“Wait…what’s that word? You know, the one where a son has a thing for his mother?”
Okay, so one of the best — if least-discussed — benefits of being a writer is your status as the “answerer” for the most random of questions. I mean, c’mon, in what other role in life do you get to talk about Oedipal complexes in everyday conversation?
Err, talk about Oedipal complexes without sounding like a creepy sociopath, that is.
You start the day bitching about politics with your friends, move on to movies at lunch, and close everything out by talking about a (literal) motherfucker before you leave. Yeah, just try that when you’re an accountant!
Okay, yeah, I admit it, I still have all the maturity of your average twelve-year-old, but that’s part of the fun, isn’t it?
**Nota Bene for the self-publishing crowd: when you pick the cover design for your book, do NOT choose something that makes everyone looking at it think of Oedipus!!**
Oh, and I do fully realize just how little point there is to today’s post. Sorry, but I had absolutely no choice. Someone who works in Yellowstone with me set the challenge to write a blog post about Oedipus, and, well…
I’m a (mental) 12-year-old, goddammit! I can’t let a challenge go unanswered!!
And, yes, that means that I also have no choice but to think of Mel Brooks and the single best Oedipus joke in any movie.*
*Also, of course, the ONLY Oedipus joke…but who’s counting?
Music Note o’ the Day — Screw it, there’s no message or motive to today’s selection, it just happens to be the (very good) song to which I’m listening as I finish this post:
Finding My Way Out 