This is a constant source of glee to me when I am not pitching fits about how counter intuitive it is, but really, who came up with the mathematical ciphering that we use to discuss a pregnancy? Seriously, I haven't seen anyone go so far to obscure real understanding in the name of science since the Great and Mysterious Oz.
Right off the bat, what are we talking about? The way I see it, we've got a build-up to delivery on our hands. Due dates are not an exact science (believe me, this much I know!)but would not a count-down be more appropriate? Imagine the launch of a space shuttle or the dropping of the ball at Times Square on New Year's Eve going up instead of counting down. Didn't that suck?
Okay, OK. I know that the build up is the only way it worked in the past, but how many mommies (in the States, at least) schedule their delivery date to the 15-minute block in this day and age? Google it, people, I'm making a point about misleading jargon having no place in everyday communication... people can do whatever they want with their bodies!
It's not like it needs discussion at all. If you say it's the 40th week and I say it's really 38... that won't stop the world a'turnin', and it won't matter one bit to the so called unborn child, either. It's just that doctors talk to people about the babies they'll have in a way that clouds the a-ha! People don't even know it. I didn't. You see somebody with a belly bump, or hear that a friend is expecting and the knee-jerk utterance is, "How many weeks is it?" Then you hear the answer and by that time your mind is wandering in twenty-five thousand different directions.
So, here's what we know: we're talking about a pregnancy and weeks is the unit of analysis. Good. Now there is a little matter of Gestational Age (what doctors go by, and hence, what we all are using) and there's Embryonic Age. OK, no big deal. But what are you concerned with? I think the natural answer is that we are interested in the age of the baby. Isn't that what you're asking? Could you ever see yourself walking up to a woman and asking her, "So, um, when was the last time you menstruated? C'mon, c'mon, I'm talkin' to you here! When was your last period? Spit it out, sweetheart, when was it?!"
Hey, that's just rude!
But that's what doctors have us doing, you know? Gestational Age is the number of weeks since the beginning of the final menstrual cycle before conception, while Embryonic Age is the age of the embryo/fetus since conception. So, if we're gonna insist on using weeks to discuss pregnancy here's the formula: Let x equal the number of weeks of the pregnancy. If Gestational Age is x weeks, the age of the pregnancy is x-1, the Embryonic Age is x-2, and the actual age in terms of Embryonic age is x-3.
Um, where x is weeks,remember? Got it? Good! So, when we say we're in the 6th week... are you ready? That's what the doctors tell us and it means that fetus is 3 weeks past conception.
WHY, why, oh why?!
I'm just assuming that it's an inside joke by doctors to make each other crack up once we've left their offices. And I know doctors. I just spent a week with a doctor who'd attended the delivery of countless babies. One of my oldest friends, actually. I confided in him that I was nervous about my ability to hold it together during delivery and so I asked him what I could expect. Do a lot of fathers get woozy, do any of them pass out, should I expect a rush of heroic fervor, WHAT?!?
He told me a lot of moms poop during delivery! Thanks a lot, Doctor!
But there's more funky pregnancy math to unearth: Here, it's fun! Our favorite baby book puts it this way: "You can calculate your due date by counting 280 days from the first day of the bleeding of your last period" and it continues that you could also "count back three months from the date of your last period and add seven days" and then substitute the following year (obviously!) if the fisrt method isn't involved enough for you. Please bear in mind that only 5% of women will deliver "on their actual due date" when you undertake to begin these computations!
Awesome!
But before all this is an issue there's the pre-pregnancy math! For example, it seems so simple that one egg+ one sperm = one fertilization. And that narrative is vastly more common than any other fertilization scenario, although we've all heard of the outliers. What leads up to that coupling, however, is a pretty daunting presentation of numbers.
