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By Dennis Baron

Everybody knows that a noun is the name of a person, place, or thing. It’s one of those undeniable facts of daily life, a fact we seldom question until we meet up with a case that doesn’t quite fit the way we’re used to viewing things.

That’s exactly what happened to a student in Ohio when his English teacher decided to play the noun game. To the teacher, the noun game seemed a fun way to take the drudgery out of grammar. To the student it forced a metaphysical crisis. To me it shows what happens when cultures clash and children get lost in the tyranny of school. That’s a lot to get from a grammar game.

Anyway, here’s how you play. Every student gets a set of cards with nouns written on them. At the front of the classroom are three buckets, labeled “person,” “place,” and “thing.” The students take turns sorting their cards into the appropriate buckets. “Book” goes in the thing bucket. “city” goes in the place bucket. “Gandhi” goes in the person bucket.

Ganesh had a card with “horse” on it. Ganesh isn’t his real name, by the way. It’s actually my cousin’s name, so I’m going to use it here.

You might guess from his name that Ganesh is South Asian. In India, where he had been in school before coming to Ohio, Ganesh was taught that a noun named a person, place, thing, or animal. If he played the noun game in India he’d have four buckets and there would be no problem deciding what to do with “horse.” But in Ohio Ganesh had only three buckets, and it wasn’t clear to him which one he should put “horse” in.

In India, Ganesh’s religion taught him that all forms of life are continuous, interrelated parts of the universal plan. So when he surveyed the three buckets it never occurred to him that a horse, a living creature, could be a thing. He knew that horses weren’t people, but they had more in common with people than with places or things. Forced to choose, Ganesh put the horse card in the person bucket.

Blapp! Wrong! You lose. The teacher shook her head, and Ganesh sat down, mortified, with a C for his efforts. This was a game where you got a grade, and a C for a child from a South Asian family of overachievers is a disgrace. So his parents went to talk to the teacher.

It so happens that I’ve been in a similar situation. We spent a year in France some time back, and my oldest daughter did sixth grade in a French school. The teacher asked her, “How many continents are there?” and she replied, as she had been taught in the good old U.S. of A., “seven.” Blaap! Wrong! It turns out that in France there are only five.

So old dad goes to talk to the teacher about this. I may not be able to remember the seven dwarfs, but I rattled off Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, Antarctica, North America, and South America. The teacher calmly walked me over to the map of the world. Couldn’t I see that Antarctica was an uninhabited island? And couldn’t I see that North and South America were connected? Any fool could see as much.

At that point I decided not to press the observation that Europe and Asia were also connected. Some things are not worth fighting for when you’re fighting your child’s teacher.

Tonto had an inspiration in the middle of the night. I came up with a new sandwich, which I am sure is going to be a great hit and make me rich. It consists of a ground beef patty inside a bun. You can put any kind of cheese that you prefer on it, along with an assortment of condiments. I am now on the way to the patent office. Wish me luck! What do you think I should call it?

Here is my champion, Archimedes, in training. Are you looking Santa Claus? This is the stud that’s going to kick your best reindeer’s butt. Yes, Tonto challenges any of your crew to a race. Winner takes all—that means toy factory, elves, Mrs. Claus, you name it. So, what do you say?

Tonto has been doing some undercover investigative journalistic work recently, which has uncovered the new favorite past time of the worlds elite Billionaire’s Club. Bored with purchasing English football clubs, they now prefer to buy islands and blow them up with nuclear weapons procured from financially strapped scientists in the former Soviet Republic. Here we have St. Bartholomew as it is lit up. The members of this club watch from a safe distance, in their mega-yachts, and hold up signs with scores after the explosion. St. Bartholomew garnered a rating of 8.5.

Tonto Fielding’s first play, “Oy Vay, My Son Moved to Athens,” showed great promise, but closed on the first night anyway. I thought that my premise was sound. A young man from Cleveland goes to Ohio University, and remains after graduation, because he makes a wager between God and Satan about the material world's false promises. The allegory that I meant to portray showed that you need to beware when money sounds sweeter than music. In the play I caution that those who win lotteries stand to lose all, including their spiritual treasures, families, communities and religion. My student, Hershel Dubrovner, was living a good life until he meets a young white man with dread locks who shares a mutual affinity for the band Phish, and turns Hershel into a greedy, dishonest taco vender whose success desecrates both his religion and his community. Betrayal and abandonment replace serenity and familiarity; the instruments of good fortune become instruments of death. Not even the band Phish, previously Hershel’s joy, can heal these rifts.

