Pathetic Bob's Christmas Story

I’ve been trying to get festive. According to the song it’s supposed to be “The most wonderful time of the year,” so Pathetic Bob and I decided to go out in the real world today and see what was so damn wonderful. I put Bob’s guide-dog outfit on him and grabbed my white cane and dark glasses and we hopped in the car to began our Christmas cruise.
Our first stop was North Star Mall, the largest mall in town. As we were doing the blind-man-and-dog stroll (an unfortunate ruse we must perpetrate or else Bob would not be allowed inside), we came across a gaggle of little children standing in line to have their pictures taken with Santa and tell him all the useless crap they want for Christmas.
“Hey Em,” said Bob excitedly, “Who are those little people?”
“They’re kids, Bob.”
“Very funny mistletoe breath, I know they are kids. Who are those other little people?”
“Well Bob, they are dwarves, also known as little people. They are dressed up to look like elves, mythical little toymakers who serve their bearded master.”
“Can we go meet one? Can we? Can we?” Bob whined.
“I don’t think so Bob. They’re busy working. Maybe after Christmas, when they’ve been laid off.”
“You mean once Christmas is over, all the dwarves will be unemployed?”
“No, I was just kidding,” I said
“”Well,” shot back Bob, “you shouldn’t kid about stuff like that.” He circled the Santa exhibit, and then came back and sat next to me on one of the benches. “You know Em, I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I think you could be right. It seems the only time you see dwarves is at Christmas time and in fantasy movies. It just doesn’t seem right. I mean they are just short people right?”
“That’s true Bob.”
“Well, Tom Cruise is short, and he’s a flaming nut case, too, but he’s in movies year round. I’m getting a little pissed Em. I don’t like dwarves being exploited this way. I gotta do something.”
“But Bo….” Before I could finish my sentence, Bob ran off and darted through the mass of children and jumped and Santa Claus’ lap. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but suddenly Bob yanked the fat guy’s beard off and began growling at him real loud. Next thing I knew a posse of mall security droids swarmed the Santa exhibit. I dashed over and busted through the wall of mall caps to defend Bob. I picked him up and made a beeline for the exit; we almost made it. Unfortunately, I tripped over a very old woman in a wheelchair, and the security guys grabbed us.

Pathetic Bob and I were taken deep into the bowels of the mall and held for questioning in brightly lit, small room that had a one-way mirror. “Dammit Bob, look what you’ve done. Now we’ll probably end up in jail and the pound.”
“Just calm down Em,” Bob said. “Invoke your right to silence. I’ll do the talking.”
Just then, the door slammed open, and in walked a uniformed mall Nazi with wire-rimmed glasses and a gut bigger than Santa’s. “Well, well, well,” he said sarcastically, “so you like to impersonate a blind person and have your dog attack people. Well mister, that don’t fly around here.”
“But officer,” I began, and never finished because Bob butted in.
“Hush Em. Look Barney Fife, we know our rights. We want a lawyer.” Bob just loves cop shows.
The security guy stopped in his tracks, shaken. He looked at me and said, “That dog can talk.”
“Of course I can talk scrotum gut, now let me talk to your boss,” demanded Bob.
The guard retreated from the room, and a few minutes later the door opened, and in walked…a dwarf. He was dressed in an Armani suit and carried a two-way radio. Pathetic Bob turned to me and grinned from ear to ear.
Bob explained to the dwarf, who happened to be the security chief, the whole incident was a misunderstanding and he was just trying to stand up for human dignity. Mr. Belamario, the chief, just nodded, looking at me from time to time. When Bob finished his oration, he wasn’t sure the chief was buying what he had to say so he turned and pointed at me and said, “It’s all his fault.”
Luckily, Mr. Balermario had a sense of humor, and he let Bob and me off. Before he had us escorted from the mall (with instructions we were never to return), he pulled Bob aside and had a few words with him.
Once we were safely back in the car, I asked Bob what Mr. B had said.
“He told me that if I ever got tired of living with you, he and his wife would gladly take me in.” He then added, “It is a wonderful time of the year, isn’t it Em?”

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Zipped Up

“We’re not getting another dog,” said my wife when I asked her to accompany me to the Hilltop Nursing Home for my monthly pet-therapy visit. “We already have four, and that’s enough.”

“I didn’t say anything about getting another dog; I just asked if you’d like to go with me today. Since I’ve been spending a lot of time volunteering at the shelter, you’ve mentioned you might like to do some volunteering also, and I thought today would be as good a day as any to see if you will like it. We’re just going to take a dog to see some senior citizens. Come on, you might have fun.”

“Well, Ok, I’ll go with you, but no new dogs.”

“Sure,” I agreed, “we’ll just do the therapy thing and then help out at the shelter a bit, and come home.”

When we got to the ADL—the largest no-kill shelter in the southwest—LaTrenda, the volunteer coordinator had Zipper ready to go. The previous day, I had taken Zipper to an elementary school to give several presentations about dog care, and I had arranged for him to go with me today.

I introduced Zipper to my wife Linda, and we took him to the car, where he hopped in the back on command. My wife was impressed. I told her what I knew about Zipper’s past: he is a two-year-old, mix-breed stray, that a policeman brought to the shelter after he saved him from an attack by two mastiffs. Zipper was cut and bruised and had his eye torn a bit. In addition, Zipper was positive for heartworms and was undergoing treatments. He had been at the shelter since September 1.

During the ride to the nursing home, Linda kept turning around and stroking his head and speaking much sweeter words to him than she ever does to me. At the nursing home, I let her take him around for the old folks to pet, and she remarked frequently about how gentle he was. One old lady, deep into senility, was especially fond of Zipper, and he seemed to draw her out of her inner world. As we were getting ready to leave, the old woman began to cry. I gently held her in my arms, and sensing he was needed, Zipper came over and laid his head on her lap. I think it was then my wife fell in love with him.

When we returned to the ADL, Zipper went back into his kennel, and Linda walked around visiting other dogs while I went to the office to do some paper work. When I finished, I came and found Linda standing in front of Zipper’s kennel. “Did you notice,” she said, “that he never barks?”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that before. He’s really a great dog. He’s very curious, and he’s a four-eyed dog.” (Four-eyed dogs have darker markings above the eyes that look like eyebrows. The Native Americans of the Southwest believe four-eyed dogs are special and have great insight.)

“I wonder how long he will have to be treated for heartworms?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Let’s go ask Heike, the shelter manager.”
Heike is a tall, blond walking encyclopedia of dog knowledge and an extremely dedicated champion of animals. She filled us in on the details of Zipper’s treatment, and then said, “Why don’t you take him home for the weekend and foster him and see how he gets along with your other dogs.” I didn’t tell her I was not allowed to get another dog.

Linda looked at me, and I could tell there was some kind of struggle going on in her lovely head. Finally she said, “Yeah, sure, why don’t we do that.”

Two hours after we returned home with Zipper, he had made four new dog friends and met a cat who seems to like him. Two hours and one minute after we returned home, Linda had me take her to the pet store to purchase Zipper a bed, a collar, a leash, a dog bowl, and some toys. Zipper is here to stay.

A short while ago, my wife said, “I just realized, you knew we were going to get that dog when you asked me to go with you this morning.”

In my defense, I told her, “Well, that’s not exactly true. Yesterday, Zipper told me he was going to get us.”

