TokyoPlayer is now misspelled

OK, for years I’ve known that I needed a new name. People don’t get the right impression of a slightly balding, just a little overweight and out of shape father.

But, if I were to completely change my name to something really radically different, I’d have to remember that, and I’m not feeling particularly creative, so I just misspelled it.

Or I named it after the closest large body of water.

What I didn’t want to do was to give an impression that I’m a pain in the ass, so something for headaches seemed really nice.

I was going to ask for opinions, but then I realized that I wouldn’t consider them anyway :wink: so here we are.

TokyoBayman?
Tokyokle?
TheAnagramLoversKyoto?

Now it invokes Japanese wolves/werewolves.

It also removes the stigma that you’re a “Playa” i.e. one who uses women as sexual objects.

TokyoSlayer would also appease the metal fans here too. Plus it’s pretty gnarly.

Damn, Maybe I should have asked for advice. That sounds better.

Or Japanese aspirin.

TokyoBayer? Sounds l;ike you need a logo! :slight_smile:

I get so confused when people change their handles, especially the long-timers. I always end up finding out about it some years later when it’s mentioned offhandedly as if everybody knows.

Maybe everybody does … maybe it’s just me. Is there a memo or something? A secret thread?

Anyway, at least TokyoBayer is similar enough to your original that I shouldn’t be too confused. And that’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it, pleasing some random stranger? :slight_smile:

Tokyo Slayer.

FWIW (and that’s not much), I liked the old one better.

I suppose suggesting TokyoPrayer would be in poor taste?

No, it’s openly discussed in that one forum.
Oh, you don’t know about that forum. Sorry about that. No, it’s nothing, really. None of us ever really change our names. Mmm. Nice weather we’re having isn’t it?

Yeah, I’m quite used to TokyoPlayer. I look forward to reading TokyoPlayer’s posts. I like TokyoPlayer.

TokyoBayer is just some new dude on the SDMB.

Switch back, man.

TokyoBayer, unfortunately, reminds me of that un-PC joke based on an '80s painkiller ad that described the pills as “Little. Yellow. Different. Better.”

Yes, the joke refers to the Japanese. They were kicking US economic butt in the 80s.

To me, it conjures up a vision of a Japanese werewolf, baying at the moon. :slight_smile:

TokyoBayer.

What a pill.

You do know that to Germans you are TokyoBavarian now? :smiley:

Tokyo looks misspelled now.

I am glad I saw this post since I too look forward to your posts. I’d have been quite confused.

There is, of course, another reason to celebrate Tokyo Bay. Or, rather a bunch of rocks which were to serve as a final stand for the shogun when the black shipscame back. All that stood between the Edo castle and Perry’s more powerful cannons were a few forts constructed, but with inferior cannon. The boys manning the forts would have been cut down without a chance to fire back.

The park there is one of my favorite places, and I had decided that is where I had wanted my ashes scattered. Little did I know that someone else’s would be scattered there first.

The Brave Little Soldier

On bare rocks and wind swept sand carried by the sheltered sea, the young man stood. Sent to die a solder’s death; to guard against thunderous cannons that could light the heavens and shake the earth. With nothing but hopeless weapons, his was to die if shooting began.

Do we ask if they are brave? Those who are not decreed to live? Those so young are gone. Blinded by the mud and smoke, are they valued less because they die in vain, silenced before they can fight?

Too small, too weak, their cannons impotent; the gunners would be slaughtered from afar. Are they courageous, those that die, falling upon their blades of steel?

Who will hold them in their final moments? Where are their mothers with their tears? Do they die as boys, those who never live as men, their passing not marked, nor mourned by many. Cut down by the sea, with the salty water which flows from distant shores.

On bare rocks and wind swept sand carried by the sheltered sea, the young one rested. Sent to die not even a solder’s death; he too faced a too potent enemy. With nothing, and helpless; his was to die before living began.

Do we ask if they are brave? Those who are not decreed to live? Those so young are gone. Blinded even before the day break, are they valued less because they die in vain, silenced before they can fight?

Too small, too weak, his lungs have failed; the baby is lost. Is he courageous, he whose scattered ashes are falling upon the blades of grass?

Who will hold them in their final moments? Where are their mothers with their tears? They die as babies, those who never live as men, their passing not marked, nor mourned by many. Laid down by the sea, with the salty water which drops from nearby eyes.

A war averted, a treaty signed, the black ships lifted anchor and the soldier sent home. The disused fort, in time a park. Green grass covers the hill where a disaster was averted. The heavens and earth are stilled, the ashes of the innocent are soothed by waves from the sheltered sea of waters from the distant shores.

Good lord, man. I just popped in to post a funny comment (or what passes for funny in my head), and now here I am, crying at my desk. I don’t know what to say except: whatever you call yourself, I’m damn glad you’re here.

I’m sorry. I always wish that I could command the keys to type what I really want to say, rather than the poor substitutes which come out.

What I would give to be able to express the inner conflicts, the doubts and the joys. Most people have heroes who get the gold metals. Mine are the ones with pens.

So, it’s not particularly good. It’s rough and really could stand a rewrite, but this is another reason for the change.


He lied, of course. He always did. It was habit. Maybe this time he could say the right thing. Maybe this time, someone would love him. That if he didn’t, no one would care about him was a given. Time had proved that once more.

The chatter, the laughter. Groups are joined, jokes are told. Tables filled. It’s spring, perhaps, with an upcoming dance and excitement fills the air as it is decided who will go where, with whom.

The boy eats alone. A book is skimmed but the words don’t leave the page. Invisible in a crowded lunch room. A cheerleader, approaches with a smile and a twinkle. The shy youth is nervous.

“You don’t need this, right?” A chair is borrowed and laughter fills the air as the boy turns red.

Years pass and the boy’s body is now a man. A stranger is a strange land. Older, but still a child.

Pain never leaves on its own. When healing fails, the wounds fester. Beauty is not born from dirt and the demons never lay still.

She lied, of course. She always did. Maybe this time she could say the right thing. Maybe this time, someone would love her. That if she didn’t, no one would care about her was a given. Time had proved that once more.

Their eyes met, and they knew right away that this was meant to be. For tonight. His pain. Her pain. They could cling together, embolden by the drinks. For tonight, they would not be alone and they could be strangers together for a few brief moments.

He lied, of course. He always did. But not just to others. He said to himself that if someone would hold him, he wouldn’t be worthless.

An aspirin for an aching heart. His buddy was booze and wine his women. But mornings were always lonely.

And then things started to change. Perhaps it was summer. The man found that which the stolen hugs had never filled. It is not to find one to hold. It is to hold those you have.

It was not the real man. It was a fog, an evil darkness. A selfish, insatiable longing for love which could never be filled until it was let go. Love comes not to those who seek, but to those who give.

The man, now a daddy, finds his hugs among the squeals. He prays that his children will only know this new man, the one who is there for them. The one who holds and protects. Who teaches and wipes tears.

Each morning, he wakes up with a resolve that his charges will never know haunting anguish. He can’t save them from everything, but he can save them from his old self.