, because we think that's the book Wallace Shawn talks about reading in MY DINNER WITH ANDRE, and I believe ever since the Million Dollar Book Club read Andre Gregory's autobiography some years ago we've been circling around Charlton Heston... and for whatever reason, Wallace Shawn has been calling to us more and more as the years go by. Literally! Not literally. It was Charlton Heston or a book about William Shawn (Wallace Shawn's father) by Lillian Ross, a Million Dollar Book Club favorite author. But our ways, moods, and instincts are oblique and terrifying.

The Toastmaster Who Wasn't There

Now, how was Ace to know of my disenchantment, or whatever it is, with the idea of the Oscars? So he casually mentioned that he thought Conan O'Brien did a good job. "Well, we'll see about that!" I thought with churlish... I don't have a good noun to finish that sentence. The adjective churlish stopped my brain! So I scurried around on the "internet" like a little rat and watched a couple of minutes of Conan O'Brien doing his monologue. In my foul mood, I couldn't concentrate on his razor-sharp wit or whatever everybody thinks it is. All I noticed was how he amateurishly clapped his hands together every 10 seconds. He didn't know he was doing it! Such was my interpretation. His body was out of his control! And so on. Such was the content of my bitter thoughts. So I used email, the old person's medium, to craft a sentence only a 200-year-old man could appreciate: "All I’m saying is you wouldn’t see Bob Hope clapping his hands together every 10 seconds like the toastmaster at the Kiwanis Club." Ace responded that the Kiwanis make excellent pancake breakfasts and have programs to help children in need. So I really felt like a jerk after that. After some thought, I realized what a few of my problems were, and I encapsulated them thusly: "Once I was in a play and someone videotaped it, and when I watched the videotape I was horrified to see that I was involuntarily and unconsciously clapping my hands together every 10 seconds for no discernible reason. Conan's only real crime was reminding me of my own many failures! Also, I picked the Kiwanis Club at random, assuming they were a generic men's fraternal organization such as Fred Flintstone used to belong to. I didn't know anything about them! I should have turned the merciless spotlight on myself, not on the innocent members of the Kiwanis Club! I don't even know if they have toastmasters!" It was like when the guy in MULHOLLAND DR. (above) said "There is no band." That is, there was no toastmaster. Or to paraphrase Stanley Kubrick, I have always been the toastmaster. It's like in ANGEL HEART when... never mind. I don't want to spoil ANGEL HEART for you. I know you've been meaning to get around to it. Similar to the plot of that one Dan Duryea movie of which I can't recall the title. Wait! BLACK ANGEL. Why do they all have angel in the title? Let's forget it. Please join us tomorrow, when we start over with a clean slate, beginning with McNeil's revelation of some startling theological insights. I'm unemployed. PS The toastmaster I'm imagining wouldn't clap his hands together every 10 seconds anyway. He'd be gripping the podium in white-knuckled terror.

