Seuss was right, there are too many Daves. Dave Coulier, for example. But I must stress that his insightful observation does NOT extend to Davids. I’m not saying it just because my name is David, and while I certainly don’t mean any disrespect to Davids out there who have opted for the diminutive version of our given name, I must say that Daves tend to host Superbowl parties. Davids do not.
I think a lot of Daves end up being called Dave not because they want to be, but because outsiders (anyone not named David) use it for its more familiar and chummy nature. David just seems so formal and overly austere next to Dave. I also blame David Letterman, who is the only David that I can think of who can swing both ways and get away with it.
There are plenty of Daves that I like as well. (You know who you are, Dave.) And Dave Grohl is definitely not a David, but he wears his Dave in a way that seems to circumvent the norm. Dave Chappelle is a comedian, so he kind of has to go by Dave. And Dave Davies has to go by Dave just so you can get through his ridiculous repetitive name more quickly—responsibility for that falls directly on his parents’ shoulders. (My dad has a running joke that if I had been born as triplet boys, we would have been named Lloyd, Boyd, and Floyd. If a fourth one had shown up, his name would have been Magillicutty.)
But enough talk! Let’s get down to brass tacks here. Why am I bringing this up? I need more Davids, and specifically, more of the specific version of David that is me. I simply have too many things to do for one person. I need the Clone Wars to kick in already. I will volunteer my genes! . . . as long as I can keep a segment of the army for myself in order to finish all of the projects I start. (Of course, I would also require extensive signed contracts covering me in the event that my clones, much like me, are pacifists and only fight when cornered.)
Somehow, I think that such an experiment would end up more like “The Prestige” than “Star Wars.” I’m a bit of a control freak, so I can only assume that I would be a control freak, too.
Not Enough Davids
Did I ever tell you that dear Mrs. Cloyd
Had only one son, the name David deployed?
Well, she did. And that wasn’t a smart thing to do.
You see, when she wants him, and calls out “Yoo-Hoo!
Come down to dinner, David!” he just doesn’t hear.
She must call him some twenty-three times to appear!
This makes things quite difficult here at the Cloyds’
As you can imagine, with so many voids.
And often she wishes that, when he was born,
A clone had been made just to play the French horn.
And one for the guitar. And one for the drums.
And one for piano. And one of them hums!
Another plays cello. Another one clavichord.
Another plays tablas and tambourine washboard.
And one of them plays notes so fast you’ll get dizzy. . .
But that didn’t happen. And now David’s busy.