Poetic Interlude CXXI


By Tyler J. Yoder

O! You be Ryder – I’ll be Flyte –
I’ll gently go to your good night.
Travel through my antique land
Leaving footprints on the sand.
Bowl your heart right down the street –
We’ll see if it’s been shattered.
If my heart’s left incomplete?
Well, Dorothy Parker mattered.

Tell me I’m not Richard Corey:
Cast me in a brand-new story.

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DeLyte’s Deportment

Welcome back, Gentle Reader. Henceforward, Thursdays on the blog will be dedicated to answering your vexing social questions, etiquette, and general advice. I’m calling it DeLyte’s Deportment and expect it be wildly popular – and it *will* be, if everyone’s as obsessed with courtesy as I am. Um. That’s totally likely, right? I mean, people like Downton Abbey, don’t they?

Downton Abbey

Of course, they could just be Maggie Smith groupies

Right, then! Let’s crack on, chaps.

Our first question is particularly difficult for those who suffer from anxiety, depression, and other mental illnesses, but I find that many others struggle with this question as well: How can I accept compliments and be proud of accomplishments without feeling narcissistic?

I struggle with this too, darlings. It can be very easy to shut down a heartfelt compliment when you’re used to your own brain telling you the exact opposite thing, more frequently. This isn’t going to sound like much help, and it takes practice – and when you get used to the feeling, it actually feels good. The trick to accepting a compliment? Just be gracious about it. You might think that your soup was burnt or that your résumé is a mess or that you just threw any old thing on to wear, but when complimented on it – a simple “Thank you” is all that’s required. Eventually, it starts to feel real and not like they’re just saying it to be polite – but it takes a lot of mental training to get to that point.

Feeling proud of your accomplishments, thankfully, is a lot easier. Look at the cool thing you know how to do! Look at the cool thing you made with your own two hands! Smile; you’ve earned that pride – it isn’t narcissistic at all.

For instance, this man is proud of his trained bees.

For instance, this man is proud of his trained bees.

Our next question: What to do when you’re on a date and you order the soup of the day and it turns out to be French onion soup which as we all know is a cheesy splashy slurpy mess to eat and also results in onion breath?

You’re not going to be able to avoid the onion breath; onion’s right in the name of the soup. The only thing you can do is neutralize the threat: insist that your date try your soup. Make them take several bites. It’ll come off as being flirty, with any luck – and while you’ll still wind up with onion breath, now your date will too. Hooray? As far as the splashy slurpy situation, there isn’t much to be done about it, either. Eat slowly, use a fork/spoon combo to battle the cheese-trails, and dab with your napkin as much as you dare. Good luck!

French Onion Soup

And that’s the advice of the day, kids! Have a question for me? Feel free to ask in the form below.

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In Which We Resume

Gentle Reader, I’m sorry. That hiatus went on far longer than I intended it to. I won’t waste your time with fatuous excuses; let’s get to the meat of the matter. Whimsical Adventures of the Reverend Doctor is back in business, and the skillet is hot, kittens.

Remember *me*, kids?

Remember me?

There’s going to be a lot of fantastic stuff rolling out over the next few weeks. You may have noticed the new images and background – ordinarily, that would have happened during the Blogiversary Extravaganza, but I missed it. Whatevs. Probably Yolo. But what should you expect from this resurrection? Don’t worry; I’m going to tell you in depth, honey.

There’s a new etiquette and advice column. I’m bringing back Beauty Secrets of the Reverend Doctor.  The List abides. Tales From The Butch Side are in full swing, and Family Stories That Are Completely True are getting ramped to eleven – I’m scraping the skeletons as we speak. Furthermore, the ridiculous bull that I get up to on a regular basis is being tweaked to twee perfection.

Twee Af

Like this, but twee-er. So twee, you guys.

Why should you care about any of this? You shouldn’t. This is a blog.

However, as a life-raft in a sea of troubles, it might serve to inspire a small bubble of hilarity deep in your gullet, causing you to burst into hysterics for the sheer joy of life. It might provide a fleeting moment of inspiration, or it might let you know that you’re not alone in the long dark night.

You're welcome.

You’re welcome.

As per the long-standing traditions of this humble enterprise: this isn’t a real post. The hardest part of any enterprise is the first step, and that is what this is; releasing this house-keeping advertisement into the wild will lead to actually writing properly here again.

This isn’t an adventure, my loves: this is an invitation to adventure. And I hope that you’re still willing to join me.

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In Which We Go On Hiatus

You read that correctly, Gentle Reader. I’m sorry.

