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Digger

Your Forum Name? Why That One?

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I had a bit of a look and couldn't see this in recent history but forgive me if it's been done before please.

 

When I was in the army and wearing uniform members of the public would often refer to me as "Digger" or "Dig", a common term for Australian soldiers.

 

I liked it and decided to use it on my first forum, the Epiphone forum some years ago.

 

I now use it in half a dozen places.

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Hello!

 

Yes, it was discussed recently. Probably, in the Custom section? Well, anyways, I still often wonder about some people's forum nicknames.

 

Mine is simple: first, and last name and year of birth. Bence Tóth, 1976.

 

Best wishes... Bence

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Although I'm 100% Glaswegian, I had the best three months of my life in Namibia in '97 and Windhoek is its capital city - and where I have many fond memories of a certain lady in a certain hotel :)

 

Oh, and my avatar is Greta Garbo. Why? Why not - I mean, who doesn't like looking at Greta Garbo!? [love]

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She was in Morocco more than a few years ago, ostensibly ‘vacationing’ near the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. In reality, she was on a covert-Op to gather intelligence on the illegal arms trade between the Basque and the Algerians. Her only contact was a mysterious character code-named, “Sparquelito”.

 

Sparquelito had been rumored to have played the snare and brushes for Django Rheinhardt and the Grande Bouche Swingtette at the Hot Club of France, back in the early days of the resistance. He was a shadowy figure, and no photographs of him were known to be in existence.

 

She dropped into a small jazz club, and ordered a gin, neat. As she savored the sensation of the DH Krahn on her tongue, she swirled the remnants of the clear fluid around in her shot glass. Suddenly, a commotion erupted from the vicinity of the small stage to her left.

 

"You'a fohkking a'people keep a listening to 'dat Britney Spears or 'dat aMadonna, you'a all goin' to HELL! I'm not a'kiddin!!”

 

The house guitar player was shouting at a pair of departing tourists, both of whom sported the ubiquitous iPod and earbuds hanging from their ears. Clearly, gypsy swing guitar was not their cup of tea.

 

“A fokking touristes,” the musician muttered. “They donna know a jack shitta bout dat music!”

He returned to fingering his care-worn Gibson guitar, and rendered a tasteful arpeggio in C minor.

 

Ah. Tears, by Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli.

 

“Say, friend. Can I buy you a drink perhaps?” she offered.

 

The gentleman looked up from his reverie. “Mebbe. They gotta cold Becks Dunkel here-a. Woulda go down good right now.”

 

The sparse files she had on Sparquelito had revealed that he had spent some time in West Germany. Figures he would go for a Becks, given the choice.

 

She secured a couple of cold bottles from the bartender, and sat down with the sage.

He played, and they both talked.

 

OK, he mostly played, and she mostly listened.

 

Few words were exchanged, and the substance of that conversation would not be of particular concern to the visitors to the Gibson Forums.

Suffice it to say, she got the information she needed on the Algerians. And she learned a few tricks on the art of the jazz guitar from a true master of the fretboard.

 

After a few more beers, she finally stood and gathered her things. She dropped a few hundred Moroccan dirhams in his hat, and mumbled her thanks.

 

The man spoke, “Say, bubkin. I like-a you. You hang out and sing with me mebbe?”

 

She was startled. This was an extraordinary gesture on the part of a normally shy and retiring gentleman.

 

“Eh,” Sparquelito remarked. “I’ma prolly gonna get outta thisa here game. Move back to the States mebbe. Somewhere warm. Warmer than dissa here place. Alabama mebbe. Time to retire I think. You sitta down here now, sing a song wit me. Hava one more beer.”

 

She grinned. “Sure,” was all she said.

 

They sat down with the bartender, and then all three traded that Gibson back and forth all evening. Much dark beer was consumed, and I’m pretty sure they closed the joint down.

 

Anyway, it was a great weekend, and the flight back home wasn’t all that bad either.

 

She got some good sleep somewhere over the Atlantic, and as the moonlight danced across the airliner cabin, she dreamt of Tears, by Django.

[mellow]

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Yep, it came up some moons ago...

 

The cap- in my nickname has nothing to do with a headdress or any electrical component but is just from the initials of my given names. The -master is about my dedication to a CD mastering process which retains most of the very substance of the music.

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She was in Morocco more than a few years ago, ostensibly ‘vacationing’ near the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. In reality, she was on a covert-Op to gather intelligence on the illegal arms trade between the Basque and the Algerians. Her only contact was a mysterious character code-named, “Sparquelito”.

 

Sparquelito had been rumored to have played the snare and brushes for Django Rheinhardt and the Grande Bouche Swingtette at the Hot Club of France, back in the early days of the resistance. He was a shadowy figure, and no photographs of him were known to be in existence.

 

She dropped into a small jazz club, and ordered a gin, neat. As she savored the sensation of the DH Krahn on her tongue, she swirled the remnants of the clear fluid around in her shot glass. Suddenly, a commotion erupted from the vicinity of the small stage to her left.

 

"You'a fohkking a'people keep a listening to 'dat Britney Spears or 'dat aMadonna, you'a all goin' to HELL! I'm not a'kiddin!!”

 

The house guitar player was shouting at a pair of departing tourists, both of whom sported the ubiquitous iPod and earbuds hanging from their ears. Clearly, gypsy swing guitar was not their cup of tea.

 

“A fokking touristes,” the musician muttered. “They donna know a jack shitta bout dat music!”

He returned to fingering his care-worn Gibson guitar, and rendered a tasteful arpeggio in C minor.

