So, a whole bunch of religious pilgrims walk into a bar...

I've been trying to convince myself to start my reading assignment and get ahead of the game, but I'm tired and unfocused, so I opted for coffee and writing out a blog entry on paper (which was nearly illegible and needed to be typed out).
I did read a couple dozen lines of The General Prologue in Modern English, and skimmed the Middle English side of the page, and was thus reminded of a night when a man recited about half of The General Prologue of the Canterbury Tales in Middle English to me...at a bar.
I had originally been talking to a girl about "Guernica" by Picasso (which the print on my black and white lace skirt was a shrunken down version of the work--yes, I have some odd clothing...that I made for myself). Somehow the talk shifted to English Literature, and then works in Old English and Middle English. I actually recited the first few lines of Chaucer to show off to the girl a little, and then this guy showed up, and it was on apparently. This was a contest that I was more than okay with losing.
The guy proceeded to spout off a lot of Middle English, and as he kept going the speed, volume and the spitting involved with his recitation increased. He was absolutely entranced. His face was a blissful nerdgasm-- really, how many times can you use a Chaucer recitation in an attempt to impress the ladies?
Trying to stop him from reaching the climax of his reading was like trying to stop a speeding train by throwing individual bricks at it. I think he made it about halfway through the prologue portion. At the height of enchantment he wasn't even picking up on the subtle social ques that indicated that we were bored with this game. We were looking at our drinks and ignoring him as though some he were some madman that had accosted us and just started sputtering oddly accented English without any provocation.

And this is why I cannot read this part of The Canterbury Tales at present. My mind's eye only sees the constant blabbing of a nerdy boy; mouth flapping like a fish, and eyes glazed in joy at the prospect that Middle English was about to get him laid (I don't think it worked any magic for him, though, but who knows). So that night I was trapped on a smoking patio with the nerdiest train wreck that I have ever entertained at a bar. Let's get back to talking about the mysteries of penis, or practicing hair-pulling.

A bar is no place for Middle English.

Perhaps a place where they sell turkey legs and mead would be more appropriate.

Upon re-reading my blog today I found a mistake in a previous post. I apparently had a brain spasm and listed Richard Wright as writing one book, when it should have listed James Wright. I just switched the names about when I looked up at my bookcase and saw "Black Boy" by Richard Wright and my brain decided that it was close enough. I corrected it though. Must remain ever vigilant...