I’m madder than former Olympic swimmer Misty Hyman after her first anatomy lesson as a kid over the fact that we are given names by people we don’t even know and then are stuck with them no matter how terrible the consequences!
Look, you all know the ol’Screecher is as much in love with myself — and my name — as I am with my lovely wife Sharon, and even if I wasn’t, I have the coolest alter ego this side of Captain Chaos — Diego Vega! Don’t believe me? E-mail me at diego
But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad for all the people out there who aren’t as blessed with a great name like myself. Take, for instance, my old swimming buddy Frank, who told me that when he immigrated here from the old country and the immigration officer asked him his name, he told him what it was: “Franz.”
“ ‘Franz?’ the guy said. “We don’t use that name here in America. Here, you’re ‘Frank.’ ”
And that’s what he has been ever since, like it or not!
I guess those old civil servants weren’t so civil after all, and I’ve been told that Frank wasn’t the only guy that happened to. Apparently, there are hundreds of misnamed all across America because of those guys’ ignorance.
The name Don Corleone is complete fiction. As is Franz Liszt, who composed of the Hungarian Rhapsody and collaborated with Robert Schumann on many classical pieces including my personal favorite, “Ave Maria.”
Heck, for all I know Schumann’s name is wrong!
Well, so much for “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, your wretched refuse from your teeming shores, send these the homeless tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”
It should end with “Oh, and we’ll name them whatever we please!”
That brings me to my latest revelation that I had in the middle of the night while thinking about food.
What would have happened if Pope Francis instead took the name Pope John?
As you and I both know, all Italian people — American or otherwise — refer to the Pope as “Papa.” So in the case of the Pope that visited this week, it would be “Papa Francis.”
Now, what if his name was Pope John?
You see where I’m going with this yet?
No? Okay, let me break it down for you a little more.
They would call him “Papa John!”
And as you all know, the commercial tie-ins with such a name would be great for a certain purveyor of pizza!
Papa John’s owner would be richer than The Donald and corner the globe selling pepperoni pizza and breadsticks faster than he could meet the demand, forcing him to contract with UPS and Fed Ex to deliver. Could you imagine him having the Sistine Chapels “Last Supper,” repainted with Judas serving Pizza?
There’s no end as to what you could accomplish with unlimited millions.
Now, on to some real news.
Councilmen Mark Tryeger will be hosting the Mermaid Avenue and W. 17th Street Street Naming Ceremony honoring my whistle-blowing colleague and co-page Brooklyn Graphic columnist Lou Powsner this Saturday, Sept. 26 at 11 am.
Now I didn’t mean the term “whistle-blowing” to be demeaning, because Lou always carried a police whistle like the one the girl used at the end of “Titantic” and was credited with stopping more crimes because of it. His had a penchant for always helping the downtrodden and was a World War II bombardier that served his country proudly and, until a few years ago, always went to every reunion until his buddies were all gone. Lou Powsner, historian, shopkeeper, columnist, loving and devoted husband, father, grandfather, and protector of the communities, borough, and city he served tirelessly.
He was active with the Kings Highway Board of Trade, Bensonhurst West End Community Council, Community Board 13 and a list too numerous to name. The best friend you could ever have or want. Lou spent countless hours speaking up for community causes and battles at many public hearings, and with his memory functioning as a computer, remembered time, date, incident, and the procrastinates involved bucking him. He was not one to match wits or words with — you were bound to lose.
Lou loved, worked, and lived in Coney Island, and will always be remembered by those who had the privilege of knowing him.
Miss you, Lou!
Screech at you next week!