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Bonding with Bunny

The sky was sweating profusely as they pulled in to a small parking area next to an emerald English field. A few campers had arrived ahead of them, and their outdoor abodes dotted the soaked landscape.
“Come on sweetie, help me get the tent out of the boot, and we have it set up in a jiff,” said Jo.
“Mum,” cried her daughter Bunny, “it’s bloody pouring out there. This is not exactly the kind of outdoor experience I was hoping for.”
“Don’t be silly dear, it’s just a spot of rain. It will blow over soon.”
“But Mum, it’s been raining for 32 days; I think it’s going to blow London away before it
‘blows over.’”
“Oh posh, come on now, we need to make camp before all the good spots are taken,” said Jo as she opened the car door.
Bunny sighed and reluctantly followed her mother around to the back of the car, leaning into almost gale-force winds trying to stay on her feet.
“Just smell that fresh country air,” said Jo as she opened the boot and started hauling out the recently purchased camping gear.
“I can’t smell a thing,” complained Bunny, “my nostrils are full of water. This is not a good idea, mum. We could drown or catch a cold or become all wrinkly.”
“Nonsense. We are modern British women, and we don’t let a little inclement weather dampen our spirits. It will be fun.”
Bunny looked at her mum who seemed oblivious to hurricane in which they were in the middle. “But mum, I am not a British woman; I am a British girl who hopes to one day be a British woman. But, my chances of achieving that goal are diminishing every minute we are out here in this tempest. Jesus mum, look there’s a waterlogged cow being blown across the field; we could be killed by projectile livestock. This is daft.”
“But Bun, I spent a fortune on all this equipment; we have to get our money’s worth out of it.”
“Well then let’s take it home and set up camp in the parlor.”
Jo looked defeated. It was hard to tell if she was crying. “But I so wanted this to be a mother-daughter bonding experience.”
“It is mum. I’m bonded; I’m in bondage. Now please untie me and let’s go home before this turns into a mother-daughter-cow-flood experience. We can even bond some more on the drive home.”
“Very well,” agreed a somewhat reluctant Jo, “but as soon as England dries out, it’s off to the wilderness again.”
“Fine, mum. But next time you have to bring along your meds.”

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Sunday Evening Deconstructed

All was well until around 4:00 p.m; that's when my head tripped over a teardrop. The sudden collision woke the regulators, who sounded a rotospoke alarm, and a well-armed unit of shit-storm troopers outflanked my luminous gyroscope and fired a warning volley. I ducked for cover like a side-door lover, but there was no cover, and I was left standing in the rain with a diplomatic banjo. A chemical rain, and sparks flew. Where was Bela Fleck when I needed him. I called out to animals that had never existed, "Write me a story." They sent emotions instead, at least I think it was them. I ran wild in the margins, sitting all the while. Pot shots were taken; I ducked and waddled.

The familiar unfamiliar led me, pulled me, covering too much time and not enough territory. Thunder cracked, rain fell, animals cried. The panoramic view behind my eyes burned the time and distance with its dark gray brilliance. I saw all but remembered nothing. Time shuddered. The otter nestling in my left arm drew her whiskers across my neck, and goose flesh exploded. We remained at the far end of the line, relaxed and crying.

Sometimes, a mind is a terrible thing to have.

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Forty Eight Classics

From the website Life Optimizer, here is a list of 48 classic books to help increase your learning experience. You can download all of them for free.

Here are the novels:

1. Don Quixote (Miguel de Cervantes) - Download
2. Gulliver’s Travels (Jonathan Swift) - Download
3. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen) - Download
4. Oliver Twist (Charles Dickens) - Download
5. The Scarlet Letter (Nathaniel Hawthorne) - Download
6. Moby-Dick (Herman Melville) - Download
7. Madame Bovary (Gustave Flaubert) - Download
8. Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoevsky) - Download
9. Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy) - Download
10. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Mark Twain) - Download
11. The Trial (Franz Kafka) - Download

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Lucinda Whacks Another One

Edgar Smoil was a happy man. His dog Jonny, a pug, had won “Best in Breed” earlier that day in the Canine-Orama Dog Show in Bakersville, California, and with Jonny safely asleep in his cage upstairs in the hotel room, Edgar was on his third scotch in the hotel lounge. It was Valentines Day.
Edgar Smoil was 39 and had no woman in his life. As a matter of fact, his dog was his only companion. He had been married, albeit briefly, in his early 20s, but his wife Simone quickly became bored and left him for another man. Although he had dated a few women over the years, by the third date, they were ready to move on. Edgar had pretty much given up on romance, and even if he was interested, between his job as a chemical engineer specializing in polymers and traveling to dog shows with Jonny, he hadn’t much time for the pursuit of love. But this was Valentines Day, and Edgar he was happy, and he wished he had someone to share that happiness with.
Lucinda Rainwater was also in Bakersfield at the same moment. She had driven down from Carmel to attend an antique auction, and being an animal doctor, had decided to catch the dog show as well. She, too, was happy. A particularly fine piece of art deco glassware had come up for sale at the auction, and hers had been the winning bid.
Lucinda Rainwater was sitting at the long, oak, hotel bar, three stools down from where Edgar Smoil sat. She was enjoying a Campari on ice when her internal electricity tripped a breaker and reset automatically. This was unfortunate, for when Lucinda’s electrical system faltered, she would go into her serial-killer mode. It had happened 25 times before. She turned her head, and saw that Edgar Smoil had the number 26 painted on his forehead.
With her antique railroad spike nestled in her handbag, Lucinda moved down two stools and asked Edgar, “Do you have a light?”
Shaken out of his reverie and slightly startled, Edgar looked at the pretty, blond woman next to him and stammered, “Uh…no…sorry…uh…I don’t smoke.”
“That’s OK,” responded Lucinda, “neither do I. I just thought you looked lonely, and it’s Valentines Day and all. Hi, I’m Lucinda.”
Pretty women did not come up and talk to Edgar, so he was more than surprised that this one was paying attention to him. “Uh…hello. My name is Ed,” he said, preferring the shortened version of his name because he felt it sounded manlier. “I’m here for the dog show. Uh…can I buy you a drink?”
It was then Lucinda knew for sure her railroad spike would find its Valentines Day heart.
In addition to notching up her 26th kill, Lucinda Rainwater found an unexpected benefit on Valentines Day: she now owned a beautiful little pug.

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Towards Texada

Although most poetry makes my butt suck wind, I nevertheless actually wrote a poem. The inspiration for the poem was the painting of the same name (shown on left) by a friend and fellow writer named Sofie. I hope it doesn't cause too much of an internal rectal breeze for you.

Toward Texada

Texada sits in moist shimmer
A verdant emerald
A cluster of hills raised in celebration of her homecoming

Her chilled eyes probe the land
From the far side of the lake
Searching for the childhood left behind

She’s been moving towards Texada
The day she moved away
Circular motion, a fool’s errand

A step from the shore, cold memories embrace her ankles
A second step
The familiar touch of chaos grips her mind

With the third step, she is swimming toward Texada
Bold, slow strokes
She pulls the future behind her

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Career Day

Yesterday, I spent the morning at Adams Elementary School giving Career-Day presentations to third and fourth-grade classes. Although I don’t actually have a career, I was there speaking on behalf of the Animal Defense League, the largest “no kill” animal shelter in South Texas. Two women—also ADL volunteers—were supposed to assist me, carrying a box full of printed handouts, etc, but for various reasons they were unable to attend, so it was left to me and Simone to handle the gig. Simone is a four-month-old black, Labrador retriever who is great with kids, but not very handy toting boxes and water bowls.
After spilling brochures, coloring books, and a water bowl in the school parking lot, Simone and I finally made it to the teacher’s lounge where we awaited our call along with a police officer, a water company employee, and a guy who sold cell phones, a university professor, a fireman, and several others from various professions. Everyone loved Simone, but voiced their concerns about “following a dog act.” I could understand their pain; if you show a kid a cell phone and a puppy, guess which one is going to get the most attention.
The school officials suggested I talk about: a) the kind of work the ADL does, b) other careers working with animals, c) educational requirements and subjects one would need for animal-related careers, and d) why the kids should stay in school. As I said, these were suggestions, not requirements, so I immediately threw them out the window. Instead, when I entered the first classroom—Mrs. Ramirez’s third-grade class—I held up the dog and said, “This is Simone, and her job is being a dog. How many of you would like to be a dog?” Nearly all the hands in the class shot up.
“Cool,” I said. “Being a dog is fairly easy, you have to now how to eat, pee, and play. I would guess that most of you already know how to do this.”
A loud chorus of “Yeahs” broke out, while Mrs. Ramirez eyed me suspiciously. I was tempted to take a bow and leave on a high note, but my devotion to duty got the better of me. Simone and I stayed, and I went through a 15-minute spiel about careers, education, and the behavior of pets. I don’t know how much of what I said was actually heard by the kids; their attention was riveted on Simone. They interrupted every few minutes with “Can we touch her.”
The last part of the presentation was the “question and answer period,” which is always fun for me. As I walked Simone around the classroom so the kids could pet her, tiny hands would rise. “Do you have a question? I would ask.
“Yes,” most of them would say. “I had a dog, but he got out of the yard and was hit by a truck,” was typical of the kind of questions I got.
“That’s a good question,” I would respond. “Anyone else have a question?”
“I have a Chihuahua, and it ate my sister’s bra.”
“Another excellent question,” I would say.
After all the kids got to pet Simone, I thanked them for allowing us to visit and then passed out some “activity books” filled with pictures to color and connect-a-dot puzzles.
Before we left, I said, “So kids, be sure to stay in school and read a lot of books, but if I were you, I’d give serious consideration to being a dog. A dog doesn’t have to have a job, pay taxes, get married, go to war, worry about changing fashions, or pay a mortgage. And, you can even eat a bra.
After that first presentation, the principal asked me to wait in the teacher’s lounge while Simone did the remaining four presentations by herself.

