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.
  



   
WICHITA TRIPTYCH

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,

Soi-disant

Proustian mignon,

Aesthetic ascetic

And Kansas rube

Reducing his thought

To a bouillon cube

That no one hot

Ought ever pore over.