 

Ah. Tears, by Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli.

 

“Say, friend. Can I buy you a drink perhaps?” she offered.

 

The gentleman looked up from his reverie. “Mebbe. They gotta cold Becks Dunkel here-a. Woulda go down good right now.”

 

The sparse files she had on Sparquelito had revealed that he had spent some time in West Germany. Figures he would go for a Becks, given the choice.

 

She secured a couple of cold bottles from the bartender, and sat down with the sage.

He played, and they both talked.

 

OK, he mostly played, and she mostly listened.

 

Few words were exchanged, and the substance of that conversation would not be of particular concern to the visitors to the Gibson Forums.

Suffice it to say, she got the information she needed on the Algerians. And she learned a few tricks on the art of the jazz guitar from a true master of the fretboard.

 

After a few more beers, she finally stood and gathered her things. She dropped a few hundred Moroccan dirhams in his hat, and mumbled her thanks.

 

The man spoke, “Say, bubkin. I like-a you. You hang out and sing with me mebbe?”

 

She was startled. This was an extraordinary gesture on the part of a normally shy and retiring gentleman.

 

“Eh,” Sparquelito remarked. “I’ma prolly gonna get outta thisa here game. Move back to the States mebbe. Somewhere warm. Warmer than dissa here place. Alabama mebbe. Time to retire I think. You sitta down here now, sing a song wit me. Hava one more beer.”

 

She grinned. “Sure,” was all she said.

 

They sat down with the bartender, and then all three traded that Gibson back and forth all evening. Much dark beer was consumed, and I’m pretty sure they closed the joint down.

 

Anyway, it was a great weekend, and the flight back home wasn’t all that bad either.

 

She got some good sleep somewhere over the Atlantic, and as the moonlight danced across the airliner cabin, she dreamt of Tears, by Django.

[mellow]

 

Superb story [thumbup]

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My daughters are Kimberly and Sarah. When I was pondering an email address back about 1999 I tried to use K&S_DAD or some variant. Somehow I twisted it into ksdaddy. Amazingly, virtually everyone "pronounces" it as I intended, kay ess daddy. One former co-worker morphed it into kickass daddy.

 

The daughters were 9 and 7 at that time. They're now 25 and 23. No matter. I'm still daddy.

 

And it's been prolific. It's my email, ebay, my website (which is slowly being gutted and abandoned in favor of a facebook page) and of course in more ostentatious ways:

 

10006363_736533806387498_8100839167767396631_n.jpg?oh=e10a0fc04d17b521995dc9ff378e96f1&oe=570F2C11

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Yep, it came up some moons ago...

 

The cap- in my nickname has nothing to do with a headdress or any electrical component but is just from the initials of my given names. The -master is about my dedication to a CD mastering process which retains most of the very substance of the music.

 

 

Sorry I wasn't here then.

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Why Mr. Gibson? It was the first name I tried. Destiny. Now in America, Digger is a nickname for morticians.

 

 

Do I seem like a mortician?

 

 

Chuckle~

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My daughters are Kimberly and Sarah. When I was pondering an email address back about 1999 I tried to use K&S_DAD or some variant. Somehow I twisted it into ksdaddy. Amazingly, virtually everyone "pronounces" it as I intended, kay ess daddy. One former co-worker morphed it into kickass daddy.

 

The daughters were 9 and 7 at that time. They're now 25 and 23. No matter. I'm still daddy.

 

And it's been prolific. It's my email, ebay, my website (which is slowly being gutted and abandoned in favor of a facebook page) and of course in more ostentatious ways:

 

10006363_736533806387498_8100839167767396631_n.jpg?oh=e10a0fc04d17b521995dc9ff378e96f1&oe=570F2C11

 

 

Nice!

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There wasn't much thought put into mine. At the time I was driving my third Saturn. Plus I kind of liked the other-worldly connotation.

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Superb story [thumbup]

 

Thank you.

 

I wrote that a few years ago, and have very few opportunities to trot it out.

 

Truth be told, my name is John Sparkman.

And the predictable nickname is 'Sparky'.

(That's even what my wife calls me.)

 

An old friend in the Army years ago used to call me, 'Sparkalito', or some such thing.

I morphed that into Sparquelito.

 

And so it goes.

:)

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School nickname.

Contraction of my given name (Philip) to 'Pip' and then the usual extending process (whereby 'Jim' becomes 'Jimmy' and suchlike).

 

Pip.

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Sorry I wasn't here then.

No problem. [thumbup] Lots of new people have joined recently and might contribute here, too. It's all a work in progress! [biggrin]

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Mine comes from Tony Jannus, the father of commercial flight and the person for whom a city block and music venue were named, where I live. I have booked the venue since 1984 and still do. The "2" came about after the great forum crash of 1893 when I needed to create a new username to be able to get back in.

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A long time ago I ran a bicycle shop. We sponsored a team and were looking for a name. We wanted something Texas so Armadillo immediately came up. Over half of the team worked for Mobil Oil company at the time so we decided to parody/satirize the Mobil Pegasus so the Flying Armadillo was born. Since the Mobil logo always faces to the right, we decided the Armadillo would always face left. Anyhow, the club disbanded maybe 15 years ago, but I kept the name for email and user name for several forums.

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When I went to University in 1974 I was working in the bush, running a chainsaw in the summer. To one friend,"Skilsaw" running a chainsaw was a natural, when you consider my last name, "Kilshaw" By the time I graduated, perhaps more people knew me by my nickname than my real name. My friend's name was "Doggart", but even his mother called him "Dogballs".

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