Let us hop right to it, then. If the pickle is a little girl in there, then she'd have more eggs now than any time in her future. That is to say that by 5 month gestational age, a femal fetus will have produced 6.8 million eggs. At the time of birth female babies will have only 2 million eggs. Don't ask me where they are going, either... obviously the overwhelming majority of babies are born pre pubescent (Benjamin Button, aside). But even so, by the onset of puberty, a female human will only have an average of 400 thousand eggs left, and that number (theoretically) should be decreasing at a rate of roughly one egg per 28 days. Now dudes, dudes on the other hand are playing an equally baffling numbers game that goes on its own weird ride from mind-boggling hugeness to that one + one = one outcome. Each male deposit (I know, I would've used 'serving' too if I were the original source of this material!) contains up to 350 million sperm. Every time, to a man, like clock-work. Right. And of that number, say 200 million may reach the fallopian tube where the egg is (it's a "don't take the wrong exit" scenario for our trepidatious little swimmers) and then I can only imagine they do "Scissors- Paper- Rock" for the honor of fertilization. I don't know, maybe they 'call' it at some point in the vas deferens.
The point is that we're talking about one pickle who ought to be delivered in a party store and immediately buy some lotto tickets. Go figure the odds: one egg of a possible 6.8 million joining up with one of (I mean countless!) sperm and then snap-crackle-pop, you know the rest, magic!
So there, we all know smart is sexy. And I think we've just used math to prove the converse as well... OK, class dismissed, quiz next Friday!
During Week 20 the pickle was about the size of a hollow, chocolate bunny nestled in a bed of shredded, green plastic grass and accompanied by hatchlings made of industrial mallow-goo and pastel sugar. Oh, pardon me, no. Excuse me. The pickle was in the 20th week of development for the Easter Holiday, and was roughly "five and two thirds to six and one half inches (14 to 16cm)" from crown to rump, according to Glade B. Curtis,M.D., M.P.H and Judith Schuler, M.S. the authors of Your Pregnancy, Week by Week. Man, they're getting more and more precise as the weeks go by, eh?
Yeah, Kasha and I went to Yang Shuo, in the Guilin province with our friend, Leslie to celebrate Easter. There were no jelly beans, no marshmallow peeps, and no chocolate. Notice I did not say no Bunnies. Look, you name it, we could've ate that! Imagine those fancy, fresh-catch joints you always see on the TV. Classical music wafts over the air while sophisticated diners eat buttered bread with the correct fork while your waiter motions toward the aquarium and asks sir and madame how many pounds will your lobster be tonight? Our experience was actually more like guys in stained shirts tried to block our progress as we scooted past sidewalk cafes with a collection of live critters trapped in kiddie pools. The point is, you could pick the individual you wanted to dine on. It wasn't lobster, niether. That would've been too predictable! We had the choice to eat fresh (read: squirming) turtle, snake, rat, weasel, chicken, duck, all manner of fish- eel- crab- snail, and yes... The Easter Bunny hisself! Yummy!
You can imagine the smell. Is that lemon-herb butter or did somebody go in their pants?
We went with a stew of tomato, beer and fresh water fish of questionable species and origin... but certainly very big and with just enough 'fight' left in him. Washed those down with sour-hot snails in a soup that contained the very first taste of lemon grass I've come across in Chinese cuisine since arriving here. I'm just saying.
It was a great place full of fun sights and interesting people from all corners of the globe. A bit rainy, but what do you want? It was nice enough for us to go on a five-miles bike ride punctuated with river rafting on traditional bamboo rafts. We learned that the characteristic 'round' mountains of this part of China (and to a lesser degree, Vietnam) were once deep unda da sea. "500 Million years ago," said our bike-guide. The rocks were washed smooth and round and eventually massive, prehistoric seismic activity drastically altered the topography of the area and produced a unique source of pride for the Chinese.
I'm searching, really reaching here, but it's sort of like the pickle's original fingertips forming in the 20th week. These features are genetically predetermined at the moment of conception but it is only in week 20 that the skin develops into the dermal and epidermal layers allowing the "fingerprints" and such to take shape. See? That wasn't so bad, a little history, a little biology, some food and religion. Reminds me of UuhD High!
Nowadays the pickle moves around in every possible sense. Over the past several weeks the "kicking" has increased in frequency and intensity, sure, but the pickle moves around in the transport sense more than anything else. It's hard to imagine a more mobile mama than Kasha for sure, but thinking about the pickle in all these locations starts to stagger the mind.
