My mother named me Peter because I was born on the feast of St. Peter's Chair, and thus I have always felt sat upon. A few announcements: first, this new baby was not on the syllabus; second, we will not call him Luc or Etienne, neither of which most people can pronounce. He will be named Lucas, after The Rifleman---an allusion unfamiliar to most young poets, especially to the one who said, “No one reads Robert Frost anymore.” To him I bequeath my three-iron, which I haven't hit straight in twenty-five years. I used to hold my toy rifle like Lucas McCain. I was into coconut then. Now, I'm mostly an apple-and-bananas guy, yet still feel sat upon, and no award will ever change that. I once read a book called The Two Thousand Names of God, but can He hit a wedge in the rain with backspin? Can He drain a thirty-foot putt with Beelzubub heckling him from a nearby bunker? I hereby report that I have a wife, two sons, and a dog. I'm not sympathetic to inanimate objects, and nothing will ever change that. For my Confirmation, I tried on the name Mario, but my father forbade me to wear it. Born Louis, he changed his name to John. It took me twenty years to discover that. What more can I tell you? What more do you want?