The Naming of K-Blog

I knew that I would need a name for this blog,  and that it really should be at least marginally more interesting than “Kevin Muir’s Blog,”  which,  though direct,  scores high points for snorability.  I decided quickly on K-Blog,  and for the domain I was pleasantly surprised to find that KevinMichaelMuir.com was still available in this age in which pretty much every domain name is now taken, seemingly.  I didn’t even bother trying for “Lady Gaga’s Blog.”  Misleading,  yes,  but sure to drive traffic my way.

I liked K-Blog for several reasons.  It’s super short and memorable,  difficult for even me to forget.  People discussing it at water coolers throughout the world would be able to refer to it easily and quickly using the name directly without any need for a cumbersome,  work-around translation.  A conversation in Seoul might be,  “Korean Korean Korean Korean K-Blog Korean Korean.”  Or in Africa,  “Zulu Zulu Zulu Zulu K-Blog Zulu Zulu!”  Easy.  Like ‘Elvis’ and ‘Cheetos.’

I also decided that this blog’s bold and simple name would serve as my official public act of Name Embracing. With all due respect to my parents who did the best they could in this matter, I grew up not particularly liking my name.  Kevin.  From early childhood on,  it always seemed to me an odd and not overly pleasant combination of sounds–two boring short vowels,  with that abrupt plosive to start it and a V inexplicably cropping up in the middle.  A bit analytical,  and missing the point: I simply didn’t like it much,  and even today I can’t put into words just what my dissatisfaction was,  despite this technical description of sorts.  You know you like a piece of music,  or you don’t.  No language needed.  Ironically,  language also fails to qualify the musicality of language itself.  At least in this case,  for me.

I wonder what effect this business of not liking my name has had on my development and life trajectory,  especially in my childhood.  Why would I not like my name? Perhaps I was determined to not like any name my parents stuck me with,  a sign of early rebellion and individualism that Oregonians are reputedly famous for.  This could have been the source of my earliest colicky moments–screaming would have been my only recourse to rail against the Name.  Maybe I was looking for a crutch to blame any and all future failures on.  “Well of course I didn’t accomplish that goal–my name is Kevin–duh! What do you expect already?!”  This,  though,  is all moot and unknowable.  Who can say?  As an adult I settled into a life of quiet name acceptance,  what you might call “Kevin Komplaceny.”  But despite my moniker,  I still managed to enter a profession,  get married and accomplish many other usual life things that people often do.  And life went on.

As I’ve hit middle age,  or at least the very very very tail end of youth,  I’ve become a bit more introspective or mystical or at least occasionally glassy-eyed,  and I’ve come to appreciate the power and limitations of language.  My name is just a sound,  nothing more.  It isn’t me–I am not my name,  nor is it my essence.  Yet,  I am inescapably my name.  If you put me on one side of a balance and my name on the other,  the two trays would balance equally:  ‘Kevin’ = me.

Of course,  names are a human invention and a social construct.  When I’m by myself out in the forest,  my name is useless and irrelevant: I am one with the trees,  deer and possibly the poison ivy.  In the society of people,  my name swells with self-importance bordering on maniacal omnipotence.  We attach great value to names.  Hollywood types sometimes change their names for a career boost,  and this often baffles me,  especially when the new name seems as ordinary as the old,  or even worse.  The well-regarded Country singer Conway Twitty…yep.  Stage name.  Can you believe this?  It certainly is memorable,  but completely dorked out.  But his business,  not mine,  right?  Ian Fleming reportedly picked the name ‘James Bond’ specifically because it was,  to him at that time,  a spectacularly undistinguished name that he would ironically juxtapose against the suave man of action,  martinis and women.  And now it’s no longer undistinguished,  as we know.  I read an article once about how we enact the potential of our names–that our destinies are encoded in our names.  Eisenhower literally means ‘hewer of steel.’  It would seem that Ike had no choice but to take down the bully and coward Hitler.  Truman was a straight talker and held a strong personal ethic–a True Man,  indeed.  These,  though,  are notable outliers; most names have lost any real-world reference they began with in the mists of time and are more often than not just sounds we use in the service of names.  And a good thing.  “Kevin” means (don’t laugh),  “of handsome birth.”  And you may all now say,  “So what happened?”

