It's another hellish morning here in Oberlin. The sun won't shine, the snow won't stop, and I need to go grocery shopping, but my car's snowed in. While I'm bitching, I think I'll mention that my efforts to make eggs & bacon were met with carcinogenic bacon and a smokey apartment.
But this post is congratulatory not bitchy. I like to think that I read a pretty accurate sampling of lefty blogs; in addition to the blogs on my roll (which I'm too lazy to list, so just look for yourself), I scan through Daily Kos and MyDD. But you know how I found out about a statue dedicated to the Bush shoe-thrower? From fellow Oberlin blog Next Year In. Yesterday. Not from dday at Digby's Hullabaloo. Today. Congratulations Next Year In on the scoop.
Although, dday's post was cleverly titled "Richard Perle Was Right," which, let's be honest, is pretty damn funny.
While on the subject of scoops, congratulations to another fellow Oberlin blog, Bubblegum Aesthetics for the scoop on the death of John Updike.
Side Note: As I write this, I realize that it could be considered in poor taste to congratulate someone on this. After all, a man is dead.
Another Side Note: I wonder if there are awards for obit writers?
Back to the Point: Way to go! No one else has even talked about Updike's death. You'd think he wasn't a super influential author and critic or something. Honestly, lefty blogosphere, you're embarrassing yourselves.
Or maybe you just don't have the stones to admit that you didn't actually read Updike (who did?). But, no fear; Cineaphile at Aesthetics didn't either, but he still a post.
For the record, I had to read The Centaur in high school. Stunningly, Mr. ___, the much hated high school English teacher (who once read aloud an essay of mine as an example of what not to do), managed to find Jesus imagery in a book that quite self-consciously used ancient Greek mythology. Whatever.
Back to Updike. Insightful and well-written thought from Aesthetics:
Even stranger, how could I have read The New Yorker off-and-on for twenty years and not read John Updike, who seems so central to its literary ethos?
More to the point, why do I feel like I've read John Updike, without having perused a word, and why did I feel a sense of loss when I read of his passing yesterday? It's a testament to his talent that I can sense his presence in those places named above, can know that his influence has its fingerprints on generations of artists I admire, much like Joyce does on a generation of artists-- you can feel that something is "Joycean" or "Updike-like" even if you've never picked up a copy of Ulyssess or Rabbit, Run. The imprint is there, and the imprint will remain.
On the docket today: a post about Bush-bashing. Also other stuff. Stay tuned.
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