To All The Children I Never Sired

Today's one of those bittersweet moments for me, not quite sweet, not quite bitter. Certainly sweeter when I’m not thinking about it, and a lot more bitter when I’m not not thinking about it, which I am now.

It could just be something that goes with the holiday season. All the little rugrats that would’ve gotten their little gifts from me over the years are once again not looking at anything under the tree. My shopping list remains unchecked, for there aren't any to list. Little Bertha, Edna, Tommy, Daniel, Wally, Florence, and Red, they’ve never seen the light of day, let alone worried about their gifts. Damn! That hits me hard, especially Red and Edna, two names I’ve always had a thing for.

I probably should leave this article for some other time, some better time. But when would that time come? That’d be just like me, shunting aside the pain and refusing to address it. But aren’t the holidays a time when you should be happy and raise hell, party, and blow party horns? That’s what I should be doing instead, not lamenting my lack of horny output, ruing my paucity of progeny. So there’s no hell-raising this year, no partying, with my party horn already blown, the opportunities all gone.

That’s something to think about. Are my opportunities really gone? This isn’t like women, you know, whose biological clock’s batttery’s shot by the time they’re 40. I’m a full fledged male person, and I’ve at least heard we’re capable of shootin’ the moon well into our 70s. But when it happens at 65-70 it’s a sad accident. Old man has sex, then a stroke, in that order, but with the last ounce of his life-force manages to squeeze out little Rodney. Who grows up always questioning ‘why Papa doesn’t live with us,’ then learns the bitter truth and ends up in a home for perplexed kids, eventually featured in TV ads for that home, begging for just 63 cents a day so other kids won’t lack a dad. What would they do with the money raised but fix old guys like me?

I’m glad I used the name Rodney. Since I hate that name and would never name a kid Rodney. That gives me some comfort, some shelter from this feeling of dread, the dread of lost opportunities. I hope it gives me not just that one step, but 10 steps toward leaving this terrible funk! Maybe I could think of what people who have kids go through. Childhood illnesses, injuries, mistakes, crimes, desires, various resentments, the whole slate of life’s misfortunes.

I was downtown the other day and saw some random beady-eyed shrimpy kid tramp looking at me, like “I’m gonna steal your wallet, mister.” Maybe it was my imagination, but I got the hell out of there, and reported him as a malevolent street urchin. He should be in jail now, and it’s a pity if he isn’t. He’s definitely some stupid dad’s kid! At least I haven’t given life to such a creature! I’m a good person...

That’s a good way to get rid of the pain, Eureka! Balance it out, the pain of nothing, no wild honyocks to worry about, and by none I mean nil ... against the pain of actual flesh and blood duplicates, who’d likely as not have deep-seated resentments of their own, and be just the kind of willful little morons who'd take it out on me mentally and physically for giving them life, and I would’ve been done in by now. The way kids are, I'd be a goner. Why would they allow me to live to a ripe old age? I’d be dead. A corpse rotting away...

Happy holidays, everyone!

Wer-ner Klemp-er-er

Of all the activities people have come up with on Facebook -- example: Name a piece of junk food you used to eat when the teacher wasn't looking -- one I haven't seen yet is, "What are the oddest names you've ever heard of?"

So I'm a first, potentially, to do it here. Not that I want replies, for in that case any one of you might show me up, thereby decimating my ego for the foreseeable future. A big no-no that I've adopted now that we're in the Trump years. (You see Trump with his cabinet, they're either kissing ass or they're off to the labor camps!)

Anyway, my first memory of a weird name is Werner Klemperer. From Hogan's Heroes. Which one was he? Colonel Klink, I think. I think, therefore I Klink.

How you like them syllables? Wer-ner Klemp-er-er! Lots of "er"s in it, if I'm pronouncing it the way it is. And honestly I can't remember it coming up much in conversation. There was Ed McMahon, pronounced Ed McMan, you heard of all the time, so there was no mistaking that. But Werner Klemperer, I don't know that I ever heard it in conversation.

There wasn't a Werner Klemperer fan club anywhere near me back in the pre-Google days, so it was hard to know, not only how to pronounce his name but anything else about him. Nothing, in fact. He was on TV, we watched him, we turned off the TV, we forgot him. But as for me, I silently warehoused his name, always saying to myself, "Wer-ner Klemp-er-er." He not only Klempered, but Klemperered! Whatev-er the motivat-er or fact-er fer his heirs, er, ers, they did it er-right. For, to err is human, to er divine.

Note: If your name happens to be Klemperer, or Werner Klemperer (it could happen), or even Werner Klemperer, Jr. (Juni-er?), please don't take offense. It's just a little fun and frolic at your silly name's expense.

Newsletter -- Myra Kula Electra

I've had a decent couple of days around the office, with the ouster of most of my newsletter staff. The peace that descended from above was a welcome change from the rancor and continual outbursts you get when prisoners (work release farm) are on the premises. So this has been good for me. I've been getting back to myself, getting my head cleared after ... must have been a month and half of their crap.

The only outburst today came when I learned something about The Lady, my only female staffer, that blew my mind. You have to remember, I never knew The Lady's name. I actually took her on the staff as a kind of token woman, and even if I stood in a court of law with my hand on a million Bibles, I wouldn't have be able to tell you how I got her. The best I could've guessed would be, for some reason she was simply there and I hired her. Weird, I know.

