  There are five common male names in English nomenclature that produce more nicknames than any other:  Robert,  Richard,  William,  Johnathan,  and James.
 These five names and their attendant derivations are responisble for probably 25%  of the male section of my high school yearbook.  While each of these names is normal and passes through our lips on a daily basis with little,  if any,  notice,  I will forever look askance at any Robert,
 Richard,  William,  Johnathan,  or James who refuses to take or use a nickname.  It is unacceptable.  It is unco-
operative.  It is un- American.  The one I am most suspicious of is James.  James is a haughty little bitch.  His angst and hostility toward the world and toward adopting a nickname undoubtedly have roots in his childhood.
 At some point,  probably 5th or 6th grade,  James had two other James' in his class.  To differentiate between them,  his teacher called one Jimmy,  one Jim,
 and one James.  Jimmy became the class- clown,  doing just enough to get by and stay out of serious trouble until he turned 18,  went off to a state school for college,  and became a career undergrad thanks to hydroponic weed and Saved by the Bell re-
runs on the Superstation.  Jim played all the sports and idolized his loser father.  He was the first to successfully lie about sleeping with a hot girl from another high school.  Jim drank a lot,  did stupid shit,  got by because his parents were loaded,
 and ended up doing nothing with his life James had nowhere to turn for a distinctive male identity.  So he fled into the warm embrace of his home economics teacher and her amazing apple strudel recipe.  James made a lot of female friends all the way through high school and into his years as an undergrad at Vassar.  His female friends bonded with him like he was one of the girls and constantly wondered aloud when some lucky girl was going to snatch him up- all the while secretly speculating as to when he would come out of the closet.  Like any American male trying to feign heterosexuality,
 James was at once saddened and concerned by his lack of male friends.  Luckily,  in the middle of his sophomore year at Vassar,  James found companionship and solace in the form of Shakespeare in the Park. with other " men"
 who also refused to take nicknames- Phillip,  Ronald,  Andrew,  Edward. you get the picture.
 Oh you don't?  Well let me give you one so you know what I mean ( you need to be on Friendster to check this one out)  urlLink http: www. friendster.
com/ user. php? uid= 56555 Yeah,  exactly.
 Shit,  the man wrote a friend of mine a note that said,  and I quote:  " bright cacaphony burning into my synapse perchance we will meet"  Are you fucking kidding me?
 Combine that little gem with the progression of the very desperate,  very maudlin of circumstances that ARE his life,  and it's no fucking wonder James owns a cape.  More often than not,  he has multiple capes- one of which must be black or dark red crushed velvet.
 James was the first person in his school to move from Dungeons & amp;  Dragons to playing Magic:  The Gathering and owning a full deck.  He was ( and continues to be)
 a regular at every Rennaisance Fair he could get his mother to drive him to and he uses words like " damsel"  and " indeed"  far more often than is either acceptable or comfortable in contemporary American speech.  It's no suprise that James' speech is affected ,
 though.  He refuses to use slang or contractions.  If you could see the dialogue bubbles over his head when he speaks- like in comic strips- I guaranfuckingtee you 'theater' and 'center' would be spelled with an " re.
 It's like he grew up in the English countryside or the sitting room of William F.  Buckley's house.  If Madonna were a man,  she'd be named 'James. ' And,  just like someone needs to tell that pretentious,
 gap- toothed twat that she's FROM FUCKING DETROIT !  someone needs to tell James that he grew up in Orange County next door to a kid who is now the # 2 Skimboarder in the world.  His name is Josh.  NOT FUCKING JOSHUA EITHER YOU POMPOUS FUCKING DOUCHEBAG !
 My favorite part about James is the part he tries to hide.  The deviant part.  The dark,  self- loathing part.  Just because his entire wardrobe can be described as "
long"  and " flowing"  and just because he owns a hardbound copy of Canteburry Tales IN THE ORIGINAL MIDDLE ENGLISH does not mean that the man doesn't listen exclusively to opera and industrial metal or jab safety pins through his erect penis while staring entranced at his full- sized Michael Hutchence poster and sitting on hold with Ticketmaster trying to get 4 together for the Nine Inch Nails/ Marilyn Manson/
Slipknot concert coming to the Staples Center this fall.  James projects this faux intellectual intensity that he desperately hopes will at once intimidate and intrigue people.  The reality is it just makes him look like an idiot.  Dude,  it's NOT INTIMIDATING!  I wouldn't approach anyone who was sitting alone in the back corner of a cafe who looked like he was trying to push out a turd!
 So take your Chai Latte and your Foucault reader,  and take a big stinking intellectual dump on your own time.  You're starting to scare the waitresses.
