I Interrupt This Poetry Slam To Say...

...that gosh and begorrah, it seems that the Google Blogger Team's "Blogs of Note" page has gone and selected...

...Irish Gumbo...

...as the Blog of Note for June 7th, 2011.  Click on the link just to see, and to browse some other good things out there.

How about that?  Irish Gumbo: It's not just a blog, it's a digital Post-It!

(Poetry slam continues tomorrow)

Orchid Heart

I'm not a hothouse flower

because I'm weak, or timid,

or need constant attention

That's not it at all.

It's that my heart can only flourish

under certain conditions, attenuated weather

and intentional soil in which to rest

So please shut the door.

Keep in the heat, wrap me up in mist

please jesus god don't tell me,

I'll blossom only once in a lifetime.

Pleased to Meet You, Won't You Guess My Name?

Assignment, Part Deux:

Continuing along with the them of yesterday's post, on the class assignment I am working on,  I am (was) supposed to write a post introducing my blog and myself.  Welllll...I am pleased to recall that I had already done something (or several such somethings) already right here on Irish Gumbo.

But it never hurts to have a refresher, does it?

To wit, I dug up some previous posts of mine in which I explained or attempted to explain a little bit about myself.  So if one is so inclined as to dive into the mental Loch Ness that is the brain of Irish Gumbo, please go for a linky drive on the following bloggy backroads:

Irish Gumbo, Explained

Portrait of Irish Gumbo As a Punk Rocker

Dudes Who Lunch, Or What I Learned About My Animal Nature

So if you are interested, the above can hopefully offer some insights into This Person Who Blogs.  Or at the very least, you can point and laugh at the dork who writes this stuff!

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This is one of the things about blogging I find fascinating:  this recursiveness, the ability to metablog, to figuratively step through the looking glass.  Dr. Wesch was right in some ways...nothing for it but to dive in!

Curious Case of a Punk in the Daytime

Jason's last thought as he considered throwing the kid over the railing was I can't believe he called me 'boy'...

The kid was scared, rightly so, because he knew his ass was about to meet the river the hard way.  Eyes wide like dinner plates,  cheap beer breath washing over Jason's face in a series of gulping drafts, little whimpers escaping his lips.  Jason stared back.  His fists had a death grip on the belt buckle and a balled up wad of the dirty wife-beater the punk was wearing.  There was a small tearing noise; the fabric was beginning to rip.  Jason tightened his hold.

"Hey, man, leave him alone" said one of the kid's friends, "He was just messin' around."  Jason pushed the kid harder into the rail and turned to look at the one who had spoken.  There were two other boys on the bridge, one brown-haired, the other black-haired, eyeing Jason like they saw a werewolf.  They were both dressed almost like the kid: tank top, baggy jeans and some kind of Converse-type knock-off sneakers.  All three of them had skinhead haircuts.  Jason marveled at how much he loathed chumps like them.

More knuckleheads from the same shop Jason though in a blaze of contempt, can't even be original in their fake plastic rebelhood.  He bared his teeth; the friends flinched and took a step back, nearly tripping over the bike laying in the roadway.  Jason growled.

"Step on the bike, and you're goin' over the rail with your buddy."  Their eyes widened, like deer in the headlights of Jason's glare.

"I've had enough of this bullshit,"  Jason spat and turned his gaze back to the kid, "because I'm pissed.  Yell shit at me once and I can ignore it.  But three times?  Hell, no."

Jason lifted his arms.  The kid was trying to stand flat, but his heels were coming off the ground.  He was shaking, hard.  Jason grinned, a wolf about to pounce.  A tired wolf.

"Plus, your asshole buddy here, he said 'Hey, give me that bike, boy!'.  You think that's funny?  Showing off for dipshit friends?"  Jason snarled, lifting the kid off the deck.  "DO I LOOK LIKE A BOY TO YOU?" he shouted and tilted the kid's head over the side of the bridge.  The kid started to cry, pleading for Jason to let him go. 

"Hey, m-m-an, d-d-on't do it, he was just kidding! We weren't gonna steal the bike!" wailed the black-haired kid, "C'mon let him go!"  The sound of the river below the bridge deck was unusually loud.  It reminded Jason that in some spots, the rocks weren't that far below the surface of the water.

Jason was about to heave the kid over the rail, tired of all the noise and disrespect.  Of all the indignities he had suffered in the last month, for some reason being called 'boy' by a liquored-up pre-pubescent who wasn't shaving yet, well, that was the last straw.  Almost as if there was nothing in his life he could do without someone heaping on some shit.

The kid was looking at him with wild eyes, whimpering, and there was a thin string of drool running down the side of his face.  Jason said "Tough shit" and made to finally dump the kid over the rail.  The kid, in turn, screamed loud, a piercing screech.  Something clicked in Jason's head, a little voice whispering Let him go, man, not worth it, not for some dumbass punk with a mouth bigger than his brain.

