What's in a Name When Your Name is Perry?

Perry & the Sweater               ZZZZZZZZZ                      Great Caesar's Ghost!  

What’s in a name when your name is “Perry?”

After all these years I’m not really sure.

True, there's nothing terribly wrong with the name Perry, aside from the fact that the folks who bear it are few and far between. Yet I’ve always liked my name about as much as I like the smell of five day old fish.

How come?

As a kid in my 1950’s Philadelphia Jewish suburban world, I knew no other Perrys. I alone epitomized the name. And as its sole epitomizer, I was hardly doing it justice

I was not athletic. I was routinely picked last in gym class and then promptly placed on waivers. I was also painfully shy. Speaking up in class might as well have been speaking up to negotiate the Cuban Missile Crisis. The only time I raised my hand was when I had to go to the bathroom.

Nor was I popular. In Junior High School I was President  of the "Clapping Out Erasers Club." Later in High School I was voted "Most Likely to Be Home Watching the Wild Wild West on Prom Night." 

Thus my concept of “Perry” was someone with all the qualities I disliked in myself.  And the only other Perrys I knew were fictional or on TV. 

And lame.

Although he had his own catchphrase - "Great Caesar's Ghost!"- Daily Planet editor Perry White was the only principal character in the Superman legend never to get his own comic book.

As played by actor Raymond Burr, Perry Mason was one of the TV’s most boring characters, a burly middle aged barrister who wasn't funny, didn't duke it out with bad guys, and only hung with women if they were wrongly accused of  committing murder.

Then there was a laid back crooner with a personality like a carp whose greatest talent seemed to be the ability to mask his blandness with a closet full of red cardigan sweaters. His name was Perry Como. 

And let's not forget one of the murderers in the book and movie In Cold Blood. His name? Yep, Perry Smith.

Later as an adult I did briefly get to know another Perry. And I found myself baffled by something that any Tom, Dick, or Harry had been doing all their lives.

“Hello, Pouie,” I sputtered over the phone the first time I called “Other Perry.”

I found myself unable to ascribe to another human being the name I’d always felt saddled with, but which I’d also come to feel I owned.  For better or worse, not only did I epitomize the name, I had now become the:

"One True Perry!"

But then a curious thing happened.

Some people I'd meet began to tell me they actually liked my name:

"Perry! That's kind of unusual, and kind of cool!"

"Has a friendly sound to it, Perry does.  Names ending in "ry” always do."

"Not many people named Perry. Makes you special!"

There also began to appear a few Perrys more pleasing than the humble Perrys of the past. Despite our shared Perry personas, rocker Perry Farrell, actor Perry King, and designer Perry Ellis all  presented a better and more positive image to me in terms of talents, personality, and achievements than the Perrys of yore.

So maybe I'm not the "one true Perry" after all. Nor should I be limited by stale self-images of who a Perry ought to be.

So what's in a name?  

If it's your name, it's all about what you think of yourself. I'm trying to start thinking of Perry - my name and me - in a good way.  

I think Pouie would be pleased.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

More Palpably Pleasing Perrys

When Perry Doesn't Know Your Name

Excuse me if I've forgotten your name.

I'm terrible with names.

Always have been.  And it's been quite a challenge going through life referring to co-workers, friends, and the women I've been married to as "Hey, you!"   

When I meet a new person I'm always hoping to make a good impression. I plump up my hair, wipe the crud off the corners of my mouth, and desperately strive for a rakish smile instead of my normal goofy one.

And then I say "Hi, my name is Perry Block, nice to meet you."

And the other person says "Hello, happy to meet you too. I’m Blabble Blabble."

The problem is I have so focused my attention on not coming off like an idiot that I have completely missed the critical Official Presentation of my new acquaintance's name. 

Thereafter I am terrified to encounter this person. Should I spot them in public, I dart across the street, hide behind a mailbox, or move to Australia.

If I can’t avoid talking with them, I produce a muttered greeting and rapidly excuse myself as being late for yoga, which I only started this year but have been using as my all-purpose excuse since 1974.

Sometimes I catch a break.  The person I’ve just met is one of those folks who loves to tell long stories and pepper them from start to finish with rampant over usage of their own name:

“So Ralph says to me ‘Joan, I have a question.  Joan, what would you do about this?  Joan, how would you handle it? I’m counting on you, Joan.  Joan … Joan … Joan! Guess what, Joan? I forgot my question!”

After this level of overkill I’m not sure if I should call this person “Joan” or “Annoying Narcissist from Hell.”

Several weeks ago at a cousin’s Bar Mitzvah I was introduced to a woman in the receiving line. Two minutes later I realized that I had forgotten her name. 

An hour later I saw her at the bar.