You may have noticed that new posts have been thin on the ground since Pride, and that last week I missed posting entirely, apart from the poetry. I have been exceptionally busy, with G.i.s.h.w.h.e.s., with returning to the Renaissance Faire, with crossing off list-items, with gearing up for next quarter, with romantic misadventures, and with trying to keep afloat in this uncompromising world. My beautiful little blog – my darling of the last two-and-a-half years – is not getting the attention it deserves. So I propose a short break.

Now listen, I intend to be back the first week of September. And even though you won’t be getting adventures or strange interludes or whatever it is we do here, I’ll keep up with the Poetic Interludes on Sundays. So you won’t be entirely without me, you know, darlings.

Here is a bizarre picture from my collection, by way of an apology.

Tophats and UnderwearI hope your summer is going well, and I remain affectionately yours –

Ty DeLyte

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Poetic Interlude CXX

By Tyler J. Yoder

Kodak Beach

I haven’t slept; the dawn is here,
And I’m swept back to yesteryear.
A long-dead Uncle views the coast,
Embraces me; he is my host –
And in that faded Kodak room
We smoke, and sit, and toast our doom:
We share a certain malady –
The symptom of our family.
And though our blood stays smooth and sweet,
It rises to a certain heat –
and then I break another chair
       to take to wine in my despair
              and he’s run out into the rain
                      to scream aloud what’s in his brain
                              and on the scarred and wooden ground
                                       I’m seeking a forgotten noun
                                                he’s clawing at the skin beneath
                                                         the opera inside his teeth
I haven’t slept; the dawn is here,
And I’m swept back to yesteryear.
©2014 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved
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Poetic Interlude CXIX

By Tyler J. Yoder


How could you possibly love me,
You slight young slip of a boy?
You don’t even know me from Adam;
I’m aging, and comfortably coy –
And yet, I enjoy the attention
(I never was Helen of Troy).

 If you’re toying with me for the money,
Good luck, boy – it’s already spent –
Or maybe you think I’ve got talent
(And I may, to a certain extent) –
Whatever the insane attraction,
I doubt that I’ll dare to relent.

I suppose I’ll submit to seduction;
I admit I’ll allow your allure.
Don’t think you can rest on your laurels –
I’ll always remain insecure.
How could you possibly love me?
You might, but it’s still premature.


©2014 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved

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Rays of Hope

Hey, Gentle Reader. It seems I’m in similar jam as to one I was in during the spring of 2014. Sorry for another re-run, but the sentiment remains. I mean, the circumstances are different – Doctor Boyfriend and I have long since split; the Tacoma changes and going back to school are in progress – the rays themselves are few on the ground at the moment. It was nice to look back on this and see that some of them came to fruition, though. It’s a reminder that there positive changes can, in fact, be made. Cheers, darlings. 

Oh, my stars, Gentle Reader. I have really been slacking as far as the blog goes, lately. I beg your pardon – as you know, things have been a little rough lately. I even missed last Sunday’s Poetic Interlude – I’m sorry. Happy Easter, though?


Things are starting to look up – things with Doctor Boyfriend are going swimmingly, and he seems to be taking the chaos that comes from being associated with the Yoder family in stride. Right now, he’s the lighthouse in the stormy, night-time sea I’m struggling to navigate – but it’s still pretty early on, and I don’t want to put too much pressure on him. He seems to be holding up pretty well, though.


In other news, I’m shopping for a day-job in the Tacoma area, and looking at going back to school, maybe a cute little studio apartment in the St. Helens district. Who knows if either of  those things will pan out – my plans usually fall through – but they’re giving me something to strive for.

There are a number of changes I’m trying to make in my life right now – that was the point of Europe, after all; a dramatic boundary, delineating the boundary in no uncertain terms of the life I want to make for myself. I’ve been reactive, not proactive; passive, not aggressive – dormant, sleeping,  a plant nestled under a blanket of snow, waiting.

Spring is here.


You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little less prolific here, and you’ll have to bear with me while I re-evaluate the priorities in my life, try to figure out who I am, and what that means, and why anyone should care. Those are questions that no one really answers, of course, but I’d like to have at least an inkling – surely I’m more than just the guy who stumbles across things like taxidermy rat underwear.

Taxidermy Underwear

Thoughts and advice are welcomed, of course – and I’d be thrilled if you could help craft a resume! – but mainly, Gentle Reader, your patience and support are what I’m after. Thank you.

I’ll leave you here, with a little Rufus Wainwright.

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