Karima Vargas Bushnell's Blog, page 3

Fatty’s Mysterious Illness! The Lumpkin Diaries Part 2

9/19/14   Weather variable, date whatever. Dear Diary, only in your kindly pages would I disclose what I am about to say. So glad I have you to talk to, Diary! Okay, here it is: Though I am a most dominant and daring cat in the areas of food-stealing and sneaking outdoors – an example for all cats to follow – for some reason sleeping spaces are different. My brother Venchy is pulling his ‘corporate takeover’ again. He sits on the strategic corner of the big bed at night and tells me, “Karima is MY mommy, NOT your mommy! You can’t be in here, you have to go away!” And to my shame, I do. I skulk away and sit at the bottom of the stairs wearing my sad-old-man face. If Karima figures out this has happened, she comes and gets me, but still . . . Diary, I’m so glad I have you to confide in, as I would not want anyone else to know. – F. Lumpkin (a.k.a. Benjamin Felinus)

5/24/15   Editor’s Note:  What follows was evidently written to his friend Radar, Turkish-born International Diplocat of Mystery.

Many happy returns of the day, Good Sir!

I must unburden my heart to you regarding a Certain Matter: My brother Venchy Cat is getting all the attention! They are always fussing over him, and he gets pills, subcutaneous water, special food . . . Do I get any of these things? No! It puts me in mind of the Biblical quote where somebody complained to his father, “You never gave ME a fatted calf that I might make merry with my friends!” No, they didn’t. They did not even give me a chicken wing.

Yours, with kind regards but in some disgruntlement, F.  Lumpkin

Editor’s Note: Be careful what you wish for!!!

Karima’s Note: Believe me, Lumpkin, you wouldn’t like it if you had it!

_____

7/25/15   Dears, Fatty Lumpkin has some kind of crazy brain/neurological thing and is at the University veterinary hospital right now (went in last night) with an M.R.I. scheduled for 1:00 p.m. He’s as nice and wonderful a cat who ever lived – your prayers and good thoughts would be much appreciated. My impression is that this could go either way.

Editor’s Note: The next two days were terrifying for those who loved Fatty Lumpkin. He not only stopped eating, but spend time sitting in a corner staring blankly at the wall, did not respond to any overture from us or the other cats, and was totally without affect. A creature less like the loving, witty, self-determined, and adventurous cat we knew could not be imagined! A vet at University of Minnesota emergency who did not know him asked, “Is this cat normally unengaged?” (We were torn between outrage and hysterical laughter.) But Dear Reader, we will not prolong your agony of suspense. (Well, okay, it might not be that bad because most of you didn’t know him, but surely you’re getting a sense of him by this time — we assure you that everything in this Diary is entirely in accord with his actions and behavior.)

______

7/26/15   Editor’s Note: Fatty Lumpkin is okay!! Long story, but we had to run to the U of M emergency vet again last night. He had oxygen, stayed over, and is now absolutely back to his normal self — loving, feisty and brilliant. They’re baffled. He apparently poisoned himself somehow, but we may never know what it was.

8/29/15   Editor’s Note: Fatty Lumpkin ate something!!!!!

I drove to the Dances of Universal Peace retreat at 4:00 this morning (Note to self: don’t do that, you can’t see signs in the dark), came home and petted him on the porch swing for about 20 minutes. His red, toast, and marshmallow-colored fur was so beautiful in the sun, and his neck fur glistened like metallic gold, it really did. And then he ate almost a whole slice of roast turkey. *The Cat Who Forgot How to Eat* may have a happy ending after all.

Undated Editor’s Note: Fatty had a terrible relapse without the loss of affect, but with a complete inability to eat or drink, as though he had forgotten even how to lap water. He did learn to signal us when he was thirsty. (By a look in the eyes? Some sound or movement? Writing this years later, I forget how he communicated, but it was the equivalent of a paralyzed patient ‘talking’ by twitching one eye lid.)  But read on . . .

____

The Lumpkin Diaries Resume.

