Have I ever told you about my favorite piece of poetry? Of course I've told you, but I’m not convinced you were listening.
It’s Eunoia, by Christian Bok. But you wouldn’t have needed me to tell you that, because you knew that I’m exactly the kind of person who would love a book in which each chapter contains words using only one specified vowel. Chapter A starts, “Awkward grammar appalls a craftsman,” and goes on from there.
Chapter E: “Jesters express extreme glee.”
These aren’t five line ditties. Each chapter has about 3,000 words, using words that contain only one of the vowels. A slice from chapter O: “Folks who long to prolong moods of torpor do Zoloft or nod off on two drops of chloroform.”
Eunoia the book is comprised of “Eunoia” and “Oiseau,” the former being what I just described above, and the latter being a series of poems that play on words and on vowels. So two excellent and accessible examples of contemporary writing, which you had no idea you liked, in one book.
You probably won’t find it in your local bookstore, alas, but look there first just in case.
I recently had breakfast with several of my lawyers, and one of them informed me that I can totally pardon myself, if, for some reason, I need to.
Not that I need to. Why would I need to pardon myself? Heh heh. Like, what, if I burp? Jim Kong Hun would probably not pardon himself if he burped, but I would. Because that’s what we do in America. We burp in public to indicate to the chef that the food was awesome. Then we officially pardon ourselves.
Because we Americans don’t need a handout when we belch. Having someone else pardon you is like taking charity. Come on, buddy, pardon yourself instead of relying on someone else to pardon you! I pardon myself left and right and really enjoy it. I don’t ask someone else to pardon me when I push past them in a shopping mall or collude with the Russians. I just manage the pardoning on my own.
Believe me, I’m going to trust this one lawyer of mine when it comes to pardoning.
Not that I need lawyers.
And where was I during the Royal Wedding, hmm? It’s a question a lot of people have been asking themselves and each other. The scuttlebutt is that the paparazzi were hounding me and my family, so we went incognito and flew under the radar.
Cut to the Fake News Media, which spreads lies claiming that I wasn’t even invited. Ha, what a laugh! I was invited, but it turns out that, by rule, only a certain number of us Canadians are allowed to attend royal weddings in a given year. That’s the kind of international discrimination we Canadians have to endure. I’d like to see the reaction you Americans would have if a cap were imposed on your numbers at royal weddings. You’d probably invade the wedding with Marines.
Anyway, by now you must know that I’m not really into “the spotlight.” Oh, sure, it might look like I am, the way I beam radiantly whenever the fake news media’s cameras are trained on me, but that’s just a front. Under that thin veneer is a shy fellow who’d prefer to sit in the shadows.
Hanging in the shadows for the next couple of days, if you care to visit.
If I were a commuting motorist, I’d have my handheld device at the ready so that I could check my messages as soon as I came to a red light. My car would be my office: I’d set it up so that I could take calls, send email, browse the company website, and so forth, while in traffic. I’d be able to Slack you en-route to work. Wouldn’t that be awesome? Then, I’d start Yammering with my blogger friends, unbeknownst to you, during the same commute, such that I’m having several conversations at once.
Not that I have blogger friends.
Is that you calling me out for veering into the bike lane? Excuse me, Mr. Bike Guy. But how am I supposed to know it’s a bike lane when I’m trying to find out what the best restaurant was in each state in the year you were born? Plus, how am I supposed to Yammer and Slack and browse for mother’s day gifts while conveying a 4,000-pound personal vehicle across the city AND keep track of you? Because there is never enough time for mom, so let’s use some of our carefree drive time to shop for gifts for her.
Do I use my blinker when I want to turn right? Let me put it this way: no. Blinkers are so 20th century. I look old and stodgy enough; using a blinker will just make me look like a dinosaur. Blinkers are for a-holes, as Frank Zappa might say. Can we really be in the 21st century and not be able to convey our driving intentions telepathically?
And what about those jetpacks?
I remember emailing my friend Richard back in the early 1990s using Compuserve, so clearly it’s a primitive communication method. So, for crying out loud, how is it that a guy like me has to explicitly convey that he’s going to cut off a cyclist when by now technology should have solved this problem?
Going to work on my driving habits this week by watching a You Tube video about good driving practices while sitting in car traffic.