Le Chat Noir Exposed is now available from Black Scat Books!

This extraordinary work of scholarship exposes the liveliest fin-de-siècle bohemian cabaret and paper in Paris. Le Chat Noir was a playground for painters, writers, poets, pranksters, and musicians, all gleefully demolishing the standards of art and good taste. Caroline Crépiat examines such eccentric personalities as Paul Verlaine, Alphonse Allais, Marie Krysinska, Maurice Mac-Nab, and Charles Cros, and analyzes their treatment of money, women, translation, humor, sex, disease, and scatology, with generous samplings of the original texts. A masterful look at a rich and colorful legend of the avant-garde! Translated by Doug Skinner and available from Black Scat Books!

In this univocalic story from The Snowman Three Doors Down, Ebenezer and Celeste have to decipher a coded message sent by the settlers. This may mean trouble for Fessenden. Here’s how it begins…

THE SECRET SENTENCE

Ebenezer’s beeper beeped.

He pressed the desk beeper; Celeste entered the belvedere.“Yes?” she beseeched.

He greeted her, petted the settee. She tested the red felt, settled her belted velveteen dress there, shed her checkered beret.

Ebenezer held three deckle-edged sheets. “The settlers sent these,” he wheezed.

Celeste clenched her teeth. “The repellent settlers,” she seethed. “The helpless bedwetters. The dregs.”

The Bethlehem Brethren nestled the settlement, Western Eden, between deserted fern-bedecked glens. There, the settlers kept bees, herded sheep, tended the cress beds, fed the geese, erected fences, swept the temple, mended the evergreen hedges. The men elected the eldest, Fessenden, exec: he refereed melees between the shepherds, prevented the beekeepers’ keenest excesses, stemmed the revelers’ fevered keggers. He sent the Brethren the settlement’s emblements, kept the ledgers.

“Well, the extreme elements depress them,” fretted Ebenezer. “The sleet’s severe. Endless tempests drench the greenbelt, swell the creeks. Relentless December breezes freeze the cheerless cement cells. The feed’s never fresh: the eggs smell, the cheese reeks, ferrets deplete the green peppers, beetle feces wreck the fennel seeds. The wet spelt kernels ferment. The men get restless, then reckless. Yet Fessenden’s decent.”

“Fessenden’s dense,” she jeered. “Hell, he’s the densest dweeb there.”

“He never pretended he’s clever. Nevertheless, he’s been excellent,” Ebenezer defended. “The genteel bellwether, the fervent trendsetter, the level presence. He deserves respect; he’s served the Brethren well.” …

I’ve now been posting my work on this website for ten years, having started in June 2011. According to the numbers here, I’ve posted 787 examples of my work. I hope some of you enjoyed at least some of it. Coming up in the months ahead are another album of my songs, It All Went Pfft; a translation of Caroline Crépiat’s study of the quintessential bohemian paper, Le Chat Noir Exposed; a book on paranormal music, Music from Elsewhere; and a translation of Charles Cros’s visionary work Principles of Cerebral Mechanics. Meanwhile, I’ll get back to work…

This little number was an occasional part of “Doug and Mike’s Adult Entertainment,” the puppet show I did for years with Michael Smith. Here I had to sing, operate a toilet puppet with my right hand, and play a small organ with my left hand.

Sleeping Beauty and Rip Van Winkle had much in common, but never met. In this tale in verse, they switch places on awakening, to general confusion. Here’s how it begins.

SLEEPING BEAUTY AND RIP VAN WINKLE

Sleeping Beauty, Rip Van Winkle,
Slept beneath the wheeling twinkle
Of the starry sky on high,
Slept as decades drifted by,
She on down and he in heather—
For they did not sleep together.
Belle, a princess off in France,
Had, by tragic happenstance,
So antagonized some fairy
That the latter cast a very
Nasty narcoleptic spell
On poor unsuspecting Belle.
Spinning one day, Belle got spindled,
Whereupon her forces dwindled,
Then subsided in a doze.
There she lay in chill repose,
As did every maid and vassal
In that melancholy castle,
Cursed to hibernate like this
Till a prince could plant a kiss.
Far across the wide Atlantic,
Winkle’s tale was less romantic…

July 4th marks the 9th year of Black Scat Books! To celebrate the occasion, they have released a special deluxe hardcover edition of their very first title, Alphonse Allais’s Masks — based on Allais’s story Un drame bien parisien, adapted and illustrated by Norman Conquest, with an introduction and notes by Allaisian scholar Doug Skinner.
This revised, expanded edition features three additional chapters, many more notes, and over 60 color illustrations. You can find it on Amazon, or at Black Scat Books.

