Fact: These use numbers. Real numbers.

Are facts influenced by language?

If you’re John D’Agata they are, according to the Lifespan of a Fact, a book which contains correspondances between D’Agata and his fact checker, Jim Fingal, for the essay “What Happens There.” For example, thirty-four sounds better than thirty-one when counting strip clubs in Las Vegas.  So D’Agata wrote thirty-four rather than thirty-one; it’s just a number that happens to sound precise and has a good ring to it.

Numbers are so important to the essay—at least the first free chunk online—that the reader is overwhelmed with fear of a pending arithmetic problem. It’s 113 degrees outside. Water is five bucks a bottle. Someone plays one 35-minute game of tic-tac-toe. Meanwhile, there’s a sixteen year-old boy and a 1,149-foot-high building and it’s a certain time and if you don’t practice mathematics, and if force, gravitational constant, mass and distance are all considered, your heart is pounding already.

You should probably have a cardiovascular response when you read about a suicide, so maybe the writer should work to create one. Remember, the argument in question is: it’s the mood, not the numbers, that matters.

When asked, “What about that fact that this [game of tic-tac-toe] didn’t occur on the day Presley died? It’s not accurate to say that it did.”

D’Agata says, “No, because being more precise would be less dramatic. I don’t think readers will care whether the events that I’m discussing happened on the same day, a few days apart, or a few months apart. What most readers will care about, I think, is the meaning that’s suggested in the confluence of these events—no matter how far apart they occurred. The facts that are being employed here aren’t meant to function baldly as “facts.” Nobody is going to read this, in other words, in order to get a survey of the demographics of Las Vegas or what’s scheduled on the community calendar. Readers can get that kind of information elsewhere.”

D’Agata says repeatedly that it’s the rhythm, the language that matters. Depending on whom you read, language is either a duvet for thoughts or a discrete controller on all of our actions. It’s either something that routinely fails to describe our inner life or the very thing that influences our thoughts, by distorting physical evidence to fit it within our understanding. We get a lot of this latter idea from Benjamin Lee Whorf, a linguist and such a proponent of “linguistic relativity” that it is known as the “Sapir–Whorf hypothesis.” Whorf maintains:

“[...] the world is presented in a kaleidoscope flux of impressions which has to be organized by our minds—and this means largely by the linguistic systems of our minds. We cut nature up, organize it into concepts, and ascribe significances as we do, largely because we are parties to an agreement to organize it in this way [...]“

Whorf was responsible for the snowclone, the myth that the Inuit language has more words for snow than we fair-weather folk will ever comprehend—such as, but not limited to the dry snow that scatters your tracks, wet snow that slakes your mukluks, thunder snow, margarita slush snow, etc.

The snowclone has become a type of telephone game. One might say to a friend that the Mayans had more words for processing corn than the Inuit do for snow. Or the hippies had more words for marijuana…you get the picture. Usually, there’s a number involved and it sounds concrete, documented–50 words for x, 100 words for x, or 500 words for x. The number is fake; it’s the meaning that counts, and when someone evokes the snowclone, they’re trying to say “this thing is very important to these people.”

So do the numbers matter, even though they are just acting as a linguistic vehicle to reinforce rhythm, to evoke an idea, an emotion, a physical response?

Heck yeah. A number is a fact; there’s credibility in it. The reader assumes someone spent a long time trying to wrestle that data into into an exact number. It seems like D’Agata spent a lot of time compiling those digits; they lend him a journalist’s air of credibility, even if the essay is meant to be lyric. You don’t need the numbers, the fuzzy math, the lazy journalism. For a good example of the same mood evoked in the essay, without numbers, check out Didion’s “Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream.”

Embedding the video in this post eludes me, but you can watch the segment here.

A riveting and rewarding read even if you can't name any of Belafonte's songs

Last week if you’d asked me who Harry Belafonte was, I probably would have guessed he was a singer. If you ask me now, I’ll say he is a brilliant man with passion for the arts and a creative fighter for human rights.

One of my favorite stories about Belafonte takes place in 1958 when he and his wife found an apartment they wanted to rent on New York’s Upper West Side. When they let the building manager know they were interested, it was no longer available. Belafonte asked a white friend to go see about renting the apartment and the place was suddenly available again. Belafonte’s friend took a copy of the lease and got Belafonte’s signature on it, turned it in, and Belafonte and his wife, Julie Robinson, moved in.

