Today, I had to go to San Antonio for the day to attend a mediation. Since I have reached my hassle threshhold with flying, I decided to yet again rent a car and drive the 4 hours and 20 minutes from Castle Erickson to the north side of San Antonio where the mediation was to occur starting at 1:30. That put me in Austin around lunch time, and I took the opportunity to stop by the original location of Chuy's on Barton Springs Road for some awesome Tex Mex. The Elvis Green Chile Fried Chicken (chicken breast rolled in potato chips and deep fried) is very good if you're not hungry enough to polish off the Elvis Presley Memorial combo.
My waitress for today was a very friendly person who, I learned, was named Happy Day. It turns out she was born two weeks after I was. This will be forever burned into my memory as she made it a point to remind me that we were conceived in the summer of 1969. I also learned that her sister is named Rainy Summer Day, and her brother is named Dusty Autumn Day.
I promise you I am not making this up.
Setting aside, for the moment, that I could live the rest of my life without ever again being reminded of what my parents were doing during the summer of 1969, I do have to comment about the metaphysical kharma bus that is the burden of all of us who were conceived during the late 60s and early 70s.
To be more specific, hippies should not be allowed to name children. It is as simple as that. I mean, seriously, what does it say about our society that some us were given relatively normal names while others, more or less fortunate depending on your perspective, were bestowed with handles like Happy Day?
I'm pretty sure that Frank Zappa started it by naming one of his kids Dweezel and another Moon Unit. I even once knew a guy whose biological parents named him Buckaroo Bonzai Honolulu Jackson. They were apparently seriously into heroin. Fortunately for him, his adoptive parents changed his name to Devon.
Were these Hippie parents too stoned to care what they were doing to their children for all time? Imagine roll call in grade school for little Dweezel. How about Devon filling out a job application if his name wasn't changed?
Employer: Okay...let's take a look at your application. Wait a minute! Are you some kind of wise ass?
Buckaroo: No, sir. My parents were hippies.
Employer: Do we even bother with the drug test or will the lab get high just being in the presence of your urine?
It's not just the Hippies either. Some parents don't seem to consider the unfortunate consequences of certain name combinations. I once worked with a lady whose married name was Jan Dick. She told me her sister in law was Anita, and she couldn't wait to get married so she could change her name. Then there was another guy I worked with by the name of Michael Hunt. He went by Mike. I am serious. Really.
Of course, the Ho family from Korea can be forgiven if they name a daughter Ida. Maybe.