The Naming of Gizmo

I've always had a fascination with naming things. Whether it is a nickname or given name, it is interesting how one arrives at a name. According to my mom, the names that my parents had picked out for me were Elizabeth or Jay depending on gender (obviously). In a moment of genius, my dad suggested 'Robert' to my mom and she readily agreed because she had been in labor for about 20+ hours. I dodged a bullet there. The reason he named me 'Robert' is that it is his father's name (my grandfather). My dad could be nostalgic and sentimental, for he was named after his grandfather as well. I was 'Robert' until I went to college. It was there that I started introducing myself as 'Rob'.

I introduced myself as 'Rob' because it didn't feel like I was saying my own name. 'Rob' was somebody different and I didn't feel like I was talking about myself. It was a weird self-conscious thing about saying my own name. Also, college is a huge shift, and I felt changing my name would be a way to reinvent myself. Nope. Still the fool.

During college I took up the moniker of Mitch Moon for my college radio station. I play the drums, and I named myself after Mitch Mitchell and Keith Moon. Most of my friends from college were DJs, and we still call each other by our chosen nicknames- except me. Maybe it doesn't role off the tongue or fit me. Maybe if I called myself 'Jester' that would have stuck.

From previous positing about my adventures (if you haven't read about them, start here), you know I named my motorcycle Simone. This is not her original name. I originally named her 'Helga' because she is German (BMW) and there is something hefty about her.When I hear the name 'Helga" I think a hearty woman. As I rode her more and more, I realized there was a beauty to her that left me enamored. I met a beautiful German girl named Simone years ago (10 years in December), and she left me enamored. I didn't name my motorcycle after the girl. I'm just alluding to her- it is an association thing. Stop judging. However, after testing the waters with a couple of different name, I have finally found the perfect name- Gizmo III.

My grandfather had a boat called Gizmo. Then there was another boat called Gizmo II, which is the source of one of  my favorite stories concerning my dad and uncle. My dad and uncle were in their 20's and just the two of them took Gizmo to go water skiing. My dad's version was that he was on the skies and my uncle was driving, sitting on the side, while steering. My uncle hit a wave and it through him out of the boat. My dad fell of the skies. My uncle claims that he was skiing and my dad was driving. However, what happened next they both agreed on.

The boat started going in circles with no captain. As the boat was circling, my uncle grabbed on to the ski rope and tried to pull himself to the ladder to get on the boat. This is very dangerous because of the boat propeller. As my uncle got closer, the force push of the propeller took my uncle's bathing suit clean off him. He let go and tried to find his swimming suit to no avail. Dejected, my dad and uncle waded in the water as the boat just circled around until the ski rope tangled up in the propeller and stalled the engine. They swam to the boat and drove back in to the boat launch. However, the two young guys in their infinite, youthful wisdom did not bring a towel or extra clothing. The only bit of clothing was my uncle's shirt. He wrapped it around his waist to cover his naked half, hoping not to offend too many people. Fortune was not on their side as the boat launch was crowded. My uncle had to dock and help load up Gizmo on a trailer in nothing but a shirt wrapped around his waist. In my mind's eye, he has it wrapped like a diaper because that makes me laugh.

I came to Gizmo III as a remembrance of my deceased ad and grandfather, and the many adventures they had in those boats. I'm having my own adventures just on land- so it is Gizmo III

Gizmo III and Rob(ert)

Until I ramble on again. . .

Community

This is truly a disjointed ramble. There are nuggets of thought tenuously strung together. I think each section is its own thought. However, the string that holds them together is social interactions. I think I could have fleshed out each paragraph into its own post, but I like the idea of being able to read a post out of order. 

