A brief bit today from one of the best autobiographies ever.

WORK

Because we are laughed at, I don’t think people really understand how essential [comedians] are to their sanity. If it weren’t for the brief respite we give the world with our foolishness, the world would see mass suicide in numbers that compare favorably with the death rate of the lemmings. I’m sure most of you have heard the story of the man who, desperately ill, goes to an analyst and tells the doctor that he has lost his desire to live and that is seriously considering suicide. The doctor listens to his tale of melancholia and then tells the patient that what he needs is a good belly laugh. He then advises the unhappy man to go to the circus that night and spend the evening laughing at Grock, the world’s funniest clown. The doctor sums it up, “After you have seen Grock, I am sure you will be much happier.” The patient rises to his feet, looks sadly at the doctor, turns and ambles toward the door. As he starts to leave the doctor says, “By the way, what is your name?” The man turns and regards the analyst with sorrowful eyes. “I am Grock.”

—Groucho Marx
—from Groucho and Me

WORD(S)

blatherskite (or blethersekate). noun. A noisy person who talks foolish nonsense, who blathers with braggadocio. The speech of said blatherer. Originally a Scottish insult, it became a common term of colloquial speech during the American Revolution due to the then-popular Scottish song “Maggie Lauder.”

“Right dauntingly she answered him,
“Begone ye hallanshaker.
Jog on your gate ye blether skyte,
my name is Maggie Lauder”
(Frances Semple)

“the result was just nothing but wind. She never had any ideas, any more than a fog has. She was a perfect blatherskite; I mean for jaw, jaw, jaw, talk, talk, talk, jabber, jabber, jabber…” (Mark Twain)

“Those foolish tales which I used to read in my youth […] what are they but the blatherskite of long-tongued persons who could talk faster than they could think?” (John Runciman)

“And naught I ken who the bowdykite’s to wed—
Some bletherskite he’s picked up in a ditch,
Some fond fligary flirtigig, clarty-fine,
Who’ll turn a slattern-shrew and a cap-river
Within a week”
(Wilfrid Gibson)

WEB

1. Since I’m in the midwest, hoping for storms, no better time to share stupendous time-lapse footage of a supercell storm outbreak…in Climax, Kansas.

2. Monstrous News: the Futures of the Mistris Parliament Plays. Literary views of “bad futures” including “monstrous births,” in the early print era.

3. A ten-part series on what some innovative (or at least interesting) Twitterers do besides “send thousands of disrespectful selfies to God, or whatever the stereotype is nowadays.”

4. Hendrix, Mustaine, Frehley, Richard and other guitarists’ solo faces in: Slug Solos. The John Mayer image is a particularly good example of the new photographic genre.

5. “Blessed are the cracked, for they shall let in the light.” Today in 1977, Julius Henry (Groucho) Marx died. He left behind many movies, even more memorable lines and the immortal beaglepuss (aka Groucho glasses).

REPRISES/RESPONSES/REJOINDERS/RIPOSTES

Reader A. isn’t happy with the quip a reader sent in about the terrible invention of the electric guitar: “Could not disagree more! The best part of that Smithsonian video (a little cheesy) was seeing G.E. Smith play guitar solos with a joyous smile, rather than usual painful constipated grimace of most players.”

Reader J. also has words for the electric guitar hater: “I have just six words for you: Wes Montgomery, Carlos Santana, Bonnie Raitt.” And Reader S. notes that this retort “…makes a terrific first line. Can’t wait to read the poem!”

Reader T. reflects: "Not sure what this says about my state of existence right now, but I was jazzed to see ‘Reader T.’ […] The sense of being a part of some mysterious body of readers, known only by our first initials, is oddly gratifying.

Reader B. is unsuare about The Word Exchange: “I’m tempted by this book, but a bit leery of the anti-tech press around it.”

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