In The Name Of Fame

At the start of Kindergarten, my four-year old made a new best friend. I knew the kid and his parents in passing - we'd say hello on the street or at the park but now that the boys are school buddies, I've come to know a little more about them. Namely, their names. Well, the dad's name was new to me anyway. To my utter surprise, I found out that he was named after the King of Rock n' Roll.

Now, in a Quentin Tarentino movie it was fitting that the Christian Slater and Patricia Arquette characters would name their baby Elvis. It was a cute ending for a flick but I was curious how that panned out for the person named "Elvis" in real life. Well, according to dad-named-Elvis, the good thing is: no one ever forgets his name. The not-so-good thing: he's not a fan.

But I'm not one to talk. When I was preggers with Son #2, my husband and I searched for a Japanese name that was Westerner-friendly. The vote was unanimous and our baby menace was dubbed after a famous Japanese sculptor, Isamu Noguchi, whom I associate as the artist that slept with Frida Kahlo.

My own family had their objections. In Japan, Isamu is so outdated that my cousin e-mailed me, "it's a good thing you live in America."

Yeah, well - if I lived in Japan, I wouldn't have to worry about people being able to pronounce a Japanese name now, would I?

There's an unspoken burden to being named after a famous person. If for instance, we were psycho enough to name our son "Charles Manson" or "Adolf," I'm sure there'd be some credibility issues if he grew up to be a doctor or a baker. At least with "Isamu," there's only the pressure of making sure his girlfriends have memorable eyebrows.

Besides, I'm certain between my mother and the Air Head, Zuki there's no Western name that would've passed the test. The other day, Zuki announced the song he was humming was by Man Jackson.

Who the heck is Man Jackson?

"You know, he has those weird eyes - Daddy likes him."

"Zuki...that's Marilyn Manson."

And my mother, with her Paul Macatoni.

Who the heck is Paul Macatoni?


"He's in the Beatles!"

"That's McCartney. Paul Ma-CART-ney, ma."

She doesn't care. She's not a Beatles fan. Her love is for the King. That's why she was tickled pink when she found out Isamu's friend had a daddy named Elvis. She is the type of person, by the way, who expects a person named Elvis to look and sound like the King - obviously, she's unaware of the one with the last name Costello.

A Boy Named Sue

Men think they're so cute.

Whenever our four-year old talked about his friend, Luca (spelled with a c), my husband would ask, "Does he live on the second floor?"

I don't blame you for not getting his joke. Perhaps it's a generation-gap-thing but most likely, it's his wry sense of humor. Our four-year old, obviously, didn't get it. I explained to him that "Luka," was a song by Suzanne Vega that was a hit in the 80's. I sang him the first line, "my name is Luka - I live on the second floor".

A few days later our four-year old came home to tell me, "Mommy, Luca doesn't live on the second floor, he lives on the third floor."

I hung my head in despair. "Did you actually ask him?"

"Yeah, Mommy and he said he doesn't live on the second floor - he lives on the third floor."

I told Daddy what he had instigated. He took a step back in disbelief but deep down inside, he was elated. Of course, why shouldn't he be? He manifested his sarcasm through his four-year old son - that's something Satan would do.

Maybe comparing him to Satan is too much but as a newbie dad, he thought it was a good idea to blast Marilyn Manson, Tool or Metallica to get the baby to sleep. Much to my chagrin, it worked. Did I comb through the baby's hair searching for the 666 mark? You bechya!

The apple does not fall far from the tree.

So when our doctor prescribed the four-year old an inhaler for his cough I got a little worried. I wasn't worried about his asthmatic symptoms like a normal mom would be. And it's probably what I should write for appearances. The truth was, I thought about my husband...you know, Satan.

Sure enough, he confirmed what I knew he would think. "It's a bong, man...."

I was perturbed to the point of amusement as I watched the little guy press the pediatric mask against his nose like Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet.

The little guy loves Inhaler Time. He loves Lego's and Star Wars and can't go anywhere without a toy or two in his pocket. Just like Daddy...you know, Satan.

And when it comes to getting a shot, the little guy turns into the Exorcist. It's why I had to split up the four he was supposed to get at his last check up.

"You should prepare him, like talk to him about it before he comes." The good doctor said over the phone.

Prepare him for four shots? Talk to him about the sting of stabbing needles and the burn of whatever-it-is the doctor's pumping into him? How 'bout I rename him Jimi Hendrix. That might be easier. Because a few paragraphs ago, I was thinking about renaming him Damien.