In this story from my collection Sleepytime Cemetery, our two hapless protagonists contend with life underwater. Why is it so much harder to breathe there, anyway? Here’s how it begins…

INTO THE SEA

“I’ve never done this before,” admitted Morris.
“Me neither,” said Winchell.
“Well, let’s see what it’s like,” said Morris.
They jumped off the cliff and into the sea.
“I thought it would be warmer,” remarked Winchell, as they sank into the blue-green depths.
“It’s kind of cold for such a hot day,” said Morris.
“Not unpleasantly so,” said Winchell.
A ray flapped toward them from below, veered away, and swam off to their left, gradually disappearing into the opalescent murk.
“But now my clothes are all wet,” said Winchell, gazing in dismay at his billowing shirt and pants. “I should have thought of that.”
“And it’s hard to breathe, isn’t it?”
“Well, there’s no air down here.”
“But water’s just hydrogen and oxygen,” said Morris. “Why isn’t it like air?”
“It’s in liquid form,” explained Winchell. “You have to boil it to make it a gas.”
“Nonsense,” said Morris. “The air outside is hydrogen and oxygen, but it’s not boiling. It’s warmer than this water, but it’s not boiling.”
“It has other stuff in it too, like carbon dioxide,” said Winchell.
“That shouldn’t make any difference,” said Morris.
“And the sea has salt in it, too,” Winchell added.
“That doesn’t matter either. When you pour salt on land, the air doesn’t liquefy,” Morris objected.
“True,” admitted Winchell…

We have here a rousing song about humanity’s fundamental perversity. I often sang this back in the ’90s, with Carol Benner playing a vigorous obbligato on the viola.

“The Cinematographer and the Megachiropteran” was written for Le Scat Noir 227, devoted to formal constraints. You can find it in my collection The Snowman Three Doors Down.

I devised a technique similar to Raymond Roussel’s famed process, which used puns and homonyms to generate ideas. I used anagrams instead; the longest anagram pair in English, “cinematographer” and “megachiropteran,” gave me my two protagonists. Two-word anagrams of these fifteen letters provided the people and things they encountered, with further details (and the anagrams themselves) given in footnotes. So, our story begins as our hero and his pet bat come across a metric orphanage founded by a champagne rioter, stop to admire its heroic pentagram and the statue of its hermetic paragon, and listen to a ragtime chaperon play a paregoric anthem. But the institution also harbors an emigrant poacher, and there’s trouble ahead…

THE CINEMATOGRAPHER AND THE MEGACHIROPTERAN

The cinematographer¹ parted the bushes and stepped into a clearing. The morning clouds were dissipating, revealing a radiant sky. His pet megachiropteran² burrowed into her backpack carrier, away from the sunlight. A large building lay ahead of them, down a gravel path; the faint chiming of a piano and the chatter of children drifted up to them on the breeze. The bat complained of the light and noise, reminding her owner that she hated going out in the day.

The cinematographer descended the path through a thicket of shrubs, and, shading his eyes, peered down the hill. Before him sat a large square building, surrounded by spacious grounds.

The building was a school for orphans, founded by a wealthy mathematician in the early twentieth century. His motivation had been not only philanthropic, but pedagogical: he promoted a thorough mathematical education, stressing his own revised decimal system, the quindecimal, based on the number fifteen.³ After serving a short prison term for his part in the violent demonstrations in 1905 against higher taxes on sparkling wine,⁴ he had devoted himself to the institution, which was still thriving decades after his death from cirrhosis.

As the cinematographer neared the building, he stopped to admire the imposing entrance, surmounted by a massive five-pointed star, each arm set with smaller stars.⁵ To the left, atop a pentadecagonal plinth, stood a marble statue of the founder, idealized as a magus, in a long robe covered with numerals, a wand in one hand, a globe in the other.⁶ The cinematographer turned toward the music, and discovered the children’s guardian, a septuagenarian in straw hat and sleeve garters, who banged out a jaunty, syncopated tune on a spinet piano that had been wheeled onto the walkway.⁷ Around him, children of various ages danced and turned cartwheels. The megachiropteran stirred plaintively as the music became louder. 

The guardian finished his rag, and then beckoned the children to approach. They gathered around him to chant a solemn hymn praising camphorated tincture of opium.⁸ He then arose, and was starting to divide the children into opposing teams, when he noticed our hiker…