Jack's posts on the subject of his recent visit to Maine were something of a disappointment, we must say. Some highlights, certainly - no doubt a "hot air balloon ride to the supermoon" is exactly the sort of Clay Aiken consummation a woman of Mrs. Russell's legendary chastity would desire.
But this is the same Casco Bay that inspired Winslow Homer, and some other guys, like movie director
John Ford. So one might have hoped that Jack would be raised to mammoth new heights by the rich vividness of his oceanic surrounds.
He falls a bit short of that lofty goal. No doubt because of his Demon, beer, and a disease he appeared to have at the time that caused awful red splotches to appear on his face.
Yet his description of "Eggspectations" is fine Jack, indeed. For it hits at the essence of a what a reader finds so thrilling about Jack's raconteurery. Namely, his ability to convey, through one or two well-chosen details, the feeling that the story he merely hints at is a wonderful one. One is left feeling that Jack's posts are but a tiny sampling of his high adventures, an etching or two scratched on a wall mid-transit. His weblo' thus achieves a function not unlike the slight fold in a woman's blouse as she turns to snag the mustard from a nearby table at a cafeteria, and said fold hints at her firmness of boober. This is what we mean when we make our frequent claim that Jack's prose is "like the old tittyfold."
