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  1. #1 On the Way to the Forum 
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    ***Go to page 2 and post #34-41 for the full text to date***


    ON THE WAY TO THE FORUM
    a luv story


    First we need a hook.

    That’s the prevailing wisdom anyway.

    Awful conceit when you think about— fishing for readers. Used to be readers fished. Dropped in a line. Waited for a strike. Patience was required. Not anymore. Patience is no longer required. Patience is no longer a virtue.

    I think it comes from show business, the conceit. Certainly from the movie business. It’s cynical and manipulative and belongs to the movie business whether it originated there or not. What’s more, the movie business has steadily infected the reading and writing business. Writers write cinematically for readers who read cinematically. Nobody can even read Henry James anymore, let alone read him with understanding, with appreciation.

    Here a quick word on the “we” is in order, I think. That was not the Royal We, needless to say. I’m an American. Hell, we’re all American today, whether we know it or not, whether we like it or not. And it was not the Editorial We, either. I represent no viewpoint but my own and my aim from the outset is to get personal. No, by “we” I in fact meant “you”— and lest there be the slightest misunderstanding on this score let’s remove the scare quotes at once and state for the record that by “we” I meant you.

    You need a hook.

    That’s the first thing.



    To be continued below...


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  2. #2  
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    Continued from #1 above:



    The second thing— no! Without a hook, what is the good of going on with this enumeration? A clear conscience? What is that?

    A list of desiderata in this matter, were it drawn up on the authority of Aristotle himself, would be but a vanity, in the old sense, in the biblical sense of the word, unless it be read, unless it be readable. The first desideratum in writing is being read, and the first desideratum in reading— well, that’s been covered already. No need to rant on about this.

    And now it occurs to me that perhaps the use of the word desideratum here is ill-advised? And then there's the subjunctive mood of those verbs?

    I'm not sure.

    Anyway the point is clear enough, I think.

    It is no longer enough that boy meet girl. Boy and girl must “meet cute.”



    To be continued below...


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    Continued from #2 above:


    That’s entertainment! Am I right or am I right?

    But why must they meet at all? That’s what I’d like to know. And is that entertainment too? Or is that something else? Something more? Edification perhaps? There’s another suspect word. Or even something less? There’s always that possibility, I suppose.

    Or is there something less than which there is nothing? Something than which there is nothing less?

    What does that mean? No matter. We want a hook. That’s the point after all. That’s been the point all along. That’s the matter in a nutshell. The kernel. The seed. That sounds obscene. But let's not get carried away here.

    We want entertainment.

    There, I’ve said it. I let the cat out of the bag. Curious expression, that.



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  4. #4 MERGED TEXT 
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    ON THE WAY TO THE FORUM
    a luv story


    First we need a hook.

    That’s the prevailing wisdom anyway.

    Awful conceit when you think about— fishing for readers. Used to be readers fished. Dropped in a line. Waited for a strike. Patience was required. Not anymore. Patience is no longer required. Patience is no longer a virtue.

    I think it comes from show business, the conceit. Certainly from the movie business. It’s cynical and manipulative and belongs to the movie business whether it originated there or not. What’s more, the movie business has steadily infected the reading and writing business. Writers write cinematically for readers who read cinematically. Nobody can even read Henry James anymore, let alone read him with understanding, with appreciation.

    Here a quick word on the “we” is in order, I think. That was not the Royal We, needless to say. I’m an American. Hell, we’re all American today, whether we know it or not, whether we like it or not. And it was not the Editorial We, either. I represent no viewpoint but my own and my aim from the outset is to get personal. No, by “we” I in fact meant “you”— and lest there be the slightest misunderstanding on this score let’s remove the scare quotes at once and state for the record that by “we” I meant you.

    You need a hook.

    That’s the first thing.

    The second thing— no! Without a hook, what is the good of going on with this enumeration? A clear conscience? What is that?

    A list of desiderata in this matter, were it drawn up on the authority of Aristotle himself, would be but a vanity, in the old sense, in the biblical sense of the word, unless it be read, unless it be readable. The first desideratum in writing is being read, and the first desideratum in reading— well, that’s been covered already. No need to rant on about this.

    And now it occurs to me that perhaps the use of the word desideratum here is ill-advised? And then there's the subjunctive mood of those verbs?

    I'm not sure.

    Anyway the point is clear enough, I think.

    It is no longer enough that boy meet girl. Boy and girl must “meet cute.”

    That’s entertainment! Am I right or am I right?

    But why must they meet at all? That’s what I’d like to know. And is that entertainment too? Or is that something else? Something more? Edification perhaps? There’s another suspect word. Or even something less? There’s always that possibility, I suppose.

    Or is there something less than which there is nothing? Something than which there is nothing less?

    What does that mean? No matter. We want a hook. That’s the point after all. That’s been the point all along. That’s the matter in a nutshell. The kernel. The seed. That sounds obscene. But let's not get carried away here.

    We want entertainment.

    There, I’ve said it. I let the cat out of the bag. Curious expression, that.





    To be continued below...


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  5. #5  
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    Continued from #4 above:



    There, I’ve said it. Let the cat out of the bag, as they say. Curious expression, that. Figurative, we read, of course, or rather, which is more likely, as a lexical entry, abbreviated, fig., were we to look it up, readers that we are. But then there’s this, to read, that is, were we to look it up: of obscure or unknown origin. Apocrypha follow. The cat-o’-nine-tails. The pig in a poke. Academic rubbish. Whereas any grounded, down-to-earth real person whether he reads or not knows that cats, especially in the form of kittens, were customarily stuffed into gunny sacks and tossed into creeks, to drown. The academic puts the cart before the horse, looks for the origin by way of current meaning, which as noted is figurative. That’s like looking for the origin of the expression to put the cart before the horse by way of its current figurative meaning rather than by way of its literal provenance. That is, looking for something out of order when something in order should be looked for.

    But what does all this have to do with reading and writing? Or with entertainment for that matter, which we seemed to connect with reading and writing obscenely? I mean, connect obscenely with reading and writing. Or have I, as feared, gotten carried away? The word apocrypha certainly suggests as much.

    Boy and girl must meet after all.



    To be continued below...


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  6. #6  
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    Continued from #5 above:



    But must they? I think I asked this question before, but I could be wrong. I might’ve thought of asking the question but then not have actually asked it. I do that sometimes. I think of saying something but don’t actually say it and later recall the thought of saying as the saying itself. Most of the time I can’t recall whether I said it or only thought of saying it. Then again sometimes I say something and later forget saying it or even thinking it. Thankfully, that’s rare. But why thankfully? What a queer thing to say. Thankfully. But then this is a queer sort of business, speech. And thought right behind it!