Feelin' Ancient

Am I going to read THE ILIAD? I'm afraid it appears likely. Was it Emily Wilson who got me on this ancient kick? I read her translation of THE ODYSSEY and her biography of Seneca, and then six plays by Seneca that she translated, which ruined me for reading things that were not ancient. I've even read ancient things I haven't bothered to tell you about on the "blog," such as Josephus. Josephus! And before I took up Witold Gombrowicz for the Million Dollar Book Club, Tacitus was my daytime book. Sitting around reading Tacitus in the broad daylight like some kind of animal! And I guess I'll pick up where I left off if I ever finish Gombrowicz. Okay, I'll be right back. I need to do a little research. All right, I'm back. I have confirmed a nagging feeling. It wasn't Emily Wilson who got me into all this. It was Kirk Douglas! ("Click" here for details.) Sorry, Emily Wilson! Anyway! I guess you're wondering where all this ILIAD crap is coming from, though. Well, remember when I decided to become interested in Simone Weil? I don't suppose any of us will ever forget it! So I'm going around learning stuff about Simone Weil and I see that she wrote a famous essay about THE ILIAD. So I get hold of that and I'm like, "Uh-oh! Here we go again!" And do I want to get my Robert Fagles translation of THE ILIAD off the shelf? Well, hell, no. Didn't I read it already? Or part of it? Did I ever finish it? Also, it's on a shelf behind a glass door with latches at both the top and bottom. That's a lot of work! The bottom latches, in addition, have some stuff piled in front of them, such as my blood pressure machine. Oh! Speaking of my blood pressure machine, let me come clean about something. I've told you many times that I stopped reading old comic books. I still say that is true. However! I do have a gigantic hardcover DC "omnibus edition" of comics that I currently sample while relaxing for five minutes before blood pressure time. This sturdy volume has just the kind of spine I need for laying out the book flat on the dining room table, where the medical task in question is undertaken. So yesterday, or the day before, I think, I saw a representation of the DC comics character the Spectre, and... here... allow me to quote an email I sent to Adam Muto on the subject: "I was looking at a DC comic book from 1989 and it had the Spectre in it, and he was really ripped! I was like... he's a ghost! Has he been going to the gym? You're the only person I could think of to tell." I did not add... "Or should I say RIPped?" because I thought such wordplay would make Adam sad and disappointed. Then I poked around on the "internet" because I was afraid "ripped" wasn't the right term. I spent a lot of time on "web" sites dedicated to parsing the difference between being "ripped" or "shredded" or "jacked" or "swole." But we're getting off the subject! Are we? Well, I recalled seeing a newish translation of THE ILIAD at Square Books. And given the fact that I'm going to have lunch with Tom Franklin one day soon, I just know I'll stop by on the way and pick it up. I can see the future! This ILIAD wasn't translated by Emily Wilson, but it had a blurb from Emily Wilson. [Wrong! - ed.] Now, as a person who has both given and received blurbs, I know that blurbs aren't really worth spit. Except for the time Lauren Graham blurbed one of my books! That one counted!

Ham-Fisted Doofus

After I finished reading the Apocryphal Gospels during the 11-day blackout, I turned to BLACKWATER by Michael McDowell, which seemed like a good, creepy thing to read in the dark. I had been previously impressed with the author's deep geographical and metereological understanding of the Gulf Coast of Alabama as displayed in his novel THE ELEMENTALS, so it was extra sad that in BLACKWATER, he misspelled the name of my hometown Bayou La Batre. One character suggests moving there as part of a scheme of vengeance, to which her husband replies, "What would you and I do in Bayou le Batre, that old place?" Which, if I am being honest, is something we used to ask ourselves, if only from time to time. The answer was to go down to Schambeau's or Red's Drugs and look at the new comic books! And to wander around in Schambeau's and wonder why Mr. Schambeau (his first name was Crum!) regularly stocked Purina Monkey Chow. Did someone in town own a monkey? If so, who? An unsolved mystery to this day! Truly, Schambeau's was a wonderful grocery store to stir the imagination. Well, when I first opened BLACKWATER, the title page popped right out in my hand! It simply removed itself from the book in what seemed, given the circumstances, an ominous sign. I was reminded of when McNeil called me a "ham-fisted doofus" because I once broke an egg in my hand in an attempt to remove it from its carton. This led McNeil to come up with the idea of chickens who lay eggs with edible shells. I could have sworn I "blogged" about both the thing he called me and his egg idea, but it turns out I put those two tantalizing pieces of the McNeil puzzle into two separate unpublished novels. Well, the hell with it. Here I am giving away these remarkable tidbits for free! I give up. Note for historians of the future: an email search indicates that McNeil called me a "ham-fisted doofus" on May 6, 2019.

