Name Game

Italian men are named after their grandfathers. Perhaps if Giuseppe were my given name there’d be less opportunity afforded to the passive-aggressive among me. So, Philip, it is.

I had some redneck sit next to me and attempt to strike up a conversation as I was mid-taco, mid-beer. The southern drawl was as charming as ass sweat.

“Hey there, son. I’m Andrew.”

(Son? I’m fifty-fucking-seven.)

“I’m Phil.”

“What brings you to Temecula?”

“Food.”

“Where ya from?”

“Here.”

“Ya whole life?”

“Moved here from Philadelphia.”

“Oh, I get it — Phil from Philadelphia.”

“Get what?”

“Your name.”

“Huh?”

“Phil, like Phil A. Delphia. Ha ha.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your name, man. It’s where yer from.”

“Phil? I’m not from Phil. Is there a city around here called Phil? I’m confused.”

“Ah. Never mind. Enjoy your taco.”

Many of my baseball buddies and their women call me Phildo — yes, as in dildo. When I step up to the plate and a catcher or umpire hears it for the first time, they stare at me confused. Or, maybe they get the joke but are concerned that I could turn my 32″ Baum Bat on them if they dare chuckle. Alas, I’m a lover. I grin, nod, and hack away at the next pitch.

When tending bar, I often preemptively strike. I wear a name tag, so I know it’s coming.

“Hi there. I’m Phil as in right now I’m going to Phil up your glass with social lubrication. When you order your next drink, I’ll be re-Phil. Get it?”

Usually, they do. Sometimes I need to remind them I am not Phil T. Rich, so gratuity is highly appreciated. I avoid Phil Laysheo jokes with customers, except the extra-playful ones — like the ones who call me Phil McCraken.

I guess this is why many people wind up taking on nicknames. Let me list a few I have been considering:

  • Qunt. I mean, it’s spelled with a Q, so it works, right?
  • Skeeter. Who wouldn’t love a cousin Skeeter?
  • Sally. Because, Sally. Come on. That’s some funny shit right there. A clever patron will assume it is short for Salvatore. Nay. Salamander.
  • Pi. It would make signing things simpler. I’d tell people I’m Chinese and my father was a mathematician, so he named me after his favorite thing — Fried Cricket Pie.
  • Poopy Nails. Oh, I dare you to ask, patron. I fucking dare you.

I guess it’s all harmless fun. Name play is better than calling me a bald, old fuck with alcohol schnozola.

About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.