9/10/15, 900 hours.  Latitude diffuse, weather variable. Tonight I awakened from a dazed state (possibly induced by some plot on the part of the humans). I had vague memories of being fed turkey baby food through a syringe and believe this had continued for several weeks or months. In front of me on the bed was a plate of Mother’s taco fixings, including some browned ground turkey, of which Mother is fond. I ate it. She did not appear to notice, being absorbed in Grey’s Anatomy. To repeat, I ate it. It was almost too easy. — F. Lumpkin

10/07/15   “I still got it!” – Jimmy Durante. “Yeah, baby!” – Austin Powers. My Mommy came downstairs just now to make tea and found (a) the refrigerator door wide open, (b) a package of tomatoes upside down on the kitchen floor and (c) (Score!) A package of kosher beef hotdogs on the dining room rug. Slightly opened and eaten, bearing evidence of “tooth and claw”. And I looked at her with such innocent eyes! – Yours truly, F. Lumpkin

TO BE CONTINUED

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So Glad “Black” is Back!

This is written from Minneapolis, city of George Floyd’s murder, where I live. It’s the site of a shameful, inexcusable crime by men who were sworn to protect, and it wasn’t our first unjustified police killing of a Black person by any means. But it’s also a birthplace of hope, amid all the suffering and uproar, because from here an uncompromising new justice movement has begun and continues to reach around the world. And while the news that Black people are regularly murdered by police was no surprise to most within that demographic, it has finally dawned on a whole bunch of White people who were either completely oblivious or just didn’t consider racist police murders a featured item on the current menu of disasters.

I’m a words buff, and since the killing, I’ve seen a pleasing change in the American lexicon. Have you noticed that “Black” is back? With the capital letter? I’ve been stubbornly using this for decades, though rarely seeing anyone else use it, at least in mainstream media. If you’re old enough, you may have watched the polite and standard U.S. word for descendants of Africans change from “negro” (at a time when “black” was considered insulting) to “colored” to “Black” to “Afro-American” to “African American” to “black” without the cap, and sometimes to “people of color,” while “colored people” remained offensive. (I kind of liked “Afro-American” but some folks decided it “sounded like a hairdo,” so out it went.) 

As a 60s/70’s person, I associate capital-B-Black with the Black Pride movement, the sweet-sounding slogan, “Black is Beautiful,” and the James Brown song “Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud”. (“We’d rather die on our feet than keep livin’ on our knees.”) It also evokes, for me, heroes from W.E.B. DuBois to Marcus Garvey to Malcolm X (El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz), a whole slew of writers, and some great movies that came later but had a similar spirit, including three master works of history, sociology, and the human heart: John Singleton’s thoughtful Higher Learning and Boyz n’ the Hood and Spike Lee’s towering epic Do the Right Thing. (To this I must add three more which make serious points mainly with humor: Brother from Another Planet, BlacKkKlansman, and Get Out.)

My only problem with capital-B-Black is that, as a fussy amateur grammarian, I have to resolve the equivalence issue: If I’m gonna write “Black,” I should right “White,” at least if they occur in the same paragraph. But for the rest of this discussion, I won’t. Looking at the nightmarish things Black people have suffered, from the constant drip of micro-aggressions and insults to across-the-board denial of opportunity, from the school-to-prison pipeline and the historical and ongoing theft of their labor to false imprisonment, murder, and torture, I think Black people should get the effing capital letter and white people can just do without it. (One of the saddest things I ever read was a scene from a James Baldwin book — The Fire Next Time? — or possibly Langston Hughes or Richard Wright, where a white man smashes a Black teen’s new bicycle with the comment, “Aint no n-word gonna have a bike that’s better’n mine!” The continuing random attacks, as well as the systemic abuse, are cruel, wasteful, heartbreaking, and just abysmally stupid.)

