I was sitting here enjoying a 33% THC Sativa strain and I started thinking about all the nicknames I’ve had going back as far as I can remember.

The first one in memory is Markitos, which my grandma and mother used to call me when I was young.

At the same time, my grandfather had a cool one for me: torpedo. Evidently, it was a term reflecting my habit as a baby, of rocking my crib so violently for so long, that it (and me) would fall to the floor in a heap of wooden crib parts and nuts and bolts.


My stepfather Vern liked the country-hick sounding Marky Bob and he knew it wasn’t my favorite.

So he used it all the time, of course.

As a destructive seven year-old left offensive guard and defensive middle linebacker, the PA announcer would announce every Saturday #56 Mark “The Mule” Diaz. Not the most glamorous of monikers, but I was not about glamour.


I didn’t want to have to face my big brother if I didn’t totally dominate my Pop Warner football game.

Not “just go out there and have fun.”


My brother, who was a star player on the high school varsity team, would keep me in my practice helmet and pads every single day of the week after we got home from our respective team practices. Before we could go in and clean up and eat, the two of us would line up across the imaginary line of scrimmage and I would have to hit him as hard as I could.

It was never hard enough, and by the time we finally made it to the table for dinner, I had spent an hour of my life trying with every fiber of my being, to knock the living shit out of my brother and lay him out cold.

But no.

He remained upright.

But I tell you what.

None of the other kids my own age (and some older) wanted to draw me as their assignment. My bro went to every single one of my games and ensured that I deliver pain to the other six-to-eight year-olds.

Not “just go out there and have fun.”

Oh hell, no.

I’d better at least get three crushing tackles or hits in every game.

Always legal, but remember, the year was 1961, and it was the age of never complaining, and never flinching. (“Broken arm? Rub some dirt on it and get your ass back in there.”)

In Elementary school, I was at first Montezuma, then King. King being more of a self-appointed nickname, but it caught on.

Two failed attempts to name my band in the sixties after me: Mark the Shark and The Barracudas and Joker Diaz and The Wild Cards.

Not too totally full of shit.

But close.

The last nickname I remember having was Satin. It was in Las Vegas and grew to be Satin Latin with the help of a Strip prostitute friend of mine named Dusty.

Stay well.

Published by maddogg09

I am an unmotivated genius with an extreme love for anything that moves the emotional needles of our lives.

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