For years I have had a pseudonym, known only to a select few.
It all started innocently. My local pizza place took their takeout orders in the bar, and they apparently used a Sports Illustrated football phone. They usually got the order right, but it was almost always filed under the wrong name. My name is a common single syllable one, yet they could not hear it. In an effort to enjoy my pizza on time, I switched to something with harder consonants. My nom de pizza was born.
Fast forward to Starbucks. For some reason they cannot simply make my tea and hand it to me. They have to have a name which they can write on the cup and shout out loud. My medic partner at the time also had a simple name which was always mispronounced, so we took to using our Starbucks names regularly. My nom de pizza became my nom de cafe.
(Brief aside: it was at this point that I realized I had adopted the name of one of my favorite movie paramedics. I hope it’s just a coincidence. While Frank Pierce is good for a laugh, he’s not really someone I wish to emulate.)
Today I received a call from the post office. They told me they have begun receiving strange mail addressed to Frank [mylastname] and they were concerned about identity theft. The mail was from Starbucks. When I finished lauging out loud, I had to explain my nom de cafe to them.
All is benign, but it is a bit scary how garbage data can get started. I suspect this will follow me for a long time.
For those who have never seen the movie, enjoy a brief clip of Frank Pierce at his best. The title of this post will make sense.
Notes from Mosquito Hill 