“Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?” Ellen asked quietly. Of course, she would leave him. Their relationship wasn’t strong enough to survive this. She always knew it wouldn’t last; the surprise was that it had survived this long. But she needed to know.

“Nadia? Please.”

Nadia stared out the window at the street below. “Why did you sell our house?” she asked suddenly. “I loved that house.”

“What? Why, I…” Ellen hesitated. “We needed the money.”

“He needed it.”

“He had debts.”

“Gambling debts.”

“…Yes.”

“Damn him!” she burst out. “He stole my life! And you let him!”

“Nad, what are you doing?” her best friend Stephanie asked. Nadia was digging a hole.

“I’m burying my treasure so he can’t have it.”

“What kind of treasure is it?”

“This.” Nadia pulled from her backpack a small wooden box full of buttons, stones and seashells. “My collection.”

“That’s not treasure. Treasure is gold and diamonds.”

“It’s treasure to me.”

“Why does Joe want it?”

“I don’t know. He looks at me funny. I hate him.”

“You hate him for looking at you?”

“That’s not all he does.”

“What does he do?” Stephanie was fascinated.

“It’s a secret.”

“Tell me!”

“Nadia! Dinner! For heaven’s sake, where is that child!” Ellen was exasperated. Ever since Joe had moved in permanently after the wedding, Nadia’s behavior had gotten worse. She was bound to adjust, but in the meantime, she made everyone’s life difficult.

“Well, that’s it. We’re not going to wait dinner on her,” she decided. “She can eat cold leftovers if she doesn’t show up.”

“Ah, it’s gotta be hard on the kid, El,” Joe said, forking a pork chop onto his plate. “She’s not used to guys in her life, that’s the problem.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault, is it?”

I’m beginning to look forward to the spam in my inbox. Sometimes the name in the ‘from’ field provides me with the best laugh of the day! I’ve accumulated a wealth, a veritable cornucopia of deliciously oddball spam names since the last ‘Recycling Spam’, so I figure it’s time to revisit the form. Besides, my number one fan keeps bugging me to write another one… I have enough material now for a whole spam novel, so I’ll do this in segments.

I prefer the names that tell the story all by themselves, while bearing no resemblance to any English proper name.

These are two of the ‘powers that be’ in Spamville:

Backing D. Egregious is the silent (and controlling) partner in a multinational corporation known for its Third-World employee abuses (verging on slavery) and heavy polluting practices. Backing’s ‘lawyer’, Hedges U. Offenses, is infamous for his knowledge of law loopholery and liberal use of sleazy backroom palm-greasing.

This next group of names lends itself well to the tale of a typical Canadian high school, which we will call Spam High.

Hectically P. Roughhouses is the gym teacher, popular with the boys, though the girls prefer their English teacher, Skitters R. Nightingale. Mr. Nightingale unfortunately suffers much from the practical jokes and vexatious teasing of the boys in the class as well as Mr.Roughhouses himself. The girls swoon over Skitters’ poetry, which makes the boys jealous and threatens poor Hectically, whose vocabulary is rather limited.

The principal, McLeod D. Haughty, not known for her ‘people skills’, has her hands full mediating a feud between the brilliant new computing teacher, Cybernetics D. Gingkoe and the aged chemistry teacher, Microbe H. Gangrening. Mr. Gangrening, envious of the cachet that computing carries with kids in the modern world, has taken every opportunity to poison the students against Mr. Gingkoe’s classes (to no avail, I might add). Mr. Gingkoe, in turn, thinks Mr. Gangrening is a repulsive old troll and makes his opinion known with acerbic wit, much to the students’ glee.

The ‘bad kid’ in school, Scorning O. Hallucinates (who is chronically high in class), is becoming a thorn in the side of the Social Studies teacher, Ms. Blighted D. Occident. Ms. Occident’s bigoted western-centric view of history and the world in general strikes Scorning as impossibly narrow, and he heckles her mercilessly from the back of the room.

Drama and music teachers Coy D. Mississippi and Flutist H. Rhone have caused some drama of their own with their newly-fledged lesbian romance. More than one boy has been smitten with Miss Mississippi’s soft beauty and Southern charm, while Ms. Rhone has been known to lacerate her less-than-brilliantly-gifted students with sharply-edged criticisms, puncturing their self-esteem and all but destroying any musical career aspirations.

Gdansk K. Southerlies, the new kid from the south of Poland, was himself hopelessly in love with Coy and has conceived a jealous hatred of Ms. Rhone (though himself her star student). He has been muttering darkly in the hallways (in Polish) about little else, frightening some of the younger students terribly.

