For a two month stretch two years ago I signed my official agency email “The Salmon King of Astoria.” Few could object to this designation considering my household’s prodigious consumption of the pink (when cooked) fish. But nameless critics implied it was unprofessional, ushering in an unregulated time for the proliferation of less empirically grounded digital signatures. I worked with a guy who, for 55 minutes was, “The Beef Jerky Baron of Bayonne, NJ,” before transitioning to “Young John Lettuce,” and then settling on the rather basic, “Meat Man.” I can’t be held responsible for this sort of thing catching on. Who doesn’t want a memorable, food-inspired nickname?
Over the years, I’ve had other honorifics, which existed in places besides my company inbox. Inspired by Hector, breaker of horses, I was known as breaker of ices, for both my ability to converse with strangers as well as my strange aversion to air conditioning. More than one person has referred to me as the “Young Rascal Prince,” which, as I approach forty, may require a certain peculiar update for the accuracy obsessed. Duke, perhaps.
Borne out of an appreciation for ocean sizzle, the resounding noise sea foam makes after a wave settles into place, I adopted the sobriquet of “Poseidon’s Apprentice,” after legions of sunburnt surfers and other boardwalk vagrants insisted on using it in lieu of my given name. They said it was easier, despite the extra syllable. I relented, only after threats of physical violence.
As a child, I earned the moniker, “Plunger Boy” after successfully warding off an intruder a plunger. The intruder turned out to be our plumber, there to repair a major clog in the master bathroom. In days of greater flexibility, I became known as “The Creature” for my ability to climb trees without fear or foresight. The latter being driven home when a branch cracked under my weight.
I guess I understand why people go to grad school. Long titles. My are just as much fun, only without the debt.
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