In Which Our Author Compiles a List or Two

Things I Have Been Called


Name: Mowgli
Age: 0-3
My mom called me this when I was very young, because even she thought I was Indian.

Jojo
0-present
This is what my dad has always called me when trying to be affectionate.

Doey
2-4
This was my brother's valiant attempt to pronounce my name.  My parents usually mimicked him, laughing, because no one can resist mocking children.

Little Joey (Lil' Joey)
5-11
My elementary school nickname.  Not particularly creative (my name was Joey, and I'm kinda little), but effective.  I remember this one caused some drama because one of my friends insisted on patting my head when he said it, which infuriated me.  A word of advice to the tall:  keep your hands at all times out of biting range.  I didn't actually bite anyone, but I could have.  I'm dangerous and unpredictable.

Keebler
14-15
This is the first in what I consider the "Golden Era of Nicknames," or freshman year of high school.  As I've previously stated, I ran cross-country my freshman year.  The girls' team called me Keebler, like the elves.  Critical readers have surely begun to detect a pattern. . .

Tiny Tim
14-15
There we go.  That's it.  This one was the upperclassmen in choir.  They also called me

4.0
14-15
This one was inaccurate.  My actual GPA was closer to 4.7.

Giuseppe

11-15

My long time soccer coach came up with this one, the Italian equivalent of Joseph.  I think he was German.

Joe Flo

14-15
My theatre director made this one up first.  She said I could call her ALowe, and she would call me Joe Flo.  She also said that she'd write a play about me.  I'm still waiting.

Joe Joe

sporadic
I differentiate this one from my dad's because it is different.  I can't explain how, but it is.  Plenty of people have called me this over the years, and most of them have been girls who hug too tightly.  One of them, though, was a girl who hugged just right.

J.Flo
17-20
I must shamefully admit that I made this one up myself and used it ironically a few times.  I never expected it to catch on in high school or to reemerge in college.  My friend Ryan says it is forbidden to make up your own nickname.  I'm forever sorry.

Stalin, Stalina, Stalinifer
18-present
My senior year of high school I was president of my school's chapter of the International Thespian Society.  Because my first name was Joseph, the rest of my cabinet took to calling me Stalin.  They later took to using a more feminine form of the name.  I don't know why they did this, and that's probably for the best.  They still use it sometimes.

Jogan
19-present
When I auditioned for and was accepted into the Crazy Monkeys my freshman year, I was joined by a hilarious fellow named Logan.  Rather than "newbies" or "scrubs," the older Monkeys simply called us Jogan. Strictly speaking, Joe is the name of this body, and Logan of that one.  Jogan refers to the mind connecting them.  Two are one.

Joe the Pro
20-present
Red, a resident at the Indiana Veteran's Home where I volunteer, calls me this.  He's the friendliest guy you could ever hope to meet.  I don't have the heart to tell him that I am not actually a professional yet.


Things I Have Never Been Called
Jobu

Broseph

Joban
Shoeless Joe from Hannibal, MO
Late for dinner
Dear
Baby
Lover

In Which Our Author Tells a Mildly Mawkish Tale

I came home Friday night to visit my parents for fall break.  Saturday morning we went to one of my dad's soccer games, and I realized something in a moment that I never want to forget.  That's why I'm typing it down.

First, you need to know that my dad is a very interesting character.  His biography would probably make a very special night of television on the Arts & Entertainment channel, or at least a good Lifetime movie.  For various reasons, though, I don't feel like relating it here in any depth.  Suffice to say he found the most dramatic way to travel the 17.8 miles that Google Maps says it takes to get from the slums of East Chicago to the suburbs of Schererville.

The first time you meet my dad, you'll notice that he loves people, especially young people.  He has no end of things about which to talk to you, and I mean that literally.  If he starts talking, you're not going anywhere for a while.  When I'd have friends over, my mom would distract Dad with a steak while my friends and I ran to the video game room and shut the door.  There was no other way.

