NAME CALLING | 5 years ago | March 23, 2001 | Andrew Weiner reflected on the misery his name had brought him.
“I could have been named Andrew Schlong. Or Andrew Pud, Andrew Pecker, Andrew Ding-a-ling. On the day when names were handed out, mine came with an extra little slap in the face.
“It’s pronounced whiner. Which, of course, only makes matters worse. Not only does my last name connote every man’s unmentionable little friend; it also announces to the world that I am a wretched blob given to fits of peevish wankery.
“So I cordially invite you to have a laugh at my expense. Go right ahead. No, please — have two. Just don’t think you’re being funny, or at all original. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.
“When I was a kid, my last name was the equivalent of wearing a KICK ME sign taped to the back of a DORK T-shirt. I couldn’t have done any worse if I’d gone to school wearing a dunce cap, moon boots, and a cowbell around my neck.
“You might have had the anxiety dream where you appear, perhaps naked, in front of an audience whose entertainment comes solely at your expense. For me that was no dream — the most mortifying moments of my young life came when my dunderheaded principal introduced me as ‘Weener’ to an auditorium full of snickering peers. Twice.”
COMEDY CENTRAL | 10 years ago | March 22, 1996 | Geoff Edgers witnessed the pre-show antics of funnyman Conan O’Brien.
“Lips flaring, hips swaying, Conan O’Brien is showing, if nothing else, that he can scare a woman with a single verse of his Elvis impression. He runs into the crowd at 5:22 p.m., eight minutes before Late Night starts taping, and spots her near the front. The tall, thin talk-show host extends his hand to her, and, suddenly, we’re at the sock hop. The woman jumps from her seat into the aisle, and O’Brien kicks into ‘Burning Love.’
“The audience laughs, the woman dances. Then everyone realizes that the host — singing, jiving, leering at the object of his pre-show affection — is not about to let up. By the second verse, there are a few nervous titters throughout the crowd. The woman, winding down to an awkward, slow-motion twist, glances back at her husband. Wisely, he has not left his seat.
“O’Brien doesn’t stop because, while it may not be comedy or rock ‘n’ roll, it is certainly entertaining. ‘Just-a-hunka hunka,’ he howls in the final section, ending with a long, high-pitched scream. The woman retreats without a word.
“ ‘So were you frightened by that or sexually attracted?’ O’Brien asks, not even breathing hard. ‘Be honest.’
“She’s getting back to her seat and doesn’t hear him. A friend nudges her to turn back, which she does, asking the host, ‘What did you say?’
“ ‘Exactly. Thanks very much,’ he says, sliding into sarcastic self-depreciation. ‘I’m John Davidson.’ ”
