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by VX Potenza

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a movement afoot, a counter-revolutionary (in the American sense) plot to reintroduce the concept of nobility to our supposedly classless society–and through the back door, no less.

I suppose the inception was innocent enough. For the sake of argument (and humor) let’s say it started with "Marcus Welby, M.D." This was of course a version of Doctor Welby, the leading noun-cum-adjective, also known as a title, being something we traditionally granted physicians as a token of our esteem for their wisdom and dedication, much the same as we would address the man as Professor Welby if that were the case.

We pay similar tribute when we personally address our nation’s chief executive, Mr. President (which was George’s choice over Your Majesty, et. al.) out of respect for the authority of the office and, you would think, the same rule would apply to like but lesser positions; it’s Justice So-and-so, Secretary Blahblah, Senator Whosis, and Congressman Whatnot.

The person who pulls you over for speeding is Officer Dingdong, whose superior is Chief or Commissioner Whatsisface who reports to Mayor Dingaling, and the person who sentences you is Judge Joker. If you’re lucky you may get a pardon from Governor Gollygee.

If you live in a town rather than a city, though, you may Officer this and Chief that but the title Supervisor will never escape your lips while addressing their boss. Likewise, if your environs are even more rural, Deputy and Sheriff may become your second language but County Executive remain as unspoken as your embarrassing middle name.

If you’re really bad Agent Wingnut may drag you in to see the main man of the FBI but you will not think to address him as Director Dipstick. If you’re really, really bad and Operative Blamblatz hauls you in to see the big cheese of the CIA you likely won’t think to address him with a title because you’ll have no idea what it is: Head Cheese?

For that matter, who would pose a question like, "Excuse me, Comptroller Doohickey..." or, "I was wondering, Receiver of Taxes Thingamabob..."? Can you conceive of filing a verbal complaint with Dogcatcher Padiddle?

I saw a movie wherein a reluctant pontiff, humbled by the title Your Holiness, instructed his attendants to come up with an alternative. They began addressing him as Your Nothing-Specialness, Your Obscurity, Your Innocuousness, Your Inconsequentiality, and so on. Less attractive potentates in other film offerings have been dubbed Your Gaseousness, Your Hypocrisy, My Leech, My Lesion, etc. Hell yes, they seem pretty silly, but they serve to point up the fact that, if you really think about it, the whole concept is asinine and awesomely arbitrary. You may as well pick up your phone and say, "Hello, Plumber Pusspuss, this is Restaurateur Ringding..." How come Chef Schlemiel gets a title but the guy who owns the eatery doesn’t?

Apparently a lot of it has to do with people referring to themselves titularly, something we’ve unfortunately grown accustomed to. A story: a few weeks ago I had a persistent sore throat and called my doctor’s office for an appointment. He wasn’t in so I scheduled one with a partner of his whom I’d never met. A few hours later I was sitting on the predictably too-small table in the examination room when in walked a man my age clad in a lab coat replete with black name tag on the pocket, wearing a stethoscope around his neck and holding what was obviously my medical history in his hands. "Hi," he said. "I’m Doctor Dormouse." I thought to myself, "Is it really possible he thinks I can’t figure out he’s a doctor?" and suddenly I had an almost irresistible urge to reply, "Hello, I’m Publisher Potenza."

Why, after all, couldn’t he just have said, "Hi, I’m Don Dormouse"? We both knew he was a doctor, if he weren’t I wouldn’t have been there. Which is not to single out Don, who by all indications was a very nice guy, a very competent physician who did indeed clear up my sore throat and whom I liked and trusted instantly, but who also is the product of a tradition rife with titles. He was no doubt taught to introduce and refer to himself by his title, and that concept I find annoying as it is arrogant–like when you walk into someone’s office for a job interview and the person behind the big desk introduces him/herself as Mr., Mrs., or Ms. Hotstuff and then proceeds to address you by your first name, as if your respective roles and positions weren’t already painfully plain and you weren’t intimidated enough. This sort of thing is more than pompous flatulence, it’s downright unamerican, at least in the sense that if I had the opportunity to address George as Mr. President I assume he would be civil enough to call me Mr. Potenza–else why scorn the Majesty moniker?

Another story: my senior year in high school our physics teacher began our first class by explaining that, over the summer, he had completed his doctorate in education. "Mr. Wolfson," one of my classmates asked, "does this mean we have to call you Doctor Wolfson?"

"No, Bob," came the reply. "It means the principal has to call me Doctor Wolfson. You can call me Morty."

For other people, vanity has bigger eyes even than avarice, and what they can’t force you to say in homage up front they’ll get you to read afterward ad infinitum. Remember our erstwhile Ringding and his lack of a title? Turns out he gives himself one anyway, using the back door. (That’s right, the one off the kitchen by the dumpster.) If you look at the bottom of the menu it says, "A. Ringding, Prop." He’s appropriated the Prop. as a permutation of M.D. As they say in the Borscht Belt, "Wait, it gets better."

Not to be outdone by mere hashslingers, lawyers–or attorneys, or counselors-at-law, or barristers, or members of the bar–as if they haven’t enough aliases as it is, have taken to appending an Esq. to their names on business cards and letterheads. Presumably the Esq. stands for Esquire the way Prop. represents Proprietor and, near as I can figure it, the addendum means, characteristically, absolutely nothing. An esquire was formerly a medieval rank just below knight; or alternately, a title conferred upon "landed" gentry–meaning folks who owned real estate, not returned sailors. (The antiquity of the term rules out the possibility of returned aviators and aviatrixes.)

Not to be outdone by mere ambulance-chasers and shysters (an interesting term I’ve dealt with in a sidebar called What’s In A Name? [Can Geeks Really Speak? Part I, SIGNUM, March, 1996), the medicine men and women have countered with equally shamanistic scribblings, tacking onto their names things like F.A.C.S. without bothering to explain to the uninitiated what the signs portend. (An educated guess is Fellow of the American College of Surgeons but don’t bet the baby on it.)

Then, of course the paramedicals (a term I believe I just invented, but with paralegals running rampant it can’t be far from fruition) like psychologists and social workers had to pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey with A.P.A. or C.S.W. (American Psychological Association and Certified Social Worker; again, don’t quote me). I recently encountered a book whose author was a (no lie) BSc, MEd, MRT(R), ACR.

Back at med school and in the face of such blatant escalation of hos-titularities the garrison holding the fort in the Grand Poobah’s absence naturally enough has to be similarly, sufficiently armed. The secretary is an A.S., B.S., M.A.; the comptroller an A.S., B.S., M.B.A. and the aide-de-camp, who has the luxury of eschewing lesser titles, is an M.S., M.D., Ph.D., Ed.D.

To all of which and whom I bestow my brashest Bronx cheer and sign off, disrespectfully yours, V.X. Potenza, O.I.N.V.U.

V.X.Potenza, Pub., FoS, F.E., is the publisher & founder of SIGNUM, and formerly edited this fine 'zine. Be sure to check out our archives in the "Catacombs" section for more V.X. Goodness (you'll need Acrobat to look at the PDF files in the Archives, but it's oh-so-worth it!)