The second time you meet him, he will almost undoubtedly have a personalized lecture, tailor-made just for you.  He will tell you exactly what he thinks you need to hear, and more often than not, he'll be right.  I, however, do not have the time or patience to re-listen to hand-me-down lectures altered in places to fit you.  StarFox 64 will not play itself.

So for most of my life, that's how I thought of my dad.  A long-winded nuisance. Now I realize that he's actually a very passionate, very wise, very insightful nuisance.  But back to the story I wanted to tell.

My brother and I played on the community soccer leagues for thirteen years, and for the last five or so, my dad has been head coach of one or both of our teams.  Last year, Mike turned 18 and was ineligible to play another season, but my dad had so much fun coaching that he signed up to take one more team.  Now my dad knows little to nothing about coaching.  His idea of practice is to play a couple scrimmage games, give a couple lectures, and call it a night.  His idea of game-day coaching is to yell at the team to get the ball.  If his voice is up to it, he'll shout out a few lectures.  Our team is also the only team in the U18 league that still gets treats (and lectures) after the game.

But I went Saturday to the last game of the season and watched my dad handing out trophies, telling jokes and stories about each player as he did so.  Marco, who has been on my dad's team for three seasons, asked if he'd be back next season.  As the other players talked and joked about the game, my dad replied that no, his kids were grown, and he had other things to get done.  When he said "no," there was a brief but noticeable hesitation in all the kids.  Every last one of them stopped completely, just for a moment, and that moment is the way I always want to remember my dad.  However else he may grate on my nerves and play on my guilt, I never want to forget him standing there surrounded by mouthy teens struck silent by the idea of playing for someone other than Coach Rich.  He's not the winningest coach, or the most knowledgeable, but he's the one who cares the most for his players, as a team and as individuals.  If I can grow up to be more like that, I will count my life a success.

In conclusion, Mrs. My Third Grade Teacher, that is why my hero is my dad.  Also, ma'am, I think you need to read my last post because boy does it apply to you.

In Which Our Author Kills Time and Has Fun With Names

As you well know, dear the Internet, I am no good at consistent updates.  If you want a blog that is consistently updated and consistently interesting, you are currently in the wrong place.  Might I suggest you take a short hike over to The Middle School Adventures of College Mike?  Or T Marks the Spot?

Still, I will persevere against my creative malaise so that all five of you can have something to waste your time with on a more regular basis.  That was not fishing for compliments, though it sounded suspiciously like it.  There are exactly five of you following this blog, and I don't feel comfortable saying "something to look forward to" or "something to wet yourself in anticipation of."  I got enough nice, thoughtful compliments on my last two blogs that I can hang up my fishing rod.  The problem is I took a lot of time on those last two, and I can't continue to do that and have any hopes for regularity. [insert poop joke].  So I'm going to try to write things that are in my head without taking an hour to phrase them just so and then another hour to edit them just so.  I'll still try and make time for super special updates when I feel particularly passionate about something, but I'm really gonna try for pretty okay updates in the meantime.

So in that spirit, I'm gonna start talkin' about stuff.  I'll start with a musing I had in biochem.

See, Hans Lineweaver was a chemist who helped come up with the Lineweaver-Burk plot, a double reciprocal plot of the Michealis-Menton equation that shows enzyme activity in a straight line, making it easy to find the critical parameters by hand.

Er, I mean, he did some dumb science stuff or whatever.

Anyway, my point is that this guy named Lineweaver is famous for formulating a really useful graphical equation.  Mathematically speaking, he wove a fucking line.  So that got me thinking about how often that happens, where people come to embody their names.  Like how many Millers do you know who are actually millers?  How many Petersons actually have dads or moms named Peter?  In middle school, I always thought it was neat that the band director was Mr. Harmon (just needed a y) and the choir director's first name was Carol.  I think Armstrong would be one of the best names to live up to, but then I guess there are some names that you really wouldn't want to live up to, like Hertz or Heimann.  Or Heimann-Hertz. . .