Blathr Wayne Lorentz

What is Blathr?
Showing blathrs with the tag “Names.”

Everyone loves Raymond

Saturday, June 3rd, 2023 Alive 19,030 days

Thereʼs a new woman helping people find their seats at the co-cathedral these days.

She seems nice enough, but I feel bad for her. It appears that her parents named her after a rap star.

Her name tag reads “Usher.”

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Still better than “John Rambo”

Tuesday, September 27th, 2022 Alive 18,781 days

Max Ice mode engaged on a KitchenAid refrigerator

“Max Ice” is my 80ʼs action hero stage name.

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Still better than “Remington Steele”

Tuesday, September 20th, 2022 Alive 18,774 days

“Cache Update” is my 80ʼs action hero stage name.

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Still better than “John McClane”

Wednesday, June 1st, 2022 Alive 18,663 days

Max Cool mode engaged on a KitchenAid refrigerator

“Max Cool” is my 80ʼs action hero stage name.

And I guess “Door Alarm” is my trusty sidekick.

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Dent Arthur Dent

Friday, May 14th, 2021 Alive 18,280 days

A delivery notification for Zaphod Beeblebrox

Today I learned that delivery apps donʼt care what name you put in them. I think Iʼll be Ford Prefect tomorrow.

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Just the tips

Friday, April 23rd, 2021 Alive 18,259 days

Screenshot from Apple Maps

If a nearby nail salon is called “Hand Job,” you might live in Las Vegas.

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Saturday, August 11th, 2018 Alive 17,273 days

A map of a portion of Las Vegas, Nevada

This is what happens when real estate developers run out of names.

“Yeah, hello, Pizza Hut guy? Yeah, take a left on Spiced Butter Rum, then a right on Macadamia Nut, then a left on Frapuccino… *click* Hello?”

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Tuesday, June 23rd, 1987 Alive 5,901 days

I have a nickname now. Iʼve never had a nickname, but these people have decided that I should have one.

Maybe if I was better at softball. Or if I had a regular set of friends. Or even one good friend, I might have a nickname by now. In fact, my companions were surprised when I told them I donʼt have one. It took a few campfire marshmallows to convince them that Iʼve always just been me.

But Iʼm not me anymore. Now Iʼm “Freeway.” Itʼs not a cool nickname like “Butch” or “Ace” or “Duke;” but it is a nickname all the same. And because it was given to me, rather than self-applied, it carries more weight, more validity than any of those names ironed onto the backs of the Highland Lakes Softball League jerseys.

As darkness squeezed in around us, the fish grilled, and we segued from dessert to dinner. I held back my emotions, knowing that these people who were strangers just days ago have decided that I am not only worthy of keeping, but naming. Iʼve never thought of myself as a feral dog, but I have to wonder if they feel the same way when someone takes them in, gives them food, speaks to them in soft tones, and actually cares that they exist. Itʼs an unfamiliar feeling.


Named so, “Because you just do things your own way,” I am told. It sounds vaguely flower-child, but Iʼm not the hippie of the group. Iʼm just me. And at this time, for this trip, with these people, I am Freeway.

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