Well, it turns out that is true. Now that a lot more's been revealed.

One of my neighbors was walking his dog by earlier -- my dog and his were nose to nose and behaving themselves -- and asked how things were going with the newsletter. I started telling him about the firing of the men and he waved me off, being a reader of the blog. He then said something that blew my mind, "How's Myra?" Myra? I'm wracking my mind trying to think of a relative named Myra, a neighborhood dog, anything, and he saw my thrashing about. I go, "Who's Myra?" "The Lady, you do know her name, don't you?" I'm waving my hand, for "Details, details." And he says, "I figured you knew Myra Kula Electra."

It hit me like a ton of bricks, a huge wall of bricks, toppling like they're in an earthquake. "Myra Kula Electra? You're full of it!" But he didn't break character, he was serious. He goes, "If she ain't Myra Kula Electra, what's her name?" And I had to admit again, "I don't know, I never asked." "Did she give you a fake name?" "No," I said, "I didn't ask and she didn't say." He went away chuckling, with his little well-behaved dog, and left me alone with my thoughts.

I picked up the paper and headed for the house, and glanced down. The byline on the top article was by her, Myra Kula Electra, of course. She's a well-known staff writer, and maybe an editor, at the local Daily News, known mostly as an in-depth investigative type. If there's a scandal somewhere, and someone feeds her the dirt -- along, presumably, with her own digging -- it's a Myra Kula Electra scoop. The newspaper's the same as most local rags, lots of ribbon-cuttings and guys shaking hands and passing out big checks. But they're also on the look-out for scandal, when they bring in ... The Lady.

Sitting alone with my thoughts, of course I was hashing it out: Is Myra Kula Electra about to sink me? Did I treat her right? Could she have misinterpreted some of my displays of affection? Is she going to nail me for any alleged mistreatment of the prisoners, Dashing Danny Whrfr, Spud Tuber, Stanley "Tipsy" White, and Cannibal? I treated those bastards pretty good, all things considered. Gave them a taste of freedom, a chance to do something productive with their lives, a little self-esteem, trusted them to run around in my name and for the newsletter, and even took them to the July 4th celebration ... where ... each one of them nailed MYRA KULA ELECTRA! at my feet ... But that wasn't my idea, and, frankly, she seemed quite into it!

Oh my God! I started thinking, like I always do when there's a crisis afoot, What do I do now? How do I get myself out of this mess? Then I remembered some of my own teachings given at seminars, and which would make a good newsletter blurb, If there's a problem in your life, take a deep breath and wait and see what might happen. I breathed deeply, It'll all be OK. And, I thought, even if she does nail me in an article, I can surely come up with a good enough explanation that I won't have to leave town. Seriously, Myra Kula Electra's nailed people and they've left town, that's the kind of shame that really happens.

Once calmed down, I started thinking, How about that? My Lady's Myra Kula Electra! I really loosened up, listening to some music, taking a shower, lounging around the house in my bathrobe. I sat in my chair and started saying The Lady's name, over and over. I said it, must've been 100 times, till it flowed off the tongue like .... smooth, baby, smooth as silk ... "Myra Kula Electra, Myra Kula Electra, Myra Kula Electra, Myra Kula Electra...." It's a very calming name, all the A's, like poetry. Very calming, except for the poor bastards who end up in her articles.

"Myra Kula Electra, Myra Kula Electra, Myra Kula Electra," I repeated, when I heard the key turn. It was her!

From Feeble Man Stagger to The Beatles

Me and my mates -- Dozy, Beaky, Mich, and Tich -- came up with our own group, me on drums, of course. (I learned a few years ago when I built a platform over the couch to give me something to do during commercials. And now, amazingly, I keep a beat with the best of them.)

The biggest problem for me and my mates has been to settle on a name. We wanted something fairly decent. A good name is ... good to have. But it seems like most of them have been taken. There's not much left.

Anyway, me and my mates got serious about it, and pretty soon we were coming up with ideas. In my opinion, my best idea was Feeble Man Stagger. I was driving uptown and saw an ordinary guy walking like he was drunk. Who knows, maybe he was, but it was early in the morning. Might've been an early stage hangover. The guy looking pathetic, I said to someone, "He's doing the feeble man stagger." Inspiration's funny like that!

Not long after, we got a letter from another group called Feeble Man Stagger and their lawyer, demanding that we cease and desist.

Now, here's something ironic. Me and my mates were drinking our disappointment away and saying over and over the words "Cease and Desist."  You can guess the rest; we immediately started calling ourselves Cease and Desist. Until we got a letter from another group -- Cease and Desist -- and their lawyer, demanding that we cease and desist. Damn.

Anyway, me and my mates weren't sidelined for long, and in the complaining about it, we switched to Desist Again. But not for long, because other groups have been through this, too, and Desist Again was already taken. At first, I was incredulous, "You're telling me you have a group Desist Again?" Yes, that's what they were telling me, with the guy getting real snotty: "That seems to be the gist of it." 

