Like pets, boats, and children, we name those things in life we treasure most. By that generous metric, shouldn’t our sweaty passions and expensive hobbies belong on that list, too? Without naming what they are – whether it’s playing bocce at a high level or browning garlic just enough to disturb the smoke detector – “passion” sounds like another luxury perfume. Sprayed and forgotten. Soon to evaporate from our collective consciousness and metaphorical armpits.
One of my finest passions is surreptitiously throwing pebbles against Stop signs in sleepy suburban neighborhoods. It’s a game of target practice, endurance, but most of all, mindless entertainment. It’s pretty fun, or, as I like to call it, “Pasquale.”
Once you’ve named your passion, optimize it. Then weigh it. Measure it, leverage it, synthesize it. If you can, if you’re still able by now, try to use fulcrum in conversation. Too bad calculating the volume of displacement is much more difficult than it appears at first blush. You’ll need a string, a graduated cylinder, and a rock. That’s if you haven’t thrown the last one across the street and into oncoming traffic, in the wild hope of landing a perfect toss against the sliver of a Stop sign’s cold green pole.
In a fit of fury, Herman Edwards, erstwhile coach of lowly New York Jets, implored anyone motivated to criticize him from within the sacred confines of the locker room, simply “put your name on it.” How prescient Herm was. A latter-day Tiresias attempting to coach a gangrenous franchise on its march towards oblivion. Like so much in the world, this goes way beyond the New York Jets, a team, who despite their name, reside in the swampy reeds of New Jersey’s vast meadowlands. It’s worth noting that the area is to mobsters what amusement parks are to children, a paradise for body dumping and other activities for those caught up “in the life.”
As Coach Edwards sensed, anonymity is all the rage. It’s the warm blanket of invisibility that many so pathetically need.
Imagine serving a hearty meal to dear friends and after one of them politely asks after plating, “what is it?” you respond with first deafening silence and then, “it’s not for me to say.” This is not how one behaves in a civilized society. You don’t hop on reddit after the fact and post what the meal was, ingredients and all, under a cyber pseudonym. You need to own it in the moment.
When we stop naming things like our homes, sweaters, and sandwiches, we do society and our fellow citizens a gross disservice. What good is a caption if there’s nothing to caption? The Empire State Building doesn’t rely solely on its street address, nor is a loud, hideous sweater anything other than a Cosby. Now imbued with the knowledge of the overrated comedian’s hideous crimes, his famous clothes are understood in a broader, more complete context. And the Reuben isn't a pile of bread and corned beef. It’s that, yes, but much, much more.
Because there's cheese in there, people. Lots of it.
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