Celebrity Baby Names
Liora sat cross-legged in one of those uncomfortable vinyl chairs in the waiting room, flipping through an old magazine she had grabbed from the rack. The headline screamed *“Top 10 Most Bizarre Celebrity Baby Names of 2024!”* She rolled her eyes but started reading it anyway. Tymothe, slouched next to her with his foot propped up—still in that walking boot—was scrolling aimlessly on his phone.
“You’ve got to hear this,” Liora said, not looking up from the magazine. “So apparently, some celebrity just named their kid *Zamboni Zeppelin*.”
Tymothe snorted, still looking at his phone. “Wait, like the ice machine? That’s... wow. Kid’s either destined to be a hockey legend or a heavy metal frontman.”
Liora giggled, flipping the page. “Oh, and it gets worse. Listen to this one: *Epoxy Almond*. What the hell is that? A snack or an adhesive?”
“Sounds like something you’d order at a vegan café,” Tymothe muttered, finally looking over. “I’ll have the gluten-free granola with a side of Epoxy Almond, please.”
She rolled her eyes, grinning. “Seriously, these people act like naming a kid is an avant-garde art project. Like, what happened to just naming your kid something normal? There’s nothing wrong with a good ol’ *Kate* or *Mike*.”
“Yeah, but how could they ever be the center of attention at yoga class with a name like *Kate*? You’ve gotta spice it up, make sure the world knows you’re too cool for basic vowels.” Tymothe stretched his arms over his head, clearly enjoying the ridiculousness of it all. “And the parents think they’re doing something groundbreaking, when really, they’re just dooming the kid to a lifetime of therapy.”
Liora chuckled. “For real. Imagine going through middle school as *Banjo Spatula* or *Moonbeam Harvest*. You’d never recover.”
Before Tymothe could respond, the receptionist called out, “Liora Throckmorton?”
Liora sighed, rolling her eyes again. “That’s me,” she muttered, standing up slowly. She shot Tymothe a look. “God, I hate hearing my last name in public. It sounds like I should be hosting tea parties for people with monocles.”
Tymothe grinned, watching her shuffle toward the desk. “Just lean into it. I’ll start calling you *Lady Throckmorton*, and we’ll get you a fancy cane.”
When she returned, they shared a quick glance, Liora settling back down beside him. “I mean, come on. Throckmorton? Who did my ancestors have to piss off to get that?”
Tymothe chuckled. “It does sound like you should be knighted or something. Sir Liora of the Throckmortons, Guardian of... overpriced antiquities?”
Liora groaned, resting her head in her hands. “You know, it’s bad enough dealing with all the doctor stuff. I don’t need to sound like I’m straight out of a Dickens novel while doing it.”
Tymothe shrugged. “At least it’s memorable. No one’s gonna forget a Throckmorton anytime soon.”
“And you,” Liora shot back, eyes glinting mischievously. “You can’t exactly talk. Tymothe? Really? With a ‘y’? That’s like a hipster knight who only drinks cold brew and solves crimes in his spare time.”
Tymothe laughed. “Oh, trust me, I’ve been having an identity crisis about that ‘y’ since high school. I thought it made me look cool and sophisticated.”
“Yeah, real sophisticated,” Liora teased. “You sound like you belong in a bad indie movie. Like the tortured lead character who writes poetry about abandoned warehouses.”
“And Throckmorton is somehow better?” Tymothe shot back. “Sounds like your ancestors ran a tiny, haunted village where all the kids disappeared.”
Liora cracked up, clutching her stomach. “Honestly, it fits. Maybe I’ll start introducing myself as *Liora, Mistress of Throckmorton Manor*. You know, the one where the lights flicker and the butler’s been missing for 15 years.”
Tymothe chuckled, shaking his head. “Great. Meanwhile, I’m stuck with Tymothe, the coffee shop philosopher with more opinions than sense.”
They both laughed harder than they probably should have for a waiting room, but neither cared. It felt good to be loud, to be ridiculous, in a place that always seemed too quiet and too serious.
After catching her breath, Liora wiped her eyes. “We’ve really hit the jackpot, huh? Throckmorton and Tymothe. Two names that sound like we belong in some twisted Victorian mystery novel.”
Tymothe nodded sagely. “Or a band. Definitely a band. *Throckmorton & Tymothe*, playing all your favorite obscure tunes no one’s heard of.”
Liora smirked. “First hit single? *Zamboni Zeppelin*.”
“And the B-side,” Tymothe added, “*Epoxy Almond*.”
They both burst out laughing again, drawing curious looks from the other people in the waiting room. Liora grinned, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.
“Throckmorton and Tymothe,” she said softly, leaning back in her seat. “We’d be unstoppable.”