Me and my mates were getting desperate, and drinking ourselves back to health, and cussing this guy in abstentia, we repeated his stuffy patrician retort about "the gist of it" until we decided that's IT! We'd be The Gist of It. Which lasted only a couple weeks before some other "The Gist of It" came visiting. They couldn't afford a lawyer yet but we got the message. We tried to argue, but of course we'd eventually lose. In my anger I justified us, saying, "You know, you're not exactly The Beatles! How were we supposed to know?"

So that's how we got the name The Beatles. I figured, sure, there was a group called that once upon a time, but they're dead and gone. As I told my mates, "What could possibly go wrong?"

My Time Wasted Mentoring Ted

This was something I had long contemplated. They said there was a kid out there needing to be supported. Being myself a well-respected man, I presented myself available to help.

They told me my mentee was 13 years old and named Ted. I greeted him, "Hello, Ted." I was glad that I'd been invited for this. Some of these kids, it's like they're dilapidated people; they've been isolated from good company so long, they're goners. So anything we can do that they might be rehabilitated is always appreciated.

But my pleasant reverie was interrupted and melted away when he blurted out, "I'm not Ted!" I checked the paperwork and, no matter how such things are accounted for, this had to be Ted.

With a gentle, contented look and friendly lifted hand, I prevented him from storming out, letting him know I really wanted him to stay. I thought, "Poor kid must have been booted from place to place, or maybe taunted over something." Soon, he rested his twisted features.

It was obvious that this was a kid who called for a moderated attitude from me. But I started to take it for granted that no one alive could be delighted to be around him very long. I fretted that I wouldn't be able to do it, already feeling tormented.

But as indicated by the situation, I resorted back to total calm, and once again had corrected my attitude. I wasted no time, "Tell me, what are some of the things you've celebrated in your life, a life really only just started? You seem like such a spirited boy."

All at once his face contorted, and I heard a strangulated voice, which imparted and repeated what he had already asserted, "I'm not Ted!"

I'm sure I must have looked agitated, and maybe disgusted. Had I said "Ted"? No, I explicitly resisted having said his name, until such a time when I would have seen more evidence and reflected on it. "Dimwitted boy!" I thought, "What are you, demented? Maybe you belong in a gated community, the kind that has twisted barbed wire on the fence!"

Again, it was up to me to think, "This boy must be tolerated." I catapulted my anger and quickly concocted a line: I attributed the misunderstanding to myself and said I stood corrected. I'd never before tasted this kind of nonsense, but I wanted to give him another chance, so I attempted to engage him again, despite being exhausted. "Why don't you tell me what you expected when I was invited to get together with you?" His features were again distorted. It was easy to see his perfected ire had again routed itself straight to the surface. "I'm not Ted!"

I was nauseated, and simply said, "Ted -- or whatever other blasted name you were fated to bear -- you seem to think I'm obligated to help you, when in return you've resisted everything I might have given. This cannot be tolerated! You have now grated on my last nerve!"

I shouldn't have even started with a kid like this. If only I had resisted! I gesticulated and ranted on: "I hope you'll finally be contented when you look back and see that you've been deserted by your very last friend!"

The little monster mounted up from his chair as though escorted by the Furies themselves. I could see he hated my guts, and his voice reverberated in the room and down the hall as he spouted forth: "My name isn't Ted! It's Theodore!"

Barber, Meet Head -- What's In a Name?

I keep thinking of the list of names I had the other day in my post, "Iowa -- Land of Roadwork." I've been thinking it might be a good list to memorize. There's a lot of value in it, in my opinion. One, it simply has great aesthetics for a list of names. There's no discernible arrangement, alphabetically or by sound, no predictability. If you just concocted a list of names, though, and you had "Krebs," there's really a good chance you'd go for another "Kr" name, like "Krantz."

One other value to it, which is of more practical value and not just something of aesthetics and beauty, would be staving off dementia. I keep hearing that the more you exercise your brain, the better it works. Giving even me hope. At this point, I can't even remember how many names there were, let alone what they were. I definitely remember Barber and Head, obviously. Let's quote the list and see what happens:

Kellerman, Adams, Bardot, Lawhead, Rackley, Mahlor, Hargrave, Taylor, Kirby, Beveridge, Zalumas, Edwards, Vann, Smith, Maddox, Stewart, Robison, Gordy, Craig, Harden, Bass, French, Truitt, Barber, Watt, Jerger, Stribling, Herman, Grantham, Russell, McGiohon, Anderson, Aiken, Reese, Head, Vanderbilt, Hazelton, Feinberg, Myers, Tittle, Cheshire, and, lastly, Mays.

Adams and Bardot are alphabetical, but a truly random list easily has consecutive letters. I just made two counts and it comes out 42. I could probably memorize 42 names. Using one of the memory systems. If it means having my mind at 90 -- 30 short years from now -- it'd be worth it.

There's another value to the list, which is self-serving for my blog. People hitting these posts through Google searches while doing genealogy. Probably not the Smith or Adams or Anderson families. But the Stribling family? The Zalumas family? The Beveridges? The Lawheads, Granthams, and McGiohons? Some of these are like names from dead languages. And now I have two posts with their names in it. I'm going to get every McGiohon, Zalumas, and Stribling in the world, albeit there's probably about five of each. But that day in Iowa -- when I got the list -- there I was in a rest stop with them! I should've said, "Zalumas? Your name is Zalumas? Let me shake your hand before you pass on! McGiohon? What is that, Gaelic? From Brigadoon, appearing every hundred years?" Of course, I kid. Still! Have sex! Anything to get your numbers up!

