With thanks to Rachel Maddow for the fitting description of Sarah Palin.

W-T-F?

Or at least round the world of Appalachia. We went on a whirlwind five day tour of Ohio and nearby states, if Georgia counts as nearby.

Jiggety jig.

I’m so sleep deprived I’ve moved beyond tired and into “Did you see that giraffe? It just ate a Kia!”

Speaking of Kias, we rented one for our roadtrip. By the end, I was just calling it “Kia.” “Kia and I have decided we don’t like mountains and we hate this mountain especially!” (This after an hour or so wandering about on a mountain after a fallen tree disrupted our plans.) Cruelly, I scraped Kia’s fender. I’m sorry, Kia. I’m sure I’ll end up repaying you with many dollars.

I don’t seem to be able to handle more than one thought at a time, so while the Olympics are on nothing else happens in my brain. I am a vegetable. Perhaps an artichoke.

I haven’t been reading, writing, or thinking about poetry in any sort of coherent way. I haven’t been progressing in my around-the-world challenge, either, though I did pick up a Sweden book at the library last night. Woo!

My sister was looking for the recipe for toffee bars, which made me want a toffee bar rather desperately.

My favorite cookie is a snickerdoodle, but I wouldn’t even take a snickerdoodle over a toffee bar right now. Yum.

This post about food is brought to you by Julie’s Stomach, the official Stomach of the XXXVII Juliepiad.

Steve and I went to the fair.  It’s always fun when the people directing traffic have one line for those of us with 4-wheel-drive and another line for those without.

After meandering around for a while and being tempted by frickles, we found ourselves watching the rough truck competition.  If you aren’t familiar wtih rough trucks, take an obstacle course made of mud, take a truck that is held together with baling wire and spit, then try to take the truck over the course in the fastest time.  It’s really really loud and usually involves scattered truck parts by the end.

My inner redneck was pleased.

Rattle is looking for a few good poets to interview here.

Interviews, in general, are something I’m not particularly interested in. I don’t really want to know much about the people behind the poems, books, music, sports, political shenanigans, etc. I’m generally content with people just remaining shadowy figures, poised above their typewriters.

That isn’t to say that I’m not interested in YOU, whoever you may be. Just that I’ve never thought “Hey, I just read this book by Rufus K. Whiplash. I wish I knew more about him.”

While glancing at Erato this morning, I ran across this thread, where the full-fledged white hysteria over Barack Obama can be witnessed in its glory.

Some gems:

I have seen many times where discussions on mainstream media say that Obama is a Christian, but they never bring up what his father’s religion, his step father’s religion and his half brother’s religion is.

The Edwards affair is months old, and the mainstream media did not pick up on it, I might say, because it would have negative news for Hussein Obama.

Did the media pick up on or even ask or question why Hessein Obama no longer does the fist-bump thing? Why doesn’t he do it all the time?? Because it is a known black-gang salute? Why is a person running for president even doing black-gang hand gestures? But the point is, the media will not question Hussein Obama.

Here is a question for you: Can Obama swim? Really, it is a real question.

Wow. Just wow.

When you answer every question of “Do you want to do X?” with “I don’t know,” your questioner will eventually assume that you mean “I don’t care.”

And that’s fine if you don’t care.  But if you do care, and Steve I’m looking at you, don’t do that!

In thinking about the Around the World challenge, I decided I’d like to choose books that have a sense of place–preferably the author’s place.  It’s strange, though, to think about what actually reveals place when we’re familiar with whatever the place is.  Someone told me that pseudophakia had a sense of place for Ohio and, honestly, I couldn’t see it.  I’m too close to it to know what’s “Ohioan” about what I write.

In puzzling over it, I decided to write a poem with a strong sense of place, and ended up with “Flyover Country.”  I think that poem does say something about this spot, but is it a unique something?  Does a sense of place require that it fit only one place, or can it be a type of place that could be found anywhere in the world?

In short, what gives a piece of writing a sense of place?  How do we know it when we see it?

I love the Olympics.  Whee!