He didn't have a nom de plume in mind back then when he swiped the top sheet from his grandmother's linen closet, climbed up on the roof of the old carriage house out back, let out an eponymous yell, and jumped from the gable assuming that the parachute effect he would achieve by grasping the top sheet by the corners would deposit him gently onto the gravel drive below with a glorious flourish that would impress Betty, the soon to be voluptuous thirteen-year-old girl next door more even than his skill with a slingshot, but then he was only eleven and didn't know any better and so instead he simply plummeted, landing hard and awkwardly and fracturing both an ankle and a collarbone and creating a hubbub that abruptly interrupted the chirruping of the two dozen or so blue-haired ladies playing canasta and swatting flies around folding card-tables in the back yard who were there for the annual garden party of their local chapter of the HDU (Home Demonstration Unit).
They called him Geronimo ever after.
'Coyote plays the blues' is a group of friends, speaking one at a time. Its name doesn’t tell you what the blog is about, any more than the names Yahoo or Apple or Bo Diddley tell you what they’re about. It’s a whimsical hook, and we hang explorations on it. All posts are individual works of the byline author, except for the authors' autobiographies, which are collaborations. (What?)
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