Everybody has parties this time of year. First it’s the Halloween costume parties. I was going to show up—literally and figuratively—in my Silver Surfer outfit but even my friends have standards. Then there’s the homey Thanksgiving get-togethers and the cheery Christmas nogfests, all topped off with the drunken debauchery that is New Year’s Eve. You know you’re dealing with an over-the-hill group when the party hosts and guests all agree that the glittering 2014 ball will come down at ten p.m. so that everybody can be back in their little trundle beds by eleven. It’s a sad state of affairs.
This year, there was yet an additional celebration as the Minnesota Family Schweiss decided to have a festive housewarming to show off their pretty new farm where daughters (and Pathogenes employees) Autumn and Lark now live. The paterfamilias of this outfit is Mike Schweiss, a self-made man of discerning tastes who has the good sense to read The Flying Pie every week, or so he says. Now, Mike will be the first to tell you he didn’t enjoy much in the way of education but Minnesotans are known for their resourcefulness and Mike was nothing if not resourceful. Eventually, he found himself in the chicken-plucker business. We who are on the outside of the chicken trade do not spend overlong periods contemplating the many procedures necessary to bring a chicken to market but I think we can all agree on the need for reliable chicken-plucking machines. I mean, there are only so many Mexicans willing to relocate to the Winter ice fields of Minnesota (Land of 10,000 Lakes—All Frozen) to hand pluck. Anyway, Mike proved to be adept in this area but eventually found himself pondering the Eternal Question: Is There More To Life Than Chicken-Plucking? Fate answered in the affirmative when Mike met a fellow at a party who talked him into a partnership in a new enterprise involving the manufacture of folding garage doors, of all things. Some people at parties discuss the hostess’ large ass, whereas more substantial folk contemplate garage doors. The universe is a quizzical rec room.
Shortly after Mike and his new friend sealed their deal, alas, the poor fellow inconveniently up and died, leaving Mike in a feathery quandary—go back to chicken-plucking or bravely soldier on alone with the garage doors? By now you know Mike well enough to rest assured that he would carry on with the New Plan, and that he did. And through the process of trial and error, Mike’s new business grew and grew and people made pilgrimages to Mike’s Mountain to plead with him to create for them the perfect door. And I say “door” because Mike was no longer limiting himself to mere garage doors, he had graduated to fabricating all manner and make of portals. Why, Mike could promptly whip up an ample hangar door for the Hindenberg, itself, were one required. Mike started making so much money he went out and bought himself a plane. We know this is true because whenever Lark and Autumn have to return home for a couple days, there is no driving involved—Dad sends the plane. Now, you might be wondering—all this being the case—why the hell the two girls are working at Pathogenes, or anywhere, for that matter. I know I am. I guess they just want to plow their own furrow, discover their own chicken-plucker. And being equally resourceful Minnesotans, they probably will. In the meantime, we have the benefit of their many talents, a true blessing. Oh, and we get a price on garage doors you wouldn’t believe.
Whoever Heard Of “River Bottom?”
All this is prelude to the subject of the day—The Name Game—and we don’t mean that impossibly confusing song. It seems that child-naming these days is running off the tracks. In the Old Days, kids in our neck of the woods got names like “William” and “Mary,” derived from Catholic saints of the same name. There was no St. Brittany or St. Heather so it never occurred to parents in those times to name their offspring such. Then the hippies showed up with their back-to-the-Earth predilections and we started getting kids named after natural phenomena, like Waterfall McPhee, for instance. The Schweiss Family names are fairly temperate—Lark invoking thoughts of a cheerful young thing; Autumn, colorful and serene; Brook, happy, laughing. The fourth Schweiss child, though, is Sky, a boy. It might be tough living up to Sky. I mean, the Sky’s the limit, right? Ambitious children are told to “reach for the Sky.” What if the kid wants to be a sewer worker or a snake-handler? Is that a letdown to the parents? It doesn’t seem fair, somehow.
We have our own local band of strange child-namers, the Phoenixes of Micanopy. Everybody knows River Phoenix, the star-crossed actor who collapsed and died of drug-induced heart failure on the sidewalk outside The Viper Room in L.A., but did you know his real name was River Bottom? He was the first child of Arlyn Dunetz and John Lee Bottom, River’s name emanating from the river of life in Hermann Hesse’s novel, Siddhartha, required reading for all hippies, which the parents certainly were. River got his middle name from The Beatles’ song “Hey Jude.” All very nice, indeed, but River BOTTOM? It was an absolute necessity to graduate to Phoenix. I mean, the kids at school can be cruel enough without giving them additional ammunition.
After River, the Phoenixes got Rain, Joaquin, Summer and Liberty. I know, I know. You’re wondering how Joaquin snuck in there. So did he. Feeling somewhat gypped of a quaint name, Joaquin changed his moniker to Leaf, a very bad idea, if you ask us. Leaf sort of….well….seems to lack substance, somehow. After a period of due contemplation, Leaf changed his name back to Joaquin, sparing himself a lot of snickering when the movie poster went up for “GLADIATOR—STARRING LEAF PHOENIX!” I mean, it just wouldn’t do.
