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 In Japan, Isamu is so outdated that my cousin e-mailed me, "it's a good thing you live in America."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

Back In The Saddle

Two beers and half a falafel sandwich later, I'd say my food poisoning gig is just about over. I'm - in the words of Aerosmith - Back In The Saddle Again. And not a day sooner, because I just about had it with my family trying to be nice to me. What with my three-year-old whining that if I don't give him an ice cream sandwich for breakfast now, then he might never get one tomorrow because I might be DEAD. Or my five-year-old storming into my bedroom at 4:15am to see if I'm alive and finally my husband asking how the rest of my plumbing is doing. Enough is enough.

The whole day while I was laid out on my day bed, I had to listen to my stomach gurgling something that could only be described as the synth riff to Elvis Costello's "Pump It Up".  I did everything to avoid thinking about food. But I was starving - I mean Ethiopian starving. Only whenever I thought about what to eat all I could picture was a slimy piece of salmon and then my stomach would start playing Elvis Costello again.

So I diverted my thoughts to the original Elvis and wondered how he could've survived under today's media scrutinizing eye bloating up as he did. I mean Kirstie Ally made a show out of it because every other actress is bordering on anorexia and they don't even pay any respect to the original starlet who made anorexia cool: Miss Karen Carpenter - Helloooowwww?

But it wasn't Karen's fault. That was the seventies fer ya. Back then, everybody smoked and did drugs - nobody ate. Well, except for Elvis. And as far as my memory can gather, nobody fed their kids either. My mother included. That could explain my mother's comments. Not her harping on how to properly prepare salmon for an hour despite the fact that I told her that the word itself actually nauseated me. Not her telling me that my cooking was geared more for bar crawling stragglers and that I'd best stick to meat and potatoes rather than "try my hand" at seafood. Again, nauseating me to no end.

No, it was the remark after all was said and done, the typical Aquarian remark that's soooo left field: Oh, you're looking svelt now. You must try to keep that figure!

Err, thanks, Ma. You always know how to put things in perspective.