Tag Archives: Criminality

A Rose By Any Other Name

1 Jun

What’s in a name? you may very well ask. In fact, I will pause and wait while you do.

. . .

Now that you’ve asked, apparently “scientists” claim there’s quite a bit in a name. According to some clever clogs in Pennsylvania, boys with common names are less likely to commit crimes than those with less common names. (First let me clarify that as we’re talking about America, common means “more frequently found.” Therefore, a common American name is John Smith, a less common American name is Chucklenuts McGee. In England, I appreciate, common denotes something which would imply a distinction between the names, say, Wayne Rooney and Perciville Wilberforce DeMontford.)

So “science” tells us names can lead one to criminality. What I found quite interesting about this particular research is the selection of bad, uncommon names, particularly Ernest and Ivan. For, in my vast experience of male-female relationships, I have known (biblically) both an Ernest and an Ivan. And, I can assure you, they were far from bad. They were good, quite good, if you can catch the meaning of my drift.

Ernest was a boy from Louisiana whom I met one day in New York City as I was meandering through Central Park Zoo. We were both watching the mini Nubian goat kid being tended to so lovingly by its mother.  Although the zoo was bustling with children (as it so often unfortunately is), it felt like he and I were alone in this scene of nature’s beauty. I turned my delicate face towards his and noticed a single tear making its thoughtful way down the contours of his rugged but not unlickable face. His eyes met mine and, for a moment, we stood in silence, before quickly making our way to the nearest hotel. After, he said his name was Ernest and I felt that there could not have been a more perfect moniker for such a sincere and thoughtful lover. During the week that we spent in each other’s company, I was able to discern, with the help of a UN translator, that he had moved north from the bayou to learn how the big city folk lived and ended up the head of a charity devoted to protecting city pigeons from verbal abuse. My Ernest was not a criminal: he was a generous and compassionate do-gooder, who definitely could do it good.

I didn’t meet my Ivan until much later when I was touring the rugged landscapes of Montana. My expedition was hoping to reach Sacagewea Peak but got stranded without enough provisions. Ivan, as I’m sure you can imagine, was originally from Russia and had come to Bridger Range to do some skiing. He intercepted our calls for help and immediately rushed to our aid. After my group came back down the mountain, I felt I wanted to thank him personally before leaving town. He was staying in a little place near Devil’s Backbone and was delighted to entertain for me for the weekend. A lady, of course, does not like to kiss and tell, but, suffice it to say, the only crimes Ivan committed were against nature but they were so, so forgivable.

This quick, wet trip down memory lane has provided ample evidence to prove that said “scientific” theory about names is tommyrot (unless, I suppose, your name is actually Tommy Rot). In my own life, I have had some run-ins with a few Victorias, but they are definitely the exception which validates the rule that one’s name is of very little consequence as to whether one is likely to be unlawful or legit. No child should be condemned at birth simply because of thebaby-criminal name his parents chose for him. What one makes of oneself is what matters. After all what woman hasn’t met her fair share of bad Johns? And while “scientists” David and Daniel may be sitting pretty in their ivory research laboratories, I personally can testify to knowing at least two Davids currently serving rather long prison terms. I will admit to knowing a Daniel who was completely above board, but he suffered from premature ejaculation so I think I’ve proved my point sufficiently.

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My Relationship with The Lesser Species

16 Aug

I am an animal lover. From the time I was but a wee one, I have almost always had an animal companion by my side. My first pet was a traditional one; he was a stray dog whom we originally met when we discovered he was operating a betting shop from inside our garage. While we admired both his creativity and resourcefulness, this was no life for a dog and we set out to reform him. I loved little Brown Leonard (as we named him) and still recall fondly our walks around the esplanades of Trenton, NJ. He was always up for an adventure or a game of cards. Our relationship was based upon mutual respect, unconditional love and a substantial amount of gambling debt.