For some of these names, the only place you'd run across them is Ancestry.com. Have you ever been to Ancestry.com? You probably have. If you search for any name plus "family," or just any obscure name, all roads lead to Ancestry.com. Except once you're there, it's a dead end. Because you need a paid subscription or a one-time free sample to find out anything, even about yourself. Which to me is still a dead end. I already know myself. And if I'm on there researching my family, that takes what? A week? Then what? Look up other families or sublet my subscription?

Here's my deal for you. If I find out your Grandpa was a horse-thief or some other lowdown skunk, I'll publish it for free. Then you'll come and beg me to take it down, that's when I'll make my money. Family pride. Of course, the farther back you go, if you find a horse-thief, you might smile and feel a little happiness about that. Because it's an interesting detail, even though it was shameful at the time. You've got more than his birth and death years.

OK, without looking, here's the names from the list that I remember. Honor system, not looking. McGiohon, Stribling, Head,  Barber, Adams, Smith, Beveridge, ... I should've read the list again first ...Bardot, Mays was last, Cheshire, going slower now, that's it, I guess. That's 10.

Now I'm going to look at the list again. How'd I forget Kellerman? There's Kellerman, Adams, Bardot, Grantham, Stribling, Head and Barber, whom I shall never forget, Maddox, Mays, Craig, Cheshire, McGiohon, I've got memory overload here. That's only two more than before... Dementia, take me now...

If Your Name Was Judd

Of course I know there's lots of people named Judd. There's not going to be anything here to take offense at. I'm keeping it on the up and up.

I saw a guy the other name whose name was Judd, so it's no big deal. In fact, seeing Judd was what got me thinking about it. His last name was Judd, and there's people whose first name is Judd, too.

We had the country duo, mom and daughter, The Judds. And there's Ashley Judd. And I remember, though I didn't watch it, a TV show called Judd for the Defense. A lawyer show.

The word "Judd" is a very heavy word. It's got the weight of the two Ds. It reminds me of  "Bass," which we think of as the bottom of music. Judd's like that. Plus, once it's down, it just sits there like a Judd balloon. You can hardly budge Judd. Take a look at the final D. It'd fit snug in the corner. A piece of dust couldn't squeeze between the wall and it. The U's got a good bottom too, curved like a bottom, as is the J. A tight little word, Judd. It's also got that note of finality, like Thud. "Here I sit, I can do no other." And maybe that's why they chose it for Judd for the Defense. It's more determined and stable than Will 'o the Wisp for the Defense.

My purpose in writing about Judd is not just to pay it appropriate tribute as a word and name. In addition, I want to play around with it, interchanging it for judge, jugs, and who knows what else.

A judge is a stern character, usually, even Judd Judy. But we have fun with judges, always messing with them (when they're not around), saying, "Your honor," like we really mean it. Remember Pigmeat Markham, "Order in the courtroom, Here come the Judd!"

Even Jesus got in on the act: "Judd not, lest ye be Judd." To whom I say, "Who am I to Judd? I deserve to be Judd, I've no place to mete it out." Which is true. If you Judd someone else, that's bad. But in the end no man will be your Judd. Whatever Judd you face will be from above.

It's weird that way back we had a guy like Pigmeat Markham, but he was a big star for a while. I always saw him a novelty act, thanks to the record, "Here Comes the Judd." And there were others sort of in the same category, like Moms Mabley. Now there were some Judds, wasn't there? With a name like Moms, you'd expect it. That's Moms as a plural. (I just googled her and her dress was so loose, I can't tell her Judd size.) But I found a quick recording of Moms, which clocks in at just over a minute, about a man buying a bra for his wife. In that case her Judds were the size of fried eggs! So there you've got Mother, Judds, Speed.

I thought I had more than this, but if that's it I'll Judd have to accept it. Or sleep on it. (I'm writing this in the evening, Judd about the time I start getting sleepy.) Earlier in the day, there's Judd no stopping me. Which is Judd how it is, like it or not, but not Judd as it should be.

Of course we all have greater energy when we're fresh, it's Judd common sense. The draggy feeling is Judd what happens. It's like walking, you can go fast on the sidewalk, but if you slip in the Judd, of course it's going to slow you down.

Speaking of slow, Judd is a slow word, very slow, as compared, say, to Jazz, a fellow J. Nothing like the bounce of Jazz. It'd be tough to hear Fats Waller telling the old lady what Judd is: "If you gotta ask, you don't wanna know!" What are you, some kind of Juddhead? Juddin' and jivin'? I'm Judding too many balls in the air now. Made the mistake of going for the Juddular. From here it's just a Hop, Skip, and Judd to the reader's Juddment.

I'll get up in the morning and be ready for something better. I hope. A little Aunt Juddmimah on my pancakes. Get down to the Juddnasium for some exercise. See some chick on the elliptical and start singing, "Judd the two of us, we can make it if we try..." Come back home and watch Andy Griffith, Goober going, "Juddy, Juddy, Juddy."

If you're name is Judd, Judd smile. And please spare me my Judd desserts.