The building manager was not pleased to see he was renting to a black man (Robinson was white). Belafonte and Robinson were told they needed to pack their things and get out of the building, but Belafonte knew he had a year to work with since he’d signed a one-year lease.

He created three “dummy” real estate companies that engaged in a bidding war to buy the building. The owner of the building, accepted the highest bid and Belafonte bought the building. He then turned it into a co-op, which meant any tenants who wanted to could buy their units and those who didn’t could continue renting.

As owner of the building, Belafonte wanted to offer housing to others who might have experienced discrimination in their search for housing. Lena Horne moved into the penthouse suite, and Belafonte’s favorite bass player, Ron Carter, who was also black, moved into the building, too.

Belafonte’s scheme cost $2 million, but it worked. Throughout his memoir, My Song, which was published last year, there are stories like this that show the determination and ingenuity of this talented artist to fight racism and other prejudice. I’ve never read a celebrity memoir before and I probably would never have read this one if I didn’t live in Germany.

Last week I met with a German woman who is the Director of the German-American Institute in Nuremberg. She set up a talk for Black History Month and a reading from Belafonte’s book. From what I understand, Belafonte has a strong following here in Germany. My job is to select passages to read aloud from the book in which his fans can hear stories of the Civil Rights movement from the point of view of someone they “know” and admire.

I know many have strong views about whether or not there should be such a thing as Black History Month. Black history should be integrated into other sorts of history or other sorts of history should be integrated into black history and all aspects of history should be given their due year round. Still, I’m glad to have been invited to help with this particular Black History Month event. Without it, I might never have known more about Belafonte than that he was probably a singer. Now he is a huge inspiration to me: a creative thinker who isn’t afraid to keep demanding more. We all need to keep demanding more.

As Belafonte puts it:

All of us pushing for integration would have to do more than hold a rally now and then. Without an active mass movement to make the government truly uncomfortable, our elected leaders would not do anything—not because they didn’t want to do something, but because they needed political pressure to make decisions that many of their constituents would resent. (My Song 196-197)

I appreciate Belafonte’s reminder that we all need to work to remind each other of the discomfort we should be feeling regarding current injustices. What does and should make us uncomfortable today? What will this discomfort inspire us to do?

 - Let’s Talk -

I need a new cell phone. My current cellular telephone is a lemon.  I’ve had it for almost 6 years. During our time together I have spent more money on new batteries than it would cost to get a new phone.
It’s age means the following 1) Randomly turns itself off 2) Freezes when the camera is activated 3) Is unable to send pictures to certain smart phones 4) Sends texts to wrong people, sends multiple copies of one text, unscrambles big words sent from newer phones.

I know I need to move on. But I love my phone. And each time I walk into a Verizon store I’m reminded of the way our culture chants: build something a lil’ fancier, now convince the peoples to buy it.

I’m hoping to reach our 6 year anniversary, then I will gracefully find a new partner in crime.

- Let’s Look at Each Other -

Years ago, I  had a webcam. I used it with AIM and there was no microphone or sound. I had one friend who also owned a webcam. We would make funny faces at each other as we messaged about boys or college classes or boys.

I’ve never had a webcam with a microphone, but recently I decided I want one. I miss my close friends back home. And we all made the same revelation over winter break: we are a little lonely.

But the cost of webcams have gone up since 2004. I fear I will buy one, but my friends wont. I imagine staring at a dark screen as a small window in the corner mirrors back my awkward face. My face will say:  I am waiting for someone to talk to.

.

- Let’s Jam -

I’ve owned my green  iPod since 2005.
In the words of Life Magazine it “works fine.”
If I walk outside in the snow, and the iPod is in my pocket, the contrast of it’s text fades. The poor guy will eventually shut itself off. It is telling me: I’m cold, mom.

I never put iTunes on my new computer, which means the music on my iPod is frozen in time. Every time I put the songs on shuffle I immediately feel like I’m walking through the cold streets of Dublin, or I start to feel echoes of worthlessness for being unemployed and living back in my parents house.
Because of this, I’ve been avoiding my iPod for months & months.

I’ve heard there are cell phones that also play music.
I’ve heard there are cell phones that have webcams.
I’ve heard myself say things like: that sounds horrible.

