Courtesy of the always-entertaining Chuck McCann:

Twenty-five years ago, when I was a copy editor at the Press of Atlantic City (which long-time residents still call by its original, and should-be, name, The Atlantic City Press), occasionally the text that came onto our editing queue from one of the syndicates would be garbled. Somewhere in my files I’ve got an epic poem, the ur text of which was a feature profile of some gentleman somewhere, called “Old Man.Sat.” As you can see, it was slated for a Saturday edition (hence the “.Sat”) and it was a profile of an old man. Within that text was an agglomeration of mangled diction and mismatched word bits spliced together haphazardly in a way I associated with Brion Gyson and William S. Burroughs. It was rhythmically fantastic and sounded great read aloud, and I believe I got it published somewhere in the late 80’s or early 90’s. (I don’t know who can keep track of these little accomplishments, other than my friend Gerald Locklin, who is an ace documenter of his own work and, even better, someone who has amassed a cohort of adherents eager to document it all for him as well.)

Sometimes you find accidental poetry in spam emails, in which a bot has read someone’s hard drive and sent you a mutant version of text from it. Here’s something I got this morning from some poor soul somewhere whose computer has been hacked (without, I’ll bet, his knowing it). I’m sorry for him, but I quite like this:

Like any deer I the herd.

And intenible sieveI still pour.

Is sure to loseThat seeks.

What I spoke unpitied let me.

Torcher his diurnal ringEre.

Pretty good, right?

I’m still an editor, though, all these years later, and so can’t help helping it a little. Below is my first take at what I hope is an improvement (I do like to think that while I appreciate automated systems generating language for me, my human touch and years of experience can add a little; but maybe I’m wrong), but first, here are my reasons.

I like that first line (and think it should be the title), so I’m repeating it. Something that is “intenible” cannot be grasped, and someone who is an intenible sieve can neither grasp nor hold (but, evidently, can still pour); this person is a phantom, someone unable to hold onto or to be held. Imagine the emotional state, then, the desperation; this is a key to why this is so powerful, especially when matched with being a deer in the herd. Compared to the emotionally fragile subject of this poem — were it a human — Emily Dickinson would be a paragon of strength, a pro wrestler in the cultural arena. I’m breaking the line “Is sure to lose / That seeks.” because the break subtly changes the meaning and increases our sense of the loss, that any striving by this subject is sure to be met with failure. And when something was attempted — when, for example, this person spoke — that act had the effect of “unpitying” him, revealing him in his phantasmic state, bereft and distant but visible. Powerful stuff. In English, a “torcher” is one who gives light with a torch; in French, however, it’s a verb meaning “to wipe.” I think that in this case, we’re looking at the latter meaning:  “wiping  his diurnal ring.” This bespeaks a servitude that is distressing. It’s certainly a phrase that gives me pause. “Ere” means before, but I actually think it’s in the way here.

 Like any deer I the herd.

Like any deer I the herd.

And intenible sieve I still pour.

Is sure to lose

That seeks.

What I spoke unpitied let me.

Torcher his diurnal ring.

So there it is. A poem written, mostly, by a spam bot.

I wonder if I can get it published.

The heat outside during the day today could have seared the shell off a tortoise. I got home tonight at 9 o’clock from an event at Universal City. According to my car’s readout, it was 90 degrees at the hilltop of Universal when I left. I thought, This must be wrong. I put the top down and drove home to Burbank. At home it was 93 degrees out — as verified again by my car, by the readout at the local school, and by the thermostat on my front porch. So here’s the deal:  It actually is 90-plus degrees outside at 9 PM.  I came in gasping from the heat and running for a glass of chilled ice-tea. Here’s what my wife had to say about it all:  “It’s nice outside, isn’t it?”

Steve Jobs just resigned.

As a friend said, “He must be really sick.” Yeah, I guess so.

Now I feel kinda sick.

Barry Mitchell rates Jerry Lewis’ telethon signoffs over the past 45 years. Love this.

Click here for a graphic (and frightening) visual representation of the spread of unemployment in the past four years. It’s deep, and it’s widespread.

There are two phrases that mean nothing to almost anyone else, but which have stuck with me most of my life: “Glx sptzl glaah!” and “Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius.”