    There, I’ve made a pun. Good.

    Relieves the tension.

    Now, to get back to the boy and the girl and the necessity of their meeting at all, to say nothing of their “meeting cute” or the necessity thereof, this question, as I recall, whether expressed or not, reduced at once to the question, whether expressed or not, of whether there is or can be said to be something more than entertainment or something less than entertainment involved in the necessity (of their meeting at all, that is, rather than their “meeting cute”)— a reductive series of questions or thoughts or thoughts and questions culminating, if that’s the right word, in the call for, so to speak, something than which there is nothing less.

    Sounds a bit like Anselm to me. Are we in the way of an ontological proof of some kind?



    To be continued below...


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    Continued from #6 above:



    As we have nothing to speak of in mind, let x stand for it. The ellipses are heuristic to the proper reading of the proposition, readers that we are.

    X is that…than which…nothing is less.

    You know the rest.

    QED

    Do you feel the tension in your brow relaxing? Your blurred vision clearing up. Humor is a gift from the gods. Remember the laughter of Wotan et al. strutting across that rainbow bridge into Valhalla?

    Anyway.

    Think of glances. His turns slowly to the right; hers rises slowly up from under. His and her glances. They come in a wide variety of colors, a whole range of browns, blues, greens, grays and hazels, which may be mixed and matched to please the most jaded and cynical taste.

    Why slowly?

    Quickly then.

    As long as the eyes meet.



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  8. #8 MERGED TEXT 
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    ON THE WAY TO THE FORUM
    a luv story



    First we need a hook.

    That’s the prevailing wisdom anyway.

    Awful conceit when you think about— fishing for readers. Used to be readers fished. Dropped in a line. Waited for a strike. Patience was required. Not anymore. Patience is no longer required. Patience is no longer a virtue.

    I think it comes from show business, the conceit. Certainly from the movie business. It’s cynical and manipulative and belongs to the movie business whether it originated there or not. What’s more, the movie business has steadily infected the reading and writing business. Writers write cinematically for readers who read cinematically. Nobody can even read Henry James anymore, let alone read him with understanding, with appreciation.

    Here a quick word on the “we” is in order, I think. That was not the Royal We, needless to say. I’m an American. Hell, we’re all American today, whether we know it or not, whether we like it or not. And it was not the Editorial We, either. I represent no viewpoint but my own and my aim from the outset is to get personal. No, by “we” I in fact meant “you”— and lest there be the slightest misunderstanding on this score let’s remove the scare quotes at once and state for the record that by “we” I meant you.

    You need a hook.

    That’s the first thing.

    The second thing— no! Without a hook, what is the good of going on with this enumeration? A clear conscience? What is that?

    A list of desiderata in this matter, were it drawn up on the authority of Aristotle himself, would be but a vanity, in the old sense, in the biblical sense of the word, unless it be read, unless it be readable. The first desideratum in writing is being read, and the first desideratum in reading— well, that’s been covered already. No need to rant on about this.

    And now it occurs to me that perhaps the use of the word desideratum here is ill-advised? And then there's the subjunctive mood of those verbs?

    I'm not sure.

    Anyway the point is clear enough, I think.

    It is no longer enough that boy meet girl. Boy and girl must “meet cute.”

    That’s entertainment! Am I right or am I right?

    But why must they meet at all? That’s what I’d like to know. And is that entertainment too? Or is that something else? Something more? Edification perhaps? There’s another suspect word. Or even something less? There’s always that possibility, I suppose.

    Or is there something less than which there is nothing? Something than which there is nothing less?

    What does that mean? No matter. We want a hook. That’s the point after all. That’s been the point all along. That’s the matter in a nutshell. The kernel. The seed. That sounds obscene. But let's not get carried away here.

    We want entertainment.

    There, I’ve said it. Let the cat out of the bag, as they say. Curious expression, that. Figurative, we read, of course, or rather, which is more likely, as a lexical entry, abbreviated, fig., were we to look it up, readers that we are. But then there’s this, to read, that is, were we to look it up: of obscure or unknown origin. Apocrypha follow. The cat-o’-nine-tails. The pig in a poke. Academic rubbish. Whereas any grounded, down-to-earth real person whether he reads or not knows that cats, especially in the form of kittens, were customarily stuffed into gunny sacks and tossed into creeks, to drown. The academic puts the cart before the horse, looks for the origin by way of current meaning, which as noted is figurative. That’s like looking for the origin of the expression to put the cart before the horse by way of its current figurative meaning rather than by way of its literal provenance. That is, looking for something out of order when something in order should be looked for.

    But what does all this have to do with reading and writing? Or with entertainment for that matter, which we seemed to connect with reading and writing obscenely? I mean, connect obscenely with reading and writing. Or have I, as feared, gotten carried away? The word apocrypha certainly suggests as much.

    Boy and girl must meet after all.

    But must they? I think I asked that question before, but I could be wrong. I might’ve thought of asking the question but then not have actually asked it. I do that sometimes. I think of saying something but don’t actually say it and later recall the thought of saying as the saying itself. Most of the time I can’t recall whether I said it or only thought of saying it. Then again sometimes I say something and later forget saying it or even thinking it. Thankfully, that’s rare. But why thankfully? What a queer thing to say. Thankfully. But then this is a queer sort of business, speech. And thought right behind it!

    There, I’ve made a pun. Good.

    Relieves the tension.

    Now, to get back to the boy and the girl and the necessity of their meeting at all, to say nothing of their “meeting cute” or the necessity thereof, the question, as I recall, whether expressed or not, reduced at once to the question, whether expressed or not, of whether there is or can be said to be something more than entertainment or something less than entertainment involved in the necessity (of their meeting at all, that is, rather than their “meeting cute”)— a reductive series of questions or thoughts or thoughts and questions culminating, if that’s the right word, in the call for, so to speak, something than which there is nothing less.

    Sounds a bit like Anselm to me. Are we in the way of an ontological proof perhaps?

    As we have nothing to speak of in mind, let x stand for it. The ellipses are heuristic to the proper reading of the proposition, readers that we are.

    X is that…than which…nothing is less.

    You know the rest.

    QED

    Do you feel the tension in your brow relaxing? Your blurred vision clearing up. Humor is a gift from the gods. Remember the laughter of Wotan et al. strutting across that rainbow bridge into Valhalla?

    Anyway.

    Think of glances. His turns slowly to the right; hers rises slowly up from under. His and her glances. They come in a wide variety of colors, a whole range of browns, blues, greens, grays and hazels, which may be mixed and matched to please the most jaded and cynical taste.

