This Week In The Dream Antilles

Your Bloguero is embarrassed. He was going to tell you that the dog ate his homework, so there was no “This Week” this week. He even discussed it with the dog. Would she be willing to take the blame for this week’s soon to be nonexistent post? No, she would not. Speaking as a 10-year old, experienced Golden Retriever owned by someone who claims to be a writer, the dog says only this: “Give cookies. And, by the way, suck it up, hot shot. You’re the one who’s supposed to be the writer. Not me. Stop complaining. Just hammer it out.” That is cold. Very cold. But good advice. And to think that your Bloguero thought the dog was going to help. And provide an excuse. Alack. What a disappointment. Your Bloguero also thought there was some drug he could ingest that would get him to write the post, but alack and alack, he confesses he can’t find it.

Your Bloguero’s desperation runneth over. Every Friday. Without fail, your Bloguero has committed to post on four group blogs and his own blog. Like clock work. No matter what. How, your Bloguero wonders, can he explain that this week there just is no “This Week.” It’s just not there. It wasn’t written. It wasn’t posted. Poof. It’s gone. Probably, he can’t. Probably, you, dear reader, don’t want to hear the whining, excuses, lies, and assorted, inventive short fiction about your Bloguero’s lack of output and the claimed, creative “reasons” for it. Know what? Your Bloguero is not exactly captivated by inventing excuses either.

So perhaps a confession will suffice. This week your Bloguero was obsessed with something. And he didn’t do much writing because he was totally obsessed with this and he doesn’t write when he’s obsessing.

A bit of probably unnecessary background: your Bloguero has now reached a certain age. It’s the age at which the Government is supposed to provide Medicare. But. And this is a very big but, your Bloguero is so far from retiring that that “R” word is not a regular part of his regular internal discourse. No. So he’s not getting a gold watch. And he’s not moving to Arizona. Or Florida. And he’s not departing on his Spiritual Journey to Benares. Or even Benares on the Atlantic (Palm Beach). Or buying an RV. Or a boat. Or a vineyard. Or a trophy wife. Or a set of golf clubs. Nope. Nada. None of the above. Not one of them. Your Bloguero has other concerns, concerns that are more important to him. Specifically, your Bloguero wants to know what he has to do so that he will be referred to by others as “Don David” or “Don davidseth” or “Don Bloguero.”

Maybe that’s not a big deal to you, especially if you live in one of the many Gringo parts of the world where honorifics and polite address are utterly irrelevant and where disrespect is the order of the day. But let your Bloguero assure you, this is a big deal to your Bloguero. A very big deal. One he has relentlessly been obsessing about for a week. One that has become a consummate distraction to him.

Look. Being called “Don [insert first name]” is a very big deal to your Bloguero:

Although originally a title reserved for royalty, select nobles, and church hierarchs, it is now often used as a mark of esteem for a person of personal, social or official distinction, such as a community leader of long standing, a person of significant wealth, or a noble, but may also be used ironically. As a style, rather than a title or rank, it is used with, and not instead of, a person's name….

Today in Mexican-American communities, the Don or Doña is used in honorific form when addressing a senior citizen.

source

Right. It’s an honorific. For people of esteem. For senior citizens. Your Bloguero consulted with his usual, expert cultural consultants about this, and they each told him uniformly that he was old enough, yes, that he didn’t need to have many grandchildren to merit the title, yes, and because he was a nice guy and held in esteem generally, he could properly be called “Don Bloguero.” Right. Good enough.

But why then, your Bloguero wants to understand, is he NOT called “Don” anything? Ever. It has never ever happened. Surely, it is not your Bloguero’s obligation to tell other people that he has now assumed the rank of Don by virtue of his age and being an esteemed and great person, so, therefore they should now begin to address him as such. No. It is not your Bloguero’s function to demand this title. Instead, what is required, your Bloguero thinks, is for the larger community spontaneously, without prompting, without coaching or wheedling or paying of mordidas, to confer the title, to begin to call him Don. All on its own. Spontaneously. Without hinting or demands from your Bloguero.

You can, your Bloguero is sure, anticipate the problem here. That is what your Bloguero has been obsessing about. Can’t your Bloguero pick up this title? And if he can’t, what exactly has your Bloguero done so that he does not merit being called “Don Bloguero?” And what, pray tell, does your Bloguero have to do to be referred to by his important honorific. It is important to your Bloguero to be referred to by this title. Maybe it's his vanity. Maybe he's finally bugged out completely. Maybe. But he wants to be known as "Don Bloguero", and he won't tell anyone that's what he wants.

If you know the answer to this quandry, please write it on a $500 peso bill and mail it to your Bloguero immediately.

This Week In The Dream Antilles is usually a weekly digest. Sometimes, like now and for several of the past weeks, it isn't actually a digest of essays posted in the past week at The Dream Antilles. For that you have to visit The Dream Antilles.