Should I just ask her name?  But then she’ll know I wasn’t paying attention when we first met.

What if she throws a drink in my face? 

What if it’s scotch and I’ve been drinking gin all afternoon?

“Hello again,” I said.

“Oh, hi!" she said brightly. "I was just trying to remember your name.”

It’s Perry,” I replied, totally relieved and doing a quick double-check of my hair, mouth, and smile.

“Sure, Perry! Nice to see you again.  I’m Blabble Blabble.”

Oh crap.

Did it again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But What The Heck Is It Called (Part II)

By now you know this is called the philtrum. 

 It's how you learned that word that is our topic for today.

Almost each and every day in every aspect of our lives we encounter certain things and certain behaviors with which we are oh-so-familiar. We've been doing 'em, partaking of 'em, and annoyed as hell by 'em almost from birth. 

But what the heck are they called? 

1) Contractors Never Showing UP 

At some time or other we've all hired a contractor to do work at our homes. Perhaps he or she has been hired to do some small repairs, a bit of painting, or even add a mighty deck to your humble abode.  Now comes the appointed date and time for the contractor to commence the work.

Do you know where your contractor is?

I've had contractors by their absence stretch out jobs that should have taken minutes into entire life cycles. I've had contractors fail to show as planned and never be heard from again. I believe there is a "Bermuda TriContractor" into which contractors regularly vanish which looks something like this*:

  Contractor’s Home _________________  Your Home

                         \                                    /

                          \                                 /

                           \                               /

                            \                            /

                             \                          /

                              \                        /

                               \                      /

                                \                    /

                                 \                  /

                                  \                /

                                   \              /

                                    \            /     

                                     \          /  

                                      \        /                              

                          Contractor’s Other Clients

A contractor missing in action is something with which we are all familiar. It must have a name.

But what the heck is it called?  

2)  The Rite by Which You Learned the Word "Philtrum"

By now, you know that the odd indentation between the bottom of your nose and the top of your mouth is called a philtrum. You know this because relatively late in life you happened to chance upon a person with an indentation so pronounced that he could store enough grain within its confines to get him through a particularly virulent winter.

This prompted you to stick your index finger into you own such indentation and feel it thoughtfully, hoping it was not large enough to store grain for even a mild winter and also wondering how you were 37 years old and didn't even know the name of a facial feature that was as much a part of your face as your eyes, nose, and mouth!

This time-honored rite of learning the word "philtrum" is common to all of humanity. It must have a name.

But what the heck is it called? 

3) The Hand Wave/Scratch

I've written about this before. You wave at someone you think you know, determine thereafter that that he or she is a total stranger, and then feel as embarrassed as the person who finds he has mustard on his face just after addressing a session of the U.N. General Assembly.

It doesn’t matter if you are President of the United States or just an ordinary schlub like you and me. How to save the moment?

You take your hand, still aloft from the initial wave, and scratch the top of your head.  True, it is an imperfect fix to the situation, but it is the best that humankind has devised in all the history of recorded time. Of course the other person in truth is paying absolutely no attention to you at all because to him you are just an ordinary schlub, whether you are just an ordinary schlub like you and me or the President of the United States.

This maneuver is one you have executed more times than you’d care to remember.  It must have a name.

But what the heck is it called? 

4) The Dopey Humor Blog Post

You see them all the time on the internet, especially here in this blog. Silly posts essentially about nothing at all but padded out to a respectable 500 words or so such that even though they are not at all funny they present the "trappings" of funny.  A total waste of everyone's time.

They must have a name. 

But what the heck are they called?

Blog Filler.

This one we knew.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*with apologies for lack of technical ability

But What The Heck Is It Called?

Yep, there's a word for this, all right.

I just did that thing again, this time in the supermarket. Except for the extra added attraction of shopping carts, it was the same bizarre maneuver as always, the one in which we all participate from time to time all throughout our lives. 

But what the heck is it called?

You know how it goes.  

You're walking down a hallway, aisle, runway, or any space where the act of walking down is essential and inherent when suddenly facing you and approaching in the opposite direction is another individual of the self-same human species. He or she is walking directly in line with your intended trajectory and is proceeding rapidly toward you.

Sensing that there is a conflict of time and space, you both stop. The two of you are now facing each other like gunfighters in the old West.  What now to do to avoid the approaching collision?  

You move to the right.  He or she moves to the right. You move to the left. He or she moves to the left. You move to the right again. He or she moves to the right again. You move to the left, then to the right, then to the left; he or she moves to the left, then to the right, then to the left (take a breath, Perry!) ... and so on and so forth!

You have never been so in sync with another human being's instincts and movements without having sex with them. For a moment you contemplate spending the rest of your life here, locked in perpetual back and forth motion.