The natural phenomena names lend themselves to obvious problems. Everyone wants his kid to be a Pinnacle when he well might be a Mesa. Maybe we could have a 48-month Naming Clause which would allow renaming in cases of grave disappointment. We are not all-knowing, of course, by the time a child is four, but if he paints everything in his coloring book yellow we might be changing his name from Sun God to Intermittent Showers. Or possibly Van Gogh. On the other hand, if there is a mighty intellectual rise in a toddler she could move up from Grub Weed to Gladiola. There are endless possibilities. But I think it’s time we put a stop to nuclear physicists named Snail Tracks and janitors dubbed Hallelujah! The correct-thinking universe objects.
There are worse naming offenders than the Bottom/Phoenixes, of course. Frank Zappa called two of his kids Dweezil and Moon Unit. Nobody will be taking you very seriously when your name is Dweezil or Moon Unit. Can you see putting those names on your job application? The secretary comes out and says, “Mr. Throckmorton will see you now, Moon Unit.” You haven’t got a chance. Or the teacher is taking roll and when he gets to the last kid, he reads “Zappa, Dweezil” and the shocked classroom collapses in laughter and finger-pointing. You’d have to be home-schooled, probably not a good intellectual alternative in the Zappa family. David Bowie, of course, had a kid named Zowie Bowie, which seems a tiny bit overenthusiastic and Paula Yates had Heavenly Hirani Tiger Lily, a little trying when it comes to signature-signing. I mean, how about a little compassion for the poor bedraggled children who have to lug these titles through life? And that’s just the Caucasian part of the picture.
The Indians Got It Right
Who doesn’t like the old American Indian names….Geronimo….Sitting Bull….Crazy Horse….memorable all. The Indians had the right idea. In Native American culture, you got the name you earned. What could be more fair than that? If you were a great hunter or warrior, you might be called Running Bear or Many Knives and if you were a lesser light, well, you could be called Applies Bathroom Tile Poorly or Farts Often. If the moccasin fit, you were obliged to wear it. Off the subject for a moment, Indian Tribal Names will be with us forever as hundreds of towns, cities, lakes and rivers in this country retain Indian titles. All the towns in Massachusetts are named either for cities in England or Native American tribes. Chicago, of all places, originated with the Indian “checaugou,” which, as everybody knows, means “wild onions.” Is there no end to the things we learn reading The Flying Pie?
On the other hand, we are sad to relate, African-American names are retreating beyond the pale. I mean, “Martavious?” C’mon, you guys, you can do better than that. In the Good Old Days, black people had distinguished names, involving a lot of Washingtons, Jeffersons and Lincolns. Named their kids after Presidents they admired or who had given them a leg up. Names of substance. Then came the Civil Rights Era and “white names” became anathema. We started getting Ebony, Aaliyah, Jazmin, Tiffanee and LaToya and those were the good names. This provided one significant benefit to the naming parents: they didn’t have to worry about spelling any more. The more misspelled a name, the more they liked it. Well, Bill, it’s none of your business, says accidental reader Precious Mobuto of Low Aspirations, New Mexico and that could be true. But I’m thinking some of the kids who are blessed with these monstrosities are less than thrilled, especially the few unfortunates who got stuck with “Cholera, “Elephantisia” or Marty Jourard’s favorite, “Modern Thunderbird.” Alright, I’m rethinking that Modern Thunderbird. His real name was “Martin Funderburke,” after all. I’m just saying there’s room for improvement.
I like Hawaiian names. They’re exotic and, better yet, the Hawaiians pronounce every letter. Like, for instance, Hepaulaha’ole is pronounced heh poo ah lah ha oh lay. How simple is that? And all the Hawaiian names are happy like Leia (Child of Heaven), Kaimana (Divine Power of the Sea) or Polunu (Chubby). You can’t get a bad name in Hawaii, except, maybe for haole (that’s us while folk).
Did you know that Pacific Islanders have SIX names for boomerang! WOW! One of them is Kilee, which is dangerously close to Killeen. I guess that’s alright. Always Comes Back can be interpreted both positively and negatively. If I lived in Samoa, I would like my name to be Laauli, which means strikingly beautiful man who wowed women and is brave. Having advanced in age and deterioration, however, it would more likely be Igaga. And that would be? Whalebait, pardner, nothing but whalebait.
Sitting Bull In Happier Times
Letter From Kathleen Knight
I loved the advice of your last Flying Pie to be happy with what you have. Brought back memories.
After all, what college kid today is blessed with a mattress on the floor for a bed, wood planks with cement blocks serving as a bookshelf, no phone, no computer, no car and a TV with rabbit ears covered by foil, the better to bring in three channels?
I remember biking to Shores Animal Hospital in Gainesville with my Doberman pup in my backpack, head sticking out, enjoying the scenery. I was happy….hell, I had a dog and a bike!
I remember going down to Krispy Kreme on 13th after midnight when they gave away the old doughnuts. What was better than this? Free treats!
I remember reading textbooks while I hitchhiked to school when the bike had a flat. Whatever the current snag, I was getting to go to college!
I remember tacking up a sheet to keep the living room warm, containing the heat from the fireplace. I was lucky. I had friends to share the warmth.
At the time, everyone told me if I worked hard, life would get better. You know what? Looking back, life was pretty damn good THEN!
That’s all, folks….