I know I should analyze why I’m so resistant to technological change, why it frustrates me and makes me cling to my ailing flip-phone like a life ring, but I don’t want to. Apparently I’m stubborn.

in theory, it sounds like a good idea maybe.  it’s got all the things i used to love about the books section: reviews, recommendations, essays, interviews, fun little Q&A’s with book-loving peoples, best-seller lists, a calendar of literary events, all that good shit.  it’s even got a column from rick kogan, the best storyteller/old school newspaperman our town’s got since dear studs passed away.  but here’s the thing: the newspapers had all that before, and got rid of it.  probably because of economic inefficiencies, or economies of scale, or sliding scales, or because the terrorists finally won.  so, obviously, they had to do something different this time.  and what they decided to do was charge for it.

but the book-loving peoples won’t just pay for what they used to get for free, right?  so, obviously, they had to make it BETTER.  that way the book-loving peoples won’t feel like they’re getting screwed by paying for what they used to get for free.  but the book-loving peoples actually did used to pay for it.  they paid for their sunday papers which came with the books section and did not steal any of it off the interwebs, like the good law-abiding citizens they were.  they paid for this stuff because they liked the printed word, and in return for their years of patronage, the book-loving peoples had their favorite section stripped away & now have to pay even more to get it back.

how much more?  about 100% 200%.  right now, i pay about $1/week for a sunday paper subscription.  a subscription to this new printers row is $99/year.  but wait!  there’s more!  for that $99 i also get to be a “member” of the printers row community.  “special access,” and “events,” and “forums,” and such.  there’ll be a series of monthly author discussions, readings, and an online discussion board.  in other words, many of the things i can get for free at our city’s kick ass reading serieses, or about a gajillion websites aimed at the book-loving peoples.

that’s not to say there’s nothing good here.  those author discussions, “printers row live,” seem like they could actually be kinda cool maybe.  and from the free online preview of the first issue, it looks like the editors took a cue from their coverboy eggers’ own attempt at rejuvenating the newspaper business, mcsweeneys 33, and decided to do some bold layout work (just look at pages A12 & A14).  plus, this thing will come with a special pull-out original short story every week, not unlike one story.  but i’ve never actually been to one of those printers row live events, and most of the layout work (while nice) isn’t exactly bold, and i have no idea what to expect from newspaper editors who will essentially be running a lit mag (suffice it to say, i was once the managing editor of a journal, but i would never presume to know how to run a newspaper).

i guess i should be happy they’re at least trying, though, right?  it’s a noble effort, catering to those book-loving peoples.  but whether it’s also a profitable one for newspapers remains to be seen.

“What I am particularly interested in exploring is the border zone between consciousness and unconsciousness, between then and now, between self and other and self as other.  The border is not a fixed site but a movable one where exchanges occur, where encounters happen (between people, between imagination and language), where some material doesn’t get through and what does get through flows out in the odd dream logic of condensation and ongoing deferral.”      –Thomas Heise, The Missouri Review (Vol. 34:111).

Gabrielle Giffords, the Congresswoman from Arizona, is thankfully recovering from the point-blank gun-shot wound that she sustained to her head.  Forensic analysis showed how the bullet entered her skull and exited after passing through the area of the brain associated with speech, and if it hadn’t passed through, the energy from the trauma would have been too much.  The victim would not have survived.

Click here to view the embedded video.

As of last week, of course, we see that Giffords has done considerably more than survive and suffer the comatose or vegetative conditions associated with the aftermath of such horrific events.   She has cast votes in Congress.   She has done interviews.   And most recently she has resigned from her post in the House of Representative and will now be devoting herself full-time to recovery, which may involve a trip to the African continent with her astronaut husband, Mark Kelly.   It may also involve a sojourn to the “border zone” that Heise describes above.

I find myself irresistibly drawn to this story for a variety of reasons:  the relationship between Giffords and her spouse is simply beautiful to behold and I can only imagine the way their private conversations also manifest all that’s good about marriage and the way it’s supposed to work.   I also might point out how Giffords actually stood for very controversial things, gun control among them, and that in Arizona, where the wild, wild west is a point of nostalgic pride, that’s a courageous stand to take.   But most of all, what strikes me about this amazing person’s progress involves the tears associated with her overwhelming drive to communicate, and to communicate in ways that may prove instructive for those interested in semiotics and how language becomes tethered to the rawest right-hemisphere processing of the brain.

