The origin of ‘buKit’.

I’ve had a lot of nicknames. I guess you could say a man (or woman) is defined by his name. Who am I you ask? Why, I’m Kent, doesn’t that say it all? My mom always said she tried to give me a fairly original name. It always bugged the hell out of her that all the guys would call me nicknames. She just wouldn’t understand, it’s simply a guy thing.

My Grandpa always called me kennny-kent when I was little. Now he just calls me ‘that no good grandson of mine.’

My parents called me ‘Tiger’. Maybe they had some foresight into what I would be like in the sack, I don’t know, but it was definitely prophetic. Ahem.

Once I reached jr. high the play on names began. I’ve heard them all. The most popular was ‘Fuckenthall’. Submit yours via e-mail.

Once I moved to Virginia and started hanging with Lapo, (yet another person with lots of nicknames) I really started getting ’em. It’s kinda like getting crabs.

One time when I was working at a drugstore, the manager there went to introduce me to someone, and as I was new, he didn’t know my last name. He looked down at the highlighter on the counter, emblazoned with the word STABILO, and stated, “This is our new stock clerk, Kent Strabilio.” From then on I was Strabilio. Go figure.

Sometime later, maybe months or years, I don’t remember, Lapo introduced me to one of his old high school buddies:

“Mike this is my friend Kent.”
“What’s his name? Clint?” (Note, Mike was intoxicated at the time)
“No, KENT.”
“Well I’m gonna call him Clint.”

It got even worse as time went on. Depending on how drunk everybody was, they’d start calling me anything that had a ‘K’ sound at the beginning. Karey. Kareem. Whatever.

Once I was older, like 18 or 19, my grandpa took to calling me ‘Facky’. I guess it’s cool. That’s what he used to call my dad. Maybe he’s just so old he’s getting us confused.

Once I started playing hockey more name games came about. Enter the age of ‘Hackemall’ and ‘Whackemall’. Real innovative.

Finally we come to the origin of the name I have now. After hockey practice one day, I was wearing a knit winter hat, sans puffy ball, all the way up on my head. Someone remarked that I resembled a man wearing a bucket. Enter Buckethead. My poor mom was beside herself.

Buckethead was to hard to yell out on the ice so I believe it was Lapo who first shortened it to just Bucket. Then when I got my first aol account, Buckethead was taken, surprisingly, and I changed the spelling to Bukithed. In it’s final incarnation it is now just buKit with the capital K just to be mysterious. The buKit is also acceptable in the third person.

I am introduced by all my friends as buKit and lots of my friends now don’t even know my real name. They just think it is my real name I guess. They must be pretty dumb.

So, what’s in a name? Apparently nothing. Almost everybody I know has a nickname. Some have different names depending on which clique they’re hanging out with. Mine’s just buKit. One word, and I think it’s fairly original I think. I haven’t met another buKit yet. Guess when I do I’ll have to change my nickname or move away. Hey, I can think of alot of less appealing one word nicknames….

Who is the buKit?

Well, scientists have been trying to solve that for some time now, In fact it was just a topic the other day on Arthur C. Clarke’s Mysterious world. We can trace his origins back to the ‘left coast’, that being California. Born there, he roamed throughout the state with his nomadic family living in a number of different places due to his father’s military involvement. He (the buKit) is believed to have once inhabited Westminister (the city of his birth), Livermore, Fairfield, and Monterey. After Monterey his story takes an abrupt left (or right, depending on which way you’re holding the map) wherein he was relocated to Springfield, Virgina, a far cry from his native California clime. Again the victim of the military’s somewhat haphazard promotion system, the buKit did not adapt well at first to his new environment.

Prone to keeping to himself, the buKit did not relate well with other members of the species except for a select few. These years (grammar school) went by particularly fast for the buKit and soon he was cast into the sea of pre-pubescence that is junior high. The site, Lake Braddock Secondary , some of you may know well. A huge metropolis of teeming teenager pop life, the buKit did not fit in very well and found himself retreating into his world of art and writing. Here we see the buKit develop some of his strongest close friendships that would end up lasting the rest of his life.

Alas, content was not to last long, and after 8th grade, he was uprooted again and sent back to his homeland, sunny California. This time it was Los Alamitos where the bukit discovered both surfing and skateboarding, the latter he would take to his heart like fake breasts on a porn star. Although his time here in Los Al was short lived, the buKit learned much there in only two years before he was transported back to the east with his family.

