Category Archives: anacoluthon

Anacoluthon (an-a-co-lu’-thon): A grammatical interruption or lack of implied sequence within a sentence. That is, beginning a sentence in a way that implies a certain logical resolution, but concluding it differently than the grammar leads one to expect. Anacoluthon can be either a grammatical fault or a stylistic virtue, depending on its use. In either case, it is an interruption or a verbal lack of symmetry. Anacoluthon is characteristic of spoken language or interior thought, and thus suggests those domains when it occurs in writing.

I was going to. . . . was my birthday. I put on my pointed party hat and prepared to blow out candles on mom’s homemade cake. As usual it would be soaked with rum and laced with LSD. Mom was a child of the sixties and believed that Acid was the soul of celebration, and rum was the “sunshine of our love.”

Mom worked at Cliff’s and was so full of hope and love that she bought 50 scratch-off “Take Five” lotto tickets every day. She had won numerous regular “Take Five” tickets and forty dollars in cash over the past three years. Yet, she kept on playing, day after day, week after week. She was an inspiration. A role model. A saint.

The Acid was kicking in. My cake on the table was bubbling and changing colors like a rainbow. Mom and Bill Timmons our neighbor had taken off their clothes and were climbing onto the table. Suddenly, mother grew small wings and started hovering over Bill. He was laying there singing “Some Enchanted Evening” in German with a Bavarian accent.

It was time for me to get the hell out of there. I retreated to the living room which had become a dark cave with torches burning, mounted on the walls. I closed my eyes and yelled “Get me the fu*k out of here.” Suddenly my long-dead dog Villanova descended to the middle of the living room. He wagged his tail and told me I should be grateful for a mysteriously wonderful and happy birthday.

We sang happy birthday and I went to sleep on the couch.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

 (an-a-co-lu’-thon): A grammatical interruption or lack of implied sequence within a sentence. That is, beginning a sentence in a way that implies a certain logical resolution, but concluding it differently than the grammar leads one to expect. Anacoluthon can be either a grammatical fault or a stylistic virtue, depending on its use. In either case, it is an interruption or a verbal lack of symmetry. Anacoluthon is characteristic of spoken language or interior thought, and thus suggests those domains when it occurs in writing.

“I am going to grab . . put that under it.” I lost my balance. I was supposed to be on vacation. There was a goddamn monkey on my back. He’d been riding me for weeks, heavily breathing in my ear, laughing his chattering laugh, and making me pick parasites off his shoulders. I was pulling a wagon loaded with bananas. I was feeling oppressed.

Now he wanted me to give him a manicure. I looked at the fellow members of my tour group and they were all filing and clipping their monkeys’ nails. The favorite color was turquoise followed by purple.

I was regretting ever hooking up with the “Primate Treasure Monkey Tour.” The brochure made it look like you’d have a monkey pal for two weeks, who “would be as close as any friend you’ve ever had.” I never equated friendship to slavery, but that’s what happened on the tour. That’s how I ended up with a monkey on my back.

Part of the tour was a banana plantation. I was given a large wagon and ordered to fill it with bananas. It was grueling work. Three members of the tour group came down with heat stroke and it was rumored that one of them died. That’s when I realized I had become a slave. I resisted picking bananas and I was tied to a whipping post. I wasn’t whipped, but it was very disconcerting. It was the only time the monkey got off my back. The march back to the hotel was horrendous—people falling like flies and loaded onto gurneys for a bumpy ride back to the hotel, one or them in a body bag.

My monkey started sticking his tongue in my ear and doing his monkey laugh. I told him to stop, and he just laughed harder. I snapped and yelled “Get the fu*k off my back!” That was it. I laid down and pinned him under my back. I beat him over the head with a rock until he stopped wriggling and laughing and his grip loosened on my shoulders. He was dead.

All the monkeys dismounted and formed a circle around me. The troop was going to tear me apart. I prepared myself to die. Suddenly the “Treasure Monkey Tours” proprietor popped out the bush. His name was Reginald Pramford and his ancestors had been oppressing monkeys ever since they colonized their habitat in the mid-1800s. Reginald was like a God to the monkeys. He told them to go home and they immediately disbursed. I was saved!

A female monkey wearing a dress, earrings, and a crown, seemed to be whispering something in Reginald’s ear. He frowned, unholstered his handgun, and pointed it at me. He said “An eye for an eye. My wife, The Monkey Queen, won’t have it any other way. Sorry old chap.” Clearly, he was insane.

