On Seinfeld, Newman once told Kramer that “Tuesday has no feel.” I feel the same way about the name “Kevin.”
I know people named Kevin, and I’ve hesitated to tell them this, but that is one blank slate of a fucking name. Does it conjure any colors to you? Any sounds? Any smells? Anything? Not to me. It’s the Blank Canvas of Guys’ Names. “Mark” is kind of bland, too, but at least it could signify a stain or a smudge. But “Kevin” is the very essence of nothingness. You could throw anything at “Kevin,” and it will bounce right back at you.
Maybe it’s synesthesia from a head injury, but most words and names have a texture to me. All the way since the 80s I’ve had this odd habit of coming up with fake names merely because I like the way they sound. I stopped counting at around 700 names. Then I started using “Kevin” as a first name because it enhanced the goofiness of the second name. Even if the second name was flavorless by itself, it suddenly acquired spice just by standing next to “Kevin”:
When I saw an episode of Portlandia that featured Kevin the Cat, I didn’t feel quite so alone in my fascination with the sheer unfascinating nature of this name. I felt reassured knowing that someone else out there appreciated its magical cardboard taste.
We are all Kevin.
OK, no we’re not.
And that’s a good thing.
Unless your name is “Kevin,” in which case it sucks to be you.