Now the buKit was almost a man. This time living in lovely and scenic Fairfax, Virginia, the buKit graduated from Fairfax High in 1989. Through out high school, he had maintained a 3.5 average and studied, among other things, art, photography, and his ambition, architecture. The bubble of post graduatory glee was soon popped though, when the buKit failed to gain acceptance to any of the schools to which he had applied. Quickly becoming disenfranchised with the higher education system, he decided to go straight to work as a draftsman, full time at a local drafting firm.

Here we see the onset of what could be called the ‘Salad Days’. The buKit had taken up residence with a friend at the Lapensee Youth Hostel and was making the long green at his minimally challenging job. The beer and good times were flowing freely, but on the horizon a dark specter loomed.

Finally, under pressure, the buKit decided he must go to school and get his shit together. he enrolled at NOVA and quit the lush drafting job for one of meager importance at the local ice rink. In all this time, the buKit had been introduced to a new pastime, Ice Hockey. Ahhh, the opportunity to exercise, curse, and beat people up all in one package appealed to the wild buKit from the start. Plus you got to drink beer afterward. Turns out, the buKit would continue to play hockey for a long time, making many friends, as well as many dollars along the way.

Soon the buKit caved in and after too much partying, could not finish school. Plus, he had become burned out on architecture, and was not sure he wanted to have anything to do with it any more. Coming out of this confusion, as well as a break up with a long time psycho girlfriend, the buKit sought refuge in the night.

He was now working as a barback/bartender at a well known sports bar in Fairfax. He worked all night, made $120, partied ’till morning and slept all day. The living was excellent. It would be some time before he finally decided he could no longer keep up the rockstar lifestyle or he would be dead.

Deciding on some ‘natural medicine’ the buKit worked first as a landscaper and then later at a local nursery and garden center. This saw a brief return to school for horticulture classes, but nothing came of them.

With winter on it’s way, the buKit set out to find new employment. He found himself back in the bar, working like an ox, and drinking like a fish. In addition, he and his roomate were doing piecemeal graphic arts and screen printing work out of their house.

It was during this time that the buKit came across the be-all-end-all. A female member of the species that took control of his soul and made him think of things he’d never imagined. He got a new job working at a local Hockey store and was promoted quickly through the ranks to Asst. Mgr. (Ohhhhh). The female inspired him and made him feel indestructible. It was at this time that the buKit started to put pen to paper more often.

Then she left.

This sent the buKit spiraling into a pit of confusion and self doubt. They would attempt later to rekindle things, but it was not the same. The buKit was crushed, all his air was knocked out.

Unsure what to do, the buKit tried to forget by working all the time, and drinking when he wasn’t working. He started a silk screening and sign graphics business with a partner and was on his way. This company proved to be a constant source of stress due to the fact that his partner was an idiot and the company eventually went belly up, but not before a bunch of legal problems came about, most of which are still in deliberation today. They started a year ago.

When the buKit got out of his failing business, he floundered for a while and then found himself working at the Internet Society in Reston, on the recommendation of a roommate. He is currently employed there where he is in charge of individual membership. The job is excellent, as it is flexible and allows time for the buKit to teach private and group power skating lessons to little kids at the rink, which he thoroughly enjoys.

The buKit is content for the time being, thinking occasionally that he might like to move somewhere else to perhaps start over. You see, the buKit has yet been able to escape the haunting memory of what went awry with that one girl. It consumes him and he cannot figure out why. So he writes. He writes about everything. Her, himself, others, things he sees. The buKit sees this page as what could be a tremendous vehicle to get his writing out. Although he has yet to decide if he wants to be a ‘writer’, he takes solace in the fact that others might read his thoughts and understand, or relate to what he has written. All feedback, good and bad, is welcome.

The buKit’s parents recently moved to San Francisco and he has a younger sister who lives in Centreville. His is 24 years of age, she is 22. In his free time the buKit can be observed (other than writing), playing Ice Hockey, Aggressive In-Line Skating, reading just about anything, maintaining web pages for both the Lapensee Youth Hostel and Modern Yesterday, and playing the drums which he has been doing for about 10 years. If your band needs a drummer, check out what buKit likes for influences, musically, and e-mail him if you want to jam.

