Month: November 2011

  • Himself Pleases This Mass

    Much of this blog has been a love letter to Groom. Himself. Byron. I’ve felt lately, more than ever, that the blogging conceit of pseudonyms can be fairly tiring.  Anyhow, so,  yea.  He’s Byron.  Most of you knew that already. If not, here’s your pneumonic device.  Byron.  As in, Lord Byron.  As in, Romantic Poet. […]

  • If These Old Walls Could Speak

    It is easier to love humanity as a whole than to love one’s neighbor–Eric Hoffer   For years, I watched her wandering the city, talking to herself, hugging her clutch of plastic bags to her chest defensively, avoiding eye contact, wearing dirty and mismatched clothes–her entire being an illustration of unchecked mental illness. I saw […]

  • Autumnal, Not a Summer’s, Eve

    There’s a famous tale–if you’re a fan of fantasy or Tertullian, perhaps you’ve heard of it–concerning Eve and a feeling of being dirty. I refer not to the famous douching scene so histrionically dramatized by Bette Davis (with a notable assist from Anne Baxter) in All About Eve. What?  You don’t remember that scene?  Time […]

  • The Douchebag Counterargument

    Sometimes, it alarms me that my job is to teach critical thinking to others, what with my own significant deficiencies as a critical thinker. I mean, I’m still shocked that Roseanne and Tom Arnold didn’t work out.  And then there’s that whole much-too-recently-made connection between sunflower seeds and sunflowers. It seems one comes from the […]