Out of the corner of his eye Jason saw the two friends rushing at him.  Just before the kid became airborne, Jason shifted backwards.  The kid fell forward, and Jason used the momentum to pivot and slingshot the punk dead-on into his buddies.  There was a meaty sound of bodies colliding, and all three of the punks collapsed in heap on the gritty concrete of the bridge.  The brown-haired one smacked his head into the deck, and screamed in pain.  Jason bit his tongue to stifle a laugh, then felt a wave of regret wash over his tired body.  he took a step towards the pile of bodies.  They all flinched as Jason bent down to stare at the kid, the one who had called him 'boy'.  He grimaced.

"Don't ever call me boy, again, got that?"  He pinned the kid to the deck with a cold stare.  The kid just nodded, twitching like bait.  "Good."

Jason stood, walked to his bike and got on.  He stifled a laugh as he realized he had not removed his bike helmet during the whole ugly incident.  Stupid kids probably think I'm crazy he thought, adjusting the chin strap, but maybe that means they will leave me alone.  He pushed off, low gearing it as he made his way up the hill to the trail head.  Behind him he heard the kids muttering curses, sounds of people standing up and brushing gravel off pants.  He didn't look back.

You Can Call Me Anything You Like, But My Name Is 'Turkey Sandwich Guy'

Lefty.
Ace.
Gonzo.
Dorkfish.
Rocco.

What was your nickname? When I was little, I always really, really wanted a nickname. Something cool, something that people would hear and go, “Whoa, here comes Ironman! dude, watch out!” Early on, at least, I thought my nickname was Damnitboy, as in “Damnitboywould yougetyerfeetoutofthetoilet! Or “Damnitboystoptryingtogetthehamstertofly!” I even took to giving myself nicknames to try them out.

“Name’s Meatball.”
“What?”
“Meatball, it’s my name.”
“Uh, yeah whatever, weirdo. Now leave me alone.”

“Keyhole, call me Keyhole.”
“Why? How ‘bout Butthole?”

Needless to say, it took me quite a long time to realize that nicknames, with rare exception, are bestowed by others and not self-generated. Hardly anyone is going to take it seriously if they find out you named yourself ‘Aceman’ or ‘Studsy’. So for the longest time I contented myself with the occasional ‘Sparky’ or ‘Monsterman’ tossed out by my friends. It happened sporadically, and nothing ever really stuck. I was a little disappointed, because I really wanted that nickname. But still, ‘Sparky’ was better than the ‘Fuckface’ or ‘Dumbshit’ that seemed to be heaped in large doses on a lot of the other guys I hung out with. There was no way a nickname like that was going to end up in the high school yearbook. Can you imagine, next to a goofy picture?

Most Likely To Be Hit By A Trash Truck – Denny ‘Fuckface’ Johnson

Not something I would care to carry for posterity. So during my high school years, I tried to keep a low profile, and hope that one day, that special “Name” would crop up by sheer chance. I went without one for years, no good name, but no embarrassing one either. It wasn’t until my junior year that opportunity knocked, in the form of a chance to select my own nickname, for real. Yippee!

I was on the varsity soccer team, and we had a coach who was a nice guy, but no one would have ever confused him with a disciplinarian. Actually, I guess he was more like an easy-going surfer dude. We practiced, but it wasn’t exactly high impact training. Anyway, when it came time to order our team jerseys, he told us that we could all select the number AND the name we wanted on the back.* The only caveat was that the coach would get to review the names before the jerseys went made. Now, what would you expect a group of teenaged boys to do when presented with such an opportunity? Exactly. No one selected a number based on their position. And out of about sixteen players on the team, only about six actually chose their real name. So who was on the team?

‘Bugsy’
‘Gondar’
‘Captain Death’

and yours truly:

‘Mr. Carbonic’, fullback, Number 26.

‘Numbnuts’ and ‘Shithead’ did not make the cut, they had to come up with something else. So that entire season, I told everyone that ‘Mr. Carbonic’ was my nom de futebol. Sort of like ‘Pele’, but without the mad skillz. Or the fame. Or a snowball’s chance in hell of making the United States National Mens’ Soccer Team. And I wasn’t black.**

‘Mr. Carbonic’ lasted only season, although I kept the jersey for years until it fell apart. It was a good conversation piece at parties, until someone pointed out to me that only a true dork would wear a soccer shirt to a party.*** The next year, we had a new coach and he WAS what you would call a disciplinarian. I went from being ‘Mr. Carbonic’ to being ‘11’. No name, just 11.****

After the Carbonic era ended, I then entered into a brief nickname drought. I went to college, and no one there would have gotten the Mr. Carbonic thing. Plus it took me a while to build up some new friendships, more time to get to know people well enough and long enough to come up with nicknames. I am proud to say that by the end of my sophomore year, I had not one but two, count ‘em TWO nicknames, with at least one sub-nickname. I was affectionately known as:

‘Kevvie-bob’
‘Kevvie Fresh’

and on party nights,

‘MC Kevvie Fresh’

Can I get a whut, whut!? I was back, baby! Now you are probably wondering how they came about, how I got those names. Well, the simple answer is: I have no freakin’ clue. It was a very organic thing, they sort of gradually worked their way into daily usage. I really can’t explain the ‘MC’ reference because I wasn’t nearly the stylin’ music maven I am now.***** No one was really going to confuse me with Grandmaster Flash or Young MC. I guess it was because Mc just sounded really funny when combined with Kevvie Fresh.

