Last week I took my four-year old son for a hike up Kennesaw Mountain Battlefield Park, north of Atlanta. It is a place where Sherman, frustrated by his need to perform complex maneuvers to out-flank Johnston’s Confederate army, launched a frontal assault in searing summer heat against Confederate troops in prepared positions. It was a minor disaster for the Union. End of lecture. Now it is a place where suburban Atlantans, frustrated by their own obesity, launch assaults against their frontal fat and allow their dogs to defecate where brave men died. I want my son to get an appreciation for the past and its meaning to today without having to force it down his throat.
He did very well on the climb up the mountain (it is a mile long hike with a moderate grade). He hoped to see animals. Counting the ant and three birds, we only saw four. He also hoped to get high enough to touch the sky. After starting up the trail, he queried, "Where's Momma?"
"At home."
"Where's ... [his sister]?"
"At home with Momma."
"Why?" (He has recently entered the "why" phrase. This would be fine except that he uses it completely inappropriately about 60% of the time. Example: "Would you like a Pop Tart for breakfast?" "Why?" or "Did you enjoy your walk?" "Why?")
"Well, today is sort of a guy's day out."
He was quiet for a moment before asking, "Women can't come here?" Then I realized that we had only seen about five other people on the trail at that point; they had all been men.
We snacked on some mixed nuts and bottled water while sitting on a bench about halfway up. He talked about his hopes of seeing an eagle. We continued up the mountain. He only brought up the possibility of Daddy carrying him when we were almost to the summit. I told him no, and he let it go.
We had a good time at the summit until he suddenly wanted to leave and go home. At first, I was flummoxed. I had thought that he was having a fine time. Uh oh, too much water. He had to go. There is no bathroom at the summit. That means a hike down the mountain and the use of a public bathroom. Reluctantly, I tried to talk him into the use of a tree (despite my respect for the site, bladder emergencies of four-year olds trump all. I think this is different than purposely bringing a dog, knowing what will probably happen). He had just christened his first tree the previous week in the back yard (see my wife's account here). I might have succeeded if the trail hadn't been so busy.
The trooper bravely led the way down the mountain in what would be called by future historians, the 2nd Battle of Kennesaw Mountain. The commanding officer could barely keep up with the advance of the trooper. Though morale was low, the trooper never complained or even acknowledged what the problem was, but it was clear with every step that he was in anguish. After chatting his way up the mountain, he descended in an almost impenetrable silence. At one point, stepping down off of a rock, he paused with a pained expression on his face, "Wait" he said. His courage was waning, and I wondered if he could hold off the enemy. The crisis passed, and he pressed on to bottom at a record setting pace.
The real struggle began at the base of the mountain. The trooper has a fear of public restrooms. Well, so does high command, but for much different reasons. He hates loud noises. Many of the toilets in public restrooms are equipped with a small ramjet capable of flushing waste into another dimension. Some are equipped with motion sensors that automatically flush the toilet. Put the two together and you have a possessed porcelain beast in the eyes of one small trooper who is barely taller than the commode.
At this point, the trooper flagged and sounded the retreat, but retreat was not acceptable to the commanding officer. With an inspiring speech about the possibility of a juice box upon completion of the mission, he rallied the trooper into the restroom without bloodshed. Command pushed open the door of a stall, which immediately set off the motion sensor and, thank God, a reasonable, almost peaceful, flush. It was a beautiful sound. Still skeptical, the trooper asked, "Is it loud?" He entered the stall while the commander prayed that the motion sensor wouldn't set off another flush. If it did while the trooper was in an awkward position, it could set the cause back for years. Mercifully, the toilet waited until the trooper stepped away to pull up his pants before it flushed. The trooper began evasive maneuvers even though his uniform was not properly arranged. Knowing he was too concerned with the toilet to finish dressing, the commander helped him get arranged. While standing in the stall door, it went off for the third time. The trooper looked at his cold nemesis and said with a tone of complete exasperation, but not fear, "Again?" It was a challenge. The trooper had won, and he knew it. The battle was over and he had vanquished the foe. He got his juice box for valor in the car on the way home.
My petition to the National Park Service to erect a historical marker at the base of the mountain commemorating the charge of the light bladder has, so far, been ignored. Offers to pay for a plaque on the door of the stall where so much was shed have been met with silence.
