Yates--US Marshall: U.s. Marshal Book

Round these parts theres a lot of opinyins about that Cormac McCarthy feller and his book about the West and how it kinda explains America. Blood Meridian is the book whar he done it most famously. It's plenty good, and full of murderin and knife-winkin and to-ing and fro-ing. Very American. But then Cormac went and let hisself be interviewed by thet Operah lady 'n then got chummy with all those Hollywood dyrectors and skinny actresses who walk around with their dinners on a pedestal, which I dont wanna sound anti-booby, but sometimes you kin display em to the point of carycetcher. Ol Cormac seems happy enough in that crowd enyhow. Bin awhiles since he wrote enythin about brothers 'n sisters out in the shed, or enythin atall really. But back to that Blood Meridian. Its sposed to be the quinteesenshal novel about back then in America and how it got us to whar we ares now. But Cormac left out a coupla things. Like heartbreak and absurdity and that dreamy part o living.

Which brings me to this'un, which I jest read: Ghost Town. This Robert Coover feller who wrote it, he put all that murderin and rustlin and to-ing and fro-ing in, but added all that stuff what makes a feller spit out his coffee from guffawin. Now heres a pitcher of thet Coover feller they put on the back flap of the book Ima talkin bout:



Looks like a nice feller. Real job. Crew-neck sweater. Sweet smile. Somebody's daddy. Votes the republican ticket. Recycles reglar. Probly got a Doctor Grabow in his pocket. Though what t'hells a doctor know about pipes? But as my favoryte flat-picker, David Bromberg, wunst cautioned, dont let the glasses foolya.

This is one sick human. Ifn he only writes down three-quarters of what he thainks, he should be locked up so-in he caint hurt enyone.

This might be a propryate time to splain why ima talkin thisa way. See thars this Goodreader reviewer name'a Fernoola or somethin like that. She reads all these confusin books and then writes about em using the confusin language thet the arther used. I dont always unnerstand what shes sayin but it sher is purty and, of more import, its a style that encourages a lot of likes. Now, Im no Fernoola, dont git me wrong, but I figger this is worth a try.

Speaking of Fernoola, when they make a movie outta this'un, Fernoola could maybe star in the role of the schoolmarm, who hez the sheriff's heart. But more I thaink onit, probly not, cause that schoolmarm had a mean streak. The boys wuz talkin on her one day:

Course she aint sweet alla time.
No, yu're right thar, her disposition aint always the easiets t'git on with.
Mosta the time, in fact, sweet aint the word at all.
And ifn it aint the word, mister, you better go fer cover, cuz for yu know it she'll unleash her upbringin on yu.
The marm is a formidable unleasher of upbringins.
Yu aint jest talkin jackshit, podnuh. Wunst I said aint in fronta her and she got me down and warshed my mouth out with lye soap. Thought I'd die a the foamin wet rot.
She whupped me my arse with a yardstick fer near a hour wunst'n all I done wuz t'fuckin split a danged infinnytif.
Whut's a infinnytif?

Wunst, after the sheriff saves her life, agin:

He sets the marm down and, still gazing off toward the empty horizon, cuts away the rag that gags her. If thet warnt the dangedest thing I ever seen, he says. Saw, she replies sharply, spitting the gag away, and she slaps him. A real cracker that makes his teeth rattle.

So, no, I dont see Fernoola in the role of the schoolmarm. We'd need someone a whole lot more peedantic and tootonic. Ifn you see anyone fittin thet deescription, please tell her to report to central castin. ...(Whup!! Now what you gone and done thet fer?)

Whar wuz I?

Oh, this here Ghost Town. I'd recommend this'un to Nathan and Geoff and the rest of thar posse, tho 'posse' is a little high-falutin for thet buncha disreptile puffyguts and dandified turkeyasses and muzzerbul whelps. Or dumsquizzled lardasses, like thet Ian feller. And fer yu'all get appyplexick and go lookin fer some knotted rope to toss over a tree limb, remember that when I say 'no-account varmint' thet I mean it in the best possibul sense.

I've bin reading this Coover feller fer awhiles now, werkin my way through his or-vrah. He's a sick feller, which probly sez more bout me then him. He parodizes diffrent johnrays. He done fairy tales, and child's stories and porno movies. Baseball. Suburbia, whetever that is. He wrote a book called 'Noir'. Wunder whet that's about.

But I liked this'un best. Maybe cuz I felt comfort in the language.

Fellers, yu know how when yer riding on an interstate and thar's a certain sky? Its clear but yet windswept. So it gives yu a feelin of being inside a great expanse. Yer wrist is dangling on top of the wheel; yer bein very male. But you start puddlin up. An she looks at yu, her face a question, and yu jest shake yer head. Or, you wake up after a hard night, bruised and regretful, but yu know somehow it'll be alright.

This'un was like that. Like a dream yu had. Like what we're proud of. Unashamed.

Livin a life out here is shit, he sez. But there's no need to git all ramparageous. Jest appropriate some potables. And when they tell yu something real bad is gonna happen, jest say, I'm glad to hear it. I wuz afeerd everthin wuz gonna be awright.