[NOT] By Any Other Name...

I am David Daniel Bare. That is my given name. It is on official documents and resides comfortably in my mother’s scrawling script on my birth certificate.
To nearly everyone, though, I am and have always been Dave.
That said, here are some guidelines for using this name correctly since it might get a little confusing.
My parents and grandparents always called me David. So, if you hear someone of that generation call me David, it’s okay. I don’t like to be called David regularly, unless I am simply being respectful. My Mother-in-Law calls me David, so does my father, so if you’re from near their generation, then I don’t mind.
Everyone else calls me Dave.
Micki can call me David in an emergency or basically whenever she wants. She can also call me Honey, Sweetie, Dear, Darlin’ Davey-Wavey or whatever other love name she can think of. That is a fundamental right of spouses.
Our boys (except one) call me Dave. They are my stepchildren, so ‘dad’ is out of the question. I never called my step dad ‘dad’ either, so I don’t mind in the least. I said that they call me Dave, mostly, except when they’re mad at me; then I’m Dude, ‘HIM’ or ‘Grunt’.
Our middle boy refers to me affectionately as Daniel. It is my middle name, so that’s okay. But, please don’t try it. He’s earned the right.
My peers know that I want to be called Dave. And, except for a brief period where I desperately wanted to be called ‘Larry’ in college (please don’t ask) have always been Dave or other various friend names.
You can call me Dude, but we better be tight. If we’re thick as thieves, you can call me any friend names. Dude, Bud, Buddy, Pal, Brother, Man, Kid and to my Best Childhood Friend, Pally O’Mally.
If we aren’t close, or if I don’t know you, please don’t call me Buddy. I’m not your buddy. Also, don’t call me ‘son’. I’m not your son, either.
I’m Dave.
Please don’t call me Chief. We have one of those in this town, and he retains the right to be hailed with that moniker.
If I work with you, the same rules apply: If you are within fifteen years of my age either way, you call me Dave.
Not David.
Not Davey.
Certainly not ‘Davey-Boy’. 

When I worked for the school system, I was Mr. Bare. I still am.
Whenever I see a former student, or comrade from those old days, I am Mr. Bare. I don’t have the heart to tell those rapidly growing children who still remember me from their time in elementary school to call me Dave. So, to those children I am and will always be Mr. Bare. As far as I’m concerned that is the only group who can use it. Otherwise, Mr. Bare is my father or my brother.
My brother is one of those people who retains some liberty in labeling me, as well. He was there when they brought me home from the hospital, and he’s twelve years my senior and the closest person in my life, other than Micki. That grants him a lot of freedom. He calls me Dave, David, Bro, Brother, Little-Brother and Davey.
His children and all my nieces and nephews call me Uncle Dave. It is a title I wear with great pride and humility. To be an Uncle, after all, is a majestic thing.
When I get to be of an age when our boys come home with girls they want to marry, those girls, if we find them collectively good enough for our boys can call me Dave. Their children can call me Pop-pop or Grandpop, or if they want, Grampa Dave. Please no PawPaw, Papaw, Peepaw, DeeDaw, Dadaw, Papa, Grandfather (said with an English Boy’s Choir Soprano) or Grandiddy. I live here in the South, but I do not wish to be affixed with a Southern patronym.
I am, have been and always will be Dave to everyone else.
Please use it carefully. 
Don’t wear it out!