As the KGB could tell you, when Tonto was in high school he stole a kiss from one of the cheerleaders, just before her father came at him with a machete, an M-16, two grenades, and a laser-sighted blow dart (Czech made). My escape was narrow but later received an anonymous letter, stamped from Moscow, saying “Nice escape kid. Хорошо выглядящий птенец тоже.”

Spunky III was returned to the pet store when his test flight turned into a battle of the wits. Fortunately Tonto had the foresight to remove all ammunition from the machine gun mounts on the vintage bi-plane I had borrowed from the WWI Historical Flight Society. Spunky thought it would be fun to dive bomb his patron and scare the bejebus out of him. Sidebar: I told the store manager that Spunky hated Ecotrition Essential Blend Hamster & Gerbil Food, and preferred just plain old lettuce leafs. The last laugh was obviously mine.

If Tonto learned one thing in college, it was that all my professors were only good for infusing skepticism into the blood of the civilized world. They made it disreputable to believe in the actual existence of anything that could not be tested in crucibles or demonstrated by critical reasoning. I, on the other hand, contended that through creative chemistry, and by transmutation of the elements of the baser metals; I could create an elixir that would render me immortal. It didn’t quite work out as I had planned, but with a little marketing, I am now promoting it as caffeine enhanced malt liquor on college campuses.

As you are well aware, Tonto has had many different jobs in his life. With all of my experience, I still come across situations where I can only scratch my head. I’m starting a new segment, that I want to call; “How in the Hell did this guy ever get hired?” Today—Texting Santa. Scenario: He somehow convinced the fat hillbilly manager of the Mall that he is actually Elvis in disguise and he’ll let him drive one of his Cadillac’s when the shift ends. He’ll even let him buy the drinks at the strip club.

As we all know, tyranny of the mind is a condition where a force from outside overrides the internal voice and undermines trust in one’s own way of knowing. It enslaves people to something outside of themselves and becomes the arbiter of value and meaning in life. This is why Tonto went to the greatest lengths to uncover a plot by Wii to inculcate our children into devolving and accepting Nintendo as an artificial and external moral authority through the game of Simon Says in kindergarten classes across America. Simon Says today--New Super Mario Brothers tomorrow.

Tonto wants his fans to know that he has not given up on the flying hamster idea. In fact Spunky VII will be making his test flight debut soon in a prototype based on the original drawings of Leonardo Da Vinci.

BJØRG MYRVOLD, former lead singer for the Norwegian Death Metal band Napalm Pestilence, has decide to try his hand at folk singing since his girlfriend, Dagmar, told him to get his act together or she would kick him out. His song list has been toned down and now includes hits such as, “I Had a Rooster and Bit Its Head Off” and “Mamma Don’t Allow No Necrophilia’s.” Dagmar is quoted as saying, “Old MacDonald Had an Aneurism,” is not exactly what I had in mind, but at least the makeup is gone and those idiot band mates aren’t freeloading from my fridge anymore.”

From The Maltese Falcon: “Okay, I admit it. I got hungry and cooked the damn bird. Want a drumstick?”

When I modeled for the illustration of this book cover, I thought—why not make the best out of an unfortunate mishap. When Tonto had entered the parlor, I specifically stated that I wanted a tattoo of the word “Mom” on my left bicep. I guess you could say that it was partly my fault for falling asleep, but when I awoke, I was covered from head to toe with ink. Apparently Fat Eddie had made the mistake of combining coffee and antihistamines and got slightly carried away. Since tattoos are viewed in our society as a way of uniquely identifying a person’s self-expressions and personal beliefs, I suddenly realized I had somebody else’s story on my body. Slightly ill at ease, I broached the subject to Eddie of what was covering me now, and he said it was a tribute to the film The Breakfast Club. Upon reflection, I realized that if they don't tell a story that grabs you emotionally, then they're just there for decorations. And if there isn’t any emotional appeal, to my way of thinking, they aren’t real tattoos. Now I just say that it is a tribute to the film Fight Club, and put my shirt back on really quickly.

Tonto was pleased to be the judge of the Miss Barrow Competition this year. The winner was Frank Runs with Bears. Eskimo children are named after family members, often ones who have recently died. There are no boy’s names and girls names in Inuit culture, so it is common for a girl to take on the name of her grandfather. I was rather impressed with her caribou coat, trousers, stockings, and boots. The thing that I found “dead sexy,” and what put her over the top, was that she opted for the two garment evening wear. This is when the inner parka has the fur against the skin, and the outer one has the fur on the outside. Congratulations Frank!

