Coatilk. Milcato. Gocomil. What’s in a name? Marketers say that the name truly sells the product, even before advertising begins.
Marketing and advertising aside, I just had a drink of inspirational proportions. Coke and goat’s milk, a la Hoad. It is deliciously yummy; and although I prefer not to adulterate my Coke, this adult rates the said beverage a perfect ten. (In case you didn’t realise, the first three words of this article were my attempts at combining “Coke” and “goat’s milk” so I hope you’d let me know which one’s your favourite pick.)
Names are supposed to tell a lot about a product, but when it comes to people, I’m not so sure.
I read THE NATION’s obituaries the other day, and sadly noted that Vincent Smith, also known as “Vomit”, had passed. Tell me, reader, what in tarnation would provoke a nickname denoting disgorged matter?
I mean, some fellas like John Hanoman have a sick sense of assigning appellations. I remember John shouting that he was going to have a drink with Foots.
Foots is his friend, without legs. And the thing is, Foots was known by all and sundry by that moniker.
Then there is “Slims” who passes by, selling some of the tastiest burgers you could ever bite. I would average that Slims is approximately 300-and-something pounds. However, Slims has his sobriquet printed onto his shirt and catering cards that he proudly and cheekily dishes out.
I mean, I’m not much better when it comes to these aliases. My father decided to call me “Chooch” when I was born, due to my oversized cheeks.
Back in the day, there was a cartoon called Top Cat, with the full-faced character “Chooch.” Since then, I’ve been called “Choochie” . . . and this perhaps is not the most desirable of designations. All in all, if you ever call out the name, I will be sure to answer, since most of my friends and family seem to have forgotten my real name.
Rest in peace, though, Vomit – you have been an inspiration, even in death.
Before I go, I must ask if you’ve seen all this madness over the new iPhone 6? I don’t think I’d line up for days on end to get a phone (not unless I was on a deserted island and there was only one phone to place an order to KFC). A media house described the scene in Manhattan, “The streets are a mess, inclusive of bags of faeces.” Madness!
That was madness and this is, too: there is a guy who stands some evenings with a huge paddle, ostensibly imagining himself in the water, but unmistakably on Bay Street.
While paddling on the “Bay” he almost knocked off my side mirror. I know my good people have me covered, but the water is right across the road, man!
Oh, and a quick note to the driver who chose to brush his teeth and spit onto Spring Garden last week: you almost made me vomit.
Veoma Ali is an author, actor, broadcaster, advertising exec, and most important, a karaoke lover.
