Quick note before I start today:
Got a new movie review of the new movie, Igor, over on Moog's Movie Reviews.
I looked like a ‘Rodney.’
That was the explanation I received when, one day as a child, I asked my mother how they decided upon my name.
Mom: "Well...you looked like a ‘Rodney.’"
Thanks for the scintillating f*cking explanation, mom.
Let me get this straight:
As a newborn, I looked like an elderly English butler?
As an infant, I resembled a large black man who could possibly play linebacker for a professional football team?
Mother of Christ…please don’t tell me I look like DANGERFIELD!!!
I’m going with ‘black linebacker.’
Granted...I may have whitened with age...but at least I FEEL tough.
My original thought on how they came up with my name was that they gazed upon me when I was born, and exclaimed:
"OH GOD...Look at his rod...it goes to his knee!"
I'm here all week.
Regardless, this same topic came back up a few weeks ago as my wife and I took the kids to “Clark’s Trading Post” in New Hampshire.
New Hampshire motto: “Come visit for the foliage, but stay for the sweet sweet sheep fondling.”
Clark’s Trading Post is a very popular tourist site in New Hampshire, which features:
1) A trained bear show
2) A train
New Hampshire tourist sites suck.
The train ride actually goes through the woods where “The Wolfman” supposedly lives.
“The Wolfman” consists of some guy who resembles one of the fifteen thousand homeless guys in Seattle (“hi, Dad!”).
(that's a VERY LOW estimate if you've ever been to Seattle)
He’s dressed in bear skins (I guess we know what they do with the dead bears from the show now) and chases the train with guns, and bombs, and violent threats to the children.
Best. Job. Ever.
This is EXACTLY what I want to do in retirement.
Dressing like a hobo, driving a homemade jalopy through the woods…
…while yelling at children and shooting guns.
This is really no different than what I do today, except for the gun part.
I may have mental problems.
Police, take notice.
Back to the names.
So, we’re in one of the gift shops and my daughter, Payton, is once again rummaging through a rack of “Personalized Key Chains.”
She then thumbs through the rack of coffee mugs (because, you know, 7 year olds just LOOOOVE their java in the morning).
Of course, there is no ‘Payton’ embossed on anything, anywhere.
Payton: “Oh, maaaaaan….”
Me: “Don’t worry honey, I had the same problem. Look – there’s no ‘ Rodney’ anywhere either.”
(My GOD…..It’s almost like black linebackers don’t carry keys!!)
My wife, also digging through on the odd chance that there IS a Payton, pipes up.
Wife: “Well…they don’t have a ‘Payton.’ But they DO have this.”
She hands me a keychain.
Engraved on the keychain is the name:
(for those people who are Spanish-illiterate, Lupe is pronounced: "Ta-Co")
They have f*cking LUPE, but they don’t have a 'Rodney' or 'Payton'?!?
We’re in f*cking NEW HAMPSHIRE.
Seriously…how many people named ‘Lupe’ can be up here at Clark’s Trading Post getting chased by the Wolfman?!
One…maybe two TOPS every, what, ten f*cking years?
I don’t SEE anyone wearing a sombrero walking around here swatting at pinatas, so I’m assuming that there are no Lupe’s present today.
But there IS a Rodney.
Soon to be employed by Clark’s Trading Post.
YOU’D BETTER RUN, LUPE!! I’M A-COMIN’ AFTER YOU!! YOU AND YOUR PERSONALIZED COFFEE MUG!!
This job is gonna be sweet.