I should show him my American notebooks, says W. in the check-in queue at the airport.
Turnip greens, he reads. Big Joe Williams, he reads. Melody = bad, he reads. And one of your famous poems, W. writes. Preppies, it's called.
Tall/ sand in the hair/ white teeth/ pullovers/ deck shoes/ white shirts and blouses / yachts with white sails/ fuckers'.
Very perceptive, says W. Preppies are taller than us. They have whiter teeth – much whiter, it's dazzling. And their shirts and pullovers … It's marvellous, W. says. They're first born, as William James would say, W. says, not old and jaded like us. They're full of innocence, the salt is in their hair, they're facing the future with their caps worn backwards.
They belong on yachts, on a great fleet of yachts, we agree. They belong on the open sea, yachting along. We'd be their cabin boys, that's all we're fit for, we agree. They'd be upstairs, on the deck, and we'd be downstairs, scrubbing their things.
And then another one:
Everyone, / no matter where they come from,/ likes the same music./ The Americans like the Animal Collective. We like the Animal Collective./ Except for Jandek./ Only we like Jandek. The Americans have never heard of them.
It's true, that, says W. We asked countless people, Have you heard of Jandek?, and they always said no. – 'You told that Knoxville waiter about Jandek, didn't you?', says W. 'At great length. And our hosts. Our poor hosts! After all they did for us!'
They made us feel as though we were the most important people in the world, says W. of our hosts. Ah, the legendary Canadian hospitality. But they're stranded in Nashville, quite lost. What are they going to do?
Lars Iyer's Blog 