    Why slowly?

    Quickly then.

    As long as the eyes meet.



    To be continued below...


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  9. #9  
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    Continued from #8 above:


    There’s a whole chapter in Being and Nothingness on this. Were we looking for an answer to “meeting cute,” we need look no further. Nothing could be more apt. That is to say, more antithetical.

    But were we looking for an answer to “meeting cute”? I don’t remember.

    Let’s say glances then, and let the chips fall where they may. He looks around. She looks up. Wham!

    Something happens.

    Or rather, something else happens. Yes, their eyes meet. That happens, to be sure. That much is clear, readers that we are. But something else has happened as well, or else we have been very much mistaken in our assumptions throughout these prolegomenaries. Is that a word?




    To be continued below...


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  10. #10  
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    Continued from #9 above:



    It is now.

    Rimshot.

    Laughter.

    But seriously, folks...

    Adjectives have always done duty as nouns. The percussive sting was necessary as the audience appears to be asleep. The laughter was canned.

    Something else happens, you say. Why not something more. What are you afraid of?

    Here I suppose I should point out that by “you” I mean I. I mean me. I’m addressing myself.





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    Continued from #10 above:



    Here I suppose I should point out that by “you” I mean I. I mean me. I’m addressing myself. Not an uncommon practice, I am told. I tell myself.

    But of course there is more at stake here than meets the eye! Cue Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme, better known outside of Germany and the 18th century as “Sleepers Awake!” We don’t need this one explained, do we, readers that we are! No rimshot. No canned laughter. Is this what they mean by “Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response”? I doubt it.

    I do not say “something more” because saying “something more” would beg the question, and the current misunderstanding and misuse of the idiom is alarming to me. Of begging the question, that is. Not that I am afraid to beg the question. I’d just prefer not to. Like Bartleby. Oh, that’s good! That's very good! Oh, the humanity!

    Now it’s time to reacquaint ourselves with the Parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins. That’s our homework for the weekend.



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    ON THE WAY TO THE FORUM
    a luv story



    First we need a hook.

    That’s the prevailing wisdom anyway.

    Awful conceit when you think about— fishing for readers. Used to be readers fished. Dropped in a line. Waited for a strike. Patience was required. Not anymore. Patience is no longer required. Patience is no longer a virtue.

    I think it comes from show business, the conceit. Certainly from the movie business. It’s cynical and manipulative and belongs to the movie business whether it originated there or not. What’s more, the movie business has steadily infected the reading and writing business. Writers write cinematically for readers who read cinematically. Nobody can even read Henry James anymore, let alone read him with understanding, with appreciation.

    Here a quick word on the “we” is in order, I think. That was not the Royal We, needless to say. I’m an American. Hell, we’re all American today, whether we know it or not, whether we like it or not. And it was not the Editorial We, either. I represent no viewpoint but my own and my aim from the outset is to get personal. No, by “we” I in fact meant “you”— and lest there be the slightest misunderstanding on this score let’s remove the scare quotes at once and state for the record that by “we” I meant you.

    You need a hook.

    That’s the first thing.

    The second thing— no! Without a hook, what is the good of going on with this enumeration? A clear conscience? What is that?

    A list of desiderata in this matter, were it drawn up on the authority of Aristotle himself, would be but a vanity, in the old sense, in the biblical sense of the word, unless it be read, unless it be readable. The first desideratum in writing is being read, and the first desideratum in reading— well, that’s been covered already. No need to rant on about this.

    And now it occurs to me that perhaps the use of the word desideratum here is ill-advised? And then there's the subjunctive mood of those verbs?

    I'm not sure.

    Anyway the point is clear enough, I think.

    It is no longer enough that boy meet girl. Boy and girl must “meet cute.”

    That’s entertainment! Am I right or am I right?

    But why must they meet at all? That’s what I’d like to know. And is that entertainment too? Or is that something else? Something more? Edification perhaps? There’s another suspect word. Or even something less? There’s always that possibility, I suppose.

    Or is there something less than which there is nothing? Something than which there is nothing less?

    What does that mean? No matter. We want a hook. That’s the point after all. That’s been the point all along. That’s the matter in a nutshell. The kernel. The seed. That sounds obscene. But let's not get carried away here.

    We want entertainment.

    There, I’ve said it. Let the cat out of the bag, as they say. Curious expression, that. Figurative, we read, of course, or rather, which is more likely, as a lexical entry, abbreviated, fig., were we to look it up, readers that we are. But then there’s this, to read, that is, were we to look it up: of obscure or unknown origin. Apocrypha follow. The cat-o’-nine-tails. The pig in a poke. Academic rubbish. Whereas any grounded, down-to-earth real person whether he reads or not knows that cats, especially in the form of kittens, were customarily stuffed into gunny sacks and tossed into creeks, to drown. The academic puts the cart before the horse, looks for the origin by way of current meaning, which as noted is figurative. That’s like looking for the origin of the expression to put the cart before the horse by way of its current figurative meaning rather than by way of its literal provenance. That is, looking for something out of order when something in order should be looked for.

    But what does all this have to do with reading and writing? Or with entertainment for that matter, which we seemed to connect with reading and writing obscenely? I mean, connect obscenely with reading and writing. Or have I, as feared, gotten carried away? The word apocrypha certainly suggests as much.

    Boy and girl must meet after all.

    But must they? I think I asked that question before, but I could be wrong. I might’ve thought of asking the question but then not have actually asked it. I do that sometimes. I think of saying something but don’t actually say it and later recall the thought of saying as the saying itself. Most of the time I can’t recall whether I said it or only thought of saying it. Then again sometimes I say something and later forget saying it or even thinking it. Thankfully, that’s rare. But why thankfully? What a queer thing to say. Thankfully. But then this is a queer sort of business, speech. And thought right behind it!

    There, I’ve made a pun. Good.

    Relieves the tension.

    Now, to get back to the boy and the girl and the necessity of their meeting at all, to say nothing of their “meeting cute” or the necessity thereof, the question, as I recall, whether expressed or not, reduced at once to the question, whether expressed or not, of whether there is or can be said to be something more than entertainment or something less than entertainment involved in the necessity (of their meeting at all, that is, rather than their “meeting cute”)— a reductive series of questions or thoughts or thoughts and questions culminating, if that’s the right word, in the call for, so to speak, something than which there is nothing less.

    Sounds a bit like Anselm to me. Are we in the way of an ontological proof perhaps?

