A Stain Upon Silence.

I guess some people think that there are a lot original ideas out there in pop culture land.

I'm not one of them.

In fact, I think 'pop culture' is an oxymoron. 'Culture', to me, implies a certain amount of originality - and that is precisely the thing I find most lacking in anything 'pop'.

Take the old sitcom Seinfeld, for instance.

A show about nothing.

How original.

Not really.

A generation (or two) before Jer' and company made a sitcom about nothing, a Protestant, French-speaking, Irish-born playwright and novelist produced a body of work that was exraordinarily original, engaging, darkly humorous and, well, all about nothing.

Except that it was about everything.

I'm talking about Samuel Beckett of course.

I like Beckett - English translation only, though - thank's anyway.

Beckett's one of those truly original thinkers that come along every so often and transform their genre.

And my mind.

I also like The Onion.

Is it a coincidence that I like both Beckett and The Onion? Maybe not.

I was poking through the Onion archives recently and found this.

The 'article' claims that some blank paper found in Beckett's estate might possibly be one of his lost works.

It put such a huge grin on my face.

Slyly hillarious.

Get it? Beckett was a minimalist writer... Blank paper? Anyone?

Well, I found it amusing and I think Beckett would have too.

En attendant Godot: "We are all born mad. Some remain so."