Today’s a big one on the D.P.S. calendar, dear reader, because today—May 25, 2025—we’re tipping our hats to a man who tore through the fabric of American thought like a wildfire through dry brush. On this day in 1803, Ralph Waldo Emerson came screaming into the world in Boston, Massachusetts, and the literary landscape would never be the same.

Emerson, the sharp-eyed sage of Transcendentalism, carved out a manifesto for the soul.  I understand that your average college graduate can’t tell you what Transcendentalism is, so they likely don’t understand why they should read Emerson.  Which is part of their existentially angsty problem.  Pieces like Self-Reliance and Nature are raw, pulsating calls to break free from the herd and dive headlong into the wild, untamed marrow of existence. He’s telling you to trust your own damn instincts, to let the wind and the trees whisper truths the stiff-collared conformists of his day couldn’t hear over their own sanctimonious droning. Emerson’s words crackle with a fierce individualism, the kind that makes you want to ditch society’s rulebook and howl at the moon just to feel alive. At least that’s what it does for me.

What makes him a cornerstone of the Romantic movement is how he weaves the natural world into a tapestry of cosmic revelation—every leaf, every river is a sacred text if you’ve got the guts to read it. His ideas not only influenced his generation; they laid down the tracks for American literary identity, giving writers the courage to chase the sublime and spit in the face of convention. Emerson’s legacy is a middle finger to mediocrity, a challenge to live boldly, and 222 years after his birth, his fire still burns bright enough to light our way, but only for those of us with the guts to walk the path.

So here’s to Uncle Ralph, the man who taught us to walk our own path, to find divinity in the dirt beneath our feet. Crack open his essays, let his words sear your brain, and join the rebellion he started all those years ago. The world’s still too tame, populated mostly by vacuous Crok-wearing, screen-staring automatons—let’s make it wild again.

In other, more personal news, there’s still no sign of my ass, which stormed off in protest last Thursday night.  I’ll probably head to the Fecal Creek Flea Market later today to see if I can find it there.  If not, I’m not sure what I’m going to do…haven’t been able to sit down for days, which has made things like sleep virtually impossible.

N.P.: “Behold Bofadeez!” – Bourbon Bach