Griffith Observatory At Night

Griffith Observatory at night, from Chris Camargo's photoblog: Welcome to Los Angeles

An attempt¹ at a sonnet²

Come join me, let us stand and gaze from here

the distant twinkle of the city lights.

The sky is never ample pure and clear

to see the brilliance of the stars these nights.

'Tis hard to see them through this urban smog

and city lights so strong they cloud the skies;

they do create a thickness and a fog

that limit reach and depth of gazing eyes.

Though oft' I've heard our lights cannot compare

With splendor true of heavenly bodies,

I cannot wish to stars that are not there

hence will I now entreat and pray to these.

So let the stars in all their glory be

for mine are here, pray they suffice for me.

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[1] My poem fails to fit the meter for a Shakespearean sonnet on one or two or three (or more?) of the lines. 

[2] Note: This poem was only slightly inspired by B.O.B.’s Airplanes. The primary influence is the view from Griffith Observatory and the smog in L.A.

Can I Name Your Children, Please?

A piece about an idiosyncrasy of mine

I don’t know why, but I am obsessed with naming things… and by things I mean people and pets. Haha. Probably because naming someone is one way to really express your creativity in a very permanent way. When I meet these people with names like John Smith, Mary Johnson, Michael Williams, I always think to myself, “Wow, your parents suck.”  I feel bad for these people. Everybody Google searches their name, right? Imagine googling your name when you are John Smith… Good luck wading through all of those results (A thousand apologies if I offend you because your name is John Smith, but don’t complain to me. Go to your parents).  

If you ask me if I believe in fate or destiny, more often than not, I will give you a flat, quick no. But not when it comes to names. If you name your kid something stupid… your kid is going to come out stupid. This tautology, as I see it, ought to be named after me unless it’s named after someone else already. Mauro’s first law. Better yet:  Mauro’s Razor¹. Fuck you, Occam (or Ockham) (Damn, Hanlon never gets any love). Mauro’s Razor isn’t a guarantee, mind you, but a tendency. =D

On that note, I will never name a child of mine Pancho. I hear that researchers in the Latin Americas have discovered that naming a boy Pancho increases his chances of having cirrhosis of the liver at age 35 by about 90%.² That is to say, Pancho, I believe, is a common name for a drunkard, and I’m not excited about having alcoholic babies.

The corollary to Mauro’s razor: If you name your child something epic, the child will come out epic… hopefully. The other is- if you name your child something common, your child will come out alright. Uncommon name? Umm, I read an article that says men with uncommon or unpopular names are more likely to end up as criminals³. Yikes.

The problem with all of this, of course, is the subjective nature of it all. What sounds epic to some sounds stupid to others and vice versa. The first example that comes to my mind right now is Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin naming their daughter Apple. Apple Martin. That’s one letter away from an alcoholic drink there. Hmm, who knows? Maybe Apple and some random Pancho will hook up one day and have rambunctious anal.

Back in 9^th grade, a friend of mine, Luis Diaz, took the letters of my first and last name to create a new name for me, a secret name. So he took Mauro and contorted it thus: take the last syllable and put it first, take the first syllable and put it last, and then flip the u to make an n; you get “Roman.” Then he took my last name Fernandez and created Derez. I don’t really know how he got that. So my secret name was Roman Derez. It sounded epic to my ears as soon as I heard it.

That same year I read Dante’s Inferno. Notice anything about that? Dante’s. Not Alighieri’s Inferno. Dante’s. Who wrote The Great Gatsby? F. Scott Fitzgerald.  What’s that guy’s first name? I don’t even know. I had to look it up. Francis. That’s it. Samuel Clemens? Who the fuck is that? MARK TWAIN, ah, I know him. Pseudonym. In short, authors do cool shit with their names. 

As the year progressed, I became filled with delusions of grandeur. If I became a famous novelist, poet and/or philosopher I would change my name to Mauro Roman Derez Fernandez. But I would chop off the Mauro Fernandez when I published my works, just to be cool like the aforementioned authors. I pictured students getting excited about reading and talking amongst themselves. One hands a book to another and says, “Oh, man, if you like Shakespeare, you’ll like this… Have you read the works of Roman Derez?! They’re monumental! This novel managed to win the Pulitzer Prize and the movie that was based on it won best adapted screenplay at the academy awards!” Yes, I am a bit of a nerd for picturing that. I admit it.

As it turns out, the day my overreaching ambition eventually confronted my actual ability/talent to write, my delusions of grandeur died (or did they?). I decided: perhaps my progeny will do better. So I figured that I could name my first-born son Roman Derez Fernandez and hope he becomes a great writer. I can be one of those disgusting parents that lives vicariously through his or her kids. Why not? Maybe I can star in my own reality show. I doubt it can compete with Toddlers and Tiaras though. Oh wow, I lost my senses for a bit there. I started to think that my last name was Heene. Anyway, back to the matter at hand.

Thenceforth I started to imagine what names I would give my children, and thus my obsession began.