“Pull over ’til the ‘ludes wear off…”

Is it me or can any idiot with a pulse get a driver’s license today. Many of us, including myself, are hurtling into the future on the bullet train that is the information highway, yet it takes me 20 minutes to get down the street to the fucking 7-eleven. What is wrong with this picture? Hey construction man, why do you have those two perfectly good lanes of road blocked right in the middle of rush hour? Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were busy picking the lint from your navel. I’ll come back later. The roads are becoming more and more clogged and congested (kind of like the bathtub drain at the youth hostel). I think in order to solve the problem, we just need to weed out a few of the undesirables…..

If you are old enough to remember killing your own food before you ate it, I don’t think you ought to be driving. Now, I have nothing against my elders, I just don’t want you in front of me on the roads anymore. I recognize that you need transportation to and from the bingo game, beauty parlor, what have you, but that’s what your realitives are for. Get THEM to drive you. They owe it to you, seeing as how you raised them and all, and the more you let them now this while they’re driving, in addition to how lonely you are because they never visit, the FASTER they will get you to your destination so you’ll get out and leave them the fuck alone. If I wanted to move as fast as you drive, I’d fucking walk everwhere I go. While this would be healthy, I’d be poor and starve to death, because I could never get to work, or get to the store before it closes. I have no idea how you get to Denny’s so early in the morning for the breakfast specials, you must leave your house at like 1 in the morning or something.

If I am right behind you, it is not your civic duty to slow me down. You are not helping mankind, so get out of the way. It’s at times like this you understand those LA Freeway shootings…

Habla Ingles? If you can’t READ our drivers tests, how the fuck do you guys PASS them? Why is the DMV letting you slide? Are you a friend of the family? Are you fucking the clerk? Oh sure, now I’m immigrant bashing. No. I have just as many foriegn friends as I do native ones, but all of my friends speak and read english AS WELL AS their native language. How can you drive an automobile when you have to keep looking in your english to whatever dictionary to see if the store you’re passing at 3 miles an hour sells lottery tickets? Get out of my way!

“Oh the scenery here is beautiful isn’t it dear?” Not for the fifteen cars behind you on that one lane country road. If you want to look at the woods, pull over and look at them, drive through them, run naked in them for all I care, but don’t gaze at them, or the monuments, or the world’s largest ball of string, while letting your car idle in the middle of the fucking road! Just take a couple a pictures, get them developed and then share them eith all your friends back at the trailer park. If you weren’t so fucking cheap, you’d take a real vacation instead of enjoying the ‘scenery’ on the way home from the bowling alley.

I can’t go 15 feet without getting a ticket for not having my car inspected but somehow you made it into the freak of the week clause, whereby if you live in your car, you pass. How did I end up behind you? If it weren’t for the jet black exhaust and oil dripping out of your tailpipe, I’d say you had to have a HORSE pulling that thing. I didn’t think you could run a car on 3 silly spares, but hey, you proved me wrong, thanks. I could put a fucking SAIL on my car and move faster than that dilapidated hot wheel you’re driving. And what a great SMELL your car puts out, what is that, Sulfur? Can I buy that air freshener at Pep Boys? You’d probably get around better if you melted that thing down and had it made into a bike.

Ohhh, it sure is getting cloudy. Whoa, couple o’ drops on the windsheild, better cut my speed in half. What the fuck? If you don’t like driving in wet conditions, don’t. There’s plenty of us who are perfectly capable. Why the hell do you think tire companies spend so much of your money working on the perfect ‘Aquatred’? You’re not going to slide right off the road, you’re in a 7,000 pound automobile! If planes can fly in rain, you sure as fuck can drive in it. Same with snow. Hey and you remember when you go into a skid, you turn the wheel the OPPOSITE way, just like in driver ed.

What’s that, you failed drivers ed? The book was in english and you couldn’t read it?

This is the problem with America today. Poor driving. And the fact that you can’t really park and fuck in a car anywhere anymore without getting busted. Heck, I can’t even find anyone to fuck, but I digress.

Sigh. I feel a little better now. If you’re one of these people, TOO BAD. Someone has to tell you you’re a dolt or else you can’t get help and get better. Remember if you can’t drive the cars on those high speed video games, you simply cannot drive in real life. Real life is much harder than Sega.

To make a long story long, you know who you are. People honk at you. Yell at you. Flip you the bird. Expose their genitals at you. Shoot at your tires. These are all telltale signs that it might be time for you to hang it up and get a metro card. They’re pretty cheap and they have public transportation pretty much everywhere in the world so you should be familiar with it. Just don’t sit next to me ’cause you stink.