Now Mike never drew a
whole lot, but when he did it had a strange, savage power. I remember a very
early drawing by him of Omi, shown from the side, of her with a cigarette
clamped between open teeth. He made rather devastating caricatures of us all,
and this sketch by him of Mom, while rather stark, shows a strange talent for
capturing a facet of reality.
An Autobiography, by
Anthony Trollope. Mike had this copy of
the life of the prodigious and hard-working English novelist I remember reading
it while Mike went in to get a Hunt Brothers pizza for us at Pic-n-Pac.
If my memory is not
completely playing tricks on me, one of the first DVDs I ever watched was Hellboy (2004)
on the first DVD player our family ever owned over on Cottage Street when Mike
and John were living there.
It is odd to think that
today a child born on the day my brother Mike passed away would be eighteen
years old.
Interview with the Vampire, by
Anne Rice. Mike bought this at Pic-n-Pac, the first of what became the Vampire
Chronicles.
I found this copy [of Witches,
Witches, Witches] totally by accident when Mike and I went into a San
Antonio bookstore where I had located a copy of The Visitors from Oz,
and I had to have it.
Mike had that [Killer Shark]
magazine during the great Jaws craze.
The International Wildlife
Encyclopedia – 20 Volumes. Hard to pinpoint exactly when
we got these; somewhere in the mid-70’s, I would estimate. They were a family
venture, but I imagine they were mainly purchased to feed Mike’s interest in
nature, and probably at his urging.
Last Contact: I
was rather pleased with the results (after all, I had finished a
story!) but I remember my brother Mike dismissing it with the equivalent of a
snort and a ‘Heavy handed and derivative!’
We never had the Tom and
Jerry book, but it looms large in our memory. Mike had read it in 1st Grade (or
perhaps his teacher had read it to the class) and he retold it to us later. He
MAY have given us the impression that he was making it up; I recall I was a
little surprised to find it in the class library next year.
Wondering what Mike would
think about my literary endeavors.
APRIL 11, 1981: Mike came
back [from Southwest Texas State University, after the end of the semester].
Mike had a copy of The
Andromeda Strain, which I remember reading, a tale about the threat of a
viral apocalypse, as was the fashion of the 70’s.
Star Trek occupied many of
our imaginary adventures, and in the ‘real life’ versions Mike always
appropriated the coveted persona of Mr. Spock, which was ironic because
technically the Vulcan was the second banana to Captain Kirk, though superior
as a character.
Makes me want to spit when I
consider [Breece D’J Pancake’s] assured "immortal fame" compared to
Mike's struggle for meaning amid the backwash of literary ennui.
There was Mike or Michael
Wayne Babel as he was formally charged when Mom was particularly angry with
him, born some eighteen months before me and always very definitely the senior
partner in our relationship, with all the good and bad that that implies.
The buffalo (for Mike), the
bear (for me), and the German shepherd (which we called a wolf- for Kenny) were
all from a company named Breyer and are hollow molded plastic.
I checked the other hidey
places as best as I could (they were all predicated on how hard they were to
reach) but came up with nothing, and Mike (the biggest kid ahead of me) wasn’t
sticking his head up or down any holes for me.
Extraterrestrial Visitations
from Prehistoric Times to the Present, by Jacques Bergier. A
purchase from the early 70’s, instigated by Mike but passed around by all us
boys and much discussed.
I remember how Mike and I
cracked up as I read [Richard Armour’s] take on David Copperfield aloud.
That it takes place within
the milieu of the Lost Generation in Paris gives it added interest, as
Hemingway was my brother Mike's particular literary mentor, and I therefore
know a little bit about it.
We Babel boys were caught up
in the fear and frenzy of the shark craze in the mid-70s. It was then that Mike
developed the ambition to one day be a marine biologist, and he became quite
knowledgeable about the science of sharks. These books were in his library, but
we all read in them.
It came to me that none of
us had even a fair approximation of Pop's voice or could produce one, and John
and Kenny both have great powers of mimicry. Mike would sometimes do Pop, but
it was a mockery, and not so much a mimicry.
There is even a figure of
Paul Teutul Sr. (sans sunglasses) from the TV show, American Chopper,
which I gave Mike as a present.
1975 Yearbook of Jehovah’s
Witnesses, by The Watch Tower Bible and Tract Society of
Pennsylvania. They can try to re-write their history as much as they like, but
I got the evidence! The year of (one of) their grand failures of the prophesied
end. Actually has Mike’s and my “Speech Counsel” forms from the Theocratic
Ministry School.