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Hector's Revenge

Captain Ulysses was reading “The Iliad” in his cabin aboard the steamship Delta Darlin’ when he was distracted by three sharp knocks at the door. “Cap’n, the fog is rollin’ in. You better get to the bridge.”
“Be there in a minute,” said Ulysses, setting the book aside, “You better go rouse the pilot.”
The captain swung his legs out of the bunk and stretched. “Jesus, would this trip never end?” he thought. “Ever since we took on the 12 tons of potatoes and the 20-foot zebra in St. Louis, we’ve had one problem after another. Please God, let this fog lift so I can get back home to Ithaca, Louisiana and my sweet wife Penelope.”
Arriving on the bridge, Ulysses noticed the new pilot, Hector, was at the wheel. Hector, from Troy, New York, had signed on in St. Louis as a last-minute replacement for Mr. Palamedes, who had jumped ship. The captain peered out the bridge window, straining to see what lay ahead on the river, but a wall of dark-grey vapor limited his viewing distance. About the only thing he could make out was the head of the massive zebra tied to the deck. The wooden animal was being shipped to New Orleans for the Mardi Gras celebration.
“What’s the situation pilot?” barked Ulysses.
“Sir, I suggest we anchor and ride it out. There are too many sand bars to navigate along this section of the river; we could run aground in this fog.”
“This is also a section of the river that is frequented by river pirates,” said the captain. “This voyage is cursed.” But Ulysses couldn’t risk being stranded on a sandbar for days. The Irish potatoes could rot, and he would lose his commission. “Very well pilot, drop anchor and see that guards are posted.”
As Ulysses returned to his cabin to wait out the fog, the zebra’s belly ruptured, oozing dark shapes of men onto the foredeck. The men assembled into a group and stealthily made their way to the bridge where Hector allowed them entry. “Where’s the captain?” asked a tall man in a black, knit cap.
Hector knew the man to be James Joyce, leader of The Dubliners, one of the most vicious pirate gangs on the Mississippi. “He’s in his cabin.”
“Good. Here’s your pistol Hector, now go get your revenge for that incident at Troy, and me and the boys will start unloading the potatoes.”

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Nicknameless

I have decided to eschew all the nicknames that have previously been hung on me in the past by friends and family and begin a search for one more appropriate to my age and author of weird stories.
Technically, “Mike” is a nickname for my real name, “Michael,” but it is hypocoristic in nature, and I would prefer my nickname to be less of a term of endearment and more of a sobriquet…a nice sobriquet.
When I was a child, my father gave me my first nickname. Dad flouted convention of the times and bypassed such names as “Sonny,” or “Junior,” or “Mikey” and went with “Shithead” instead. Thankfully, the name didn’t catch on with other family members.
During my grammar school years, I was occasionally called “Four eyes,” because I wore glasses. Unfortunately, this was considered a derogatory name, and I had to defend my pre-teen honor by means of fisticuffs.
In high school, I was a gifted athlete and fairly popular, and I acquired two new nicknames: “Hoodrow” and “Beaver.” The first was a play on my last name; the second is still a mystery to me. Once I left high school, I left the nicknames behind.
I didn’t have a nickname in college or the military although I secretly wanted one. Something such as “El Diablo” or “Dances With Wolverines” would have been nice.
When I began my writing career, I briefly considered a nom de plume but quickly abandoned the notion when a veteran journalist told me, “If you are going to write stuff, take ownership of it; don’t hide behind a pseudonym.” He was right, of course.
I didn’t get my next (and last) nickname until I was in my forties. My best friend Dan started calling me “Thug.” Now “Thug” is not a bad nickname if you happen to be a sports figure; it’s right up there with “The Assassin (Jack Tatum),” “The Brown Bomber (Joe Louis),” “The Executioner (Bernard Hopkins),” and “Mad Dog (Greg Maddux). However, Dan did not label me “Thug” because of my athletic prowess or nasty disposition, it is simply a synonym of my last name.
Today, besides “Thug,” which is used exclusively by my friend Dan, I have no nickname. I have a screen name I use on the web, “Emmuttmax,” but that doesn’t really count. That name is a combination of two of my dog’s names—Emmutt (a basset hound) and Max (a beagle)--both of whom have passed on.
I will keep Emmuttmax as my Internet name, but I really need a writerly nickname. The thing is though, according to the rules of nicknaming, I cannot choose my own nickname; it must be bestowed upon you by someone. One of my dogs, Pathetic Bob (who is also a writer) has a very cool nickname that was given him by my brilliant nephew Brian. Brian, however, refuses to recognize my brilliance as a writer and refuses to honor me with a cool literary nickname or sobriquet. Since I am a semi-proud guy, I refuse to plead with friends and family to come up with an appropriate nickname, so I am left nicknameless.
If one doesn’t come my way soon, I think I may revert to “Shithead;” it sort of fits with the kind of stories I write.

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A Funny Thing

Yesterday, The Eloquent Atheist published an essay I wrote titled "A Funny Thing Happened." If you would like to check it out, visit their website.

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Eli's Going

Eli raised his arms, threw his head back, and yelled into the sultry, summer night, “I’m in hell!”
“Actually, you’re not in hell, you’re in my backyard,” said Carmen. “Now sit the hell down Eli, you’re making an ass of yourself.”
Eli complied, and Carmen reached into the ice chest next to her lawn chair and pulled out a chilled wine cooler. “Here Eli, drink another cooler.”
As he reached for the peach-flavored wine, Carmen’s foot rose swiftly, the toe of her Doc Marten’s catching him on his chin, breaking his front tooth and sending him reeling backwards until he and the lawn chair he was sitting in landed in a mound of hours-old dachshund dung.
“Asshole,” Carmen remarked, “you didn’t tell me you were an existentialist. If I’d known that, I would have never slept with you. “

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Publishing Update

My story, "The Therapist's Apprentice," was published today on "Every Day Fiction." EDF is a webzine that sends out one story a day to subscribers. Check out their site (and my story) here.

Another story of mine, "The Guilt Trader," will be podcast by Drabblecast on Halloween.

"A Funny Thing Happened," a satirical article I wrote about religion and humor, will be published next week by "The Eloquent Atheist."

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Stoned on Ferrets

I got high on ferrets this morning. It was purely accidental; I am not an addict.
My doctor sent me to a phlebotomist to have some blood drawn (a nice pen and ink rendering), and on the way home, I stopped by the pet–supply store to pick up some dog and cat food. After I loaded the shopping cart with ridiculously expensive food, I made my way to the checkout counter, but was stopped in my tracks by the sight of a small horde of young ferrets romping around in a large Plexiglas enclosure.
Watching ferrets at play is mesmerizing, kinetic cuteness in wild abandon. I think ferret activity is synonymous with the word fun. Perhaps it is because a ferret’s lifespan is only about five to eight years that they try to cram as much joy and activity into every minute they have.
The enclosure in which they were housed was opened on top, and I couldn’t resist sticking my arm in and interacting with the six critters inside. They showed no fear and immediately flung themselves on my arm, clinging to it like rats on a rope. I began rubbing small, furry tummies, eliciting small squeaks of delight from the beady-eyed, pink-nosed land otters. To my astonishment, I discovered ferrets are natural phlebotomists. Diminutive, needlelike claws dug into my forearm, and tiny beads of blood popped through my skin, but I felt no pain. I believe those young balls of happiness were injecting some sort of ferret heroin into my bloodstream because the more I bled, the giddier I became. What a rush. Forty minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder, drawing me out of my ferret-induced bliss.
“You want to buy a ferret?” said a skinny young man with a bad hairdo.
“Uh…” I stammered, “How much are they?”
“One hundred and twenty nine dollars,” he said.
As I thought about making the expenditure, another thought crowed in my brain. “My wife will kill me if a buy a ferret.” I told the clerk I’d have to think about it, and then asked if it would be Ok if I came back tomorrow for another fix.

