Lots of people wish they could have filled out their own birth certificates, but no one is saddled with a name their parents picked in 1740. That burden falls upon the city of Leominster, named after a town in England and plagued by constant mispronunciation (the “o” is silent) ever since. As soon as it hit municipal adolescence (about the time of its 60th birthday), Leominster adopted a jazzier nickname, calling itself “Comb City” in honor of its chief export. Shortly after turning 130, perhaps reaching that stage of life when hair is less plentiful, the city’s attention turned to the celluloid one of the comb companies began using in its products, and the title “Pioneer Plastics City” caught on. Leominster is now the home of the National Plastics Center & Museum, and its nickname appears as indestructible as a pink-flamingo lawn ornament.

Virtually every town has an official motto–look for the smudged words, probably in Latin, around the town seal. But a nickname is different. A good nickname has an air of improvisation, even if it’s been around for centuries. Unlike borders or bylaws, nicknames can be changed without violence or long-winded speeches. A nickname may be formally recognized at town hall, but it doesn’t have to be. And nicknames gain currency only if they have a ring of truth about them. The ones anointed by city council for the purpose of civic propaganda tend to die from lack of use. Nicknames are organic, and they’re stubbornly democratic.

Like Comb City, most nicknames are easily explained. Middleborough is the “Cranberry Capital of the World,” thanks to Ocean Spray’s headquarters there. Lawrence became the “Immigrant City” when its Irish population swelled in the 19th century, and with Hispanics still arriving in the 21st century, it makes as much sense today as it did then. But the source of some nicknames is harder to trace. Fall River is the “Scholarship City” because it’s the birthplace of the national “Dollars for Scholars” campaign, which helps college students raise tuition funds from their neighbors. And some official nicknames are just lame: Bedford calls itself the “Home of the Oldest Complete Flag in the United States,” a sobriquet so clumsy that no one would use it outside of town hall. (The nickname refers to a town flag, not to anything created by Betsy Ross.)

Not surprisingly, the largest city in the Commonwealth has a surplus of nicknames. The “Hub” (short for “hub of the universe”) is the favorite of Boston residents and headline-writers alike, conveying the city’s importance (or self-importance). “Beantown” appeals more to suburbanites who drop in for the occasional Red Sox game. “Athens of America” and “Cradle of Liberty” are strictly for tourists who bought the wrong guidebooks.

The state’s second-largest municipality, Worcester, also has more than one moniker. It’s the “City of Seven Hills” for its topography and the “Heart of the Commonwealth” for its central location, but perhaps also to take a dig at the cold, impersonal colossus to the east. An unofficial nickname,”Wormtown” spread through the underground music scene about 20 years ago, and civic leaders waffle between embracing and suppressing the funky tag.

Cambridge is known by the sometimes affectionate, sometimes derogatory nickname “the People’s Republic” (a title shared by equally liberal Amherst), superseding the now-outdated “Moscow on the Charles.” The city’s Office for Tourism prefers “Boston’s Left Bank,” an allusion to both the city’s politics and its café society, but few people who live there would recognize the phrase. Next-door Somerville has the dull nickname “City of Hills”; to the relief of most residents, a jump in property values has erased the derisory “Slummerville.”

Most town nicknames come from a past or present industry. Athol’s economy is dominated by L.S. Starrett Co., which makes precision measuring instruments, so it’s “Tool Town, USA” (one letter away from the animated municipality in Who Framed Roger Rabbit). In the 19th century, Winchendon was “Shingletown” because of its woodworking industry, but it switched to “Toy Town” during World War I, when it capitalized on the temporary closing of toy factories in Europe. Winchendon no longer produces playthings, but there’s still a Toy Town Elementary School, as well as Toy Town Liquors, the Toy Town Pub, and Toy Town Auto Salvage.

Waltham no longer makes timepieces, but “Watch City” is still kicking around, just as New Bedford will be the “Whaling City” as long as Moby-Dick is in print. Lowell is still the “Spindle City,” but mostly for historical exhibits about the textile industry. Westfield became the “Whip City” in the 19th century, when its 30 factories dominated the US market, but only one whip-maker is operating there today. Taunton can still call itself the”Silver City” because of the continued presence of Reed & Barton, which produced medals for the 1996 Olympics. But its Chamber of Commerce is goosing along the alternative “Christmas City,” referring to the elaborate holiday displays on Taunton Green.

