August 18th, 2025 - The Corn Woman, Her Husband, and Their Child

Dear TNY,

I’m late because I was busy, but I’m on a train and have wrapped up “The Corn Woman, Her Husband, and Their Child”.

It’s fucking weaksauce.

I know of the author.  I have tried to read her work in the past.  Deal is, we love a kid’s book when we are kids.  The narrative.  That distinct storytelling voice.  A spell is cast and we follow it wholeheartedly.  Well, Proulx writes like a little girl who loved the storytelling in little kid books.  And it reads like it’s written for little kids who never grew up.  Or matured.  Emotionally or otherwise.  It reads like a little kid story for older little kids who would like to remain convinced they grew up and read important, cool shit.  But I took a shit today.  Three, in fact.  Green chile chicken got me, bro.  And I can tell you that most shit isn’t important or cool.  This story is less interesting than my shit.  And certainly less interesting than the food that entered me to make said matter. But here y’all are, preying on the simpleminded with these insufficient goods.

It's cool that week after week you fuck us with your banality.

I’ve been bebopping around recently.  Today is the last day.  I go back to work tomorrow.  Honestly looking forward to it.  Between this fucking project and a life that doesn’t have much work in it, life, at large, feels pretty pointless.

This week I jumped into the Puget Sound to try to steal what I thought were monkeyshines. Turns out, maybe they are but they are definitely fastened to the pile-in-retire. But out I swam, nonetheless, with heavy branch in hand, opposite the opportune tide, and swatted at these two wooden Picasso puffins, neither of which were altogether flirty about going home with me. The result was barnacle ferocity on my inner thighs and both hands. Savage bleeding. And my brother-in-law being nonplussed with my efforts.

And then I woke up with gout.

So, math wise, minus two bird sculptures plus one gout equals fuck my face.

Gout has been dispatched via tart cha cha cherry juice & water and drinking cider instead of beer.

Also, I was trying to describe really good sex this week.  I have settled on this:

When it’s really connected, and really good, and with someone you can laugh and cry with, it’s like picking up a phone connected to your heart and hearing the sound of God resonate within you. 

Once you have that, what else is there?  A good sandwich or cheeseburger?  Maybe.

Fuck your dumb story.

Nick

P.S. The title is pretentious as fuck.