Week 1: Beijing China and the onset of Urban Mega- Metropolitan Winter. Desert-adjacent.
Week 4: Mid-Michigan, USA in the midst of a hundred-year blizzard. Froze-over Freshwater Ocean State.
Week 5: From balmy-Me-Ah-Me to the shores of every Caribbean Island. Tropical Paradise.
Week 6: Back in the P.R.C.
Week 10: Harbin Festival of Ice. Imagine Hell Frozen Over, now pound all your toes with a hammer and then get shamelessly mugged in the open by every person you encounter while a horse is euthanized in the streets of a city where your pasty skin and icicle-d beard earns you no other option than to be greeted in broken Chinese-Russian. No joke: Worst Place Ev-va.
Week 20: the Rounded Mountains and Meandering Lakes of Guilin. Start the day with Spelunking and finish it off with Beer Fish and River Snail Surprise!
Week 23: Motown via Tokyo, the Lego-land of the rising sun. Sub-zero-to tropical, mountain climbing and cave diving, urban/rural, rivers, lakes, oceans, planes, trains, taxis, busses, boats and bikes... the pickle gets around like pork flu!
I wonder what this says about the future. I mean (besides Canada, eh!) I never left the USA until I was 20 years old! In as many weeks, the Pickle has been to half a dozen countries all over the world. I say, keep on punchin', Pickle!
Look, it is kinda nerve-wracking to think of Kasha navigating international airports alone, that's just the truth. But they say that travel is inoculation against bigotry, and (besides DTaP Vaccine) there is no better vaccination I could imagine. Plus, it seems like travel is unlikely to require needles for at least a few more months. We'll see. Kasha, along with 300 of her travel compatriots, on arriving in Tokyo from Detroit, was held for nearly two hours while every person on board had their temperature taken by a team of doctors in haz-mat suits!
Hey, if it prevents one person from catching some microscopic no-good, I'm all in favor of it.
I have noticed something about when people ask you what you did the night before. I mean, we all talk about the fun activities of the previous night if we're excited about them (and they're socially decent conversation topics- you'd never openly boast about pulling off the perfect murder) whether or not our chatting partner has asked about it.
But there are cases when people actually do ask. And this happens if 1)you're lousy at conversation, 2)the asker knows what you've done and how it relates to what you've told them you were gonna do... this is especially problematic when both parties know that inclusion was decided against for whatever reason, and 3)you know that you really want to be asked about what you did rather than bringing it up yourself.
Case number one happens most often (and increasingly so since the passing of William F Buckley, Jr.) because not everyone is interested in conversation. Some are extra chatty and somehow hopelessly plain with the topics and syntax. Other people just ask and then don't listen because they ask all the same questions every time they have to speak. It happens everyday. Oh gosh, I always say, I was just sitting at home with my notebook and binoculars, but I was NOT planning the perfect murder!
Case number two should only be practiced by investigators or cross-examining lawyers, but sadly it often passes for keeping-in-touch between 'friends.' I think that we're in bad shape when we have doubts about our closest associates, but part of information control is riding the line between distortion (A-Okay!) and deceit (often a no-no) because the number of 'friends' who'd stick-out the relationship if they knew the precise nature of our every thought and action would diminish rapidly. And you wouldn't want to be friends with the loyalists who'd think it was just fine that you're a klepto who daydreams about diamond heists.
Case number three passes as polite rather than braggadocious. If you could just jump into the room all, "GUESS WHAT I DID!!!" and have people mirror your affected enthusiam like, "Gollllly, what could it be!?" then you wouldn't have to ask them first. As it is, you ask and hope they have the decency to answer concisely, sparing you the morbid details. When the hint is not grasped, here's a handy technique:
1) Ask "what'd you guys do last night, eh?" 2) Do not listen. 3) Nod and say "mm-hmm... uh-huh... neat" 4) Then start in on what you want to say whether or not their story has finished. It works every time!
