Those Merry Men Of Mirth
Little did we know when we wrote our last column that the geocachers were all around us. They’re just very quiet about their pursuits, that’s all. But having found the door ajar, they’re flooding out of the closets with tales of caching derring-do. We even got a letter from Flo, Ashleigh’s boyfriend in Germany, confessing to the addiction. Siobhan and I have training, doctor visits and stallion shows to attend to but we haven’t given up finding that cache in Boringville. And don’t you think that moniker deserves its own song? How about the old standard, “Roses Are Blooming In Boringville?” Or maybe, for adventurers traveling east from the west coast, “Boringville-ia Here I come!” Lovesick warblers might like “I Left My Heart In Boringville” or “The Yellow Rose Of Boringville” while other romantics would prefer “I Love Boringville In The Springtime.” There’s no end to the possibilities. We’d take up these terrific suggestions with the Boringville Chamber Of Commerce but, alas, there is none. I guess it’s just as well. We don’t really want a bunch of tourists rampaging through the area, hippies wandering through the paddocks looking for psilocybin mushrooms. Boringville should stay true to its name. The odds are in our favor.
A.K.A.
We got a letter from Irana the other day—and when don’t we—complaining that my sister, Alice (the Republican) had her own nickname and nobody else got to play. Irana thought her drug-taking past should earn her some sort of title so we decided on “the Acidhead.” We hope Irana is happy now and will leave us alone but we doubt it.
All this got us to thinking, however, that there might be others out there jealous of Alice’s title. Not only that, but how much more colorful might our column be if we embellished it with nicknames for our many followers? This would also serve the purpose of familiarizing other readers with the various proclivities and inclinations of their co-readers and everybody would feel like they knew each other better. We decided to start today and see how all this works out.
Pat Brown, our long-time friend in Austin, is as responsible as anyone for kicking this column in gear, so she should be first up. Trouble is, Pat merits a bunch of nicknames. Miss Austin, The Artist, Mother Superior all come to mind. But we’re delving back into the past to resurrect the title Soul Sister for Pat.
Jack Gordon, our co-founder, already has his own nickname, and it’s impossible to beat. In his e-mail and elsewhere, he is Fenway Jack, after the Red Sox’ famed ballpark. It’s a good thing he already snagged himself a name because we might have given him Cradlerobber. We’d tell you why but we’d like to avoid police involvement.
While we’re out on the west coast (Jack lives in Laguna Hills, the poor bastard), we can’t forget Marty Jourard up in Kirkland, Washington. Marty lost about 200 pounds last year and now wants to be called “the Stick.” And who could deny him the right after such a noble accomplishment?
And who can forget one of our favorite people, Leslie Logan, up in Portland, Oregon? Leslie is running a school up there in the Pacific Northwest and might aptly be called the Principal, but that’s much too bland for Leslie, who was often found frolicking naked through local meadows in her youth. When Leslie came down for The Event, the celebratory interment of ex-husband Stuart’s ashes last summer, we noticed she sweat through seven sets of clothes and required constant re-icing but you can’t call a sweet girl like Leslie the Sweathog. So again we retreat to the past for a more appropriate title, Earth Mother. And after all the sweating business, all those naked romps are put into better perspective.
Leslie’s daughter, Katherine, might be Daddy’s Girl. She certainly earned the title. She could also be called Wiseguy for her generally sarcastic weekly comments on various blog subjects. But Katherine having recently dumped her fiancé in Arizona and fleeing to Tampa, we’re going with The Runaway Bride. That might give future boyfriends pause but pause is not always a bad thing.
Siobhan’s niece, Kathleen, is pretty sure the cell phone was invented so that you could carry on conversations with your friends and family as if they were still in the room. Meaning—unendingly. It is nothing for Kathleen to call oh, say seventeen times a day. So her new name is Kathleen Constant Comment Ellison. Her father, Stuart, of course, is the Stargazer. His wife—and Kathleen’s mother—Mary could either be the Planner or the Packer. Mary has the uncanny capacity of taking the unruly contents of a giant warehouse and neatly packing them into your everyday SUV. If there’s any item of food or clothing that Mary or her brood might have the slightest chance of pining for, it’s in the car. If there ever comes a time when we are invaded by giant rabbits from outer space, Mary will be the only one with forethought to have brought the Poison Carrot Ray Guns to lure them in and smite them down.