I proudly sported my nicknames until graduation, when once again big life changes found me married, in a new state, and employed. The group I had been a part of was dispersed and no one knew who the heck ‘Kevvie Fresh’ was, nor would they have cared. This time the nickname drought lasted a lot longer. The workplace wasn’t studio, and the Man doesn’t care that you really wanted to be called ‘Tiny’ or ‘Humpty’. Something was missing.

I grew sad.

So it was for a few more years, having to answer entirely to my given name. I got used to it, but frankly, it was boring. I like my name, but it was cool having an alternate identity, something that only friends and family would likely know. I began to worry that I was destined to have no nickname. This continued for quite some time, until one day me and some of my cubicle mates hatched a plan, over a delish lunch of Thai food, to dub everyone in our department with a nickname. So everyone ended up with a nickname whether they wanted it or not. Of course, these names were entirely at the whim of the core group, and they were given for reasons known only to us. My nickname ended up being:

‘Hammer’

Oh, happy day! Now that was a nickname! ‘Hammer’. Manly, implying action and decisiveness. Getting things done. At least that was the public definition. Really, I think it was because I was a hard-headed tool. Still, I liked it. It gave me an aura of cool. Our departmental secretary even printed out large nametags that we stuck to our cubicle walls with velcro dots. From that day on, if anyone was looking for me, they were told to “Go see the Hammer.” Heh, heh. My days as ‘The Hammer’ lasted about two years, the remainder of my employment time at that particular company. I moved on, the group dispersed, and I entered the “Long Winter”, a period of about ten years where I had no new moniker. Back to Kevin, just Kevin. I began to put my dreams of nickname immortality behind me. I figured it was all part of being an adult. Sigh.

The last office I worked in was located nearby to a really good diner, within easy walking distance. This diner offers a lot of really good eats like a super grilled cheese with ham, chicken stew and French fries with gravy (a Balwmer treat!). The owner and his wife, and the waitresses are all a real nice bunch of folks, and I became quite familiar to them. I ended up eating there at least once a week, for a long stretch of months. The one thing I ended up eating exclusively, because it was so good, was the turkey club sandwich with a glass of iced tea. This is a 3-decker with BACON (mmm) and it is the best turkey club sandwich I think I have ever had. It was like Turkey Club Prime. The prototype of turkey club sandwiches. The block from which all others were chipped. It isn’t fancy, it’s not on artisan bread or dabbed with “tomato aioli with capers” or anything like that. It’s just real good.

I mentioned that I ate it exclusively. Just how exclusively I found out one day, when I grabbed a paper and a booth. I said hi to the waitress as I sat down, and she gave me a glass of tea. A few minutes later, she brought me the sandwich. I was digging in with gusto when it hit me:

She hadn’t asked me for my order, not the drink, nor the sandwich.

I was in good, yo! Sort of like Norm on “Cheers” but with a sandwich instead of a beer. Awesome! And truth be told, I didn’t mind at all. That sort of service actually saved me some time on some busy days, less waiting.

When I was laid off, besides the obvious upset, I realized I was going to miss my semi-weekly visits to the diner. It didn’t occur to me that the folks at the diner might miss me. This came to light earlier this week, when I received an e-mail from one of my friends who is still at the firm I left. She had gone to the diner with another friend from the office, and the waitress asked about the “turkey sandwich guy”; apparently they do miss me. It’s a cool thing to be missed, even in such a small way. I was touched. The icing on the cake (or gravy on the fries)? I think I may have a new nickname.

I’m not just Kevin anymore, I’m ‘Turkey Sandwich Guy’. “T-Guy” for short. Boo-yahhh!

EPILOGUE
It doesn’t stop there, though. In all fairness, I have also picked up some worthy monikers from the many on-line friends I have made during my early blogging adventures. These are names that also arose organically, through time and circumstance. Names like this:

‘Irish’
‘Mr. Irish’ (Many thanks to Braja for the touch of dignity!)

And one that is good for a giggle:

‘Gumby’

These are the many facets of me, and I display them with pride. I am named!


*Anyone who has coached and/or played organized sports will immediately see the flaws in that approach. Funny, but anarchic.
**To this day, I still lack mad skillz, the fame, and the national team spot. And I’m still not black.
***This perhaps explains my lack of ‘play’ in those days, uknowwhudImsane?
****Which led to a lot of “These go to 11” wisecracks. Still not much ‘play’, though.
*****Stylin’ = transferred most of my CD’s to my iPod.