Nicknames serve purpose, even when they're cheesy
By Mark W. Mayfield
Because of my amazing ability to keep abreast of current events, my friends affectionately call me the Newsmeister. Well, actually, I've repeatedly asked them to call me the Newsmeister, but they refuse, claiming that a man shouldn't be allowed to choose his own nickname.
If my friends weren't so narrow-minded, they would realize that anybody who accurately predicted Boris Yeltsin's surprise New Year's resignation truly deserves to be called the Newsmeister. I would then reluctantly tolerate the nickname and feign mild exasperation every time it was used.
Having a nickname would put me in an elite category with some of history's greatest achievers, including Albert "Smarty Pants" Einstein, Henry "Nature Boy" Thoreau (who once said, "If I eat one more wild blackberry, I'm gonna thoreau up."), Babe "George Herman" Ruth, Catherine "the Great" and her husband. Peter "the Pretty Good," and of course, Plato, the Greek inventor of modern tableware, who was lovingly called "Dish Face" by his older brothers, Bowlo and Forko.
When I was a kid, most of my peers had nicknames based on their physical attributes, athletic prowess or unique talents. Lenny "Cheetah" Collins could easily outrun anyone in the sixth grade. Kevin "Muscles" Miller had biceps that looked like skin-covered bowling balls. And Brian "The Phlegm King" Flanders could ... well, I'll skip the disgusting details, but he could do it better than anybody else. Unfortunately, nobody ever coined a cool nickname based on my unique ability to fit three quarters into each of my nostrils at the same time.
Growing up without a nickname, I was the target of constant ridicule. One day, after a vicious verbal assault from the school bully, Frank "Facial Hair" Fillmore, I tearfully vowed that I would someday have my own nickname, even if I had to make it up myself. That day has finally arrived. After decades of unbearable nicknamelessness, I hereby proclaim that I am now ... (dramatic pause) ... the Newsmeister. (I carefully considered several other nicknames, but the Burritomeister, the Couchmeister and the Weed-Whackermeister didn't sound quite right.)
Now that I finally have a nickname, I'll be more popular and interesting. I can see it now:
I'm at this great Super Bowl party, where a friend is introducing me to a beautiful, blonde acquaintance. "Candi," he says, "I want you to meet my best buddy, a guy who knows everything about current events, a guy who reads three different newspapers every day, a guy who actually understands those big words on the Op-Ed pages, a guy who can clearly explain the difficulties of implementing a lasting peace agreement in the Middle East, a guy I affectionately call ... [dramatic pause] ... the Newsmeister."
After rolling my eyes in a charming gesture of annoyance, I shyly glance at the girl and mutter, "I hate it when he calls me that."
"I think it's a really, really cute nickname," she replies. "I really, really admire a man who understands big words. I wish I had time to read the newspaper, but my job as a professional lingerie model keeps me really, really busy."
Another attractive woman approaches me and suggestively whispers, "Which news magazine do you recommend, Mr. Newsmeister? I just love to read about current events and the latest societal trends while relaxing seductively in my hot tub. Please help me choose. Pretty please, Newsy-woozie?"
"I found him first!" shouts the lingerie model.
"He's mine!" screams the hot-tub girl.
"Calm down, ladies," I say. "There's enough of the ol' Newsmeister for everybody."
At this point, my wife, Mrs. Newsmeister, who was watching the entire scene from behind a large potted houseplant, attacks me with a cheddar-cheese log from the refreshment table.
Oh well, multiple cheese wounds are a small price to pay for something as important as a nickname. As Socrates, a.k.a. the Philosophermeister, once said, "A man without a nickname is like a Plato without a Forko."
Mark "The Newsmeister" Mayfield (itsmark@sirius.com) still bears the scars of that vicious cheese attack.
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Los Gatos, California Since 1881
