astoundin quakebuttock

I know I'm not supposed to notice these things, but I do: Yesterday evening I returned to the low light of my computer after two hours of So You Think delicious You Can Dance (yes, the dancers, choreographers, that beautiful -- but-not-arrogant do mourn Cat Deeley) to discover that my blog has had, say, a swarm of visitors.



What in the world ", I wondered.



It became clear, further investigation, that a single term, "quakebuttock," has brought the masses to me. Quakebuttock read that right. Obviously somewhere in the universe (not in my television program, which has) the term has been used, and since I once put into writing a joke about the word (in an inspired Roy Blount Jr. entry called "Top People"), I suddenly had people calling to my door.



For a nanosecond, then, is quakebuttock, a term that Peter Bowler has defined as "a coward or scornful word," which puts me on the map. Not my books. Not my poems. It is not my writing process entries. Not my photographs. It is not my dancing. Not my thoughts. Not at all. What, in fact, I've been thinking all this time? What have I been doing?



My advice for today is this: Do you want to move from beneath the dark veil of literary terms? Use freely as quakebuttock write. Mutter under your breath. Erect a cathedral in his name. Prepare the cheese and crackers.



For the record: The photo was taken on a cold winter day on the coast of New Jersey, just one point ahead of Lemmings. None of these people are quakebuttocks, sure. Today the picture of the type of link is about opposites, not similar.



On another note: I will be at the Doylestown Bookshop tomorrow night. I say the word three times in a row, if it comes.