Fried Chickens!

It can be hard to maintain a particular blog.
I seem to collect them like old journals. Never quite completed and fleshed out into a BLOG blog, but more like little glimpses of promising notions that become warped by my own sensibilities and humors.

Last Tuesday I went out to the Abbey and started talking to this dude from Chicago because he asked me questions. I guess I spent a lot of time answering, because at one point in the conversation, he cut in to say,
"I feel like you've been telling me so much about yourself, I should start talking about me."

I was surprised for a second because I hadn't realized what was happening. I've been slacking on the lit-ernet me, so I suppose all my pent-up vanities poured out with each pint of Dead Guy Ale I imbibed in that darkened pub.

Anycrap.
Silly me, always concerned with the other, checked out like 10 books from the library on sundry literary topics that could "passibly" be useful in say, an 11th grade AP English course of which the curriculum lacks attention on women writers throughout American History.

I'd been focusing a lot of attention on the Dorothy Parker reader, Flannery O'Connor and Madwoman in the Attic by Gilbert and Gubar, an amazingly thorough discussion on the development of Feminine Literature (women writing for women romantic stories of women who were well-behaved women who were friends with other women and married men and were pretty and feminine) into Feminist Literature and the criticism that one might employ to discuss the stuff that doesn't really fall under an Oedipal (Pre or Post) anxiety of influence.

But tonight, over steamed spinach and a mighty rum and coke, I opened Stories of the Cherokee Hills.

The stories were first published in 1898. (SPaN-AM! WOo! SPlendid little WaR!)

First off, I was smacked with some pure di-a-lict:
"I kin look both ways....an' see back inter the whut was an' for'rd iter the goin' ter be."

--and an explanation of "color jucundities" aka the "senterments" of White Men in the foot-hills of the Appalachians.

Werrrrrry Inte-westing.