THE CHALLENGE: come up with a name that sounds pleasant, is somewhat common, but not too common, and that preferably sounds more epic than stupid. And make sure that your kids can google their name without having to wade through a shit ton of results. For me, I add the extra challenge: a name that is easy to pronounce in English and Spanish. Oh yes, let us not forget the last criterion –name them something that won’t land them in jail. That’s pretty important.

For girls, I think names that end with “ia” are particularly euphonious. Victoria, Sophia, Anastasia, Julia. Maria? Way too common… sorry. How many Maria Fernandez’s are there in the world? Probably too many to count. (Grammar question: How do you pluralize my last name? Fernandezes? Or Fernandez’s?)  

Every now and then I find these names, and I make sure to bookmark them in my mind because they sound so lovely to me. E.g. Aurora. Miriam –I heard this one in The Prince of Egypt. Some names sound so wonderful, but I feel like they won’t sit right as first names. I bet they can work as middle names, though. For instance, Tzipora (Zipporah) –I saw this name in Schindler’s List and in The Prince of Egypt and loved it –I really need to stop watching that movie before I end up having Jethro and Moses as sons, huh? Sephora –the Greek version of Tzipora sounds great to me. Hopefully that cosmetics company hasn’t ruined this name.  

So far this is my favorite combination: Anastasia Sephora. You can call her Anna for short. Sophia Theresa Fernandez-Urquilla would be nice too. She’ll have fun initialing on forms. Get it?⁴

I wish I could have 20 children so I could name them all. It’s fun for me to think of possible names for them. But 20 children? Sounds like another possibility for me to star in quality reality TV programming. Oh, wait, that’s already being done⁵. Maybe I can have 20 children total from multiple women? Haha. I joke with Yenny telling her that I will have an affair with a white woman in the future and name the son I have with her Emerson. I think that name sounds really strong and respectable: Emerson Fernandez. However, since I’m not planning on having affairs, and Yenny and I only want a few kids, can I name your children? Please?

 

A few months ago, I was trying to convince my pregnant sister to name her son Alonzo. She chose the name Julian. I tried to push Julian Alonzo on her. She didn’t go with it. So now her son is just plain old Julian Davis. Wouldn’t it have been better as Julian Alonzo Davis? Maybe I can pull off Julian Alonzo Fernandez in the future. Or maybe just Alonzo Fernandez. 

As I learned from my sister, people generally won’t let you name their children, so I’m sure your answer to my title question is a quick, but loud “NO.” Shit, I don’t even know if I’ll have any say in the naming of my own children. I have to consult with Yenny first …or do I? I’ll just name my own kids and satiate the residual naming urges on my pets. I hope to one day have a toy dog named either Aristotle or Aristophanes. I have no idea why. It just sounds funny to me. Damn, I just realized I don’t want that many pets. I don’t want to be crazy pet-guy with 20 pets, a smelly house, and piss stains all over the carpet.

*Sigh* I guess I’ll just have to learn to live with this frustration. Nomenclatural frustration, I’ll call it. I will name this frustration that.

The End

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A quick afterthought:

Guillermo used to be on my list of preferred boys names but I keep seeing these damn ads on YouTube for Verizon’s 4GLT-whatever-the-fuck product, where this guy says “It turns Guillermo into super Guillermo!” Yeah, they killed that name for me… bastards.

And another:

Yenny may like that I want to demonstrate our mutual love of Japanese culture by giving one of our daughters Sakura (Cherry Blossom) as a middle name.

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[1] I am aware that “razor” is not applicable to this type of pseudo-philosophical concept.

[2] Not True. I made this up completely.

[3] http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1874955,00.html

[4] S.T.F.U.

[5] Actually it’s 19 Kids & Counting. Two TLC reality TV references in one essay… Yeah, I need to get a life. Maybe I can squeeze in a reference to Jon & Kate Plus 8 …

Freedom & California One

  The Decemberists - Castaways & Cutouts

A short piece about looking forward to the future

Lately, I have been listening to a song by the Decemberists –“California One” for it instills in me hope for the future. Picture this! Me driving¹ down California’s pacific coast highway, Yenny, a passenger at my side, listening to beautiful, calming, carefree indie rock, with frequent stops at lovely restaurants to taste the various dishes and wines. Yes, a view of the promised land! An entire day-long trip –from the breathtaking views at dawn, the enchanting scenery illuminated by the day, the pensive, mesmerizing seascapes at sunset, all to be concluded by the endlessness and majesty of the night sky. Ah yes, a return home by the light of the moon and stars, au clair de lune.

Listen to that song, from the introductory interplay of guitar and bowed bass to the closing notes of the piano, for it beckons freedom! It is a beacon of all good things to come. Onward, dear friends!

Take a long drive with me
on California one, on California one. 

Take a long drive with me
on California one, on California one.
And the road a-winding goes
from golden gate to roaring cliff-side,
and the light is softly low
as our hearts become sweetly untied
beneath the sun of California one.

Take a long drown with me 
of California wine, of California wine. 

