What's in a Name

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” says Juliet, reflecting on her budding romance with Romeo, but she could easily have been musing about Park City in the late 1960s and early ’70s.

Nicknames were an indication of spirit back then, with monikers bestowed upon those whose antics earned them a singular distinction. The list is long, the times, fun. And it was in the spirit of fun that characters such as “Waterbed,” “Steakhouse,” “Stormin’ Norman,” “O.D. McGee,” and “Alamo Dave” emerged.

(A longtime Park City local described the derivations of these names like this: “Prior to opening the former Texas Red’s restaurant, Ron Purdom sold water beds on Main Street; ‘Stormin’ Norman Hall arrived in town with a personality that came equipped with only a forward gear; the ‘O.D.’ in McGee’s name referenced the possibility of “overdosing” on his favorite alcoholic concoctions; and ‘Alamo’ Dave Mueller tended bar at The Alamo throughout the late 60s/early ’70s and later became a founding member of the Muckers rugby team—in fact, he gave them their name!”

Terry Jannott’s nickname, “Tutu,” came about from his 20 minutes of clown life. “Tutu” and a friend actually dressed up as clowns and went to the Ringling Brothers Circus. “At one point, 35 real clowns came out to do their thing,” says Jannott, and “instead of 35, there were 37. None of them could do anything, and we just played along.”

Park City was a different town back then—small, intimate. The ski industry was the focal point, both in terms of jobs and the reason why a lot of people migrated to town. But what kept them here wasn’t purely powder; if anything, it was the spirit of community.

“What attracted me was that Park City was a fun place to live and party and enjoy life all at the same time. There was a real sense of community,” says Tim Mertens, known as “The Reverend Dirty Mertz,” whose name followed him from his college days but was amended when he dressed up as a reverend to attend a wedding here in Park City. The car in which he was riding was pulled over, and the cop asked, “Who’s the drunk reverend?”

Nicknames, though, became so much more than just the names. They were identities, both of place and person. The endemic nature of the names wasn’t so much about reinventing oneself, but becoming part of the whole, a larger contribution to the times.

Above all, those times were fun. Serious fun. The spirit of revelry ignited more than good times and drinking—it provided a haven for those seeking a different way of life.

“A lot of us thought of ourselves as outlaws … and outlaws always have nicknames, don’t they?” says Carole Fontana (known as “Little Carole”), as she remembers her early days in Park City.

In some ways, Park City was a place apart from the rest of the world. It was insulated from politics, the Vietnam War, the draft and the craziness associated with a country at odds over the rising body count.

“Nicknames were part of the frivolity going on at the time, part of the lack of seriousness. And the war was not an issue here,” says Fontana.
The issues were less complex, revolving simply around good times, good friends and lifestyle. And what better way to celebrate life than to earn a nickname?

“Everyone enjoyed his/her name; it was just a fun thing to do. For years none of us knew our real names,” laughs Jannott.