‘Muir’ is derived from “moor,’  the grassy,  treeless,  windswept plain you find in the British Isles.  That’s me–grassy,  treeless,  windswept.  Not a legacy I would want to have to fulfill.  I was never enamored of my last name,  either.  And this,  despite the connection with the towering John Muir,  another writer and lover of the outdoors,  and the spiritual bane of developers going up against the Sierra Club and other such conservation groups.  The problem is that “Muir’ is all nasals and liquids,  linguistically speaking,  with an uncertain vowel combination in the middle.  Only four letters,  yet so confusing to so many.  (Hint: IT’S TWO SYLLABLES! Like what a cat is:  a mew-er.)  As a name,  it always seemed weak and diffident to me.  It doesn’t clearly announce itself,  choosing instead to creep up with a nasally ‘m,’  then twist around a bit in a contorted and awkward vowel dance,  and then peter out with a trailing errrr.  I share this last name with others in my life,  so it didn’t seem too bad in itself,  except that it was paired up with a less-than-acceptable given name.

My middle name was my secret pleasure:  Michael.  Common enough,  but still somehow magical in its sound and look.  I think I liked the ch as a /k/,  and I absolutely loved the ae combination–so in-your-face unconventional.  Take that, convention! And you know what, I still do appreciate those aspects of the name–nothing past tense about it.  But middle names are hidden and rarely used.  Some years ago I found a pen name I really liked:  K. Michael Irum.  Now that, I decided, was a cool name.  A name for the ages,  a name worthy to print tall and proud on the front cover of novels,  and a name destined to be called out at awards ceremonies.  And very clever,  as it was still my name as an anagram.  As I’m sure you immediately caught.

And now I’m a writer.  Not of novels,  but of…this,  whatever this is.  Oh,  and musicals. I also write musical comedies.  So should I dust off my fancy and alluring pen name and put it to use?  I just might.  Watch out for it in future posts.  Please understand–my name has never once tormented me.  It has not been a source of grief or depression or even irritation,  mostly.  Okay,  just a mild irritation at most,  and often not at all,  but ever-present lurking under the surface,  and therein always lay the rub.  Frankly,  running out of chocolate chips is far more distressing to me than my name,  along with many other annoying life situations.

I shared all this with my wife not too long ago,  and she was surprised by the revelation about me and my name.  She immediately offered a vastly different view on the matter,  which got my attention in a hurry.  She made these points:  “Kevin” is common,  but not overly so.  It has an unusual combination of K and V; most names don’t have both a K and a V.  And that was the sum of her extemporaneous argument; when put like this,  directly and unexpectedly,  I had a dramatic shift in perception.  Suddenly,  ‘Kevin’ became not just okay,  but actually–dare I say it?–kind of cool.  Bordering on,  anyway.

Today I like the unusual combination of the K and the V.  I like the symmetry of the name,  two halves balanced on an inverted fulcrum. Two syllables, two short vowels,  poised on a V.  I like the explosive quality of the K–it’s definitive and self-certain. ‘Muir’ has fallen into line as well–a grand old Scottish name,  old as the treeless,  windswept hills of the Scots.  And no, I’m not descended from John Muir,  though we share blood–I just don’t know how far back we share an ancestor.  What I enjoy in life is the balance between predictability and chaos,  the expected and the unexpected,  pattern both maintained and broken. Taken as a whole,  I now find my name reflects this sensibility.

K E V I N   M I C H A E L   M U I R

Three words,  two syllables each,  ‘Kevin’ balances on the V,  the whole name balances on ‘Michael,’  some uncommon consonants and vowel combinations mixed with a mundane short e and i–it’s got everything I could want, except chocolate chips.

But I’m not bragging.  Some people have cool names,  and some don’t. That’s life.

And this brings us back to the name of this blog:  K-Blog–a declaration of K-ness,  which unequivocally stands for Kevin,  which boldly stands for Kevin Michael Muir,  which comfortably stands for me,  at long last.

K-Blog = me.