Moving back to New Orleans, I have been told that I HAVE to follow Saints football. If I don't, it is like I have leprosy and will be ostracized from the city. When I was younger, I followed football to a certain extent, even had my picture taken with Dalton Hillard in Schwegmann's Supermarket (how is that for Saints cred?).  I have not followed the Saints or any football team since junior high age (maybe younger). The only sports event I follow is the World Cup, but only while it is going on. I don't follow futbol (soccer) year-round, but once the World Cup starts up, I get very enthusiastic. This has only occurred for the past 2 World Cups (since it happens once every four years). The camaraderie that sports brings has me thinking about community and how it helps create a language for people to engage socially.

I was in a story recently, and a young man was trying to create idle talk by stating, "You gunna watch the Saints game?" Fear of an inappropriate response, I said, "Yea?" To my dismay, this furthered the conversation with his retort of, "So whatdya think the score is gunna be?" In my complete lack of even knowing whom the Saints were playing, I found a nugget of information that I learned from some movie or book. Thus responded with, "Don't know the spread. Do you?" What am I, a bookie? This halted the conversation in its tracks, and I practically ran away fully aware of my social awkwardness. This young man was attempting to make a connection. It is a store that I frequent weekly, and maybe he recognized me and was making a connection- bringing me into the community. Now I can never go there again.

Our first community is our family. I am fortunate that my father was an odd duck- his favorite movie was The Jerk. While driving, he would, to no one in particular, sing-talk, "Hello. Good-bye." He would sing, "Fritz the cat-dog. He's a cat." at random intervals. He even made a joke that is still used among some close friends about being "sluggish." I could list many more examples, but I believe you get the picture. I also have cousins that have odd humor and this brings about only a modicum of feeling peculiar in your own family. My older cousins are, well, older so it was not until I was older that a bounding began to form. I felt like a nuisance around my older cousins, whether they felt that way or not- I did.

I think books were my first foray into escapism. I used them as a means to deflect any social interactions. If you are reading a book in public, most likely no one will bother you or attempt conversation. On the other hand, if someone asks what you are reading, then you can discuss something that is fresh in your mind. On the other, other hand, that person can quickly display the thought, "I've made a terrible mistake," in a non-verbal communication, which is often loss on me.

Until I ramble on again . . .

Poetry?

Time, although only a continuos set of intervals, flew by this week. As I have about ten different thoughts, activities to do, I thought a nice change of pace would be to regal you with some of my bloody awful poetry. This is actually a reaction to me finding some of my old poetry and reading. My kindle broke, and I decided to whip out my Norton Anthologies (I have several of them from my time as an English major in undergraduate school) and re-read some pieces that I haven't read in about ten years. I have read Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Beowulf,  and am currently reading Paradise Lost. My poems are nothing so intense or good for that matter. The first one, I think was me trying to be silly and playing with in a certain form. Although, I can't remember the form. It just made me laugh a little at my bravado. The other two are in the form of poetry that sounds like a sneeze- haiku.

Apples Teach

How do apples taste?

Can words decribe its essence?

Experience it!

Live

Hold a cup of tea.

Set down your stored anger.

Enjoy the moment.

The Nut Bomber

On bench do I intend my spot to watch 

A creature most peculiar bounding above.

I take a walk knowing his eyes are searching.

Someone will be target for his pecan.

His cute and surprised looks are deceiving.

Those evil eyes filled with dark intent and pain.

Lurking, hiding in shades above our heads.

On bench do I intend my spot to watch

A creature most peculiar bounding above.

He vaults from limbs with a malicious sense.

Watch the mischievous design develop.

A human is walking not aware of it,

The bomber calculating trajectory.

With a sinister smile the bomb is dropped- Hit!

Ouch! Stunned! quick, look up for the evil culprit.

But a rustle of branches is all he sees.

On bench do I intend my spot to watch

A creature most peculiar bounding above.

Searching towards the branches, but not a crackle

From above. I give a grin as he is searching

For that elusive creature who dropped its nuts

On him. I had my fun today, I walk

Away mindful of any rustle over my head.

I Found Myself at a Bar . . .

This is part 2 of 2. You can read part 1 of 2 here. 

