Silliness . . by any other name.

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According to the blinking screen on my phone it is 2:29 AM. Which means she must have shown up, what, maybe 20 minutes ago? My ex-wife’s brother’s second wife. She wandered into a dream. Didn’t play a major role in the dream as I recall. But, of course, now that I’m awake the details of the dream have fled. Still, I can remember quite clearly what she looked like. Very pretty woman. A little Polynesian blood perhaps? I can even remember some details of her life, a few of which sent my then brother-in-law off to wife number three. Actually, now I’m not sure if he married number 3 - maybe not. My brother did, but did my then brother-in-law? Who knows? That’s not the point. You see, the problem is I cannot for the life of me remember my ex-wife's brother's number 2 wife's name.  Got the names of her two kids, who remain in touch with my children. I can even recall  the name of my ex-brother-in-law’s first wife. But ex-sister-in-law number two remains nameless.

You might think this would cause me to worry about my fading memory. No, that is not the issue at all! The real cause for concern is far more sinister and widespread. The issue is names. There are simply too many of them. Malthusian doomsday voices cry out about the impossible task of feeding the planet’s burgeoning billions. Feed them? First things first. How are we going to name them all? George Foreman, who famously named his four sons after himself- Georges I, II, III and IV - may have pointed us in the right direction. But even that is I fear, only buckets against the flood. The Hapsburgs tried it, the Catholic Church still does. So a few kings and Popes slipped by, but more kept appearing on the horizon, all needing names! Like the Super Bowl - where does it end? King George the 312th?  CCCXII? Pope Pius the 87th? LXXXVII?

Parents are already cracking under the strain. My class lists grow increasingly weird, evidence of desperate parents driven to Krogers in search of a name that will be unique in preschool. I understand the pressure. But Cheerios Huntington-Smythe? Really?

It is not a new phenomenon, I admit.  Freshman year, Kalamazoo College, circa 1968. A classmate and I presented an original one-act play in a local campus venue called The Black Spot.  Together we crafted the memorable line - “Name names now Norris near Nancy’s nice newly named nuisance.” Ah, they don’t write ‘em like that anymore.

The name of that co-author of my youth? Ah, yes. Ah, Clint. Clint something . . No, not, Eastwood. It will come to me.

4:20 AM. Anita! Her name was Anita

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