Blog

The naming of babies, according to psychology professor Dr. Cleveland Evans, has reached a new frontier. Parents seeking to distinguish their newborns from the herd have turned to canned food and footwear for inspiration. According to Dr. Evans, the following luckless toddlers will soon enter pre-school and get a foretaste of peer cruelty: DelMonte, Celica, Armani, Courvoisier, Darvon, ESPN, and Timberland, just to name a few. Not all such anomalies are commercial, as in the startling Unnecessary, Annex, and Syphilis. Talk about just learning to walk and already having to heft your parents’ baggage.

Dr. Evans’s professional sideline is called onomastics, the study of names and naming practices. According to Social Security Administration records, Jacob and Emily are the current favorites for American boys and girls. I happen to possess a name of consistent popularity: Michael, which rode the crest of favor for half a century. Emerging as number one in 1953, Michael took the title forty-three times through 1999, including a streak of thirty-five consecutive years, as though weaned on steroids and coached by John Wooden. Speaking of John, he dominated for the first twenty-five years of the last century. The years between 1925 and 1964 featured a tense scrum between Robert and James, with a few token titles falling to David. William, Christopher, and Jason? Perennial bridesmaids. For girls, the list has rotated democratically, at least since Mary was finally dethroned for good in 1961: Linda, Lisa, Jennifer, and Jessica each topped the list for roughly two presidential terms. But perhaps our yearning for uniqueness will finally introduce an era of parity. According to the SSA, “the names Kaitlin, Kaitlyn, Kaitlynn, Katelin, Katelyn, Katelynn, and Katlyn are considered separate names in our tables.”

My wife and I did not look to the top of the list for our choice before our son was born two years ago. We wanted something simple and distinct, conventional but lively, finally settling on Cole, which seems to serve him well.

But we envied people with the surname Jones, which must make the naming job so much easier. After all, what does not go with “Jones”? It’s the simple pedestal upon which one can forgivably place the most garish or outlandish vase. Deuteronomy Jones, Copernicus Jones, Deconstructionist Jones, Municipal Gasworks Jones. Who can forget Basketball Jones? These locutions all seem to destine the bearer to, if not greatness, then at least a decent job as a guitarist in a backup band.

Minnesotans, a notoriously cautious lot, seem unlikely to dive into this strange confluence of commerce and christening, but the possibilities are rife. For boys, nothing would indicate strength, integrity, and something vaguely exotic better than Zamboni, that great healer of ice rinks. I would certainly put a resumé submitted by someone named Zamboni Olson at the top of the pile. For girls, Hazelden speaks volumes about patience, nurturing, and wisdom, and folds easily into an inconspicuous nickname: Hazelden “Hazel” Paxil Rolvaag, life coach. In the near future, don’t be surprised to hear that Flonase, Rapala, Cinnabon, MPR, Polaris, Menard, and eventually Ikea, have been enrolled in your company’s daycare center.

On a cold winter evening, a crowd of John Kerry supporters bundled themselves in scarves and parkas before venturing to Old Chicago for a regularly scheduled happy hour. When I arrived, I stood briefly near the entrance, scanning the room for a raucous group of politicos clanking glasses and spilling beer. Instead, I was directed to a table where a sedate group of ten had gathered. A few beers were scattered around the table, but mostly people were drinking Coca-Colas and tea. As I was removing my mittens and making my acquaintances, a confused young man approached us and asked, “Is this the Willing to Fight meeting?”

“Umm, no,” someone offered pointedly. This was not the local arm of pro-war zealots that go by that name. “You’ll want to see that group of white guys over there.” Everyone chuckled as the young man walked away, but of course I didn’t see a black face among us. We, too, were a bunch of white guys. Our only claim to diversity was a gay couple, white, sitting primly, listening attentively. Also in our midst: two middle-aged couples, a strapping lawyer all the way in from Andover, and Mark, our fearless leader. Mark was a modern-day minuteman in a brown bomber jacket. Armed with a folder of statistics, he could rattle off Kerry’s record on NAFTA, job creation, or foreign policy at a moment’s notice. “There’s no way the Republicans can challenge John Kerry’s credentials on national security,” he said, reiterating the most obvious asset of the campaign. Mark acknowledged the contributions of other candidates but concluded that Kerry represents the Democrats’ best chance at the White House. The group agreed, listening as Mark laid out his argument. After a half hour, when our attention flagged, Mark promptly excused himself, having finished the job he set out to do. “Can we have the next one in Coon Rapids?” joked one of the women soberly.

Across town a week later, supporters of General Wesley Clark rented a basement room at Awada’s to convene their happy-hour festivities. I was greeted at the threshold with a jar full of Clark candy bars, live Brazilian music and a long table featuring a beautiful display of Wesley Clark swag. I quickly stashed a few stickers and buttons into my pockets. In just a few days, these would turn out to be collectibles!