Anyways- Yesterday night Kasha and I were just sitting at home watching Ghost Stories on the tube and turning left-overs into salads. We actually talked about the upcoming weekend weather and the possibility of rain. Next we were brainstorming what boxes we should use to store winter clothes. Ok... boring enough for you?
The point is that somebody was super excited. And that somebody was the pickle who kicked like a frog in a pond for half an hour while we sat and said, "there... there! There..." as if every repetition needed it's own announcement.
And man oh man! The pickle's first kicks made Cedar Point look like River Rouge! We were geeking out all over the place. Thinking about it after the fact did nothing to lessen the impact. I got a real bang out of it, and can recapture the moment (along with its accompanying joy) whenever I want to! It's like your first kiss on steroids.
But every new day rising spells the death knell of yesternight, and with the pickle as my new pinnacle of kicking, I've decided to lay to rest some celebrated kickers of days gone past.
JEAN CLAUDE VAN DAMME
This guy is to movie-climax, baddie-vanquishing, Pheonix-from-ashes round-house kicks-to-the-face what the Wright Brothers are to aviation. And he is also uniquely sensitive to the wider audience compared to your typical action hero. By "wider audience" I mean women, and by "uniquely sensitive" I mean he looks like all the guys you see in those topless fireman calendars and he has the good sense to put at least one scene where he does the splits in his tighty-whities per movie. I am serious. I have seen JCVD's ass more times than Tonto has seen Scout's!
BRUCE LEE
Here's one of the few guys on earth who I'd pay good money (I don't know, Euros maybe?) to kick me in the teeth. Just as long as he set his feet to stun. It's widely known that Bruce can vaporize his opponents with a single kick.
A TRIBE CALLED QUEST
Whereas the majority of folks on this list are being recognized for literal kicking, Tribe (Q-Tip, Fife Dawg, and Ali Shaheed Muhammed) have figurative kicking in common with the pickle. I mean, the pickle is moving about in there and we've chosen (as a culture) to refer to this as kicking. The Quest was known for kicking funky rhymes and popularising a black art form to huge white audiences with astonishing smash hit single that posed the eternal question: "Can I Kick It?"
Yes Ya Can!
PELE
How can you not be a fan of Pele? He's up there with Jordan and Mickey Mouse... except people outside of the US know what Mickey and Michael look like and I just found out about Pele ten seconds ago! Oh, so that's what he looks like! I kinda always figured he'd just walk around coddling a soccer ball all day. And I am not trying to say that Pele is Gay. No, that's not right. Alls I am saying is that Soccer is! Big difference.
STEVEN SEAGAL
Okay Okay, I understand that Aikido is a grappling martial art and has little to do with kicking. But watch what happens if you say "Martial Arts" to like 99% of white guys. We be kicking and say "Whooo-AHH!" Sure I've seen Steven Seagal kick a few times as well. Little know fact about MR Seagall: He was born in Lansing, Michigan. Also, isn't he cute with that freaking panda! Gawsh!
JASON HANSON
Sure he's Detroit Lion, and we all know they're in a building phase, but he's got an Iron Leg. I'll bet he's a fast driver too! I am impressed with a guy who after 18 years of survival in the debilitating National Football League was given a four year contract renewal. Other than Barry, name a Lion who's stats are as consistent. And really, he'd be putting up even more extra point kicks if the Lions were able to score TDs.
CHUCK NORRIS
Last but not least, it's Chuck Norris. Actually, he is least. I've never seen any of his films and would rather get dental work done than watch Walker, Texas Ranger. What's with punctuating titles? It would still be the best show ever if they'd named it She Wrote (about) Murder.
But I am fascinated with the legendary status that Chuck Norris has attained. He's like David Hasslehoff in this regard: people who do not enjoy his work but are aware of it have a lot of good fun hyping the celebrity that came out of that work. Also, both guys made the life decision to look dazzling in jeans throughout the decades. Bravo!
Another week has drifted by and pickle floats on. Sweet Dilly P tips the scales at seven and one half ounces and might be as many as six inches long from cheeks to cheeks.