And the Silently Silent Silence

Our electricity went out on January 24 and it's still not back! I don't think it's ever coming back. That's why I am daringly "blogging" without electricity. How? Magic, I guess. Anyway, remember last time we got snowed in? We all thought it was such a lark, a real hoot, such a giggly good damn time, as Ace went out with his 4-wheel drive and brought us back 100 chicken thighs and a single onion. This time it wasn't so funny! It wasn't so damn funny this time, was it? WAS IT! (Also, my use of the past tense is misleading.) For example, Dr. Theresa and I put out a house fire (not our house). I would tell you about the time Dr. Theresa and I put out a house fire (not our house), but I've already told Ace and Angela and Bill and Jimmy and Megan and McNeil and my mom and Adam and Hanna and Kate and Steve and Quinn about the time Dr. Theresa and I put out a house fire (not our house), and I probably told some other people I am forgetting to mention, considering how we haven't had electricity since January 24 and I am going insane. As I jokingly (not jokingly! As Rob Schneider, so renowned for his eloquence, once put it, I was "kidding on the square") told McNeil, at least not having power gave me time to finish reading the Apocryphal Gospels. Now, McNeil had purchased that book by mail on the basis of the single story I repeated from it about young Jesus killing one of his schoolteachers, but I had to inform him that, aside from the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, in which the latter story occurs, the only other "good one" was the Questions of Bartholomew. Bartholomew timidly stomps his foot on the devil's neck, for example! But in general I was afraid I had caused McNeil to waste his money due to my vivid descriptions of interesting things! After I sent the email, I did read another really good line, just one line, set off on its own, like a line of poetry - "and the silently silent silence" - in the Coptic Gospel of the Egyptians. It hit me as Joycean! Later still, I did find the Gospel of Truth, as it was called, to be full of the kinds of mind-blowing theological wackiness that McNeil and I used to speculate about in high school as we walked around in the giant sewer pipes with our friend J. P. near the Ossie's barbecue in Mobile, Alabama. But I don't know if that one will strike McNeil the same way. Look, I've done what I can. Ossie's is where I first became acquainted with and existentially scarred by the motif of a pig wearing a chef's hat. We have to thank Ace and Angela for a lot of things during this ongoing experience, including the time they helped us not blow up (unrelated to the aforementioned house fire). Thanks to Tom and Beth Ann for the hot coffee and hot shower when we neeeded it most... so far. The list goes on. Perhaps some would prefer to remain anonymous. Most importantly, Angela gave me a head lamp that allowed me to read the Apocryphal Gospels in the dark!

Victory Through Insomnia

So the Million Dollar Book Club chose J Dilla as our current subject - specifically, DILLA TIME by Dan Charnas. Hey! Before I go on with the really exciting part of whether or not this book has an owl in it (it does), I want to tell you about buying it. So... whenever I'm in Los Angeles I like to stop by a bookstore (usually Skylight) and if I find some nice things, I have them shipped to me so I won't have to carry them on an airplane. You can't get content like this anywhere else, folks! Anyway, I hadn't had time to visit a bookstore, but on my last night in town I was set to have dinner with Ashly Burch and Mort Burke way out in Culver City. And I was like, "Hey, if I get there early, are there any bookstores close to the restaurant?" And Ashly recommended a place called Village Well Books. So, I got there early, and I had a long time to poke around, and the longer I poke around, the more books I buy. On this occasion, one of those books was DILLA TIME. And, as usual, I had the books shipped to me. But guess what? They never showed up! And here's the part of the story where I really have to thank the good people at Village Well Books. They completely replaced my order for free! Even though the fault lay with the USPS, as I mention reluctantly, because most of the time they're on the ball, out there carrying stuff around so we don't have to. But what was I talking about? Oh yes. It will come as no great shock to you that J Dilla is described as a "night owl." Wait! I thought of something else! So, Mort and Ashly and I go to this sushi place and Ashly says, "I've never been here before." And I say, "It seems familiar." And Mort says, yes, we've all been there before, together... when it was a DIFFERENT sushi place where Ashly had never been before! A different sushi place in the same location. And both times, to be clear, Ashly said "I've never been here before." And in a way, she was right. Wow, this is amazing stuff. Oh. So the reason you will not be shocked that J Dilla is described as a "night owl" is because a lot of the people we read about in the Million Dollar Book Club are described as "night owls." So many, in fact, that I am beginning to think that if you want to be the kind of successful figure who gets a book written about you, you need to stop sleeping right now.

Green Means Go

Hey! You know how THE ELEPHANT, a special I worked on with Kent Osborne, Rebecca Sugar, Ian Jones-Quartey, Patrick McHale, Pendleton Ward, and many others, will premiere on Adult Swim December 19? Pretty soon! And how the next day, on HBO Max, assuming it still exists, there will be a "Behind the Elephant" special ABOUT the special? A special about a special. What will they think of next? But guess what? Whatever you guessed, you were wrong. Because if you watch THE ELEPHANT on December 19 on an old-timey TV set like an ancient caveman, you'll see Frowny 'n' Smiley! Yes, stop pinching yourselves, THAT Frowny 'n' Smiley, famous for being a thing no one remembers from back when I was on twitter. Only now they're in TV form! Like when Milhouse said ALF was in pog form. I got the green light to spread the word. I call it a show, but I'm lying. Frowny 'n' Smiley episodes are 15 seconds long. So I don't think you can comfortably call that a show. But it's something! And you're going to love it. LOVE IT! Let Frowny 'n' Smiley worm their way into your shriveled up hearts, you monsters! Learn to feel again!

