Does This Shave Make Me Look Like A Jerry? A Biker?

I'm assuming that everyone reading this blog who is over the age of thirty knows at least one Jerry, right? Though I also assume that in thirty years hence everyone over the age of thirty will know at least five Ezras, Micahs, Jordans, and Calebs, but that knowing a Jerry might be a rare distinction. Jerry, to me, is like Phil, Ray, Earl, and Ron--a dependable name for a dependable guy. Don't know how to get it done, don't even have the first clue about the first step to getting it done? Ask Jerry et al. He'll know. Jerry knows torque, logistics, circuit breakers, and grilling. Jerry bowls, smokes meat, guts fish, and uses a slide rule with dexterity. God help the world when all the Jerrys die out.

I bowl once in a great while, but I am no Jerry. In many ways, I am the anti-Jerry. If I can get the hood of my car up and staying up without crashing down on my head, I consider it a success. Jerry actually knows why you might want to lift your hood in the first place. So, much to my, well, not chagrin, but imbalance, maybe, people at my new job are constantly calling me Jerry. The reason sounds simple--the only other guy in the office is named Jerry, and he came first--but the details leave one (me, at least) scratching his head. And it goes way beyond the obvious--Jerry is maybe thirty and African-American; I'm definitely almost fifty and Caucasian--to reasons I can't begin to fathom. Now I'd like to think I am as friendly and helpful and easygoing as this particular Jerry, but still, anyone with half a brain could tell within thirty seconds of being in my presence that even if you might mistake me out of the corner of your eye for a second for a friendly thirtyish African-American, you would in no way mistake me for a Jerry. If Jerry's name were George, Joe, Fred, or Andy, I could understand the mix-up, but me, a Jerry? Come on.

All I can think of is that it's my shaving. You see, for ten years I haven't really had the need (i.e., the occupational imperative) to shave every day. Now I do. So I'm thinking that even if all these new-job colleagues of mine have never known the unshaven Dan, the something's-different-about-this-guy subliminal aura I must be giving off has them thinking (never underestimate the ignorance of the human being, I think Charro said) well, sure he knows his way around a sander, a seven-ten split, a bait and tackle shop. Soon, I think, the jolt that my daily shave is obviously giving to my pheromones will lessen and my co-workers will have a tendency to call me Jerry as much as call me Merlin. Until then, while I consider it an honor to be mistaken for the particular Jerry in my office, I will never get used to being mistaken for a guy who knows the first thing about a sprocket.

As for (it was a weird day anyway, hence the discussion in the office about dream trips we all would like to take and one co-worker's surprise announcement that although she's scared of motorcycles, she would love to attend some infamous bikers' convention [wait a minute, there cannot possibly be a bikers' convention, maybe just a get-together] in Myrtle Beach) the co-worker who turned to me today and said, "Dan (notice, the pheromones must be abating already) you look like the kind of guy who's been to a bikers' jamboree," I'm just going to blame it all on solar flares or too much snow or something.

Roy, though, no? There's got to be a Roy attached to like every fourth bike at a bikers' stampede in Myrtle Beach, right?

Jerry vs. Gerry

At times I've had my doubts, but I think it's clear to me now that not any of my thousands of readers is a nit-picker. Thank God, because a dedicated, well-meaning blogger has enough hurdles to leap as it is. I refer to my post of a few days ago concerning the ramifications of having a Father Nature/Earth instead of a Mother one. In my haste to communicate such weighty thoughts I used the word gerryrig. Thankfully, no one called me on it, but nevertheless, I'm here to beg forgiveness; there is no such word. Having never written it before, and probably rarely if ever speaking the word, my incompetence with it was obvious. Sure enough, the next day in reading something, I came across the word jerry-rig, which I believe is the correct spelling. Interestingly enough (to me, at least) I say "believe" because in researching the word, all I came up with was jerry-built, which means "cheaply and shoddily built," which was the meaning I was going after with my gerryrig faux pas. Nobody seems to know where jerry-built came from: some poor Jerry, a would-be handyman with imagination and no chops, probably rigged up something, showed it to some smart-ass, and forever was stained with the perjorative term. From there I guess it was a quick leap to combine jury-rigging with jerry-built and hence jerry-rig.

Anyway, the whole experience got me thinking of guys named Jerry or Gerry. Now I'm sure there are plenty of boys out there named Jerome or Gerald these days, but I'd be willing to bet not many of them go by Jerry or Gerry. Just doesn't sound like a 21st Century kid's name, Jerry or Gerry. What really interests me, though, is the difference between a Jerry and a Gerry. Truth be told, and I'm not trying to justify my misspelling, but Jerry seems (I was going to write "sounds" which would really make no sense) like someone who would actually be quite handy with building things, whereas Gerry would be more of a destroyer of things. "Jerry spent all week building the cutest clubhouse, then Gerry came over all drunk and trashed the place in five minutes." Read that quote juxtaposing the names and it doesn't make any sense, does it? Jerry is slim, sensible, dependable, and, for some reason I can't explain, profuse with body hair; Gerry is stout, raucous, nearly hairless, and a helluva lot of fun. Jerry makes a name for himself (Garcia, above) while Gerry makes a scene and is quickly forgotten (Cooney, above). I'd love to do a test and ask women if they would pefer to go on a blind date with a guy named Jerry or a guy named Gerry. I'm sure you could tell a lot about the women who go for either one--just what, I don't know, but I bet the results would be pretty conclusive.

And just what would be the qualities of something that was tom-rigged or dave-rigged or sam-rigged or God forbid, dan-rigged? I'd take my chances on the sam-rigged.

Finally, the word gerrymander. Now this makes sense: Jerry builds/rigs, Gerry manders. "What the hell is that nearly hairless stout guy doing out there, Martha?" "Oh, that's just Gerry. He's mandering, as usual." Here's where it gets really interesting. Gerrymander (the practice of carving up strangely shaped voting districts for the benefit of one party vs. another) comes from a 19th Century Massachusetts governor by the name of Elbridge Gerry. Gotta believe the name Elbridge didn't even make it into the 20th, let alone the 21st century; I'd take Jerry or Gerry hands down over Elbie any day. And the -mander? From salamander, as in the shape of the cockeyed districts old Elbridge drew up. Now that's a word: gerrymander. Must use it more in my everyday language. "Say Bill, why don't you gerrymander yourself over to the bar and buy us another round?" "Great peas, grandma, wouldya mind gerrymandering them back to me for seconds?" "Hey Jerry, gas up that jitney you jerry-built and let's gerrymander over to Gerry's man-cave before the keg gets warm."

I'm sorry. It's been raining a lot here lately. I promise to get out more in the near future.