I Used To Be That Guy

Nowadays most folk know me as Pete, but some don't. I get that. The truth is that for the first 30 years of my life, that wasn't my name.

When I was born, my parents named me Guy Barker. A fine name, really. It's almost smack-dab in that perfect alley of baby names that's somewhere between "Batman Bin Suparman" (That's a real name if you want to look it up...) and "Mike." And in the cultural context of 1973, it wasn't all that weird, really. Guy Lombardo was not yet a totally unfamiliar name in most households in America. Guy Lafleur was a famous hockey player, not to mention Guy Lapointe. Plenty of French-Canadian hockey players out there at the time, and come to think of it, my dad was a little bit of a hockey fan at the time. I know for a fact that I attended more than one Salt Lake City Stars game when still an infant. I hadn't actually thought that out before.

The thing is, I lived my whole life with the understanding that my name was a novelty to just about everyone but me. And while it was cool having a unique name, it lent itself to several jokes that became just flat-out uninteresting as the years went on. In grade school (when everyone's name can be turned into a joke, whether it makes sense or not...) I used to always get "Guy Smiley." Remember that guy?

I hate you, Guy Smiley. I hate you so bad.

Perhaps more annoying was the most mundane and ridiculous from well-meaning folks. Things like: "If you were born a girl, were they going to name you 'Gal?" "Is your favorite musical 'Guys and Dolls?" And my personal favorite: "Hey Guy. You're a great guy, Guy." Followed directly by excessive use of the phrase "What a Guy!" In reference to yours truly.

To the rest of the world, it never got old. To me, it most certainly did, and not necessarily because they were using my name. It's because it was perhaps the dumbest and lowest common denominator kind of humor available.

On more than one occasion, I asked my parents why they named me "Guy." I mean, surely they must have known some really cool cat named "Guy" or modeled me after some badass movie character or something to have gone out on a limb with a 1% kind of name like that. But no. Here's what I got:

Mom: "Ask your father. It was his idea."

Dad: "No reason in particular. We just didn't want to name you Mike, or Bob, or Steve, or anything like that."
 
But let's be clear. I didn't hate my name. It was my name, and I rocked it. I just really envied the commonly named people of the world. If you will, the Mikes, Bobs, and Steves of the world.

In Maui. Experiencing the wonder of ultraviolet rays in January.

Fast forward to 2004. I'm living in Portland, burned out on the whole scene there and tired of living in an urban rain forest. A brief visit to the island of Maui has opened my eyes and I've seen the light. I'm gonna get the hell out of Oregon. I'm gonna move South, where there's actual SUN, outside of the months between May and August.I'm gonna move to (dramatic pause...cue the string section...) California.

So that's what I did. I hatched a plan, sold my house that I was co-owning with my brother at the time, sold my stuff, and got ready to move to Sacramento. But before I did all that, I very quietly went down to the Multnomah County Courthouse and went through the entire legal process of changing my name. Whereas I was once "Guy Brentwood Barker,"  on March 4, 2004, I became Peter Guy Brentwood Barker.

Made it official. I also, officially, have really poor handwriting.

There was a funny moment during the proceedings when the presiding judge who heard my case asked me why I was changing my name. I sense out of procedural necessity, but also a little bit out of curiosity as well. I'm sure he hears some real doozies. My response was a lot more simple.

"Uh, because my name is "GUY?"

He chuckled. A few others chuckled. The dude in the back who several minutes later changed his name to "Stareater Chickenface" (Not kidding) even gave me a polite snarf.

Down goes the gavel. "So ordered." And it's done.

I filled out some necessary paperwork, wrote them (another) check, and left.


It felt really weird leaving the courthouse that day. I tried thinking about myself as a "Peter" instead of a "Guy," and it was weird, but I instantly liked it. I felt at home in my new name, if that makes any sense. I could tell that I was going to enjoy not being Guy anymore, but the problem waas that I was still living in Portland, and I really didn't want to go through the whole ordeal of trying to get everyone to call me anything different, so I kept it hush hush for a couple of months. I'm not even positive that I told my brother. I certainly didn't tell my parents. It would just be so much easier to move to California and then become "Peter" on a more official level when I don't have to reprogram everybody to call me something different. If anything, it seemed like the polite thing to do.