In a scene from the movie Charlie Chan in the Mystery of the Transgendered Forest Fire Lookout, the famous detective says, "I will reveal the murderer in the morning, but first this is Christmas Eve and I need to assemble this Home Gym for number four son, which will certainly take all night since it includes an adjustable bench with leg entensions and curls and preacher curl, a serious durable squat cage, pull-down/pull-up and fly pulleys, and olympic bar and weight set. The worst part is that the instructions were stained with the victim’s blood."

So, who do you think I run into, out in the middle of Wayne National Forrest, during the middle of my Bigfoot expedition? The once famous Kraven (otherwise known as Sergei), half-brother of Dmitri Smerdyakov, who most of you may recognize as the super villain, Chameleon. This has-been wants to prove once again that he is the greatest hunter in the world. I mean, this guy really likes to show off, so he typically disdains the use of guns or bow and arrows, preferring to take down large dangerous animals with his bare hands. So, I say, “What brings you to these parts Sergei?” And he goes all, “That’s Kraven the Hunter to you, Chief.” And then I’m like, “No you didn’t just Chief me, Gei. By the way, is that vodka, I smell on your breath? I thought you were in AA now, Gei.” And he goes all, “Ga, ga, ga…” And I say, “Got something in your throat, Bawana?”

Othello—before the rewrite:

Oh tale so dark,
that creatures such as this should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their blood! that we should, with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts!

Sometimes Tonto finds himself contemplating some of life’s stickier questions. Not happy to leave things alone, I usually end up following them to their inevitable conclusions. This happened recently, when I solved the question of: Who stole the Kishka? Because I am known as a famous literary detective, I used these same skills which led to a culinary search in New York, where the illusive Kishka was found being served at Cafeteria in Chelsea.

Varg Folkestad, former lead singer for the Norwegian death metal band, Dark Throne of Gorgoroth, who had become one of Tonto’s new acquaintances, approached me not too long ago about a project he was working on. He wanted to compose the definitive Death Metal Opera about the Völsunga and Nibelungenlied Sagas, which might include a futuristic Thidrekssaga. Varg wondered if I might be interested in doing the libretto. Always up for a challenge, I said yes. I filled it with red-blooded, rip-roaring, gung-ho Gods beloved by the Vikings, as well as a copious amount of beautiful blonde VALKYRIES. What can I say—Tonto loves his Valyries. Anyway—I would like to share the lines I wrote from my favorite Aria in the drinking scene: “'Bjorn, when you whacked my head off with that double-headed axe – that was brilliant. I didn't see it coming at all. My blood hit the ceiling! Just wait till tomorrow though. I’m going to get you dude.' 'I'll drink to that! Here, barmaid, five hundred drinking horns of Kvas please. And a packet of pork cracklins.'"

Not one to pass up the fast buck that usually accompanies a new fad, Tonto is working on a new project (riding the coattails of the Flying Pig craze). Without giving too much away, let’s just say the concept involves flying and hamsters.

This beautiful little creature became Tonto’s savior when I found myself in quite a dilemma. The circumstances were not bright, when my party started disappearing one by one, deep in the Peruvian Amazon. All alone, I used the knowledge imparted to me by my good Yagua friend (whose name is so hard to pronounce, I just call him “little Bubba”), to rustle up a batch of poison darts with several of these buggers boiled down to nice reduction. The munuñúmiy (savage enemy) were easy pickings, since Little Bubba and I used to shoot cigarettes out of each others mouths from a distance of a hundred feet or so, as practice, back in the good old days.

Tonto, for once, finds himself speechless. So take it away Mary—“The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger that had died away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers, and as he said this I could no longer suppress the rage that burned within me.” From, Frankenstein.

Tonto’s world record attempt to circumnavigate the globe came to an abrupt halt, over Walla Walla, when I discovered that my wife had filled my food cache with kumquats, garbanzos, guacamole, and succotash. I’m sorry, but there was no way Tonto was going to eat that stuff, when I had clearly indicated on my pre-flight list, to pack plenty of Bacon in a Can and Microwave Sliders, along with several boxes of Oreo Blizzard Crème Oreos, a few jars of Gherkins, and a handful of Zagnut Bars. I had to bail out of the Hot Air Balloon with my trusty parachute after making my horrifying discovery. Eventually I heard that it came down of its own volition, in front of the Ugly Corner Cafe, in Effingham, Illinois.

Tonto had to step in at the last second to prevent performance artist Philippe Miron from blinding one of his students, during an installation. I had to inform the Frenchman that the Howard brothers actually were actors and that the eye poke was not real. ‘Oui,” he replied. “But I on the other hand was thinking of the Dali film.” “Fake too, you idiot,” I said, and shook my head in amazement.