I stayed up way too late last night when I stopped by the Ox for what was supposed to be a quick cup of coffee but ended up being a rambling talk about Billy Collins, James Joyce, post-modern writing, best/popular novels, Tom Wolfe, Derrida, poetry, our (the conversants') poetry, deconstructionism, P-51s, airshows, bad jokes, delivery and rhetorical method, and then we sort of collapsed into dumbness. I got home just before two. That's a bad scene, especially for a married man. Shades of New St. Andrew's there.
If you google "deriding Derrida," you will get twenty-three results, and if you google "deride Derrida," twenty-four. I'm sort of surprised, I'll admit it. I mean, it seems like such an obvious turn-o'-phrase that I nearly discarded it. I googled it so that I could report how many hundreds of times it had been laid out by one clever raconteur du web or another. Maybe nobody has the courage. Maybe it's so obvious and cheesy that everybody discarded it, as I was not strong enough to do.
Then again, maybe I just got really close to my first original idea. I mean, twenty-third out of billions isn't bad at all.
If you google "deriding Derrida," you will get twenty-three results, and if you google "deride Derrida," twenty-four. I'm sort of surprised, I'll admit it. I mean, it seems like such an obvious turn-o'-phrase that I nearly discarded it. I googled it so that I could report how many hundreds of times it had been laid out by one clever raconteur du web or another. Maybe nobody has the courage. Maybe it's so obvious and cheesy that everybody discarded it, as I was not strong enough to do.
Then again, maybe I just got really close to my first original idea. I mean, twenty-third out of billions isn't bad at all.
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