    As we have nothing to speak of in mind, let x stand for it. The ellipses are heuristic to the proper reading of the proposition, readers that we are.

    X is that…than which…nothing is less.

    You know the rest.

    QED

    Do you feel the tension in your brow relaxing? Your blurred vision clearing up. Humor is a gift from the gods. Remember the laughter of Wotan et al. strutting across that rainbow bridge into Valhalla?

    Anyway.

    Think of glances. His turns slowly to the right; hers rises slowly up from under. His and her glances. They come in a wide variety of colors, a whole range of browns, blues, greens, grays and hazels, which may be mixed and matched to please the most jaded and cynical taste.

    Why slowly?

    Quickly then.

    As long as the eyes meet.

    There’s a whole chapter in Being and Nothingness on this. Were we looking for an answer to “meeting cute,” we need look no further. Nothing could be more apt. That is to say, more antithetical.

    But were we looking for an answer to “meeting cute”? I don’t remember.

    Let’s say glances then, and let the chips fall where they may. He looks around. She looks up. Wham!

    Something happens.

    Or rather, something else happens. Yes, their eyes meet. That happens, to be sure. That much is clear, readers that we are. But something else has happened as well, or else we have been very much mistaken in our assumptions throughout these prolegomenaries. Is that a word?

    It is now.

    Rimshot.

    Laughter.

    But seriously, folks...

    Adjectives have always done duty as nouns. The percussive sting was necessary as the audience appears to be asleep. The laughter was canned.

    Something else happens, you say. Why not something more. What are you afraid of?

    Here I suppose I should point out that by “you” I mean I. I mean me. I’m addressing myself. Not an uncommon practice, I am told. I tell myself.

    But of course there is more at stake here than meets the eye! Cue Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme, better known outside of Germany and the 18th century as “Sleepers Awake!” We don’t need this one explained, do we, readers that we are! No rimshot. No canned laughter. Is this what they mean by “Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response”? I doubt it.

    I do not say “something more” because saying “something more” would beg the question, and the current misunderstanding and misuse of that particular idiom troubles me. Of the idiom to beg the question, that is. Not that I am afraid to beg the question. I’d just prefer not to. Like Bartleby. Oh, that’s good! That's very good! Oh, the humanity!

    Now it’s time to reacquaint ourselves with the Parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins. That’s our homework for the weekend.




    To be continued below...


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    Continued from #12 above:


    All the necessary and sufficient conditions have been met. He looks around. She looks up. Their eyes meet. If the breath of butterfly wings flapped in Asia can be said somehow to have propelled this event, so be it. But I’m not going to say it. That butterfly plays no part in our story. If its wings somehow brought about the physical meeting of our boy and our girl, it is of no interest whatsoever to us here. The world in which our boy and girl meet is not the world in which Asia or Asian butterflies exist. But we mustn’t get ahead of ourselves. Suffice it to say that “meeting cute” is neither a necessary nor a sufficient condition of the event in a world in which Asia and Asian butterflies exist. But what about our world here? Does entertainment work like Asian butterfly wings here?

    Did we do our homework over the weekend?


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    Continued from #13 above:


    Did we do our homework over the weekend? Yes, contempt is not the word! Indeed that might well do for a title if this foray is to have one, although I think Moravia and Godard beat us to it, although that was in French, which doesn’t count. Why? You may well ask why! I’ll tell you why. Because at the bottom of most of the grief in this old world of ours today stand the smart-asses who didn’t do their homework fifty years ago and who now have an opinion on everything. They are represented in our little monograph by the character Chopi, the pseudonymous manager of the trendy Club Duh Parrot Docks, a fan of Chopin apparently and the quintessential “asshole with power,” a type identified by the playwright Tom Topor in his renowned play and film adaptation of '79 and '87 respectively, a piece of inspired taxonomy more or less unrecognized today precisely and ironically because the taxon in question has over the course of the last three decades in point of fact been empowered on the grand scale. But enough of this exposition! We’ll get to Chopi and Club Duh Parrot Docks in due course. Boy and girl have just about met and we were about to acknowledge our need, along with food, shelter and clothing, our basic human need, that is to say, perhaps our defining need, for ENTERTAINMENT; we were about to do this when, readers that we are, we were once again distracted by banalities.



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    Continued from #14 above:


    We’ll get back to homework. And to Bach and Matthew. And to what for want of a better word I’ll just call my apophasis. We’ve asked the question about entertainment and there’s no taking it back. And there’s no going on. Not with that question hanging over our heads. Not in the shadow of that question. It’s like the shadow of the avenging angel passing over the mud-baked houses of— but there’s little point in drawing this out, in marshaling colorful images and making allusions to classic literature. No point really until the question is answered, or at least addressed. Until then, to resort to current parlance, the parroted parlance of those who didn’t do their homework in the past, but I’ll get back to that, as I said. Until then, until the question be addressed and possibly answered, at least to the satisfaction of the readers that we are, until then we have, as popular currency would have it, and ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together and help us welcome to the stage, direct from the stupendous world-famous world tour, our very own, the elephant in the room— Entertainment.


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    ON THE WAY TO THE FORUM
    a luv story



    First we need a hook.

    That’s the prevailing wisdom anyway.

    Awful conceit when you think about— fishing for readers. Used to be readers fished. Dropped in a line. Waited for a strike. Patience was required. Not anymore. Patience is no longer required. Patience is no longer a virtue.

    I think it comes from show business, the conceit. Certainly from the movie business. It’s cynical and manipulative and belongs to the movie business whether it originated there or not. What’s more, the movie business has steadily infected the reading and writing business. Writers write cinematically for readers who read cinematically. Nobody can even read Henry James anymore, let alone read him with understanding, with appreciation.

    Here a quick word on the “we” is in order, I think. That was not the Royal We, needless to say. I’m an American. Hell, we’re all American today, whether we know it or not, whether we like it or not. And it was not the Editorial We, either. I represent no viewpoint but my own and my aim from the outset is to get personal. No, by “we” I in fact meant “you”— and lest there be the slightest misunderstanding on this score let’s remove the scare quotes at once and state for the record that by “we” I meant you.

    You need a hook.

    That’s the first thing.

    The second thing— no! Without a hook, what is the good of going on with this enumeration? A clear conscience? What is that?

    A list of desiderata in this matter, were it drawn up on the authority of Aristotle himself, would be but a vanity, in the old sense, in the biblical sense of the word, unless it be read, unless it be readable. The first desideratum in writing is being read, and the first desideratum in reading— well, that’s been covered already. No need to rant on about this.

    And now it occurs to me that perhaps the use of the word desideratum here is ill-advised? And then there's the subjunctive mood of those verbs?