He never saw an eagle.
Peace
29 June 2005
Life's in the Toilet
My four-year old son can be very methodical. At times this can be a very good thing. At times it can be paralyzing. He always lifts the seat, he never misses (yet), and he always flushes. His dear two-year old sister has taken to rushing into the bathroom (he hasn't learned to shut the door yet) in the middle of his business and flushing for him. She thinks it is very funny. It ruins his day.
It sounds something like this:
Lid goes up.
Business begins.
Sound of rushing little girl feet.
Anguished cry, "No, X [name of sister] no! Don't do that!"
Flush
"He, he, he, he." Sound of rushing little girl feet. Muffled sound of parents laughing.
Jiggling of handle.
"It won't go. X [name of sister]!"
Tank refilling.
Flush.
Peace
It sounds something like this:
Lid goes up.
Business begins.
Sound of rushing little girl feet.
Anguished cry, "No, X [name of sister] no! Don't do that!"
Flush
"He, he, he, he." Sound of rushing little girl feet. Muffled sound of parents laughing.
Jiggling of handle.
"It won't go. X [name of sister]!"
Tank refilling.
Flush.
Peace
Rural China is Unhappy
Of interest concerning previous posts, this article about a violent riot of up to 10,000 Chinese .
28 June 2005
Going Commando: What are They Thinking?
I noticed something unusual the other day. Two pair of male underwear were on the floor of our downstairs' bathroom. One pair was Spiderman; the other was Thomas the Tank-Engine. Because I knew that my Spiderman underwear was safely in my dresser drawer and that these were several dozen sizes too small for me, I knew they weren't mine. I put them in the dirty clothes hamper and assumed that there was a story behind the occurrence, but neglected to follow up on it with the management.
Time went by, and I continued to find underwear on the bathroom floor. Thomas and Spidey and Blue and generic trucks all ended up on the bathroom floor. The evidence was piling up that something was amiss. An investigation undertaken by the management now proves that my son has taken up a disturbing habit. He will go into the bathroom, do his business, and return to play sans underwear. Oh, he will still be wearing pants, but he has availed himself of the opportunity in the bathroom to remove his underwear. His explanations as to why he does this have not been satisfactory. Apparently, he likes the freedom of the commando style (al la Cosmo Kramer). Even worse, my explanations as to why it is a good idea to wear underwear have not been satisfactory either.
Of course, it is entirely possible that his observation of the boy down the street (who frequently rides his bike in nothing but his underwear and on occasion, without any clothes at all) has put ideas into his mind. My son greeted his female cousin last week by standing at the top of the stairs, shouting her name, and throwing up his hands in greeting; he was wearing only a t-shirt.
Peace
Time went by, and I continued to find underwear on the bathroom floor. Thomas and Spidey and Blue and generic trucks all ended up on the bathroom floor. The evidence was piling up that something was amiss. An investigation undertaken by the management now proves that my son has taken up a disturbing habit. He will go into the bathroom, do his business, and return to play sans underwear. Oh, he will still be wearing pants, but he has availed himself of the opportunity in the bathroom to remove his underwear. His explanations as to why he does this have not been satisfactory. Apparently, he likes the freedom of the commando style (al la Cosmo Kramer). Even worse, my explanations as to why it is a good idea to wear underwear have not been satisfactory either.
Of course, it is entirely possible that his observation of the boy down the street (who frequently rides his bike in nothing but his underwear and on occasion, without any clothes at all) has put ideas into his mind. My son greeted his female cousin last week by standing at the top of the stairs, shouting her name, and throwing up his hands in greeting; he was wearing only a t-shirt.
Peace
China and Unocal
Another alarming, if not alarmist, assessment of Chinese intentions. http://nationalreview.com/script/printpage.p?ref=/gaffney/gaffney200506280909.asp
This was not supposed to be a China blog.
Peace
This was not supposed to be a China blog.
