Watching the Jons
Lovett, Stewart and
Favreau this morning—
it’s Stewart’s podcast—
I’m suddenly reminded
of the fact that my aunt,
when she was feeling
particularly cocky or,
I suppose, wanted to
condescend (for she
obviously thought this
act did such), would
call me Jonathan.
She’s hold a grimace
on her face as she
drawled the entire
name *(Jaahhn a
thuuun!) with a
particularly loud
and whiny nasal
tone. She’s my
mother’s younger
sister, but I just knew
that when she called
me that—just like when
me that—just like when
my father called me
Terrapin (at first, before
I began elementary
school, before Sanford
& Son was even a show)
and later, Lamont or, just
as often, Meathead—that
when she called me
Jonathan she was
leveraging her control
over her smarty-pants
nephew. It’s not really
a negative memory for me.
There is nostalgia. But it
school, before Sanford
& Son was even a show)
and later, Lamont or, just
as often, Meathead—that
when she called me
Jonathan she was
leveraging her control
over her smarty-pants
nephew. It’s not really
a negative memory for me.
There is nostalgia. But it
was clearly mean-spirited.