It’s astounding that Black individuals and cultures in the U.S have survived at all, let alone frequently thrived and triumphed, in the face of the pervasive gaslighting. Because the constant message for centuries has been, “You are suffering and dying because you are unworthy, not because my knee is on your neck.” And this is a lie, like beating someone till they bleed, kicking them into a muddy gutter, and then despising them for being dirty. The situation can be summed up in three phrases, now familiar to many around the world. “Eight minutes and forty-six seconds,” the time Mr. Floyd was held down. His last words, “I can’t breathe,” which eerily echoed the dying words of police victim Eric Garner. And Rev. Al Sharpton’s repeated variations on,”Get your knee off our necks.” At this moment, these things are still happening, the suffering continues. But will this be the beginning of a fundamental change? Are we finally waking up?

 

 

 

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Cat Attorney Self-Discloses: The Lumpkin Diaries Begin!

If you know The Book of Squidly Light, you may know that the Cat Fatty Lumpkin is on record as lamenting his regrettable Lack of Thumbs, and you may also know that Another Character has been privileged to read his diary. Almost no one else has seen it! However, due to the apocalypsish peculiarities of this time in history, new publishing realities, and the prevalence of zombies — well, we only know of one, but he is pretty frickin’ prevalent — we are herewith, heretofore, and hereby resolving that The Lumpkin Diaries will be published as part of this blog, in serial form. (Just like Dickens!) The adventures recounted here happened in real life, exactly as described.

Fatty began his diary out of frustration at becoming an indoor cat, though in a larger house with fine window access. While Karima (a.k.a. Mother) regretted his distress, it was really just too dangerous out there, both to Fatty and to various birds and one chipmunk! A beloved elderly neighbor used to inquire hopefully whether he was still alive (hoping not, as he made a habit of sitting under her bird feeder). But Fatty had the last laugh: He outlived her.

The Lumpkin Diaries Part One: The Daring Raids

11/10/13

The Lumpkin Diaries, 13:00, 10.11 hours, weather cold, no wind. Successful raid on highest cupboard last night. Technique has improved: was able to dine in place without knocking 17.6-lb bag of catfood to floor. Mother’s attempt to close bag with chip-clip unsuccessful. We are gaining and collating new knowledge all the time. F.Y.I., Radar Love Felinestein*

12/13/13

Radar Love Felinestein, this is Fatty Lumpkin. You asked me quite a while ago how to get into the refrigerator. Please excuse the discourtesy of such a delayed reply. The procedure is simple. You simply insert your paw in the crack under the door or, alternatively, your nose in the crack between the fridge and freezer, and pull or push. (This method may also be applied to cabinet doors with good effect.) Even if your fridge doors are too tight for this, the humans are sometimes careless and close them imperfectly. You can make a patrol several times a day to see if this has happened. I do. Finally, none of this will avail if The Red Chair of Death has been placed in front of the fridge. But you can sit on it while contemplating your next move. A word of cheer: The humans always slip up eventually; I got some turkey the other night.

Undated.

Weather cloudy, wind indeterminate. The humans made a turkey in a roasting pan, placing the leftovers in the refrigerator, and Mother put the Red Chair of Death against the fridge door, making entry impossible. But that was where they made their mistake. She washed the roasting pan, then left it on the Red Chair for some taller person to return to the high shelf. And I went and sat in it! Guess I scotched that little plan! (At least she had to wash it again to pay for all my trouble.)

8/28/14

I snagged most of a free range salami for myself and my brothers from the fridge this morning. We did not appear for breakfast, as we did not require any little kibble bits. – F. Lumpkin

9/8/14

The Lumpkin Diaries, 13:00. Declined invitation to breakfast. Mom: I know I put the chair back in front of the fridge!” Dad: “Yeah, while you were away he learned to move the chair — I put two chairs now.” 1/2 order roast turkey, dressing, mashed potato, gravy. Also 1/2 steak and fried onions. Tasted nice. – F. Lumpkin

TO BE CONTINUED

 

*This International Cat of Mystery was Fatty’s closest online companion during their time on earth and plays an intimate, though physically distant, part in his adventures.

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So the Squid are Telepathic? And They Apologize to Shrimp??