This situation is causing no end of concern to the spiritual leadership of the community, who consider the doings at the school to be within their province. The strongest pressure comes from the Catholic priest, Crucifix H. Burnside and the United Church minister, Simpling D. Eulogy. Father Burnside demands that the school immediately fire both women, who will surely be further punished with eternal Hell; Reverend Eulogy holds out hope for their redemption, but also calls for a ‘compassionate’ dismissal.

Simpling, unbeknownst to anyone, has a daughter by an estranged former wife. His daughter (who calls herself Fishes H. Patricide), a proud lesbian, has rebuffed all attempts at contact by her father. Simpling blames her mother, Brigitte N. Sargent, for marrying a weakling she could dominate (Lawrence Bland). In Simpling’s mind, Brigitte twisted Fishes’ attitude towards men and therefore, him. Simpling’s motives aren’t as simple as they seem.

Believe it or not, as I write, a new spam name has come into my Inbox:

Epoch F. Sweated, who has been waiting forever for this opportunity, arrived breathlessly at the last minute–just under the wire–in order to make it into this story. Epoch is chronically late for class, is picked last for every team, is terrified of girls and is basically just waiting for school to end.

The drama continues at Spam High.

Watch for the next episode of Recycling Spam.

I can’t decide if writing is a craft or a purge
It’s just sometimes I get this primitive urge
(and I don’t know whether to shit or give birth.)

Braincells swell to bursting like blind mice in a bag
and bust out just like popcorn, it’s another writing jag
(I don’t know whether to swell up or sag.)

Can’t tell if I’m writing real poetry or shit
It’s hard to know the difference from right here where I sit
(I don’t know whether to bear down or quit.)

If a piece of work is shit, then it don’t need quality
To me it’s still important, even necessary
(the consequence of stopping could be very messy.)

But if I am a poet, and I give birth with my words
then I should know the difference twixt my babies and my turds
(The consequence of raising shit might be quite absurd.)

Whether crapping or creating, I really must be wary,
my children I should care for, and my turds I ought to bury
(Once upon a time I met a turd I tried to marry.)

My perceptual discrepancies have left me in a bind
I’ve carried shit around with me while babies crawled behind
(if you see me holding shit, tell me - I won’t mind)

“You don’t like me, eh, kid?” Joe sat on the edge of Nadia’s bed. She lay facing the wall, silently curled against him. “You don’t have to. But I like your Mom. In fact, I love her. We’re getting married next month.” He waited for Nadia to respond. When she didn’t, he continued.

“I know I’m not your real dad. But I’m a grownup who loves your mom, and that will make me your stepdad. You’ll get used to that. Eventually.”

After a few moments, Joe sighed. “Look. Play ball with me, and I’ll play ball with you. That’s all.”

Nadia was packing to run away from home. Into her backpack went her favourite doll, her dress-up clothes, her ‘My Little Pony,’ and some cookies salvaged from that day’s lunch. She thoughtfully added a warm sweater. It might get cold.

She could hear his voice downstairs, talking and laughing with her mother. Hating him, she furiously zipped her backpack.

Why did he have to show up and ruin everything? It had always been she and her mother, and they’d done just fine. Who needed a daddy?

Stealthily, she slipped out the back door. Nobody even noticed. Nobody cared about her.

“Mommy, guess what!” Nadia, age eight, burst in the kitchen door, tossing her backpack in the corner.

“Nadia, what have I told you about exploding into the house like that?” her mother reminded her peevishly. “And please, put your backpack away properly!”

“Mommy, it’s cool! Wait til you hear!” the little girl bounced excitedly. “My teacher says I get to—“

“Sweetie, never mind, tell me later. I have wonderful news for you.” Ellen’s voice felt stiff. She had been preparing this speech all day. “You’re going to have a new daddy.”

“Mommy—NO!”

“Yes. He’ll be here for dinner.”

“Oh, Mom! For Christ’s sake! Get over yourself!” Nadia said, disgusted.

Ellen angrily wiped her cheeks. Truly, the child was impossible. “There’s no touching you, is there, tough girl? I’ve always tried to be the best mother I could!”

“Right.” Nadia stared out the window. “Sure you did.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You tried sooo hard. Uh-huh.”

“Nadia! Explain to me, please! Did something happen to you as a child?”

“As if you didn’t know, Mom. Please. Don’t even bother.”

“Nadia…” A horrible thought occurred to Ellen. “Was it… Joe?”

“Bingo, Mom. What took you so fucking long?”

I get a fair amount of spam, though not nearly as much as some people do. It used to really bug me. I hated it. I would growl and hit the delete key hard. Then I started to notice that some of the names in the ‘from’ field were actually pretty funny. Now spam has become entertainment! Peter and I swap our favourite spam names of the day, and I’ve developed quite a collection by going through my Deleted Items and culling out the weirdest and wackiest of the bunch.