Then late May rolls around and my plans are coming together. The house is sold, my belongings are liquidated, and I'm ready to roll. My pal Huston Davis owned a bar at the time in NW, called the Brazen Bean and she, being the badass that she is, actually closed down the bar and let me have it for a Sunday night going away party. It was an amazing night. So many people came out and said goodbye, and it was all really touching.

As the evening progressed and the alcohol continued flowing, it seemed to me more and more like now was the time to unveil my new identity. So I did. I reached into my wallet, pulled out my new driver's license, held it up and said, "Hey check it out everybody! I changed my name!"

Remember those E.F. Hutton commercials? When one guy says something akin to "Well, my broker is E.F. Hutton, and he says..." at which point the whole room goes silent because everybody is suddenly waiting to hear what he's got to say next?

That's what this felt like. The whole bar just went dead quiet. I mean, really, what do you say to that? "Hey Congratulations! I think?" I explained the whole process and the whole thinking behind why I did what I did, and for the most part, people got it. If they didn't, they were polite enough to keep it to themselves. For the most part. Ben Graves and I got a moment together at the bar not too long after I dropped this and he said, in the most inquisitive way possible, "Ok, let me get this straight...You wanted to change your name because you're tired of people thinking that your name is some kind of weird novelty...(The ellipsis is to point out the dramatic pauses that happen when a drunk Ben Graves is trying to talk to you.)...and you came within one hard consonant from naming yourself 'Peter Parker?' You know? Spider-Man? You're fucking Peter Parker, man! You realize now that everyone is going to call you Spider-Man, right? Well played, my good man. Well played."

Ben Graves. Right before he let me know what's what.

Well played, indeed. This is why I prefer to be called "Pete." Oh, and I'm sure you're wondering what the significant of "Peter" is. The answer is, nothing, really. About 6 or 7 years earlier I was really sick. Having seizures and all kinds of crazy shit, and not a single doctor in Eugene, Oregon could figure out what was wrong with me, even after all kinds of ridiculous and expensive tests. So as a last ditch, I went to a naturopath. An Applied Kinesiologist, who, in the course of her diagnosis (which worked, by the way...) said, "This is interesting. Did you know that you were given the wrong name when you were born?" Obviously I said no. I mean, who knows this shit? She asked me the first name that came to mind, and I said "Peter." That's all. There was no pre-planning. It was the first name that I thought of. She did her little muscle-testing thing, which apparently gave her a good answer because she smiled and said:


"Yep. Your name is definitely Peter."

This Is My Neighbor's Beer Garden

I live at the end of a cul de sac, directly adjoining a soccer field.
When the dude comes out to chalk the field, my neighbor chips him a little extra to edge out his "beer garden."

Note the private entrance.

An Open Letter To Governor Jerry Brown

August 24, 2012

Governor Jerry Brown
c/o State Capitol, Suite 1173
Sacramento, CA 95814

Dear Governor Brown:

Or can I call you Jerry? You seem like a pretty decent guy and a cool cat. I'm guessing that you, like me, are tired of this whole stuffy, Pomp and Circumstance crap that so often goes along with being Governor. We get it. You're the Governor, and that's awesome. But just judging by your character, I'm guessing that every now and then, you're just a regular guy that really wishes that folks would call you Jerry. Just, "Jerry."

So if you don't mind, I'm going to drop the decorum stuff and heretofore refer to you as Jerry. Thanks in advance for understanding.

The reason that I'm writing to you is because I'd really like it if you'd come to my birthday party next year. I know, I know. This is already taking a turn towards some creepy, 12 year old delusion/pipe dream, but bear with me. I think this is a win-win for everybody.

Next year, on August 24, 2013, I turn 40. I know that's not a huge deal for everybody, but dammit, I'm making it a huge deal and I'm fully intent on not letting this significant milestone pass without at least a little bit of flair. And I really hope that you'll come over and help me ring it in.

First off, a little bit about me. I'm married with two really cool kids. My wife, Kelley, is a dream wife. Really. She's just a peach. And my kids Emily (age 3...almost) and Liam (7 months)  combine to really give me everything that I could ever want in a family. As of this writing, I'm unemployed, but that's a recent development, and I'm not planning on keeping that as my status for very long. Kelley works for the State of California Department of Fish and Game, and she's been a State employee for quite a while. We're your average, stable, happy Californian family of four.

