Wrapped Up Like A Douche

Note to skimmers: contest below!

Gloom and Bloom
Man, am I out of it. Sitting through two atrocious Mets losses amongst ravenous Oaklandites and Mets fans who remind me why I don't like Mets fans has left me in such a stupor that I forgot this is Bloomsday.

As you may know, Bloomsday (previous annual ruminations here and here) is traditionally a day which celebrates the drunken elitism of throngs of what can only be described as "smartypants" people who've read the first two to four chapters of a book called Ulysses, which was written by perhaps the biggest smartypants of the twentieth century, one James A. Joyce of Ireland.

(You remember, the one that goes, "Stately, plump... yes I will Yes.")

Another common Bloomsday tradition is the air of snooty dismissiveness from the more cynical smartypants-types who realize that perhaps one to one-and-one-fifth percent of these drunken Hiberniphilic revelers have actually finished said book or have any idea what it's "about," if it can even be said to be about anything.

However, you'll get neither from me. I read the book a bunch of times, I read books about the book, and articles about books about the book, and even websites about the articles about the books about the book; I saw the movie and complained all the way through; I listened to the record; If there was a breakfast cereal I would've eaten that, too. And I'm under no illusions about it making me any more of a worthwhile human being than the next shlub on the 27 bus.

BUT—it's a damn good book and worth reading. Probably especially so for youngish creative types who've lost a parent, but also for midlife-crisis-stricken cuckolds, cheating wives who aren't getting any younger, dashing ladies' men, drunks, whores, men of the cloth, police officers, racists, recipients of racism, mythologists, mysogynists, women's libbers, musicians, philologists, philatelists, blind piano tuners, compulsive gamblers, poets, nationalists, bums, newspaper writers, and Art Garfunkel. But you're free to disagree with me on that.

On a side note, June 16th also marks the third birthday of your very own Wrapped Up Like a Douche. So light a candle, do a shot of Tuaca and enter...

The WULAD Anniversary Poetry Contest
1. Submit a poem (either in the comments or by email) commemorating the third anniversary of WULAD's entrance on the global stage.

2. Acceptable forms: haiku, limerick, sonnet, quatrain, Coltrane, free verse, rap, acrostic, dorsimbra, ode, pantoum, triolet, villanelle, sestina (but don't waste it on me if you can get it in McSweeney's), tercet, or some shit you just made up.

3. Prizes: The winner or winners will recieve a kickass custom photoillustration from yours truly, suitable for framing or birdcage-papering.

Poem up, WULAD Wreaders, you fearful Jesuits!