Not much larger than last week, and neither is mami, but with the cookies flowing in (Thanks Sue, Monica and Nikki!) at their current rate Kasha and I should soon be able to imitate the 'Natural Disasters' Tag Team partnership of Earthquake and Typhoon. Um, if you're not a dweeb, they were a duo of hefty wrestlers in the 1990s.
The fact that the pickle is not doubling in size every week belies some really amazing fetal growth and development. Last week the heart had me aflutter and now the pickle is blowing minds mentally!
By this week there is such progress in cerebral development that we've got things like lobes and hemispheres, which means processing in a variety of ways. Let's focus on the basics first. The brains of all developing animals have one thing in common: the primitive brain is the plain old, no-frills way to say it. You want Latin? You got it. The cerebellum is what the Romans would have said to mean "little brain." The coolest version I've come across, however, is "reptilian brain."
Wow.
All that this part of the brain does for all brain-having organisms is control the most basic functions. Remembering to breath, for example. By this week the primitive brain is helping the pickle to simulate breathing in utero by sucking the amniotic fluids into the chest and then exhaling them back out. You know, why leave for tomorrow what you can start today?
The lobes of the higher brain are also coming along nicely. The pickle is beginning to form the structures that will interpret what we call "the senses."
There's the Frontal Lobe (AKA the Mammal Brain) which will do the stuff that set us apart from the beasts: discerning future consequences of present actions is what it boils right down to. A tarted-up way to discuss this is to say that the frontal lobe processes the executive functions, thinking in terms of good and bad, and sorting/storing and recalling long-term memories. I am almost certain that this is the part of the brain where Guiness is turned into courage.
The Occipital Lobe is where we process visual input. I think it would be interesting to find a connection between the location of this lobe, its function, and the idiom 'eyes in the back of your head' but, alas, there is none.
The Parietal Lobe is nothing like what I thought it was. This is because I cannot spell. The other day an eight year old had to tell me that 'swollow' had an A in it. I was all, "HA HA HA, Wrong! Nice try, kid." Of course you know how it ended. Anyway, here's another example: I thought the Parietal Lobe of the brain was where Anti-social impulses were generated. And I thought this because of the word 'pariah' when actually Parietal is an anatomical term meaning "belonging to the wall" and has to do with the brain's proximity to the skull. Incidentally, this portion of the brain is related to coordination through visuospatial processing. As it turns out, it is Guiness that is responsible for anti-social impulses.
Do you like how I did that?
Now there's also the Temporal Lobe underneath all that other glop. Here there is some cool stuff going on like the conceptualizing of semantics both in terms of sight and speech. Makes you wonder how long humans have had Language if there is a part of the brain that devotes so much volume to semantics. Also, this is where long term memories and olfaction are operating. In a cruel twist of fate, it is also the potion of the brain beneath where I broke my skull that one time. And it makes sense that I lost my sense of smell for 8 months and to this very day have a useless memory.
The pickle's brain hemispheres are distinguishable by this week. Left and right brain is a wild concept. I'll summarize by way of ordered contrasting:
LEFT BRAIN
1)Sequential and Logical 2)Rational 3)Analytical 4)Objective 5)Considers Parts
They say that -in addition to our upbringing and all the accumulated experiences that befall a person- most of "who we are" can be credited to whichever hemisphere is dominant in our brain. And that little bit is already determined before birth. The pickle might be all logical in there, but there's just as good a shot that she or he is random. One day it'll all make sense.
I guess, if it were 2005, she'd name a baby after the Swahili for flower and a Rastafarian musician (Zahara Marley).
I have to admit that one of our guilty pleasures is following the lives of the rich and famous. Some stars are seen as villains and some as near saviors and either way we revel in their trials and tribulations.
Take Madonna for example, you actually defend her crass sense of entitlement when the press dumps on it (and I, personally, am fascinated at her ability to have risen from Michigan to international super-stardom with such atrocious teeth) and start painting her in the image of a victim even though she likely wipes with silk handkerchiefs and sips her Kool-Ade from crystal goblets.
I mean, the other day Kasha told me that Michael Jordan cried at the basketball game of his teenage son... And I almost started to cry! And I can't stand the Bulls or any of their fans. The decision to become a vegetarian was almost dismissed out of hand when I was in high school because I wanted to contribute to the slaughtering of bulls in homage to bad boys Bill Lambeer and Rick Mahorn.
