My 2011 Resolution: Meet Someone Named Chloe.
NOTE: It’s the last week of December and you’re undoubtedly aware that all those other blogs are wrapped up in “Best of 2010” hoopla. As some of you know, that’s not how we do things around here. The staff here at Popular Opinions met last week over a Pizza Hut Cheesy-Bites Pizza and unanimously agreed to once again reserve our “Best of 2010” lists for the cultural dead zone that is January. Fear not my boy, you will be told how good things were in convenient list form very soon. Until then, here’s more of our celebrated hard-hitting journalism.
I went from Phoenix, Arizona, all the way to Tacoma, Philadelphia, Atlanta, L.A. Northern California where the girls are warm, and in 24 years I have never met a single person named Chloe. Ever. There isn’t one in all four of my High School yearbooks. There’s not a single Chloe in any of my workplace directories. Even at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, which presumably would be a National Chloe Preservation, did not one endangered Chloe cross my path. Do Chloes really exist? Some say “maybe,” others aren’t so sure.
Now I have friends, and that’s a fact, like
Agnes, Agatha, Jermaine and Jack Treasure, Henrietta, Memorie and Jed, but this one name seems to have eluded even my quaintest of acquaintances. I was first introduced to the concept of someone actually being named Chloe in the summer of ’99. I had become obsessed with VH1’s premiere non-Pop-Up related program “Behind the Music” to the point of having favorite regulars in the form of wistful groupies. Apparently, if you were in a band in the 80s, chances are you at least did shots out of the autopsy of someone named Chloe. The wild Los Angeles Chloe was a fascinating creature, often an aspiring actress (re: stripper / porn star / mobile bar fly) who would be decked head-to-toe in tight black leather, accessorized by either a torn neon t-shirt, pendulum earrings or hair more teased than the kid who had to sit in the hallway during the sex talk in grade school. They were looking for nothing but a good time, someone to talk dirty to them and to further investigate whether every rose did indeed have a thorn. I’ve always been of the belief that it’s always a good time for a good time, so this programming built up the legend of Chloes in my mind to the point where I knew the second that one unskinny-bopped into my life it would shift my rock and roll lifestyle* into overdrive.
That day has yet to happen. As of December 29th, 2010 at 6:34 PM I am Chloe-less. Of course I’ve seen motion pictures with Chloë Sevigny, cheered the swimming of Chloe Sutton and ignored Khloe Kardashian**, but these have all been through the same glowing picture tube that saw [insert instance of a politician being less than 100% truthful and accurate in their public statements] so I simply don’t know if I can take this as evidence. Perhaps the problem here is that I’m of the age where most of the wild party Chloes’ children would be, so they opted not to name their daughters after themselves in hopes they can escape their mothers’ decadent past. This would explain why I’ve also never met a Bambi, Candi or Adolf.
But why let such a glamorous name die? According to the internet, the name “Chloe” has an even richer history than extras in the “Home Sweet Home” video. It was an alternate title for the Greek goddess Demeter, who represented fertility, the harvest and the sanctity of marriage. The connection to the name can be found in the literal Greek translation;
“Young Black Teenagers” “Young Green Shoot.” Yes, that first little glimpse of a seedling’s flourishing promise is the basis for a name of such extravagant decadence. Oddly enough, the name is also found in the New Testament’s first letter to the Corinthians, as the title of the house of those who were contesting which God they were baptized under.
The name had a tremendous resurgence of popularity in the early 2000s throughout both the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland, so it could be hypothesized that the “wild Chloe” gene skips a generation. Being
ridiculously impatient a motivated person, I’d rather meet a Chloe before stories of Chloe encounters become as mind-numbingly ubiquitous as “so, have you seen Donnie Darko? What does it mean?” Thus my goal for the new year that I’m not referring to as a resolution because New Year’s Resolutions never get accomplished, is to meet at least one person named Chloe. You ever meet one? What was it like? What should I prepare for? How do they compare to Olivias?
*Sometimes at Taco Bell I’ll buy an extra Chalupa and heat it up for lunch the next day. I know, I’m out of control!
**Who I don’t recognize as a real ‘Chloe’ because she spells it with a ‘K,’ making her the exception to the Mortal Kombat theorem that replacing the letter ‘c’ with a ‘k’ in anything automatically makes it ten times better.
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