Wednesday, July 28, 2010


Thanks for your definition of Disneyphilia!

Editors reviewed your entry and have decided to publish it on

It should appear on this page in the next few days:

Urban Dictionary



The phenomenon in which healthy adults with no pedophiliac tendencies whatsoever find themselves suddenly whacking it to cute young stars of either sex on the Disney Channel.

"I think your father may be a Disneyphiliac. I just walked in on him, his hand and Selena Gomez."

"David Henrie is a gifted comic actor and the beloved of Disneyphiliacs everywhere."

"The Annie Liebowitz photographs of Bille Ray and Miley Cyrus being 'too intimate' provide clear proof that even Disney actors can themselves become Disneyphiliacs."

I know I'm not the first person to use it.

Not by a long shot.

I know becasue I Googled it, and because the odds would have astronomically against someone else not coming up with it.

Most of them use it, I see, simply to mean "a lover of Disney."

In the wholesome way.

I didn't see any who defined it my way, but I'm sure there were some.


  1. Tried to post this to you this morning, but I guess it didn't take.

    Bill's Valentine

    Was it his cash karma
    he was scanning in
    bankrupt short sale to
    the lord of lies
    only out of an aesthetic
    conscience can come
    a moral conflagration
    my Granada tree
    who’s forty-five today
    told me yesterday
    matter’s not conserved
    when it dissolves back
    into pure potential
    but is transformed
    artistically reassembled
    into re-enlivened residue
    by the thrift store brain
    one artifact knows
    it takes another.

  2. Hi Peter.

    No, I didn't get it from this morning.

    I saw it in my feed, though.


    I hope "thrift store brain" is meant in a nice way.

    I didn't comment on the poem because I didn't know how to take it.

    It's not one of my favorite poems by you. The scatteration here doesn't work for me.

    But I've liked much of the others you've been writing lately.

    Hope you're keeping cool.

    That's my obligatory "weather close" which is what I use when I have no idea what to say.

    Just like everbody else, I suppose.


  3. Thanks, Bill. I don't think it works too well either. I was thinking of the way your thrift store 'finds' salvage beautiful lost objects/images as a kind of moral activity in that it's a recovery of the good that's been unrecognized or pushed to the side, or something like that. I love your stories of discovering those things and see it as a way of regathering/reclaiming parts of the world/oneself, too soon discarded or neglected.
    But then a poem should try not to think too much.

  4. Actually, it's more the activities of a squirrel, Peter.

    My thrift store finds.

    There is a part of me that is like those obsessive compulsive hoarders on that one reality show.

    But the difference between them and me is that I WANT to have Lee get rid of these things and sell them.

    But my buying goes faster than his listing (or luck selling) can, so I end up with stores of these things. Which was not my intention.

    But the good thing about this is, as I get older, I forget a lot more. So I can actually go shopping in certain rooms in my own house and feel the joy of serendipitous surprise.

    I imagine one day down the line I will realize my house has become a thrift store and just spend all my time talking about things I found while "shopping."

    I suppose I will get confused when there's no one at the checkout counter. And no checkout counter.

    But someone could hire someone to play the part.

    I caught Macleish in your closing sentence.

    It's fun to think of other endings for his famous dictum.

    A poem should not mean but bitch?

    A poem should not mean but whine?

    A poem should not mean but attack?

    One could go on all day.

    It wouldn't be as good as his line, but it's still fun.

    Pop Rocks or something.

  5. If It Means Something It's Not Poetry Valentine

    for Bill

    Two bitches diverge
    on the narrow road
    that leads to self-regarding
    there’s a yellow sign there
    but all your come to
    is a sea a sea you must
    cross but cannot cross
    gold waves of waste
    either way
    how could this
    possibly be researched
    how could dreaming
    about it alter the process
    when so much reality
    keeps trying to recapture
    its first self as if
    there was another.

  6. Heh heh.

    I like this one much better.

    Best deformation of what was actually the first poem that blew my mind. I was twelve and I can still see the exact place I was sitting, where the chair was in the classroom, etc.

    Frost is one of those poets you love early (Yeats is another) then look down your nose at for decades.

    And then finally reread and realize.

    My God. I was smarter when I was twelve.



  7. when so much reality
    keeps trying to recapture
    its first self as if
    there was another.

    Those lines are very Bronk.

    I have to dig out my Bronk soon.

    I've been missing him.

    But didn't realize til I read those lines.

  8. Yes, typo, thanks Bill. Way behind in reading your posts, got to catch up.