    I'm not sure.

    Anyway the point is clear enough, I think.

    It is no longer enough that boy meet girl. Boy and girl must “meet cute.”

    That’s entertainment! Am I right or am I right?

    But why must they meet at all? That’s what I’d like to know. And is that entertainment too? Or is that something else? Something more? Edification perhaps? There’s another suspect word. Or even something less? There’s always that possibility, I suppose.

    Or is there something less than which there is nothing? Something than which there is nothing less?

    What does that mean? No matter. We want a hook. That’s the point after all. That’s been the point all along. That’s the matter in a nutshell. The kernel. The seed. That sounds obscene. But let's not get carried away here.

    We want entertainment.

    There, I’ve said it. Let the cat out of the bag, as they say. Curious expression, that. Figurative, we read, of course, or rather, which is more likely, as a lexical entry, abbreviated, fig., were we to look it up, readers that we are. But then there’s this, to read, that is, were we to look it up: of obscure or unknown origin. Apocrypha follow. The cat-o’-nine-tails. The pig in a poke. Academic rubbish. Whereas any grounded, down-to-earth real person whether he reads or not knows that cats, especially in the form of kittens, were customarily stuffed into gunny sacks and tossed into creeks, to drown. The academic puts the cart before the horse, looks for the origin by way of current meaning, which as noted is figurative. That’s like looking for the origin of the expression to put the cart before the horse by way of its current figurative meaning rather than by way of its literal provenance. That is, looking for something out of order when something in order should be looked for.

    But what does all this have to do with reading and writing? Or with entertainment for that matter, which we seemed to connect with reading and writing obscenely? I mean, connect obscenely with reading and writing. Or have I, as feared, gotten carried away? The word apocrypha certainly suggests as much.

    Boy and girl must meet after all.

    But must they? I think I asked that question before, but I could be wrong. I might’ve thought of asking the question but then not have actually asked it. I do that sometimes. I think of saying something but don’t actually say it and later recall the thought of saying as the saying itself. Most of the time I can’t recall whether I said it or only thought of saying it. Then again sometimes I say something and later forget saying it or even thinking it. Thankfully, that’s rare. But why thankfully? What a queer thing to say. Thankfully. But then this is a queer sort of business, speech. And thought right behind it!

    There, I’ve made a pun. Good.

    Relieves the tension.

    Now, to get back to the boy and the girl and the necessity of their meeting at all, to say nothing of their “meeting cute” or the necessity thereof, the question, as I recall, whether expressed or not, reduced at once to the question, whether expressed or not, of whether there is or can be said to be something more than entertainment or something less than entertainment involved in the necessity (of their meeting at all, that is, rather than their “meeting cute”)— a reductive series of questions or thoughts or thoughts and questions culminating, if that’s the right word, in the call for, so to speak, something than which there is nothing less.

    Sounds a bit like Anselm to me. Are we in the way of an ontological proof perhaps?

    As we have nothing to speak of in mind, let x stand for it. The ellipses are heuristic to the proper reading of the proposition, readers that we are.

    X is that…than which…nothing is less.

    You know the rest.

    QED

    Do you feel the tension in your brow relaxing? Your blurred vision clearing up. Humor is a gift from the gods. Remember the laughter of Wotan et al. strutting across that rainbow bridge into Valhalla?

    Anyway.

    Think of glances. His turns slowly to the right; hers rises slowly up from under. His and her glances. They come in a wide variety of colors, a whole range of browns, blues, greens, grays and hazels, which may be mixed and matched to please the most jaded and cynical taste.

    Why slowly?

    Quickly then.

    As long as the eyes meet.

    There’s a whole chapter in Being and Nothingness on this. Were we looking for an answer to “meeting cute,” we need look no further. Nothing could be more apt. That is to say, more antithetical.

    But were we looking for an answer to “meeting cute”? I don’t remember.

    Let’s say glances then, and let the chips fall where they may. He looks around. She looks up. Wham!

    Something happens.

    Or rather, something else happens. Yes, their eyes meet. That happens, to be sure. That much is clear, readers that we are. But something else has happened as well, or else we have been very much mistaken in our assumptions throughout these prolegomenaries. Is that a word?

    It is now.

    Rimshot.

    Laughter.

    But seriously, folks...

    Adjectives have always done duty as nouns. The percussive sting was necessary as the audience appears to be asleep. The laughter was canned.

    Something else happens, you say. Why not something more. What are you afraid of?

    Here I suppose I should point out that by “you” I mean I. I mean me. I’m addressing myself. Not an uncommon practice, I am told. I tell myself.

    But of course there is more at stake here than meets the eye! Cue Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme, better known outside of Germany and the 18th century as “Sleepers Awake!” We don’t need this one explained, do we, readers that we are! No rimshot. No canned laughter. Is this what they mean by “Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response”? I doubt it.

    I do not say “something more” because saying “something more” would beg the question, and the current misunderstanding and misuse of that particular idiom troubles me. Of the idiom to beg the question, that is. Not that I am afraid to beg the question. I’d just prefer not to. Like Bartleby. Oh, that’s good! That's very good! Oh, the humanity!

    Now it’s time to reacquaint ourselves with the Parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins. That’s our homework for the weekend.

    All the necessary and sufficient conditions have been met. He looks around. She looks up. Their eyes meet. If the breath of butterfly wings flapped in Asia can be said somehow to have propelled this event, so be it. But I’m not going to say it. That butterfly plays no part in our story. If its wings somehow brought about the physical meeting of our boy and our girl, it is of no interest whatsoever to us here. The world in which our boy and girl meet is not the world in which Asia or Asian butterflies exist. But we mustn’t get ahead of ourselves. Suffice it to say that “meeting cute” is neither a necessary nor a sufficient condition of the event in a world in which Asia and Asian butterflies exist. But what about our world here? Does entertainment work like Asian butterfly wings here?

    Did we do our homework over the weekend? Yes, contempt is not the word! Indeed that might well do for a title if this foray is to have one, although I think Moravia and Godard beat us to it, although that was in French, which doesn’t count. Why? You may well ask why! I’ll tell you why. Because at the bottom of most of the grief in this old world of ours today stand the smart-asses who didn’t do their homework fifty years ago and who now have an opinion on everything. They are represented in our little monograph by the character Chopi, the pseudonymous manager of the trendy Club Duh Parrot Docks, a fan of Chopin apparently and the quintessential “asshole with power,” a type identified by the playwright Tom Topor in his renowned play and film adaptation of '79 and '87 respectively, a piece of inspired taxonomy more or less unrecognized today precisely and ironically because the taxon in question has over the course of the last three decades in point of fact been empowered on the grand scale. But enough of this exposition! We’ll get to Chopi and Club Duh Parrot Docks in due course. Boy and girl have just about met and we were about to acknowledge our need, along with food, shelter and clothing, our basic human need, that is to say, perhaps our defining need, for ENTERTAINMENT; we were about to do this when, readers that we are, we were once again distracted by banalities.

