There are 106 people listed in my local telephone book with the surname of 'Bacon'.
I just counted 'em.
Oh, how I envy those people. I've wished my surname was 'Bacon' since the age of about twelve, when I realised that there were not one but two famous people in history called "Francis Bacon." At the time, I fantasised about changing my name legally, by deed-poll.
Kevin Bacon was never a factor in this childhood desire, since I saw Footloose for the first time only two years ago. (And incidentally, I would never change my name to become closer to Kevin Bacon. He is a dessiccated husk, comprised of cartilage, sawdust and chicken skin. Actual bacon, on the other hand, is crispy and delicious. That's what's known as a 'paradox'.)
At one stage, later in my teens, I also considered changing my surname to "Surname." Or, my entire name to "Firstname Lastname." Or, my middle name to "Xag Xag Xag." Or, more recently, my middle name to "Harmonica Egg-soda."
This is because I am a buffoon.
I do have a friend who changed his name from something very mundane and suburban to "Pugsley Buzzard Wateringcan." His signature is now legally an Alister-Crowley-style pictogram of a cross-eyed boy, a vulture and, yes, a watering can.
He is a jazz musician. He has a big, black, waxed moustache like Salvador Dali. He can get away with these things.
I, sadly, cannot. Still, one day I hope at least to give myself some extra middle names: something like "Meat Helicopter" or "Hat Jam Elevator." Or, "Britney Britney Britney Britney Britney." An absurd middle-name would be, I imagine, like getting a tattoo in a place you know will be discretely concealed by your clothes.
Only, much stupider.