One night during the summer of 1990, my friend and I were on our way to a house party. We had just graduated from high school in Redwood City. My friend was driving and he was in a flat-out nutty mood. I said, “Man, you are being loopy pickles tonight ... but I guess that's better than being poopy lickles.” We both thought that was hilarious. When we were done laughing I was like, Poopy Lickles, yeah, that's gonna be my new name.
I should mention that my friends and I all played music during high school, and
we admired bands like the Dead Milkmen. Those dudes had names like Rodney Anonymous
and Joe Jack Talcum. We thought that was pretty cool. We had started taking on
aliases of our own about a year or two earlier. I had been through a few and
none of them really stuck. So when I told my friend Nigel (pronounced with a
silent “g,” like “Neil”) that my name would be Poopy Lickles, it was just too
funny to let go. We got to the party at Salad's house (you heard me) and he
introduced me to everyone as Poopy Lickles. It was too late to go back.
Everyone started calling me Poopy, so I decided to own it.
For the rest of that summer I insisted that everyone call me Poopy, even my
family. Having creative types for parents meant I didn't have to do much
explaining, fortunately. Absurdity has always been a defining factor in most of
my family's humor so I don't think anyone was too surprised that I wanted to be
addressed by such an utterly absurd name. While I do remember some grumblings
about still being able to prove I was related (for legal reasons, of course),
I'd like to think my family was more amused than anything else.
I stopped using the name Jamie altogether. If I met someone new, I wouldn't tell them my “old” name. It didn't matter how much they wheedled or begged. It was Poopy. That was it. End of discussion.
I stopped using the name Jamie altogether. If I met someone new, I wouldn't tell them my “old” name. It didn't matter how much they wheedled or begged. It was Poopy. That was it. End of discussion. My close friends only fanned the flames of this switch. Of course none of them had such a blatantly fecal nickname either.
Making
people laugh has always been a priority in my life. If I could make people
laugh and make them feel extremely
uncomfortable at the same time, it was kinda like winning at life. I was
perfectly willing to be a walking, talking kindergarten joke. This was my way
of freaking out the establishment.
When I started college at CCAC (now CCA) in Oakland, the game changed. No one
had known me as Jamie, so I was free to start fresh as Poopy. Because I was
going to art school, barely anyone batted an eye at meeting someone named
Poopy. During that time I think I was fairly spoiled by the lack of
consternation regarding my name. And while I can't say that being named Poopy
Lickles helped me get laid in college, I can say that it was at least a
conversation starter.
When I turned 21, I had been living exclusively as Poopy for three years. I
decided to make that name official. Keep in mind, this was a pre-9/11 world. At
that time you could change your name by filling out a form at the DMV and
paying six bucks for a new ID card. You could then take that card to your bank,
tosocial security, and whatever
else to make the change complete. That card ended up being pretty damned
invaluable as I met more people outside school who balked at my name or
insisted on seeing “proof” before they would call me Poopy.
When I was in my late teens and early 20s I just assumed everyone had the same sense of humor as me. As it turns out, almost nobody has the same sense of humor as me. And trying to land a “real job” is not easy when your name alone makes potential employers envision French kissing a turd.
When I was in my late teens and early 20s I just assumed everyone had the same sense of humor as me. And if they didn't, well, fuck 'em. As it turns out, almost nobody has the same sense of humor as me. And trying to land a “real job” after art school is not easy when your name alone makes potential employers envision French kissing a turd. I had many employers turn me down flat. I'm sure some thought they were being pranked. During SF's first dot-com boom, I landed a job making animated greeting cards for BlueMountain.com but my work had to be attributed to "P. Lickles" (you can probably still find my cards on that site). After the dot-com bust I had to go back to working retail at an art store in the city. The name tag I had to wear said "Chuck." But through it all, my adherence to my adopted name was absolute.
Over the years, every girlfriend I had knew me only as Poopy Lickles. They all heard my old name at one point or another, but because I was balls-deep committed, some of them actually forgot about it after a while. Some were even disappointed to learn my old name. The times Poopy most often worked in my favor was as a partner vetting device. If a girl isn't comfortable introducing her parents to her new boyfriend Poopy, we probably shouldn't be in a relationship anyway.
The name eventually carried its own weird celebrity status. I'd meet someone at a party and he'd go, “No shit, you're Poopy Lickles? I've heard of you.” Of course my notoriety was only for being that dude with a f---ed-up name. It was never about being that artist or musician with a f---ed-up name. I started to feel how that guy who played Urkel must feel. You can take off those floods and put on an Armani suit, but you're still just gonna be Urkel, dude. Sorry.
The name eventually carried its own weird celebrity status. I'd meet someone at a party and he'd go, “No shit, you're Poopy Lickles? I've heard of you.” Of course my notoriety was only for being that dude with a f---ed-up name.
After about 20 years of being called Poopy, I decided I'd had enough. The joke was over. It was fun for a while, but it wasn't worth explaining anymore: Yes, that's really my name. No, my parents didn't name me that. No, I won't tell you my old name. No, I'm not a fecal freak. It's just supposed to be funny. I'm sorry you don't think it's funny. No, I'm not going to tell you my old name. And no, I promise I'm not a fecal freak. You can actually shake my hand. It's clean, I swear.
I realized the name was more of a stumbling block than the joke was worth. In the spring 2010, I sent an email to all of my friends letting them know that I was officially changing back to my original name. I never had my birth certificate changed so it wasn't hard to switch back in an official capacity. However, a good portion of the people I'd met in my adult life had never known me as Jamie. The shift wasn't easy for everyone. Surprisingly, some of the most reluctant converts were in my own family. I guess they were way more on board than I ever knew. I think a good portion of the resistance came from the idea that I might have changed back at the behest of my girlfriend at the time. And while she offered encouragement, she certainly wasn't the deciding factor.
Now that I've completely left the name behind, I can honestly say I have no regrets. I don't regret changing it in the first place and I don't regret letting it go. My core group of high school friends have all kept their alter ego names in some capacity, although for the most part, none of them ever used those names in any legal capacity. I'm pretty sure those friends still think of me as Poopy and that's fine. On some level they also realize that the name was often the equivalent of a social albatross. Even Salad Von Baco, my friend with arguably the next weirdest name, has a lot less explaining to do on a daily basis than I ever did. I doubt that any of my friends ever had a drunk guy follow them around a party for an hour going "Dude, no really… dude, no really."
About the time I let Poopy Lickles go, I came up with a new stage persona, Roger Oddcock. Because I only use this name for musical endeavors, I can introduce myself to new people without getting the instant yuck face reaction or handshake yank back (most of the time). But Roger can still make people laugh and feel extremely uncomfortable when he’s on stage. And that's what really matters.