On this day in 1787, delegates from the thirteen states assembled in Philadelphia with the ostensible purpose of revising the Articles of Confederation. In reality, their secret intention was to replace the existing government altogether with a completely new constitution. The convention, which straggled on into the middle of September, still holds the record as the longest and dullest coup d’état in history.
The Duck Hollow University Department of Applied Speculative Research recently distributed a long survey in order to answer the two related questions “How well informed are American citizens?” and “How willing are American citizens to waste their time filling out long surveys?” Among the more interesting and suggestive results:
To the question “Who is Barack Obama?” 19% of respondents answered “George W. Bush” and 27% answered “The Battle of Camifex Ferry.”
Asked to point out the Straits of Magellan on a map, more than 52% of respondents went over to the coffee machine instead.
37% of respondents identified Islam as “a spice used in Thai curry.”
More than 8% of respondents were unable to identify Kathleen Merrigan as the Deputy Secretary of Agriculture, even when presented with a photograph.
61% of respondents believed that global warming is caused by evolution.
Respondents were asked to name their U.S. representatives, but evidently they misunderstood the question, as their responses were unprintable.
Just in! Latest comics, graphic novels. Captain Pleonasm issue 453: Captain Pleonasm vs. the Chicago Manual of Style, $1.25. Revenge of the Organist issue 12, $1.39. Windsor Tales issue 41: Queen Elizabeth II and the Menace from Mars, 83¢. Hamlet: The Darker Reboot, $19.95. The Flagman, premier issue, $18.00. Hurry while supplies last. Mitch’s Archive of Classic World Literature, Brentwood.
Second Series.
Sullivan, Sir Arthur. It was not revealed until many years after his death that Sir Arthur Sullivan’s famous “Lost Chord” was in fact stolen. Fearing a scandal, Sir Arthur had refused to refer the matter to the police.
Dear Mr. the Rabmag: Last night I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls, with vassals and serfs at my side; and, of all who assembled within those walls, that I was the hope and the pride. I had riches too great to count—could boast of a high ancestral name. But I also dreamt, which pleased me most, that you loved me still the same. What do you think it means? —Sincerely, Arline.
Dear Madam: Doubtless this dream represents a dim memory of your tragic origin story, and it is likely that you are well on your way to becoming a supervillain, if indeed you are not one already. The one consoling observation is the last part of the dream, which suggests that you may also be mad. Most supervillains are mad, and their madness invariably leads them to overstep the bounds of prudence in the execution of their diabolical plots. Although you will handily outwit the local police, and the entire United Nations will cower prostrate at your feet, it should be a relatively simple matter for the nearest costumed hero to foil your plot to destroy the world. You need not worry yourself too much about that, however: although you will appear to have perished in the blazing inferno that consumes your lair, future sequels will reveal that you survived by means of some exceedingly implausible plot contrivance.
Dear Dr. Boli: I have to write a poem for our high-school graduation, but the trouble is—and don’t let anyone know I told you this—I’m not very good at poems. What would you suggest I do? —Sincerely, Meredith, Age 18, Blandville Area High School.
Dear Madam: Write a sonnet, or some other relatively short form of poem in which both the meter and the rhyme are strictly controlled. And be very strict with yourself about meter and rhyme. Do not say to yourself, “Well, nine syllables are good enough for that line,” or “I suppose ‘mine’ and ‘time’ are close enough to a rhyme that I can get away with it.” Allow no deviations from the established formula.
Dr. Boli realizes that writing a proper sonnet takes some work—he usually allows himself at least fifteen minutes for the task—but he assures you that the work, which after all is a simple mechanical exercise that anyone can do, will be well worth the time. Your teachers, your peers, and all their parents are completely convinced that writing a formal poem is an impossible feat. They will be astonished by your literary virtuosity. And here is the really important thing: they will be paying attention to the structure of your poem so much that they will ignore the meaning.
That is vitally important. If you write a mechanically perfect sonnet, you always have the excuse that you had to let the meter and the rhyme push your thoughts in this or that direction. No one in the audience you’re facing will complain if your thoughts are a bit on the insipid side. But if you take what you probably think is the easy way out and write something in free verse, you have no excuse. You had those thoughts, and you wrote them down. Nothing prevented you from having different thoughts. If you write a vapidly platitudinous poem, everyone will know that you have a vapidly platitudinous mind. Your brain will be standing in front of that audience naked.
If you are Walt Whitman, you can get away with free verse, because you have brilliant thoughts leaking out of your brain all the time, not to mention a superb natural sense of rhythm. But you say that you are not very good at poems. Structure is therefore your most important ally, and the more perfectly you stick to your chosen structure, the less it matters how dull a person you really are.