“Damn right,” Tymothe replied with a wink. “But first, we conquer this waiting room.”
They settled into a comfortable silence, still grinning like a pair of mischievous kids who’d just pulled off the best prank ever.
The Gravity of Gravitas: A Meditation on Maintaining One’s Dignity in an Undignified Age
Winston Thaddeus Montgomery III adjusted his bow tie (a particularly distinguished paisley number from 1962) and scowled at his reflection. The wrinkles around his mouth had arranged themselves into what he deemed a most scholarly formation, like ancient manuscripts folded by time. His salt-and-pepper mustache – meticulously trimmed to exactly 3.7 centimeters – twitched with disapproval.
"Why so serious?" his neighbor's child had asked him that morning, while bouncing a rubber ball against his prized hydrangeas.
The audacity! The sheer impertinence! Did the small human not understand that life itself was a solemn undertaking? That every moment required the utmost gravity? Harold had spent forty-three years perfecting his signature expression of profound contemplation (eyebrows raised precisely 0.8 centimeters, forehead creased in exactly three parallel lines).
He smoothed his tweed jacket (authentic Harris Tweed, acquired during the Great Liquidation Sale of '98) and practiced his most dignified harrumph. The sound resonated with just the right mixture of authority and weltschmerz – a skill he'd mastered during his tenure as Assistant Deputy Library Chairman (temporary).
"Serious?" he muttered to his reflection. "I'll have you know that I maintain exactly the appropriate level of gravitas for a man of my station." The fact that said station primarily involved cataloging his extensive collection of Victorian butter knives was, he felt, entirely irrelevant.
His cat, Lord Wellington IV, yawned from his perch atop a stack of unread philosophical treatises, clearly appreciating the weight of the moment. Or perhaps he was just hungry. It was so difficult to tell with cats – they possessed nearly as much natural dignity as Harold himself.
Almost.
The Gravity of Gravitas: A Meditation on Maintaining One’s Dignity in an Undignified Age
Winston Thaddeus Montgomery III adjusted his bow tie (a particularly distinguished paisley number from 1962) and scowled at his reflection. The wrinkles around his mouth had arranged themselves into what he deemed a most scholarly formation, like ancient manuscripts folded by time. His salt-and-pepper mustache – meticulously trimmed to exactly 3.7 centimeters – twitched with disapproval.
"Why so serious?" his neighbor's child had asked him that morning, while bouncing a rubber ball against his prized hydrangeas.
The audacity! The sheer impertinence! Did the small human not understand that life itself was a solemn undertaking? That every moment required the utmost gravity? Harold had spent forty-three years perfecting his signature expression of profound contemplation (eyebrows raised precisely 0.8 centimeters, forehead creased in exactly three parallel lines).
He smoothed his tweed jacket (authentic Harris Tweed, acquired during the Great Liquidation Sale of '98) and practiced his most dignified harrumph. The sound resonated with just the right mixture of authority and weltschmerz – a skill he'd mastered during his tenure as Assistant Deputy Library Chairman (temporary).
"Serious?" he muttered to his reflection. "I'll have you know that I maintain exactly the appropriate level of gravitas for a man of my station." The fact that said station primarily involved cataloging his extensive collection of Victorian butter knives was, he felt, entirely irrelevant.
His cat, Lord Wellington IV, yawned from his perch atop a stack of unread philosophical treatises, clearly appreciating the weight of the moment. Or perhaps he was just hungry. It was so difficult to tell with cats – they possessed nearly as much natural dignity as Harold himself.
Almost.
The Epistemological Crisis of Jerome Blackwood-Smythe
The fluorescent lights seeped from the ceiling. Jerome stood in line at the DMV.
*How peculiar that I, a man whose intellectual peregrinations have traversed the labyrinthine corridors of continental philosophy and whose treatise on the metaphysical implications of breakfast cereals garnered such acclaim among the cognitive elite of the Portland coffee shop intelligentsia, should find myself here among the unwashed masses, held hostage by the Kafkaesque machinations of bureaucratic tedium.*
The line moved forward three feet. A child dropped his juice box.
*Indeed, one might posit that this very queue represents a microcosmic manifestation of society's inexorable descent into entropy — a physical embodiment of the collective unconscious's struggle against the ossified structures of post-industrial malaise. Why, my mere presence here surely elevates the proceedings to a sort of performance art, a living installation piece commenting on the arbitrary nature of civic legitimacy.*
Take a number, the woman behind the counter said. Jerome took ticket A47. The digital display showed A12.