Besides which, this book is
where for years I kept that picture of me and Mike as dog-trainers.
E-mail from John: He
[Mike] has been showing up a lot in my dreams lately as well. He's a busy
man for someone who hasn't walked the face of the earth for over thirteen
years.
[Climbing Enchanted Rock] The
whole prospect was so redolent of filmdom that Mike began to joke
around with the movie cliches: "You got us into this mess!," etc. As
we began to climb higher it started to rain. We were still a good way off from
the top on a huge, exposed slope and in fear of lightning. Not only that, we were
worried that the slope when wet would become too slippery to climb either up or
down. Now Mike's comments about "You got us into this mess" to Will
though still jocular had something of an edge to them.
Mike wore an old
black-and-stripes shirt, green fatigue pants, and a black cap to Enchanted
Rock.
When John and Kenny came
back we made some potato soup, and Mike went out and bought some bread,
jalapeno Cheez-Whiz, and Coca-Cola. He also rented a movie from Hastings, Murder--No
Apparent Motive.
A book was always a good
choice for a birthday present for Mike, as it pretty much is for any Babel.
Money was always good, too. But one thing that was essential was a good
feed, and Pop's BBQ was always Mike's choice. I can't recall a specific flavor
requested all the time, I do know Mike loved pineapple upside down cake, and
anything strawberry. Mike was usually in ebullient spirits on his birthday, and
weather permitting, walking and talking would sometimes follow the festivities.
Time has a way of throwing
things into different lights, but for me, the thing I still miss the most about
Mike is the laughter. There was no situation that was too heavy that it
couldn't be lightened by a well-timed Mike-ism, and being of a highly original
and creative mind, there was no guessing what might come out of his mouth. Sometimes
it was a sharp wordplay, most times an acidic observation, sometimes at my
expense, sometimes at his own. He was usually pretty good about laughing at
himself, but only after a suitable period of time had passed and the freshness
of a sting had faded. In that spirit, and out of no disrespect to his memory,
I'd like to recount something about the man that we both talked about and
laughed about many times over the years.
One of the physical
peculiarities about Mike was his propensity to need to defecate in the worst
way (i.e.=torrential diarrhea) when in the worst possible place to do it. I
remember one time when he and I were hiking around far afield from our campsite
at Knodel's, he was hit with the dreaded urge. After some "battling"
he finally declared that there was no possibility to hold back the flood tide
until our return to camp. The immediate problem was the paucity of poo poo
paper. A plan was hastily devised to use leaves of the local vegetation. He
found a spot along an old fence choked in big, green-leafed tobacco plants and
let fly with a thunderous slap. Upon attempting to wipe, Mike found the
sensation of the broad bristly leaves so disagreeable that he was forced to
switch to plan "B". He wiped his arse with his underwear and hurled
the soiled garment far into the foliage after its final sacrificial service. I
tried to choke back the laughter at the time, knowing how uncomfortable the
whole episode had been for him, but I couldn't for long and we both often
laughed at it in years after; wondering if any poor Knodel or unsuspecting
armadillo had ever come across the evidence of his secret shame.
There was also the infamous
"Red Yug" episode that occurred while we were swimming at the Lot. Mike,
losing his battle again, imagined pooping while waist deep in the river would
yield naught but unseen turds, sluggishly drifting unseen to the river bottom.
Instead, an intense explosion of reddish, foaming diarrhea engulfed the area
all around him, sending everyone flying in horror for the riverbanks.
Furthermore, the horrid issue went NOWHERE. It spread lazily out to cover our
entire swimming area and put an abrupt end to our day at the ol' swimming hole.
We would have been pissed if it weren't so funny. The entity that spewed forth
was dubbed "Red Yug” and was immortalized in a song sung to the tune of
Peter Gabriel's "Red Rain". ("Let the Red Yug splash you/ let
the Yug fall on your skin-" you get the picture.)
My last (and favorite)
anecdote along these lines occurred on a day trip to the Enchanted Rock State
Park. After having conquered the dome and descended into the remote wooded
valley area Mike was again hit with the urge. We knew from previous hikes that
there were no bathrooms to be found on this side of the park, so the only
question became where to do what had to be done. Mike chose a small crystalline
stream that flowed through the valley. The water would serve as a bidet and the
problem that had occurred at Knodel's many years prior would not be repeated.