Peace
China and the Chinese
Everyone that I have known who has visited China has remarked upon the loveliness of the people of China. I cannot speak from first hand experience, but I do not doubt it. Visitors have remarked upon the Chinese people's friendliness, courtesy, and willingness to please. I have heard complaints about food, poverty, illness, and etc, but never about the people. Sometimes visitors remark, "How can they be so happy being so poor?" Having never been there personally, I know that I cannot speak with authority about the people or conditions in China, but I will speculate anyway. I have several questions: Should we mentally separate the government of China from the people of China? If so, how? Do the actions of the Chinese concerning foreign visitors reflect a genuine hospitality or a fear of displeasing the guests (which could result in government reprisals)? Does China have anything in common with other subservient populations? In other words, would a visitor to the antebellum South have remarked upon the same positive qualities in the slaves (the mythical happy slave) as they would Chinese peasants? What these questions boil down to is my basic concern, would the Chinese act this way if they had true freedom or is it an authority-imposed act?
One of the interesting things about a free society like ours is that we are free to be as good or as bad as we wish (with some societal and legal limitations). It is both a blessing and a curse. The Chinese are not free. They are only free to be as good as the government defines good, and the government wants those foreign dollars to continue to flow and doesn't want the capitalist pigs upset with the service staff.
To answer my basic concern, I think the Chinese would be like any free society; some would be very good, many would be very bad, and most would be somewhere in between. I hope one day that the Chinese shall have the freedom to chose for themselves, even if it means that the level of customer service in China might become as bad as it is here (although I suspect it wouldn't). I hope one day that I can visit China. I hope on that visit the waiter will be free to act surly and spit in my soup, and if he does, I will rejoice for the taste of the sweet spit of freedom.
Peace
One of the interesting things about a free society like ours is that we are free to be as good or as bad as we wish (with some societal and legal limitations). It is both a blessing and a curse. The Chinese are not free. They are only free to be as good as the government defines good, and the government wants those foreign dollars to continue to flow and doesn't want the capitalist pigs upset with the service staff.
To answer my basic concern, I think the Chinese would be like any free society; some would be very good, many would be very bad, and most would be somewhere in between. I hope one day that the Chinese shall have the freedom to chose for themselves, even if it means that the level of customer service in China might become as bad as it is here (although I suspect it wouldn't). I hope one day that I can visit China. I hope on that visit the waiter will be free to act surly and spit in my soup, and if he does, I will rejoice for the taste of the sweet spit of freedom.
Peace
Momma Feexed My Nigh-nigh
My two-year old daughter has been sleeping in her crib since she was born. We knew it was time to move her to a real bed but couldn't find the funds to buy one. So yesterday my wife removed the crib, baby-proofed the room, and simply moved the mattress to the floor. Before this, my daughter had to play in her brother's room, but now she has her own room in which to play. She was beside herself with excitement. She played, napped, and spent the night in her room. At dinner she still had the "I'm all grown up now" glow about her. She started to say something. She grew thoughtful, scrunched up her face and fumbled for the rights words to fit her happiness..."Momma...nigh-nigh...my....feexed (fixed)...momma...nigh-nigh...("nigh-nigh" is bed" At last she got it together, "Momma feexed my nigh-nigh" (Momma fixed my bed). It was her most meaningful sentence yet. Her mother was very pleased and proud. This morning when I got up at 6:45, she greeted me at her door, "I'm up! I'm up! I'm up." She had gotten herself out of her own bed and was very proud of it. We are too.
Peace
Peace
27 June 2005
Is it Okay to Buy Chinese Products Now?
During the Cold War, many of us attempted to avoid buying products from communist countries (generally China). If I remember right, Walmart had a "Buy American Program"! Today, you don't hear much about it. Buying Chinese products has become an accepted practice. The word from our leaders has been that economic freedom in China will lead to political freedom. The theory has its origins in the study of medieval through Victorian western Europe. Indeed, economic freedom often led to economic power which further led to a demand for political rights. We have bought the application of this principle without a thought and have, perhaps unconsciously, used this theory to rationalize our purchase of cheap communist goods. I am not sure the theory fits. China is not western Europe. Second, the process took hundreds of years and several bloody revolutions and civil wars. In addition, the modern world has seen economic freedom accompany some of the most totalitarian states. Inhabitants of the three Axis powers had more economic freedom than that presently enjoyed by the Chinese. This economic power did not lead to political freedom but was instead harnessed by the government to create political slavery. This appears to be exactly what China has been doing: http://www.washtimes.com/specialreport/20050626-122138-1088r.htm. The issue of Communist China often comes up in my teaching. I have struggled in recent years to describe China, but it didn't seem to be communist anymore. Now I have an apt description: fascist. I haven't been this concerned about my neighborhood being atomized since KAL 007 was shot down by the Soviets.
