Stoners' droop, misc. IV

[Robin Landseadel]

On Aug 25, 2009, at 5:11 PM, Page wrote:

> Robin
>
> I want to add a note about my failed joke. I have far too much  
> respect for you to attack you in any way. Any criticism I make would  
> be in the context of a genuine thread, and I would do it respectfully.
>
> And I surely hope you took my Gilligan's / Gilligans post as I meant  
> it, i.e. a light-hearted tease. I know very well that you know the  
> title is Finnegans Wake. Sadly, I once read a litcrit type who  
> repeatedly referred to it as Finnegan's Wake.
>
> I truly do apologize for the misunderstanding.
>
> Page

Nothing close to offense has been committed, I'm still fixated on my  
idée fixe of the moment. And I've name-checked Finnegans Wake as  
Finnegan's Wake too many times to not get clobbered for it some time.  
Can't say I understand it, but love it in bite sized bibliomantic  
random glances.

I simply must get my hands on a copy of "On Bullshit" by Harry G.  
Frankfurt:

http://press.princeton.edu/titles/7929.html

Oh, I just did:

   	Yet there is something more to be said about this. However
	studiously and conscientiously the bullshitter proceeds, it
	remains true that he is also trying to get away with something.
	There is surely in his work, as in the work of the slovenly
	craftsman, some kind of laxity which resists or eludes the
	demands of a disinterested and austere discipline. The
	pertinent mode of laxity cannot be equated, evidently, with
	simple carelessness or inattention to detail. I shall attempt in
	due course to locate it more correctly.

http://www.gwinnettdailyonline.com/articleB5BD6D4417AF444DBD8F9770AA729B26.asp

Saved me $10, just like that.

Furthermore, Tom Carson's Book:

	. . . Once the filming of Every Girl Is an Island was complete-in a
	rare stint at Zuma Beach, standing in for a mythicalacious
	Pacific archipelago, rather than the mock Old West of Griffith
	Park, where our shoestring productions had often bumped up
	against no fewer than three other Grade-Z Westerns in
	progress, amid any number of high-school field trips to the
	Planetarium and furtive homosexual getting-to-know-you
	sessions in nearby cars; we'd borrow each other's horses, and
	press the high-school students and the homosexuals into
	service as acned Indians or supercilious pairs of
	homesteaders-my duties to the Y. Avery Willingham
	organization were discharged in full. I had already moved from
	the Hollywood Hills to a small white house with blue trim in
	Echo Park. Now, having found myself an agent, I set about
	offering my services to Darryl Zanuck, along with any other
	studio not run by a chuckling, voluble, incest-crazed blood
	relative.

	To my chagrin, however, the offers were few. I began to suspect
	that, unbeknownst to myself, I had either been a beneficiary of
	nepotism or was perceived as such, and in Hollywood the latter
	may well do more damage than the former. Having more or less
	run out of options, I had just signed to appear in a vapid
	situation comedy about some castaways when the telephone
	rang in my small Echo Park home. Assuming it was my agent
	calling back with more fine print for me to chew on, I picked it
	up; and here I reach the apotheosis of my tale. . .

Uses a possessive apostrophe in the title. And on top of that, I still  
have the book. So I'm wrong even again, wouldn't you know?

But still, nothing close to offense has been committed,