More people with double names

Yo Yo Ma
Evans Evans
William Carlos Williams*
Dudley Dudley, former Democratic state chair, New Hampshire (who has the added distinction of being a woman with a double male name)
Lisa Lisa (and the Cult Jam)
Humbert Humbert (fictional, yes, but also double named)

*This merits special mention since it's not the same two names in a row.

Phrases I want to drop in everyday conversation

"Why, I oughta ..."
"Say, what's the big idea?"
"I oughta sock you right in the puss!"
"Scram! I said, am-scray!"
"Say, what do I look like, some sorta sap?"
"What gives?"
"That is one hep hepcat."
"Sez you."
"The jig is up, boys!"
"Don't flip your lid!"
"Get outta here, youse mugs!"
"What are you -- some kinda wise guy?"
"Good day, sir! I said, good day!"

the Point

"I guess I believe there's a point
To what we do.
But I ask myself is there
something more besides you?"

Cowboy Junkies

The point is, what's the point? They have a point -- asking what the point is. Secondarily, who is the "you" in this song--a lover, a friend, God? It hardly matters, I think, in the larger context.

We're always looking for a point. See the movie. We want our answers neat and tidy--tied up with a very pretty little bow. Quick and ... to the point. But answers are often not simple. They are complex, ugly, difficult. We want to skip to the end ... see what's waiting. But isn't the journey half of it?

OK -- I think I've laid out quite a few cliches and platitudes.

The Crash, Part 12

And so, with the end near, he was unsure if anything he had learned would matter. It seemed to him that the cold, lonely lessons were merely academic strictures that had no applicability in the broader world. The firm handshake, the nervous smile, the glances, coughs and vocal tics meant less and less as he approached the final stop.

Even meaning itself held little or no meaning. He now felt as if he were entering a gigantic void, surrendering to a sense of nothingness. All the wisdom, all the mistakes, all the knowledge he brought with him would be left behind like so much clothing to shed before a bath.

He would gladly surrender these things for the peace of mind that he was sure to trade it for. But there was no guarantee of that. It was risk. And he thought it was unlikely that he had a choice.

The Crash, Part 2

He would often think about his childhood but only in vague, nondescript terms. He had no concrete memories, no complete stories to tell. There were only fleeting images and passing scenes--dreamlike--that evoked just a flicker of emotion before evaporating.

He had no solid picture of his mother in his mind. Nor his father. He had only fragments and they were not detailed. He wasn't sure what color his mother's eyes were. When he tried to conjure her up, they appeared gray, an ill defined, indiscreet color.

And so it was with all of his memories. They took on a gray, indistinct, murky feeling.

The Crash, Part 1

He was at home. That's where things were. All of his things in a neat tidy bundle--his razor, shaving cream, his shoes (sorted by color --brown and black--in his drawer), his magazines, his records. And so much more. His photographs. Perhaps they meant more than anything. They could raise the past like nothing else. Except his albums, which he never played anymore. He kept them in a corner near the untouched stereo. To play them would be too heartbreaking. Yes, the aural was a much more powerful tool to dredge up old images and memories than the visual.

He had kept a diary. Just short entries. Very specific and short on descriptions. "Had lunch with X today. He complained of his parents." And so on.

He made the same breakfast every day. Toast, butter, jam and eggs. The only variant was how he cooked the eggs. Sometimes scrambled, sometimes sunnyside up. Never over easy.

Life would not end here, he hoped. And yet it felt as if it ended every day. And then, invariably, without pause or delay, it would begin again.