But now I am more even-handed about it. I realize that the famous and our elevation of their personae is really the intersection of a mirror on society and another member in the long list of society's sedative distractions. Er sumpin like that.
And who doesn't like distractions, mirrors, and (especially) sedatives?
Yay Stars!
It should be no surprise then that I drifted into the channel of reading up on star baby names when faced with navigating the dire straits of christening the pickle. I happened upon an online ballot for the "WORST Star Baby Names of 2005" (yeah, the internet is a landfill that never decomposes) at a site called Mister Poll.
http://www.misterpoll.com/polls/237094
And, believe it or not, I have a lot to say now about what would have been an irrelevant and trifling distraction in 2005! Allowing myself to fixate on the matter in 2009 seems almost criminally detached from reality, but it hints at that mirror-on-society phenomenon. We all do this. Ask yourself if you've asked yourself: What's Oprah's house like? What do Brangelina eat for breakfast? How did Justin Timberlake get all his black fans? Why do all Christians know more about Scientology than Judaism or Islam? Is Jennifer Aniston a robot?
What threatens to become pathogenic is the tendency in consideration to put context before actual substance. That's just a crummy way to analyze anything. It is with this way of seeing in mind that I decided to take another look at the worst star baby names of 2005. The substantial issue is rating names while the context (in descending order of importance) is babies, celebrities, and the year twenty-aught-five.
Alabama Luella Travis Barker, the replacement drummer for the "pop-punk" (uggggh) band, Blink 182, decided to name his daughter Alabama and thus became a candidate for worst namer. I don't know, Blink 182 is an awful name for a band, but Barker wasn't even a member when the band was named. As for Alabama as a name, again, get off Barker's back. If there's anyone to answer for Alabama's quality name-wise it must be the Choctaw Indians, and no matter what length Barker goes in attempting to look savage, he'll never be able to claim tribal membership.
In my opinion, Alabama is a fine name. Perhaps a better name for a horse than a human, but was Indiana Jones not a bad ass name? And yet, I do not rest my case there.
As a guy who already has one or more DCShoe Models and a signature series of Zildjian Cymbals named after him, you have to admit that a lot of the wind has been taken out of the legacy-naming sail for old Trav. But if you want to talk in terms of legacy, it cannot be overlooked that the "Heart of Dixie" Alabama flag does absolutely nothing to conceal the state's confederate roots and (perhaps present day) leanings. This isn't akin to naming your kid Vader, either; slavery was real not fantasy and it undoubtedly sucked royally. Confederate flags should be associated with swastikas and the like. And I'm not trying to shame Barker or Alabama. The state has glorious weather and an abundance of inland waterways and the drummer survived not only a celebrity-marriage-reality TV show, but also a fatal plane crash which puts his resilience ratings somewhere in the Incredible Hulk range.
Crew James In addition to being a hunka hunka beefcake love Joshua Morrow is Young and Restless. This Soap Opera actor does everything serially, including producing male offspring and naming them odd combos of CJM initials. There has been Cooper Jacob Morrow, Crew James Morrow, and (since making the list in '05) Cash Joshua Morrow. When you understand that there's some greater aesthetic at work, it's almost petty to nit pick parts without acknowledging the sum. It's like when people criticize Hillary for her cankles and say nothing about how reprehensible she is on the whole.
The only thing that might have been myopic in Josh Morrow's naming scheme is the seeming lack of foresight into the inevitable, needless squabbling and jealousy over who'll get to go by CJ. I'll permit myself to suggest the following nicknames: "Coop" for Cooper Jacob, "CJ" for Crew James, and Cash for Cash. That's the stuff of instant legendary nickname: Cash! And I ought to know, I came up with "Coo-Goo-Joo" for Oscar Winning actor, Cuba Gooding, Jr.
Dakota Rain Dolores O'Roirdan, the oft shoeless, Irish leadsinger of 'The Cranberries' must have felt the need to connect with her Plains Indians/ Hippie roots when she named her daughter. In fact she does dwell (for half the year at least) in a log cabin in Canada, not that hippies or Indians ever lived in such structures.