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Literary Lightbulbs

The following comes from misscelania:

How many book publishers does it take to change a light bulb?
Three. One to change it and two to hold down the author.

How many editors does it take to change a light bulb?
"Do we have to get author's approval for this?"
Two, one to change the bulb and one to issue a rejection slip to the old bulb.

How many proofreaders does it take to change a light bulb?
Proofreaders aren't supposed to change light bulbs. They should just query them.

How many mystery writers does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Two. One to screw it in almost all the way in and the other to give it a suprising twist at the end.

How many writers does it take to change a light bulb?
Two. One to change the bulb and one to tell a long story about it.

How many literary critics does it take to change a light bulb?
Literary critics don't know how, but rest assured they'll find something wrong with the way you do it.

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Griel Marcus Interview

Powell's Books has an interesting interview with long-time chronicler of rock music and pop culture, Griel Marcus. I used to write a music column for an alternative newspaper, and Marcus was the icon I looked up to. The interview begins:

Describe your latest project.
The Shape of Things to Come: Prophecy and the American Voice: Through the moral and political rhetoric of John Winthrop, the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King, America explained itself to itself as a field of promises so vast they could only be betrayed. The attempt to keep the promises — of community, liberty, justice, and equality, for all, because once let loose the genie could never be put back in the bottle — in the face of their betrayal became the engine of American history and the template for our national story.

Once this was the stuff of political speech; today, the real story is pursued in art: as I tell my part of the story, in the work of Philip Roth, Allen Ginsberg, David Lynch, in the faces and gestures of the actors Bill Pullman and Sheryl Lee, in the music of Corin Tucker's band Heavens to Betsy and of David Thomas, for more than thirty years the face of the band Pere Ubu. It's not a story where anyone ends up where he or she started out.

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Candide's Puppy Accepted

I just got word my story "Candide Gets a Puppy" has been accepted for publication by The Eloquent Atheist. The story is scheduled to appear next week.

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Whispering Bob

The dogs that live with me have been acting out a bit lately. Perhaps it’s my fault for slacking off in my position as leader of the pack, but that would be admitting weakness on my part. Admitting weakness is not a smart move when you live with a gang of canines; they will challenge your authority and possibly rip off your scrotum while you sleep. Since my scrotum is still useful, and I am quite attached to it, I decided to become more assertive and kick some ass and take some names.
I suppose I could have shelled out some money for lessons or books about obedience training, but I am saving up to buy a kit I found on the internet that supplies everything I need to make a flying-squirrel-powered airplane, and I need every penny. Instead, I turned to cable television to solve my problem.
After I cut the yard this morning, I didn’t feel much like writing, so I sat down, turned on the TV, and began flipping through all 4287 channels piped into my home. I paused for a few moments on ESPN24 to watch full-contact golf for a while, until I realized it was a rerun of a tournament I watched last month. My thumb was getting tired of pushing the buttons on the remote when I finally landed on a channel that held some promise, the National Geographic Channel. A program was just beginning called “The Dog Whisperer.”
I called out to Pathetic Bob, the Italian greyhound, to come in the room. “Look Bob,” I said, “it’s a program about another dog who can talk, just like you. Actually,” I corrected myself, “he can only whisper, but that’s pretty cool, too.”
Bob looked at the TV, and then back at me. “Em, you’re such a putz. I’ve seen this show before. It’s about a guy named Cesar who supposedly whispers to dogs and tries to get them to do what he wants. The thing is though, the guy never whispers; he just talks in a regular, Spanish-accented voice. And for your information, ink breath, Cesar says he doesn’t train dogs, he trains people and rehabilitates dogs.”
“I think I’ll watch it anyway,” I said.
“You’d just be wasting your time. I’ve already trained you, and I stopped smoking catnip last year, so I don’t need rehabilitating.”
I continued to watch “The Dog Whisperer,” and noticed Bob was right, about the whispering part. He talked in a normal tone of voice and used a lot of body language. I have to admit, he was pretty effective. There was a couple that had what looked like a Shetland pony with razor teeth and a bad attitude. It seems the horse-dog had bitten the left arm off a nine-year-old, neighborhood kid, robbed a savings and loan, pistol whipped a nun, and had a bad crack habit. They asked Cesar to come over and “rehabilitate” the dog so they wouldn’t have to call in the swat team. It was amazing to watch the whisperer work his magic. By the end of the program, the giant hellhound was washing the dishes, folding the laundry, visiting sick children in hospitals, and grooming the neighbor’s cat.
“This guy is amazing,” I told Bob. “I think I’m going to give him a call.”
“Jeez Em, you’re more gullible than the people who listen to right-wing talk radio. That “dog” was a digitized animation, probably created by that guy who made “Star Wars.” And that couple, they were actors. I’ve seen them before on “General Hospital.” It’s all fake Em. It’s TV. I think it’s an infomercial for Dog Whispering Incorporated. I read in Star magazine that Cesar gets $2,000 an hour to come to your house and intimidate your dog and tell you what a schmuck you are. But, hey, you know what’s best. It’s a shame though, I mean you were really looking forward to flying that squirrel plane.”
I thought about that for a moment. Bob was right; hiring Cesar would put a serious dent in my tree-rodent, aeronautical plans. “I’ll tell you what,” I said, “if you start showing me a little more respect, I won’t sic Cesar on you, and I’ll even let you ride in the squirrel plane.”
“Sure, no problem Em. Now, switch back to the full-contact golf channel; I just love it when Tiger Woods beats the hell out of his caddy with a nine iron.

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The Blood-Sucking Cheegle

I’m being nibbled to death by a cheegle. At the moment there are 24 wounds on my wrists, fingers and forearms the tiny beast has inflicted. Blood oozes from four of them, but the remainder have clotted and are dressed in crusty sports coats. Although the wounds are not deep, when the cheegle’s sharp, little teeth sink into my flesh corpuscular fluid flows in copious amounts. I am slowly being bled to death.
The cheegle, who goes by the name of Lily, masquerades as a small, adorable puppy, is, in fact, a voracious vampire who attacks without provocation when I am trying to rest. As soon I stretch out on the bed for an afternoon nap and close my eyes, sweet Lily bounds up the steps next to the bed and jumps on my head. She then proceeds to attack my fingers. I curl my digits into my palms, and she digs for them for a while, finally giving up and attacking my wrists.
“No,” I yell, but it falls on deaf ears, well, on floppy, non-English-speaking ears. I push her away, but to her, it is only a gauntlet thrown down to challenge her persistence. She is relentless; I am defenseless. I play dead, and she finally retreats from her attack on my person and concentrates on making a small hole she has made in the blanket larger. With bloody hands, I fall into a cautious sleep, wondering if I will exsanguinate during my afternoon nap. In my dreams, I see the young, blond surfer dude I once was. When I wake, I see the chew toy I am now.

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The Reading Brain

Maryanne Wolf's new book, Proust and the Squid, offers some interesting insights into the art of reading. Here is what one reviewer had to say:

"Maryanne Wolf, a cognitive neruscientist and childhood reading research center director, offers an enchanting tale about the lore and science of reading through the ages. This history sets the stage for her remarkable overview of the discoveries of neuroscience about the reading brain. From her penetrating interpretation of Socrates critique of writing and defense of the oral tradition to her illumination of dyslexia in its manifold forms (informed by her experience of raising a dyslexic child), she educates, captivates, and enriches as she marshals insights and provocations from science, humanities, and the arts to explore the reading brain and defend the art of reading against the hazards of the Digital Age."