Take a long drown with me
of California wine, of California wine.
And the wine it tastes so sweet
as we lay our eyes to wander,
and the sky, it stretches deep.
Will we rest our heads to slumber?
Beneath the vines of California wine,
Beneath the sun of California one.

Annabelle lies,
sleeps with quiet eyes,
on this sea-drift sun
What can you do?
And if I said,
Oh it’s in your head
on this sea-drift sun
What can you do?

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[1] In the hopes of dissuading everyone from thinking that I might be a chauvinist pig with no respect for the faculties of women, in this particular case, their aptitude to operate a motor vehicle, I would like to say that the aforementioned scene with me, a man, driving is not meant to aim toward some sort of idea of appropriate gender roles. I only want to drive then because Yenny does all the driving now. When we are stripped of liberties, and said liberties are later bestowed upon us, we cannot help but aspire to exercise those liberties.

O Muse, Sing Through Me!

The Gymnasium Muse

A short piece about my inspiration to begin and maintain an exercise regiment

When at first I undertook the arduous tasks of weight loss and frequenting the gym on a regular basis, I did there encounter at the gymnasium a woman whom I will refer to as my Gymnasium Muse. Ah, let me tell you of this woman!

No! Do not mistake my enthusiasm for her as base and vile lust, my friends, for that, I can assure you, was not the case. As most would know, or at least guess, ‘tis very ordinary indeed for a woman to bring a bulge to my pants, but, no, this woman did something quite extraordinary, something quite beyond the realm of eroticism. As a matter of fact, this woman’s appearance did not tickle my pickle in that way.¹

Often, when endeavoring seemingly insurmountable feats, especially of a lengthy nature, people will quote the typical Lao Tzu: “The journey of a thousand miles begins with just one step.” And it inspires you to take that first step, does it not? What these people fail to mention, however, is that upon the one-hundred-thousandth step your feet probably feel blistering pain. And this realization left me truly distressed. I was 277 lbs, and I wanted to be 170, and I had not lost even 1 pound yet. But against all of my rational misgivings, I went to the gym anyway because, after all, if you want to journey one thousand miles, you must, ipso facto, take those steps – horseback carriages, cars, planes, and modern transportation of all kinds notwithstanding. 

At first, I went to the gym crestfallen, with a sense of brooding certainty that that particular strenuous day would probably be my last. After all, I had taken this first step many times, Lao Tzu. But I would usually quit after walking a few miles.  Not this time. Ah, this time I beheld this woman, the wondrous Gymnasium Muse, who then lifted something which no mere set of breasts, ass and legs could. 

Ah, this woman! It was as if she were ever present there in the confines of the Wooden Gym. Each and every time I went, there she was, deluged in sweat as if she just emerged from a lagoon of her own perspiration, beneath her, almost literally a puddle, or trickle, or what have you of it. Oh, yes, surely you are turning away, repulsed by this, but I! I was quite taken by this.

If you closed your eyes, and listened intently, carefully, you could hear her laborious breath. If you paid close attention, you could see it in her eyes, that fierce determination to continue, to persevere against the pain. The stationary bicycle, the gluteus; the ellipticals, held by calf and thigh; the exercise ball, the abdominals! This woman did it all! I would watch her, as I exercised, move to the beat of her insatiate drum, follow the patterns of her rhythmic movement. It was true beauty to behold.

And if a thought dared to slip into my mind in the form of a complaint against my exertions, I was immediately slapped in the face with the reminder of the Einstein quote, "Do not worry about your difficulties in Mathematics. I can assure you mine are still greater." Yes, this woman did so much more than me, and she did it all without seeming to complain, and this alone lifted my spirits and restored my determination to take the next step, and the next step after that, and so on and so on ad nauseum.

I am, as of February 17, 2010, 235 pounds. 40 pounds lighter than when I began. Alas, the Gymnasium Muse stays at my alma mater, and I must proceed without her graceful presence. Oh, I do quite miss her. But, I have noticed as of late that the gymnasium muse is like a phantom or spirit that will be made manifest within the bodies of others, more specifically, others at the gym. The gymnasium muse is a role to be played, to be filled in. I watch these new “gymnasium muses” take on the role, and they keep me going.  

Nevertheless, this woman, the original gymnasium muse stands as the bar, raised above and  beyond the reach of those whom I see currently. She is the paragon indeed. She wins the Oscar for her role, whilst all the rest are mere B-list actors.

Thank you, O great Gymnasium Muse, you have done things to me that you will never know, and though I may never see you again, in my mind I will genuflect before thee, and sing thee praise! And I dedicate to you, as a sacrifice, each and every single pound of fat that I burn off! Each and every act of diet and moderation is an act of penance to you. Contrition! Each and every twinkie eaten, a sin against you the almighty Gymnasium Muse. And when I do inevitably falter, as all mere mortals are wont to, will I remember you, and perform pushups, crunches, lunges of the most genuine and sincere atonement. 

O Muse, Sing through me!

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[1] Thank you, Mimie, for this little phrase. I’m going to use it.