Chapter One

The Burpers and Scratchers

Our generation’s fruitless attempts at manhood

Eric Ludy. I always thought it was sort of a funny name. My first name, Eric, sounded sort of like something a little bearded elf would call his pet frog. I used to dream of being a Steve or a Scott. For some reason, those names seemed to have more manly flair than Eric. My dad used to tell me that I was named after the great conqueror, Eric the Red. That made me feel somewhat better. All in all, Eric was an acceptable first name. It was the last name Ludy that posed serious threats to my coolness.

Throughout my puberty-stricken and collegiate years, no one ever called me by my first name. It was always, “Hey Ludy!” Actually it was usually, “Hey Lugy!,” “Hey Quaalude!” or “Hey Looney Tunes!” I longed for a last name like Cruise, or Jordon, or even Schwarzenegger. I frequently fantasized about how cool I would be if only I had been named Scott Schwarzenegger.

As many “mom-types” have informed me throughout my