TechieSquid had finished The Prayer of Profound Apology to Our Brothers, the Shrimp, made necessary by his careless mental use of the derogatory word “shrimpy”. Unaddressed, such thoughtlessness could affect the sleeping minds nearby and create ripples of diplomatic unease throughout the multiverse. This done, he was waiting for the returning crew members.

His current assignment was to think about the Squidly Prayers, Practices, and Ceremonies and seek for new insights. The Shrimp-Prayer was one of the very targeted, detailed ones, designed for a specific situation. The Prayer of Profound Apology to Our Brothers, the Plankton, for instance, would not have done at all! Other prayers were more general and adaptable in nature, such as The Prayer of Kind Intention, which could be used almost anywhere. This was important, as one never knew what the various intergalactic and cross-dimensional aliens would be up to, and one had to be ready.

It was only since studying the Eartheans that TechieSquid had begun to think some of his own people’s customs rather odd. It had never occurred to him before. Most Earthean religions and cultures, like his own, were aware of The One Without A Second and also of The Braided Thread in various forms. And they were aware of the Major Laws, which were apparently common to all sentient beings, though the formulation of who was “People” and who was “Food” varied tremendously and had even given rise to a galaxy-wide talent contest for the admission of new species into the Community of Sentient Beings.*

On the other hand, some of the Squidly customs seemed unique, such as the Rules for Typing and Crossing Out**. In working with a tentacle-written list, it was necessary to cross out completed items with a wavy line, never a crude straight line or, even worse, a series of horizontal slashes or scribbles. This was especially important if a living being was concerned. The graceful wave did honor to the being or item and endorsed its continued existence in some other form, rather than contemptuously destroying it when it had fulfilled some self-serving purpose on the part of the list-maker. TechieSquid automatically shuddered at this blasphemy.

Or take the matter of correcting an error while typing. If one mistakenly typed a word twice and had to delete one of them, it was required to preserve the one typed first. Precedence counted here, and the senior word must be allowed to survive. Nowadays only the more old-fashioned and conventional felt the need to make a Prayer of Apology for a deleted word or letter, and TechieSquid, a modern young fellow, did not do this, but he always felt a twinge of guilt and anxiety in omitting it, wondering what his grandmother would say.

 

*See Space Opera by Catherynne M. Valente

**Obviously, “typing” is a very imperfect translation of what they actually did.

 

 

 

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My Walrus Baptism

Baptized by a walrus, snuffled by an elephant . . . and don’t get me started on parrots!

If you’ve read The Book of Squidly Light or The Life and Times of Halycon Sage, you might know that I love animals. And earlier in life, spaced decades apart, I had sudden hilarious blessings from two enormous creatures of land and sea.

Sea World in California, circa 1997, a hot, gorgeous summer day. Our family — myself, John Hakim and the kids, then about seven and nine — attended a live melodrama acted out by marine animals. Seated on outdoor bleachers facing a large pool backed by a stage, the audience enjoyed a cheesy, tongue-in-cheek performance. I mean, you know how melodrama is anyway, now picture it with marine mammals. Most of the actors were seals, lively and hamming it up as seals do. The narrator was human. The story was an old-mansion mystery. Large and centrally placed on the backdrop was a gorgeously framed portrait of “Uncle Shmedly,” a walrus. As the play unfolded, seals sat here and there in the opulent living room, crossed the stage with signs, wore top hats or maybe a diamond necklace. I have a vague memory of one pulling a wagon. There might have been a big, waddling sea bird as well. The whole thing was quite funny.

At the climax of the drama, the narrator proclaimed, “Uncle Shmedly!” and a magnificent walrus entered, stage right. This creature was ENORMOUS. After watching the seals, our eyes had to readjust, like an astronomer turning his astonished gaze from Mercury to Jupiter. We were seated down front, in the second row. I was dead center. Uncle Shmedly — whom we later learned was a female walrus — sank beneath the water, slow and deliberate like a mountain sinking into the earth. She rose again with equal majesty, slapping two flippers emphatically on either side of her great body. Then she raised her magnificent head, opened her mouth, and blew about a bathtub full of water all over me. It went on for a while, everyone laughing hysterically because it was so unexpected. Little kids in front shrieked and jumped, trying to get into the spray, and people on either side of me caught a bit of it. But I, soaked to the skin, clothes and hair dripping, was that day’s lucky winner.