I rushed Reginald, knocked the gun out of his hand, picked it up, and put it to his “wife’s” head. I told him: “Tell the monkey troop to back off and call me a cab to the airport.” He pulled out his cellphone and booked me a cab. Luckily, I had my passport with me. I didn’t pack. The cab came and we headed for the airport. Then I saw it: A monkey was driving the cab! But, he was a “good” monkey. I arrived at the airport safely.

I boarded my jet to Newark Airport. It was going to be a long flight. I sat in my seat and was shocked to see a monkey sitting next to me! But it was ok. He was a “emotional support animal” belonging to the woman in the window seat. His name was Salvatore, and he lived in New York City. He was wearing a NY Yankees hat. We shook hands and nodded. I was relieved.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

Anacoluthon (an-a-co-lu’-thon): A grammatical interruption or lack of implied sequence within a sentence. That is, beginning a sentence in a way that implies a certain logical resolution, but concluding it differently than the grammar leads one to expect. Anacoluthon can be either a grammatical fault or a stylistic virtue, depending on its use. In either case, it is an interruption or a verbal lack of symmetry. Anacoluthon is characteristic of spoken language or interior thought, and thus suggests those domains when it occurs in writing.

“My heart goes where the wild goose . . . my God! It’s my stuffed panda toy!” My parents had just died within two days of each other. My mother fell down a flight of stairs and my father fell on a carving knife while cutting up the Thanksgiving turkey. There was some question as to whether their deaths were accidental. My father’s eyesight was failing and he had been holding the knife with the tip pointing up. Somebody had spilled mashed potatoes on the floor and my father slipped on them accidentally stabbing himself in the heart. The possibility for murder on the stairs was a little more pronounced. But, mother had excellent balance for an 85-year-old drunk. Nevertheless, she had fallen down the stairs four or five times and never even got a bruise. Her fall had to be an accident, where her luck ran out. We did notice that there was talcum powder on the stairs. But we quickly determined it was from the bathroom adjacent to the stairs. My mother had probably powdered her feet after her shower and slipped coming out of the bathroom. Maybe that was it. Anyway, it didn’t matter: our parents were dead. We were looting their house, grabbing whatever we could before Uncle Dullroy took possession and had everything auctioned off—something I and my sister were totally opposed to.

I put down my panda bear and went looking for bigger game. My collection of bottle caps was pretty good. I dumped it in the canvas bag I had brought. My ball point pen collection was very cool. I dumped it in the bag. My parents had sold all my other treasures at a garage sale when I was in Vietnam. The baseball card collection hurt the most, my coin collection too. I got over it after a couple of years, but I still wanted to kill them.

My sister and I decided to explore the basement. We discovered a dungeon and a meth lab. There were explicit photos of my parents thumbtacked to the dungeon’s walls. My sister threw up and I tore down the photos and threw them into the furnace. There, there was a piece of my life shattered, but what was worse was the meth lab. There was a notebook on the lab’s bench. Evidently, it was a customer list. If the name had a check mark alongside it, I figured out that meant the person was buying meth and being blackmailed too. Reverend Goldhorn was being blackmailed. Mayor Beam was being blackmailed. Chief Scott was being blackmailed. After them, it was pretty much the whole town that was using meth, but not worth blackmailing. One name stood out: Molly Carlisle.

In high school, I loved Molly with all my heart. Her address was listed in the notebook. I had to pay her a visit. I parked in front of her house, walked up the walk and knocked on the door. She wasn’t expecting me. “Who the hell are you? I don’t take tricks until after 9.00.” Oh my God—she was a hooker. I said, “It’s me, Barker. Let me in.” The door opened and there she was. Her face looked 80 years old: deep wrinkles and saggy. She was missing a number of teeth. She was underweight. Her eyes were cloudy. She had a tic in her left hand. She smelled.

I told her I still loved her. She laughed and slammed the door in my face. I started crying right there on her front porch. The door opened a crack and she let me in. The place was a total disgusting mess—dog poop on the floor, dirty dishes and trash scattered all over the place. “How can you live like this.” I yelled. “I’m a junkie,” she responded. I dragged her out the door and took her to a rehab center. Molly spent six months there and became straight again.

We moved the meth lab to my basement and picked up where my mom and dad left off. Rev. Goldhorn was arrested, tried, and convicted of murdering my parents. Molly and I backed off the blackmail branch of the business out of respect for our customers, and also because we didn’t want to be murdered. My sister fronted for us as a stay-at-home day trader and a Zoom trouble shooter for South Jersey and Philadelphia.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.