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171/365 – Judgement Day
© 2012 Timmy Tamisiea. All rights reserved. Can't you see the resemblance?  My tongue is made of carmel too!

171/365 – Judgement Day

Across the hall from the producing classroom sits the ever so diligent screenwriters.  Probably a place where I should be, but decided that I’d learn some producing ropes instead.  Two of the writers there have christened me with a new nickname  . . . More on that later.  The name kind of caught on — as in a few people call me this everyday.  But mostly, it just makes me giggle.  It also makes me think about all the nicknames I’ve acquired over the years.  Most of them have fallen by the way side, into the obscurity of Timmy history . . . Or until Ken Burns finally gets his god damn ass in gear and makes that bio-doc on me.

Ken Burns! If you have time to levitate a baseball, you have time to make a film about me!

In any case, I thought I’d share with you my history of nicknames — in chronological order!


I sure hope I wasnt named after this lesbian.

No, not that weird ukulele playing guy.  The little rascal from A Christmas Carol.  Listen, while “Tiny Tim” was never really a nickname, ot is the impetus of my name — it’s my name sake.  So I’m adding it here anyway.  Deal.  My blog.  My rules.  Suckas!  See, when I was born, I was small.  Really small.  Not like premature small.  More like a runt.  So, when my parents saw me, they thought, “Tiny Tim.”  And so, I sit here brfore you in cyberspace as Timmy Tamisiea.  Well, technically, Timothy Tamisiea.  I was normally called Tim by my peers and somewhere along the line, it became Timmy — and most people seem to like that name.  It fits for them.  Except for the numerous dads of girls I dated.  They felt calling me Timmy was emasculating for some reason, “Do I really have to call him Timmy?”  Yes, father of the girl who will eventually dump me.  Give me at least that.



My parents would argue that this a complete representation of my as a kid. I’m just focusing on the hair.

When I was a baby — YES!  I was a baby.  I  know, hard to believe, but I had to grow into this beautiful form.  Beauty takes time, people . . . Now, when I was a baby, I was pretty damn cute.  I also looked like I had been struck by lightening.  Everyday.  My hair was blonde and stringy and for some reason I inherited a gene that makes my body emit static electricity.  My hair was everywhere.  My hair was malleable.  My hair pointed in all directions.  If I was a X-Man, my mutant power would be hair that hold your pencils and paper clips.

What was left after a visit to the barber.

My grandma Tamisiea decided to call me “Wire Head.”  And before you ask, yes, she loved me.  She just thought I had a steel wool for hair . . . never mind that fact that she used me to scrub pots.  That’s not the point . . . the point is I had the messy look before the messy look was even a hipster concept.



My parents’ decision to give me a sharp blade made exclusively for severing limbs was a brilliant idea.

While my Grandma was naming me after industrial products, my dad was more focused on his auditory representation of me.  Even as a kid, I was over talkative.  I had the record in 2nd grade for detentions (all for taking out of turn): 16.  This all stems from me, sitting in my crib, and blabbing away to nobody.  Blah blah blah!  All day long.  My parents probably thought I had schizophrenia with visual and auditory hallucinations.  Screw the TV as babysitter, park my little ass in a crib and I could have conversations with myself all day.  Still do.  I just wish Megan would join me in the crib . . . so comfortable.

Those conversations, however, sounded like I was speaking some strange form of Japanese.  I hadn’t developed vocabulary yet, but my vocal cords could have cared less, I needed to express myself.  And those expressions were very Asian.  It reminded my dad of John Belusihi’s character on SNL: The Samurai.  So, That was my nickname from my dad — Samurai Baby.  Sometimes I feel my parents had me for amusement and not because they wanted someone to carry on their legacy . . . I had two older brothers to do that.  I was a breathing punch line.

Watch John Belushi – Samurai Delicatessen in Comedy  |  View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com


I do sign my initials like this . . . because it’s too difficult to write 3.14159265 . . . . .

Not entirely original or imaginative as my name is Timmy Tamisiea: TT.  A camp councilor started calling me T Squared and it stuck for awhile, but it’s a cumbersome name.  Ot doesn’t exactly roll off the lips.  Actually, there are people who call me “TT” as in “Tee-Tee.”  There are lots of variations on my name in relation to my initials and they’re all pretty pedestrian.   My middle name is “Dean.”  So sometimes I tell people that TDT stands for “Touch Down Timmy.”  Because IO can’t play football . . .


Skip Tennessee was originally a tourism slogan collaboratively coined by Kentucky and Alabama.