Giffords weeps and weeps most often as she attempts to retrieve words and form sentences, things that are now much more difficult than they used to be.  Regarding the violent act which precipitated her injuries as well as the death of others — including a federal judge who appeared with her in the Safeway parking lot … including a nine-year-old girl who idolized her — she is now painfully aware.   That is, she grasps the tragic loss of life, and that she miraculously survived.   She comprehends the psycho-path’s premeditated act, perhaps his warped world-view.  But the visual imagery associated with the actual firing of the weapon is blissfully blacked out… cryptically erased… redacted by the powers of the soul (or the hard-wiring of the brain, which may be inextricably intertwined)…

Click here to view the embedded video.

Now, on that note, I’d like to make a turn and suggest an aspect of creative writing that, I think, is often overlooked.   Does the phenomena have a specific designation?  I can’t be sure.  It has something to do with a writer’s inability to articulate with precision the “event” itself, that the experience of things in and of themselves yield no direct access and that ironically the raw regurgitation of causal relationships will not translate to others as well as the carefully-considered reflections which come well after the supposedly brute fact.  If pressed, however, I might refer to this “border zone” speech as the Sacajewea Affect after the famed translator for the Lewis & Clark expedition [More On This Below].

Giffords, even at her best, at the height of her powers, prior to the incident, would have to capitulate as much.   After rehearsing her speech on immigration policy, for example, she would have to admit that the truest existential moment — the thing that drives her to speak out — cannot be articulated as fully as she might like.  The very sympathy or empathy that she might exude for refugees along the southwest border — that emotional  response might be articulated in words and coherent phrases.   But the actual feeling of the human condition, that tripped breaker in the hard-wiring of her soul, is better left untouched.  Unsaid.  And, of course, if it is said, if such a statement should escape any politician’s lips, we immediately doubt its authenticity.

Moreover, we are justified in our doubting primarily because no one should presume to step out of existence and to imitate an objective view.   All that we are capable of doing is what the slain and now recovering Gabrielle Giffords does for the world to see.   She weeps.  She allows tears to fall from her frail face and with all the strength she has Giffords absorbs anyone who’s willing to hug her quivering frame.

***

I’ve recently had the chance to read through the Journals of Lewis and Clark, in which the auspicious explorers ventured from St. Louis, picked up the trail along the Columbia river and arrived at the Pacific coast, from which they led their corp of 35 men and one woman and one infant back again.   The entire journey took years and upon completion the pair had a compilation of words — subjects, objects and verbs connecting them with events that drenched them like the winter rains that made them miserable at Fort Clatsop.   Anyway, no matter what adjectives, adverbs and prepositions we peruse, clinging like mildew to tarps or moss to trees, it’s obvious that neither Meriwether Lewis nor William Clark can fully express the urgency of the present moment through which they pass.   Lewis is notoriously moody and depressive.  Clark is succinct and even detached.   But when these military ambassadors invite Sacajewea into the mix we have the possibility of a break-through.

To cut to the chase, the sixteen year old indian guide sobs.   She comes to the end of every language at her disposal, her French-trapping husband’s, her American-employers, her Minnetaree captors, her Mandan benefactors and even her own band of Shoshone, to whom she makes this thrilling return:

Sacajewea was sent for; she came into the tent, sat down, and was beginning to interpret, when in the person of Cameahwait she recognized her brother:  She instantly jummped up, and ran and embraced him, throwing over him her blanket and weeping profusely… After some conversation between them she resumed her seat, and attempted to interpret for us, but her new situation seemed to overpower her, and she was frequently interrupted by her tears… (Saturday, August 17, 1805).

You see, the issues which surround the emotional intelligence of the writer are not irrelevant to any genre of literature, whether its a non-fiction chronicle that will rock recorded history, a fantasy-prone trilogy of novels that tap into the mythic consciousness of the western world or a poem which implies that human imagination has been woven into the very fabric of the corporeal world.

The other things I would just touch upon briefly involve the contributions of women and where writing will go in the next few decades and centuries with women asserting themselves and incorporating their gifts for emotivity into their writing.   U2, in one of the rock group’s most recent songs, offers this lyric:  “Women are the future of all the big revelations.”   And, looking around at all the proteges of Adrienne Rich and Denise Levertov, I have to applaud and affirm every feminine archetype, and more importantly, every female act of courage that I can absorb into my Low-T bloodstream.