Is it okay to buy products from fascist China?
Peace
Is it okay to buy products from fascist China?
Peace
26 June 2005
Fear and the Four Year Old
My wife and I have worked consciously to ensure that our personal fears do not become adopted by our children (4-yr old boy and 2-yr old girl). For the most part it has worked. I hate spiders. Loathe them. No shoe is big enough for the spiders of the world. The existence of spiders has, at times, challenged my faith (how could a loving God create spiders).
My favorite season of the year has always been Autumn, but my growing realization that September is the time in Georgia that massive arachnids choose to stretch their massive webs from tree to tree has made the onset of the season bittersweet. Last September these spiders decided to invade the exterior of my house. They come out at night, stretch their webs, pack up after sunrise and then wait till dusk to begin their evil enterprise again. I leave my house for school before sunrise (or spiderfall as I call it in September). Apparently, the two pines trees in my front yard became the gateposts of a spider hellmouth. They stretched webs from the trees to the front of my house so that their webs would dangle above my sidewalk like a gauntlet of swords' of Damocles. I would run the gauntlet only to find that others had stretched their odious nets across the driveway to the dogwood on the other side, happily bouncing in the Autumn breeze above my car. Having had enough, I went to my local Ace Hardware store (they still have them, I love it, they are friendly, helpful and have all of the unusual parts you won't find at the Big Orange Box or Big Blue Box) and purchased an industrial-strength can of wasp spray, guaranteed to kill up to twenty-five feet. I needed that kind of reach, as some of them were very high in the trees. The next morning I went to work. Before the sun rose I donned cap, grabbed a high-powered flashlight, and completely freaked out my neighbors by performing an elaborate spider-exorcism dance, or so it must have looked to them. I would hold the spider in the center of the beam and then soak it and its web with foam. It was a beautiful death. Each line of the web, coated with foam, gleamed in a poisonous frost. The spider ran excitedly about the web, perhaps thinking that thousands of tiny white bugs had been miraculously, simultaneously delivered to her web by her demon-lord. Then she would drop a bit, the poison sinking in to every pore. She would spin, flinging flecks of the killing foam off in every direction. I would whisper, "Die daughter of Shelob" and hit it again. It would drop another couple of feet as its rate of spin picked up. I would hit it again. This would continue until the great carcass of the beast would lay shriveled and wet in the bed of pine straw beneath the tree.
I went through three bottles of wasp spray last September. I know I got at least fifteen of the buggers. I rationalized the slaughter by telling my self that I was "making the yard safe for famocracy".
All of this was to explain to you my joy, when on Wednesday evening, when, from my office, I heard my daughter saying, "ants, ants, ants". My daughter uses the word "Ants" for any bug so I knew she had spotting something. I came out of my office to the living room and, crawling across the carpet, I saw a small spider. The adrenalin immediately began to flood my system and I prepared to engage in an emergency spider-hunt. I stepped back...no one was panicking. My daughter was assaulting it with a doll's shoe, and my son's weapon of choice was a massive volume of Harry Potter (I wonder where they learned these methods of bug disposal?). My daughter's attacks were vicious, but poorly aimed while my son's were on target, but non-lethal. Neither one was afraid. This was a business transaction. They would make a tag-team assault, withdraw, examine the target with interest, and attack again. I was about to step in and take care of the problem myself when my one of daughter's wild swings finally connected. The spider was splattered, with no fear, no crying, and no calls for help. They grow up so fast. I was so proud.
Maybe this is some kind of anti-PETA website.
