Who's Your Diddy?

WASHINGTON -- Call me expletive. That's right. Plain old expletive. I'm just trying to make it easier for those friendly readers who feel it is their patriotic duty to send e-mails each week reminding me what an "expletive deleted" I am. I'm also thinking of those helpful folks who just want to make sure that I know I'm full of expletive deleted. For the sake of convenience, let's just delete the "deleted." Think of all the keystrokes you'll save.

Or if you're one of those kindlier correspondents who like to point out that I've yet to express an original idea, well this time I'll spare you the trouble. I ripped this one off from P. Diddy. His legal name is still Sean Combs, but you're probably most familiar with him as the impresario formerly known as Puffy. Or Puff Daddy. From now on, he told NBC's Katie Couric, it's just plain Diddy. He said he made the change with his legions of admirers in mind.

"I felt like the 'P' was getting between me and my fans, and now we're closer," he said. "During concerts, half the crowd is saying 'P. Diddy,' half the crowd is chanting 'Diddy' -- now everybody can just chant 'Diddy."'

He also wanted to simplify things. I'm guessing that's why he didn't switch to Diddy Daddy or Daddy Diddy. Too nitty gritty, perhaps. And just dropping "Diddy" could have led to all sorts of troublesome connotations. Those concert shout-outs would sound like protests over long lines outside the restrooms.

Combs went on to tell the New York Post that his name had become confusing even to himself. "When I'd called someone on the telephone it took me a long time to explain who I was," he said. "Too long. One word. Five letters. Period."

I think it's a brilliant concept, and my only regret is that I didn't think of it first. Since, unlike Diddy, I don't have legions of admirers, I humbly offer my name change on behalf of my critics. (No, Mom, I'm not taking your fan letters for granted. You may be a legend, but calling you a legion is a bit of a stretch.) If this catches on, I may eventually just go with Ex.

Still, I'm not sure that I would have made the change if I were Combs. His previous sobriquet was plenty punchy, if you ask me. Two-word nicknames have their own special charm. If artfully applied, they can linger beyond all reasonable expectation, like Vanilla Ice, or the irritating chorus of an annoying song that you can't get out of your head. P. Diddy. Slick Willie. See what I mean?

Although P. Diddy's remarkable staying power depends largely on his ability to spot trends and capitalize on them, he's coming to this party a little late.

Celebrity athletes have long used this route to worldwide glory, shedding their extra names as they climbed the ladder to fame. Pele. Magic. It must make signing autographs that much easier. Artists and entertainers have also taken advantage of such benefits. Beyonce. Cher. Prince, who even changed his name to an unpronounceable symbol for 15 minutes or so. Lesser lights too should be mentioned here, such as that guy who painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. By now, the one-name thing is as likely to attract dust as glitter.

But don't get me wrong. I don't begrudge Combs' right to keep changing his name. Besides the megawatt self-importance it inevitably indicates, it also suggests a shape-shifting spirit of reinvention that is wonderfully American. Where else but in the land of opportunity could Archibald Leach have become Cary Grant, and Eric Bishop turn himself into Jamie Foxx?

Diddy's name games also conjure up an African American tradition that, while exuberant, isn't merely playful. It's a process as fluid and energetic as James Brown doffing a series of overcoats while wailing away on stage. Ever since our ancestors had their names and languages beaten out of them, we've been reclaiming them a syllable at a time -- if not out of history, out of our very imaginations.

Sheniqua. Rilya. Dontrelle.

"Names have always been a problem for black people in America," wrote C.S. Giscombe, a black poet. "Our names bespeak the tangles of American culture -- miscegenation, issues of property and ownership, the peculiar violence of our past -- in the same way our skins do."

You could say that's taking names way too seriously. But then you wouldn't know Diddy.