Phil is Phil

Phil is Phil. Really. Yet me brother Phil seems to be a man without a name.

There's a guy Phil and I have known for years who always, without fail, in individual conversation with me brother, addresses Phil as Marty. Phil has quit trying to correct him as it simply has not worked and there appears no hope that it ever will. I realize that, as the most exalted older brother, my light shines before him and certainly obliterates his presence. Phil simply must learn to live in the glare of my notoriety. It is his cross to bear. But he nevertheless deserves his own name.

He laments that when in high school having a class with our brother Ed, Sister Teacher when reading the roll always said, "Cosgriff, Edward and William," at their names.

"Phillip, Sister," he would correct.

"Yes, William," Sister would respond.

Phil thinks that, for the good Nun, it was only a cutesy running joke. At least, he's trying to believe that.

He Wouldn't Approve

Me Mom and I have developed a few running jokes during our Sunday rides. One of them involves me brother Phil, who's her primary caregiver.

At least once over the course of a trip Mom will spot a party store and ask, "Should we get our liquor?"

"No," I'll answer, "Phil wouldn't approve."

Yesterday while caught at a traffic light, she saw a tattoo parlor. "Park over there," she commanded, a twinkle in her eye. "I want to get me a tattoo."

"Oh, no," I replied, rather overdramatically,  "Phil really wouldn't approve of that!"

We may have found our newest running joke.