Gardner, the “Chair City of the World,” still has several furniture factories, as well as a 16-foot-high colonial Hitchcock on Elm Street. The local Chamber of Commerce prefers something more expansive yet more humble, touting the city as the “Furniture Capital of New England.” Attleboro, still a major exporter of bracelets and necklaces, has no use for humility, proclaiming itself the “Jewelry Capital of the World.”

Holyoke toyed with “Queen of Industrial Cities” in the 19th century, before its 25 paper mills suggested “Paper City of the World.” The city’s Web site notes wistfully that the phrase was coined “when Holyoke exerted considerable influence on American life,” which explains why so many of these proud nicknames persist long after the bragging rights they claim have slipped away.

While most towns boast about what they contribute to the economy, a few stress their residential character. Belmont became “The Town of Homes” about a century ago, when artists, educators, and other high-class professionals began taking over the farmland. The nickname is still useful as a keep out sign directed at commercial developers.

Springfield called itself “City of Homes” in the 1880s, shortly after a new trolley system helped to create new neighborhoods far from downtown. The current mayor, as eager for new businesses as for new residents, touts Springfield as the “Comeback City of America.” To further confuse matters, a brochure for the Western New England College School of Law insists that Springfield is the “City in the Country.” Finally, the Springfield Library prefers “City of Firsts” as in the first adjustable wrench, first steam-engine automobile, first Pullman sleeping car, first motorcycle factory, first game of basketball, first mass-produced board game (Milton Bradley’s Game of Life), and first UHF television station. (To see all 20 Springfield firsts, go to www.quadrangle.org.)

Haverhill calls itself “New England’s Hometown City” based on the number of famous people born here, including poet John Greenleaf Whittier, department-store founder R.H. Macy, movie mogul Louis B. Mayer, and Bob Montana, the creator of Archie comics. Conversely, Plymouth became “America’s Hometown” thanks to people who weren’t born there at all: the passengers of the Mayflower.

At least nicknames based on historic events don’t become obsolete, so Lexington can always be the “Birthplace of the Revolution” and no one can challenge Quincy’s designation as “City of Presidents” (referring to John and John Quincy Adams). Salem is proud to be the “Witch City,” even though the 1692 witch hunt was nothing to be proud of. The nickname is even on the badges of police officers here, along with a silhouette of a crone riding a broom.

But patriotic trivia can give rise to competing claims. Billerica calls itself “America’s Yankee Doodle Town” after the nonsensical song about a guy sticking a feather in his cap and calling it macaroni. Supposedly, British soldiers sang the ditty while tarring and feathering a Billerica farmer who tried to buy a musket in Boston; soon afterward, Revolutionary soldiers co-opted the song as their own. But the city of Rensselaer, New York, calls itself the “Home of Yankee Doodle” because the lyrics were first put to paper by a British surgeon staying there.

And there are other contested nicknames. Brockton is one of several “Shoe Cities” in the Commonwealth (and home of the Shoe City Redemption Center, which presumably saves soles). But as the hometown of boxers Rocky Marciano and Marvelous Marvin Hagler, it’s also fighting for the name “City of Champions.” The trouble is, Natick claims the similar tag “Home of Champions”, specifically because of football hero Doug Flutie and generally because of the town’s obsession with high-school sports. Thankfully, the two communities aren’t near each other, or we might have a frighteningly intense football rivalry.

Most Bay State communities take pride in their nicknames, but a few appellations don’t do much for civic self-esteem. In the 17th century, Beverly was sometimes called “Beggarly” by its more affluent neighbors. Lincoln was once dismissed as “Niptown” because it was formed by taking “nips” out of the surrounding towns of Concord, Weston, and Lexington. Lynn leaders have spent decades trying to extinguish the rhyme “Lynn, Lynn, city of sin/ You never come out the way you went in.” (A few years ago, there was an attempt to change the city’s name to Ocean Park, but that substitute lent itself to “Ocean Park, Ocean Park/Don’t ever go out after dark.”) But the little verse keeps popping up. When tattoo parlors were legalized in Massachusetts last year, one of them set up in Lynn and used the old rhyme–now in a literal sense–in newspaper ads.

Until recently, Lynn was also one of the Commonwealth’s “Shoe Cities,” but even that sounds like a put-down in today’s post-industrial economy. So the Lynn Area Chamber of Commerce printed a pamphlet in 2000 with the hopeful title “Shoe City to Cyber City.” Will the new slogan be enough to give the hardscrabble North Shore city some New Economy panache? Or is it only a matter of time before we hear, “Cyber City, Cyber City/ The actual place isn’t so pretty”?