HANGOVER ~ AKA 'MARCO POLO'

Though my New Year's Eve celebration did not result in a hangover, I am recovering from a bout of shellfish poisoning, compliments of a lobster tail probably tainted with some preservative chemical. Spent New Year's Eve in the hospital being pumped full of steroids and now I am comfortably recovering at home. Nothing worse for a dyed-in-the-wool Yankee like myself then to face the prospect of no longer enjoying a good crustacean. I never had this problem in the many years of eating seafood in Italy. Alas, this evening I made a large pot of pasta fagioli, which is probably what we should have had on New Year's Eve, as the beans (normally lentils) are a representatation of coins, hence meant to bring good fortune. Listening to 'Planet Money' on NPR today, a commentator remarked that the economic forecasters should substitute 'ish' for the decimal point going forward ~ not very promising.

As for the Hangover, I am listening to the Prairie Home Companion on the radio and the program highlights some of the best of 2009. Included is a poet by the name of Billy Collins, who wrote this poem:

Hangover

If I were crowned emperor this morning,
every child who is playing Marco Polo
in the swimming pool of this motel,
shouting the name Marco Polo back and forth

Marco Polo Marco Polo

would be required to read a biography
of Marco Polo-a long one with fine print-
as well as a history of China and of Venice,
the birthplace of the venerated explorer

Marco Polo Marco Polo

after which each child would be quizzed
by me then executed by drowning
regardless how much they managed
to retain about the glorious life and times of

Marco Polo Marco Polo

As a librarian, I found the second poem he shared quite fun as well, as it addressed the shooting of a book:

Ballistics

When I came across the high—speed photograph
of a bullet that had just pierced a book —
the pages exploding with the velocity —
I forgot all about the marvels of photography
and began to wonder which book
the photographer had selected for the shot.
Many novels sprang to mind
including those of Raymond Chandler
where an extra bullet would hardly be noticed.
Nonfiction offered too many choices —
a history of Scottish lighthouses,
a biography of Joan of Arc and so forth.
Or it could be an anthology of medieval literature,
the bullet having just beheaded Sir Gawain
and scattered the band of assorted pilgrims.
But later, as I was drifting off to sleep,
I realized that the executed book
was a recent collection of poems written
by someone of whom I was not fond
and that the bullet must have passed through
his writing with little resistance
at twenty—eight hundred feet per second,
through the poems about his childhood
and the ones about the dreary state of the world,
and then through the author's photograph,
through the beard, the round glasses,
and that special poet's hat he loves to wear.

Tried to embed the code for the program, but it did not work, so here is the link. The recitation is at the beginning of Segment 3.

Happy New Year e Felice Anno Nuovo tutti!