Week 575- Hey Man, are You Scripturient?

Sometime last year I became a recipient of “The Word of the Day.” I didn’t sign up for it, but I must have accidentally hit a link. Still, I’m glad to have it.

Obscure non-scientific words are usually that way because they are hard to spell or say or describe a highly specific thing of the past. I feel that day to day descriptive words become doomed when they have slipped to the fifth best choice as a synonym, and/or plain sound wonky (wonky is my fifth synonym for “lame”–two through four are anemic, gimp and faded).

But once every few weeks I will see a Word of the Day that appeals to me, one I would like to include in my vocabulary. Just today, “anserine,” which relates to the resemblance of anything to a Goose came aboard. And further back, sometime last year, “cantrip” entered my life and inspired a story. It is an auld Scottish word meaning witches’ spell or simply a trick. I liked how it resembled Catnip. Sometimes between cantrip and today “Scripturient” joined the team. It means a strong desire to write. (And no, I did not know it nor had I ever heard it before). But to keep these words in my vocabulary I needed to evict other words I detest and also develop mnemonics (that word was up during the holidays; I felt smart for already knowing it) to help me remember the new words until they take root. To date I’ve only come up with two–I’m still struggling to find something for the Goose term.

I am rather proud of my devices, although “cantrip on catnip” was a tap in. The second one fought back and almost escaped until I heard Jimi Hendrix sing “are you scripturient?” in my mind. Sometimes my mnemonic devices are inspired, usually they are lame through dorky. I require such memory devices because I do not take notes. I figure if there is a St. Peter up yonder, by and by, I can claim ignorance of the thisses and thats of entry, due to arthritic hands.

(I almost forgot to mention that the words I took to the bin to make room for the newcomers–although the third is pending its mnemonic. They are “brand,” “wordlessly” and “chuckle.” Brand is corporate, thus auto-hated, wordlessly is needless because all versions of silence are stronger, and chuckle annoys me–if a word had a face I would punch Chuckle’s.)

Regardless of the hits and misses, I like Word of the Day. Although I’d love to include Quisquous (“hard to deal with,” which feels familiar, like looking in a word mirror); Desuetude (“disuse”); Limerence (“infatuation”) and Solivagant (“solitary wanderer”) in my vocabulary, I know that there is a an annoyance limit in readers that precludes big-assed fancy speak. But asking a know it all (we all have at least one in our lives) “Are you scripturient?” to see if they will make a run for it can be entertainment in a quisquous way.

The contributors to another fine Week That Was possess superlative vocabularies. At least stating such allows me to segue from a topic that has run its course.

Dale Williams Barrigar returned with his latest Sunday Essay A True Story of Stories Literally. To be considered a person of unfeignedness, I must state that claiming his latest essay is new is a goddam lie. It got misplaced as items so often do. Yet whenever this fine piece (which modesty prevents much crowing on my part) is read is never a wasted when. Even though it has nothing to do with much else than itself, I feel the need to declare that Dale never messes up his grammar or offers a typo, in not only his work but in his comments. If I make it through a single paragraph without having to tend to the redlines, I feel I have accomplished something. Another admirable trait of DWB indeed.

Monday brought The Orange Sash by one of our most frequent contributors, Harrison Kim. I’ve stated it before, and must again, Harrison has a gift for locating the hidden meanings of life; he knows where the important things are, even though most of them are overlooked by other smart people due to seeming insignificance. It’s hard not to root for his MC’s even though most of them have been given a pretty good beat down by life.

Our much adored Hugh Cron (still, not without his enemies, because there are always plenty of fools who know how to read), returned for the second time in two weeks, which was his hundred-thirty-and-somethingth time over all (not to mention hundreds of weekly posts) with Chloe. Evil is a creative force. It adores new stuff, and social media is made for the fellow with the horns. Cloven-hoofed souls are smilers and the first sin is always free. It takes a minute for the heart of the story to sink in, and when it did, for me, I had to again give Satan his due. Oh, and a side note–I never mark the “like” function for Hugh’s work. Not that I do not, but I recall a delightful rant he once made against the function. So, if anyone should notice that, rest assured it is a sign of respect.