Animal Friends

I know what you're asking. Did we spend part of our 30th anniversary celebration as you might expect, revisiting the grim site of the miserable death of Meriwether Lewis, which we accidentally discovered on a prior anniversary trip? Yes and no. We paid tribute to it as we drove by, sending good wishes aloud to Meriwether Lewis's ghost, but we were too busy thinking about how we hadn't eaten all day, and we were eager to reach our destination. Sorry, Meriwether Lewis! Now I'll fill you in on the rest of our trip in a massive, unreadable, unbroken chunk of text, such as has been a "blog" tradition for more than 19 years, God help us all. We saw lots of cool animals, including a donkey and a goat who seemed to be good friends. At one point we were stopped at a traffic light behind a huge tanker truck, and printed on the rear of the tank were the words - and only these words - THE WORLD'S BEST COFFEE. "Is that full of coffee?" I blurted idiotically, causing Dr. Theresa to laugh for the next 10 miles. In the instant, I meant it! You may recall that my brain was famously stunned into a stupor at a not entirely distant point in the past. You'd think it would have fixed itself by now! The truck was full of fuel, of course, which it was carrying, no doubt, to a convenience store/gas station purporting to serve THE WORLD'S BEST COFFEE. There is no conceivable reason to fill a tanker truck with coffee. One night we had a great dinner and walked back to the hotel, where, on the previous evening, we had sat in the lobby bar and gazed across at an elegant recess filled with a different kind of furniture, and upon that furniture there sat a man who Dr. Theresa swore was the late Truman Capote. Anyway, we vowed at the time that we would go sit in that elegant recess with the nice furniture on a future evening. Well! I thought it was time. Dr. Theresa wasn't so sure. I kept saying how much fun it would be to sit in the elegant recess and "people watch." Finally, I talked her into it. She sat there grudgingly sipping a ranch water as I tried out a towering wingback chair such as Mr. Burns might use on THE SIMPSONS. Anyway, we were sitting there like that when a woman in leather pants walked by and did a double take. Then she came back and - Dr. Theresa reenacted this gesture often in the aftermath - sort of displayed her palms and circled them in the air as if trying to encompass her wondrous vision (me). "You look regal!" she informed me from across the lobby. So I looked at Dr. Theresa like, "Huh? Huh? I guess 'people watching' was the greatest idea ever!" She laughed and we realized we were feeling pretty great, so we went up to the room and ordered an after-dinner pizza. That's right! We decided we were even because recently the guy who was restocking the greeting cards at Walmart tried to pick up Dr. Theresa. I don't think he was wearing leather pants. In the morning, Dr. Theresa had a few things to take care of, so I went downstairs before her to get some coffee and wait for her to join me for breakfast. As I would be alone for a short time, I brought along my anniversary reading material, Seneca's version of OEDIPUS, translated by Emily Wilson, because I know how to have a good time. A guy got on the elevator with me and said, "You a stoic fan?" I didn't know what the hell he was talking about until I looked down and recollected the Seneca book in my hand. I said, "Sure." He said something about admiring Seneca's letters and I replied, and I think this is an exact quotation, "Yeah, well, the plays are nasty." Thus ended our discussion of stoicism. Sitting there with my coffee, I started thinking about that book I read about ancient Greece not too long ago, from which I learned that the hyper-masculine bros of the "manosphere" are really into the Stoics these days. I wondered, was that guy a "manosphere" guy? Did he think I was part of his special "manosphere"? Well, it's my own fault for carrying around a collection of Seneca tragedies like some kind of secret handshake. As Oedipus says in Emily Wilson's translation, "The guilt of my times is mine." On the way back home, Jon Langford called, and I answered Dr. Theresa's cellphone because she was driving. See, Dr. Theresa is bringing Jon here (to Oxford, Mississippi) for some events soon, including a concert on Saturday the 25th, which you should really attend, though I know you don't exist. But anyway, please "click" on this "link" and get informed! I know you won't. So I kept getting disconnected and finally had to give up because we were tooling down the Natchez Trace, and for the first time in my life, I felt I was in that contrived horror-movie situation... as you know, in a contemporary setting, there must always be a reason for the protagonist's phone not to work. That seemed interesting when I started typing it. As we continued our journey home, the satellite radio with which our rental car came equipped began to play a song I could have sworn was called "Everybody Dance Now," but, as I learned from the accompanying dashboard display, is actually called "Gonna Make You Sweat," which I guess everyone knew but me. Dr. Theresa was very concerned when she believed she heard the narrator of the song declaring that he would make us, the listeners, "sweat until [we] bleed." Sweating until He bled is what the Savior did in the Garden of Gethsemane, as you probably know from Luke 22:44. Well, I looked it up when we got home and yes, the guy in that song wants people to sweat until they bleed. Is this a good way to end this "post"?

