Call Me...
I have been called some choice names in this short life of mine. Who hasn’t?* But in the past couple of years, two new titles have cropped up, and each one unbidden by yours truly. Both of them took me by surprise. And both made me wonder.
How was that meant?
And what in tarnation did that one mean?
The first of the two latest awards came about voluntarily from a mad gaggle of hormone-infested teens. You know the sort: they group together for security so that their wiles might destroy anything set in their path that appears to be out of sync with their median age (I know this trick only too well, kids -- watch it). I learned of their pronouncement weeks after the fact, when one of my own accidentally spilled the beans while we sat outside in the yard and threw rocks at silly ground squirrels.
“The guys are now calling you the Blind Beatnik, dad.”
Say what?
How am I to blame for this malfeasance? What exactly did I do? I only opened the door to let the boys in, your Honor. Seriously, I never meant no harm to any of them.
Look. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow.
A few days ago Ned dropped by to see my older son. The pair have become the best of friends. Ned plays guitar, so the three of us at least have that in common. Ned has great hair. Rather, Ned had great hair. Only recently did he shear off a set of dreadlocks that would make Ziggy Marley happy.
My son even has great hair for an average white boy. I look at what Eli grows effortlessly, and I try not to covet. Here I am, with less of that stringy protein cascading off my head than both of those two can produce on their young, collective chins. It is just unfair.
My chin, however, is a current killer. I sort of had that bush in mind as Ned turned to me with a shocking verdict before he left our home that day. But even with my beard, I certainly do not deserve the term, “Great White Aboriginal Poet.”
*Call me crazy or call me a bitch. Please, call me a bastard right now.
Or call me a Bob or a Shirley or gay, or even a black-and-white cow.
Go ahead. Call me a rubber-faced geek who never did learn how to pee.
Feel free to call me whatever you want, but do not forget to call me.
posted by Harry | 8:48 PM
10 Comments:
It's a brave man who will announce his intention to blog.
Those lyrics you wanted are waiting over at the blog, btw.
Call me irresponsible, but never unresponsive where a commenter is concerned.
Ned (the one with locks intact)
That's a fair old moniker, that "Great White Aboriginal Poet" thing. Be grateful that they're struggling to put you in a nutshell - at least you know they'll never manage to sum you up sufficiently. Me, I never managed to collect any nicknames. Unless I haven't been listening hard enough...
Being called brave is one of nicer names. I saw the lyrics Ned, and then totally forgot to say thanks. Or as the kids around here say, tote-ly.
Didn't you mention being fond of the spicy foods, Gone? I have a few extra well-seasoned nicknames willing to be adopted out to a good home, but they would sure cause trouble.
This is no mere blog, but well written slices of Americana. I only wish it were compiled into book form (in case I am without electricity as we've had a recent multi-day power outage) or simply to give as gifts to deserving friends. I might add that maybe Readers Digest should have a go at publishing some of the stories. . . Harry, you are my most favored raconteur.
I forgot to add the picture is priceless. It's "worth a thousand words", "GWAP".
Why thank you kindly, Jules. You are a both a gentleman and a true scholar. As for a book, I let words fall where they might for the time being. Nice thought, though.
Say, you favor raconteur? I’ve always had a hankering for possums, myself.
GWAP! I have a new title!
...that took me a second longer that it should have, but it's still hilarious.
oh quit griping...at least you don't have wrinkles.....or at least you can't see them !
You not looking in the same mirror as me, Peas. Ans quit squawking, smooth one.
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