Walking in on "Bob."

This is a discursion from my calling James Joyce one of the most overrated writers in the history of ever on Twitter/FB this morning. It got me thinking, and the path of those thoughts is much like the path of what those thoughts were about, in that my giving you the closing argument without the road to get there makes no fucking sense.

"Who the fuck is Bob?"
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But you, no, you walk in at "Bob," and have no fucking idea how it came about.

And for that, I blame Joyce and his ilk. Not everyone has the time or the inclination to back-trace an infinite number of footnotes and influences, to ferret out everything against which you rail for contrast.

If you riff on a theme so thoroughly that the theme itself is lost, you have fallen off the melody, traipsed incoherently beyond "fugue," and become mere noise (or as some would have it, "jazz"). Don't be put out when people look askance at your affected, evolved, or contrived weirdness.

Being misunderstood isn't always a sign of genius; it may simply be a result of your not making any fucking sense at all.

Have your "Bloomsday." I will instead have some Bloom County.

"Good day, sir."