The More Things Change

I used to name things. I named shirts for a company which, when pronounced in Pig Latin, sounds like Anana-Bay Epublic-Ray. I named poorly-made toys. I named, for example, the Topsy Turvy Turbo. It was a red plastic car that flipped over when it ran into a wall or some other solid object. I named soups, too, but I can't recall any of them. The product never made it into the stores, something that could very well be my fault.

I wrote instructions. How to make a bird house. How to survive in an avalanche. How to escape an angry bear. How to hone the blade of your carving knife. How to create your wedding registry for a company which, when pronounced in Pig Latin, sounds like Illiams-Way Onoma-Say. How to keep from getting lost in a California desert. Of course I cannot now remember how to do any of these things.

I wrote those signs in museums that nobody ever bothers to read. A 40-word history of the first known horse in America. A 25-word introduction to San Francisco's Italian fishermen. Lots of signs about glaciers, plant life, Native Americans, and the orchards that used to blanket Los Altos.

I urged customers to purchase outrageously-priced scented dishwashing soap, scented candles, and scented lotions. Explained the benefits of 18/10 stainless-steel. Suggested that this handpainted platter from Italy, these Moravian cookies, this glassware from Poland, or the Queen of England's toaster could somehow brighten their lives. I penned mini-stories to grace the back of a set of six dessert plates, the front of which depicted French waiters on ice skates (dead serious here, my people) performing various waiter duties.

I sent countless extraneous words out into the world.

And look! I'm still doing it.