Styx and Stones and Bobby Jones

The Updikes are here…

Like many Boomers from my generation I enjoy the somewhat breezy entertainment of people watching–especially while on vacation or dining out in restaurants. (Actually, hotel lobbies are sans pareil for this pastime, I’ve found.) The challenge however, is not to be judgemental and this, quite frankly, is difficult for me.

Several years ago I contrived a harmless little game I informally dubbed ‘The Updikes,’ to accompany this casual diversion. It embraces the human characteristics of onomatopoeia–the description of an individual by some physical or idiosyncratic trait or sound, famous celebrity resemblances, or a combination of both. I like to play this with my wife whenever we are out together and grow tired of talking about ourselves.

“Mona, look….the Updikes are here.” She glances over to the door….

In walks a very erect couple with thinnish lips and proper attire. They appear quite Protestant as they chat it up with the maitre d’. The husband may even resemble my favorite bang coiffed, gray haired author. The name seems perfect. My wife lets out a hushed chortle…”Up-Dikes.”

“We should send the gentleman over a Pulitzer, vintage 1982,” I add, nudging the game into the obscure, “It pairs well with Rabbit.” My lovely partner doesn’t get the reference. She doesn’t know who John Updike is. She just thinks the name is funny. She scopes the room. It’s her turn.

“Britney Spears,” she whispers, motioning with her eyes toward a plump, blond haired toddler rolling around on the floor with her sundress over her head. Now that’s funny.

Like I said, I came up with this game a long time ago and have, over the years, excogitated it into a spin-off diversion I refer to as, ’Nickname.’  And while I obviously can’t take any credit for that age-old practice, I do my best to elevate this exercise to an art form whenever possible. Understand that I’ve always been big on alternate monikers. My dog, Elvis for example, has at least a couple dozen alone; Stump, Mookie, Snout and Chops, being but a few. This is also how I describe clients to my wife (most of whom she’ll never meet) as it provides her with a reference or, at the very least, a mental picture of the odd personalities I have to deal with on a daily basis…

The Fighting Couple

I’m always good for one or two of these every year. It always starts out bad with these people and deteriorates from there. They are usually Buyers and the mood in the car is either one of bickering or dead silence. The trick with a fighting couple is to STFU (i.e. don’t take sides) and find them a place to live fast.

Will and Grace

Wife is oblivious to the fact that her husband is gay (just an observation, mind you). Again, time is of the essence in this house search scenario. I average one of these every two years or so–less since Oprah did a segment on the subject.

The Stones

Actually, in the past three years I’ve had two different clients and one next door neighbor with this same last name. Unfortunately, my favorite set of Stones just moved back to Houston so while the dinner table conversation surrounding any Stone has become less confusing in the Petro household, there’s an almost disconsolate void in the disorder of things now.

Bible Boy
Backpack Boy
Beastie Boy

Slightly differing versions of the same person and all pretty self-explanatory, I think. One Bed/One Bath/No Parking.

Styx
 
Any group of two or more 50-something guys with rock and roll hair, ex-groupie wives, and bad fitting jeans (with studs)….Come on, it’s almost 2008, for crissakes. They generally migrate into the city every year or so from the far west suburbs looking for loft space to rent in a ’safe’ ‘hood in case the band ever gets back together.

The Investor

Don’t even get me started. Most ‘investors’ don’t work with realtors. Most investors are realtors.

Bobby Jones 

For a semi-arctic urban setting, Chicago has more than its fair share of country club casual fashion. Ahem.

The ClimbLadders 

We all know one of them. We may even be one of them.

You’d think I would have learned…

I was sitting by the pool at a Montego Bay resort in the late 1980s when a weathered looking gentleman and his heavily bejeweled wife pulled up in a golf cart and sat down at the table beside me. I noticed at once, they weren’t dressed for the game. He tilted his oversized umbrella into the sun and away from the activity in the water, then ordered a bottle of vodka to be delivered in a brown paper bag along with a 20 ounce glass of ice cubes. I waited several minutes for the right moment to say the words to the person sitting next to me…

“Johnny Cash and June Carter,” I whispered, too loud in the still, Jamaican air. I immediately felt an electric shock of embarrassment as they both turned and looked my way.

Mr Cash caught my eye, murdered me with a single glance, and poured his water glass full of vodka. June Carter Cash flashed only the weakest of smiles before turning her ocean blue eyes back toward her husband, continuing on what was left of their own disjointed lives together. CNN reported later that week that Johnny Cash had recently been released from the Betty Ford Clinic and was planning a full recovery at his home at Wyndham Rose Hall, Jamaica. Leave it to me to witness otherwise.

Touche…

A few years later at a birthday party for my daughter, two little girls came running up to me full of whispers and giggles. They circled the adult table where I was seated, ran back into the other room, then returned a few minutes later with several more children in tow. They all stood at my feet filled with exuberance and gleam, bursting with the secrets of 10 year olds.

“You look like that movie star,” the bravest little girl finally said to me. They all laughed.

“Who, DeNiro?” I asked, winking at the other grown-ups at the table. I was after all, smoking a big fat cigar and sporting a teeny-weeny pony-tail with what was left of my rapidly thinning hair. Cape Fear’s Max Cady, perhaps? The Untouchables’ Al Capone?

“No. The guy in those other movies…Romancing the Stone. War of the Roses. Jewel of the Nile,” they took turns naming.

“Oh…you mean Michael Douglas,” I asked, not really seeing it but what the hell…

“Noooo….,” they all sang in unison.

Then who?

“DANNY DEVITO!!!” 

Ouch.

Anyway, I hooked up with a new fighting couple the other day. I believe she hates him just about enough to get a half million dollar condo out of the deal before the wheels fall off that wagon. And I’m not saying a word.