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Barthelme, Donald

The Balloon, Donald Barthelme

If you’ve been listening for a while, you may know that I have an unfortunate habit of whining, incessantly and irrepressibly, in those months when the cold has rendered my extremities indistinguishable from assorted varieties of freezer section meats. It’s a problem I’ve known about, it’s one that those around me suffer in kind on behalf of all of you, and it’s one that I’d love to kick, if only I inject some lock de-icer into these knees. Maybe anti-freeze would work?

Someone on iTunes recently remarked that he suspects I may be mentally insane. You may be correct, anonymish commentator. Or, I may be cold, is all.

But this should warm us right up, regardless its effect on our mental state.

(ps: for those of you who are made of time, I’ve been tossing some petals to the wind on tumblr. Unsure if it’ll stick. But come say hello.)

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Barthelme, Donald

Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Colby

As I lay writhing on my sickbed I was catching up on my milehigh stack of unread periodicals, and made my way to an article about one of the leading competitors for an upcoming race for a high position of public office in the country in which I’m living.

Because, you know, there aren’t many articles written about this, which is surprising, because from the sound of things, the race for this public office is not of no importance. So it was nice to find such an article, one that really cuts to the quick of the more serious matters of a campaign. In it is quoted an assistant, or an aide, or associate (who can remember when you’re reading through the dengue) who says something to the paraphrastic effect of “you know, you really get to know her, and she gets in your foxhole, and you get in her foxhole.”

Now, when you think about it, surely you know what’s being suggested here. But when you don’t think about it, or when you’re sick and can’t think about it, it might mean something else entirely. It might remind you of Barthelme. Don’t you think? Might it?

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