I'm extending this invitation to you for several reasons:

Firstly, I dig you, and I dig your style. I don't see you as a massive ego, id-sucking, narcissistic and self-serving windbag like so many other folks in politics are. Sure, folks are going to disagree with me. (I mean, hell, this is politics. Someone, somewhere, and somehow, is going to hate you. You could be the chairman of the BACON party, and someone out there would still try and convince us that bacon is not awesome.) (Which, for the record, it is. And there will be plenty of bacon at my birthday party. Just in case you were wondering.) You've definitely got some "Average Joe" kind of qualities about you, which I appreciate. It all goes back to that old adage that sometimes, the only thing people want when it comes to who gets their vote, is the dude that they'd rather invite to their barbecue. Well here I am, Jerry. Inviting you to my barbecue.

Secondly, by the time next year rolls around you'll be tapering off your long and storied career in public service. You'll be putting the finishing touches on what will go down as one of the most noble, entertaining, and epic lifetimes in the public eye. Now it's not like I'm saying that now is the time to unroll your sleeves and kick back while you ride out the rest of your days up there in the Master Suite. Far from it. There's still work to be done, and you and I both know it. I don't get the impression that you're winding anything down at all. What I'm saying is that I'm absolutely positive that you have always wanted to roll up on one of your constituent's barbecue parties, roll down the tinted windows and say, "Hey! Do I smell short ribs?" (Because I'm telling you, man. I make some badass short ribs.) Hell, if you want a turn on the grill, I'll even give you a turn on the grill. I'll save an apron for you. I know this sounds disingenuous, but I'm serious. I'm inviting you to my 40th birthday party in part because YOU WANT TO BE HERE ANYWAY. AmIright?

Thirdly, and I know this is a bit of a stretch, but if you show up, I know that lots of other folks will show up too. Why do I know that? Well, yeah. Uh, this is the hard part, but it's too late to take this stuff back now.

The thing is, Jerry...I already told them that you're coming.

Now don't get me wrong. I didn't do this to manipulate you into showing up. It's just, you know, it was late, I'd had a few beers (but only in moderation, mind you...), lack of sleep from a few consecutive sleepless nights thanks to the kids, and whatnot and I kinda just said it. I didn't think about it. I just said it. I said something to the effect of, "No, totally. I already got off the phone with someone from his office and Jerry Brown has definitely committed to come to my birthday party next year." And then everyone called me a liar. It was really awkward. But then they all believed me and they all started getting really excited. People are really excited that you're coming to my party, Jerry. So yeah, I apologize for that, but the damage is done.

So here's what I can promise you, Jerry.

This will be a clean event. Most of our friends are young, middle-class professional types. In fact, the majority of them are probably college-educated State workers. Totally your type. While I can't guarantee that there won't be a single person there with a joint in their pocket (I mean, come on. This is California. Montel Friggin Williams is running a dispensary in our fair city. Sometimes I think I'm the only person out here that doesn't smoke weed.) I can guarantee you that you're not going to be rolling up on a party populated by weirdo tweakers huddling around a burn barrel while the kids play "Pin The Tail On Sleeping Drunk Uncle Leon" with a used hypo needle. It's just not going to be that kind of party.

There will be awesome food. Plenty of barbecued goods. Lots of baked goods. I'm even willing to bet that there will be some of the bounty of our beautiful California coastline. Like abalone. Have you ever had abalone ceviche? I mean SERIOUSLY. That shit is awesome.

There will be beer, both domestic and microbrew. There will also be wine. And maybe a little bit of single-malt scotch. If you want to call ahead with a favorite, I'll make sure that you have it on hand. My wife also makes this really good herb and citrus-infused icewater thing that is TO. DIE. FOR. Very refreshing on a late August afternoon.

So what do you say, Jerry? Can I count you in? We'll be doing this on our street (don't worry. I'll get a permit) in the Pocket area. My address is <REDACTED>, Sacramento, CA  95831. If you need to call ahead for directions, my phone number is (916) 290-<REDACTED>.

Please RSVP so I can save you a bratwurst.

Most Sincerely Yours,

Pete Barker

PS-I know that the person reading this is probably one of Jerry's Aides. Hey, I'm asking the Governor to come to my birthday party, but I'm not naive. All I'm asking is that you pitch it to him.Pitch it to him in the most convincing way possible. I'm counting on you, here.