Name Game

This story caught my eye:

Quebec's civil registrar wants a Montreal couple to explain why they want to give their baby boy the middle name "Avalanche."

It's the latest hurdle for the family, who were originally told - because of a translation error in a letter - that the registrar had rejected the baby's first name of Logan.

Man, they're getting pretty strict about names up in Quebec. "Avalanche" seems pretty tame to me. I remember a story about the guy who named his two kids "Winner" and "Loser." Later in life Winner became a criminal while Loser became a successful police officer. Loser said that he didn't mind his name, though others did: they pronounced it the French way - Loosay - or they just called him "Lou."

Here's a post I wrote about my own name a long time back. This was back in my major league travelling days, when my name mutated wherever I went:

I've heard that to rouse a slumbering person from across a room, you simply have to whisper their name a few times. I tried it on a sleeping girlfriend, she woke up, and I told her that I was conducting an experiment. She called me something else - not my name - and went back to sleep. But she proved the point.

The point of that article, and another one I read about names, is that our name is the most beautiful sound we will ever hear. All of us are narcissists.

I was leafing through one of those 'How to Win Friends'-type books, and it told me to say a person's name as often as I could when talking to them. As in, "That's a great idea, Bob." Or, "I'll tell you something, Sid..." Or, "You have fantastic breasts, Janet."

I don't know how scientific all this is, but it would seem to make sense. Hearing our name means someone is listening to us and might even be paying attention to what we're saying. As long as the person saying your name isn't your wife banging on the motel room door, it's probably a good thing.

If you have a good name.

My name is not good. Not because I don't like the name 'Sean,' which is said to be an Irish version of John, but because no two people seem to say it the same way. This doesn't sound like a big deal, but after three decades on the planet, it gets a bit old.

When I was a kid, I had no problem with the idea that S-E-A-N was pronounced 'Sh-awn.' The kindergarten teacher didn't tell me that I was spelling it wrong when I signed my finger paintings, so it never entered my head that there was anything wrong with my name.

It was in third grade that funny things started happening. My mom or my dad bought me one of those iron-on shirts, the ones where people would put their names on the back in case they forgot who the shirt belonged to when they pulled it out of the drawer. On the back of that shirt was written SEAN. So it was my shirt with my name. I can't remember what was on the front, but it was probably an iron-on Twisted Sister logo or something.

Anyway, I put on that shirt and went to school. All day long people called me 'Seen,' as in, "I have seen the light." I had no idea why they were calling me this, until I realized that they were ripping on my name. Since that day, I have probably been called 'Seen' about ten thousand times.

It isn't always the smart-asses that call me Seen. People from east of the Rhine and into Asia also call me Seen, because they think that's how it's pronounced. Filipinos especially have a tough time with it. They see my name on a Hello My Name Is tag or on a piece of paper, and they say, "Hello, Seen."

Non-English speaking people always screw up my name. To the Chinese, I am "See-Awn" or "See-Ann." To the Japanese, I am "Sen." The Greeks and Indians make me feel like I'm back in third grade, because they call me "Seen." To some some guy from the Czech Republic, I was "Soon." How the hell he got Soon out of S-E-A-N, I have no idea.

It isn't just the foreigners, either. My name is extremely vulnerable to accents, unlike say, Ken. Pretty hard to screw up Ken. A Ken by any accent is still a Ken. But not Sean.

To the English and South Africans, I am 'Shown.' To someone from the deep South, I am still Sh-awn, but with a bizarre twist on the last syllable. The fact that my name doesn't have more than one syllable doesn't matter. They put one in anyway.

Sean is a bummer name on two counts: people can't say it, and people constantly need to be told how to spell it.

Here's a typical phone call when I'm calling an airline or a hotel desk (granted, these are not Mensa candidates).

"Yes, I have a few questions."
"What's your name?"
"Sean."
"John?"
"Sean, S-E-A-N."
"S...Sean?"
"Yes, Sean. Like 'Sean Connery.'"
"Oh, Sean Connery! Right!"
"Yeah. I just wish I had his money."
"Ha-ha-ha."