    We’ll get back to homework. And to Bach and Matthew. And to what for want of a better word I’ll just call my apophasis. We’ve asked the question about entertainment and there’s no taking it back. And there’s no going on. Not with that question hanging over our heads. Not in the shadow of that question. It’s like the shadow of the avenging angel passing over the mud-baked houses of— but there’s little point in drawing this out, in marshaling colorful images and classical allusions. No point really until the question is answered, or at least addressed. Until then, to resort to current parlance, the parroted parlance of those who didn’t do their homework in the past, but I’ll get back to that, as I said. Until then, until the question be addressed and possibly answered, at least to the satisfaction of the readers that we are, until then we have, as popular currency would have it, which is to say back by popular demand, and so ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together and help us welcome to the stage, direct from the stupendous world-famous world tour, our very own, the elephant in the room— Entertainment.

    Click here to enlarge





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    Continued from #16 above:


    Etymologically, and right off I wish to apologize sincerely for the use of so strenuous a word, particularly in such a lighthearted essay, but its necessity will become evident momentarily, I dare say—etymologically, to entertain is to hold, to hold between, between whatever holds and whoever is held. The –ment part requires no analysis, it seems to me, and I am loath to provide one lest anyone’s intelligence be insulted, and quick apologies also for the perplexing subjunctive mood, needless to say; its necessity must be taken on faith, I’m afraid, as this is neither the time nor the place for a grammar lesson. A ticklish affair all in all, and well put behind us. But as we all know, as we all have learned from the late lamentable turn taken in world affairs—and by world in this case I mean of course and we are to understand the world in which Asia and Asian butterflies exist—if terms are not clearly defined, all manner of nonsense is likely to ensue.


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    Continued from #17 above:


    In other words all that we call art is at bottom merely a form of entertainment. This is the highway accident theory of art, and while it has, qua theory, failed in fact to catch on in learned circles, the sad truth is that learned circles aren’t what they used to be, although naturally we are not supposed to notice this. Many indeed are the sad truths we are not supposed to notice today. This, mutatis mutandis, may be taken as the theme of this little propaedeutic of ours. Ach! Watch it, Buster! You’re out of control! Just get to the point if there is one, and keep your sesquipedalia in your pants!

    The point? Ah, yes, the point.

    The point is first we need a hook. We might have picked up on this point, readers that we are, somewhere on the way, you'd think.




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    Continued from #18 above:



    2

    Let’s start over.

    In April of that year the handbills suddenly popped up out of nowhere, posted on walls and poles and doors and windows throughout the community, on sidewalk sheds and construction barricades, in vestibules and hallways, generally speaking wherever a flat surface or vertical plane presented itself and of course wherever a sign said POST NO BILLS; though not really “out of nowhere” of course and no more "suddenly," phenomenologically speaking, than anything else that has occurred in the last 14 billion years, and to be absolutely accurate just the one handbill iterated a thousand times over, discovered rather than "popping up" at dawn on the first of the month, the result of a clandestine overnight effort. This handbill, presumably, brought the two of them together, and not the Nymphalidae.



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    Continued from #19 above:



    Or was it the other way around? Ha! There’s a notion for you! Was their meeting the point after all? Can we even wrap our minds around such an idea anymore? That the handbill brought about the meeting is simple and straightforward enough, an easy concept. The dullest child can grasp that! But that their meeting somehow brought about the handbill—now that’s deep! That’s what I call a deep thought. That’s metaphysics for God’s sake! No one today even knows what that word means! Was their meeting the cause of the handbill? The reason for the handbill? No, I’m afraid that kind of thinking went out of style with the mini skirt. It’s just no longer acceptable to think that way. It’s no longer respectable, certainly not in the learned circles aforementioned. This is the new millennium! That’s teleology, man! So there’s another big word for us to roll our eyes over. Go on! The world is on the skids. Keep rolling those eyes!


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    ON THE WAY TO THE FORUM
    a luv story



    First we need a hook.

    That’s the prevailing wisdom anyway.

    Awful conceit when you think about— fishing for readers. Used to be readers fished. Dropped in a line. Waited for a strike. Patience was required. Not anymore. Patience is no longer required. Patience is no longer a virtue.

    I think it comes from show business, the conceit. Certainly from the movie business. It’s cynical and manipulative and belongs to the movie business whether it originated there or not. What’s more, the movie business has steadily infected the reading and writing business. Writers write cinematically for readers who read cinematically. Nobody can even read Henry James anymore, let alone read him with understanding, with appreciation.

    Here a quick word on the “we” is in order, I think. That was not the Royal We, needless to say. I’m an American. Hell, we’re all American today, whether we know it or not, whether we like it or not. And it was not the Editorial We, either. I represent no viewpoint but my own and my aim from the outset is to get personal. No, by “we” I in fact meant “you”— and lest there be the slightest misunderstanding on this score let’s remove the scare quotes at once and state for the record that by “we” I meant you.

    You need a hook.

    That’s the first thing.

    The second thing— no! Without a hook, what is the good of going on with this enumeration? A clear conscience? What is that?

    A list of desiderata in this matter, were it drawn up on the authority of Aristotle himself, would be but a vanity, in the old sense, in the biblical sense of the word, unless it be read, unless it be readable. The first desideratum in writing is being read, and the first desideratum in reading— well, that’s been covered already. No need to rant on about this.

    And now it occurs to me that perhaps the use of the word desideratum here is ill-advised? And then there's the subjunctive mood of those verbs?

    I'm not sure.

    Anyway the point is clear enough, I think.

    It is no longer enough that boy meet girl. Boy and girl must “meet cute.”

    That’s entertainment! Am I right or am I right?

    But why must they meet at all? That’s what I’d like to know. And is that entertainment too? Or is that something else? Something more? Edification perhaps? There’s another suspect word. Or even something less? There’s always that possibility, I suppose.

    Or is there something less than which there is nothing? Something than which there is nothing less?

    What does that mean? No matter. We want a hook. That’s the point after all. That’s been the point all along. That’s the matter in a nutshell. The kernel. The seed. That sounds obscene. But let's not get carried away here.

    We want entertainment.

