I think it was Mark Twain, also know as Clementine Samuels or something, who said, "Wherefore Becky Mississippi yonder Tomfoolery Aunt Polly blah blah blah blah..." or something like that, and I finally understand what he meant. There's a wind that blows through American and/or World Literature, a whisper of lives lost or love lived or lost love left behind or something, and, to be perfectly honest with you, I'm not exactly in accord with all of that. Where is the dawn? Who will stop the rain? Wherefore art thou Coolio? If you know what I'm singing about up here c'mon raise your hand!
While surfing in the drainage ditch behind my house the other day, it occurred to me that the world has become too ironic. Have we thrown out the baby with the bathwater? Have we decided that we can only stop the blathering of those who would sell us nothing by buying it from them? Here is a rule of thumb: never listen to a sales pitch unless you were already shopping for the item in question when the pitch started. "I'm sorry," I said to the man, "but I never buy anything from anyone who's trying to sell something." "And how's that working for you?" he asked smarmily. "Better than it is for you," I said, and I went back to what I was doing.
I think it was William Wordsworth, or possibly Shatner, who said, "And from the Spleen, the back pocket of the shepherd's soul, I leapt with sabres drawn." I never understood that William, whichever one it was. Seriously, what's up with that guy?
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
P. S. - Aphter: 26. Thanks for stopping by.
