08/03/07
This morning, while arranging his medication into the precise order in which it must be ingested, injected, applied, swallowed, and smoked (try to imagine what the Friday Rambles would be like had equine tranquilizers not been invented) The Rambling Man was viewing the morning news in his ongoing effort to keep abreast of vitally important, fast breaking world events. For the most part it was the same old mundane, everyday stuff; war, famine, pestilence, greed, death and perversion. And that was just a listing of the new programs for the upcoming Fall television season on the Fox Network. One item, during what is considered these days to be the “News”, of particular interest to me was a report on what is being deemed, “The World’s Largest Hand-woven Rug”. It seems an Iranian “artist” by the name of Sheik Ali Ben Hoover, who has been cleaning up in the Iranian carpet industry for years, designed the oriental style rug, and used over 1,000 weavers to create his 21,000 square foot masterpiece. When reached for comment, Hoover said, “The creation and display of my rug has served as a unifying factor for the people of Iran. Iranians from all walks of life and levels of our society have viewed the rug and have agreed that due to the national pride taken in its beauty and massive size it has tied the whole country together.”
The next part of the Friday Ramble is “For Men Only”, so all of you ladies can now just skip to the next section.
Hey guys, I know all of you have heard the one about, “Why do dogs lick their balls?” and the obvious answer is, “Because they can”. There’s no need to go into what I was doing at the time, but the other day it occurred to me that dogs may have their own version of that same joke. One dog may ask another, “Why do men masturbate with their hands instead of with their tongues?” And the answer would, of course, be, “Because they can.” I had just realized that, from a dog’s point of view, they may be as envious of us for having opposable thumbs as we are of them for being able to lick themselves.
And, to the ladies out there who defiantly read this "For Men Only" section even after being told not to, your names have all been recorded through the use of internet personification software. They will be forwarded to the proper authorities and punishment will be determined at a later date. Shame on you. .
During an extended morning visit to “The Library” in his home, The Rambling Man recently noticed an intriguing headline whilst perusing the morning newspaper. As some of my more well-read readers are aware of, a Nepalese “Living Goddess” recently made a trip to the United States. In Nepalese culture a select few 10 year old, prepubescent girls are chosen, trained, and revered by Hindu and Buddhist worshippers as living incarnations of the Goddess Taleju. In Nepal the name “Taleju” literally means “virgin”, which explains why they had to resort to using 10 year old girls, since most girls in that country who are over the age of 10 probably wouldn’t qualify. The living Goddesses are not allowed to leave the country, so Temple elders felt her trip to the US made her “unclean” (she had visited New York City so the elders probably weren’t far from wrong) and her Goddess-hood was taken away. A huge outpouring of support for the child by worshippers caused the Temple elders to reconsider their position and it was determined she could be considered a Goddess again once she underwent a purification ceremony. It was the headline pertaining to this ceremony that caught The Rambling Man’s eye. It read, “Living Goddess undergoes ritual to cleanse US taint”. Having been completely unaware that one even existed, much less that it was in need of cleansing, The Rambling Man’s crack investigative unit is currently performing intense research to determine the actual location of the United States’ “taint”.
Some guy named Bill once said, “What’s in a name?” I am not sure why my parents saddled me with the appellation “Dennis”, but I’m guessing it was because I was born about the time the cartoon character “Dennis the Menace” was becoming popular. For my entire life I have tried not to read that into it and my psychiatrist continuously assures me it was probably just a coincidence. However, she has yet to be able to say that with a straight face. Some of you, my dear readers, are probably asking yourselves at this very moment, “Why doesn’t he just ask his parents why they named him Dennis?” Several years ago I did ask them what their reasoning might have been for branding me as a “Menace” for my entire life. As soon as the question left my lips they glanced briefly at one another and, nervously clearing his throat, my father told me, “The answer to that question is locked away in a safe deposit box at our bank. The bank has strict orders that no one, under any circumstances, is to have access to that box until after your mother’s and my passing. That subject is never to be mentioned again.” Needless to say, it hasn’t. So, I guess I’ll find out someday, but for now it’s top secret.
For some unknown reason, it is a custom in our country to give people nicknames. It is almost mandatory that we come up with some way of identifying people other than by their actual name. For instance, once upon a time, way back when The Rambling Man was in Jr. High School, I was getting dressed after an “away” basketball game. It was the custom in those days for the visiting team to dress in the “Girls” locker room since the home team used the “Boys” locker room. I had showered, toweled myself dry, and had just begun to get dressed when our opponent’s entire cheerleading squad accidentally (or so they said) walked into the locker room (it was, after all, the “Girls” locker room) and stopped only a few feet from where I stood, with what I am sure resembled a “deer in the headlights” expression, clothed in nothing but the only item of attire I had already put on, my socks. It was several months before the nickname “Socks” finally ceased being used in lieu of my real first name.