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The Word Eater

Barlow ate his words. Sometimes he would go to great lengths and lovingly prepare them with tasty sauces made of the ripest adverbs or aged adjectives. Preparation time would not be rushed so the flavor of each letter could be coaxed out and blended with the others in a savory olio. On these occasions, Barlow would uncork a bottle of his favorite sharps and flats, let it sit for a half hour while he plated his expressive meal, and then pour a glass of music to moisten his palate and aid in word digestion.
There were other times when Barlow could not delay his hunger, and he would randomly pick a book off a shelf and stuff his face like he was eating a bag of potato chips. His cheeks would puff with salty verbs and crisp nouns.
Barlow began eating words when he was nine-years-old. His parents bought him a set of encyclopedias, and one day, he nibbled the “ed” off the word “waited.” From that small beginning, Barlow developed a taste for morphemes such as “the,” or “write,” or “man,” and would pop them into his mouth whenever hunger struck.
In high school, Barlow began to broaden his palate; he dined on nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, conjunctions, modifiers and pronouns as often as possible. He learned French and Spanish and delighted at the flavors masculine and feminine articles could bring out in words. But, it wasn’t until he enrolled in college that Barlow’s etyomological pursuits blossomed into an epicurean obsession.
Barlow enrolled at the University of Texas as an English major. He soon discovered his favorite subjects were Literary Theory and Creative Writing. In the literary theory course, a new world opened up to him, a world of neologisms and the portmanteau. His theory professors unlocked secret recipes and offered up rare delicacies reserved for a cadre of intellectuals and competitive theorists. He wandered through the gourmet kitchens of the academic elite tasting delicious sophistry, philosophy, pseudo-expressions and nonce words, never missing an opportunity to nosh and nibble at the kitchen table. Some of the offerings were hard to swallow, but Barlow found that with a healthy swig of bubbling water, he could get even the most distasteful lexemes down.
The word eater also took classes in foreign languages to broaden his lexicon. He mastered Greek, Latin, Russian, German, Chinese, Chinese and Arabic, adding grams to his brain weight with each new dictionary. His head began to swell.
The words Barlow had eaten served him well as a writer. By age 20 he had turned out a 700-page novel, by 23, a non-fiction text on 13th-century vocabularians. He would lace his work with new words, words he coined to fit his thoughts; they proved to be the most tasty he had ever eaten.
In his last year of grad school, while completing his thesis, Barlow the word eater suffered a massive brain injury. The Finnish and Icelandic languages proved to be his undoing. His thesis, “Culinary Linguistics of Frigid People,” required that he learn those languages. A three–month diet of alphabets with strange, pointed letters surrounded by dots and squiggles tore several blood vessels in his brain, and it began to hemorrhage. Syntax began to leak from his ears, half-chewed Finnish surnames ran blood-red from his nose, and he fell into a coma. An international team of respected linguistic professors was flown in to try to resuscitate him, but their mission ended in failure. Barlow died.
At Barlow’s funeral, his younger brother Chet delivered the eulogy. Obviously distraught, Chet stepped to the podium and said, “There are no words to express our sorrow.”

(c) 2007

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The 100 Most Infuential Books Ever Written

Interesting chronological list of the books that had the greatest influence on the world. The oldest? I Ching.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/100_Most_Influential_Books_Ever_Written

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A Bird In The Brain Pool

For the past two days, I've had a mind fungus growing. Although its medicinal properties may have helped prevent unwanted bacteria from running amok in my frontal lobe, the fungus seems to be interfering with the small, creative-juice pool in my cranium. It is running dry.

Since I try, for the most part, to post original content on this blog, I am desperate for material. In the past, when I've fallen into a creative slump, I have resorted to posting pictures of the dogs and cat that live with me. It is a cheap, yet effective, way to offer visitors a snack when I'm too tired to prepare a meal. So it is today.

I found the little bird pictured in this post in my backyard. It could not yet fly, and Sophie and Lily were barking at it. There are a lot of large trees in my yard, and I could not determine from where the bird fell, so I made a nest for it and filled it with grass, bird seed and water, hoping its mother would somehow rescue it. I put it on the picnic table so the dogs would leave it alone, and then went back into the house and let nature take its course. A couple hours later, I checked on the bird, and it was gone. A happy ending, I hoped. About 15 minutes later, Catherine the cat delivered the dead little bird to me as a present. Is it just Catherine's nature to kill, or is she evil? The question is not unlike that I ask about man. I think the real question might be, "Do I care?"

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Candide Gets A Puppy

Eight years had passed since Voltaire abandoned Candide, his wife Cunégonde and their companions on a small farm not too distant from Constantinople to “cultivate the garden.” Cunégonde had grown uglier both of countenance and temperament, and Dr. Pangloss, as hard as he tried, could not free himself of the philosophical pursuit of the nature of good and evil and the best of all possible worlds. Old Martin, the philosophical Mr. Hyde to Pangloss’ Dr. Jekyll, would tend the radishes, beets and the olive trees with care and pessimism, quite sure each harvest would be ruined by unforeseen devastation.
The old woman, daughter of Pope Urban X, still served the household as Cunégonde’s lady in waiting and keeper of the linens, but her missing left buttock and the infirmaries of old age had slowed her considerably and added to her ill temper.
Cacambo, Candide’s steadfast traveling companion and confidante had grown weary of hauling produce to the markets in Constantinople, and his lust for adventure was beginning to rise. He dreamt of red sheep and El Dorado.
Brother Girofleé, the ex-clergyman tuned Turk and his on-again-off-again paramour, Pacquette, the winsome whore, remained at the farm and settled into roles as tempestuous lovers and garden tenders. Although they found delight at the bounty the earth offered up, the sordid and dangerous lives they once led would, seductively call to them with regularity.
The noble Candide--witness of horrors, victim of church and state, seeker of truth, and man of his word—had thrown himself headlong into the agricultural world, for it was there, in nature, he found the simple cause-and-effect that had eluded him in his illusionary search for understanding. “The truth is in the dirt,” he would often say to his companions. But, Candide had forgotten his nature; Voltaire had created him to be naïve, and naïve he was. Truth, he would soon find out, was not in the dirt.
Candide was naïve, but he was not stupid. His mind may have been in the vegetables and fruits that thrived on his farm, but his ears would rise above the stalks and stems and vines and he would hear the complaints and regrets floating on moist breezes that cooled the garden. He loved his dear companions; they, like he, had suffered greatly in the past, and he wished them the peace and comfort the dirt had brought him. Before the dissatisfaction of those around him grew too strong, Candide decided to seek advice from the famous dervish who lived in the neighborhood. Although the dervish had once rebuffed Dr. Pangloss for his questions about good and evil and pre-established harmony, Candide had come to realize the wisdom of his neighbor’s actions.
“Master,” said Candide, “the people on my farm grow restless. Weeds of disharmony are springing up in the good soil, and my companions are unsatisfied with the truth in dirt.”
The old dervish bade Candide to enter his inner chamber and had his daughter bring them mint tea. Murriado the dervish stroked his long, white beard stared reflectively at Candide. At last he spoke. “There is no truth in dirt,” he said. “Dirt is dirt. Although I suppose asking people to believe in dirt makes more sense than asking them to believe in invisible people, dirt is still dirt, and it won’t speak any truths to you. In fact, there are no truths, only illusions.”
“But master, if there are no truths, how can one be truly happy, how can they be satisfied?”
“There are only two ways to accomplish that goal,” said the old man, with a smile. “First, believe in illusions.”
“And the second?” asked Candide.
“Get a puppy.”
As Candide walked back to his farm, cradling an eight-week-old beagle in his arms, he thought, “Voltaire, you just gotta love him.”