The former is the baby-speak cry of Sugar and Spike in the comics of the same name by Sheldon Mayer. When the babies talk, all the parents hear is gibberish. But we lucky readers are privy to the rather sophisticated notions and outlandish schemes of these toddlers. If you’re wondering if this was unacknowledged source material for “Rugrats,” I suspect so. The first season of “Rugrats,” before rampant commercial needs overwhelmed creative impulses, was often wonderful. “Sugar and Spike” was consistently wonderful; even as an adolescent reader of mainstream superhero comics who groaned when some relative would mistakenly give him a “Richie Rich” or, God forbid, “Archie” comic, I was devoted to “Sugar and Spike.” And soon, very soon, you too will be able to share the joy:  an archive edition will finally be released by DC Comics next month.

(By the way, I bought the issue above right off the stands in 1970. I was 8.)

“Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius” is a short story by Jorge Luis Borges that I first read almost 30 years ago. It concerns a massive conspiracy by intellectuals to plant the false idea that there is a secret world called Tlon, with a nation called Uqbar. Inserting this false information into encyclopedias and referencing it elsewhere helps to, in essence, create the actuality — just as the creation of fiction implants ideas in readers that sometimes become reality. (Who invented the satellite? Well, the notion came from Arthur C. Clarke.) The fact that this phrase has stuck with me for 30 years proves the point.

In other words, both phrases are about imaginary languages and secret meanings.

Which takes me to today’s Google Logo (shown above). I was thrilled beyond measure to see that it was an homage to Borges, born 112 years ago today. More about that Google doodle, and how  Borges’ thinking led to the creation of hypertext links, can be found via this hypertext link.

To some degree, we are all of us privy to secret languages all around us every day, even when spoken in languages we purport to speak:  the thrum of jargon and subtext and obscure reference. It’s amazing we can understand anything. To some degree, this is what all of Harold Pinter’s plays are about:  that we understand nothing, while understanding everything all too well.

ProPublica’s Michael Grabell examines the top seven “truisms” you hear about the economy and the now-ended stimulus program — and finds that most of them are false.

Now that I’m 49, and getting a closer look at 50, I’ve decided that I’m making some changes. I don’t want to become set in my ways. I want to stay young and open to new experiences. I thought I’d start by just listing a number of changes I’m going to make.

1. I’m not doing my laundry every Sunday any more. I’ve done that for years. From now on, I might do it late on Tuesday, if I like. Or some other time. It’s really up to me and how I feel at the moment and whether or not I have any clean underwear left.
2. Now that I’ve got the ball rolling, here’s another change I’m going to make. I’m switching dry cleaners. The one I’ve been with always puts cardboard inserts in my collars, and no matter how I complain, they won’t stop. So I’m quitting them.
3. Speaking of quitting, from now on, if I don’t like the book I’m reading, I’m quitting it. No more reading all the way through to the end out of some misguided sense of responsibility. It’s my life, and I’m running out of time in it, so now either it’s good or it’s gone. In fact, I’ve already started on this one. Goodbye, “Light in August” by William Faulkner. I’m halfway through you and I still don’t really know what you’re about and now I see that I don’t care enough to ever find out.
4. If I want the fries, I’m ordering the fries. Finito.
5. But I’m not ordering some pre-bundled “meal” that comes with a soda, because I don’t want the soda.
6. I’m not voting for Democrats any more just because they’re Democrats. Now, I just might not vote for them. (I’m still not voting for Republicans, though.)
7. From now on, I am under no obligation to watch everything I’ve DVRed. Maybe it seemed like a good idea at some point to record “American Pickers,” but now I’m deleting it.
8. Same goes for my Netflix queue. Yes, their recommendation succeeded in convincing me to put the Bulgarian comedy in my queue. But they can’t make me watch it.

I will be adding more to this list as time goes by. (Or I won’t. It’s up to me.)

I just found out that when PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) gave Bill Clinton their Person of the Year Award nine months ago, they estimated that his new vegan diet spared the lives of 200 animals a year. So, put another way:  Are they saying that Bill Clinton ate 200 animals a year? I mean, I know the guy had an appetite, but this seems preposterous. I’m wondering if someone over there did inhale. And did any press, then or now, question this? This is roughly one animal every other day. That’s a lot of animals, so they must have been small. Was he picking robins out of their nests? Tossing baby chicks into his mouth like popcorn? What’s the deal with this?