Lately I’ve been going through an identity crisis. Thankfully it’s not the serious kind – you know, the kind where you suddenly wake up with amnesia in a forest, without pants or identification, end up on the news, and then, if you’re lucky, are reunited with your family or, even better, adopted by a handsome sugar daddy.

What I’ve experienced is pretty much your average midlife identity crisis – the type where you’re bored with who you are and where you live, and you want to be someone with a cool job, hot car, great hair and perfect teeth, so that everywhere you go people think you’re famous and just breezing through town for media interviews about your next big thing. Afterwards, you’ll jet home to L.A. or New York or D.C. to take on more important things, like getting a spa treatment, meeting with your advisors, and deciding which swanky parties you should attend that weekend. While soaking in your mud bath, you decide to attend only the events where you’ll be photographed for the society pages of Out and Vanity Fair.

My latest midlife identity crisis was somewhat mitigated by leaving town. Although it would sound cool to say that I just dropped everything and ran, in reality I’d been planning an East Coast trip for a while. So I drove from San Diego to L.A. to visit my ex, flew to New York to visit a friend, and then boarded a Bolt bus for Washington, D.C. My friends in those cities didn’t know of any swanky parties, but I was glad to see them anyway. And best of all for my identity crisis, I realized that I’d probably hate living in L.A. or New York, because I prefer quiet nights, fresh air and shorter queues at Trader Joe’s.

Another way to cure my identity crisis would be to change my name and reinvent myself, at least outside of California, where nobody knows me. Your average “Gary” – like a Jerry, Harry, or Larry – is a sweet guy next-door name, but it’s not exactly what you want fans screaming if you’re an aspiring quarterback, A-list celebrity, or porn star. For those professions, I’d need a testosterone-ripped, single-syllable name with a hard consonant ending, like Blake, Jake, Luke, Dirk, Brett, Matt, Brad or Chad. I’ll bet that guys with those names have no problems getting laid.

For people like me with slightly geeky names, a pseudonym is a steroid for the race to fame. How many people would have paid to see movies or concerts with Frances Gumm, Doris von Kappelhoff, Reginald Dwight or Joan Molinsky? Not many, but people loved them when they became Judy Garland, Doris Day, Elton John and Joan Rivers. Would gay men wear clothes by Ralph Lifshitz? Not a chance, but they’d sure buy them from Ralph Lauren.

For musicians, single-name monikers work even better – just look how far they got Cher, Prince, Bono, Usher and Beyoncé. I don’t know of any famous modern writers with single names, but maybe I could start a trend in literary snobbery. Some of my friends have already been kind enough to suggest one-word names for me, but I can’t repeat them here.

The next best thing to changing my real-life name would be to change my online alias every few months. I’d just have to make sure to post new photos and think of names that stand out from the usual Boynextdoors, Manhandlers, and Hotass4u’s. While in New York I saw some signs for businesses that would make great profile names – “Dr. Playground,” “Thai Me Up,” and “Sweet & Saucy.” There’s also a bakery called “Hot & Crusty,” which would describe lots of folks online, though not in a good way.

Another way to have a cool alias and avatar is to play computer games, but so far, they’re not for me. I already have enough real-life addictions that keep me from fighting the mob, shooting aliens or creating new civilizations.

The ultimate identity change would be to enter the federal witness protection program, because my new name, stipend, house and facelift would all be provided courtesy of the government. And if having a stalker ex-boyfriend was a qualification for getting in, I think lots of gay men would apply. But the idea of keeping a low profile and not ever visiting my family again doesn’t sound like much fun.

After all of my “hate-my-life” identity crises and trips away from home, I always end up realizing that San Diego is still a great place to live. My friends there are my second family, and if they sometimes call me one-word names, at least I know that they really get my many “multi-faceted” identities.