    There, I’ve said it. Let the cat out of the bag, as they say. Curious expression, that. Figurative, we read, of course, or rather, which is more likely, as a lexical entry, abbreviated, fig., were we to look it up, readers that we are. But then there’s this, to read, that is, were we to look it up: of obscure or unknown origin. Apocrypha follow. The cat-o’-nine-tails. The pig in a poke. Academic rubbish. Whereas any grounded, down-to-earth real person whether he reads or not knows that cats, especially in the form of kittens, were customarily stuffed into gunny sacks and tossed into creeks, to drown. The academic puts the cart before the horse, looks for the origin by way of current meaning, which as noted is figurative. That’s like looking for the origin of the expression to put the cart before the horse by way of its current figurative meaning rather than by way of its literal provenance. That is, looking for something out of order when something in order should be looked for.

    But what does all this have to do with reading and writing? Or with entertainment for that matter, which we seemed to connect with reading and writing obscenely? I mean, connect obscenely with reading and writing. Or have I, as feared, gotten carried away? The word apocrypha certainly suggests as much.

    Boy and girl must meet after all.

    But must they? I think I asked that question before, but I could be wrong. I might’ve thought of asking the question but then not have actually asked it. I do that sometimes. I think of saying something but don’t actually say it and later recall the thought of saying as the saying itself. Most of the time I can’t recall whether I said it or only thought of saying it. Then again sometimes I say something and later forget saying it or even thinking it. Thankfully, that’s rare. But why thankfully? What a queer thing to say. Thankfully. But then this is a queer sort of business, speech. And thought right behind it!

    There, I’ve made a pun. Good.

    Relieves the tension.

    Now, to get back to the boy and the girl and the necessity of their meeting at all, to say nothing of their “meeting cute” or the necessity thereof, the question, as I recall, whether expressed or not, reduced at once to the question, whether expressed or not, of whether there is or can be said to be something more than entertainment or something less than entertainment involved in the necessity (of their meeting at all, that is, rather than their “meeting cute”)— a reductive series of questions or thoughts or thoughts and questions culminating, if that’s the right word, in the call for, so to speak, something than which there is nothing less.

    Sounds a bit like Anselm to me. Are we in the way of an ontological proof perhaps?

    As we have nothing to speak of in mind, let x stand for it. The ellipses are heuristic to the proper reading of the proposition, readers that we are.

    X is that…than which…nothing is less.

    You know the rest.

    QED

    Do you feel the tension in your brow relaxing? Your blurred vision clearing up. Humor is a gift from the gods. Remember the laughter of Wotan et al. strutting across that rainbow bridge into Valhalla?

    Anyway.

    Think of glances. His turns slowly to the right; hers rises slowly up from under. His and her glances. They come in a wide variety of colors, a whole range of browns, blues, greens, grays and hazels, which may be mixed and matched to please the most jaded and cynical taste.

    Why slowly?

    Quickly then.

    As long as the eyes meet.

    There’s a whole chapter in Being and Nothingness on this. Were we looking for an answer to “meeting cute,” we need look no further. Nothing could be more apt. That is to say, more antithetical.

    But were we looking for an answer to “meeting cute”? I don’t remember.

    Let’s say glances then, and let the chips fall where they may. He looks around. She looks up. Wham!

    Something happens.

    Or rather, something else happens. Yes, their eyes meet. That happens, to be sure. That much is clear, readers that we are. But something else has happened as well, or else we have been very much mistaken in our assumptions throughout these prolegomenaries. Is that a word?

    It is now.

    Rimshot.

    Laughter.

    But seriously, folks...

    Adjectives have always done duty as nouns. The percussive sting was necessary as the audience appears to be asleep. The laughter was canned.

    Something else happens, you say. Why not something more. What are you afraid of?

    Here I suppose I should point out that by “you” I mean I. I mean me. I’m addressing myself. Not an uncommon practice, I am told. I tell myself.

    But of course there is more at stake here than meets the eye! Cue Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme, better known outside of Germany and the 18th century as “Sleepers Awake!” We don’t need this one explained, do we, readers that we are! No rimshot. No canned laughter. Is this what they mean by “Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response”? I doubt it.

    I do not say “something more” because saying “something more” would beg the question, and the current misunderstanding and misuse of that particular idiom troubles me. Of the idiom to beg the question, that is. Not that I am afraid to beg the question. I’d just prefer not to. Like Bartleby. Oh, that’s good! That's very good! Oh, the humanity!

    Now it’s time to reacquaint ourselves with the Parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins. That’s our homework for the weekend.

    All the necessary and sufficient conditions have been met. He looks around. She looks up. Their eyes meet. If the breath of butterfly wings flapped in Asia can be said somehow to have propelled this event, so be it. But I’m not going to say it. That butterfly plays no part in our story. If its wings somehow brought about the physical meeting of our boy and our girl, it is of no interest whatsoever to us here. The world in which our boy and girl meet is not the world in which Asia or Asian butterflies exist. But we mustn’t get ahead of ourselves. Suffice it to say that “meeting cute” is neither a necessary nor a sufficient condition of the event in a world in which Asia and Asian butterflies exist. But what about our world here? Does entertainment work like Asian butterfly wings here?

    Did we do our homework over the weekend? Yes, contempt is not the word! Indeed that might well do for a title if this foray is to have one, although I think Moravia and Godard beat us to it, although that was in French, which doesn’t count. Why? You may well ask why! I’ll tell you why. Because at the bottom of most of the grief in this old world of ours today stand the smart-asses who didn’t do their homework fifty years ago and who now have an opinion on everything. They are represented in our little monograph by the character Chopi, the pseudonymous manager of the trendy Club Duh Parrot Docks, a fan of Chopin apparently and the quintessential “asshole with power,” a type identified by the playwright Tom Topor in his renowned play and film adaptation of '79 and '87 respectively, a piece of inspired taxonomy more or less unrecognized today precisely and ironically because the taxon in question has over the course of the last three decades in point of fact been empowered on the grand scale. But enough of this exposition! We’ll get to Chopi and Club Duh Parrot Docks in due course. Boy and girl have just about met and we were about to acknowledge our need, along with food, shelter and clothing, our basic human need, that is to say, perhaps our defining need, for ENTERTAINMENT; we were about to do this when, readers that we are, we were once again distracted by banalities.