Peace
My favorite season of the year has always been Autumn, but my growing realization that September is the time in Georgia that massive arachnids choose to stretch their massive webs from tree to tree has made the onset of the season bittersweet. Last September these spiders decided to invade the exterior of my house. They come out at night, stretch their webs, pack up after sunrise and then wait till dusk to begin their evil enterprise again. I leave my house for school before sunrise (or spiderfall as I call it in September). Apparently, the two pines trees in my front yard became the gateposts of a spider hellmouth. They stretched webs from the trees to the front of my house so that their webs would dangle above my sidewalk like a gauntlet of swords' of Damocles. I would run the gauntlet only to find that others had stretched their odious nets across the driveway to the dogwood on the other side, happily bouncing in the Autumn breeze above my car. Having had enough, I went to my local Ace Hardware store (they still have them, I love it, they are friendly, helpful and have all of the unusual parts you won't find at the Big Orange Box or Big Blue Box) and purchased an industrial-strength can of wasp spray, guaranteed to kill up to twenty-five feet. I needed that kind of reach, as some of them were very high in the trees. The next morning I went to work. Before the sun rose I donned cap, grabbed a high-powered flashlight, and completely freaked out my neighbors by performing an elaborate spider-exorcism dance, or so it must have looked to them. I would hold the spider in the center of the beam and then soak it and its web with foam. It was a beautiful death. Each line of the web, coated with foam, gleamed in a poisonous frost. The spider ran excitedly about the web, perhaps thinking that thousands of tiny white bugs had been miraculously, simultaneously delivered to her web by her demon-lord. Then she would drop a bit, the poison sinking in to every pore. She would spin, flinging flecks of the killing foam off in every direction. I would whisper, "Die daughter of Shelob" and hit it again. It would drop another couple of feet as its rate of spin picked up. I would hit it again. This would continue until the great carcass of the beast would lay shriveled and wet in the bed of pine straw beneath the tree.
I went through three bottles of wasp spray last September. I know I got at least fifteen of the buggers. I rationalized the slaughter by telling my self that I was "making the yard safe for famocracy".
All of this was to explain to you my joy, when on Wednesday evening, when, from my office, I heard my daughter saying, "ants, ants, ants". My daughter uses the word "Ants" for any bug so I knew she had spotting something. I came out of my office to the living room and, crawling across the carpet, I saw a small spider. The adrenalin immediately began to flood my system and I prepared to engage in an emergency spider-hunt. I stepped back...no one was panicking. My daughter was assaulting it with a doll's shoe, and my son's weapon of choice was a massive volume of Harry Potter (I wonder where they learned these methods of bug disposal?). My daughter's attacks were vicious, but poorly aimed while my son's were on target, but non-lethal. Neither one was afraid. This was a business transaction. They would make a tag-team assault, withdraw, examine the target with interest, and attack again. I was about to step in and take care of the problem myself when my one of daughter's wild swings finally connected. The spider was splattered, with no fear, no crying, and no calls for help. They grow up so fast. I was so proud.
Maybe this is some kind of anti-PETA website.
Peace
24 June 2005
Other Names I Considered
Can one write a blog about nothing except the name of the blog? Would that be pretentious?
I briefly considered the name of a band in a story I wrote "Thesaurus Rex". Their albums were "In Other Words", "Words for Other Words", "Out of this Word", etc. I liked the idea because I am fascinated by words and their origins (a fun site is www.wordorigins.org; warning: some words for mature audiences only), but I rejected it as no one has ever read the story and using the word "Rex" in a blog title seemed pretentious.
I seriously waffled on a name that would tie together two significant influences on my boyhood, Lego Bricks and Toys and music from TV shows/commericals: "Le'go My Ego". Beside the possibilty of legal action by the fine people at Lego Brand Lego Bricks and Toys, I wasn't confident that many people would recognize the reference to the "leggo my Eggo" Brand Waffle commercials and, again, using the word "Ego" in a blog title seemed pretentious.
"SplitcatOnline" sounded good until I realized that it sounded like some kind of anti-PETA blog, and some might consider the use of my blog name in my blog title pretentious.
I am fairly certain that publishing a blog is itself a pretentious act so I am not sure what I was so worried about.
An amendment to yesterday's post: agogblog.blogspot was claimed in 2004 by a one time blogger, and blogagog.com has been domain squatted (is that the right term?). I thought it was too good to be unclaimed.
Peace
I briefly considered the name of a band in a story I wrote "Thesaurus Rex". Their albums were "In Other Words", "Words for Other Words", "Out of this Word", etc. I liked the idea because I am fascinated by words and their origins (a fun site is www.wordorigins.org; warning: some words for mature audiences only), but I rejected it as no one has ever read the story and using the word "Rex" in a blog title seemed pretentious.