The Damnation Of Sam Hell

"Go to Hell!" he cried, in a fit of pique, an expression of hostility and ire, when confronted by a friend when he was caught doing something wrong and upbraided. Some people are like that; they could just say sorry -- after all, they're the one in the wrong. Maybe it's pride -- it probably is -- or maybe it has something to do with being surprised, then embarrassed -- it probably does.

Sometimes we think Hell is mythic. Mythic in the sense of something that isn't literally true. But when it comes to Hell, can there be any doubt it's real? I tell myself, We have black holes the size (diameter) of the earth's orbit around the sun, oceans 5,000 miles deep on Uranus, planets that are solid diamond through and through, what's so tough about carving out a little niche for Hell?

Well, Samael Heck, said it, "Go to Hell, and then ... guess what? ... He woke up one night; it seemed like a nightmare but it wasn't, there he was, dangling on a ladder, halfway between Heaven and Hell -- true story. It appears he had died. And he saw the souls of the other dead either going up or being dragged down by demonic creatures. It was one or the other. There was no exception. Until, who knows how it happened, somehow Samael swung back up to the ladder. And he must have been hidden from view by the others on top of the ladder, as he managed to shimmy back down, flip over the top of the ladder, and run. He escaped back to the world, and reentered his body.

So much for the 12th century, for that's when all this stuff happened. A long time ago. Leaving us to contemplate something equally fantastic, that this guy has since lived all these centuries. The whole list would include the 13th, 14th, 15th, 16th, 17th, 18th, 19th (in which he briefly knew John Wilkes Booth), 20th, and now the 21st centuries. Meaning, unless he hurries up and dies, he's going to surpass Methuselah! Another guy who must have flipped the ladder.

Anyway, maybe it was back when he knew Booth, he toughened up his name to Sam Hell, becoming proverbial, like Waldo and Carmen Santiago, with his question being, "What in the Sam Hell?!" My grandpa used to say that all the time, openly, although perhaps ignorantly, invoking someone who was at least familiar with a presidential assassin, not to mention being a rare escapee from the fiery judgment. But what did Grandpa know, and when did he know it? Probably not much, with the date indeterminable.

Because this is going too long, I'm just going to list some facts about Sam Hell, without ordering them or fleshing out any meaning or significance:

• Sam Hell's thoughts are tortured during the day ... and the night is worse.
• He has olfactory, auditory, gustatory, visual, and tactile hallucinations. It's all he can do to keep himself grounded in reality, whatever that may be.
• He's doomed to rail against his own fate in this world. But one thing he hates above all are the ghost shows on TV. Because your body and messing around is a portal to bring these now-terrible spirits back into the world... bumming everyone out. They missed the ladder, let 'em fry.
• Of course, like all things of this nature, the holy and secular, the sacred and profane, he soon became a byword for hillbillies and old men in coffee shops. (See Grandpa above). They'd be chewing the end of your average weed, invoking him in astonishment every time a cow died.
• To combat the old men would be hopeless. But he could open the minds of those yet too young to be old, children. Which opened up a perennial career as a speaker at elementary assemblies, having to soften his stage name to Sam Hill.
• Have you ever met the real Sam Hell, in his essence? Of course you haven't, very few have. Only advanced spirits. I count myself among that number. I met Sam Hell a few years ago. We enjoyed a time of spiritual reverie, then he was gone. At least from sight... How else I know him, my lips are sealed.

Come Back, Vam Moose!

What's in a name? A rose by any other name might run just as fast, especially if it was a literal-minded moose with a weird name like Vam Moose. You get it, right? His name sounds like the word that's synonymous with Scram! Evacuate promptly! and Git!

There's this kid, Seward, who brought Vam Moose home from the frozen wastelands of Alaska when he was a kid up there on vacation. Vam was very small, a baby.

So anyway, he's no longer in Alaska. He's down in the United States, Seward and his new moose, and he gives him this name, as I previously spelled it out, Vam Moose. Seward seriously wasn't expecting any trouble, but Vam Moose, being fairly smart, it seems, took it literally, and scrammed, evacuated promptly, and git every time he heard it.

Seward was out playing with Vam and he forgets and calls out, "Vam Moose!" and Vam immediately runs. And Vam runs fast. He has a very sleek coat, one of the sleekest coats young Seward has ever seen in his short life. The sleekness adds to Vam's speed, there being very little air resistance to ruffle his fur and hence slow him down. So once he gets going, he can't just stop on a dime.

Once Vam kept running so far away, Seward put up posters on every post in the country, saying he answers to the name Vam Moose. You can imagine what happened. Everyone who called out to Vam only caused him to run farther away. That time, Vam was finally spotted leaping over the Florida Everglades, that's how far south he went.

Seward got him home, and it seemed like it'd be a happy ending. But it wasn't, because Seward's mom was calling Vam over nicely to eat some food, Vam heard his name and kicked the crap out of the house, and went through a window. In the melee he managed to kick over his plate of food, which went everywhere, and also cut his leg pretty badly. Enough to have stitches, if they ever manage to get him to the vet.

Criminal Turf -- The Lay Of The Land

This is the map I've got in mind. Nothing but this. I'm living, eating, and sleeping this map. I'm trying! I'm sweating it out, studying it, going over it again and again, memorizing it, committing it to memory, trying to let it take up an enduring domicile in my memory cells, anything, just so I master it. Good grief, you would too! Because my future as a successful criminal, maybe the greatest criminal this town's ever seen, depends on this knowledge, and I must not let myself down. Must go over it again!