Sparks, Nevada (right next to Reno), circa 1963, the Golden Nugget Casino. They used to have two performing elephants there, Bertha and Tina, and you could see them at the dinner show. (Bertha was full grown, Tina was a baby.) Mom and Dad and I were there, and this being the Old Days, I wore a fancy kid-dress with a carnation corsage. Dad knew the owner — he usually did — and after dinner, as a special treat, we got to go up and meet the elephants. Enraptured, I held out my hand to meet a snuffly elephant nose. The huge rubbery trunk waved around my face and shoulders, so impossibly close and strange, and so alive. I was a touch afraid, but much more delighted and intrigued. And then she ate my corsage, right off the front of my dress. I stood still to help her. While the walrus was scripted, the elephant was spontaneous.  And apologies, pachy-ladies, I don’t remember now which one of you it was, because after a certain point, Tina grew up and she was big too.

There, that’s it. Don’t get me started on parrots.

 

 

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No-Name Stupid Does Not Speak

I’m not going to say anything. As you should probably know at your age, horses don’t talk. (Not meaning to seem condescending . . .)

Now if you were an eight-foot-tall sparkling alien Squid with really nice manners, it would be different, because they can talk and listen with their thoughts, and of course I do those things too. (They also appreciate poetry. See my short free-verse poem, “Resourceful Horse”, in The Book of Squidly Light.)

Horses over the millenia have sometimes tried to establish communication with humans, but this has largely been a failure.

Swift-as-the-Wind, reputedly a roan mare, painted horses on some cave walls in the Pyrenees mountains, and you have no idea how tough that must have been, biting off bits of leaves and berries, digging out roots, crushing them with hooves or crunching them with teeth, carrying and spitting out a mouth full of water, and mixing the resulting mess into a kind of ‘paint’. Hooves are not meant for this kind of work, believe me. And of course the actual application of the coloring to the walls was even trickier, doubtless done with the sensitive horselips*.

And what was the result of all her labors? The humans thought they had done it themselves, that’s what! And they think so to this day.

Someone else even further back in Eohippus days tried banging out a kind of morse code on a rock with his hoof, but the humans just thought there was something wrong with him. (By the way, this history is how I know about morse code; when the humans finally got around to inventing it, it was rediscovered by horsekind.  Again, see my poem “Resourceful Horse” in The Book of Squidly Light.)

Of course some humans, such as my friends Sage and Ruby, do have a knack for communicating with us, Ruby in particular. But I’m afraid this is intrinsic and cannot be learned.

So no, sorry very much, I will not be speaking to you today. But you did give me an idea for a new poem, so I hereby express my profound appreciation.

 

*BASE VASSELSCHNAUZER: One shudders to think how it must have tasted.

NO-NAME STUPID: Thank you, Basel. That’s very sensitive of you.

NOTE FROM IMAGINARY AUTHOR Karima Vargas Bushnell, “If you can name the excellent fantasy book containing the roan mare Swift-as-the-Wind, I have forgotten it. Please access any inter-dimensional hole into the alternate universe (hollow tree, wardrobe, wall, doesn’t matter) and your note will reach me. Many thanks!”

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A Super Villain Speaks

I am a person of extraordinary abilities, and I have always known this. No ordinary mind could have seen, even as a child, through the delusionally sentimental fog of optimism, romance, love of family, devotion to ‘god’, self-help, artistic ideals and other such drivel. No ordinary mind could have gone on to produce such masterpieces as The Black Gray Dark, Decay, and I’m Fabulous: You’re a Necrotic Collection of Worm Food.