My favourites are the ones that tell a story all by themselves.

Spectrum H. Shirk, the ultimate lazy man’s hero, is able to effortlessly avoid the full range of work-related behaviors.

Poor Lancer G. Atonement, who once committed a vile crime, has had to make up for it the hard way.

Flunked A. Satinwood suffered a tragic childhood educational trauma, but was redeemed by learning to craft fine wooden cabinets.

Muffs L. Showeriest, the high-school tramp, later went into the sex trade, to be cruelly treated by her sleazy pimp, Shinning I. Dooms.

Injury-prone Banging B. Agony is the maltreated blue-collar employee of heartless but wealthy industry mogul, Martinet H. Tyrannies.

Omelet Brister had a run-in with con artist Dexter Deal, and has regretted it ever since, but some things can’t be remedied (like broken eggs). Of course, Dexter got away with it; he gets away with everything.

Titted H. Kruger, however, never had a break in his life until he met his future wife, Lorinda Herring, who will never let him forget that she was the best thing to ever happen to him.

I love the ones that mix and match ethnicities:

McIntyre Joaquin… Scottish and Spanish…
Nils Duarte?  Scandinavian-Spanish.
Neelan Gendreau sounds Indian and French.
Tuan Carmack… Vietnamese and ….?
Guiseppe Cortes is obviously Italian and Spanish.
Zebedee Silva is the son of a Puritan mother from Plymouth Rock and a Portuguese father.
Che Magee comes from a revolutionary Irish background.

But wait… there’s more. These ones I think of as ‘fiction names’… if you’re trying to think of a good name for a character in a book or story you’re writing, look no further:

Zabrina Frey is a poverty-stricken waitress daydreaming of being rescued by a rich customer, who arrives in the form of Chauncey Buttington. Chauncey is on the rebound from his childhood sweetheart, Cherry Valentin, who rejected him when she became a lesbian. Chauncey’s mother, soap-opera star Chanel Collins, refuses to allow Zabrina to stay with Chauncey, however, and bribes Rudolph Nicewander (who needs the money but isn’t a bad guy, really) to woo Zabrina away from her son, “who is too good for that cheap floozy.”

Sanford Staples, hard-up small-time Hollywood agent, is trying to find a good role for his washed-up former star, Rex Tallent. However, up-and-coming youngsters like Royal Bogle and Dallas Militano have been scooping all the good leads.

Noemi Knight wrote a scholarly feminist treatise which was scathingly criticized by reactionary anti-feminist icon Calista Goin, whose claim that women are biologically predetermined to serve men was ‘proved’ by quoting various scientific studies. Calista’s work was lionized by gay New York Post science columnist Bruce Numbers, whose lover, Brooks Sprague, once met Calista at an art opening and was impressed by her sense of style.

Eustace Bender, a failed salesman (he lost a big account that day), got drunk and was robbed in an alleyway by Dirk Bowling. Dirk, good-hearted but desperate, used the $75 he found in Bender’s wallet to purchase the drugs from back-alley pharmacist Jonah Testa that were needed to save his son Peabody’s life.

Chadwick Kimble and Violet Bake are both in the church choir, but only Violet can sing. Chadwick gets by on good looks and the fact that the choir leader, Melba Alexander, has a crush on him. Valentine Cyran, on the other hand, has a voice like a nightingale, much admired by music critic Vaughn Torred, mentor of child star Chasity Torres.

Efren Iott was a devotee of famed Eastern mystic Confucius Rouse, until he was deprogrammed by his pragmatic (and ham-fisted) friends, Tybalt Hammer and Storm Gee. Tybalt and Storm were a little over-enthusiastic in their deprogramming, and poor Efren suffered severe permanent brain damage.

I haven’t made these up, I swear. And that’s just scratching the surface. There are so many more! What about Wilmer Colon? Poor guy, I feel sorry for him already. And Malory Goins! That slimy bastard! How could I forget poor Athelstan Norman? Now his is a sad tale.

These people live! Twanna Willis, country gal, fell in love with Woodrow Tuton, smooth-talking city fella. And Kip Effner tries so hard, but his boss Horatio Gaete just won’t give him any respect.

Some of these folks could only belong in a lurid romance novel, while others would be more at home in a murder mystery. Some are victims (Ody Spafford), while others are villains (King Dodson). Some would fit right into a Tom Robbins, Kurt Vonnegut or J. K. Rowling novel.

This is a recycled post. It originally appeared on Word of Mouth on November 28 / 05.