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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