Title for New Book

When I was in college I had a roommate who told me I called a spade a spade. I wasn't sure at the time I knew what he meant. Since then I've pretty much figured it out.

A week or so ago a friend of mine asked my opinion on his essay for admission to law school. In my opinion, and my opinion only, no warranties expressed or implied, I thought he had gone in the wrong direction and spent a bunch of time reworking it into what I thought, and only I, right, wrong or indifferent, would serve him in a more positive and flattering light.

He was very defensive when I sent it back to him, and that was okay. I suspect that he knew that would be the case when he originally asked me; if he'd not bothered to read it or thrown it away or lined his hamster cage it all would have been fine. It was completely his deal and he asked me for an opinion and that was all he got. And what's that worth? If anybody wants to send me a dollar I'll send them at least half a dozen...

The whole thing made me think back a bit. Like most people's self-images, I don't think I'm that bad a guy. But what I think about myself and what others think about me have never been completely in lockstep but again, I'm sure that's true with most everyone else. Unlike past relationships, though, where I tend to forget the bad aspects over time and just remember the good, I seem to forget the good things I've done (I'm sure there are some) and remember the bad.

Yes, I used to wear expensive Carerra sunglasses. Indoors. Sometimes with the lights off in my office while working (I had big windows). I used to chew on toothpicks all the time, too; I kept them in my wallet and a friend would actually give me a stack he'd marinate in peppermint oil whenever I saw him. My shirt was undone a button too far and it wasn't to allow my seven or eight chest hairs a chance for air. And yes, I liked pointed shoes as opposed to Weejuns or penny loafers or wing tips.

I'm cringing as I write all this. What the hell did people actually think of me?

Here's what I remember: I was born with a bad eye and dimmer light would allow the pupil to dilate and be more comfortable for me. I have some larger than usual spaces in my teeth and I needed toothpicks to keep the broccoli out after just about every meal. I kept my shirt unbuttoned to the point I did because it was easy to slide off over my head that way when I got home at night. The shoes-- Well, the shoes were just cool.

So my given first name is Richard, a strong Old German name meaning powerful leader. I've gone by the nickname Rick since the fifth grade when people seemed to spontaneously hit me with it. That was fine with me; Richard seemed awfully formal. Another nickname is Rich, which I don't care for, and another is Dick, which is fine but carries with it cultural memories of Mr. Nixon. I think of my dad, though, since I'm a junior (and our son is a third).

My dad wouldn't call me Rick until I was past thirty. He always told me it wasn't my name. I countered with the fact that it was as much my name as Dick was as his. Apparently he caved.

'Dick' also has another meaning in the vernacular, one that I've used myself. After my experience with my friend's essay and looking back at how I must have come across to other people when I was younger, I've had a thought. If I ever defy odds and do something worthy of a memoir, could it be called anything other than "AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DICK"? Clearly not.

I did have a group of friends who for years called me 'Rico Suave,' pronounced swa-vay after the one hit wonder song of the early nineties. There's got to be a story there, too, but I don't think I'm strong enough to face it right now. I've named my own spade and dug an adequate hole as it is.