Say my name, Say my name

My last name is crazy. Literally. Looney (well, if we’re going to get technical here:  ‘loony’) is synomonous for crazy. Or silly. Or insane. My last name garners many snickers and second looks from grocery store clerks, cashiers, or, a lesser likely occurrence, slightly loony Looney Tunes lovers.

Yet I like my last name, despite its frequent references to Bugs Bunny or crazy jailbirds. As a kid, being a Looney was particularly cool. After all, how many other people can say they can find memorabilia of their last name at nearly any shopping mall? Sure, my family often went a bit overboard with surname stuff. We owned Looney Tunes t-shirts in nearly every color, have a ‘Looney Tunes’ welcome mat, and even possessed a jean jacket with a ‘Looney Tunes’ patch that covers the entire back of the jacket. Seriously.

My babysitting experiences stresses the importance of name recognition. Max owns tons of books, many of which contain a character named ‘Max.’ He shares his name with some pretty cool Maxes—Max from ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ and ‘Max’ the mischievous bunny of Rosemary Wells’ ‘Max and Ruby’ are two of the coolest. I’m not certain if Harry, another boy I watch, gained his name from my favorite literary hero, but the DVDs in their family collection hint at the strong possibility.

When you’re a kid, name sharing is pretty sweet. It helped me create a pretty cool, er coincidences: My ‘great grandpa’ created the Looney Tunes. My, er, brother was Bugs Bunny. I only wish I would have took Looney Tune folklore a step further when I was younger.

Romeo may have asked ‘What’s in a name?’, but when you’re a kid, it’s well, everything. I suppose I’ll just have to meet and marry someone named ‘Potter’ one day to keep—or perhaps up—my last names’ cool factor.


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