Thursday, 14 August 2014

Old what's his name, that's me.

     Hello again, and welcome to something new to read!  I know I've failed to keep up with this blog once more.  I've been traveling again, you see, and when I leave for a run at 2 a.m. I tend to forget to grab my computer.  Mainly because I didn't grow up with this widely portable technology, and grabbing an old fashioned paperback book is higher up on the old mental list of travel accessories.  The other reason is that I drive a large straight truck (28 feet, 26,000 lbs), and pulling into a McD's or Starbucks parking lot, just to grab their wifi signal is not always an option for me.

     With that explained (even if it's a weak excuse), I'd like to move on.  I seem to live with two names.  It used to be more.  The whole mistaken identity thing started at the end of my freshman year in high school.  Back then, I was bequeathed the nickname of 'Goofy', by a senior who had already laid claim to said nickname.  For him the name had been given because he was truly an odd duck (dog).  In my case it came down to a family vacation to Disney World, Florida, when I (for whatever reason) decided that of all the iconic Disney characters, Goofy was for me.  Then, shortly after getting back from that vacation a television show called Goof Troop came on the air.  That cemented it for me, and I (my mom) got myself Goofy t-shirts, sweatshirts, and various other Disney licensed Goofy swag.  Then, during my earliest experiences of high school, classmates took note of this and started giving me a lot more Goofy paraphernalia (pens, yoyos, etc..)  I shared a hallway locker with the senior Goofy, and he noticed all of that accumulate, so he dedicated the nickname to me.

    During my third year of high school my nickname unfortunately became Deep Throat.  This was merely because my voice had deepened, and continued to deepen.  It was not some reference to porn, or to the Watergate scandal. At least I'm fairly positive I've never been involved in either of those things, anyway.  And finally, during my fourth, and last year of high school, my nickname became Dabr.  That was simply because my fellow gym mates couldn't figure out how to say my last name, and shortened it to the first four letters.  For a brief while it stuck.

      Fast forward about four years, and all of that changed.  Now, as it sometimes seems to me, my parents gave me one name, but the universe gave a handful of people the wrong name.  When I was 21, I was working for a small office supply company as a route driver.  One of the accounts I picked up was at the Motorola Main Campus, in Arlington Heights, IL.  The original location mind you, where the entire company started, and still bases itself.  You'll have heard that it's a company started in Chicago, and it was, but the name of the Chicago suburb is Arlington Heights.  Now that that's cleared up, I will get back to the point.  The first day I pulled into the drive I had to stop at the security fortress.  Once I got past the moat with live midwestern crocodiles, and managed to evade the cascading boiling tar, I met a security agent, and was lead to a waiting area.  When I won the random number lottery, I had to fill out nearly a dozen pages of security questionnaires.  When I finished I handed the forms back, and my drivers license, and Social Security Card to the guard.  The sentinel took my info and ID, and began to type all of the info into the computer terminal.  It took about ten minutes, and when my new, laminated ID badge was handed to me, my name had changed from Dave to Dan.  For the following five years, every time I delivered to that campus, which was at least once a day, Monday through Friday, I was called Dan by the people (thousands of people are employed there, and I dealt mainly with about a hundred of them) that worked there.

     Over the years following that I've been miscalled Dan by several people.  Fast forward again to today, and that name is back.  My current job has three people who regularly call me Dan.  And just today, when I'd gotten back from a run, I went to a local coffee house/deli named New Moon to get lunch.  I walked up to the counter, and a new guy started to take my order, when a regular employee (Molly) hip-checked him out of the way.  The first words out of her mouth when she took over my transaction were "What'll it be today, Cowboy Dan?"

     First off, I'm from Chicago, and I am not a cowboy.  Secondly, my name is not Dan... or is it?  No, no it's not.  Third of all, I thought she may have been joking around and quoting a Modest Mouse song (Cowboy Dan), but when I followed up with "was a major player in the cowboy scene", I got a blank stare in return.  Maybe I will have to legally change my name, but I think I'll try to stick with Dave as long as I can.  

     That's my so-called rant for today.  In other news, I have gotten back to writing Mike's Eye, and I hope to get it done before the end of the year, as I've promised.  Additionally, now that I'm making a real paycheck again, I might just pay an actual editor for Daemon Infiri, so keep a look out for a slightly reworked version of that book in the future.

      I hope you are all doing well, and that you can still enjoy time with friends and family, and are still enjoying good food as well as your favorite beverage, laughing, and remembering to smile at random strangers.  I need to get some sleep now, so peace out y'all!