I grew up with a guy named Cookie as an upstairs neighbor. I miss him. I’m pretty sure Cookie was gay, as was our landlord who lived with him, even though they had pictures of nekkid wimmen on their walls because being “out” was not cool for working people in those days. But both of them were Democrats, so everything was OK. We all got along, and had great backyard parties, together with the linotype operator and his family next door. I miss them all, Cookie and our landlord and their cats named after Ford models (long story) and the linotype operator. My favorite cat was Lord Falcon Galaxie [sic]. Those guys were decent people who treated my whole family well the entire time we lived there… probably 15 years or so. Like my parents, they’re gone now; may they all rest in peace.

(Please forgive the maudlin ramble. It’s that kind of day here.)

But people who retain nicknames like “Cookie” or “Buzzy”… well, unless they’re a Keebler Elf or a Navy aviator, probably isn’t saying much for them, I guess.

As for me, I have no childhood nickname, or at least none that anybody has ever dared mention to my face. Harumph!