Today is the last day of hurricane season. Meanwhile, Tropical Storm Epsilon is sucking up moisture in the Atlantic like a cokehead who just walked into a party hosted by the ’86 Mets (side note: I think they should do a show about all the athletes and entertainers who were not on coke in the ‘80s. Then again, could interviews with Dale Murphy and Walter Cronkite really fill an hour? Probably not. Forget I mentioned this). Anyway, the news lady promised me that today was the last day of the hurricane season. She also said that the last day and the first day of hurricane season are always the same every year. I have no idea how this could be possible (it’s not like you can tell a hurricane that it doesn’t get to work come December. I’ve said it before and I‘ll say it again: whatever) so I’ll just add hurricane season to the long list of stuff I don’t get (along with Wayne Newton’s career, the cancellation of TV’s Titus, how Venetian blinds work and many, many more impossible-to-understand chunks of life).
Today is the last day of hurricane season. Meanwhile, Tropical Storm Epsilon is sucking up moisture in the Atlantic like a cokehead who just walked into a party hosted by the ’86 Mets (side note: I think they should do a show about all the athletes and entertainers who were not on coke in the ‘80s. Then again, could interviews with Dale Murphy and Walter Cronkite really fill an hour? Probably not. Forget I mentioned this). Anyway, the news lady promised me that today was the last day of the hurricane season. She also said that the last day and the first day of hurricane season are always the same every year. I have no idea how this could be possible (it’s not like you can tell a hurricane that it doesn’t get to work come December. I’ve said it before and I‘ll say it again: whatever) so I’ll just add hurricane season to the long list of stuff I don’t get (along with Wayne Newton’s career, the cancellation of TV’s Titus, how Venetian blinds work and many, many more impossible-to-understand chunks of life).
At any rate, in honor of the end of the most active hurricane season in the history of hyperactivity, I have decided to take one last look at the hurricane names of 2005 and then add stuff about people I know with the same names in an effort to… okay, so I have no goal. Here goes.
Arlene
I have an Aunt Arlene. She’s nothing like a hurricane but she makes a mean chocolate chip cookie. Also, her husband can fly a Cessna and he hit a hole in one once in North Carolina. So there’s that. And for the record, I don’t like it when hurricanes get those outdated, senior citizen names. Always seems like a waste of a storm. Kinda like if your friend bought a brand new Corvette and then proceeded to call it Gertrude. What the hell am I talking about, again?
Bret
I hate the name Bret. I don’t know anyone named Bret. If I did, I’d call him Brat in reference to the food. Over time, I’d change that nickname to Relish because I relish the name Bret and I like relish on my brat (don’t go away yet; it gets better, I promise).
Cindy
Every Cindy I ever knew was fat.
Dennis
The guy who used to manage one of my favorite bars is named Dennis. He’s a big, greasy guy with tattoos, long hair, a handlebar mustache and an unconscious knowledge of geography. He was fired for playing Golden Tee when he was supposed to be working. Also, he constantly accused me of being an undercover cop. For whatever reason, I miss him.
Emily
I know four women named Emily and all of them work with children or help the poor. Women named Emily almost always end up being trustworthy. Someone should look into this but it ain’t gonna be me. I’ve got beer to drink, after all.
Franklin
People named Frank are salt of the Earth. This is a rule. My father and an Italian friend of mine share this name. Both of them drink too much, eat fatty foods, root strongly for their respective sports teams and bristle whenever anyone says, “May I be Frank?” Just a good, American name.
Gert
This is my late grandmother’s name. God rest her soul.
Harvey
I have never in my life known anyone named Harvey. Have you? And if so, what are they like?
Irene
What’s up with all the old people names this hurricane season? The only Irene I know is a great aunt of mine who loves black licorice and hates cats. I know. I know. Less than riveting but what can you do?
Jose
I love it when hurricane names get ethnic. I want more of this. I want Shaniquas, Shanaynays, Orlandos, etc, etc, et al and then some. I know several people named Jose, and the only thing they have in common is that they all speak Spanish. An earth shattering coincidence, I know.
Katrina
The mother of all hurricanes. The scourge of New Orleans. The killer of Mardi Gras. The bludgeoner of Jazz Fest, and the name of a girl who once threw a vase at me while I was sleeping. The lesson here: Katrinas are bitches.
Lee
The name of a mechanic friend of mine who makes up for drinking at work by going to church on Sundays (drunk). Just a classic name. I’ve never met a Lee I didn’t like.
Maria
The name of a girl I dated in college who once said to me, “I want you to know that I’m pregnant, but I’m pretty sure it’s not yours.” Ladies, just so you know, if you ever get pregnant and use that line on a guy, the response you receive will go something like this:
“Umm, so if it’s not mine… I mean, if it is mine… I mean, excuse me. I think I just saw my future explode.”
Nate
I mean, what more can you say about such a great name? Best people ever. You got Nate Newton, Nate DeGraaf, Nate Burleson, and Nate the Great. Awesome name for only the most deserving people ever.
Ophelia
You probably won’t believe this, but I actually went to college with a girl named Ophelia. She was in my Fiction 4 class. She wrote depressing stories about suicidal women and dying flowers. She wore black lipstick and fishnet stockings and was sexy in that “I’ll bet she likes to wear leather halter tops and knee high boots while riding her men like a horse trainer” kind of way.
Philippe
Again with the ethnicities. I know one guy named Phillipe. He’s from the Bahamas. He’s good at pool and he’s a cheapskate. Take from that what you will.
Rita
The only woman I know named Rita was a waitress at a strip club. In lieu of personality, she elected the following hobbies: cocaine use, coercing men into buying her stuff and calling people wankers (a hangover from a trip she took to England that just never went away). Also, she smoked cigars even after it was stylish for women to do so. I’m never naming anyone Rita, by the way.
Stan
I knew a guy named Stan in high school. He was pale, hairy and played the trombone in the school band. Also, he went to an Ivy League college. And yes, I have no point.
Tammy
Another fat girl’s name. Let me put it this way: if you end up in a packed elevator with a bunch of Tammys and Cindys, you better watch out, because (if you don’t plummet to your death) when the elevator stalls, you will most likely be eaten by angry balls of blubber with mean streaks.
Vince
The only person I know named Vince goes by the nickname, Vinny. Which has resulted in about three million references to the movie, “My Cousin Vinny.” Whenever Vinny meets someone new, I count the seconds until that movie is referenced. When it is finally referenced (never fails, by the way), he actually, physically gags. Another prime example of how a movie or actor can just ruin someone’s life. Remind me about this when they finally make and release “Marijuana Deal: The Nate Newton Story.”
Wilma
I never knew anyone named Wilma. And since I have nothing else to add, I am typing the following, which my friend Chip told me:
“Dude, having a kid is like being hungover all the time.”
Happy End of the Hurricane Season, everyone.