A Chicken in Every Pot and a Caitlyn in Every Kindergarten

I remember a joke a long time ago... about that scene in West Side Story where the guy runs through a Puerto Rican neighborhood yelling "Maria! Maria!" The comic quipped that it was odd that only one girl stuck her head out the window. Funny.

I remarked to my brother that if I ran through a suburb yelling "Jennifer," more than one chick would pop her "Long Island Claw" bangs out her bedroom window in response. Lack of originality in doling out the monikers is not inherent solely to Latin American women.

In some cultures, naming your child is either a patronomical or matronomical endeavor; meaning Jr. get's Grandpa's name and and your precious bundle of infant estrogen gets Grandma's. Hey, that's a cool way to honor the old timers. On the other hand, you end up with a baker's dozen Angelos and Angelas for cousins.

Latin women, like African-American women name their daughters phonetically. They name the girls whatever they think sounds 'nice,' like Denaira, Loyda or Zuraima, though lately they've been busting out such 80s chestnuts as Jessica, Amanda or Ashley. Now the sisters come up with a hybrid Franco-African phoneticism, for ex. LaQuisha, DeShaun, Shanique (or Andre, Aundray, DeAndre for males).

Which leads me to the Anglos and the Caucasoids. I busted out a calculator to do some stats. The three most popular names for girls today are Madison, Emma and Emily, (which means that Kayla and every nauseating permutation thereof has heard its death knell). Of the approximately 2,000,000 girls that were born in the US in 2004, 68,000 were named either Madison, Emma or Emily. That makes 3% of that populace. In other words, 3 out of 100 baby girls will have one of those names (or there will be at least ONE of them in every classroom). Throw in a plethora of Hannahs or Olivias and you've got quite the homogenous alphabet soup.

As "the wife" and I consider or are planning (ugh.) having another baby, we are beginning to revisit that discussion. My rule of thumb is to look at the Social Security list of popular names and make sure my suggestions aren't on the top 1,000. Not that I want to name my kid some goofball name like Picasso, Zinc, Lug-nut or Calico just to be original, but after perusing the list, nothing says "pole-dancer" like Dakota, Sierra or Savannah so avoiding the geographical shit is a must (even though THOSE stripper-tits names are high on the list). I also don't want to have to name my kid something that sounds like cheap shitty Irish Beer. The fact that my wife is 100% Irish doesn't warrant naming my kid Keegan, Caleb or Kegger.

Another thing that creases me is the 80 different spellings for boring-ass names. This is either an indication of growing national illiteracy, and the disregard for conventional rules of English, or just feeble attempts to make the mundane seem original. Kaley, Kaylee, Kayleigh, Kailey or Kailee is still fucking Kayley. Creative spelling does not add panache, it just wastes time when little princess has to open up a bank account.

Even though I'm getting ahead in the appellation of the unborn agenda, the discussion is fun. So, I'm open to suggestions. More than three syllables is pretentious, and tough to spell for a small-fry, so out go Anaximander, Zachariah and Magdalena. Pinto? Sauerkraut? Grinch? LaSagna? Ocelot? Eeep Opp Ork Ah-Ah? Saddam and Fallujah? Tsunami? Or Kayleegh?

Trisyllabic Coffee Drinker

I know this is going to come across as homophobic to the hypersensitive, or Anti-metrosexual to the urbane hipster doofi, or just plain sexist - but please - when ordering your coffee during the morning rush, please refrain from requesting something from the Pansy-European list. If you're really in the mood for a "swizzbery mochiato," a "mint mocha creamuccino" or a "triple-venti skinny latte mierda milkshake" at 7.30 am your troubles run deeper than just a need for caffeine.

Do not order anything that makes you sound like a pretentious, sugar guzzling gilipolla. And when ordering, try any of these methods:

"Large Coffee."
You may precede this with a "Good Morning," or a "G'mubmg" and follow it with a "please" if you're the well-mannered type.