There are those who would challenge my supremacy. A once-respected literary critic, now experiencing reversals of fortune and chasing a chimera, has had the infernal impudence to ignore me, pretending to be unaware of my great work, and even speaking rudely to my face. The one he seeks, a so-called writer bearing the absurd name of Halycon Sage, has also unconvincingly pretended not to know of me. Nonsense! The whole world knows my name!

These two may be slightly more intelligent than the great mass of the unwashed, but the difference is equivalent to the difference between a microbe and a Lyme tick. Neither is worthy of my attention. This Sage has had the disrespect to ignore me, never mentioning me in print or even verbally, as far as I know. But he shall pay! They shall all pay! Mwaa haa haa haa! Er . . . excuse me.

While some of my plans may have met with temporary set-backs, I am not through and am forming new alliances and partnerships, though these alliances will last only so long as they serve my interests. All these peasants are dispensable. As for a certain horse, who may believe he has foiled my great plan — or would if horses were not too stupid to think  — well, I shall deal with him too, and not gently!

_____

EDITORS’ NOTE: Ugh!!! We apologize heartily for subjecting your sensitive eyes and delicate, discerning minds to such a revolting manifesto as the above. But some on our editorial board argue that it is better to know what this repulsive individual is up to than to stick our noses in the air and remain ignorant.

BASEL VASSELSCHNAUZER: I profoundly disagree.

HALYCON SAGE: Who?

F. ATTY. LUMPKIN, ESQ: Let the record reflect that I also disagree. And if he were here, I would bite him.

 

 

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Literary Lion Sinks to Unspeakable Depths!

“Basel Vasselschnauzer, literary critic extraordinaire, had become a floor sitter!”

Now, we don’t usually share quotes from The Chronicles of Halycon Sage, but someone recently inquired how Basel Vasselschnauzer, surely the most dignified man on the planet, had come down to this. An even better question might be, “Why does it matter and who the hell cares? I sit on the floor all the time!” Yes, Dear Reader, so do I, but you and I are not Basel Vasselschnauzer! So, having compassion for this concerned reader’s burning question, we’re giving you a special little peek into the whys and wherefores. (Apologies for a mild profanity in the first paragraph. While we deplore this kind of language, it is what the editor said, and we must report it truthfully.)

* * *

“A terrible thing had happened to Basel Vasselschnauzer: his editor had told him to get up off his ass and go out and do some research. No one had ever talked to Basel Vasselschnauzer in this way, fearing the scattershot malice of his tongue and pen. But now he had brought it on himself by making up one too many interviews, this time with a lion-maned author of undoubted integrity who hotly denied ever speaking with him.

People did not confront Vasselschnauzer for his irresponsible behavior because they feared him. He was a loose cannon that might strike anywhere on the slightest provocation, and he circulated his barbed comments widely in the bars and cafes that mattered, where they were picked up by gleeful gossip columnists. But for once the editor was too angry to care.

For the first time in years, Vasselschnauzer had to leave the luxurious apartment where he wrote his column, that cocoon of safety, that idyllic place of green silk cushions, black marble pillars and well-stocked bar. While he did not need money, he did need the column, which enabled him to keep up the pretense that he was doing something. And, as if all this weren’t bad enough, he was supposed to go and find Halycon Sage. Sure. Catch the wind in a butterfly net. Bring home some starlight in a little glass jar. Go find Halycon Sage.”

Time passes . . .

“Basel Vasselschnauzer wanted to go home. He was tired of the grubby motel in the southwestern city, tired of sitting in unfamiliar bars and restaurants as he traveled the wastelands beyond New Jersey, tired of talking to people who were neither friends nor enemies. And he had a small blister on his little toe. Such a thing had never happened before. Surely this above all demonstrated the sincerity and longevity of his effort to find Halycon Sage. Surely no more could be asked of any civilized man.”

 But to find out more, you will need to read the book. And possibly also the second book, The Book of Squidly Light. From all of us here at Squid Central, good night and good luck.

 

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Alien Time Travel Scandal Spins Out of Control!