This is an embarrassing nick name I gave myself during my freshman year of high school.  And unbelievably enough, it stuck.  In my Theology 101 class (I went to a Jesuit high school – deal with it.) my teacher, Fr. Garringer, was pretty solid that the name we submitted to him was what we would be called all semester.  I’m sure he meant that in terms of people like Michael who want to be called Mike or Davids who want to be called Dave.  I was a smart ass, so I submitted Skip Tennessee.  And from that point on, everyone in class had to call me Skip.  I also had to sign all my papers and tests with Skip Tennessee.  If I didn’t, I got points taken off.  Garringer was serious.  I’m not sure where it came form.  My dad had an old college friend named Skip Carleson who I thought was really cool . . . Tennessee?  No idea.  In any case, that name stuck for a few years.  The system made it so . . .  Skip.   Looking back on that, I was lame.


I’d like to say I tamed lions in High School . . . I could barely tame my math homework.

When I got to high school, I was the target of my older brother Chris and his friend’s ridicule.  It was good natured, but I was definitely a target.  The good that came form that was inherited his nickname.  Chris was called Tamer by everyone at Creighton Prep — including teachers.  I instantly became “Little Tamer.”  Something about being called a name that signifies subduing wild beasts feels cool when you are 15 years-old.  As soon as Chris graduated, the “Little” was removed from the title.  I was a full fledged “Tamer.”  No more apprenticeship for me.

My high school has an annual fund raiser with silent auctions every year.  After I graduated, my step-dad bought the prize where you could name the drive that lead to the teacher’s parking lot.  He called it, “Tamer Way.”  Pretty cool.  That name eventually was passed down to Patrick and Sean.  However, since we were never in school at the same time, their friends morphed it into “Tammer.”  So Chris and I were the last of the “Tamers.”  We are legend . . .

Shut up, Will Smith. No one asked you . . . TAMER!



Can’t you see the resemblance? My tongue is made of carmel too!

Back in 2005 or 2005, I don’t quite remember — maybe it was 2005 . . . I met this giggly, funny little Indian who was doing improv with my brother Pat.  Megan, then just a cute girl whom I knew but wouldn’t admit I liked, was putting on a new improv game show.  At the first rehearsal, I met that funny little man . . . Abby Abraham.  I was introduced to him and he instantly started calling me Timmy Timmy Tam Tam.  To this day, Abby calls me that.  I mean, for some reason, it flows off the tongue much better than T Squared or Double T.  It’s probably the alliteration.  Or just the fact that Abby giggles every time after he says it.

Look at that face. He could call me Fuck Tard and I’d still smile.

Of course, now he’s shortened it to Timmy Tam or Tim Tam.  This may be due to the fact that one day, Abby and his now fiance, Meredith, saw a package of treats form Australia at the Music Box Theatre — they were these delicious, chocolate covered wafers called . .  yep, you guessed it, Tim Tams.  Which makes sense.  I am like a wafer covered in chocolate that everyone wants to eat.  I’m also Australian.



Hi, I’m Kirk Cameron and I approve Timmy’s nickname . . . until he burns in hell when the actual Judgement Day comes.

Now we come to the present.  Los Angeles.  2012.  Two screenwriting students, Jack McDonald and Kate Hagen, find out that my name is Timmy Tamisiea.  Being screenwriting students — versed in the vernacular of modern film and the marketing techniques used therein, it was pretty simple for them to shorten it to T2 . . . I think you see where this is going; Terminator 2: Judgement Day.  So in their infinite wisdom, using their writing skills to accurately describe a human being in two words, they begin calling me “Judgment Day.”

I sure hope I’m always accompanied by Edward Furlong.

Now, I don’t know what you think — probably because you haven’t downloaded Googled new instant opinion app — but Judgement Day is a KICK ASS nickname.  Imagine walking into a crowded board room and someone says, “Hey, It’s Judgment Day.”  Yeah, mother fuckers, it is Judgement Day and there’s nothing you can do about it!  I actually hope this one sticks.  To be known as Judgement Day in a city like LA is priceless.   Think of all the possibilities:  “I have a Grande, No Classic Ice Coffee for Judgment Day.”   “Mr. Spielberg, it’s Judgement Day to see you.”  “God damn-it, Michael Bay, do I need to get Judgement Day here?”

Yeah.  Substitute Timmy Tam with Judgement Day and see who takes me more seriously.

Is that Judgement Day or Timmy Tam? The flames are confusing me?





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