"Coffee, bitch."
You might need to follow this up with a resounding "Now!" to thwart the bewildered or insulted look this one is likely to yield.

"Joe. Pronto."
Though you might have to substitute "Quickly" in place of "pronto" if you happen to live in the bible belt, or any other homogenous, white-bread wasteland.

"Large and black."
Self-explanatory, unless you ARE large and black, in which case, further clarification is warranted.

Mumble and point
This is only effective if you are agitated and looking at your watch, in which case the clerk better figure out what it is that you're requesting quickly before you go into a caffeine-deficient tirade.


Additionally, you don't actually have to refer to the sizes as "Venti," "mucho, "muy grande," "thimble," "dios mio" or "faggedaboutit." Unless you want to succumb to feeling like an asshole in public, "Large," "medium" or "small" will suffice.


Also, please refrain from refering a coffeehouse employee as a barista. You may refer to them as any of the following:
"Clerk"
"Joe Momma"
"Art-fag"
"Jennifer" or
"Starbucks," as in "Yo, Starbucks, where's the raw sugar."

If you are a barista, or just have an affinity for sissy coffee-esque beverages and feel the need to unleash a retort, feel free to do so. Maybe we can meet over a "muy grande maple espresso mocchiato" to discuss satire.




Update: Revenge of the Barista

Wherever You Are Ain't the Place to Be

The older I get, the more I think about what's going to be running through my mind om my deathbed. As my joints begin to stiffen, my a**hole begins to sh*t cacti and the bald spot in the back of my head is approaching the diameter of a beer coaster, I think of all the things I hate to do and avoid them as much as possible.

Surprisingly, "work" did not make the list. I'm a firm believer that if that is the case, a mass mailing of resumes is truly in order. Some honorable mentions that also do not appear are: the toilet (when I am constipated), the wrong line in the supermarket (when foodstamps are issued), the DMV or other city, county or state office, and the mall.

THE TOP 5
5. Court. Nothing makes me feel like 'brown trash' more than having to sit in court with shoplifters, drunks and wife-beaters. Fortunately this only happened once, and it's something I'd rather not repeat. I'll learn to hold my tongue at the next airline customer service desk from now on. This is particularly worse if it happens in Cheektowaga. There is a high 'whiskey-tango' factor, with de rigueur Buffalo Bills attire of players not seen on the squad since the 90s. Pathetic pleas of "It was only a $20 sweater" from plain jane high-schoolers further pains the experience.

4. A Vehicle. If I had to live anywhere that warranted a 30+ minute commute, I would definitely have to take the aforementioned vehicle and drive it off of the nearest bridge. I also hate being caught in a heavily trafficked suburban artery. I seethe miserably, grind my teeth and feel a nervous twitch in my lower left eyelid.

3. Hospitals. Is there any good reason to spend time there? They've depressed me ever since my mother passed away. While there is an up-side, such as childbirth, (or if, for instance, somebody jammed a phillips-head screwdriver in my ear, I can't think of a better place to have it removed), generally there aren't too many good reasons to find yourself at one. It's even worse if you don't get courteous, caring service.

2. Church. Weddings, baptisms... mass... Hopefully if there is a god, he'll be understanding after my funeral, but all that kneeling, standing, droning and off-key singing actually peeves me. I understand that some people need 2000 year old folklore to make their life meaningful and to give them a warm, fuzzy superiority complex. Others need it to keep their ids in check. It serves neither purpose for me. If you hear a rhythmic tap of the hymnal clip on the back of your pew, yeah... that's me. I did have a proud parent moment walking by the ubiquitous bloodied up statue of Jeebus and having my 4 year old son ask, "Who's that guy?"