At that moment the two of you look at each other and smile.  You both think: "We just did that thing again. But what the heck is it called?" 

Then the quickest and ablest of the two of you makes a split-second move to one side - right or left - secures right of way, and both of you are finally able to move on and out of each other's lives.  

We have all executed this maneuver on multiple occasions.  It is performed millions of times each year all throughout the world, even if we don't count the red states.  It doesn't matter if you are an oafish clod or the most coordinated athlete in the world. If you've ever seen two gymnasts execute the act, they usually wind up screwing themselves half into the ground before they find a way to eventually get past one other.

But what is this maneuver called?  How could it not have a name? 

The English language has seen fit to bestow words upon almost everything on the planet. We have a name for the indentation below the nose and above the lip even though no one knows what it is (see above).  There are names for all kinds of obscure phobias, like Omphalophobia (fear of navels), Chaetophobia (fear of hair; I fear not having it!), and Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia (fear of the number 666) which by the time you pronounce it, the Anti-Christ has already come.

And there are words to describe bizarre diseases that almost no one has ever had, like Pica (a voracious appetite for paint, clay, plaster or dirt), Palastaie Limosae (mud wrestling disease), and Foreign Accent Syndrome (something all of us could have used in high school French.)

But there is apparently no name for the unintentionally synchronized maneuver in which two people routinely indulge in an ineffectual effort to get themselves out of each other's way.  

Can you suggest a name?  You may not think it's important today, but just wait another month or two.

"I just did that thing again," you'll be thinking. 

"But what the heck is it called?" 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Semi-Importance of Being Perry

            

      




Mr. Mason                                        Mr. Farrell                       

    

All my life I’ve had a love-hate relationship with, of all things, my own name.

To be more precise, my relationship with my name is about ¼ love and ¾ hate, and the “love” is more on the order of “like” similar to the manner in which you “like” a comment on Facebook primarily because it has no misspellings.

Now you might think I have an archaic moniker like Bartholomew, an androgynous one such as Skyler, a back-to-the-garden 60’s name like Moon Glow, or an aberrant flight of parental reason like Melrose.

But you’d be wrong.

My name is Perry.

Chances are you don’t even know a Perry.  If you’re of a certain age, your perception of Perry comes from either:

• Perry Como, crooner of the 1950’s whose mellow song stylings brought new dimensions to the word “comatose;”

• Perry Mason, the fictional attorney who never lost a case as personified by the grim, porky, and generally unappealing actor Raymond Burr, whose best role was opposite Godzilla; or

• Perry White, Clark Kent’s 'Great Caesar’s Ghost' spouting editor, the man who holds the distinction of being the only nonessential character ever woven into the entire Superman legend and the only one never to get his own comic book.

If you’re a bit younger, you may know rocker Perry Farrell, actor Perry King, or designer Perry Ellis.  But frankly if you held a convention of Perrys you could fit them all in a Hampton Inn and still have room for a Starving Artists' Sale. If you took all the Perrys in the world and laid them end to end, they’d be thankful for the attention.

I myself have only known one other Perry.  And in that experience I learned that I am wholly unable to handle something that people named Jim and Bill and Bob and probably even Bartholomew each and every day negotiate with ease.

I cannot address another human being by the very name I’ve felt saddled with my entire life, but which I’ve also come to feel I own!

“Hello, umm,  Pouie ...”

I sputtered over the phone the first time I called Other Perry, slurring our communal name so badly it sounded like I was summoning a Pekingese for his nightly brushing and toenail clipping.

“I mean .... Hello, Perry!” I tried again, this time a bit more sprightly. “This is your namesake.”

Namesake?

To avoid saying “Hello, Perry, this is Perry,” I --- a person alive and breathing in 21st Century America --- actually uttered the word “namesake.” What would be next? Babbling to him to “leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for our namesake” as well?

Truth is, how we relate to our names oft does define our identities. Call your daughter Bertha and chances are by the time she’s 23 anyone lacking a full-blown death wish will opt for the stairs whenever she heads for the elevator.  Christen your daughter Tiffany or Angelique and odds are she’ll grow up to never even consider dating a Perry, let alone me. 

But when it comes to the Semi-importance of Being Perry, there's just no road map.  I don't know what a Perry is, what a Perry does, or what a Perry ought to be. I need some Perry pointers and fast!  

Other Perrys out there ---  if any there be --- can you help?  Please place a call to Philadelphia Perry.  Let's talk our Perryness.  Let's psych out our Perry personas.  If we exchange our Perry perceptions, we may yet achieve Perry Perfection

Or at least, Perry Passability. 

I promise not to call you Namesake.  As long as you promise not to call me Pouie!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

        






  Mr. White                     Mr. Platypus