Fresh From Slaughtering Kittens is the latest work we have presented by James Hanna (in fact this week’s group has something between three-hundred-fifty and four hundred combined appearances). Do not let the title fool you–and it shouldn’t once you learn that it is about pro wrestling. James has hit a little gold mine with this genre and we strongly encourage you to check out his page for other items relating to the subject. (This story is an excerpt from Hanna’s novel Lights Out Lizzie. Although I’m not an advocate for what the Algonquin Round Table called “log rolling”–meaning touting each other’s works in print–I have a copy of the book and it is well worth the read.)

The Dancing Woman by Bradley J Collins ran on Thursday. Quite often we are overrun by submissions that involve the people who populate the streets throughout the world. Like dementia and deathbed tales, it requires something special to get one across. Bradley did that, he understood that for such a thing to work one must write about the micro events that take place all around. The Big View often comes off preachy and even shrill.

Egad, and there I was, back again, yesterday with A Castle For the Roller Derby Queen. By the time I reach Fridays in typical wraps, I have to work hard to write something fresh sounding. Not that it isn’t felt but because I insist on doing the thing all at one time, thus fatigue often creeps in. Ha! Since it is my work I can say nothing at all and move on to the list!

Our thanks to our writers and readers as always. I know it sounds trite, but really, it is true–we cannot do this without you!

The Latest Big List

I used to be in a band about a million years ago. There are cave dweller images of us carved into walls of the Dugout Tavern in the Callow district of Bremerton, Washington, USA, northern hemisphere, Earth, solar system, Milky Way, local cluster, Universe, Mind of God (saw “Our Town” again, a little while back). The building (still standing, but derelict) the late Dugout was in was built for sin. It contained a massage parlor that was not a front for prostitution but a cover for a long running and illegal card game called “Pan”, a Tattoo artist who sold crank and a little store that bought food stamps at fifty percent (forty until they were sure about you). Only the Dugout was what it claimed to be. A dive bar with, what I’ve been told, because I dared not peek, perhaps the nastiest men’s room this side of Trainspotting. It was the last place I ever drank at that had wooden “three-fer” chips–a buck fifty got you a ten ounce schooner and two chips. A fine financial wizardly since replaced by bitcoin and further cheap-skull thievery.

Our group had four set members: two women, two men and an occasional fifth, depending on whether he was in jail or not. He was twenty-five and had six children with four different mothers and was not really keen on paying child support. Only fools lent him money. We were supposed to be called Saragun (a word of my invention), but our bitch lead singer, Lucy (who hated my guts), kept calling us her vote “Spectre–with the r before the e.” She always said that “r before the e” like anyone gave a husky fuck. One night she didn’t stop until I hammered her a good one with an empty beer bottle (not that I’d waste alcohol on her) to her fat, fat butt (I was always throwing shit at Lucy–a mic stand once–for insulting my brother, which resulted in some jerk calling the police). I guess, I should ask you to consider that I was twenty-two, twenty-three at the time and not known for anger management (a shit term that pisses me off). I like to think that I’ve grown somewhat, but can still summon the fire to hurl the occasional inanimate object at fools.

Anyway, one little habit still exists forty years later. I’m still seeking the perfect band name. I think the Rolling Stones got the best one; although I like the Beatles better than the Stones, I think their name is, once again, lame through dorky sounding. We are just so used to it that it no longer matters.

I took up the task again earlier today, but since I do not take notes, I will now present the ones I recall plus some oldies and anything new that blossoms.

• Supreme Being There (definitely prog rock)
• Gilligan’s Penis (About fifty years too late for punk)
• Mule Cunt Mary (I figure if you can get a gig with that name, you are gold)
• Epstein’s List
• Cobain’s Brains
• The Alcoholic Crackhouse Devirginizers (The Ache-DeeVees for short; the name of a story over thirty years still in the story yard–still, stuff even older have been launched, with the perfunctory beer bottle bashed at the bow)
• The Registered Sex Offenders (close associates of number four)
• The Loon ’Toons of Allah and the Prophet (A dress up band like Kiss and Gwar; known for its frequent membership changes)
• Marilyn Monroeverdose
• 27 Club If (a sort of combination of the dead club and the Abby Road album cover)

Leila

I close close with a video I came across recently that I had long since forgotten. I’m glad I saw it.