Sunday, February 24, 2013

Rube Reducing His Thought to a Bouillon Cube

In my most pathetic tweet ever since my last (when I mocked - get what a fucking pedant I am - SportsBog's Dan Steinberg for forgetting the Houston Astros are now in the AL West) until my next, I mocked Dan Froomkin praising Paul Krugman last night for an insight most of us had learned by eighth grade, including Dan Froomkin and Paul Krugman. The debate isn't how the world works, we agree how the world works, the debate is the negotiation between you and your complicity. There's a reason I always allude to the (purported) Carlen joke about the difference between assholes and jerks, the first drive too slow, the second too fast, or visa versa. Who am I to mock your current flavor of apostasy, I roll over for material comfort every time, the price I pay is whining to you about it. Hey! I hear Monday is the Highest Holy Day in Egoslavia. True?

Kayfabe, marks, and rubes, remember when this blog's posts were filled with the words kayfabe, marks, and rubes? Here's a list of trees MOCO will permit you to plant within fifteen feet of your curb. Ian Walsh yodels what I've been yodeling for years, back when this blog's post were filled with the words kayfabe, marks, and rubes. Marks and rubes and the kayfabe of sequester. K said not this past Thursday Night Pints but maybe three ago, you've (meaning me) have no right to outrage when you write in shorthand and code and then claim to have written first in code what someone then says in plain English. She emailed me this morning re: Pierce and said, see? Oh dear, pity the drone pilot. Hey! there are some new sites in New Here, check them out. Pynchon, for those of you who do, for those of you who don't but should. Second Ward, El Paso, 1972. Here, have a Stanley Elkin interview from 1974 just tweeted by Paris Review. Here, have a major boatload of links. Yes, tomorrow is the Highest Holy Day of Egoslavia, expect songs, breaking kayfabe, or not.


Stephen Yenser

Sometimes the rain shines
Just when the sun reigns,
And that was the way it is
Beyond those French doors
That late afternoon here
In this mind’s early evening
Where they still fade in
That cool color Polaroid,
Pastel shades of her prom dress,
A bowl of double peonies,
Promising, precocious,
Trying, trying to open.


Their friend and he were tight
Tight-rope walkers, self-taught
Taut-trope-talkers, stalking
Jamb-up, arm-in-arm
And caroling to lucky stars
Their bars and rebars,
The night a carousel
Of tryst and troth,
Of casual carousals,
Cocky arousals,
Pitching the dark to the dark.
(Streetlight and moth,
Reader, she married both.)


But then there he was,
In the morning’s mourning,
Proustian mignon,
Aesthetic ascetic
And Kansas rube
Reducing his thought
To a bouillon cube
That no one hot
Ought ever pore over.  


  1. re: Pynchon: I do and I don't. But you're linkage takes us back to Ian Walsh. Best wishes for the Holiday. As your bff and VW Uniteds (Geaux!) seatmate says, 'I hate it when the wrong Beatle dies.'

    Also, too, while we're on it: there is no such thing as Kayfabe. Everything is authentic. We just pretend otherwise. Rubes.

  2. Gah, fixed, thanks, I must have forgot to mouseover this morning.

    Re: kayfabe: sssh.