The town, if I'm reading the map correctly, appears to be divided up into five territories, or what they call "turf." Five different turf, or is it turfs? Whichever, I've got to review it for my own benefit, lest everything I've mastered thus far slips. And just like schoolwork, it's hard to remember without looking. I'll try a mnemonic. The west side has two gangs that both start with vowels, O and A. The Outlaws and the Aristocrats, north and south, respectively. The east side also has two gangs, but they both start with C. The Ciggies and El Conquistadors. Then, I'll think of it like a nipple, there's my own gang in the middle, The Skids, our headquarters being the Skidrow district of town, and our turf the Central section. Like a nipple, that's great! Too bad the town isn't round!

OK, I just looked at the map for 10 minutes straight. My mind only wandered off to nipples like two minutes out of 10. Other than that, great focus. The Outlaws: They're not that hard to remember. Just think of cowboys being out west. And reaching for their gun from the top. But there's no precedent for Aristocrats being on the bottom. And that's killing me. That little butler dude, or maybe he's the effeminate "master" of the house, would he be on the bottom? Maybe so. His wife probably tells him when to get up and which shorts to wear! He looks like the type! But I can't think that way. He's just a symbol for a murderous gang.

Now, looking to the east. El Conquistadors, which is a real mouthful, and too bad they didn't come up with a simpler name, they're what you call your Ethnics, folks of a different division of the human species, not quite normal. Unfortunately, they're also into crime, so they've carved out their own turf. I'm going to memorize them for sure, believe me, because I've suddenly got a desire to take them out first. That turf would look great under my own belt. My house is actually in that area, and if I can't annex, dominate, and exploit my own side of town, then I may as well hang it up. I'll send them packing back to whatever land they came from, down south somewhere. Wow, thinking about it like that, I've already got the El Conquistadors part of the map memorized!

It's the others I have to work harder on, since I haven't got that personal a stake in it. The Ciggies up north. Of course they also start with C, which only gets me so far. The industrial section of town is in their area, so if I associate smokestacks with cigarette smoke, that's probably the memory device that will help me get it down. Big smoke, little smoke. I'll put it in Freudian terms, they've got these big phallic things sticking up from their turf. And they go around with little phallic things hanging from their mouth. Sucking and blowing, blowing and sucking. Now that I think of it, I think I met a Ciggie gang member in a restroom the other day. He said he was going to roll his cigarette in the bathroom because it was cold out! He had a big can of tobacco, then he licked the paper and rolled it. So he's into licking as well as sucking and blowing. These guys may be worth keeping an eye on.

I'm reviewing. I think I about have it. Central, that's me, the nipple area, the aureole district. The Old West, where the Outlaws always are. Aristocrats, they're the other vowel, with an effeminate butler dude on the bottom in his relationships. Conquistadors are known for living down south. And Ciggies and smokestacks go together. So it's O, A // S // C, C.

If I can't get this firmly in mind, I don't see any hope for survival.

The Imaginary Stud -- What's In A Name?

So the Imaginary Stud was beaten to a pulp and his two front teeth knocked out, and of course he was upset. But I used some of my great people skills to calm him down and send him home to find a comfy chair and settle in with a good book. I told him I'd come check on him.

When I got there earlier this morning, he was stretched out on the floor. The blanket was half on him and stretched to the chair. On the nightstand I saw evidence that he had been trying to drown his sorrows with a half can of beer. How sad. He looked every bit a dead man, the illusion only broken by his rough snoring and violent thrashing about. He was obviously reliving the experience of the deranged sister and wild bulls who had put him in this sorry state.

I shook him and gently called his name. He came up fighting, swinging his fists, and had a hard time breaking the dream's hold. But he finally realized it was me and settled down. "What time is it?" he asked, provoking me to mercifully relieve his curiosity as to the hour of the day by glancing at my cellphone and faithfully conveying the information back to his wondering mind.

He got up, went to the bathroom, did his personal cleansing rituals, then came back and went into a whole yoga/exercise regimen he follows. But before that, he tossed me a "Composition" notebook that he uses to keep track of his dates. He motioned me to open it, which I immediately saw was his way of convincing me that everything he says about his conquests is true.

Indeed, it appears that maybe he really is the father of a very large number of children in the community, assuming the notebook itself isn't part of the ruse. Until I know for sure, I will continue to refer to him as the Imaginary Stud.

He kept the yoga exercises going, bringing his hands together, dangling his foot, breathing in/breathing out, and stretching as I quizzed him on some of the names.

CARMEN -- "She definitely sounds hot," I said. Carmen is a fiery name. I'm sure she was with him every step of the way, a gal who could keep up and give as good as she got! If she had red hair, I wouldn't be surprised. And if she did, I'm sure she had everything that goes along with it! He gave me a gesture that said, "I'm not that good at names, but you're probably right." The two scratch marks indicated twins.

KAYLA -- She sounds like a handful, just going by the name. I'm thinking of kiss, ecstasy, la-la land, and climbing the walls, Kayla clawing his back, Kayla calling out for more, more, more. "Where do you find these chicks?" I asked with a laugh. He kept up the yoga, only gesturing as if to say, "It's really nothing, dime a dozen." There was only one scratch mark, so that'd be a litter of one.