I seriously waffled on a name that would tie together two significant influences on my boyhood, Lego Bricks and Toys and music from TV shows/commericals: "Le'go My Ego". Beside the possibilty of legal action by the fine people at Lego Brand Lego Bricks and Toys, I wasn't confident that many people would recognize the reference to the "leggo my Eggo" Brand Waffle commercials and, again, using the word "Ego" in a blog title seemed pretentious.
"SplitcatOnline" sounded good until I realized that it sounded like some kind of anti-PETA blog, and some might consider the use of my blog name in my blog title pretentious.
I am fairly certain that publishing a blog is itself a pretentious act so I am not sure what I was so worried about.
An amendment to yesterday's post: agogblog.blogspot was claimed in 2004 by a one time blogger, and blogagog.com has been domain squatted (is that the right term?). I thought it was too good to be unclaimed.
Peace
23 June 2005
Blogombos: What's in a Name?
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet"
Romeo and Juliet
(II.ii.43-44)
William Shakespeare
What does one name a blog? Perhaps the better question is, 'How does one name a blog?' The naming of a book, a story, or article should be reflective of the content of the written material. A blog, however, is not yet written. Despite the intent of the author, a blog may transform, grow, stagnate, or die. The naming of a blog seems to have more in common with the naming of a child. With great hope and expectation, a parent names a child with no real understanding of what that name will one day mean to the parent or the child.
So how should I name my blog? Should I give it a name of what I hope it will become or should it be flexible enough to grow into anything? Should I try to find some clever use of the word "blog" in my name? This was my first hope and surely, I thought, I can find some clever blog combo name (here-on-out known as a blogombo--you heard it here first...wait let me check...google says yes, you heard it here first). Alas, all the truly clever names have been used. Try it. Add blog to any word, google it, and presto...someone laid claim to it years ago. I discovered this when National Review held an online contest to name their media blog. They haven't announced their winner yet but my guess is it won't be a blogombo. Some random examples from my research: Blog+godzilla=blogzilla; blog+fantastic=blogtastic; blog+terrific=blogarrific; blogjam; all taken, though blognailinthefoot appears to be unclaimed as of yet and I found no reference to agogblog...take them if you will (but give me link).
Okay. A blogombo is out. What then? My second thought was to create a descriptive name. But what am I describing? It doesn't exist yet. Then I remembered the classic line from Romeo and Juliet. The Bard, speaking through Juliet, tells us that the name doesn't matter! If something is sweet, the name can't change the sweetness! I would so much hve liked to believe that this is true as it would make the task of christening my blog much easier, but I have to take exception to this argument. I think that a name can make or break any endeavor. If a rose was called a stinkweed, a satanblossom, or a hateflower, I don't think millions of dozens would be sold every February.
A poor name can sour a sweet thing. My mother is an excellent cook. Unfortunately, during the seventies and eighties she cooked, it seemed to me, nothing but casseroles filled with water chestnuts. There were two things amiss here. One, the name "casserole" filled me with dread. It is a terrible word filled with Kerry-esque nuances and should never be used in conjunction with food (my tastebuds commit mass seppuku in mere contemplation of the word). Secondly, water chestnuts. Why do they exist? My mother would try to calm my pre-meal query concerning the use of water chestnuts in the day's meal preparation with "You can't really taste them." I heard that line a lot (I always countered with, "Then why did you put them (or it) in?"). With water chestnuts it is true. You can't taste them. But you can feel them. Always added to a soft casserole to give a crunch, they would turn up like old turds on the lawn or roaches in the salad. Their crunch made me ill. Despite this, my mother did create some casseroles I could tolerate and even enjoy. One was "tater-tot casserole". The name is so promising at first, "tater-tot"! What fun! Then, the downer, "casserole". Eventually I was able to convince the management that the name "Tater-tot Extravaganza" would be much more palatable. The name stuck and I still make "Tater-tot Extravaganza" for my family today (sans water chestnuts).
