I had lunch with my minor buddy and we walked to get coffee, trying on sunglasses, gossiping about work. We ran into another friend of mine from a different club. I introduced them to each other as [Stage name] and [Stage name] and as we walked away MB, who has one of those improbable stripper names, said,
“You can introduce me as [Real name], you know.”
“Habit!” I apologized. “I will next time.”
“I’m thinking about changing it to something more realistic, but it’s to cut down on the amount of stupid conversation I hafta engage in every night. ‘That’s not your real name what’s your real name. ”No, that’s clearly not a real name, there’s no effort at realism, and that’s cause I’m not gonna tell you my real name, motherfucker.”
“Did that work?”
“Yeah, here neither. Or they don’t hear it, and then they want to argue. And you’d think they could let it go, like ‘Red hair red lips red nails, she likes red, she probably just told me her name was Red.’ But no. Half the time they ask me ‘Bread? Fred? Dread? Rad? But your parents didn’t name you that.’ Actually they did and it’s short for Commie Pinko Redd.”
“And then they want to know why, and where you grew up, then they’re off to ask about your pets or your grade school teacher’s name or whatever, it’s like, are you trying to get clues about my password?”
I snorted coffee through my nose and gagged, spit it out.
“Did you read Kat’s post about how if she doesn’t redirect the conversation it would end up at the moment of her conception?”
“No, but now I have to.”
I can’t sleep. Apparently there are people who sleep the whole night through and that sounds really nice for them and I’m jealous. On the plus side of still being awake at 7am, I can walk my dogs in pajamas and look reasonable. Unlike when I do the same thing at 1pm.
I’m spacing out, staring at the wall waiting to pay my stage when something jumps out at me.
“is that real? Is that a typo?”
“is there really a girl going by —–? Like that’s not a typo?”
“—–?” another girl echoes, and comes over to look.
“No, it’s real,” someone says authoritatively. “she does mids mostly?”
I’m caught on someone naming themselves —–. I understand the desire to affiliate with luxury items, at various times I’ve felt (but not acted on) the impulse to call myself both Balenciaga and more recently Lamborghini. But, “That’s not like… Lexus or Porsche or Mercedes, that’s like, Auto.”
“It’s weird right?” another girl adds. “Plus, i was like, you might as well name yourself Genocide.”
Silence while the rest of us try to figure this one out.
Then it clicks. “oh no! That’s —–, she’s spelling this ‘—–‘. but yeah —–, maybe not a great name.”
“I worked with a Jezebel.”
“Climax. With an x x x.”
The list of questionable names is endless. We run through some more before deciding,
“—– isn’t the worst name.”
“No, definitely not.”
1-There’s a new model that looks like the Bat Mobile that makes my heart hurt with the need to drive it.