I don't name a lot of things. My car has no name. My house has no name. None of my guitars has a name. Some people would think I was completely impoverished. No, make that many people.
I first discovered need to name when I took a liking to a certain hat many years ago. I wore that hat in what could be called true cowboy style -- I never took it off. Well, I didn't wear it to bed or in shower, but everywhere else you found me you found it. People began asking me if my hat had a name. When I told them that hat was nameless, they would begin what I called hat dance.
First, they believed that hat had a name and that I wasn't sharing it. Then, they became angry because if they spent 90% of their waking hours with a hat, it would have a proper name and why couldn't I be like other people and not be so weird. They would say that I had no heart and didn't love my hat enough to give it a name. Just before they would walk away, there would be acceptance that I had indeed resisted urge to anthropomorphize my hat.
The question became a conversational gambit for small talk impaired. Right after "Hi, how are you"s would come inevitable "what's your hat's name?" Had I not been a penniless student at time, I would have bought hat business cards and taken to introducing it around as hat-with-no-name. Instead, I came up with a cheaper solution -- a smart alec reply.
"If I gave hat a name, then it would have top billing!", I would protest. That witty reply fell flat about everywhere I dropped it, but I am nothing if not dogged in my loyalty to it.
My car didn't have a name either, for a while. My friends drove Betsies and Ediths and Sams while I made do with a generic no-name Volkswagen that had nasty habit of opening its passenger door when I made a left-hand turn. It was during one of these exciting moments that my friend, Bill Postel, christened my car. After we stopped to wipe off seat, he finished job by naming my car "The DeathTrap."
Here was something my friends could appreciate -- a man who had a name for his car. I knew I had arrived when one of car-less girls at college radio station came up and asked if she could borrow "The DeathTrap" to run up to convenience store. My car had a name. It must be friendly. Tell that to guy who bought it from me only to have engine toss a rod on way home. Silly me, I neglected to tell him that car had a name.