I have a great love for Elliott these days. It was not always thus, but anyone who could conceive that the world would end "not with a bang but a whimper" is my kind of guy.

In the past week, days really, I've argued with the love of my life, a large breasted coquette, over the meaning of Prufrock. She insisted that the references to Michalangelo were related to a woman undergoing a Gynacological exam.

Taken aback, I quereied, "How the fuck do you come up with that, honey? It's about the realism of a middle-aged man confronting the truth of his life. 'In the room the women come and go talking of Michalangelo' is about the empty-headed prattling of women. What is there to say about Michalangelo that hasn't been said?"

She told me that I was wrong, and I have since remained silent, because she is a beautiful woman, and I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be.

What amazes me the most about Prufrock is that Eliot was only 27 years old when he wrote it. If there ever was a poem that captures the 3 am thoughts and fears of middle-aged men (I'm 61), this is it.

BTW, the best Prufrock parody out there -- best because it's also serious -- is "The Love Song of J. Random Hacker" by Jeff Duntemann. Final lines:

We hackers linger by our leading edge
Forgetting what is pending in the cache
Till practice hurtles past us, and we crash.

Hell would be being traped on an airplane between Maureen Dowd and John Kerry trying to impress her with:

"But there was Mr. Kerry flying from Boston to New Orleans on Friday, sipping tea for his hoarse throat and reeling off T. S. Eliot's "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."

"There are so many great lines in it," he said. " `Do I dare to eat a peach?' `Should I wear my trousers rolled?' `Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets/The muttering retreats/Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels/And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells."

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There was a time when musicians were literate.....

Paul Desmond was once asked whatever happened to the young beauties he used to show up with at gigs with Dave Brubeck. His reply was "Chicks like that end up marrying some cat that owns a factory or something. That's the way it always ends, not with a whim but a banker."

BDoom.

My, my. T.S. Eliot and Bliss Carman in the same issue....

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