Entry: Lynda Barry

I like to think that TILfW is generally a merry little blog, hewn from the sturdy wood of open-source encyclopedia articles and varnished with my weak attempts at humor. Its very concept is propelled by the sense of nerdish glee felt upon learning something interesting, and the resulting questions that crop up from wondering about said interesting fact.

Sometimes, however; sometimes learning can be a painful experience.

I had recently been rereading Lynda Barry's autobiographical graphic novel One! Hundred! Demons!, which I highly recommend if you're into that sort of thing, and went on the Wik' to find out more about her.

Apparently she and Ira Glass were a couple at one time. Initially kinda interesting, but then I found this in one of the footnotes, a quote from an article from some journal that doesn't change what it says according to the whims of random yahoos with a wifi signal (ie. a "reliable" source):

Barry does not remember the relationship fondly. The louse in her excellent One! Hundred! Demons! story "Head Lice and My Worst Boyfriend" has been identified as Ira Glass. She is quoted in a 1998 Chicago Reader article as saying of Glass, "I went out with him. It was the worst thing I ever did. When we broke up he gave me a watch and said I was boring and shallow, and I wasn't enough in the moment for him, and it was over." Glass confirms, "Anything bad she says about me I can confirm."

My reality was shattered. Okay, not shattered, but the world seemed a little sadder and duller upon this discovery.

See, I'm sort of in love with him. Googling "crush on Ira Glass" yields 2,170 hits, which makes me feel less alone. He does appeal to the nerdy girl's sensibilities: smart, articulate, quirky, good listener, works for a nonprofit, wears funny glasses. I listen to the This American Life podcast every week, of course. I imagine Ira and I drinking chai lattes and browsing through flea markets, while he regales me with interesting stories unified around a theme; sometimes our friends David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell would be there too, and coincidentally have their own anecdotes to contribute. But this is apparently never going to happen (besides the fact that he's significantly older than me and lives halfway across the country and is married and probably not into girls who live with their parents) because he is a jerk. Or at least he was a jerk in the Eighties.

I'm too heartbroken to pick on the article author for his or her awkward use of "confirm."

Entry: The Monster at the End of This Book: Starring Lovable, Furry Old Grover

(Before I start the post, it's only fair to warn you that it contains spoilers for The Monster at the End of This Book. I give away the ending. If this is a problem, visit the children's section of your local library before continuing.)

One thing I hear a lot is, "OMG, Regina, you're so pretentious." All the freaking time! Even more often than "Ma'am, you're making a scene."

And, okay, it is kind of true. Every cultural object I love is meta-this and post-that. And I thought it all started in college, or maybe late high school, when I saw Being John Malkovich and it opened my eyes to a whole new world of highly theoretical intellectual masturbation. And if it features John Cusack in some way, so much the better.

The Wik', however, has proven me wrong. My love of post-modernism apparently extends back to early childhood.

When I was a wee child, and the family computer was only useful for playing Reader Rabbit, one of my favorite books was The Monster at the End of This Book: Starring Lovable, Furry Old Grover. We probably owned a copy of it, but my memory situates me in my pediatrician's waiting room, reading it with my mom. I liked Grover, probably because he was the only creature in existence more neurotic than I. (Well, okay, Telly could have probably benefited from the occasional benzodiazepine tablet too.)

Anyway: the Wikipedia article describes The Monster at the End of this Book as a "post-modern children's book" that is self-reflexive; Grover is conscious of the fact that he is a character in a book (he tries to stop the reader from turning the page by tying the pages together). I guess you could also argue that since it ends with the reader and Grover confronting the monster at the end of the book-- which turns out to be Grover himself-- thus forcing Grover to accept his identity as a monster, it is a sort of bildungsroman as well. Although, he doesn't really age during the course of the book. An $80,000 liberal arts education put to use, ladies and gentlemen.

I was so excited to have one of my favorite books growing up put in this light. Next time I'm at a party drinking PBR from a keg and feeling insecure because I'm not dressed like I got attacked by a Goodwill, I'll be sure to smugly mention the fact that I've been into metafiction since I could read.

That, and I was totally into Rilo Kiley way before they got all mainstream.

Entry: Lion-Eating Poet in the Stone Den

Thanks to SeeaSea for sending me a link to this article!

"Lion-Eating Poet in the Stone Den," on top of being an awesome title in a variety of circumstances, is a classical Mandarin poem written by Yuen Ren Chao, a contemporary Chinese linguist.

