While a lot of you were digging out from the Hellsnow we were experiencing Springtease. It’s good to get out of the house in something more flexible than a lunar suit every now and then, but you know it’s still winter, and it’s going to come back and mess with you for awhile. Like today.
February is a black month for me. I was born in it, and I get the feeling it’s the month I’ll tip my Jello over, agape, watching The Price is Right, or some Armani preacher winking at the members of the choir he’s currently boning. That’s one of the reasons my thoughts turned to Sylvia Plath yesterday while I was reading Anne Althouse’s preliterates who’d come out for a hosing at Lawyers, Guns and Money.

There’s some similarly lurking, creepy inevitability about the parallel trainwrecks of Plath and Althouse, but only one of them will ever be remembered for legibility. Although I might be jumping the gun a little: Once Althouse starts selling gold and survival goods with Glen Beck, something may escape her mouth that is not utterly deformed, gray and pasty, its edges defined solely by a sort of administrative post-it-note sloth. Goober dollars might just give a little color to her- a tenured Tammy Faye.

Among the Narcissi

Prone, stoned, and soft as Glen Beck
Althouse reclines in the blue shadow, vlogging the narcissi.
She is drinking something from a box.

The narcissi, too, are looking at a dumbshow
It brushes their cages in the blue dawn when Althouse
Nurses the Franzia on her sofa, and talks and talks.

There is no dignity to this; but there is formality-
The monkeys, livid as tanagers, and Althouse feeding.
They lean back and gape:
She boots into her socks.

But the box o’ generian loves her little flocks
She’s white, pale. The show’s made her giddy.
The narcissi look up like procolobus
quietly, whitely.