Sometimes people are referred to by a variation of their real name. For example, as a child, my family called me “Denny”. I think they felt it sounded friendlier and less formal than “Dennis”. Of course, my mother did, sometimes, refer to me as Dennis, but when she did it was usually in conjunction with my middle and last names and always involved something I had just done that I probably shouldn’t have. Now that I look back on my youth, I have to admit she did that a lot more than just “sometimes”. And, as I am sure most of my readers also know, when your mother used all three of your names at the same time it meant you were in deep doo doo. I remained “Denny” through grade school, Jr. High, and High School. In college and the military I was usually referred to by my last name. My first two ex-wives called me “Denny”, when they weren’t calling me things I am too polite to repeat in a Friday Ramble. It was my third wife (before she earned the preface “ex”) who felt “Denny” sounded too juvenile, and lest others think she had married someone who had not yet reached adulthood she decided it would sound more “grown up” if I were to start answering to the more mature sounding “Dennis”. She eventually decided to move on to someone with a completely different name (I wonder what his name was and what she changed it to), but to this day I am still known as “Dennis” to my business associates and friends. I have no problem with that, after all it is my name.
Last Saturday I attended my 40 year high school class reunion. Even though reunions were held every five years, the last one I had attended was the 20 year, so I had not seen anyone I went to school with for some time. It hadn’t even crossed my mind before I showed up, but every old classmate of mine who was there that night still thought of me as “Denny”. He had been buried deep inside “Dennis” for a long time, so to be perfectly honest; I liked the idea of getting to be “Denny” again.
Class reunions are unusual events. Some people look forward to them, while others fear and avoid them. I have enjoyed those I attended in the past, but I have also heard reunion horror stories from others. Let me assure my readers that nothing horrible occurred Saturday night and I had a terrific time seeing and chatting with a bunch of people who had somehow gotten noticeably older over the past 40 years. I, on the other hand, haven’t changed in any way whatsoever since I was in high school. I was a bald, overweight, ill-tempered old fart back then, too. In an effort to make it easier for us to recognize people we hadn’t seen in 40 years, the people who were in charge of the event were wonderfully wise enough to include our senior yearbook picture and our names in EXTRA LARGE lettering (since everyone there was in their late 50’s, the reason for doing so should be obvious) on our absolutely necessary name tags. That way we had actual photographic proof of how much (and how badly) some of us had aged. Evidently, by the time the people who made the nametags got to mine they must have been running short on certain letters because my name had been shortened from “Denny” to “Den”. That was fine with me. I consider “Den” to be an even less formal and friendlier nickname for the nickname “Denny”. I did, that is, until the first person who didn’t recognize me and had to glance at my nametag to try to figure out who I was said, “Don, it’s great to see you.” Rather than embarrass him by explaining who I really was, I just went along with it and since I had recognized him without even having to glance at his nametag I returned his greeting. To be honest, I thought it had been funny. To clarify that; I thought it was funny the first time. By the time I had been referred to as “Don” for the twelfth time the humor was beginning to wear thin. Since he apparently thought I couldn’t possibly be one of his classmates, one guy even had the audacity to ask me/Don who from the reunion class I had married. Knowing The Rambling Man as well as my readers do, I am sure you all realize I am not one to brag, overstate, embellish, or exaggerate in any way. So, when I say I was not an unpopular guy in high school you know it’s probably true. I did, after all, play what I considered an important role on an extremely successful basketball team at a time when being a member of the basketball team was the epitome of being “somebody” at our school. So, you can imagine how I felt when not one or even two, but EVERY former cheerleader who attended the reunion had to look at my nametag to try to determine my identity, and then to add insult to injury they all called me “Don” and very obviously pretended to know who “Don” was. At one point I had the overwhelming urge to walk up behind one of the cheerleaders who had referred to me as “Don” and grab her firmly by the ass with both hands (which, to be honest, was something I had wanted to do 40 years ago, too). Then when she turned to see who had done such a dastardly deed I would have just said, “Remember me? I’m Don” and walked away with the knowledge that from that moment on “Don” would have been considered an asshole, but “Denny’s” reputation wouldn’t have suffered from it at all.
There were, thankfully, some who did recognize me without the aide of the nametag, and even knew me as “Denny”. Needless to say, they were the people I hung around with for the rest of the evening. I don’t want to give the impression I didn’t have a good time, because I did. I was able to reconnect with some good friends I had not seen in several years, and who were obviously as glad to see me as I was them. We caught up on who’s been doing what, where, and for how long. We smiled genuinely for the obligatory group pictures, and I remember at one point wondering if I would be listed under the picture as “Don”. The evening passed so quickly that before I knew it, and even worse, before I wanted it to, it was time to say our goodbyes. There were handshakes and hugs, and the usual promises to “get together again, sometime soon” that we knew probably wouldn’t be kept. Once we all fell, comfortably, back into our daily lives, this night would eventually fade to little more than a pleasant memory. I remember thinking to myself, as I walked out of the ballroom where the reunion had been held, that the instant I crossed that threshold and stepped into the hallway I would revert back to being “Dennis” again. When I reached the doorway I hesitated, not wanting to cross over into reality just yet. It was almost as if a time machine had whisked me from 1967, across 40 years, to 2007 just by taking that one step into the hallway. Not that I minded being “Dennis” again. “Dennis” has a very good life going for him. But, as I walked toward the elevator I realized how nice it had been to be able to be “Denny” again, even if just for one evening.