Russell Rupe happens to be my name. You might know that because you're visiting russrupe.com, but then again, you might think my name is Russel. And you'd be like Cooper from the drive through: wrong. It's not a big deal, but there's also no reason for it.
I go by Russ, but because I'd rather not be called Wes or Ross, I often give my, ah, given name.
The number of times I get asked if that's 1 or 2 L's is insane. Why is this question pointless? Maybe like me, you happen to actually know a Russel. That name's got to be pretty common, yeah?
Well, let's look at the numbers, shall we? Here's me, 69th most popular name of 1972 according to babycenter who gets its data, they claim, from the US government:
And how does "Russel" fare? Not so well; thanks for asking. In fact, so very not-so-well that anyone asking "Is that one L or two?" is asking a pretty dumb question. I've hired a professional graphic artist and used a complicated algorithm to crunch this data, just to make it easy to see how the metrics play out in the real world--or at least the real world of 1972 babies.
Yep, there's more GIRLS named DAVID and JOHN and WILLIAM than boys named Russel born in 1972. As an aside, can we just all agree that those poor women's fathers were total dicks?
So, don't ask a Russell how to spell his name. It makes you look foolish. If it's one L, he will tell you because he is the minority by an order of magnitude. There's no shame in that either--more unique names are fine. Now, ask yourself if uniqueness can have degrees of magnitude, by definition.
In conclusion, if you're a woman named David, John, or William, please e-mail me. I'd love to have a friendly chat: russ@ the domain you're at right now. Maybe your dad is cool, and deserves less harsh treatment.