My point is that the only truly awful name associated with Dolores (no, not the Seinfeld gag!) is "Post-Grunge-Alt-Rock" which is a mouthful of sour milk describing a stagnant latrine.
Gigi Clementine I don't know who Cynthia Rowley is, but I know that Gigi is one of my favorite names. In DC I had a friend named GG who could light up any room with a megawatt smile and disarm a pitbull with unassuming charm. So I might be biased.
What strikes me is that Cynthia Rowley is famous for being a fashion designer and fashion has always been paradoxically-simultaneously linked with notions of brash originality and cyclical repetition. Pehaps that explains why both of Cynthia's daughters Gigi and Kit have the middle name Clementine.
God'iss Love OK, now this one throws me for a loop. I know the music biz is chokfulla people with stage names being employed for millions of ingenious reasons (the anagrammatic Axl Rose is among my favs!) but Lil'Mo seems like an awkward bark up the wrong tree in the wrong forest. For one thing, Lil'Mo's given name is Cynthia Loving. What better name could an R&B singer ask to be blessed with?! Cynthia Loving is a Diva's name. Lil'Mo is a schnauzer's.
But the point is God'iss Love. What do you think? Is that a good or bad name? Well, alls I can say is that it's better than Heaven Love'on... which is what Lil'Mo named her first daughter. And it's not a good as Cynthia Loving, but then, what is?
Jorja Bleu Hair Metal glam boy Brett Michaels has been milking gold out of Poison for decades. I have a hard time thinking there is anything wrong with Georgia or the color Blue. One of my Great Aunts was named Georgia and my grandfather goes by George. Blue; unless it's coupled with maize, blue is just great. What I'm saying is that Jorja might be a misspelling, but a bad name? I think not? The only explanation that comes to my mind right now: maybe Brett's sugar was low.
Kal-El Nic Cage changed his own name from Nic Coppola. Now, Some say this was done to avoid (people rightly associating) nepotism allegations with his career related to uncle Francis Ford. The other version is that, a life-long comix fanboy, he wanted to give homage to bullet-proof mercenary Luke Cage, his favorite Marvel character.
So Mr. "Cage" names his son Kal-El, the Kryptonian name of bullet-proof, DC man of steel, Superman. Should be no big surprise. Cage, in a string of slap-dash tours-de-faiblesse has taken his name to the upper echelon of thespianism (Academy Award: Best Actor, Leaving Las Vegas) and, in fact, his name alone makes the comix in his collection worth more than issues of the same printing and condition that are owned by non-Nics.
So, while Copolla is a 'super' name to have in Hollywood, Cage was able to leap tall buildings without it. When Kal-El eventually follows in his father's footsteps and renames himself there's only one way he can go: up-up-and-away!
Kashton Kevin Millar earned his spot on the list of worst namers for what? Naming a kid Kashton? But, Kashton's a sweet name! Kevin is one of my favorite names of all time, but Kashton buries Kevin in a second. Sorry, Kev!
Poor Kevin! You gotta give Kevin Millar a break. The guy utilized the MLB Strike of '94 to position himself on the BoSox squad where he'd eventually help bring that same club it's first Series title in four score and six years. Sure, that made him a champion, but it also branded him a scab and officially barred him (for life) from membership in the MLB Players Association. That means he can't be a hall of famer, too.
If it's any consolation, Kashton is a grand-slam of a baby name!
Mandla Kadjaly Carl Stevland Stevie Wonder said a mouthful when he named his baby! This string of 25 letters contains fourteen different letters, or 53.85% of the English alphabet. Staggering!
What can you say about Lil' Stevie though? He can do things the rest of simply couldn't ever imagine. Wonderful, amazing things. Things like making up a name as eclectic as Stevland. Even Bruce Lansky never heard of that one... and he lists Saritupac in his list of 100,000+ names!
And forgive me for saying this, but Mandla Kadjaly Carl Stevland: I am sure it sounds beautiful.
