Name of the Dave

Oooh its takin’ me a while to start this blog. And do you know why?

I'm scared.

I'm chicken.

Because even greater than my second greatest fear of all time, parking garages, is my first. . . defining myself in any sort of permanent way. In some ways this fear seems to have gotten worse over the years, ‘til I’m fretting for hours over e-mail names and pictues to put up, sitting in a white walled room. Not an insane asylum. My room. But I just can’t seem to put any cool stuff up. It seems like such a commitment. Just like the guy in Sex, Lies and Videotape. Wants to see, but not be seen. To observe, but not affect. This cannot stand.

Everything has been changing lately, evolving, growing. I’m soon to make public an animated short (after, you can imagine, hours and countless hours of revision). I started this blog. And finally, I have chosen a name.

Yes. A name.

Here is the Evolution of my Name. . .

First, David.

David. DAVID. Clean your room David. This is David. David come here. David? Where are you David? David is so smart. David said something so funny about his penis the other day, didn’t you David. David, say something funny now David.

David spoke not a single sentence until junior high. Then spent seventh grade dreamily, crushily gazing at the two foxiest, feathered haired pre-high school girls you could possibly imagine...Sandy and Kerry. There wasn’t much good going on around me back then beyond feathered hair. So I gazed.

And I think they kind of noticed. Because one day on the playground, from afar, they called over to me seductively, teasingly, “Daaaaavvvveeeee” I did not answer. I blushed for the entire rest of the school year.

And when I got home that day, and my mother started in with DAVID, DAVID, DAVID I issued a proclamation.

“I am now Dave.”

No one took notice. They were all oblivious.

Except for my Mimi.

I must have signed some letter to her "Love, Dave". And then that became her mantra, and with her wonderful quivering, coffee for breakfast voice, she corrected family member after family member. "Heee’s Daaavvvee now. Heeee’s Dave.”
For the next eight years, “Heeee’s Daaaaaaavvvvvvveeeeeee.”

Terrific, thoughtful, organized Mimi. When she locked in data, it was locked in. She knew what I loved, at least what I had loved when I was seven. And once the data was locked in, it seldom changed.

“Daaaaavvvveeeee, your bed's in here. And look what Papa and I got for you, Fruit Loops. The Fruit Loops you love.” I was 22.

The name Dave stuck with me until my first day of college. At the University of Wisconsin - Madison, in the dorms, where the partying does not even wait til you put your clothes away. A gregarious blonde curly haired kid named Mike flung himself into my dorm room and said “who are you?”

“Dave.”

He thought for a minute. “Dangerous Dave.”

And that night, at my first college party, he introduced me to the kegmaster. “This here is Dangerous Dave.”

Half elsewhere, Kegman muttered “Dangerous Dave the Wave.” Mike’s world stopped. He climbed the keg, stopped the party and announced...”EVERYONE... THIS IS DAVE THE WAVE!” You would not believe how this inexplicably stuck. For the rest of college I was Dave the Wave. Wisconsin beer dudes shouted "Dave the Wave!" Roommates called me "Wavey". In my most fortunate moments, women whispered to me by the only thing they knew me as, "Wave."

But those wonderful Wave years along with any other fun in my life ended. In law school.

I was imprisoned, depressed, in this building for three years.

Once again I was a David. Or worse. A Mr. Something potential esquire nothingness the first. Whoever I was then, never was I more of a complete stranger to myself.

And since then I've been walking through the desert for years, hearing different names and not knowing which one to answer to.

Until I recently realized one thing...in their most playful moments my best friends call me Davey. And it always makes me smile. My big loveable black belt budster Doug leaves me cartoon inspired messages, “Daaaavvvveyyyy, its Goliath.”

My wonderful, artistic muppetty pal Donavan calls me up to grab noodles and carouse Japan town sounding like some fun, ten year old creature of the 70s, “Daaavvveyyy...It's Donnie!”

And so that’s it. I’m giving up a life as a man. As a serious artist. As responsible. As normal. As any kind of grown up I had ever pictured.

And I’m going with a name that brings m'some joy. Davey.

And I’m going to put some stuff up on my walls and in my life and leap and not look and say some things and not even try to wonder whether its coming out right.