My name was plucked from a vine on Mount Olympus, where it was hidden away in a secluded orchard guarded by cavorting satyrs. "Guard ye well the fruits of this vineyard," the guardian nymph told me, as she handed this nick to me on a velvet pillow. And guard it I have, keeping it far from mortal eyes, lest its beauty make slaves of men.
And that's how I got my groove back. Er, my nickname. Or something; I vaguely remember getting something worthwhile out of the deal.