There is a vast pool of many good names in the world to select from: Quentin, Maya, Mihai, Max, Yechazkel, Didier, Cyrus, Myron, Robert, Gur, Duncan, Bernard, Philippe, Raphael, Piotr, Andrei, Linda, Lorenzo, Bruno, Alina, Stan, Dean, Flavia, Lea, Maria, Harry, Shaiy, Zukia, Espen, Justin, Aaron, Neil, Reid, Claudia, Janet, Chidem, Ralph, Jesse, Elie, Katinka, Avital, Spiros, Stefan and Jim.
So why then we must ask have several followers of this mass migration expressed a difficulty in separation of the one Gabriel Orgrease from the other Gabriel Orgrease?
We do not get it. No more, no grok.
We do not get it. No more, no grok.
I spoke with Etidorpha about this during our last fortune telling session, the one with the red Face-from Mars slate cards, and she urged that I cannot let any confusion of affairs as to names of things, beasts and inanimate rocks stand upright for very much longer. Clarity is gold coin. Something she saw in the slate cleavages about 'the great mountain bumps the humble badger into the fetid sump pit'.
First off, to be absolutely clear, this confusion is by no means meant to evoke a mental bifurcation of an obfuscate threshold for a slough reader’s inverse comprehension.
It is well known that characters in real life, round or fat or square or flat and comic burlesque with white Santafied beards, as well as in fiction should have alphanumeric paroxysms that distinguish themselves and keep the commons skunk-wind clear as to their verifiable identity. Otherwise characters in the mind of the audience flow together and appear to be one amorphous mass of flashiness and sloppy amoebic body fluids sloshed around as if in an antique mop bucket, one of those pre-yellow plastic galvanized ones and then those strange sounds in the night that cause one to hold their nose in the eructation of half-sleep. The poor dog in our lives traumatized shivers and tries to hide underneath the couch. Utterly despicable, uncouth, anti-social behavior even when you keep it scat be-bop willy to yourself. Though there is a contrariety viewpoint of the Manureist School of social economics that identity cannot be thieved away if everyone has the same post-industrial cookie cutter avatar. That is, if everyone is identical in name and number and mug then how possibly can they be confused in their bank accounts and credit cards? We can always position one indecipherable culture, with the H. Bosch or their funky hippy ideogram black inky stick figures, against another and call it a neutered none-nuts from the A shelter -- peace sign waver, school voucher.
Gabriel P. Orgrease passes the checkout at the Handi Pantry solely in commemorative mint quarters carried in a small burlap-linen bag woven and then sewn for him with his initials embroidered in hand drilled wampum beads by Etidorpha. It is a habit he adhered after he read an audio biography of P.T. Barnum. It is not over until the Fiji Mermaid sings was the post-memetic gene of the day on the billboard. But, though since I am the real and original Gabriel Orgrease I need to point out that there is a distinct and obvious difference between us.
Etidorpha knows her brother well enough, we would think, a fact that she has often expressed to me with a modest tinge of perplexed regret and I cautiously ever so cautiously inform her that it is not my problem to worry about her sometimes difficult relationship with her brother... and she knows me well enough as her friend, and his friend, making me in turn their friend, or a friend of the family Orgrease and as these things go I am a brother of sorts in spirit, if one can isolate a sprite like a puff of breath in a test tube like Thomas Edison’s last breath, or, more aptly an unofficial adopted to the family even though I have my own officiated branch of an Orgrease family, with a sister Pamela and a nephew Pamela and an aunt Pamela and a cousin Pamela, and an Uncle Sirius, thank you very much. But I don’t mind, really, just saying.
Etidorpha never gets us confused and why should you?
The Orgreases of all persuasions are prolific in body but short on imagination when it comes to what awf-godful names to stick to their children. That paucity seems to go equally for both branches ever since that between-brothers issue over the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon and the argument that came up at the stone pub on that stormy bog-wet night about whose dirty face it was impressed upon the linen rag hung on the towel rack in the celestial loo.
Though we all understand from the anecdotal heresy that way before the crossing of the wide water the one branch of the family devolved into a clan of apocryphal know-nothing stonemasons and the other evolved into a breed of arrogant scribes with magical elfin pen nibs. But we really do not need to get into that heuristic episode of separation in the great tree-of-life as it brings up a whole host of bad memories across the most resplendent broadness of the rainbow of transsexual humanity.
It is very simple to distinguish the difference between us. My name is Gabriel P. Orgrease and his name, that friend of whom I often write to inform you of his misanthropic adventures and grand outhouse escapades, along with his sister Etidorpha, is Gabriel P. Orgrease. To make matters even simpler, it is to be known that Etidorpha E. Orgrease, wherein the E stands for Eel after her great-great-grandmother on her mother’s side.
Quite simply, and the distinguished characteristic is that my P does not stand for the meaning or impression or depth of the water of the river of his P. Total distinction in the patrimony of P.
That is how you can make the erudite distinction and it is much more telling, and/or foreboding than the size of our exposed foreheads and anterior appendages of bulbous psychic protrusions or the distinct shape of our respective ears, his being twisted and mine being, let us say, ridiculously anterior to the effect that he can wear a workmen’s hat and I rarely more than a blue tie-dyed cotton head scarf. We both wear titanium glasses to great affectation though GO is known to smoke a finger-wax patinated corn cob with cherry toback and a pinch of primitive boo. Though, if you feel confused by readi-made Shangri-La labels and headwear, intimidated by the guess of gear, then all you need to do is whisper and see which one of us can hear you as he, that other GO, due to his congenital malformation cannot hear a treadle traddle quite as well as I.
This should conclude and provide to the curious a succinct explanation as to why Gabriel Orgrease is always asking, “What?”
To be contained: Painting the gray areas with Victorian blue historic-palate house paint.