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77

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#77. My nickname in high school and college was ‘Foz’.

Yes, that’s right. As in ‘Fozzy Bear’. Go ahead and laugh. I’ll just wait until you’re done.

Finished yet? No? Okay, I’ll wait.

All right, get it all out. Done? Still more? All right. Just tell me when.

Now? Well, shit. Look, man, I’ve got other things I’ve gotta do soon. Let’s wrap this up. Geez, people don’t lauch this hard when they accidentally say, ‘Sorry, Charlie‘ to me. (And that can just never get old. Right.)

Okay, all done? Good. Then we can get on with this.

So, I’m not sure exactly why I got the nickname in the first place. I like to think that it had something to do with either looking like a fuzzy muppet or my fractured sense of humor. But not both. (Though unfortunately, I think that’s really probably the case.)

In any event, I thought I might be done with the name after high school. After all, no one else in my class was foolish enough to venture to central Kentucky for college. (Or as the locals called it, ‘hagh’r edumacation‘.) But somehow or another, the name glommed onto me again, and stuck just as steadfastly as before. Steadfastlier, even, if that’s possible. (Or a word, which I’m pretty sure it isn’t.) I’d put money on several folks from college remembering me — if only vaguely — but only knowing me by ‘Foz’. My real name would probably get lots of blank stares. (And drooling, and possibly even a ‘dur-hur?‘ This was Kentucky, after all.)

But really, I didn’t mind. Maybe I was just mature for my age, and willing to let the others have their fun. Maybe I was just that good-natured, to take the ribbing in stride. And maybe — just maybe — I’d been called enough worse things at that point to make me think that comparisons to a puppet bear telling hackneyed jokes wasn’t such a bad thing, after all. In any case, I answered to ‘Foz’ for just about seven years.

But the name finally wore off. For one thing, I probably look too old to be Fozzy any more. Soon, I’ll look more like Gonzo than any of them, or maybe those old farts sitting up in the balcony. Humph. My old roommate from college still calls me ‘Foz’, but that’s about it. I really don’t see anyone from school these days (with my wife being a notable exception), so I don’t have a lot of people around calling me names any more (um, just ditto the last parenthetical remark here).

Still, I think the name was meant in fun. By most people, anyway. And it was kind of an interesting standard to try to live up to — could I really consistenently tell jokes that were that bad? I mean, the real Fozzy Bear had some doozies. Real groaners. Could I live up to the legend? Well… yeah. I think I did a pretty good job. Certainly, no one ever came up to me and said, ‘Hey, you need to be more corny if you’re gonna carry that name around, you know.‘ Nope. Not once. So I’d say I gave it a pretty good run. But I’ve hung up the ‘Wokka wokka‘s now — all you’ll find here on this site is subtle humor, witty commentary, and expertly applied sarcastic cynicism. Never a cheap joke, and no silliness whatsoever.

Right. And if you believe that, I’ve got a dolled-up karate-choppin’ pig I’d like you to meet. She’s a sweet little Piggy, but she tends to be a bit of a ham. ‘Wokka wokka wokka.‘ (Ah, just like old times.)