30 nov. 2005

I was eating some Fish and Chips the other day. The first french-fry I absent-mindedly put in my mouth was, by a large margin, the absolute worst item in this genre I have ever eaten. First of all, it was cold, as though it had just been in the refrigerator for an hour. Secondly, it was unbelievably sour, and when I bit into it it released some kind of cold, acidic juice into my mouth. Of course this particular french fry would have made an excellent wedge of lemon for my fish. In fact, it was an excellent lemon wedge. As a fry, however, it was very deficient. What this has to do with poetry I have no idea. I'm sure there's a lesson here somewhere.

10 comentarios:

Gary dijo...

Expectations!

And by the way, my word verification is "fckzgd" ... that's *got* to be intentional.

shanna dijo...

ha! what an excellent little parable.

Tony dijo...

My word verification is "ldntrcn."

It sounds like a medication of some sort.

Laura Carter dijo...

My french fry was a poem by Wilfred Owen.

Tim dijo...

This is why you need to come visit me here in Toronto, Jonathan. Best fish & chips without leaving the continent.

Nick Piombino dijo...

This brought back memories of Wally Cox

Stephen Baraban dijo...

Similar category anecdote:
I always disliked the music of Lionel Hampton (and I wondered, maybe I just can't stand the sound of a vibraphone) until someone on the radio pointed out that it could be considered proto-rock 'n roll. Then, when the radio person played a selection, I could truly hear it.

Word verification: vbxwk, which looks like "vibe" at the beginning!

Stephen Baraban dijo...

Jeez--does anyone know why I always get that little chimney or garbage pail picture at the bottom of my blogger posts???

Jonathan dijo...

That's a garbage can for deleting your comments. You can delete your own comments, or the blog owner can delete comments by anyone.

zebrasnlionsomy dijo...

you sound like julia oxtoa...