Nicknames, I've had a few. Some I've inflicted on myself, some bestowed extraneously, some as terms of endearment, and a few as rite of passage. Since I spend more time around co-workers than most any other people, nicknames happen. They develop and ripen organically as their personalities reveal their inner moniker. Here are a few of the proud, the noble, the named:
Cake Girl: So named, as it's assumed that when disrobed, she would smell like cake. This theory has never been confirmed.
Steely Jeff: So named, as he once confided in me that he had spent an entire weekend listening to nothing but Steely Dan. He seemed worried. He should be.
The Roz: Actually a hybridization of her real last name. I used to watch a lot of Frasier, so it was easy. It means nothing, like the phone call I just made to a student who has made no progress on his financial aid documents. Man, you start class in two weeks, file your goddamn taxes.
Brother Sea: The Irish Monk, and my best friend in the office. While exhibiting no zen-like qualities, is still Irish. Fresh-off-the-boat Irish. Seriously, Lucky Charms, pot-o'-gold Irish.
Beckenstein: So named in direct contradiction of her grandmotherly personality. Is not in any way stitched together through a composite of human flesh. Confusing? Well, in any life there must be contrast. Now, that's zen.
Milbert: My boss. Safe to use around her, since a self-disclosed nickname. Personalizes the one who conducts my performance reviews. Essential.
Me? I've been called GeoStorm, Georgio Armani, and GQ. It's official. They like me. By my nicknames, I am accepted.
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