*How fitting that they should reduce us to alphanumeric abstractions, we who contain multitudes! Though I dare say few here possess my capacity for metacognitive reflection on the inherent absurdity of our situation. My consciousness expands to encompass both participant and observer, like Schrödinger's cat — if Schrödinger's cat had published in several mid-tier academic journals and maintained a moderately successful blog on the intersection of phenomenology and reality television.*
The ceiling fan turned slowly. Paint peeled in one corner. Someone sneezed.
*I find myself reminded of that summer in Geneva, debating ontological uncertainty with a rather fetching doctoral candidate whose name now escapes me, though I recall with crystalline clarity the way she arched her eyebrow when I explained my theory about the hidden symbolism in traffic signals. What intellectual vitality we shared! What paradigm-shattering discussions! Until that regrettable incident with the fondue and her father's rare book collection.*
A47, called the counter. Jerome stayed seated, lost in thought.
A47, the voice repeated. Someone tapped his shoulder.
*The touch startles me from my reverie like Proust's madeleine in reverse, though in this case the sensory trigger is less patisserie and more proletariat. Nevertheless, I shall demonstrate the graceful forbearance that has made me such a celebrated figure at faculty wine mixers.*
They called A48. Jerome stood up too late. The line reformed without him.
*Naturally, this is precisely the sort of temporal displacement one would expect in a system designed to suppress the revolutionary potential of original thought. I believe I shall incorporate this experience into my next paper: "Waiting for Go, DOT: License Renewal as Existential Praxis in the Age of Digital Reproduction."*
The lights buzzed. Jerome took a new number. B12. The display showed A49.
Outside, the sun set. Rain began to fall.
Forget Me Not
My father disappeared years before my coming of age without leaving a trace to his whereabouts. At that time, my regent gave me the keys to the entirety of my father’s estate. In the basement of his laboratory, I spent my formidable years remaining quiet and learning to unlock the secrets of his research. I encountered new words and ideas I dare not share with others, so as to provide clues to my intentions. Exhausting his notes, even by a cursory glance, would take years. A detailed examination may cost the entirety of my life. Daunting as that may seem, I stood affirmed in my resolve to succeed.
And succeed I did.
In a mere eight years, I not only translated, but comprehended 90% of my father’s manuscripts. He called his invention, the Forget Me Not. Its purpose was singular. The wearer could relive any pleasurable experience from his past as if experiencing it for the very first time. The Forget Me Not (FMN) functions as follows:
The device maps the user’s brain (while the user thinks about the memory) to discover the exact location of the experience.
The device stores the memory exactly as the user remembers it. The storage device digitizes all five senses and the user’s perception. The memory capacity is greater than normal computers by a million fold.
Upon activation, the FMN temporarily blocks the synaptic pathways that permit the user to forget the experience.
Then the FMN downloads the memory, experience, and perception back to the user.
The machine may record the entire experience for posterity and repeat it as often as necessary.
With my increased time in the lab, I began to lose track of the day-to-day affairs of the estate. Offering the position to the only person I knew would accept, I found my regent and made the proposition. As if he never forfeited his previous occupation, my regent agreed to my terms. In doing so, I continued my research and my regent found his new employer mostly absent. Thus, both parties returned to what they did best.
Two more years of work and I began my first trial run. Using no other than myself, I set the FMN to scan and copy only. I thought of eating my first ice cream cone. The FMN took only three minutes to scan and three milliseconds to copy. If I remained attached to the FMN, I might be experiencing that memory exactly as I did as a child. I decided to postpone that decision until the end of the week.
Unusual to my normal routine, I began a brief audit of the household books. My regent did his due diligence and kept them accurate and timely. I did not find any discrepancies (the regent saved receipts), but I did find the food budget larger by half than what I would budget. I made a mental note to speak to him of this at a later date.
By the onset of the upcoming auspicious week, I made arrangements not to be disturbed for the duration of the day. I was both curious and determined to activate the FMN for a full scale test. The previous night, I chose my last memory of my father. That day, that beautiful sunny day, we walked to the park together to watch the sunset. He held my hand as we climbed a small hill.
With no distractions, nor words, we saw the sunset on an amazing day. I felt warm. I felt happy. Most of all, I felt my father’s love for me. No day since has rivaled that day. Most likely, no day hence will.
D-Day came and I went to the lab to greet destiny. I sat in the chair and attached the FMN. I set the control to automatic before I sat back and let the entire program run its course. Within seconds, I saw the Sun from that day. I felt my father’s hand. His stride was larger than mine. To compensate, I had to trot. I felt my pulse increase to accommodate. I even felt a bead or two or sweat run down my forehead. I kept the lab at 62 degrees, but my memory swore it was 92 degrees. As if on cue, I saw growing shadows of other park patrons as they moved toward home. I even smelled the lingering odor of my father’s aftershave. The Sun set on time. The sky turned from orange to red to dark. My father squeezed my hand when it was time to go. The FMN worked beyond my wildest expectations. If I could do it all over again, I would.