In a stunning feet of tonal language acrobatics, the poem is 92 syllables, all of which are "shi." In Hanyu Pinyin, a method of Romanticizing Mandarin, it looks like this:

Shíshì shīshì Shī Shì, shì shī, shì shí shí shī.
Shì shíshí shì shì shì shī.
Shí shí, shì shí shī shì shì.
Shì shí, shì Shī Shì shì shì.
Shì shì shì shí shī, shì shǐ shì, shǐ shì shí shī shìshì.
Shì shí shì shí shī shī, shì shíshì.
Shíshì shī, Shì shǐ shì shì shíshì.
Shíshì shì, Shì shǐ shì shí shì shí shī.
Shí shí, shǐ shí shì shí shī, shí shí shí shī shī.
Shì shì shì shì.

The English translation:

In a stone den was a poet Shi, who was a lion addict, and had resolved to eat ten.
He often went to the market to look for lions.
At ten o'clock, ten lions had just arrived at the market.
At that time, Shi had just arrived at the market.
He saw those ten lions, and using his trusty arrows, caused the ten lions to die.
He brought the corpses of the ten lions to the stone den.
The stone den was damp. He asked his servants to wipe it.
After the stone den was wiped, he tried to eat those ten lions.
When he ate, he realized that these ten lions were in fact ten stone lion corpses.
Try to explain this matter.

Yes, fellow Westerners, in classical Mandarin, "shi" means all those things. Since it's a tonal language, the distinction comes from how each syllable is said (if your voice goes up at the end, for instance).

The poem isn't profound (unless there's an extended metaphor in there that went completely over my Western head), but still a really impressive example of constrained writing. I can't even crank out a decent villanelle.

Entry: Hamlet

I'm not feeling terribly witty today ("But Regina," you say, "when has that stopped you from posting before?"), but luckily my good friend Greg from Art History, LOL also peruses the Wiki, and has some thoughts on Hamlet. And considering that he played Guildenstern-- oh yes he did-- he is an expert on the subject.


"It's 4:30 on a Tuesday, so I am surfing the Wik. And I've looked at the origins of Hamlet before, but today I just really, really read it. I noticed a few things of interest!

1. The names are WAY better. Gertrude is Gerutha. Claudius is Feng. Old Hamlet? Horvendill! Other notables? Former King RORIK SLENGEBORRE! (I guess he's the Fortinbras analog...)

2. The first half sounds pretty close to the play: king is slain by jealous brother, jealous brother marries queen, pissed off son concocts a plan of faked madness, and is shipped off to England before coming back and killing people. But, then there's this whole part that, uh, I don't quite remember. Amleth/Hamlet marries the English princess, kills the ENTIRE court of Denmark by getting them drunk and pinning them down with a burning tapestry, demands the people make him king, goes back to England for his wife, kills HER father, hops up to Scotland to win the heart of the Scottish queen, takes them both back to Denmark, and dies in battle with the young Fortinbras analog.

Um. Is this the plot of Hamlet 2? I didn't see it."

[Ed. note: No. The plot of Hamlet 2 involves Jesus, a time machine, and a gay men's chorus, wrapped up in a package of gratuitous nudity and satire of the Inspirational White Teacher Helps Urban Minority Teens trope. In other words, it's better than anything Shakespeare ever wrote or thought about writing. Although I admit it could have benefited from a burning tapestry.]

"3. The article contains the phrase: '[he] sent Amleth as proxy wooer for the hand of a terrible Scottish queen Hermuthruda, who had put all former wooers to death'. Proxy wooer? It doesn't get much better than that."

I am changing every username I have to proxy_wooer.

Entry: The Story of the Three Bears

It seems that a good number of these entries find their genesis with my boyfriend raising a question. Take the other night, for instance, when we were watching The Simpsons episode "Treehouse of Horror XI," which led to "How does Goldilocks and the Three Bears really end?" Now I never cared much for this particular fairytale; I was a sensitive child, and I think the stranger-danger mania of the late eighties and early nineties really got to me. So my answer was something along the lines of, "She gets eaten! She escapes! I have no idea."

Wiki, for once, made things even more confusing. An 1837 version featured a dirty, foul-mouthed old woman in Goldilocks' place. In that story, she escaped when the bears discovered her; however, in an 1831 version, the bears try to drown the old woman, then try to burn her alive, and finally impale her on a church steeple. Later in the nineteenth century, the old woman character became a little girl, but her name was "Silver Hair"-- presumably she was portrayed by Steve Martin.

So, to summarize: she gets eaten. She escapes. I have no idea.