FFWD Weekly
Copyright © 1997. All Rights Reserved.
Naming excesses
Narcissistic parents scarring children with abusive monikers
by Nick DevlinIt's more than a squeeze ironic that INXS's last single was prophetically entitled "Don't Lose Your Head." Last Friday night, in a neat and tidy luxury suite overlooking the loveliest city in the Southern Hemisphere Michael Hutchence tied Mr. Curly, made a final phone call and tried to pop his off.
Since then, the requisite number of rumors to qualify this as a full-fledged celebrity suicide have swirled across the Pacific like the winds of El Niño. Some say it was drugs. Some theorize that he suddenly sobered to the realization that he had actually dumped (supermodel) Helena Christiansen for (super skank) Paula Yates. Still others postulate that Mister (I'm better than Oasis) Rockstar was driven to self-terminatation by the languid (it's not that we're losing our popularity, it's just that our appeal is getting more selective) sales of their latest album.
Personally, I don't buy any of it. As far as my idly inappropriate and morbid speculation is concerned, Michael Hutchence offed himself out of guilt. Guilt for having named his child Heavenly Hirani Tiger Lilly. Truly, a more decadent act of sadistic narcisism has never been committed. At least Frank Zappa could blame chemicals for his little nomenclatural faux pas ("Moon Unit" and "Dweezle").
No number of Christmas ponies or inherited millions can ever compensate for the trauma inflicted upon an innocent child by unthinking parents who, in a moment of narcoleptic stupidity, scar them with a moniker like that. James. David. Lisa. Lori. There are so many normal, solid, elegantly functional names out there.
Naming your dog Mr. Couchy Coucy Smookums Twilliger might be a sign of latent schizophrenia and prolonged sexual frustration, but it won't hurt anyone. Other dogs will still sniff his ass in the park without cat-calling cruel taunts. Children are not so kind. Take every zit, wet-willy and pubescent voice crackle you can imagine, then add the injury of a name like Zowie Bowie.
It's child abuse. And it should be stopped. The state will step in if you beat your child, or leave them locked in the car at K-Mart, or show them Pee-Wee Herman's home movies. So it should be. The law says you can't microwave your cat and you certainly shouldn't be able to name your baby Dick Assman either.
Were Seymour Butts or Rob Banks really necessary? Please, folks, let's give this a moment's thought - your poor brat's whole life's at stake here.
No Charity Peace Smith or Vladimir Mao Jones. Social movements should stay on the streets and off birth certificates. Leave geology in the mountains and take a pass on Stone, River and Brooke. Foods are right outta there, too. "Hi mom, this is my fiancé, Peaces Honeydew McAllister.
And no Myrtle or Philomene either, notwithstanding that these were lovely and respectable names at the turn of the century. Times change and you've gotta roll with the punches. Retro might be fine on your poly-clad behind, but don't swaddle your babes in it.
So if all those nasty rumors about sexual asphyxia are untrue, let this be a warning to the potential parents of the world: if you are suddenly seized by an overpowering urge to christen your newborn bundle of joy Astral Bounty Blossom Sunshine Dahlias Viriginity Marie, just don't.
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