Mine is one of those names that you say and spell in the same breath. I learned long ago not to wait for someone to ask how it's spelled, because they always ask how it's spelled. So if I am talking to someone for the first time, my name is always, "Sean-S-E-A-N." I knew a girl whose last name was Grey. She told me that she had the same problem, and that her name was always "Grey-with-an-E."

I only use the same-breath-spelling-routine when I know I will have to see the person again. If not, I use "Steve." This is very useful at a fast food restaurant, or a Starbucks, where they ask your name and write it on your cup. Rather than go through the "Sean...Not John, Sean...Like 'Sean Connery'..." stuff, I just say Steve and save myself thirty seconds.

Poor Sean Connery. I've used his handle so many times, I should be paying him residuals. His name comes in especially handy when dealing with foreigners. They struggle over my name, trying to pronounce it five ways from Sunday, until I say, "Sean Connery."

Their faces immediately light up with recognition. They say "Sean Connery! James Bond!" And we have a great big laugh as I dream about them drowning in the Danube. I wonder what Sean Connery does when he calls a hotel to make a reservation. "Sean. As in Sean Connery. As in me, you damn fool."

"Sean" causes trouble around St. Patrick's Day, too. Suddenly everyone thinks I know the history of St. Patrick's Day, and they take for granted that I'll wear an Ireland soccer shirt and drink green beer until I turn green and barf same.

Not true. I have been to Ireland once. I played golf, and I liked it. But I do not know any Irish folk songs, nor do I enjoy drinking green beer. Unlike the Irish, I enjoy Budweiser as much as I enjoy Guinness. Makes no difference to me, either what beer I drink, or what color it comes back up in.

My family came to Canada sometime in the 1700's, and as far as I'm concerned, that makes me Canadian. If a person's grandparents were born in Canada or the States, then that grandchild has no right to call themselves Italian, or Irish, or German, or whatever. Done deal. The so-called "Irish" people in Boston are full of crap, likewise the "Italians" in New York City. You're American. If you can't give me directions from Genoa to Rome without consulting a map, then you aren't Italian. Get over it.

So this is me, Sean the Canadian. A Sean by any other name is still a Sean. Unless he's a Soon. Or a See-Awn. Or a whatever the hell.

Pleased to meet you.

Name Game

I was flicking through the channels a few minutes ago and ran across The Bachelor. It was the Where Are They Now episode, in case millions of Americans were wondering whatever happened to the desperate chicks that were willing to humiliate themselves on national TV a few years back.

There was a bimbo on the screen and she said she's been happy since her time on the show. She didn't win the dude, but she did eventually score a husband who loves her very much and blah, blah, blah.

Anyway, they've got their whole lives planned out. According to her they're going to have three kids. Two boys and one girl. The boys will be named "Aidan" and "Cooper."

Unsurprisingly, she jumps around during halftime at the Suns games. She calls it dancing.

I'm all in favor of people having kids, but what's the deal with names like Cooper? Aidan I can understand - if you're fresh off the boat from Ireland. But Cooper is right up there with "Connor" as a lame handle. Here's what I had to say about it last July:

Random Musing on Old Stuff:

I miss old words and old names. It’s been ages since I met a guy named Lou. Same with George, Zeke, Ted, Al, Ron, Bill, Gus, Hank, Bart, Max, Bruce, Sam, Ralph, or Joe. Where did they all go? Even at the service stations the guys are wearing two syllable names. Wasn’t it a rule that you had to have a one syllable name to work on a guy’s car?

I miss the old words, too. Stuff you never hear anymore. Like ‘tomfoolery.’ That is a great word, and it’s a shame to think it’s gone. Just once I want to hear an old guy come out of his house and yell at some kid, “Knock off that tomfoolery!”

Where’d ‘nincompoop’ go? Or ‘buffoon’?

I miss them.