Mike pulled off his deed flawlessly and our hike resumed with relief and a
spring in our steps. Then we saw the sign on the bank of the spring upstream.
"PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH OR STEP IN WATER-EXTREMELY FRAGILE ECOSYSTEM".
Our hearts sank. Images of rare salamanders doing a hideous danse
macabre in the billowing clouds of Mike's excrement went through our
suddenly troubled minds, and then turning around the bend we saw it--a newly
built, sparkling, and vacant public toilet.
Kenny: this post had me both
laughing and crying hysterically. I must look like a lunatic right now with the
tears and the guffawing. Sometimes I miss Mike so much I can't stand it. He was
the most proud and the most humble of us all. And I love you, Mike. As you
feast right now in Valhalla, know how much you are missed by your legions.
Happy Birthday, Mig.
[For playings] We all had
our specialties. My older brother Mike was good at setting up conflicts and
major characters. We all took Creative Writing in high school. We all wanted to
tell stories. Our differences were in how we wanted to tell them. Mike wanted
to write novels, John to draw comics, Kenny to do plays.
My older brother, Mike, had
finished his own rather monumental novel and was in the process of trying to
find a publisher. In the meantime, he took it upon himself to encourage me with
my own efforts. Mike made me buckle down. We had many discussions on how to
proceed, details about characters, and backstories. He even wrote me a batch of
notes of how he thought the story [A Grave on Deacon’s Peak]
could be fleshed out, even as a screenplay. In the end, I used very few of his
ideas, but he was certainly an influence; he sharpened my process. Then he
suddenly passed away in 2006, his own dreams of publication unfulfilled.
And in its pages were
announced the existence of three other works: the books of The Lord of The
Rings. They weren't in middle school, and there were no local bookstores at
the time. But when my elder brother Mike advanced to high school and told me
they were there; I bartered a whole year's worth of chores if he could get them
for me. And he did.
The clipping is dated May
24; the fact that Mike is in 6th Grade makes it 1974. Mike the Viking, draped
with Mom's leopard skin nightshirt .
Notice mood ring on Mike's
finger, and his hauteur.
Among my earliest of
memories is, of course, Mike going off to school for First Grade. We would
stand at the dining room window and watch as he "disappeared around the
corner" every morning, and then in the afternoon when Mom would tell us to
be on the lookout for him coming home. Mrs. Bilnitzer was his First Grade
teacher. I always think how stalwartly he went. I was really lucky that I had
him to take me down to the stop sign the next year. He was the Fearless Leader.
To see so much all-to-once
is a little overwhelming, but it kind of emphasizes the two sides of Mike,
doesn't it: the hard, bitter, I can't help but think of it as posturing or at
least a stance or response to irritation (though sincere) outer shell, and the
sensitive, insightful, noble, easily wounded (and yes, horny) man within. I
can't say I like the use of numbers for words or the whole AL thing, though it
must have meant something to him or his online followers; it has the whiff of
trying to be poetic-like.
I remember his fascination with all the Crucified Snake pictures. He wanted to
get a tattoo of it once.
The only surviving piece of
the naked paper doll of Kenny. Mike had a rather peculiar sense of humor, but a
surprising skill at capturing a likeness.
It's just like Mike to
"spice up" an adventure with a little personal unpleasantness. Let me
refresh your memory: Mike wanted to go to Yen's bachelor party, I was bone
tired by this point and really wasn't interested in driving all the way across
town for the party. Mike couldn't drive himself because he had allowed his DL
to expire. He called me a 'bitch' and said he'd like to kill me and dump my
body in a swamphole somewhere where they'd never find me. He also came after
you for your snoring. Very unpleasant, nerve-frazzled point of the trip, in a
crappy Hojo hotel room after the awesomeness of Summerfield Suites.
One of the best things that
Mike ever did that I witnessed happened when we were driving home from work
late one night, I mean about 2 AM. We were almost home, just about to cross the
bridge, when we saw a family in distress stranded at the closed gas
station there. A father, mother, and baby, trying to wave down some help. I was
tired, and, to be honest, a little afraid that it might be a trap of some kind,
but Mike insisted on turning in and seeing what was the matter. As it happened
Mike gave them money for the payphone there and we waited until a wrecker could
show up to lend them assistance. I was ashamed; I fancied myself to be
religious, and they were in the same situation as the Holy Family themselves.
But it was Mike who had the bigness of heart to help.
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