Ripped from the Headlines II

[To be read in the voice of either Sir David Attenborough or John Houseman.]

Long ago, in early September of 1988, the man you now know as "Rob" or "rob" was but a wee lad of 18 years. He'd traveled many miles to matriculate at the second-oldest college in these American States, and the dormitory placement system in use at the time had him bunking with not one but two mates of the room.  For our purposes here, we shall refer to them as "Weisy-D" and "P-Dog" to protect the nearly innocent.

Room 300: elsewhere a lounge, but in this residence hall commemorated to the honor of the 5th President of these American States and an alumnus of the College, it was a bedroom "suite." To you and to me, that elegant denomination belied its true differentiation from the other 25 occupied bunkrooms and boudoirs on the hall. A glorified dormitory den stuffed with overripe flesh like grape leaves in the sun by any other name would still be as un-sweet.  A slightly larger room with no closet and no sink or mirror... tag it with "suite," and its occupants shall be none the wiser.  Ah, but were they?

Speaking of which, this "suite" was, in fact, immediately and universally prefixed that autumn with "sweet" to create a trite but divertingly homonymous appellation -- one applied in a slapdash manner to mild amusement then, but one which would stand the test of reminiscent folklore time and stick for all time. Funny thing, foreshadowing.

"The Sweet Suite Blues," a gritty ballad lamenting the state of affairs on Monroe 3rd West. Certainly you recall its elevation up the local charts in the spring of '88. The band's name escapes me, something arbitrary and asinine for sure.

So there was Rob. There he was. There he was. There he was.  In... the Sweet Suite.

He, today heralded as the tiny dictator who reigns supreme in postcount and moral compass over this blogatory organization. Well, he had a fair bit less... organization... back in this day-du-hey.  "Tiny dictator," mind you. Not "tidy dictator."

Diminutive as he was and is, his slop didn't encroach too terribly on his collegial suitemates' invisible lines of demarcation.  He just had, as the kids back then were wont to say crassly, "a little pile of his crap in the corner."

And it was either one of the aforementioned mates or the other, either Weisy-D or P-dog, this old scribe cannot recall which.  But whoever it was, it was he who labeled this mess with a simile of sorts.

And in labeling that mess, he unknowingly labeled the man behind the mess with a silly sobriquet, and in doing so, he also unknowingly -- for how could he possibly have the perfect foresight to see thirty-one-and-a-half years later, far off in time in the year of our Lord 2020 -- but yes, he labeled the man behind the mess with a moniker that would attach itself to Rob forever. Like a tattoo.  But more permanent, perhaps.

"It's like his little squirrel's nest over there."

And that pithy little quip, and the synonymous wildfire that spread from it, dear friends, is how our friend Rob and our blogmate rob came to be known across the land as "Squirrel."

The tale of our Squirrel, if you will, goes on from there. But this, this here, is his origin story.

It makes one wonder what curious episodes of distant yesteryear led to other such nicknamings. Case in point. We may well never know Mr. Grimstead's backstory, but I'm confidently sure of one thing. It has simply got to be a better story than this one was.

Rest in peace, other "Squirrel."

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