Columnist Scott Dickensheets: Skip 'Skippy'; Forget 'Buzz' How about 'Bucky'?

I AM KNOWN by many names. "Scott" to my wife, friends and co-workers. "Dad" to my sons. "Mr. Dicken ... um ... sheets?" to the telephone minions of my impatient creditors. "Lardbutt" to my father (he means it affectionately, I think). Me, I prefer "Bucky."

The story of my search for a suitable nickname begins a few weeks ago. "Dad, what's your nickname?" asked my youngest son, whom everyone calls Bear. Being 5 1/2, he's naturally undergoing identity struggles -- he's lately thinking Snake might be preferable to Bear -- and must have been looking to me for guidance.

"How about 'Dad'?" I answered, but he's too savvy for that. "That's what we call you. What nickname does everyone else call you?"

Well, good question. Never had one, come to think of it. I used to wish I was called Ace, but since I'm a mediocre card player and have never killed anyone in air combat, it didn't stick.

Any thought I've given to nicknames as an adult has focused on my kids. Before the birth of my first son, I spent many hours working on his nickname. It was important, I felt, to bestow on him an informal identity apart from his official one. A nickname has the power to shape and reflect one's personality and therefore destiny in a way birth-certificate names rarely do. George Herman Ruth sounds like an accountant; Babe Ruth sounds like a little round guy who could whack homers.

For a while, I referred to my unborn as Cletus the Fetus, and even drew a few cartoons chronicling the amniotic adventures of the plucky zygote. But it was short-lived. He couldn't remain a fetus forever, and, anyway, "Cletus" sounds like someone who'd do terrible things to Ned Beatty in backwoods Alabama.

Finally, from his early habit of laying on the floor with pad and pen, we started calling him Doodles. Later, our second son, whose initials are G.B., became Geebs. And the youngest had a certain teddy-bearish quality that naturally led to Bear.

Kids, however, learn early the lessons of identity politics, and, years ago, my oldest campaigned for a handle with more muscle than Doodles, which, when you think about it, isn't likely to earn you much playground respect. He was torn between Rattlesnake and Cobra. Normally I'd advise him to go with the one wielding the worst venom, but in this case, I didn't agree with either. He eventually made peace with Doodles, even incorporating it into his e-mail address.

I, however, have remained nicknameless, although the boys are doing their best to help. "Skippy!" suggested Geebs. "Butt-head," suggested Doodles. I shot down those selections and they in turn nixed mine, primarily Buzz and Chip. Just saying "Buzz" and "Chip" made them look like they were eating liver.

Then, while watching the X Games, I happened on the precise nickname for me. The camera flashed on some punk -- a skater, maybe, or a trick bicyclist or just another tongue-pierced fruit bat flitting the scene -- with the ideal name: Bucky.

Bucky! It has a certain je ne sais quoi, a definite joy de vivre, and many other admirable qualities best described in French. It hasn't exactly caught on, but at least the kids don't make the liver face. And my wife will still call me "Hon ...," er, never mind.

Anyway, you have to admit, it beats Lardbutt, Morty or even Ned Beatty.

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