(c) 2007

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Cat Saves Dog: News at 11:00

I am hesitant to call the cat that lives with me a hero. “Hero” is a term that has been tossed around way too much this century; it seems that anyone who puts on a uniform of any kind is automatically bequeathed the honorific these days, deservedly or not. The feline that roams my house and backyard is indeed a fine animal, but she is also a serial killer of lizards, birds, and other small creatures that come across her path. She may be a Heroine or a Horror, depending on the illusions of the one doing the observing, but last night I observed her performing rather nicely as a puppy rescuer.
A little after 11:00 last night, I took the dogs outside for their pre-slumber evacuations. Pathetic Bob, Judy, Lily and Sophie circled the deck around the pool in search of he perfect spot pee. Bob and Sophie, unable to find suitable pee spots, wandered down stairs and widened their search into the surrounding gardens. I relaxed in an Adirondack chair, smoking a cigarette, while the dogs leisurely preformed their nightly business. Cat came by, and Lily, the little dog, pounced on her for their nightly wrestling match. Cat lets Lily win a few rounds, and then soundly kicks her tiny little ass. It was a good night in River City.
When the last of the carcinogenic smoke passed my lips, I stood up and called for everyone to reassemble in the house. Bob, Judy, Lily and Cat filed in the patio door, but Sophie was AWOL. After several stern calls from me, Sophie had still not returned so I began a search. It didn’t take long for me to hear Sophie’s trademark whine emanating from beneath the deck between the house and the pool. Although I had put up basket-weave fencing around the bottom of the deck to prevent canine ingress, over the years, it has yielded in places (especially behind the ivy), and the curious animals occasionally crawl under the deck in pursuit of whatever they happen to be pursuing.
After locating Sophie, I located the place she entered the under-deck and tried to call her over. It didn’t work. I got a flashlight and shined it through the spaces in the boards, hoping to guide her to the exit. She didn’t follow. Thirty minutes of coaxing later, it was apparent she was not going to follow me, so I had to move a very large pot and pull up a 16-foot, 2x6 deck plank. I could see Sophie, but she would not come to the opening. Picking up the crowbar, I tore up another plank. More whining, but no Sophie. Finally, she showed her cute little head, but when I tried to grab her and lift her out, she scampered away. “Goddamnit Sophie,” I said in the nicest possible way, “I’m not going to tear up the whole deck to get you out.” Sophie just whined.
About this time, Cat came strolling over and looked down into the opening. She then looked at me as if to say, “What’s the problem?” and jumped down under the deck. As I was getting ready to pull up yet another board in hopes of retrieving both the dog and Cat, Sophie came bounding up the stairs on the other side of the deck and ran inside. Cat came over to me and said, “Why didn’t you call on me first, that dog will follow me anywhere. Have fun rebuilding the deck, I’m going to bed.”

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Review: The Water Cure

Click here for an interesting review of Percival Everett's new novel The Water Cure.

Here is an excerpt from Jim Krusoe's excellent review:

"The narrator of The Water Cure is a man whose 11-year-old daughter has been raped and killed. He now is in the process of torturing her murderer, but this, as they say, is only the tip of the iceberg. True, as a subject it's plenty disturbing in itself, but through a variety of devices -- including drawings, mini-lectures on language, philosophy, politics, theology and nature, and even excerpts from a romance novel called "The Gentle Storm" -- Percival Everett has made his new novel much more than a simple horror show or self-righteous rant."

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The Great Swaddling Debacle

Virginia is depressed. It seems apparent to her that the years and money she put into fashion-design school and starting her own line would soon be wasted unless Christians came to their senses and borderline psychos lost more of theirs.
After graduating in the top of her class at from the Raymondo Dior School of Fashion in Topeka, Kansas, Virginia took the inheritance her grandmother had left her, borrowed some more money from her parents, and took her dreams and designs to Kansas City to break into the big time fashion world. She prayed about her fashion future a lot and felt with money and God behind her, success would be in front of her.
Virginia’s business plan included the knowledge that about 90 percent of Americans were Christians, and Satan was spreading a lot of mental illness around to try and destroy them. Vowing to use her design gifts for a higher purpose, Virginia prayed some more and was rewarded with a divine inspiration: swaddling clothes. A voice came to her in the night and said, “Virginia, make some swaddling clothes.”
When Virginia arrived in Kansas City, she rented a small studio and set about creating a line of swaddling clothes she felt sure the country would embrace. Of course, she began with baby clothes because swaddling babies was a biblical tradition; what better endorsement could swaddling clothes have than Jesus himself? Virginia worked day and night sketching her visions of modern swaddles; she even produced styles such as punk, hip-hop, redneck and neo-Arabic. However, Virginia didn’t limit herself to designing baby swaddles, she decided to bring swaddling clothes into haute couture. Gold lame, silk, velvet, linen, seersucker and cheap polyester were but a few of the materials she stitched and sewed and puckered and hemmed in an effort to create new, young, hip, old-testament fashion for a modern world.
Since the word swaddling also means, “to restrict,” Virginia, in order to broaden her chances at financial success, started a line of institutional swaddles she felt would replace straightjackets. The rise in Satan-caused mental illness had increased the demand for restrictive garments for lunatics, and Virginia felt being embraced by a terrycloth swaddle would have a more calming effect on the insane and make it easier for them to find Jesus.
After months of preparation, Virginia opened a retail store in the Big Corn Shopping Mall and hired a sales manager named Sammy Dandy to handle the institutional part of the business. She named her store “Swaddles” and took out ads in the Kansas City Star to promote the grand opening.
That was three months ago. Since that time, the inventory at Swaddles has only diminished by two baby-swaddling outfits and one swaddling chemise (which was sold to an S&M transvestite). The institutional line fared worse. On his first, and last, sales call, as Sammy Dandy was demonstrating the terry-cloth, lunatic swaddle, he was viciously attacked by a schizophrenic patient named Mr. Cheese, and had his ear bitten off. Mr. Cheese thought Sammy was Satan.
So, Virginia is depressed. She knows she is going to have to close her store and pack her dreams, but she also knows there is hope. She’s been praying a lot, and the other night, the same voice came to her and said, “Swimming suits for dogs.”

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Orwell On Writing

I ran across this essay by George Orwell. In it, he discusses his motives for writing and what and what he believes all writers face.

Excerpt:

"I think there are four great motives for writing, at any rate for writing prose. They exist in different degrees in every writer, and in any one writer the proportions will vary from time to time, according to the atmosphere in which he is living. They are:

"1. Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc., etc. It is humbug to pretend this is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share this characteristic with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers, successful businessmen—in short, with the whole top crust of humanity. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all—and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money.

"2. Æsthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement. Pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story. Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed. The aesthetic motive is very feeble in a lot of writers, but even a pamphleteer or writer of textbooks will have pet words and phrases which appeal to him for non-utilitarian reasons; or he may feel strongly about typography, width of margins, etc. Above the level of a railway guide, no book is quite free from aesthetic considerations.

"3. Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.

"4. Political purpose.—Using the word ‘political’ in the widest possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other peoples’ idea of the kind of society that they should strive after. Once again, no book is genuinely free from political bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude."

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The Barleyville Baseball Incident

