With St. Patrick’s Day two days away, it seems like the right time to explain a phobia that I’ve been grappling with for years. I hate the name Danny. It’s a cruel and idiotic prejudice, obviously, but there it is. I just hate the damn sound of it. Anyone or anything called Danny is therefore diminished if not discredited. Sorry.
Dan and Daniel are cool, but Danny is a cheap 1950s Irish punk street name. I’ve always disliked the Irish ballad “Danny Boy” because of the odious aroma in the title. If Daniel Stern, Dan Futterman or Dan Aykroyd had begun their careers as Dannys they wouldn’t have done as well, I’m convinced, and might have even failed to break through. I further believe that Danny Moder, Julia Roberts‘ dp husband, will always have career troubles unless he changes course and goes strictly by Daniel or Dan. If I read a script with a character named Danny, I’ll stop reading and put it away. And I’ve always disliked the 1958 Elvis Presley flick King Creole because it’s based upon Harold Robbins‘ “A Stone for Danny Fisher.”
I’m not the only one on this boat. Ask Danny Huston, who has no doubt suffered in one way or another because of it.