Of course, while I was still a child, my parents, or rather my father, selected our pets. In our household, my parents shared responsibility: my mother controlled everything and my father did what he was told. As my mother felt our reputation in the neighbourhood had suffered as a result of Brown Leonard’s nefarious former livelihood, she assigned all future pet duties to my father. Throughout my tenure there, we shared our home with quite a menagerie. My father was particularly fond of fish, though his aquarium was positioned in his private study which no one but he could enter. Over the years, that collection of fish became a tropical smorgasbord of exotic varieties, recognised state-wide as a perfect mini eco-system and the only real friends my father has.

The story I shall now recount involves the first pet I chose on my own. I say chose but, of course, the philotherians amongst you will know that a pet actually chooses you. Before I began travelling the world, I was based in a darling flat in Camden, NJ where I was known as “the Lovely Lady” to the locals I refused to meet eyes with on the street. It’s lonely when you leave a house full of love, liquor and noise, so I deduced that a pet might ease that pain. Unfortunately, most of the animals at the local shelter had backgrounds which I felt were too dissimilar from my own. But one afternoon I returned home to see find a small, rather trampish looking dog asleep on my doorstep. As I unlocked the door, he rushed in, climbed upon my settee and went back to sleep. Although this type of behaviour would be abhorrent from a human (yes, I am referring to Captain Snezley during his troubled years), I found it almost endearing from this pup. Through research, I discovered that his breed was most likely Telomian and I felt that he and I understood that a better life was deserved by both of us. I named him Sebastian and felt satisfied I had found my new best friend.

Sebastian slept soundly for the first three days post-arrival while I purchased a large array of items to make his new home comfortable. When he first began to investigate his new surroundings, though, he showed little interest in the toys, chews and reading materials I had selected for him. He instead preferred to stay crouched in the corner, occasionally peeping through the net curtains of the dining room window, watching closely the street. Having never been a dog myself, I was reticent to suggest alternative activities for him. I still considered him a friend but was beginning to doubt that he felt the same way towards me.

One afternoon (I remember it was a Tuesday, the day that unemployment checks were handed out so thankfully few of my neighbours were congregating on my street corner as they otherwise so charmingly did), a young policeman arrived at my door. As soon as the bell went, Sebastian ran upstairs in a way that made me feel he did not want to be seen. I permitted the officer to enter my house and, after pouring him a cup of tea, I asked him to sit with me in the sitting room. He looked tired, and I inquired about the case which was clearly exhausting him so.

Here he began a tale of such criminality that I shall spare you the details (which I don’t remember). But suffice it say, I felt victimized just hearing them. Before I could offer my advice on the best course of action in solving this conundrum, the young officer produced from his pocket a photograph (shoddily taken but clear enough to recognise) of Sebastian. I immediately put on a brave face. He asked if I had seen this creature, lurking. Although I normally try to keep my responses to police officers’ questions as close to the truth as possible, I confess in this circumstance I told a falsehood. He then bid me adieu, leaving his calling card in the basket near the door, put there for that very purpose.

Needless to say, I instantly confronted Sebastian about his involvement with illegal activities. He denied everything. I wanted to believe him and I told him I did, but I still had my suspicions. We lived together for another week but by then had become strangers. Although it broke my heart to pieces, I spoke to the boy next door and arranged for Sebastian to be shot and removed from the premises while I was at the market. The house no longer seemed the same. It was now free of his masterful criminal mind but it also lacked that love which can only exist between man and beast. Despite what had passed between us, I never grassed up Sebastian to the police. The guilt clearly had made him suffer enough. I missed him, but as I was by then planning my first trip to Europe and a pet would have complicated my itinerary, I believe the situation’s resolution was probably the best for both of us.

Relationships with animals are magical and in many ways more rewarding than many interactions I’ve had with fellow humans. I suppose the lesson here is that, no matter how good you are, how loving you are, you cannot trust anyone with a blue tongue. Keep this in mind, young ones, particularly when out and about on the dating scene.

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