Selling My Options Short

When my parents decided to give me such an unusual, un-American name, they reasoned that if I really didn't like it, I could always adopt a nickname.

My options:

Barry.
Rock.
Rocky.

Barry ... as in Williams? Greg on "The Brady Bunch"? The author of "Growing Up Brady"? Pass, thanks. Worse still, Barry suggests an inability to stomach the name Baruch, which, as previously noted, I can't stomach. So the cure or bandage would be worse than the wound. Not that my name is a wound, but I do get wound-up over it, as this blog's endlessness suggests. Double pass.

Rock ... as in Hudson? As in every pompadoured cartoon pop singer ever seen on "The Flintstones"? Pass.

Rocky ... as in Bullwinkle's airborne little friend? As in the boxing movie? Movies? Pass.

Is it any wonder I stuck with Barak? It may be unusual, but at least it has a rough kind of dignity. A certain uniqueness, exempt from other connotations.

Kiss all that goodbye.