Where was I, oh yes. You liked the cliffhanger? I actually, emphatically, asked the cab driver to let me out in front of the the pub, which is way more boring than Action Rob, so a little embellishment is good for entertainment sake.

Scientific fact: one that is inebriated misjudges distance in all circumstances, from throwing paper in waste basket to the distance from local pub to home. This fact is the impetus for me asking the cab driver to pull over at a pub that I believed was not far from my apartment. Furthermore, I had ran over 7 miles that morning so feeling like a little walk would be nothing to me.

I fall in line, show my I.D., and I'm in the pub. Much to my surprise, the pub had a beer that I have been wanting to try: Stone Farking Wheaton W00tstock. This is a collaboration between Stone Brewery owner Greg Koch, Farking.com creator Drew Curtis, and Wil Wheaton. It is an imperial stout style, with a subtle 65 IBUs, and 13% ABV (this beer geek speak). This beer was so fancy it was put into a snifer glass.

Snifer Glasses

I was feeling good. Had some laughs with cousin and her friend, played The Simpsons arcade, and ending the night with a strong, delicious beer. My luck was multiplying as a group left right when I got my beer and a table was available. Solo sitting is an art that I am well versed in and often enjoy it. Sitting at the table, probably twitting accolades over the beer, a young lady asked if her and her friends could sit there with me. I said, "Sure," with an open smile. She calls over two guys and two more ladies. My smile slipped slightly, but not for the reason you are thinking, but the guys were spiky hair, Ed Hardy wearing guys. A certain Garfunkel and Oates song started playing in my head.

One of the girls was asking me questions, being polite, but one of the guys was, I think, sniffing her. It definitely seemed like he was sniffing her. He could have been marking his territory. I was in Robtopia at this point, a far away place in my mind that is serene. One day I'll fully describe Robtopia to you, gentle reader, but for now it is happy place I drift towards. 

I just wanted to enjoy my drink, people watch, and leave. The lady asking me questions, got to, "What do you do?" Pro tip: Never tell someone that you are a psychotherapist. A glow must have enveloped me, and a proverbial de-suctioning occurred from sniffing boy. This did not please sniffing boy. He attempted physical menacing.  I am not proud of what occurred next. Something clicked in my head, maybe spending too much time around doctors, and I grabbed my glass, placing the stem between my ring and middle finger. Lounging back in my chair as though I no care in the world I stated, "I can make you cry in a matter of moments."

He replied, "You threatening me? Think you can take me?"

"I don't mean physical harm; rather, I can peel back your bravado revealing a scared, little boy with a few simple words."   I incited him (which to be fair helped create an air surrounding me of a punchable person), but the girl (I'm the damsel that doesn't know she is in anger) grabbed him by the arm and removed him from the table. This was lucky for me. An awkward silence fell over the table. I swirled my drink, drank the last bit, said (I wish this wasn't true of what I said), "My work here is done," and stumbled out of the bar.

Thus my  trek began. It is approximately 3.3 miles from the pub to my apartment (I looked this up later). What I believed was going to be about a twenty minute walk turned into an hour long trudge. Here proving the scientific fact of inebriation causes spacial disharmony. I made my way home without any problems and learned some valuable lessons.

1) If you are taking a cab home, take the cab ALL the way home.

2) If inebriated, use Google maps on your phone to judge distance, it even calculates walking paths

3) Don't walk home alone at night

4) If you are going out, don't tell people you are a psychotherapist

5) Don't incite people with pompous talk.

6) Don't write about your idiotic mis-adventures.

Five out of six lessons learned.

Until I ramble on again . . .  

I Went To The Bar . . .

This is part 1 of a 2 part series of me behaving like an idiot out on the town and why it is better for me to play games at home. The events in this story are mostly true according to my brain. Enjoy!