As the lights brighten, as the sky darkens,
a woman with crooked heels says to another woman
while they step along at a fair pace,
‘You know, I’m telling you, what I love best
is life. I love life! Even if I ever get
to be old and wheezy—or limp! You know?
Limping along?—I’d still … ‘ Out of hearing.

–Denise Levertov, from A February Evening In New York

Click here to view the embedded video.

The woman is too heavy for the poem, she is a swollenness, a foot, an arm, gone asleep, grown absurd and out of bounds.

Rooted to memory like a wedge in a block of wood; she takes the pressure of her thought but cannot resist it.

You call this a poetry of false problems, the shotgun wedding of the mind, the subversion of choice by language…

–Adrienne Rich, from The Will to Change, Section 8

 

Could it be that Gabrielle Giffords’ recovery is the future of politics as we know it?   Or could it be that her story-telling struggles — what to leave in and what to leave out — will help Thomas Heise and others in their explorations of the “border zone”?   Is there a writer out there who will trust the emotional intelligence at work in the random tear?   Yes, I believe there is and will always be!

Peace–

This is what our move will look like, except our building is taller, pinker, and 1960s-er

There’s nothing like signing a binding contract in a language you don’t know. We got a “translation” of our lease in English, but it isn’t really a translation of the document we signed. It’s what is called a “Convenient Translation,” though we don’t know yet for whom it is designed to be most convenient.

The objective of this document is to let foreigners know the basics of what might be found in the German lease being signed, but of course we don’t know what is actually lurking between “Schlüsselversicherung angeraten” and “Grundstückflächen abgestellt.”

What we do know is that the Convenient Translation requires us to air out the rooms of our new apartment every day “by opening them completely (for at least ten minutes, three times a day)” all while maintaining the temperature in the apartment at 17° Celsius.

Also, surface repairs to toilets, walls, radiators, windows, doors, etc. must be carried out on a regulated timeline. Based on how long you live in the apartment, you pay a percentage of the surface repair cost for each item. For instance:

“If the surface repairs in the living room and bedrooms / hallways / vestibules / and toilets during the rental period are more than one year old, the tenant shall pay 1/5, for more than 2 years 2/5, for more than 3 years 3/5,” and so on.

This particular law almost makes you want to live in places for short stints so you don’t ever have to replace the toilet (or the surface of the toilet, anyway). But then there are the steep broker fees you have to pay each time you get a new apartment. The landlord generally does not appear until very late in the process. We haven’t met ours yet, but are supposed to today when we hand him a huge amount of money and he hands us some keys.

In many cases, the broker whittles the rental contestants down to the top three and then the landlord meets them and decides which he or she wants. The landlord seems somewhat like the Wizard of Oz, conducting a grand, mysterious scheme from behind a heavy velvet curtain.

Soon we will move in, once the barge arrives that is carrying our furniture, dishes, bikes, etc. It will dock at a port and our containers will be dragged back onto land and put through customs. And then the moving company will load them through the window of our fourth floor walk-up (which in Germany is the fifth floor since the first floor is the ground floor and the second floor is the first).

And then we’ll move in and eventually I’ll have a work permit and we’ll improve our German and someday, if I’m lucky, I’ll be able to translate documents that will improve the lives of others, things like leases not intended to be signed and maybe also some poems.

Someone wise & judgmental once said to me, "imagine if you were in their shoes."

If I open a new tab with my internet, I’m shown a display of my most-visited websites. Handy. Convenient. And potentially embarrassing. A friend recently used my computer and when my most-visited results popped up he turned to me and asked “seriously?”

Two of them were celebrity gossip sites.

It was like he’d opened my nightstand goodie drawer,  I suddenly felt ashamed. I wanted to deny everything like the time I took a huge shit in the single-stall bathroom at work and opened the door to a waiting coworker Hey, Gary, it was like that when I got here.

I love celebrity gossip. I love the fashion, the heartbreaks, the engagements, the affairs, and I especially love a good comeback story.
I wish I wasn’t ashamed by this, but I am. Logically I don’t see much difference between what I do, and what millions of people do on Facebook every single day – we’re a species of lurkers. Yet I still feel ashamed.
I once dated a man who could tell me all the ins & outs of politics. All I could contribute to these conversations were the names of politicians who had been in & out of women who weren’t their wives. This embarrassed me.

