The merciless beauty to whom I am affianced said last night of my blog's title, "that's very seventeen-year-old of you." Mollified I suppose by the hurt look on my face and my flaccid defence ("I thought it sounded good") she appended an apologetically-inflected "it's cute." Better cutely juvenile than uncutely, you might have tried to brace me up by saying (charitably, friend, charitably) -- but her lance of truth has, as it unfailingly does, nullified the imparted creative inertia of my ego-steed, and made again a bruised terrestrial of its rider -- that is, forced a crashing dismount from mine haught horse. I do love the view from my stallion-mule's back, though, and so, I reattain the saddle.
It is undeniable: there is a teen-aged stink to the name. A sort-of art-school-freshman air. To use a culturally depleted term, it's a bit emo. I tell you, I was not unaware of this. However, I let my liking of the phonics of it overrule my awareness that the name floats in a humorous backwater; it lacks sufficient thrust of meaning to carry it through the gate thrown-up by expectations of sarcasm, and lacks sufficient sarcasm to pay that gate's toll and filter through unmolested.
The name must go, and so it shall. But what in its place? I must confess that as I get older, meaning grows increasingly wearisome. Meaningless sensation is my cup of tea, more and more. Here is what I will do: I will find a sound that I like, or a sound that I like to make with my speaking organs, and I will transliterate it, and that will be the new name. Across from me at this moment is a box of 20-Mule-Team Borax. I like Borax immensely. As a word-sound, I mean -- although as a mineral I find little fault in it as well. Borax. Axbore. Redox. Oxene. X is maybe the finest letter in our little Latin alphabet. Maybe something with X. We'll see.
For a full-stop, a meaningless sensation: