BlitzBlog

It's late and I thought I smelled something so I woke up and walked
around the house. Everyone is asleep. I hope my toenails or panting
don't wake everyone. Wait, do I smell something?

I never wrote anything before, but the Big Human  I live with
looks like he likes to do it, so I'm gonna sit and  type
here until they feed me or let me out to pee. So far, I don't see
the big deal with this computer thing. It doesn't run, so I can't chase
it. It doesn't smell, so I don't want to lick it.

Anyway, Gogi- the old dog that lived here when they
brought me here- he was about the same size as me when I was a puppy,
but I got a lot bigger than him as I got used to living here over time.
That was just over 14 years ago- well, 2 actually, in human years.

Gogi was pretty old when I got here, probably close to 80. He was
almost blind and he didn't hear too good neither. Even though he
didn't whine about it, I could tell his back legs were really hurting
him. He and the Big Human showed me this game they played, where the Big
Human would throw a tennis ball (man they taste terrible!) and Gogi
would run up the driveway as fast as he could, grab the ball and bring
it back. The two of them would do this for a while almost every day
after the Big Human came home from wherever he used to go during the
day. The Big Human would drink out of a bottle and throw the ball until
Gogi would just get tired and instead of bringing the ball back, he'd
bring it under the big pine tree and lay down and pant to cool off. I'm
sure this hurt Gogi's legs, but he never stopped liking this game. (Me?
I'd rather get the ball and run around and make the Big Human chase me
for it.) It wasn't until Gogi couldn't really see anymore that the two of
them stopped playing the game.

Anyway, the Big Human took Gogi to the vet this morning, but he came
back alone and really really sad. He was crying, which I don't ever
think I've seen him do before. He said that he held Gogi's head in his
hands and scratched his ears and Gogi went to sleep. The Big Human told
the Pretty Human, “He just went to sleep. Quick. No Pain. Just went to sleep.” And the Big Human cried some
more and that made the Pretty Human cry too. She told him it was okay,
and that Gogi was suffering, and now he's not.

I can tell you that this is true. Gogi wasn't like a lot of the other
young dogs I knew. For a long time lately, he'd lost his Dog Joy. I
guess that's what happens when everything hurts. So I hope that if I
ever hurt like Gogi did, The Big Human, and also the Pretty Human, and
the two Smaller Humans take me to the vet, hold my head, scratch my
ears and rub my belly, and I'll go to sleep too. I know when I sleep, I
dream about chasing tennis balls that taste like bacon, and I'll catch those
stupid gray furry animals in the back yard that always seem to disappear into trees. I'll sleep in the
sunny spot on the couch, and when I see my family, I will lick their
faces with all the Dog Joy I have.

I'm sure Gogi's dreaming just like that right now.

About 6 weeks ago, I worked out an exit package from my previous
employer, where I had become miserable for a wide variety of reasons
that I won't go in to detail, in this post, at least.

Now most people would consider losing their job, with no new job lined
up already, or even prospects on the immediate horizon, quite a
horrible thing in their lives. And with a mortgage and a family to
support- not entirely, though, as my wife makes a decent wage as a high
school teacher- but still, a significant reduction in income is of
certain consequence.

Me? Despite having possible 3 of the most difficult and emotionally
upsetting months previous to my departure (a good friend's death, major
surgery on my 15 year old son, the job becoming more and more
intolerable), I've been on cloud nine since. I've been confident and
relaxed. I've attacked life with a new purpose, being freed from the
rut I was in.

The weather was turning nice, I now had time to look full-time for a
new job, a just “be there” for my family emotionally and practically.

Emotionally, it's great to be able to be at the front door when my kids
get off the school bus in the afternoon. I can sit and have a slice of
leftover pizza for a snack with Zac, or get Sarah to her horse riding
lessons. Good bonding time.

Practically, well this may not sound exciting or glamorous, but the
laundry is done, the house, for the most part, is clean, the shopping
isn't quite the stressful get-all-food-for-the-week chore it was on
crowded Sundays at Shop Rite (now I can make fill-in runs any weekday),
and I've been able to indulge in cranking the stereo in the afternoons
and set about to making dinners for the family (Blues for BBQ or
grilled meats, Jazz for Italian, Alternative and Classic Rock for
everything else).

As I write this, sitting on my back deck, the sun is dappling through
the trees. Steely Dan making the birds sing along. It's about 72
degrees with a gentle breeze. The dogs are lolling in the grass, and I
have two dozen meat balls that I know are gonna be outrageously good
baking in sauce in the oven.

The “bad” news is that it all ends in a couple of weeks. Yeah, it'll be
then that I start at a better job with a lot more pay than I was making
before, that I know I'm gonna love.