Robbie Stockbreath was a godsend to coach Edwin Nardlinger’s little-league baseball team. The kid was a 10-year-old phenom. The team, the Barleyville Rangers, had played four games so far this season, and Robbie had gotten a hit every time she came up to bat. Eleven of the hits had been home runs. But, young Miss Stockbreath’s prowess on the diamond was not limited to swinging the bat; she could rifle the ball into home plate from center field, run the bases with exceptional speed, and in two appearances as the team pitcher, she had not allowed a hit. With the 81-pound, 4 foot, 10 inch, blond-haired, blue-eyed baseball wizard on his team, Coach Ed had hopes they would win the district playoffs and maybe, just maybe, the Little League World Series in Cooperstown would be in their future.
The Rangers were in first place in the league going into today’s game against the Logan’s Ferry Lizards, last year’s district champions coached by Saul Persimmon, the county prosecutor and Coach Ed’s second cousin on his mother’s side. Ed disliked his cousin. Even as a child, he found Persimmon to be an odious, unethical, lying little scumbag, and the prosecutor had done little in the intervening years to alter that opinion. It was rumored he had railroaded more than one innocent man onto death row at the state prison. Coach Ed also didn’t like the way his cousin’s team played ball. He felt they played dirty, tried to hurt opposing teams by throwing at them. With Robbie in the lineup, Ed was sure his team would clobber the Lizards today.
While the kids were warming up, Coach Ed sat in the dugout filling out the starting lineup for the game. He decided to start Robbie in center field, and then move her to the pitcher’s mound in the third inning. In this league, pitchers could only pitch a maximum of four innings, and he wanted Robbie to close the game strong. Her fielding skills should prevent any long balls from driving in runs, and once on the mound, he didn’t think the other team would be able to get wood on the ball.
Coach Persimmon was starting his son Starmo as the Lizard’s pitcher. The kid was good, with an earned run average of 1.2. At 5 foot 10 inches and weighing 198 pounds, the hulk-child would usually dominate the smaller players with his fastballs and curves. He was also a terror with the bat, but his fielding was not impressive. He was 12-years-old, and already had a gut that hung over his belt like a tired dog. That made him slow.
The head umpire blew a whistle, and the kids came off the field for last minute instructions from their coaches and the flip of a coin to see which team would bat first.
The Lizards won the toss and headed to their dugout while the Rangers took the field. Coach Ed started Chico Escuela III on the mound, and he told the boy to relax and “keep it in the strike zone.”
The first Lizard batter, Davy Minnow, went down swinging on three consecutive pitches. Batter number two, Chad Vlad, connected on an outside slider, but it was easily fielded by second baseman Sud Nord, and Vlad was thrown out at first. Escuela retired the side on the next pitch when Doug Church fouled a pop-up down the first base line, and Stallworth “Stally” Chance, cradled it in his glove.
The Rangers first inning at bat was not much better. Starmo struck out the first batter, Stally Chance was hit by an inside pitch and got on base, but Peter Ming grounded into a double play.
In the top of the second inning, Starmo, the clean-up hitter, came to the plate. His beady-eyed, pit-bull face seemed to unnerve Escuela, and he served up a floater across the plate. Starmo jumped on it and smashed a long fly ball out to center field. The ball’s trajectory looked like it would take it over the fence, but at the last moment, Robbie Stockbreath leaped high into the air and snagged it with one hand. Starmo had already rounded first when he saw the girl’s amazing catch. He took off his helmet, threw it to the ground, and stomped his feet. Good sportsmanship was not one of his strong suits. When he got back to the dugout, he sat on the bench and pouted. The next two batters were both thrown out at first.
As the Lizards were taking the field, Coach Persimmon grabbed his son and whispered in his ear. The boy got a devilish smile on his face and trotted out to the pitcher’s mound.
“Here we go,” thought Coach Ed Nardlinger. Robbie Stockbreath was first up, and she hadn’t missed getting a hit yet. Starmo stared her down, then wound up and threw a screaming fastball on the inside. Robbie jumped back as the ball narrowly missed her, and the umpire called, “Ball one.” Starmo figured he had her scared now, so he aimed another fastball at the outside corner. Robbie watched calmly as the pitch went by, missing the outside corner by inches. “Ball two,” the umpire called. Back on the mound, Starmo was getting a little frustrated. He caught the ball returned by the catcher, kicked the dirt around the mound, and tried to settle down. He stared down the alley again and shook off a called slider from the catcher. “No,” thought Starmo, “this little girt is going to get a curve ball.” The ball left the pitcher’s hand and started breaking right. By the time it reached home place it was high and two feet inside. Robbie had to dive in the dirt or she would have had her chin busted. “Ball three,” said the umpire.
Coach Ed came out of the dugout and protested to the umpire that the pitcher was trying to throw at Robbie. Saul Persimmon came rushing over and said, “Bull.” Starmo stood on the mound picking his nose, and Robbie calmly stood up and waited for the next pitch. The umpire issued a warning to Starmo, and his dad walked out to the mound. He put his arm around his son and said, “Remember what I told you, girls have no place in baseball. Now, do what needs to be done.”
“But dad,” Starmo protested.
“But dad nothing, this little girl is not going to beat us. Now, do what I told you.”
Coach Persimmon returned to the dugout, and Starmo nervously began his pre-pitch ritual: wiping the ball on his pants, touching his cap, and loosening his shoulders. Robbie stepped into the batter’s box showing no emotion. She stood there at ease and took a couple of practice swings, staring at Starmo the whole time.
Before starting his wind-up, hulk-boy looked over at his dad, who nodded to him. Starmo locked his eyes on Robbie, wound his arm, kicked his left leg high in the air, and let loose with a blistering fastball. He put every ounce of his strength into the throw, and when the ball left his hand, the heft behind the pitch carried him forward and he fell face down in the dirt.
Robbie picked up the trajectory of the ball, but it was traveling at such speed, by the time she determined it would arrive high and inside, it was already there. A loud crack of hard leather on plastic rang out as the baseball smashed against Robbie’s helmet, just above her ear. Silence exploded in the ballpark, and all eyes turned towards home plate. For a moment, no one moved; the sight of Robbie’s little body standing in the batter’s box still holding the bat stunned them. Her head was dangling down her right side, stopped at her elbow an assortment of wires and tubes tenuously attached to her neck. Coach Ed shook off his disbelief and ran to her. A lone cry went up from the stands. “Oh God,” yelled Dr. Berk Stockbreath, Robbie’s father, as he shoved people out of his way trying to get to his daughter.
By this time, Starmos Persimmon had picked himself up off the ground, and when he looked at the batter’s box, he wailed in a high-pitched voice, “Oh Jesus, I killed her, I killed her.” Starmos turned and ran towards left field where he jumped the fence and tore down Cutter Street screaming in terror.
When Ed Nardlinger reached Robbie, he fell to his knees. He wasn’t sure what to do; he grabbed her wrist to see if she had a pulse. The umpire stood by mute, an awed expression on his face. When Coach Ed pulled Robbie’s arm toward him, it caused her head to swing around towards the front of her torso, directly in front of him. Robbie’s eyes opened and stared at him. Before Ed could react, Berk Stockbreath arrived and gently cradled Robbie’s head in his arms. “It’s Ok baby, don’t worry,” he told her.
Dr. Stockbreath turned to Coach Ed and said, “Can someone go to my car and get my bag out of the trunk?” Before Ed could answer, Todd Mogger, the umpire, stammered, “Uh…I’ll go.” The doctor tossed him the keys, and the returned his attention to his daughter. Ed told his assistant coaches, Brad Nurn, Betty Nolan and Lionel Mason, to keep people away and have someone call EMS. Dr. Stockbreath quickly countermanded Ed’s order, “No EMS, I can take care of this.”
“But her head’s been knocked off, she could die,” said Ed incredulously.
“Please coach, I’m a doctor, I can take care of this.”
“But she could bleed to death.”
“She won’t bleed to death. Do you see any blood?”
Coach Ed looked over Robbie’s body and the ground surrounding it. He hadn’t noticed before, but there was no blood. Her uniform was wet on the left side, but it looked like sweat stains. “This is nuts,” he said. “What is happening?”
Before he got an answer, Todd the umpire arrived with the doctor’s bag. Stockbreath opened it and retrieved a few odd-looking tools and ointments. “Coach Nardlinger,” said Dr. Stockbreath, “I want you to hold Robbie’s head for a few minutes while I work on her neck.”
Ed was flying on autopilot and did what was asked. He gently took the girl’s head from her father and gingerly held it in his hands. He almost fumbled it when he heard her whisper, “Don’t worry coach, it’s gonna be Ok.”
“Ok,” he said, but he was thinking, “This is not real. This has got to be one of those deals where I’ll wake up shortly and puke last night’s clams into the toilet bowl.”
As Stockbreath worked on Robbie’s neck, the girl’s blue eyes would flicker occasionally. Her lips twitched once. Finally, Dr. Stockbridge told Ed, “Ok Ed, now help me lift her head and place it on her neck.”
Ed had little choice but to do what he was asked. Interestingly, as they placed Robbie’s head back on her neck, Ed noticed there was a clean break where the head had detached. In fact, there seemed to be a gasket lining her neck and head. The skin was torn, of course, but it didn’t look like torn skin. Once the head was in place, Dr. Stockbreath pulled out what appeared to be a small caulking gun and ran a bead of opaque material around Robbie’s neck. Suddenly, her eyes opened again, and she spoke. “Thanks dad, I think everything’s fine now.”
Saul Persimmon came charging through the crowd that had circled the girl about ten yards out. He was yelling, “Forfeit, this game is a forfeit. They lose. This girl is a robot, and robots are not allowed in baseball. Nardlinger, you son of a bitch, you thought you could get away by using a robot ringer, didn’t you? Well, that just ain’t gonna fly. You lose, we win.”
Dr. Berk Stockbreath stepped in front of Persimmon, “She’s not a robot,” he stated.
“Blow it out your blowhole, Stockbreath,” shouted Saul Persimmon. “I know what I saw. She’s a damned robot. Look at her, she’s a freak.”
Coach Ed had heard enough from his loudmouth cousin. “Saul, shut up. Leave that girl alone.”
Robbie Stockbreath walked over to Coach Ed’s side. “It’s Ok coach, really.” She turned to face Coach Persimmon. “I’m not a robot Mr. Persimmon, I’m a PHIIL, a Post Human Intelligent Integrated Life-form. I carry human genes and brain cells as well as microchips and solenoids. I may not be fully human, but I’m not inhuman either. I think, feel, hope, dream, smell, taste and I love playing baseball. As far as I know, there aren’t any rules about PHIILs playing baseball.”
Chico Escuela III, Stally Chance, Peter Ming and the rest of Robbie’s teammates came up and stood behind her. They said in unison, “Yeah.”
Coach Ed turned to Todd the umpire for a ruling. Todd shrugged his shoulders and dug out the rulebook from his back pocket. The crowd was hushed as Todd leafed through the book. After several minutes, Todd announced, “There’s nothing in here about no PHIILs. The rules don’t even say anything about robots either.”
The Barleyville Rangers let out a cheer. Most of the people in the crowd followed suit. Todd the umpire yelled, “Play ball.” Saul Persimmon screamed, “This is crap. We’re not playing, and I’m going to sue.”
“Forfeit,” said Todd. “Rangers win.”
Later that afternoon, Starmo Persimmon was found crying hysterically at a Krispy Kreme donut shop. A month later, his mother Laura filed for divorce from Saul and is getting the boy the help he needs.
Saul Persimmon was indicted two months later on charges aggravated weaseling and supplying steroid to his son. All of the cases he prosecuted since his time in office are under official revue.
The Barleyville Rangers went on to become district champs and advanced to the little-league regional finals. Coach Ed Nardlinger’s dream of a trip to Cooperstown for the Little League World Series was dashed when the Rangers lost the regionals to a team from Roswell, New Mexico that went on to win the Series. There was some controversy when it was found that the Roswell team’s all-star third baseman was, in fact, a Kraykax from the outer moon of Celtius 6. The losing team sued, and the case was taken before the United States Supreme Court, where it was unanimously decided the rules of baseball did not prevent alien life forms from participating in the sport and order the little-league commissioner to change the name “World Series” to “Intergalactic Series.”
Robbie Stockbreath did not compete in little-league baseball he following season. After the incident at the Lizards vs. Rangers game, Dr. Berk Stockbreath decided to re-build his daughter into a 24-year-old young woman. These days, Robbie now plays quarterback for the St. Louis Rams professional football team and serves as the spokeswoman for BAPOP (the ‘Bots Androids and PHIILs Alliance for Peace.)
As for Chico Escuela II, baseball been berry, berry good to him.