Talking Fancy

I am so tired of telling you about owls. But as I reached the final owl in HENRY VI, PART 3... an owl that Henry claims shrieked when Richard (the future Richard III!) was born... I realized that HENRY VI, PART 3 had four distinct uses of owls in it, owls of a great variety, placing Shakespeare alongside Virginia Woolf and Willa Cather for the big "Most Owls in a Single Work" award. Yes, HENRY VI, PART 3, gives us lazy owls, owls stumbling around like jerks in the daylight, and, one might argue, two examples of the same kind of owl... an owl screeching or shrieking with ill omen. But I say that while the first such owl is definitely a metaphor, the one that Henry is talking about appears to be real, unless he's just talking fancy... but I think it's a bit of both... what Rob Schneider once called "kidding on the square," ha ha, oh boy!

A True Story of Real Life

The other day I had to, in the words of Kool Moe Dee, "go see the doctor," but, let me emphasize, not for the reasons put forth in that work. Anyway, having recently finished off a couple of smaller books, all the books I took up subsequently are gigantic monsters, impossible to sit with in a waiting room without making an unseemly spectacle of one's self. So I plucked a manageable book from my big pile of books to pluck, and it happened to be RUN MAN RUN by Chester Himes, which I found at Skylight Books on my most recent visit to Los Angeles, California. So I started reading it while I waited to see the doctor and then, to use a well-worn phrase, I "couldn't put it down." So, last night, just near the end, there came a "replica of an owl's head" where I least expected it... on the butt of a gun! That's the end of my story.

Narrator Loves to Narrate

I don't care but anyway I have a lot of time on my hands lately. So, you know, I was talking about three authors who are concerned with owls hanging out in daytime, and all the problems that could cause for their metaphorical owls. It's almost like a clickbait headline: "Three Times Owls Got Totally Confused in Daylight!" So yesterday I was reading THE MAN WITHOUT QUALITIES, and the narrator - boy, does this guy love to narrate! - refers to the "complex irrationalism that haunts our era like a night bird lost in the dawn." Now! Is that night bird an owl? Hell if I know. What, can I read Robert Musil's mind? I can't even read his book! Ha ha, just kidding, Robert Musil, you're all right. But let's think of JULIUS CAESAR by none other than Mr. William Shakespeare and how his own "bird of night" is standing there in broad daylight, "hooting and shrieking"... like what? Like a damn owl, I say! Shakespeare's owl, unlike these other owls, if it is an owl, knows what it's doing. It's there to deliver a message. It's an omen! Anyway, I've confused myself.

A Very Long Dash

So Terence asks Rachel "didn't you wander about the hotel like an owl in the sun?"... only Virginia Woolf places a long dash - six times the length of an ordinary dash! - between the word "sun" and the question mark. I couldn't figure out how to replicate it and I'm so very tired. I mention all this because THE VOYAGE OUT has had four owls in it so far, a number of owls in a single work of fiction matched on the "blog" only by Willa Cather, I believe, though I have done zero research in the interest of confirming this... and, should you care to "click" on this "link," you will find that one of Cather's owls has a problem with the sunlight as well... a problem, it occurs to me, shared by the owl of Dr. Samuel Johnson, and probably some other owls, but I don't care, and neither do you. Why are we here?