1. Banks. Nothing makes my stomach burn more than having to wait in a line at a bank. Even if there are no other customers around, the inefficiency at these places cause you to wait 10 minutes for a dead-eyed dolt who can't make a decision on their own to hand over a roll of nickels. It's gotten even worse since all this terrorist hoopla started. I've got five accounts at the same bank and they still manage to make me feel like they just met me by asking me a million questions and for 90 identifications. I don't think I have enough money kicking around to funnel cash to a self-respecting terrorist for purchase of a pack of firecrackers.

There you have it. If you see at any of these locales, please have the courtesy of putting me out of my misery.

Yoko in 2008 - Mixing Pop and Politics

This past weekend, the O-Dog and I went shopping for a new music DVD to add to our collection. Since he's been belting out Sympathy for the Devil better than Mick himself for the past couple weeks, we opted to pick up a copy of the Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus. If this was going to be his first foray into Stones-ville, it'd better be a good one. A geriatric Mick might do more harm to the O-Dog's rock psyche than good, so vintage Stones it is.

We watched several acts, such as Jethro Tull, Taj Mahal, Marianne Faithfull and the Who. John Lennon and a star-studded supporting cast belted out "Yer Blues." Everything was copacetic in Rock-dom until the next song, in which John was joined onstage by his wife. It was at this point that I noticed the O-Dog was no longer sitting next to me on the couch. I saw his little butt hanging off the edge, and his head buried beneath the cushions.

"What's the matter, Rock?" I asked him. (Rock is short for Rockstar; one of his many nicknames.)
"I don't like this one," he replied.

To be honest, neither did I, but I try to let him be his own little tastemaker and not let my own opinion sway his. I gave him a little kiss and skipped a couple chapters on the disc.

Two or three songs later, the O-Dog got over his encounter with Yoko Ono; Daddy, on the other hand, was left with his musings. If a child can sniff lack of talent a mile away, how then did Yoko get away with it? Does the fact that she was John Lennon's wife endow her with the rights to warble and wail in front of a huge audience? And have her shrills met with applause? We are indeed dupes.

I was left to ponder (and this will likely twist the armpit hairs of the staunchest of feminists) is Hillary Clinton just another Yoko? I am not postulating about the qualifications of a woman President. I could give a rat's ass about gender. There are, however, millions of women in the United States. Now the best this country could do with the male population fell miles short of anything worthwhile these past two elections. Are we to put all of our proverbial eggs in the basket of a cuckolded coattail rider whose track record is in its infancy, just because she happened to be a President's wife and has charisma?

This is the same country that elected a wrestler to office in Minnesota, and a hack of an actor to the governership of California (and the White House, lest we forget Reagan.) If we are en route to being governed by the cult of fame, I vote for the hot little biscuit that played Topanga on "Boy Meets World." Better yet, I cast my vote for Yoko Ono, right before I bury my head in the couch with my son.

How to Silence a Self-Proclaimed 4 Y.O. Chocoholic

At the risk of turning the O-Dog into an Hispano/Celtic Augustus Gloop, I came across a recipe that'll guarantee the family blood will be flowing like toothpaste all winter. Hell, even the Fletch likes. It's the kind of shit you wish your parents would have let you have.

The O-Dog has had a long-standing love affair with cacao. As a two year-old, he'd amaze patrons at the local sweets shop as he would down a 32oz. cup of chocolate milkshake without taking his lips off of the straw. I used to love watching the plastic lid fog up with every breath he took. Little bro is toddling down that same path of addiction.

Anyway, throw this one on the stovetop to thwart that cabin fever.

2 Cups Half & Half
1 4oz. Bar of the serious shit chocolate

Heat up one of the cups of Half & Half until it boils; turn down heat and throw in the smashed up chocolate bar. Stir gently until the chocolate melts.
Add the other cup of Half & Half and crank up the heat.

Dilute a cup or two for the kiddies with milk, set yours aside and top it off with a sprinkle of cayenne pepper and some cinnamon.

Enjoy the 10 or so minutes of peace and quiet before they finish their beverages, the sugar kicks in and they go back to killing each other on the living room floor.