While a poor name can sour a sweet thing, the reverse is not true. A good name cannot sweeten a sour thing. I have tried this in my classes. In AP US History we do an exercise called a DBQ (document based question). They hate it. It is challenging, timed essay that few do really well on. They got to the point where they dreaded the "DBQ" like some dread the "IRS" or others the "GOP". Anyway, I changed the name to "History Extravaganza". They were so excited to do the first one. The looks on their faces were priceless...until I handed out the assignment, and they looked like they had just bitten down on a big, crunchy water chestnut in their own wedding cake. So even if I come up with a great name, there is no guarantee that the blog will rise to the greatness of its name.
So why did I choose the name "The Ohoopee Letter News"? I will leave the story of my blog's name for another day.
Peace
By any other word would smell as sweet"
Romeo and Juliet
(II.ii.43-44)
William Shakespeare
What does one name a blog? Perhaps the better question is, 'How does one name a blog?' The naming of a book, a story, or article should be reflective of the content of the written material. A blog, however, is not yet written. Despite the intent of the author, a blog may transform, grow, stagnate, or die. The naming of a blog seems to have more in common with the naming of a child. With great hope and expectation, a parent names a child with no real understanding of what that name will one day mean to the parent or the child.
So how should I name my blog? Should I give it a name of what I hope it will become or should it be flexible enough to grow into anything? Should I try to find some clever use of the word "blog" in my name? This was my first hope and surely, I thought, I can find some clever blog combo name (here-on-out known as a blogombo--you heard it here first...wait let me check...google says yes, you heard it here first). Alas, all the truly clever names have been used. Try it. Add blog to any word, google it, and presto...someone laid claim to it years ago. I discovered this when National Review held an online contest to name their media blog. They haven't announced their winner yet but my guess is it won't be a blogombo. Some random examples from my research: Blog+godzilla=blogzilla; blog+fantastic=blogtastic; blog+terrific=blogarrific; blogjam; all taken, though blognailinthefoot appears to be unclaimed as of yet and I found no reference to agogblog...take them if you will (but give me link).
Okay. A blogombo is out. What then? My second thought was to create a descriptive name. But what am I describing? It doesn't exist yet. Then I remembered the classic line from Romeo and Juliet. The Bard, speaking through Juliet, tells us that the name doesn't matter! If something is sweet, the name can't change the sweetness! I would so much hve liked to believe that this is true as it would make the task of christening my blog much easier, but I have to take exception to this argument. I think that a name can make or break any endeavor. If a rose was called a stinkweed, a satanblossom, or a hateflower, I don't think millions of dozens would be sold every February.
A poor name can sour a sweet thing. My mother is an excellent cook. Unfortunately, during the seventies and eighties she cooked, it seemed to me, nothing but casseroles filled with water chestnuts. There were two things amiss here. One, the name "casserole" filled me with dread. It is a terrible word filled with Kerry-esque nuances and should never be used in conjunction with food (my tastebuds commit mass seppuku in mere contemplation of the word). Secondly, water chestnuts. Why do they exist? My mother would try to calm my pre-meal query concerning the use of water chestnuts in the day's meal preparation with "You can't really taste them." I heard that line a lot (I always countered with, "Then why did you put them (or it) in?"). With water chestnuts it is true. You can't taste them. But you can feel them. Always added to a soft casserole to give a crunch, they would turn up like old turds on the lawn or roaches in the salad. Their crunch made me ill. Despite this, my mother did create some casseroles I could tolerate and even enjoy. One was "tater-tot casserole". The name is so promising at first, "tater-tot"! What fun! Then, the downer, "casserole". Eventually I was able to convince the management that the name "Tater-tot Extravaganza" would be much more palatable. The name stuck and I still make "Tater-tot Extravaganza" for my family today (sans water chestnuts).
While a poor name can sour a sweet thing, the reverse is not true. A good name cannot sweeten a sour thing. I have tried this in my classes. In AP US History we do an exercise called a DBQ (document based question). They hate it. It is challenging, timed essay that few do really well on. They got to the point where they dreaded the "DBQ" like some dread the "IRS" or others the "GOP". Anyway, I changed the name to "History Extravaganza". They were so excited to do the first one. The looks on their faces were priceless...until I handed out the assignment, and they looked like they had just bitten down on a big, crunchy water chestnut in their own wedding cake. So even if I come up with a great name, there is no guarantee that the blog will rise to the greatness of its name.
So why did I choose the name "The Ohoopee Letter News"? I will leave the story of my blog's name for another day.
Peace
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