Any red-blooded male who watched ESPN's SportsCenter in the early 80s
will remember Chris Berman's amazing penchant for coming up with
nicknames for the ballplayers whose highlights he was over dubbing.
Bert “Be-Home” Blyleven was always my favorite.

So yesterday I was filling out a form for my daughter's soccer
registration, and it had a box to fill out for “nickname.” Actually for
both myself and my daughter. In this case I left both boxes blank, since
neither of us really have a nickname by which  we're known.

Yes, there ore those term of endearment that every family has for it's
members. Wives become “honey” or “sweetheart” (or often worse). I often
call my daughter “baby” and my son “bud” or “buddy.” Which brings up an
uncle of mine, whose name was Monroe, but was known by everyone as
Buddy.

I've had a few nicknames over my lifetime, but none have really stuck
so well that I'd become universally known by them. Most were used on an
individual basis. My school friend Goose (whose nickname was universal,
having inexplicably morphed from his last name of Wisniewski) was one
of only a handful of friends who called me by an early nickname of
Booboo. The origin of Booboo came out of a penchant for reckless
self-injury I had as a boy. The best story I recall regarding any
attempt at Booboo becoming more widely used was in 6th grade.

It was probably the first or second day of school. We were assigned
with making those 6″x12″ tags that we taped to the front of our desks.
Our teacher, the first male teacher I'd had in grade school, Mr.
Phelan, was about 6'8″ tall, or so he seemed. We also had a wonderful
old roving science teacher, Mr. Cox, who used to come to every class
about every week or so, with his cart, that contained a wondrous array
of practical science experiments. Mr. Cox was an elderly man with a
detached dignified air of formality. He was a lot like Alfred the
butler on the old Batman show. We always looked forward to Mr. Cox's
cart rolling through the door to be shown some amazing demonstration of
chemical reactions or heat expansion and cold contraction.

So I carefully filled out my desk name tag, carefully spelling out the
letters; B-o-o-b-o-o. I taped the tag to the front of my desk and sat
back in my chair. Mr. Phelan looked up and asked, “Matthew? Why does it
say Boo-boo on the front of your desk?”  I replied that was my
nickname. Mr. Phelan calmly retorted, “Do you honestly expect Mr. Cox
to come in here and when you raise your hand, for him to say, 'Yes
Booboo?' ” The entire class loudly cracked up at this, and I glumly
yanked the tag off my desk, turned it over and began putting my real
name on the tag. From then on, Booboo was only used by a handful of
friends, and even after 30 years, if one of them called me on the phone
and I heard that name, I'd know exactly which one of them was calling.

A few years later, another friend and I began calling each other the
exact same nickname, Milo. This scenario worked only because nobody
else used the name, even our two other closest Friends.  If Milo
had spread for both of us, it would have caused much confusion. Why
Milo? In all honesty, it's not a funny story and really has no basis in
reality. Trust me.

Now as anyone who's read this blog for a while knows, I've been
traveling to Mississippi every other year or so in search of the heart of
modern music- namely, Delta Blues.  What I have found, in this
search, is that every Bluesman or Blueswoman worth their weight, has a
nickname. Wonderful nicknames like McKinley Morganfield's, who is
better known as Muddy Waters. Chester Arthur Burnett's ripping vocals
could only be those from a man named Howlin' Wolf. There are so many; Pinetop Perkins and Lightnin' Hopkins, George Super
Chikan Johnson, Bo Diddley, and of course, Mister Tater. There are
those with even with two nicknames, like T-Model Ford's other
moniker, the Tail Dragger.

Most Blues nicknames have some background story. Some are obvious. If
your last name is Ford, then Model T can easily become T Model. Some
denote where one was born, like Alabama Slim, which also tells you
something about the person's physique. Of course sometimes that's done
tongue-in-cheek, as when a huge man is nicknamed Tiny.  The story
of a name like Mister Tater, who once you've met or seen him perform,
just seems to fit, is more roundabout. Apparently Mister Tater was
known originally around Clarksdale, Mississippi as Rooster, but when
George Super Chikan Johnson began getting some modicum of fame, he
insisted there could only be one poultry-named Bluesman in town.
Rooster acquiesced and somehow became Mister Tater.

My friend Dave The Mighty Blue Frog McCarty has a name that has no real
story behind it that I know of- at lest one that he'll admit to. It just seems to fit, like Tater's. My
bud, John Colonel Beefcake Thompson has an incredibly
disgusting-but-funny tale that garnered him his moniker. Rich Doc
DeMaio's  (a local ENT sawbone) is obvious. With a last name like
Dust, my pal Tom could only be T Dusty Roads.

As for me, well, there's a company with my own last name that makes
those red 5-gallon fuel containers. And while I prefer the
cooler-sounding Matty Lightnin', it seems that Gas Can Blitz seems to
be my Bluesname that has stuck. And after some cabbage or red beans,at least 
the name does have its accuracy.