There are about 4 unfinished rambles that have either hit a wall or disgusted me. Woe is my artistic vision. I've been debating on writing up this story, but I figured that it might be fun to give you a snippet in the kind of trouble I sometimes get myself in, and part of the reason I don't go to bars often.

I went out with my cousin and one of her friends. They are a bit younger than me, but two girls that have good heads on their shoulders for not having full developed prefrontal cortexes (meaning the complete ability to make executive judgement has not fully developed, which doesn't happen until around age 25). Outside of that, they were funny and fun. Of course, there is a protective nature that comes out with hanging with your younger cousins causing one to lurk about (wait, do I lurk?).

Let's skip the boring parts. So we are fast forwarding to later in evening. bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (that's the sound fast forwarding makes in my head.) bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (taking pictures of homeless man) bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (getting called old) bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (drinking) bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (someone noticing all my gray hairs)bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz . . .

The evening endedish at Barcadia, which is awesome outside that it is a little too swank for my taste, but they had amazing video games. I was talking to a female and in mid-flirt I had a nerdgasm for a retro The Simpsons arcade game. I had spent many of hours at arcades in my youth pumping that game full of quarters. Needless to say the female lost total interest (very use to it). Yet, I had a brilliant time playing as Homer and fighting hordes of yellow people.

After playing a bit, the girls had enough to drink, and it was time to send them back to the place they were staying. Herding them outside, I got them a cab. I have not taken many cabs in the city, heck I haven't taken many cabs in the U.S., but I have taken many, many cabs in India. This is an important piece of information because in my inebriated mind, one could only use cash for cabs. This was fact. Pay no mind that for the past year the local news has been covering how it is now mandatory for all taxi drivers to have a credit card machine in their taxi. So I gave the girls cash, and emphatically pressed upon the taxi driver not to try to rip them off or I would make like a Wookie. I don't think he felt threatened. Didn't he realize I was inferring that I would rip his own arms off and beat him with said arms? He smiled and promised to get them home safely.

Sending them off, I felt like I had my big boy underoos on. I got my own taxi. Heading down Magazine street, I saw a bar I enjoy. I grabbed the cab door, swung it open, and rolled on the pavement like Jackie Chan. Dusting myself off, I swaggered sauntered into the bar.

Here ends part one.

Until I ramble on again . . .

Rambling Etymology Part 3

Last post in this series I discussed the origins of the Tibetan Language in brief. I ended on a concept that I want to explore- thoughtful communication.

When I was a kid, physically not mentally, I was very interested in Native Americans. I think it was part Tonto, part Indian in the Cupboard, and part I thought Cowboys were dicks. I know, not very American of me, but I can’t remember having a fascination with Cowboys; rather, I wanted to be the Indians (Cowboys and Indians the classic, ironic game of childhood) without realizing I was going to be massacred.

I can’t remember the origin of this bit of useless knowledge, but it was one of the many books I read on Native American culture, and it stressed that they handled everything through an oral tradition. In certain Native American cultures, the men would discuss important business, and it was the women that would memorize every word uttered verbatim. I can’t even remember favorite lines of movies that I have seen hundreds of times, but people memorized entire conversations. Moreover, single conversations would take hours because when some spoke the other person listened intently, waiting for the other person to end, and then taking his or her time in constructing a thoughtful response. It was believed that words had powers and to utter anything in haste was wasteful, even potentially harmful. Whether this is true or not, is irrelevant since it is a beautiful notion.

I have noticed that often when I pause for an extended period of time attempting to formulate a thoughtful response I get several reactions. First type, the other person becomes impatient. Second type, the other person might believe that my thoughtfulness is my nefarious mind plotting. Third type, the other person might believe me not paying attention to what the other person is saying. Fourth type, the other person think that I’m inept in thought and communication (which is actually true more often than not).