ESTHER -- I'm thinking, Esther? "Come on, you gotta be kidding!" I said. And yet, I got a hold of myself, names aren't everything. She wasn't responsible for her own name. If he had her in the notebook, she must have somehow raised herself above the limitations immediately suggested by her name. I started thinking, maybe he's not kidding me, because what's the chances of him putting "Esther?" If it were all a scam, surely he would've come up with something a little sexier, like Mildred. Be that as it may, there were three scratch marks, so at least she was fertile. Traditional girl from some little village, her first date, stoved up with eggs.

TAWNY -- OK, Tawny, now we're back on good soil. I can well imagine him meeting and sweet-talking a stripper into submission. Of course they can be the toughest cookies to crack, having had all kinds of bad experiences with the male race. But a charmer -- whose charm is real and doesn't quit -- is all it'd really take. And a sweet promise: "I'll take you away from this life and share with you my riches." She'd fall into his arms. Then a quick trip back to her place at the Pine Cone Motel, a roll in the hay, and an angry goodbye. She was good for a single scratch mark, a single kid to keep in the dressing room, sucking his pacifier while Mom grinds out another set.

I thumbed through the book, estimating there had to be at least a hundred names. But his exercises only took 15 minutes, then he needed to get out, see the dentist about a couple of implants, and perhaps work in one or two seductions before lunch.

Fahoup Fahep Fitzguh

"This is the Randy Track Show, and I'm your host, Randy Track, and today we're welcoming Larry Stine to our studio, from the group Fahoup Fahep Fitzguh. They're in town, and they've got a really big show tonight at The Unmentionable. What time is it?"

"Uh, I think it's 9 o'clock. We'll be rehearsing before that, no doubt. And a couple of our 'roadies' will be setting up the speakers and all that stuff so we can put on the best show we can give for the money."

"So it's 9 o'clock, huh?"

"Something like that, yes, I believe so."

"OK, we're going to be playing a little bit of Fitzguh coming up here, since you have an album or two out."

"That's right, each of our albums has several 'cuts,' or musical selections, all played in our own distinctive style, according to the genre that comes natural to us. And if you play a few of those, whatever time allows for, it might gin up some support for us, with more people then hopefully coming out for the show."

"Sure, Larry, our listeners are very keen on your group and your music, so believe you me, I'm sure there will be quite a few warm bodies in attendance tonight, each one grooving to your great sound. You have a drummer, right? And he's well practiced?"

"We do have a drummer. Exactly how much he has to practice, that's a matter for him to decide. As for me, you probably know I play the six-string guitar."

"Of course. Anyway, Larry, welcome again. I wanted to ask you as my first question how you guys got the name Fahoup Fahep Fitzguh? It's quite a mouthful, causing a lot of us in radio -- and I think a lot of your fans do the same thing -- to shorten it to just Fitzguh."

"Ha, ha, we knew that would happen. We could've called ourselves The 3 Fs, but, I don't know, there's reasons why we went with the name we have."

"OK, that's what we want to get to..."

"OK ... A few years ago my wife -- my old lady -- and I, my old lady and me, were doing all this spittin' and sputterin', just on a lark, trying to 'one up' each other with it. Imagine it if you had Sylvester the Cat just going into this whole routine of being amazed about everything and not being able to get an actual word out. He's just moving his lips and spitting. You can't even spell what it'd sound like: "Futz, fitz, splick, etc.," like that. Now multiply that out for like an hour or something! It's hilarious!"

"I see."

"Anyway, my old lady and me, we're talking it over later, and I'm like, 'How would you spell that?' And that's how we narrowed it down, or crystallized it as a short phrase, 'Fahoup, Fahep, Fitzguh!' It's been a long time, and my old lady -- my wife -- sometimes she thinks we had an extra 'Faheep' in there, but I know we didn't."

"Oh, LOL, that's very very funny! I've heard the story before, of course, and it gets to me every time. So thanks for running through the whole spiel again!"

"Ha ha, you're welcome. It cracks me up, too. I love telling the story, it's so great!"

"OK, I'm going to play one of your 'cuts,' and I'm going to say the whole name -- I hope I don't get too much spit on the mic! Here they are, Fahoup! Fahep! Fitzguh!

Merry Christmas To Random Names

I'm looking around for new ways to bless the lives of folks, since that's what I like to do at Christmas.

You've probably heard of me, even though I've never revealed, until now, what I'm known for. You remember hearing those stories every year about the anonymous guy who puts very valuable gold coins in the Salvation Army bucket? That's me. And I'll still be doing that, like always because I still get a thrill out of seeing the articles about me.

If they really wanted to catch me, they could. Surveillance video, DNA on the coins. But thankfully, so far no one has! 

But now I'm looking for other additional ways -- perhaps ways that aren't so expensive -- to be a blessing. Regular money's of course cheaper than gold. I could just drive along and throw money out the window. But if I did that, there'd be a crowd, the crowd would go ballistic, people would be shoving each other out of the way to get it, someone would be pushed in front of a car and killed. And, anyway, I've never liked the whole thing of handing out money to random people. It's appealing to something base in them. There's also articles about the guy who does that -- I know him -- and mostly he's just looking for someone to get hurt.