Clark people were different than Kerry people. Their teeth were whiter. They wore business suits or turtleneck sweaters. When two state lawmakers showed up, the party really got underway. The head count peaked at just over twenty, with partygoers huddling into cliques with their friends. Old high school chums who had grown up to become lawyers or advertising executives swilled drinks and shook hands while exchanging vague testimonials on Clark’s electability. Later, David, the cheerful attorney who’d organized this soiree, announced the screening of a short film on General Clark’s life. All present formed a half-circle around the big-screen TV and politely applauded.

At Nye’s, Howard Dean supporters were gathered in a back room. Given Dean’s stunning declension in Iowa and New Hampshire, I expected to find a small gaggle drowning their sorrows in cheap beer and polka. Instead, I found a diverse group of about thirty. They all seemed to be disheveled after traveling the country on behalf of their candidate. Sure, there were long faces among them—they certainly drank more than the Kerry crowd—but overall, they were a motivated, inspired, and energized bunch. They engaged in robust political discussion and exchanged tips on canvassing technique.

Inevitably, the conversation went south. There were harsh words for Kerry, Edwards, Clark, and, ultimately, Bush. Even so, the smack-talk maintained a certain elevation, since these people were well versed on the records of all the candidates. Still, they acknowledged Dean had suffered a seemingly irreversible blow. “I’m really pissed off at our party!” said Dale, the young, curly-headed leader of this group. Holding a Corona in his left hand while pursing a lime between the fingers of his right, he gestured wildly. It was intolerable to him how party insiders had torpedoed his man. Conversation devolved into a lament about Dean’s dim political future. “It’s like rooting for the Vikings,” moaned one Dean supporter, consoling himself with another swallow of beer.—Christy DeSmith

Jeff Mihelich is blind. He is also gay. He also enjoys going to the theater, the Guthrie and Patrick’s Cabaret being among his favorites. For a blind and gay man to actually see a play called Puppetry of the Penis, well, that would be like hitting the trifecta, right?

That’s what Mihelich thought when he requested the services of an “audio descriptor” for the local staging of Puppetry. The show is really no different than others that have sprung from New York and hit the road, like Stomp, Riverdance, and the Blue Man Group. Sure, the “genital origami” thing is a little edgy, but there was nudity in Hair and Angels in America, and the general public didn’t find that too hard to swallow.

At the show, Mihelich hoped to get the sight gags by wearing a single earpiece, which picked up the voice of Rick Jacobson, the interpreter. Jacobson sat in a tiny booth behind the audience at the Mixed Blood Theatre and his disembodied voice sounded a little like a hypnotist’s: “You are in the center of the room. There are seats to your left and right. Here comes a woman with a pink feather boa and a crown. She is crossing the stage.”

What Jacobson didn’t have to describe to his visually impaired listener and eavesdropping journalist was how the middle-aged woman in the boa and a cocktail fog ended up stealing the show. This was quite an accomplishment, considering that the crowd popped thirty-five dollars each to see two naked guys, one American and one Australian, make balloon animals with their genitals.

“Okay, the lights are going down. There is smoke blowing across the stage.” Jacobson quietly began the narration. The two guys ran out, wearing only sneakers and capes, and positioned themselves behind two mic stands. Crouching between them was a woman with a video camera. The rest of the show was projected, in extreme close-up, on a large screen behind the puppeteers.

They recited the opening disclaimers, reminding the audience that there would be full frontal nudity and that only adults should be in attendance, which is weird for a show that would probably appeal most to a group of nine-year-olds in a backyard with a refrigerator box. Jacobson discreetly interjected visual cues, “The performers are both fairly athletic-looking with nice little treasure trails.” Jacobson, it turns out, has worked with Mihelich before and is also gay. This made it possible for him to use language that would normally get a person fired from any other job.

The on-stage patter started. “Now I’ll have to ask everyone to be quiet for this next little fella,” said the Australian, lending a nature-show tone to the boy-island, tree-house ambiance. Jacobson whispered, “The American has turned around and looks like he’s working really hard on something. Now he turns to the audience.” The Australian continued as the video camera zoomed in for an autopsy-clear image of the other guy’s hairy crotch. “I think if we’re lucky we’ll be able to see this shy little creature.” Jacobson sounded like a golf announcer. “He’s pulling his ball sack up and over his dick so all you can see is balls. Now he’s slowly revealing the head of the dick, like it’s peeking over the top.” As the audience performed the requisite “Awwwwwww,” the Australian landed the punch line. “That’s right, folks! It’s the Australian Hairy-Backed Turtle!”

Which, in fact, looked like a fairly unappealing knot of male flesh. The audience shrieked and squealed and cheered. Mihelich and his partner stared straight ahead.

After quite a lot of this sort of thing, someone from the audience, a middle-aged birthday gal with a fire-engine shriek, got invited onstage for the usual audience-participation gag. By the time this was over, her siren overtook the penis parade. Since the crowd was dominated by what seemed to be a drunken bachelorette party, they really weren’t there for the dialogue.

Later, Mihelich described his experience. “I couldn’t hear the describer at all. The women were yelling and screaming and blocking him out. I don’t think a gay audience would have screamed that much.” In the end, it didn’t matter that much. Both of us agreed that I really didn’t need to see that. —Sari Gordon