Nic(e) Names

by Nic Olson

Dickless Nicholas
Nikolai Khabibulin
The Nic

This entire blog, Balls of Rice, is about me. I realized that after skimming a few old posts. Maybe not all of it, but most of it. I realize that the purpose of many blogs is to release thoughts and emotions in a public way that wouldn’t usually be possible. Mine has strayed away from my personal thoughts and emotions and has become a channel for my ramblings about myself. I try to come up with ideas that don’t revolve around myself, but it is hard. I don’t like talking about things that no one cares about (i.e. tennis, hockey, politics..), I don’t want to get all highbrow and profound and lose my core of readers that likes down to earth authentic words(?). The only thing I slightly know about, is myself, and I’m still learning a lot about that subject.

This is a short list of nicknames I have had over the years, just the ones I could remember (feel free to add to the list). I have a special quality that allows me to acquire innumerable names that aren’t my own. A special quality, like those people you know that are the punchline of your jokes, the easiest to taunt and mock. They are special character qualities that are commonly overlooked, but are as important as loyalty, honesty and BMI.
People that have known me for only a few hours sometimes already chose a new nickname for me, because I am that guy. It makes sense, considering my name is the original nickname, the one that the word ‘nickname’ was developed around. And considering that my name is Nic, not Nick, making it a double nickname. Occasionally I get the question of why I spell my name the way I do, and I usually use logic, as there is no letter K in my name (then people cite nicknames like Chuck, or Jim). Or I just blame the spelling of my name on my mom.
But doesn’t the name Nick remind you of some old wooly Greek man who owns a sports bar in New York somewhere, shaves rarely, wears a hairnet as he prepares your souvlaki, while his chest hair protrudes out of his stained unbuttoned collared shirt, falling into your meat on a stick. A man who still lives with his parents at the age of 45, his mom calls him Nicky, and his girlfriend is a Greek belly dancing teacher who once worked as a stripper, but realized that she can make more money charging middle class women how to stay fit and move their hips at the same time. A man named Nick, doesn’t fit me. That is why.

But it’s pretty sad that all I can think of to write about is myself. You will likely notice in the next few weeks, my attempts at ideas that revolve around things other than I. Like hockey training camps, political positions, great new technology…
Or I’ll just stick with the arrogance that we all like best.
The original double nickname.