These are all negative responses to a pause, or a thoughtful construction of a response. Why does communication have to occur at a rapid pace? Why does a dialogue need to be a volley as though we are in a tennis match? I enjoy snappy, snarky dialogue on T.V., but it further promotes the concept that intelligence is linked to how fast one can provide a clever response. How often do we step away from a conversation and think, “Oh man, I should have said this or that.”? There is a place in conversation for wit and pith, but sometimes stopping, slowing, and really listening to another can make us better . . . conversationalist.

Furthermore, if we aren’t holding on to a thought in fear of losing said thought while another is talking, then we can truly absorb what the other person is saying. If we lose a thought, it might really have not been that relevant or it will return. However, my problem is when I discuss things I enjoy, I become overly excited. This leads to rapid speech and outbursts. Mindful of speech can help in slowing conversation to a nice meandering pace. Unless some one is being an ass, then you shot the pith and wit at them with full force. 

Just food for thought.

Until I ramble on again . . . 

Dancing at the Zombie Zoo

I have had that Tom Petty Song stuck in my head ('Zombie Zoo') for about a week, but it is fitting for today's post.

On Thursday, I received a phone call from my cousin asking if I would watch my godchild for a couple of nights. Fortunately for her, my social calendar has been a bit barren. As I don't spend nearly enough time with my godchild, I thought a couple of days would be great. Being a godfather is akin to being a grandparent. I get to take the kid for a determinable length of time, spoil him, and kick him back to his parents. The difference is I didn't have to raise a child of my own to get the privilege. I was asked.

I am not a religious person, which makes the title godparent somewhat interesting. It's origins are Christian in nature. Two individuals are chosen to sponsor a child's Baptism. These individuals are bestowed the responsibility of the child's spiritual development. I view it more for me as taking an interest in my godchild's cultural development, which is why I introduced him to Monty Python.

I have a couple of their records, and played one for him as we devoured some Pinkberry frozen yogurt. The mead in the picture was not shared with him- that comes later in life. He was laughing. He genuinely seemed to be enjoying the songs and silliness. Of course, he didn't understand all the references, but on visceral level it was funny for him.

Next in his cultural lesson was Risk. I taught him how to play, but he schooled me on how to dominate. The little bugger was hitting some great roles and generally destroying. We played it off and on for two days. This is a picture early on, but he ensured that we have a picture of our final turn of the weekend to set it up exactly for when he comes back. He is yellow.

Saturday we got up relatively early for 10 year old and 32 year old males. Had breakfast and went to the zoo. The zoo was very fun. In the spirit of adventure, we explored without a map. No plan, just exploration from one exhibit to another. My godchild commented, "Why do you need a map? There are signs and every where you go there are animals." Sometimes his mouth is a fountain of hilarity. Speaking of fountains.

My godchild enjoyed the primates the most. He seemed to stay longer, showing fascination with each of the different primates. He was less impressed with the animals that were just laying around. He was more interested in the monkeys moving. My 'Sprockets' joke did not work on him, and in retrospect, should not be uttered in a public that is kid friendly. For me, I have a special place of fondness for orangutans- right next to Buffy and just below alcohol. I always think of the Librarian in Terry Pratchett's Discworld novels when I see an orangutan. One person understands this line of thinking. . .

I think the most fun was had in the reptile area. My godchild would walk up to a vivarium and search out for the specific reptile or amphibian noted above. When he would find the creature of his search, he would move on to the next vivarium. At one point, he found a snake easily and another child of about equal age walked up and whines, "Where is it? I don't see it." My godchild turned to him, rolled his eyes, and stated, "There." The subtext was 'duh'. 

The weirdest thing was the two-headed snake. The sign above the vivarium was emphatic that it was an anomaly not a natural occurrence. Here he is to creep you out now. You're welcome.

  

We saw much and enjoyed soda, roman candy, and trees (oaks are made for climbing). I think it was a successful cultural weekend. We covered foreign countries, history, and nature in the forms of British humor, 90's references, board games, dinosaurs, and lazy primates. You are welcome world, cultivating another geek/nerd one weekend at a time.  

Until I ramble again. . .