So the other day at lunch, I had occasion to walk up on a group of male Trumbullites discussing names for their future daughters. Because I’ve rarely met a conversation I didn’t like (Sidebar 1: That’s actually not true. I constantly hear conversations that make me want to rend my clothes and gnash my teeth), I weighed in with the name I would require my baby’s mother to agree with — Corrine. Upon hearing this, a female Trumbullite at the table put down her tuna fish sandwich or some such victual, and matter-of-factly informed me that Corrine was a slutty name, just a slutty version of Karen.

I was dumbfounded. First of all, I was flabbergasted at this peanut gallery chirping — she and I had maybe said, “Do you mind passing the pepper?” before — and secondly, she had the audacity to cast aspersions on the good name of my unborn daughter. My Corrine? A slut? No sir, NO. My Corrine is a rather affable child; precocious with even-toned skin and hair that smells of Just For Me and is fastened with multicolored barrettes. My little girl is no one’s harlot. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to have a little girl anyway (insert: double finger cross), but on the outside chance that such a thing should occur, a streetwalker she will not be. Why? Because her name says so.

Not too long ago, I had to borrow a book from the Intercontinental Champ. When I retrieved said literature, I noticed the author’s name was R. Douglas such and such, which was interesting because the five-page skimmer due the next day in “Japan Before White People Showed Up With Cannons” was also by a Douglas. This bevy of Douglae (Latin for the thugs) prove my point. What point you ask? Well, infidel, it proves that certain names just predispose you to certain walks of life. If you’re a Douglas, you’re supposed to write textbooks, especially if you use your first initial. You can’t be L. David Worthington and work at Kinko’s. It just doesn’t work. If your name is Quadry Ishmail, you are supposed to be fast and return kicks at a high rate of speed in exchange for monetary compensation and (white) women. I didn’t make the rules. I mean, some people slip through the cracks, Denzel Washington being one of them. He’s one of the most charismatic screen presences in history, but he could also have been a hairdresser in Chelsea, so there you have it.

I used to wonder why Black Americans seemed to be more uniquely named or nicknamed than other people (Sidebar 2: Here I’ll dare to hazard a distinction between Black people because, believe it or not, some Black people in America have not been in America for several generations. To say it more plain, some people are named Dimeji, Andom, Kelechi, Nafkote or Chinenye because those are fairly common names in a culture with which these individuals identify and not some new-age attempt at creativity. These are not the Black Americans of whom I speak). Though I don’t have empirical evidence, I think it’s because, outside of speaking to certain personal experiences or relationships, these names or nicknames are a solid and easy way to be interesting and memorable. And I can vouch for that in an indirect way I guess, because, with the number of Kates, Laurens, Kristens, Mikes, Andrews and Matts I meet in this place, it’s very hard to keep up and, indeed, often retracts from someone’s interesting factor (Sidebar 3: I’m terrible at remembering names, and thus believe that if you didn’t say or do something to make me remember you — it seriously doesn’t have to be something outrageous, just something — it’s your fault for not being memorable). Now you could argue that I don’t have an interesting first name — though I always maintain you could guess it, like one might guess Omar in Algeria or Nigel in Jamaica — but you can’t argue that the various combinations provided by my given appellation is anything short of epic. I count over a dozen permutations that have been used since 1984. A dozen.

It’s really simple mathematics. If a dude introduces himself as DeVon, Quavé, DeShanté or Rhasaan, I’m going to have an easier time remembering (and so will you if you don’t avert your eyes in fear). If a young lady is Jesyka, Tameka, Sharifa or Aisha, I’m going to have an easier time remembering that, too. If you’re not memorably nomered, you’ve got to bring a little more to the table. And before you tell me, “Jon, it’s not my fault. White/ Japanese/ Bulgarian/ Bengali folks can’t do that,” let me tell you, I’ve got a buddy nicknamed Tap who introduces himself that way, and we drink beers and eat pizza when he’s not being a sick laxer. One of the more epic dudes I know.

Frankly, I feel I owe it to little Corrine to give her a name that’s sort of unique without being absurd. I mean honestly, how many Corrines do you know? I can’t imagine it being more than three. It’s just a solid and memorable name. And heaven forbid we start talking about the stellar middle names Corrine’s going to have (Sidebar 4: In case you’re keeping score at home, my seeds will all have the last name Pitts-Wiley, mainly because you just can’t tack onto a hyphenation. Pitts-Wiley-Crenshaw? The mere idea is basically ridiculous and patently offensive). The kid’s coming out of the womb set up like gangbusters because daddy’s gonna give her a nice little combo that will, at least, start her on the road to fame and prestige. Think about it: There are plenty of famous people who have names that are suited for it. Lennox Lewis HAD to be a Black heavyweight champion with a British accent. There was no real way around this.

Since I haven’t yet procreated, one of my favorite hobbies — along with sewing — is to give people I didn’t help bring into the world nicknames. I couldn’t tell you why I enjoy it so much, but I do. Maybe it’s some deep psychological thing about man’s desire to have or identify with an alter ego, or maybe I find it exceedingly hilarious to refer to people as Pound Cake, Desert Storm or my personal best, which I doubt I’ll ever top, Steve Biko. I’ve found it’s a thing you can’t force; if a name’s not natural, it won’t float. Time and experience dictate names; I just try to be clever.

There’s a certain power in names; they’re able to tell a story or frame a particular time of life. I guess for me it’s about shedding a little light on another person and my relationship with them. A good nickname makes me smile and think of jokes made in questionable taste, broken-up parties, chillin’ on the Saybrook stoop and senior room draw fiascos with country-ass Southerners. Names are my bookmarks. For me, a name is about respect and admiration. If you get a nickname, that’s me tipping the cap to you in the best way I know how (unless of course I don’t respect you enough to ever utter your given name, but three out of however many ain’t bad, right?). Peace to The Last Real ****** Alive.

Penultimate Thought: Ribs at franchise restaurants are often terrible.

Final Thought: There is NO REASON AT ALL to buy entrees at Hot Tomato’s. And the garlic bread fell off too.

Jon Pitts-Wiley is convinced he’s not going to have a daughter. News flash Mr. Pitts-Wiley, it’s not up to you. You’d better start kissing up to Mamma Nature now.