The Wonder of Their Singing, Its Elusive Blend of Man and Camel, Seemed and Ideal Image for All Uncommon Couples

When Rick Santorum quit yesterday behind the cover of his sick child there were thirty weeks until the election. 210 days, 5040 hours, 302,400 minutes, 18,144,000 seconds. Like it was not going to be Romney even before the Rick Perry Experience pwooted out, when none of the fat white patriarchal knights of Villager imagination appeared despite consensus across the American political spectrum that Romney is a repulsively transparent and perfect avatar of the avatar of a repulsively transparent and self-serving American presidential candidate. I have not talked to anyone - and I work at Hilltop for fuck's sake, I've friends, acquaitances, and colleagues far to the right of me (Hi! Uncle!) - declare either respect or admiration for Romney even as he or she says Romney gets their vote as opposition to the repulsively transparent and perfect avatar of the avatar of a repulsively transparent and self-serving American presidential candidate who already has the job. Today there are 209 days, 5016 hours, 300,960 minutes, 18,057,600 seconds until the general election for us to argue the moral validity of .06% less-shittiness in the scheme of our complicities. Hot damn and meh.

• Hitting repeat.
• Adding, I've been offering pint bets on Obama's reelection since I digitally collected pint bets on his victory over John McCain's corpse. I offer 3-1, no, 4-1! odds on Obama's winning this November. Obama wins, as I used to gleefully cackle, by pissing off motherfucking crackers to their storm-cellared souls so foundationally their motherfucking cracker reactions scare the reasonable fuck out of anyone who is not a motherfucking cracker. It's Obama's campaign strategy this election. I bet 4-1 pints it works again.
• Tribalism.
• She who is as shitty approves of Santorum using his sick daughter as prop for what Santorum considers an honorable withdrawal. Man of his imaginary friend Jesus, that Santorum.
• On luck of the draw and complicity.
• On instant and ever-present communication.
• Olney! Having driven through Olney countless times, I can't verify it exists.
• Speaking of towns that don't exist, Stringtown is deader than its usual dead-self, hence the sparse links.
• I have toxoplasmosis.
• Waiting for Wotan, the never-ending gag.
• More rhetorical devices.
• Mark Strand is seventy-eight today. He used to be held in far more reverence than he seems to be today as far as I can tell, and, as someone who used to read Strand often, it hasn't aged particularly well, though....

MAN AND CAMEL

Mark Strand

On the eve of my fortieth birthday
I sat on the porch having a smoke
when out of the blue a man and a camel
happened by. Neither uttered a sound
at first, but as they drifted up the street
and out of town the two of them began to sing.
Yet what they sang is still a mystery to me—
the words were indistinct and the tune
too ornamental to recall. Into the desert
they went and as they went their voices
rose as one above the sifting sound
of windblown sand. The wonder of their singing,
its elusive blend of man and camel, seemed
an ideal image for all uncommon couples.
Was this the night that I had waited for
so long? I wanted to believe it was,
but just as they were vanishing, the man
and camel ceased to sing, and galloped
back to town. They stood before my porch,
staring up at me with beady eyes, and said:
"You ruined it. You ruined it forever."