Gimme Shelter: The name game
What’s in a name? To start, stories.
A newspaper once assigned me to find the worst comic on Long Island — don’t ask — and I turned up Glen Anthony. Glen is miles from the worst but he just might be the busiest.
He greeted me in a small alcove off the dining room — a baronial-manor theme with a two-ton table and high-backed chairs — in his spotless Smithtown house.
Think of Dudley Moore on his worst day. Add a marble-mouthed riff with echoes of Brooklyn, a black-and-white jumpsuit, sneakers and a particularly aggressive cologne.
Glen was christened Enrico Ponzini. He started out as a crooner, but when he was beginning to get some bookings, an agent told him, “If I say I got a singer here named Enrico Ponzini, it’s strictly Sons of Italy shows.”
Glen struggled to craft a killer show biz moniker. “I always wanted a short name,” he said.
Brad, Cliff, Derek and Scott were tried on, but didn’t suit. “I picked Glen,” he told me. “Anthony’s my father’s name. Glen Anthony. I know, I know, very mayonnaise.”
Leaving the singing to Jerry Vale and Al Martini, Glen became a comedian, playing everywhere they’d let him; clubs, bars, weddings, bar mitzvahs, firehouse stag parties and local comedy clubs, where he came up with yet another stage name. “I just developed it, great name, greatest name you’ll ever hear,” he said. “You ready? Eric …” he paused. “Moneynipple.”
All that was missing was the cymbal crash.
No fool, he was taking out bomb insurance — at least he’d have one laugh at the top of the show when the emcee introduced him. But Glen also said, “I just feel funnier with Eric.”
Which is a point about name changes — it changes how people perceive you, but more importantly, it changes the way you see yourself.
Headline writers received a gift from basketball player Metta World Peace — aka Ron Artest — when he was suspended by the NBA a couple of seasons ago for fighting. A few newsroom layups included: “No World Peace For A Week,” and “Peace Out.”
Or, topping an opinion piece: “World Peace Should Be Banned.”
Muhammad Ali takes the best athlete name-change award because he did it to honor a commitment to something that changed his life, and not, like Mr. World Peace, as an attempt to rebrand a sociopath.
Commitment, because the self-described “pretty” Ali had to abandon a name pretty close to perfect for the personality. Listen to the sound of Cassius Marcellus Clay, a mellifluous handle befitting a heavyweight who could float, and eerily like his Shakespearean namesake, who Julius Caesar observes: “Cassius has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.”
Down the centuries Juliet has been praised for observing a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. But would Cary Grant be as debonair if he was billed as Archibald Leach, or John Wayne as macho as Marion Robert Morrison?
Reg Dwight or Elton John? I don’t see the difference.
If Jennifer Anniston had taken her father’s original name and was Jennifer Anastassakis, would she be as foxy? Yes. Maybe more so. And Tim Allen is a real upgrade over Tim Dick.
It’s easy to legally change your name. In New York, just petition State Supreme Court supported by an affidavit that you’re not trying to duck criminal prosecution or beat creditors, and a judge will almost always grant your plea.
My friend, attorney John Ray, has represented clients ranging from those who hate their fathers to people whose identity has completely altered. In one of the first Long Island sex change/name change cases, John was in front of a judge who hadn’t been following the news, or much of anything else.
“I’m telling him she wants her name changed from Richard to Rachel, and he keeps asking me why,” John said.
The judge turned to the newly minted woman. “You’re a Richard, why would you want to be a Rachel?”
After given an explanation just shy of drawing a picture, the befuddled jurist finally got part of the idea, enough to gavel Rachel into being. “Or it was time for his nap,” John said.
Some people decide they have the wrong name. Take Rebecca, a client of John’s who had a vision she was misnamed, and actually should be called Starburst. She found a judge who shared the validity of her hallucination.
Then there was the guy who was just embarrassed.
“He wanted to change his name because people were laughing at him,” John said. “He was an Italian guy named Bimbo, and really obese. He took an Irish name.”
This should illustrate the necessity for court reform. With the stroke of a judicial pen, Bimbo became just another fat Irish guy out there.