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Barry Eats Sheep

Last week, I started old school, and tomorrow, my first homework assignment is due for my class in memoir writing. I’ve already completed the assignment, and anticipate a fairly decent grade, but I’m worried about my classmate Barry.
Barry is 81 years old, and up until 11 years ago, he was in the poultry technology field for more than 50 years. He says he is gay even though he has never had sex with a man…or a woman. His statement made me a little wary, so I asked him if he had had sex with a chicken. He assured me that that was not—nor would it ever be—the case. I dropped the subject.
I’m worried about Barry not because of his gayness, but because I think he might receive an F on his homework assignment. Our teacher asked us to write about our favorite childhood foods. After class, Barry confided in me that he wasn’t very keen on revisiting his childhood and recalling the slaughter in which he participated. “You see,” Barry told me, “I was raised by wolves.”
Now, I was raised by a military officer, and I don’t think being raised by wolves could be any more traumatic than that, but Barry insists he will be ridiculed and persecuted if he puts down on paper the somewhat grizzly meals he consumed as a child. “I just know that other people are going to write about fried chicken, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and stuff like that,” said Barry. He looked around to make sure no one else was listening, and said, “You know, Em, I wish I could have eaten that kind of stuff, but mostly what my parents gave me was raw, bloody sheep. Damn, to this day, I can’t even wear a wool sweater.”
“Well,” I told Barry, “why don’t you just write that you liked mutton as a child, even if it is a lie.”
“Oh, I couldn’t lie.”
“Ok…uh…I’m sure you probably ate something else besides sheep once in a while; there must have been something you liked.”
“Well…yeah,” said Barry with a guilty look on his face. “There were a few treats.”
“Then write about them,” I suggested.
“I don’t think people would understand Em. I mean wolves have different appetites than humans.”
“How bad could it be Barry? People eat animals all the time.”
“I’ll tell you, but you got to keep this to yourself, Ok?”
“Sure Barry, no problem. I think you’re blowing this way out of proportion, but go ahead.”
“Well, when I was a kid my favorite things to eat were aliens.”
I just sort of stared at Barry, thinking Alzheimer’s hat set in. “Aliens?”
“Yeah, the wolf pack I lived with was based in the hills of southern New Mexico. About once a month or so, dad and my uncles would go out for a sheep kill, and as they were stalking, they’d run across and illegal alien who had gotten lost. He didn’t stand a chance. It was sure a great change of pace from sheep, and I always got the ankle.”
I think class tomorrow is going to be real interesting.

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The Big, Huge Thesaurus

A reader passed along a link to The Big, Huge Thesaurus. This site is based on source data from the Princeton University WordNet database, the Carnegie Mellon Pronouncing Dictionary, and suggestions from thousands of people on the internet.
It is filled with synonyms, antonyms, rhymes, writing prompts and blog-post suggestions.

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The Surprising Un-Surprise Birthday Party

A bellicose parrot thundered in my right ear, “Try the damn fajitas.” Startled, I reflexively stepped to the left, which caused me to make full-body contact with a waitress named Sula, who was carrying a tray laden with bowls of hot, steaming chicken caldo. Sula went down hard, and the soup she was transporting took a northwest trajectory, landing on a party of four sheriff’s deputies, causing first-degree burns on one of the deputy’s fireplug biceps. This was not the sort of entrance I wished to make at my birthday dinner at Cantina Felipe.
I was unscathed, but I could feel accusatory eye darts fired in my direction. “It wasn’t me,” I explained desperately, “The bird yelled at me, and I got scared.” My excuse did not seem to be playing well; I doubt it was even heard over the howling of the napalmed deputy. I helped Sula off the floor as Manuel, the assistant manager, called EMS to transport the lawman to a local hospital. I was looking around for my party when one of the uninjured deputies approached me with malice and asked for my identification. “You’re in a heap of trouble boy,” he snarled.
I was both terrified and flattered. I felt I was about to be sucked into the nightmare of our legal system, but today I was 61, and he had called me “boy.” As I slowly reached for my wallet and ID, a young girl, about six-years-old, came up and said to the cop, “I saw it. I saw what happened, and it was the bird’s fault. That’s a mean bird, he scares me.”
The deputy smiled at the little girl, frowned at me, and then stared at the parrot. The bird just bobbed its head. By this time, the clamor had begun to die down in the restaurant, and relative calm was being re-established. It appeared the lawman might dismiss the incident and send me on my way when Pathetic Bob walked out from one of the small banquet rooms. “Jeez Em, where the hell have you been? Everybody’s waiting on you. They won’t let me have any food ‘til you get here,” he complained. “Who is this cop?”
I hadn’t realized my wife had invited the dog to my surprise party that was not really a surprise party but had become a surprise party after all. “Never mind Bob,” I quickly responded, hoping to get him out of the deputy’s presence, “Why don’t you just go back into the room, and I’ll be along shortly.”
“Is that your dog?” asked the cop.
“Well, he lives with me, but he’s his own dog,” I tried to explain.
As I launched into a further explanation about it being my birthday and the unsurprised-surprise party, the little girl went over to Bob and starting petting him. “Have you washed your hands?” he asked her. She giggled.
I was talking to the deputy, the girl was talking to Bob, Bob was talking to the girl, and the parrot was bobbing and weaving like a professional boxer. As the officer finally handed my ID back to me, Bob came up and said to him, “I think you ought to arrest that bird. The kid told me what the bird did. It’s a menace, take it away.”
“Bob, I don’t think…”
“To hell with that Em. I’m fed up with birds getting away with everything. They need to be held accountable. Every time I go out on the deck at home, birds gangs fly by and drop poop bombs on me. I’m sick of it. This city locks up dogs and cats just for wandering around not hurting anyone, but birds, they get away with any damn thing they want to do.”
The deputy looked Bob, then back at me. “Are you a ventriloquist?” he asked.
I laughed nervously. “Uh, yeah. I was just fooling around, you know, I was entertaining the little girl. Look sir, I really appreciate your understanding. I’m gonna take Bob, and we’re going to go have a nice birthday dinner. I hope your friend will be Ok.”
I picked Bob up and headed towards the banquet room, but before we had gone two steps, he turned around and yelled at the parrot, “We’re gonna have chicken!”

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