Though I’d never do it, I can understand the temptation to give a grandiose name to a new offspring. Nicknames are inevitable. Some folks simply choose to embed them into their legal appellations.
For example, my nephew’s name is Khalin Tiger. “Khalin means King, which he is,” explained my sister. I know a couple of people who put King into their offspring’s name, with nothing more than regal motivation. One of Jez’s cousins has a son whose middle name is Danger. Again, the reasoning seems self-evident: This kid needs a badass name, erego we will name him Danger.
Makes perfect sense to me. It’s far better than Strange, which was the middle name of Vietnam-era Defense Secretary Robert S. McNamara.
Clint has a pretty traditional name, but our latest nickname for him is Prince Buster.
It’s a name with multiple meanings. Prince explains his frequently-commanding presence. Typically, it’s benevolent. But he has his occasional moments of tyranny. Buster is an old-school male nickname, something my dad used for me occasionally. It’s also a noun that describes what Clint does, from time to time, to my balls (figuratively, of course. He does it to his mother, too. It’s OK. It goes with parent territory).
Prince Buster is also, of course, “the King of Bluebeat,” a Jamaican trailblazer whose music helped launch popular ska and reggae in the 1950s and 60s. He wrote stuff like “One Step Beyond” (covered by Madness), “Whine and Grind” (covered by the English Beat) and “Gangsters” (covered by the Specials).
Until my daughter Leigh grew to nearly six feet tall, I called her “Squirt” for much of her childhood.
If I phone the wife during the day and she reports on the activities of “Prince Buster,” it’s an instant signal that the offspring is having an especially rambunctious day.
Prince Buster may not stick. Odds are, it won’t be long before his mother and I opt to simply call him Clint, his given monosyllabic name, which has its own badass quality. But it’s less descriptive than Prince Buster.