If Mary is the Planner, as she most assuredly is, Sharon Cinney would have to be the Arranger. If Sharon is going on vacation six years from now, she’s on the computer arranging the details today. I asked her one day how she knew her motels would still be in business so far into the future but she told me it hadn’t happened yet and she wasn’t going to worry about it until it did. Sharon can also name you every hotel within ten miles of the Orlando airport which will (1) let you park your car for free for seven days to two weeks, and (2) pick you up at the airport gratis. Knowledge like this is nothing to sneeze at and we don’t. Sharon’s gregarious husband, “Smilin John” Cinney, is one of those remarkable human beings who is never unhappy, bestowing his good cheer on everyone. Well, except once, maybe. After months of discussion and preparation with Sharon, John was on his way out the door to purchase his long-dreamed-of recreational vehicle when his wife started having sudden pangs of financial regret. The project was cancelled and it was oh, maybe five or six days before Smilin’ John reappeared, none the worse for wear. Hey, nobody’s perfect.
Our neighbors, Hal and Jennie Hollis, collectively, would have to be The Holy Roman Empire, due to their propensity to accumulate real estate. Hal and Jennie buy houses the way other people buy candy bars. They have a big place in Alpharetta, Georgia, a little five-acre horse farm next door to us and now a new place down the street. None of these houses costs forty-five cents. But hey, we don’t tell other people how to spend their money. And otherwise, Hal and Jennie are very normal. They come over for dinner, go to the movies with us and share their three-mile almost-daily walk around the neighborhood with Siobhan. Jennie is generally less enthusiastic about this than her two partners and made a horrible mistake the other day.
“Let’s take this alternate route,” suggested Jennie, and they did. It was about a mile-and-a-half longer than the old route, however, and Jennie was fagged halfway through.
“Let’s call Bill to come and get us,” Jennie suggested, and I would have, too, but her walkmates were too proud so they trudged on, Jennie barely averting hospitalization. Look, Jennie, just take your cell in the future and call me when these walkathons get out of hand. Be very careful, however, to ask for the Special Neighbor Rate. This will absolve you of the responsibility to perform most of the aberrant acts we require of our usual female hitchhikers.
Torrey Johnson, our pal in Pennsylvania—and decreasingly South Florida—would have to be The Fan. Torrey is up at the crack of five a.m., checking his fourteen sports websites for the latest news. If you want to know the most recent high school cornerback to sign with the University of Babylonia, ask Torrey. We do have some reservations about awarding Torrey this title, however, when he rarely even goes to a game anymore. How long can you remain The Fan when you fester in your attic?
Our friend, Karen Brown, in Kansas City, is the Consultant. Karen used to work for Bayer and apparently gleaned enough knowledge on things corporate and medical to retire to consultanthood. Truth be known, WE’D like to be consultants, too. Just sit back in your easy chair, dispense knowledge and wait for those checks to roll in.
“Hey, Karen—what special knowledge do we need to become consultants?”
“Dam’fino—would you kindly pass me another bon-bon?”
Tom Sutton in LA is, of course, the Actor. My ex-wife, Harolyn, five times wed, is The Marryin’ Kind. Niece Ashleigh Ellison, in Berlin, is the Expat. Ashleigh doesn’t call nearly as much as her sister, even though she works for Nokia. Siobhan, of course, is the Wizard. And I? Well, I am In A World Of Trouble.
Romney And The Seven Dwarves
Well, the traveling circus moves on to South Carolina (the Dirtbag State). Your kindly Uncle Mitt has polished off his competition in Iowa and New Hampshire and is looking for a soul-crushing threefer over his sniveling opponents in the first southern arena. Buckle yourselves in—whatever gloves have remained on until now are coming off as the desperate also-rans battle to remain viable. Will Newt unleash his Zombie Army to overrun the polls in Orangeburg? Will Rick Perry bring down a Heavenly Host to uproot the Mitt ralleys in Gastonia? Will Rick Santorum bring in JESUS CHRIST HIMSELF to liven things up in Beaufort? Anything’s possible. It’s Apocalypse Now, Republican-style.
The other day, Larry, the Fedex man (a Ron Paul supporter), asked me what I liked so much about Obama. Well, first of all, he’s not a Republican. Second, he’s done a respectable job of holding the national economy together despite inheriting a mess that threatened to become “another depression” as he entered office. Third, he’s soldiered on despite an absolutely intractable congress, the sole objective of which seems to be to deny him another term. Now, the economy is trending up. Most of the money doled out to banks and corporations has been repaid with interest. And the war is winding down, albeit slowly. Obama has handled it all with gentlemanly aplomb.
If you want to see an example of Republicans-gone-wild, take a look at Florida. We have a totally unqualified Republican governor and a legislature with a massive Republican advantage. The schools are without money, the environment is being shredded, all consumer support agencies are powerless and the place is going to hell.
Not to sermonize or anything, Larry. But you asked me.
Racing Report
Cosmic Crown is training forwardly for a possible race on January 19. Pogo is back to jogging, soon to start galloping, with hopes of shipping to Calder in May. If we’re rich, we may pick up a two-year-old at the April OBS sale. It’s infrequent that we’re rich.
That’s all, folks….