Mateo Bravery First off, the name Benjamin Bratt musta been a tough name to grow up with. If Bratt is a component of your name, there's almost nothing else that can go wrong. But, for the Mister Poll Worst of 2005 awards, it should be noted that last names are not a factor. And I think rightly so.
Since Mateo is a perfectly normal name, and even more apropos for a child of Peruvian ancestry, (and since Bratt doesn't figure in) one must conclude that the Bravery middle name is the offending aspect. But let's get one thing straight: you get a little license with the middle name. Everybody knows that!
And what's wrong with bravery? In my estimation the only thing that you can hold against bravery is its proclivity for justifying aggression.
Oh, and one more thing: don't blame Benjamin for this picture. Jumping out of a pool with all his clothes on is the only way he doesn't look like a poor man's Johnny Depp.
Moxie Crime Fighter Penn Jillette is a career iconoclast. A Hollywood prestidigitator for 25 years, he has recently hung his shingle as a persuasive orator. And it just so happens that he has recorded a rant in response to his daughter, Moxie, making this Mister Poll Worst baby names list.
Let's allow the man his rebuttal.
Poet Soleil Moon Frye, also known as 'Punky Brewster'(the Little Orphan Annie of a new generation) named her baby Poet. I deny anyone who says poet is a bad name, although it is hopelessly fraught with disastrous expectations. I mean, it's not as bad as naming a kid The First Female President Of The USA, because anyone can be a poet. But still, that's a lot to live up to.
I'm sure it wasn't meant like that. I am sure it's just a case of the apple not falling far from the tree. Except instead of an apple tree it's a hippie-name-fruit tree.
Praise Mary Ella What? Now it's OK to criticize rapper DMX!?
Damn! Y'all gon make me lose my mind up in here!
You’re walking on pretty shaky ground when you sling mud at DMX. For one thing, he was in Exit Wounds with Steven Segall, and then there’s his criminal record (which outlines more violent tendencies than the Old Testament).
You know you’re in bad shape when your best option is taking a surrogate beating from the bone-scrunching Steven Segall.
Also, DMX is pretty hard to browbeat as far as monikers go. He did change his name from Earl Simmons to DMX (huge improvement) in an homage to “any means necessary” civil rights icon Malcom X. Oh, DMX stands for Dark Man X, which in a lot of ways trumps old Malcom with his own device.
And “Praise,” well, please don’t forget that DMX quit rapping to become a preacher before he caught a whiff of Hollywood’s money pile.
No one is saying that DMX is beyond reproach (as far as naming is concerned). He did follow up landmark rap albums with a Sony comeback called “Year of the Dog…Again” which highlighted his crutch of the dot dot dot (see his uber platinum “…And Then There Was X” for more examples).
Shepherd Jerry Seinfeld named his son Shepherd and, while Shepherd Seinfeld lacks a pleasant ring, it isn't a bad baby name at all. Especially when you consider that Jerry named his son after a personal radio-comedy hero (and narrator extraordinaire), Jean 'Shep' Shepherd. What an honor that must be!
Tim-Elvis You may not be aware of French disc jockey David Guetta. I wasn't aware of him until I saw that he was nominated for worst baby name of 2005 because of Tim-Elvis. But, you know, I take it for granted that music is important to him, and Elvis remains one of the more noteworthy musicians in the history of the galaxy. Also, Tim is whole-heartedly unobjectionable, if a skosh blah.
So I guess there's is only one word to say to DJ David Guetta about the naming of his son: Why-hyphenated?
Welcome to PickleSmith! It's our pleasure to (finally) announce the good news: Unto us a child will be born. On or around the second of September 2009, so say the doctors. We wanted to be able to share the good news with our Friends and family all over the world in our words, doodles, and whatever else we can find. Wish us luck!
12th Week Ultrasound with heartbeat
(still, just sorta looks like nothin' but look at that heartbeat!)
We're the Beijing branch of the Krupansky-Smiths. Newlyweds from Detroit, Michigan who plan to have our first child in the People's Republic of China, we have few options for sharing this momentous experience with our family and friends. Hence, the web log!