One of the few celebrity sightings I’ve had in real life was when I saw Danny Bonaduce at brunch in California. I was horrified to realize the only thing I had to say to him (besides “Partridge Family, right?”) was “I’ve seen your penis on the internet.”

To defend my love for celebrity gossip I could throw studies at you that show gossip increases the positive hormone, progesterone, in females.

Or I could share that Perez Hilton did a complete 180 with the tone of his website (gone is the bitchy-draws-cum-on-celebrities-faces and now he does-his-best-to-be supportive-and-spread-bullying-awareness) that, oddly enough, reflects a distorted understanding of “practice what you preach.”

Or I could try to explain how after a long  day of work I can always look forward to a cup of tea with a side of Hugh Jackman walking his dog. It provides an escape.

Or I could list how I don’t appreciate vicious/unrelenting attacks, I don’t condone invasive stories or photographs regarding celebrity’s kids, and I never listen to 911 calls.

But all I really want to say is this:
There are so many reasons I am grateful to be living in the United States in 2012. But, clearly, one of my top 8 reasons for loving my country is the freedom I have to cut&paste my own face on Britney Spears’ nip-slip photo. I’m aware that, were I living in other countries, my only form of entertainment could be a looped video of my leader riding a horse through a wheat field, with very minimal potential for an accidental crotch-shot.

2. Everyday outings, such as going to the grocery store, will become overwhelming adventures. Huge adventures, like swimming with whale sharks off the coast of the Yucatan, will sound like everyday activities.

3. You will never know where she is. She will insist on trying a diverse range of activities, from accordion lessons to firing a machine gun, claiming it is research for a “Never Have I Ever” column.

4. You will realize that your world is more bizarre than a postmodern short story. You will start anecdotes with, “You can’t make this stuff up!”

5. You will not know whom you’re with at any moment: the character, the narrator, the persona, or the person. You will begin to wonder if you are a character or a person and sometimes narrate the recent past as if a memory from childhood. He will hear you and violate your POV.

6. She will continually write about her mother or her days as an addict or some ethereal night in a place you do not know. You will think that she’s working through a trauma; she will say, no, she’s working on a book.

7. He will make wild claims about disparate subjects, just to test argumentative structure. You will leave each dinner party wondering what he really thinks about cannibals.

8. In conversation, she will meander through thoughts, and just when you’ve forgotten what you were discussing, she will surprise you with a point that brings it all together.

9. You will read the manuscript and ask, “Did I really say that?” Neither of you will know for sure.

10. Time will stop.

president obama is well known/regarded/maligned for his excellent oratorical skills.  so where the hell that line came from, i don’t know—but i sure as fuck hope he has polling data to show that voters in pennsylvania would respond well to that sort of playground bluster.  and the thing is, he probably does.

in any case, that odd/juvenile bit of phrasing got me wondering about what sort of political rhetoric appeals to me vs. my fellow americans, as well as the sort of things i like to read vs. my fellow americans’ taste in literature.  for example: i completely geek out about delillo; lots of my countrymen & women work themselves into a lather over dan brown & teenage wizards wearing color-coordinated scarves.  so i did some quick google searches to dig up speech transcripts from a few of the leading presidential candidates in 2012, then i plugged them into i write like to see if there were any interesting outcomes i could hastily assemble into a blog post, if not an actual voter’s guide (since you’ll likely learn as much here as you will from any televised debate sponsored by the likes of facebook).  here are my results:

based on his “more perfect union” speech (a.k.a. “the race speech”) in philadelphia on march 18, 2008:
president obama talks like h.p. lovecraft writes.

based on his foreign policy speech at the citadel in october 2011:
former governor mitt romney talks like kurt vonnegut writes.

based on his value voters summit speech in october 2011:
former pizza impresario herman cain talks like david foster wallace writes.

based on his CPAC speech in february 2011:
former speaker of the house newt gingrich talks like gertrude stein writes.

based on his CPAC speech in february 2011:
former ayn rand idol ron paul talks like william gibson writes.

all i can say to these highly scientific findings is… that sounds about right.  but feel free to do your own analyses and post results in the comments.  i’m curious what ya’all will come up with.

also, for the record, i don’t know what h.p. lovecraft writes like, either.  but now i feel like i kinda have to check that shit out.  right?  and if any of those republicans take the white house, it looks like we’re gonna be in for four seriously bizarre years.  seriously bizarre.