CALL ME ISHMAEL

A friend who teaches art classes in the local schools recently showed me a thank-you card his students made him. And I was startled to notice that among the 30-some signatures on it, there wasn't one Mary or Jane or Fred or Jim.

In fact, it was hard to find any recognizable moniker in the lot!

There was a Twanda and a Gorin and a lot of other names which were obviously designed to give those who do business by phone real headaches. "And how do you spell that, sir?"

I suppose, of all people, I should be able to understand the desire to be unconventional and stand out in a crowd.

But it was only when I joined FACEBOOK that I realized how ordinary were the names of most of my old friends and co-workers and how hard that made it to find them in a vast sea of similarity. 

And when, like so many others, I finally gave into the temptation to Google myself, I was shocked to find just how many Jim Farrells swam in that ocean, as well. I had to wade through 13 pages of faces before I found my own (which isn't bad, I suppose, considering there were a million and a half Jim Farrells in all).

I really don't know why it should surprise me that there are tall Jim Farrells and small Jim Farrells and fat ones and thin ones, some with more hair than I have and some who have no hair at all. There were bound to be other broadcasters and writers and cameramen. And it shouldn't have come as a surprise there were even some who did become priests.

I once asked my maternal grandmother why she hadn't drawn up a family tree for her side of the clan. And she replied, "Because I'm afraid who I might find hanging from it." And the more I Googled along, the more I knew what she meant.

I got some taste of finding myself among other, unrelated Farrells in the seminary. There were three of us who spent all of highschool and much of college not only in the same classes but usually sitting in them in neat, alphabetical order (an obsession with Catholic educators I have never understood).

But, at least, they weren't Jims.

Oddly enough, though, they were both Dans: Daniel James and Daniel Michael. And this made for great fun whenever a new professor scanned his class list looking for someone to answer a question.

"Mr. Farrell," he'd say. And the three of us would respond in chorus, "Which one?" Then, he'd furl his brow and go back to his list and try, "Daniel Farrell". And I'd sit back relieved, while the two of them would repeat, "Which one?" 

By this time, the professor's patience was usually wearing thin. So, when he'd finally settled on a single Farrell, he was unlikely to show that poor soul any mercy.

There was a point some years ago when I even considered staging an international reunion of Jim Farrells - just to see how many would show up. But the more I thought about it, the less I liked the idea. 

Wherever the event was held, it could only create bad feelings. 

Airline reservation people, hotel desk clerks and anybody who had to take and transmit phone messages for us would have been tearing their hair out in no time and vowing revenge on anyone they met named Farrell. And the mere act of shouting "Jim" in the lobby or meeting hall would have created unspeakable chaos!

So, I've given up the notion and decided to settle back into the comfortable anonymity of my name. And I strongly suggest that my million-odd brethren do the same.

To them, I offer this advice.

Stay out of trouble! Stay out of debt, as much as possible! And please, stay off the No-Fly list!

And if, as will happen from time to time, you do find yourself in a spot of trouble, do what I intend to do. When asked to give your name, just say, "Call me Ishmael!"