Until All the People Should Awake

"... but here in the darkness an owl flitted from tree to tree, and when the breeze lifted the branches the moon flashed as if it were a torch. Until all the people should awake again the houseless animals were abroad, the tigers and the stags, and the elephants coming down in the darkness to drink at pools." Nice! That's Virginia Woolf in THE VOYAGE OUT, a good book to read while you're lying in bed. I've just quoted, for example, something nearing the end of a long passage, several pages in length, that describes people going to sleep. Some of it reminds me of a passage by James Joyce, though, as I recall, Virginia Woolf had some awfully mean things to say about him. He must have touched a nerve! Anyway! I switched THE MAN WITHOUT QUALITIES (not before it presented me with a second owl sighting! "He opened his eyes again and stared briefly like an owl across the room, without really looking at anything") for THE VOYAGE OUT. I'm reading the former in the bright sunshiny daylight now, when and if there is any. THE MAN WITHOUT QUALITIES contains a lot of thick, chewy philosophy, hard to manage as one toddles off to dreamland.

Endnote Maniac

I didn't expect an owl in Kafka's diaries. I just didn't think of him as a nature guy, if you know what I mean, because I don't know what I mean, but luckily no one cares, and neither do I. Anyhow! There she was, suddenly, a teacher Kafka meets, "owlish young fresh face, full of lively tense features." Then, to my shock, the book was over a couple of pages later, but I should have known, because translator Ross Benjamin never met a sentence he didn't want to augment with an endnote. Did every endnote, however, serve an illuminating purpose? I read a lot of them, and I have to say no. But I like his energy!

McNeil's Li'l Bible Bits

I guess we're assuming that McNeil has abandoned that 700-hundred-page biography of Humphrey Bogart by which he erstwhile so enchantingly sprinkled our humble undertaking with gossamer fancies. As you know, he's reading the Bible now instead - specifically, the New Testament. His thoughts on the matter, while jaunty, are certainly not blasphemous! "The New Testament is a lot different after a library full of literature and UFO videos," he remarks, for example. "It's funny if you read it the right way," he goes on. Now, before you make an objection, cut McNeil some slack! You'll recall that the lofty scholar Diarmaid MacCulloch pointed out some good jokes and zingers from Jesus and friends in his massive history of Christianity. Certainly you'll recall that! And though I have nothing to back this up, because I don't care, I recall reading a Kurt Vonnegut essay, oh, about 40 years ago, in which Mr. Vonnegut praises what he considers a good joke made by Jesus. But let's get back to McNeil, according to whose observations, Jesus "barely puts up with these dumb-ass disciples he's saddled with." McNeil claims also that Jesus sighs a lot. This is my own extrapolation, but in McNeil's portrait of Jesus, the Savior comes off somewhat like Charlie Brown in the PEANUTS comics. And we all remember, don't we, that Charles Schulz was a famous Christian? I rest my case. In conclusion, I must admit that McNeil and I exchanged heated words - maybe even with some light cussing! - over my preference for the King James Version versus McNeil's special all-time fave the NIV. Who would have ever thought the Bible could cause people to fight with each other? Now I've heard everything! McNeil charmingly refers to the NIV as "The Hep Cat's Old Testament." Somehow I doubt this is the last we've heard from McNeil about the Good Book!

Thin, Lucent Clouds

Well, you know, we've given some attention recently to writers trying to get into the heads of dogs, literarily speaking. So it is only fair I should tell you that in THE MAN WITHOUT QUALITIES, translated by Sophie Wilkins, Robert Musil kind of skates around writing from the POV of some horses. He admits: "It was hard to comprehend what was going on inside the animals," though he ventures to suspect they "knew nothing of love as a tangible desire, but only as a breath and a haze that sometimes veiled their vision of the world with thin, lucent clouds." You know, this reminds me of some years ago when I watched the 7-hour Soviet movie version of WAR AND PEACE and I sort of perked up when a tree started talking. I was like, "Can this really be in Tolstoy?" And to my recollection, I looked it up somewhere, and yes, that tree had some things to say, and I wrote about it extensively somewhere, but I've searched my "blog" and my files and all my many unpublished novels and my emails to McNeil, and I can't find anything I wrote about the talking tree. We might even say I'm not convinced the talking tree exists, but I don't care about things anymore, so I'm not going to make an effort to find out.