You have to be real careful about anything you do. Plus, if you want it to be an actual blessing, you have to look at it in context. By that I mean, if it's not money or it's not gold, it's anticlimactic, and no one really cares. Like if you hand out calendars ... everyone knows calendars are freebies everywhere, banks, barber shops, nursing homes. There's no glamor to them. So if I start handing out something less desirable than money, no one's going to appreciate it.

I've thought about it, and I'm thinking, what if I just wished Merry Christmas to random names. Meaning, names that are legitimate-sounding enough to actually be someone out there, but not names that are celebrity names. I do wish a Merry Christmas to Lady Gaga, whose actual name is (I'll look it up to get it right, even though I basically know it's something like Stephanie Germaniotta) Stefani Germanotta ... wow, I was darned close!

If I were to wish a Merry Christmas to celebrities ... you know what, I probably wouldn't get very far. I'm an old codger and I don't know the current breed of celebrities. There'd be Alex Trebek; I see him almost everyday. I think it's amazing how well Alex does at small talk on the show. He's never stumbling and bumbling, never tripping over his words, never saying anything inappropriate. Myself, I would look at some of the mousy people on there, and introduce them as today's sacrificial lamb, since you know they're not going to win. A couple days ago they had a guy on there who looked like the stereotypical lush at a wild party; if they'd put him in a bathrobe, you'd know him anywhere. I said he'd never make it, but he gave the champ a good run for the money and almost won.

To wish Merry Christmas to celebrities, I'm the age that I'd wish Paul and Ringo Merry Christmas ... they're favorites. I don't know of many other celebrities I really like that much, but there has to be some. I love Drew Carey ... Drew Carey has to be the nicest guy on TV. So a big Merry Christmas to him.

Now, getting to the random non-celebrity names, and I need to say I'm not good at making up names:

Merry Christmas to Nancy Grundy, Roscoe Jones, Ted Rath, Cyrus Paulson, Dan Griffin (there has to be a million of them), Adam Wagner, Priscilla Lopez, Wilma Theramin, Missy Critchett, Duff Dorfman, Walt Plantain, Quincy Cobb, and Linda Zuckerman.

I don't know anyone personally by any of those names. But Merry Christmas to each one and also to you. It's coming up. I hope you've been good, so Santa won't overlook you!

The Mule Stands Alone

From my post yesterday, one sentence stands out and has been screaming in my mind ever since I hit the ENTER button:

So the mule exists by itself and dies alone after its servitude.

That's right, the mule stands alone. Which is what Lemuel is in his own home. I'm not big on names but look at his name, "Lemuel," which could be easily split as "Le muel." Then it's just a matter of flipping the EL and you got the exact animal. Hush my mouth.

And I like to think more highly of myself. But what do Peru and Lemaperu think of me? What do they see when they look at me? I'm unmarried, middle aged, no prospects, living with a widowed grandmother. I'll tell you. They see a mule in servitude, existing by itself and prepared to die alone.

Now -- go with me here -- what if the entire Grange Brotherhood is just a proud facade? What if the brothers are simply a barren of serving mules, keeping some level of pride by running around the countryside spying from every tree, when in actual fact there's a Grange Sisterhood pulling the strings?

Well, the answer is, I'd say, What is is. If that's what's going on, the rest of us would have to adapt, assuming they've fought it out over the years and are considering the matter for the most part resolved. Maybe this is why Grandpa dropped out, too much testosterone to stand it. And yet, and yet...

I'm racking my childhood memories and not coming up with much. He died first. Grandma lives on in a kind of perpetual existence. He worked hard and brought home the bacon. That's what a mule does. He took care of a lot of the heavy maintenance stuff around the house. Like a mule. In fact, now that I look back, every chore that you'd give over to a mule, if mules could do chores, seems like it was Grandpa's to do! Then he finally died ... after this dumb servitude.

Excuse me a minute. ... I creeped over by Grandma's room to make sure she wasn't up and talking on a radio. Everything seemed normal. She's sleeping. At 104 there's no way she's doing a whole spy thing on me. Surely not. The Sisterhood can't be depending on her for information.

So where does all this leave me? I think things are pretty much the same. I need to just go with the flow. It does knock down the whole idea of the glory of one day being the head of the Grange Brotherhood, which might still be a decent, honorary thing to do. But if the Sisterhood has a place for me in their service, there could be something good in that too. One thing they still need us for, I hope, is our service in reproduction. Which, I understand, brings with it some rewards.

But as for Lemaperu and sweeping her off her feet and romancing her, all those dreams I had -- she's a big gal, she'll probably sweep me off my feet. And as for romance, if she's as hardhearted as I'm starting to think, she'll have a whole biology lab with her. Checking my temperature, her temperature, charting our cycles, when you plant things by the light of the moon, sex almanacs, various horse manuals extrapolated for use among our own species, etc.

Then at just the right moment, by the light of the full moon, my head silhouetted against the moon, I'll let out a bray of victory, several sisters will appear, throw a bucket of cold water on me, and I'll be immediately kicked out of the room.

But an actual mule doesn't care. As long as he has something to chew on, some hay, and a warm barn to bed down in. They just go with the flow.