it and I'm sure would show it
Ferris Bueller's Day Off
if they could.
So that's where the nest comes from—I've been watching the Bird Family Channel for a month.
But why did Dad mention ELBOW? And why kick me out?
Wasn't it enough they'd named me Duane?
Day Two
Duane.
Homer.
Leech.
Think about it. When you look at it that way, each word separate, it's hard to see how my parents could have done it.
Look, we've all seen those shows on the Discovery Channel where they show a baby being born. There's a man in a hospital gown and a woman on a table and a lot of noise and sweat and there it is.
A baby. Looking actually a lot like the little bird on my windowsill, all messy and ugly.
Me.
And if they'd done a video there would be mymother and my father smiling with love at me, all goobery and sloppy.
Defenseless, new in the world, not even a clue that someday puberty would come along and body-slam me.
And when they asked what my name would be, my father looked down probably all proud and loving and said: “Duane.
“Homer.
“Leech.”
I didn't have a chance—or maybe I would have had a slight chance, if I'd been name-lucky. People could have called me DH, or skipped the first name and called me Homes, which would be cool, or gone back to the first name and called me Duey, which isn't that good, but still on the edge of being all right.
But that's not what happened.
Oh—this morning the bird had one new small feather growing on the end of his right wing. Five feathers now. It's hard to look at him and see that someday he's going to fly. Or date or grow up to have a family so
he
can make
his
son watch
Ferris Bueller's Day Off.
I decided to name the bird Connor. Which is what I wanted to be named. Or Steve, or Carl, or Clint … anything but Duane. Apparently I had a great-uncle or something named Duane and he did something important—nobody seems to remember what was so special about Duane the First. But the name waspassed down and I got stuck. For my middle name, my father is a history nut and there was a famous Ancient Greek guy named Homer who did a lot of thinking, I guess, so Dad gave me that name so I would think a lot. And there must have been some wacko in our family who grew leeches once upon a time. Or maybe my family just evolved from bloodsuckers….
So the little guy is always flapping that one-feathered wing like it's going to make him fly. That's about like me thinking I can ask Amber Masters to go to a movie with me.
Fat chance.
Not that she'd go. That's a given. She doesn't know I'm alive. I've never spoken to her. Or to any girl. Unless it's absolutely necessary, as in, “I'm sorry your hair is on fire,” or “I'm sorry I slammed the tetherball into your face when we were in the second grade.” I keep hoping Amber has forgotten both those incidents. I don't even know why I brought it up in this journal because I've never thought of asking a girl to do anything.
See? Another weird part of puberty.
But ask her? Never happen. It would be like the little bird flapping his one-feathered wing expecting to fly and instead learning all about plummeting the way Gorm learned about gravity.
Crash and burn. That's what would happen to me. Flames all the way down …
Doo-Doo.
There it is. The kiss of death. The nickname that came into my life in the third grade, came and stuck. Doo-Doo Leech.
My best friend, Willy Traverse, gave it to me by mistake. We were on the playground seeing if we could get the swings over the top and he looked over at me and said,
“Do it, Duey!”
And three or four other kids who were there started yelling,
“Do it, Duey! Do it, Duey! Doo Doo Doo Doo …”
So for the rest of my life I will be known as Potty Boy.
Doo-Doo Leech.
Flap, flap, flap … crash.
Day Three
I'm going insane.
Perhaps it's all part of this puberty thing but it's still not pleasant.
Totally crackers.
First, I wake up this morning like somebody gave me an electric shock. One second
Ferris Bueller's Day Off
if they could.
So that's where the nest comes from—I've been watching the Bird Family Channel for a month.
But why did Dad mention ELBOW? And why kick me out?
Wasn't it enough they'd named me Duane?
Day Two
Duane.
Homer.
Leech.
Think about it. When you look at it that way, each word separate, it's hard to see how my parents could have done it.
Look, we've all seen those shows on the Discovery Channel where they show a baby being born. There's a man in a hospital gown and a woman on a table and a lot of noise and sweat and there it is.
A baby. Looking actually a lot like the little bird on my windowsill, all messy and ugly.
Me.
And if they'd done a video there would be mymother and my father smiling with love at me, all goobery and sloppy.
Defenseless, new in the world, not even a clue that someday puberty would come along and body-slam me.
And when they asked what my name would be, my father looked down probably all proud and loving and said: “Duane.
“Homer.
“Leech.”
I didn't have a chance—or maybe I would have had a slight chance, if I'd been name-lucky. People could have called me DH, or skipped the first name and called me Homes, which would be cool, or gone back to the first name and called me Duey, which isn't that good, but still on the edge of being all right.
But that's not what happened.
Oh—this morning the bird had one new small feather growing on the end of his right wing. Five feathers now. It's hard to look at him and see that someday he's going to fly. Or date or grow up to have a family so
he
can make
his
son watch
Ferris Bueller's Day Off.
I decided to name the bird Connor. Which is what I wanted to be named. Or Steve, or Carl, or Clint … anything but Duane. Apparently I had a great-uncle or something named Duane and he did something important—nobody seems to remember what was so special about Duane the First. But the name waspassed down and I got stuck. For my middle name, my father is a history nut and there was a famous Ancient Greek guy named Homer who did a lot of thinking, I guess, so Dad gave me that name so I would think a lot. And there must have been some wacko in our family who grew leeches once upon a time. Or maybe my family just evolved from bloodsuckers….
So the little guy is always flapping that one-feathered wing like it's going to make him fly. That's about like me thinking I can ask Amber Masters to go to a movie with me.
Fat chance.
Not that she'd go. That's a given. She doesn't know I'm alive. I've never spoken to her. Or to any girl. Unless it's absolutely necessary, as in, “I'm sorry your hair is on fire,” or “I'm sorry I slammed the tetherball into your face when we were in the second grade.” I keep hoping Amber has forgotten both those incidents. I don't even know why I brought it up in this journal because I've never thought of asking a girl to do anything.
See? Another weird part of puberty.
But ask her? Never happen. It would be like the little bird flapping his one-feathered wing expecting to fly and instead learning all about plummeting the way Gorm learned about gravity.
Crash and burn. That's what would happen to me. Flames all the way down …
Doo-Doo.
There it is. The kiss of death. The nickname that came into my life in the third grade, came and stuck. Doo-Doo Leech.
My best friend, Willy Traverse, gave it to me by mistake. We were on the playground seeing if we could get the swings over the top and he looked over at me and said,
“Do it, Duey!”
And three or four other kids who were there started yelling,
“Do it, Duey! Do it, Duey! Doo Doo Doo Doo …”
So for the rest of my life I will be known as Potty Boy.
Doo-Doo Leech.
Flap, flap, flap … crash.
Day Three
I'm going insane.
Perhaps it's all part of this puberty thing but it's still not pleasant.
Totally crackers.
First, I wake up this morning like somebody gave me an electric shock. One second
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