Monday, September 12, 2011

monikers

On my flight home a couple weeks back, the two money men and I chatted about nicknames. One claimed he'd never had one and never would. He was un-nicknameable.
Not possible! I said, horrified.
I'm proud to have collected a back pocket full of monikers:
Lisi/Greasy Leesie/e-dogg/Lee/Davis!/Sparkette/sleezy E/e
$
Nicknames can say a lot; they can be an affectionate shortcut or demonstrate a condensed and concentrated hatred. You don't nickname people you don't care about, either on the plus or minus side of things. (Although, a caveat might be the Geo W. Bush school of nicknaming, which seemed to be a way to mock people, to reduce them to a particular stereotype or force a nonexistent collegiality.)
As with pie dough and romance, you can't force a nickname. They happen, they grow on you, they stick. They remind you of an inside joke. They're a way to acknowledge a moment.
So: Davey Jo and Yula and Wiener Hotline aka Davelicious and Skinny Lynnie and Pops and ThaBoss and Big Spoon and Sparky aka Dancheska and Phatty and Jojo and Billy Boy and T. Wizzy and CL and Local Time and the Frannies and the Goof Troop aka Hammy Smackbooty, Baffank and Jamer and and and--you know who you are. So do I.

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