As a young alien Squid remarked recently, there’s always more to say about any topic. Anything at all can be explored into infinite depth. Everything is a hologram, containing copies and images of itself down to and beyond the microscopic level so that, with the proper attitude and equipment, one could spend a lifetime studying the left hind leg of a tiny ant. (If you don’t believe me, look at Appendix B of The Book of Squidly Light where aspiring academic Sophie McGregor analyzes Halycon Sage’s two-sentence novel Hat! for three-and-a-half pages.)

There are reasons why Sage wanted to palm off the aliens’ desire for the whole story with the ten-word tabloid headline, “Breaking news!! Alien time travel scandal spins out of control!”  He tried this sort of nonsense again later, answering a polite request for a summary with this little gem: “The Book of Squidly Light. Contains everything. Coming soon.” Needless to say, we, his Editors, did not tolerate this. (To see what happened, click here.)

If Sage had known he would have to write a 248-page novel, he would have jumped right back on No-Name Stupid and galloped out over the horizon into the trackless desert! Fortunately for us all, he did not know, and the Squidren did not let him get away with this. Nor did we, your faithful friends

— The Editors

 

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Two Worlds Meet: Hand Shakes Tentacle

SQUID: You ask what was I thinking during that historic first meeting? Well, it could have been historic, but for the conduct of the Eartheans later that same minor-sun-cycle. As it turned out, it’s a wonder we even . . . but I have been instructed not to say too much.

Erhmmmm (untranslatable throat-clearing noise, also difficult to explain because the Squidren do not exactly have throats). Why don’t you ask my colleague here, this Hoo-man with the singularly appropriate and melodious name?

MODERATORS: We must tell you that Alexander Preisczech’s English comes and goes when he is busy, tired, excited or upset. Evidently he is taking this conversation personally, probably because the sensitive issue of his name has arisen.

HUMAN: Excuse please, I am not understanding instruction. Prompter said, “Why is his (presumably my) name so long and crazy?” I am not understand this criticism. Long, yes. For ceremonial occasion, ceremonial name is required, not Shorty, Fatty or Biff. So, not Alex — dignified, yes, but not long enough.

Even Alexander Lazlo Preisczech —  is finally safe to reveal my legal name, since is no more law, government all that stuff that used to follow me around. Even that fine name is not dignified enough for the meeting of two worlds. So, name is not long, name is appropriate!

So, that is that, but crazy? Crazy? My friend, if you had been followed everywhere, your name bellowed out in every supermarket, even posted in huge letters in a chain department store, you are the one would be crazy. This is why I needed to be clever, like secret agent, and assume new name. Yes, several new names. Motorcycle gang from Dirty Dog Bar (now Somebody’s Juice Bar) used to laugh hard when I came in with new name! Was very humiliating! But they explain to me that Flint Stone did not sound like cool spy, sounded like cartoon character.

MODERATOR: Thank you, Mr. Preicsczech. Now, Commander K–

HUMAN: Don’t say his name!

SQUID: Don’t say my name*!

HUMAN: Will spoil funny plot point in story.

MODERATOR: Apologies. So, secondly I’m instructed to ask you: What did you Squidren think of Mr. Preisczech and the other humans when you first met them?

SQUID: Their good manners were appealing, despite their odd appearance. Four pathetic little limbs; something on top with fungus sprouting out of it which turned out to be a head; a dry, shimmerless surface — these things did not inspire confidence. But their welcoming silence and the way their Pope** stepped forward and gave his name after I had “broken the ice,” these things were very pleasing. And the final touch that convinced us, perhaps wrongly, that the Hoo-mans were the dominant species on Earth was the fine, elegant, and ceremonious name of my friend here, Doctor Alexander Flintstone Lazlo Buddy Macadamian Preisczech.

 

*HALYCON SAGE: “Say my name,” ha ha ha ha ha ha . . .

PREISCZECH: Forget it, my friend, television is over. No one will understand.

**Their Pope? What? Sorry, to find out, you’ll just have to read the book.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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