    We’ll get back to homework. And to Bach and Matthew. And to what for want of a better word I’ll just call my apophasis. We’ve asked the question about entertainment and there’s no taking it back. And there’s no going on. Not with that question hanging over our heads. Not in the shadow of that question. It’s like the shadow of the avenging angel passing over the mud-baked houses of— but there’s little point in drawing this out, in marshaling colorful images and classical allusions. No point really until the question is answered, or at least addressed. Until then, to resort to current parlance, the parroted parlance of those who didn’t do their homework in the past, but I’ll get back to that, as I said. Until then, until the question be addressed and possibly answered, at least to the satisfaction of the readers that we are, until then we have, as popular currency would have it, which is to say back by popular demand, and so ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together and help us welcome to the stage, direct from the stupendous world-famous world tour, our very own, the elephant in the room— Entertainment.

    Click here to enlarge

    Etymologically, and right off I wish to apologize sincerely for the use of so strenuous a word, particularly in such a lighthearted essay, but its necessity will become evident momentarily, I dare say—etymologically, to entertain is to hold, to hold between, between whatever holds and whoever is held. The –ment part requires no analysis, it seems to me, and I am loath to provide one lest anyone’s intelligence be insulted, and quick apologies also for the perplexing subjunctive mood, needless to say; its necessity must be taken on faith, I’m afraid, as this is neither the time nor the place for a grammar lesson. A ticklish affair all in all, and well put behind us. But as we all know, as we all have learned from the late lamentable turn taken in world affairs—and by world in this case I mean of course and we are to understand the world in which Asia and Asian butterflies exist—if terms are not clearly defined, all manner of nonsense is likely to ensue.

    In other words all that we call art is at bottom merely a form of entertainment. This is the highway accident theory of art, and while it has, qua theory, failed in fact to catch on in learned circles, the sad truth is that learned circles aren’t what they used to be, although naturally we are not supposed to notice this. Many indeed are the sad truths we are not supposed to notice today. This, mutatis mutandis, may be taken as the theme of this little propaedeutic of ours. Ach! Watch it, Buster! You’re out of control! Just get to the point if there is one, and keep your sesquipedalia in your pants!

    The point? Ah, yes, the point.

    The point is first we need a hook. We might have picked up on this point, readers that we are, somewhere on the way, you'd think.




    2

    Let’s start over.

    In April of that year the handbills suddenly popped up out of nowhere, posted on walls and poles and doors and windows throughout the community, on sidewalk sheds and construction barricades, in vestibules and hallways, generally speaking wherever a flat surface or vertical plane presented itself and of course wherever a sign said POST NO BILLS; though not really “out of nowhere” of course and no more "suddenly," phenomenologically speaking, than anything else that has occurred in the last 14 billion years, and to be absolutely accurate just the one handbill iterated a thousand times over, discovered rather than "popping up" at dawn on the first of the month, the result of a clandestine overnight effort. This handbill, presumably, brought the two of them together, and not the Nymphalidae.

    Or was it the other way around? Ha! There’s a notion for you! Was their meeting the point after all? Can we even wrap our minds around such an idea anymore? That the handbill brought about the meeting is simple and straightforward enough, an easy concept. The dullest child can grasp that! But that their meeting somehow brought about the handbill—now that’s deep! That’s what I call a deep thought. That’s metaphysics for God’s sake! No one today even knows what that word means! Was their meeting the cause of the handbill? The reason for the handbill? No, I’m afraid that kind of thinking went out of style with the mini skirt. It’s just no longer acceptable to think that way. It’s no longer respectable, certainly not in the learned circles aforementioned. This is the new millennium! That’s teleology, man! So there’s another big word for us to roll our eyes over. Go on! The world is on the skids. Keep rolling those eyes!


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    Continued from #21 above:


    Listen. Every fight for freedom in this dying world is teleological. Numskulls! You should have done your homework! But I digress…. Get it? That’s a joke. A bit of business. You know, like old Jack Benny’s “Well!” I felt we needed to dial back on the pique a tad. Yes? I mean, what difference does it make whether Old Mother Leary left a lantern in the shed or the cow kicked it over? What difference ultimately, I mean. Speaking of which, I don’t suppose it would do any harm to point out that my earlier talk of walls and poles and whatnot was merely a manner of speaking. That is, I should remind us, readers that we are, that the world in which our tale unfolds is not the world in which the Great Chicago Fire took place. We are heading for Club Duh Parrot Docks, in case you have forgotten.



    To be continued below...


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    Continued from #22 above:


    And in case you missed the acknowledgement, we are looking for entertainment there. This is the moral of our fabliau in point of fact. This is why boy meets girl in the first place, and Catherine O’Leary’s cow be damned for the scapegoat she was!

    Have I made another pun? Good.

    Now on to Club Duh Parrot Docks. But first someone needs to account for the name.

    According to one account the name reflects the club's location in a tropical port town on the edge of a psittacine forest. But this of course is poppycock.



    To be continued below...


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    Continued from #23 above:


    According to one account the name reflects the club's location in a tropical port town on the edge of a psittacine forest. But this of course is poppycock. It’s like saying that the meaning of this sentence is located in the Brill Building in New York City in 1960. Another account makes it out to be a form of pidgin English riffing on a corrupted translation of the Maori chant Kei runga a Rangi Ko papa kei raro. But this remains unattested. Every account smacks of the worst kind of urban legend. Like there’s a good kind, right? Is it supposed to be hip? I think it is. Supposed to be hip, I mean. Is it hip? I think not. Fifty million Frenchmen can’t be wrong, right? The club boasts a membership of 1.5 million members. The nomenclature confers a bogus borrowed hipness on them all. But it just sounds like baby talk to me. To me it’s just mairzy doats and dozy doats. If you catch my drift. And even if you don't. Chopi is the club’s chief cook and bottle washer. That says it all, really. That explains everything. But more on that score later. It's too early in the day for ipecac.




    To be continued below...


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    Continued from #24 above:



    Beerbohm could tell us a thing or two about Chopi, I would imagine. Beerbohm was a member for a year. Like Queen For a Day. Anybody still alive remember that tear-jerker? But Beerbohm disappeared under mysterious circumstances after getting banned from the club by Chopi under mysterious circumstances. He was banned from the club after besting Chopi in an argument in front of Chopi's cronies. In the event Chopi lost his cool in public, made a public apology a week later, and not long after that Beerbohm was eighty-sixed for "breaking the rules." Beerbohm has since fallen off the face of the earth. But this is not about Beerbohm. This is not even about Chopi really, save insofar as he is representative of a strain, a millennial strain, and perhaps a perennial strain.

    Anyway, this is what the handbill looked like:

    Click here to enlarge

    The handbill also looked like this:

    Click here to enlarge

    You may remember seeing it in one or the other iteration.




    To be continued below...


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