What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet. – Bill S.
My name is lackluster. It’s about as interesting as John Smith. If you’re John Smith and this offends you, my apologies. Hopefully, though, you’re self aware and understand the banality coursing through your first and last name. But take solace, Juan. At least John Smith was a famous explorer who may have single handedly saved Virginia’s Jamestown Colony in the early 1600’s. You learn these things when you grow up in the Old Dominion’s public school system.
However, what’s any Joe Davis done? Apparently play snooker and English billiards, according to Wikipedia. So there’s that. A Joe Davis is well known within the Boston Red Sox farm system. We’re getting cooler with each key stroke. A Joe Davis currently works as a major network sports announcer. By internet standards and fame based modalities, the Joe Davis crowd has a celebrity footing, though not incredibly stable.
But what’s in a name, really? I’ve renamed our french beagle, Gigi, dozens of times. None of them officially stuck with the family, but many a goofy canine nickname lingered long inside my head. And they all make me giggle, aloud or otherwise. She’s been Gigi Bagel, Gigi Beagle, Beagie Weagie, Beauges, Weagles, Francesca Alyse Bonturkin (FAB), Jubilee Bergman, and most recently Berklyn Chordlehops. I know. I should have chosen Barklyn for a dog. However, my favorite is Hoover Bastogne. Good ole, Hoovie B!
My sister-in-law’s family owned a dog named Trixie. Trixie was a good dog. Friendly, gentle, loving, and above all else, hypoallergenic. Without this latter attribute, specific relatives may have succumbed to anaphylactic shock. The Trixster (rebranding) was always happy to greet us when our travels brought the family to Nebraska. In fact, she would get so excited that she consistently peed on the floor when she first saw us. Fortunately she kept this practice quarantined to the kitchen tile and not the family room carpet.
Due to this welcoming technique, I decided to rename her Peebody. That one stuck. Not with their family, but definitely in my silly name bending mind. What can I say? Trixie was a Peebody. Maybe because it conjured up childhood memories from watching Bullwinkle in my footie PJ’s, Peebody rang a nostalgic note in my mind, if not a present day emergency cleanup protocol. Through artistic license, I spelled Peebody with two “e’s”. Hopefully Professor Peabody understands. I’m certain Sherman is down with it.
My wife and children have not dodged the nicknaming. I tagged my wife as Klavicle after not knowing how to spell her last name when we first started dating. Yes, I figured it out, but that’s no reason to abandon Klavicle. Then my daughter got stuck with Anna Pi Pie Poo Pum and its conjugates – Poomeranian, Poomie, Poomers, Pi Pie…you get the idea. I gave my son several trailers off of his first name, such as Cole Bear, Cole Train, Cole Man. However, his more infamous alter-ego, Dwight, has remained over the years. And I snicker at all of them, albeit in a one man, private chortle-fest.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be. – Bill S.
Name alterations are common throughout history. Abraham and Sarah were originally Abram and Sarai. Not a huge change, but ordained by God. When God tells you to switch names, it’s go time. Jacob became Israel. Historically and biblically, that’s a biggie. Casius Clay and Lew Alcindor both acquiesced to Muslim monikers. If I had the choice of Eldrick or George, I might consider the switch to Tiger or Babe. A logical move within the Woods and Ruth families. But love him or hate him, Chad Ochocinco is still the best.
In the 1980’s, a former football teammate divvied out nicknames taken from the ranks of professional wrestling. I never got to be the Junkyard Dog or the American Dream, but at least I didn’t have fellow ballers calling me the Iron Sheik. Stone Cold would have been cool, though. Maybe even Sgt. Slaughter. It would have fit nicely on the defensive line.
For whatever reason, the sports world is loaded with nicknames. Fans latch onto them like rabid dogs. Sometimes they stick in a locker room, too. The true test of a perfect nickname occurs when the people closest to you stop using your actual birth name and switch to the newly handed-down handle. Hopefully Ryan Fitzpatrick’s “Fitztragic” didn’t follow him too far. I think some sports reporters were just jealous of his beard. I know I am.
The Witness Protection Program takes it to whole new level. New names, new birthdates, new social security numbers, total new life. Except the problem that you brought yourself along for the ride. Wherever you go, there you are. Damn baggage. New city, new state, new job, new car, new house, same old me. Wait, what’s my name again? Nothing like an east coast mobster living in Spearfish, South Dakota. I hear their Italian cuisine is exceptionally marginal.
I called one of my brothers Slicker for years. I heard it used during the Saturday morning Abbot & Costello movie classics during my childhood. My brother didn’t play baseball so that ruled out many other options coined by the comedic duo. The Tarzan Saturday matinee followed Abbott & Costello. Johny Weissmuller was the only real Tarzan for me. Me Tarzan you Jane. He really pulled it off because English wasn’t his first language. And that little vixen, Jane with her British accent. It’s hard to believe nobody ever named their firstborn son, Boy. Cheeta, ungawa!
Somewhere along the line, people thought carving names and nicknames into trees a good idea. Nowadays these people would be labeled as ecoterrorists and duly prosecuted under local, state, or federal statutes. But don’t worry, now we have tagging, also known as urban art. Unfortunately most of it is graffiti, an urban eyesore. But we do like to put our names, images, and symbols on things, wherever they may be. Just ask Donald Trump. Gold everything, baby!
I went to summer camp as a kid once. Maybe it was twice. Either way, my underwear was marked. Thank God, because I don’t know how many times I’ve worn another man’s boxers because there wasn’t a name scribbled on the inside of the elastic waistband. Of course when I was a kid, maybe we all wore the same tighty whities, the only differentiation being size. Get your hands off my huskies you dork! Can’t you read drawers?
Regardless, Joe Davis has the punch of a 83 year-old prize fighter. I can’t give myself a nickname and if left up to others, the end results could be regrettable. My daughter named me Hubert McGee. Originally that sounded goofy, but I definitely like it now. A friend refers to my wife as the Czech princess and to me as the giant dwarf. Like my daughter, he said they just came to him. I actually get it. It’s an unexplainable process. I really can’t put a name on it.
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; and one in his time plays many parts. – Bill S.