That day, that beautiful sunny day, we walked to the park together to watch the sunset. He held my hand as we climbed a small hill. With no distractions, nor words, we saw the sunset on an amazing day. I felt warm. I felt happy. Most of all, I felt my father’s love for me. No day since has rivaled that day. Most likely, no day hence will.
D-Day came and I went to the lab to greet destiny. I sat in the chair and attached the FMN. I set the control to automatic before I sat back and let the entire program run its course. Within seconds, I saw the Sun from that day. I felt my father’s hand. His stride was larger than mine. To compensate, I had to trot. I felt my pulse increase to accommodate. I even felt a bead or two or sweat run down my forehead. I kept the lab at 62 degrees, but my memory swore it was 92 degrees. As if on cue, I saw growing shadows of other park patrons as they moved toward home. I even smelled the lingering odor of my father’s aftershave. The Sun set on time. The sky turned from orange to red to dark. My father squeezed my hand when it was time to go. The FMN worked beyond my wildest expectations. If I could do it all over again, I would.
That day, that beautiful sunny day, we walked to the park together to watch the sunset. He held my hand as we climbed a small hill. With no distractions, nor words, we saw the sunset on an amazing day. I felt warm. I felt happy. Most of all, I felt my father’s love for me. No day since has rivaled that day. Most likely, no day hence will.
The regent called the doctor to move my shell of a body adjacent to my father’s in the laboratory alcove repurposed for an occupancy of two. He made a mental note to increase the food budget by another half again as he locked the laboratory, possibly for the last time.
The Observer
He observes
He sees what others do not
He walks within the shadows
In areas between the light and the dark
Many have an inkling of his presence
But no one call pinpoint his location
He scrutinizes both intent and serendipity
Analyzing the minor inflections within both
His is to act only when necessary
Postulating a favorable outcome for all
Deciding fortuitously for a select few
Deliberating unilaterally against all of the rest
Once again I find myself walking home. This time, I am walking just a bit further than I prefer in my stilettos. I’ve had a few too many to drink. I’m dressed for the clubs, not for the climb. By all accounts, I look easy. I am easy. I want to be easy for a pick-up line, not a smack-down fight.
The street is too quiet for this time of night. I see lights, but I see no one. With each step, my heels (normally silent against the background of city noise) echo against the pavement. I am acutely aware of my breathing. I can even hear my pulse.
My scan for an escape is to no avail. Fences line the front yards on this block. A few cars are nestled near their respected curb. The trash cans are ill maintained. They should be empty. They should be inside. I should be inside. My gut feels empty and I should know better than to be here.
I am ill maintained.
But, I am still moving. Step by step. Next time, I will take a cab. Next time, I will leave with a friend. I keep walking.
It is getting cold. I braced myself for chilly, however, I didn’t account for the cold. I am not dressed for the cold. My legs are aching and I am beginning to get nervous. The next block looks worse than this one. It is fish or cut bait time. I could walk back and I should walk back. Against my own sage advice, I kept walking, alone.
It took another thirty minutes to find sanctuary. The store had an evening shift and an abundance of lights. I picked through my clutch for my compact to check my appearance before entering the parking lot.
I looked good in the mirror’s reflection. In this aspect of existence, the years have been easy. In others, my loneliness, I have paid a steep price.
Shouldof, couldof, wouldof and I might still be married. More forgiving means more anniversaries. If I had accepted his apology, I might not feel so vulnerable.
However, I want the life I have and I do not wish to compromise on this point. I want to meet new people and devour their stories while creating new ones for the both of us. I want it all and I want it now.
I also want it how it was supposed to be.
But, I will never learn about that alternative ending and I am beginning to believe I may (soon) never care. My life is a series of eroded Ctrl-Alt-Delete keys known no longer by touch, only by position. If Shakespeare wrote my life as a play, Acts I/II would perpetually repeat, ad infinitum.
Another check from my compact, before I ask someone to call a cab for me.
The man with the knife behind me did not fare as well in his appearance. I do not believe his looks were high on his agenda tonight.
His first punch to my abdomen releases me from any further analyses of his motives.
I awaken where I fell, left untouched, amongst the ruins of those who did not fare as I have. The bloodstains run slightly parallel, as if the person or persons responsible were methodical displaying their skills.
I do not remain to check for life signs. I am without such internal injuries and am able to continue sojourning forward. I am too scared to venture otherwise.
One roll of the dice
One date with destiny
He who sees, but is not seen
He who saves, but cannot be saved
One more morning for one not deserving of such
One could only wait to see if she ever will