The Hook

The shower hook

Upon the wall

Is barely on

The wall at all.

In fact, if I

should use the thing

My towel would

Most likely fall.

The situation’s

One I dread;

The tension hurts

Inside my head.

I cannot trust that

Hook held by a

Screw that’s hanging

By a thread.

It's Not You, It's Me

When I am King: What's in a Name?

When I am King...

The name Chet will be used by more interesting movie characters.

It is the bane of my life to have the name Chet. I could have had a clever name, or a tough-guy name, or a unique name. But instead, due (if I understood the story correctly) to the massive amount of epidural drugs rocketing around my mother’s system when she was still recovering from what I did to her, I was given what everyone assumes is a nickname. Everyone I know eventually asks me, “What’s your real name?” and I can see the pity in their eyes when I reveal that I have nothing more to offer. Worse, it’s a name that is not unique, but is extremely uncommon because it’s, well, dorky.

I’ve met a total of three other Chets in my entire life. One of those was the guy I inherited the name from, so he doesn’t count. (I asked if I could give him the name back; apparently that wasn't polite). And none of those people, including my relative, actually had the name Chet, they just shortened their name to that nickname from the arguably dorkier name Chester, from which Chet is typically derived. Chester is not, I’d like to remind you, my real name. I just have Chet. Just a nickname. Just a dorky nickname based on a dorky real name.

At this point, many motivated children will turn to their backup plan: the middle name. This is, after all, why we have them - why else would we have a name that sits in the middle of the other two, never getting used except when applying for a drivers license or being yelled at by your parents? It’s the slient-p of the naming world. It’s the color ‘transparent’. It’s the Prophet Elijah that always gets a place to sit but never gets to come to the table. The frustrated and poorly-named child will whip that name out and start using it willy-nilly, producing such awesome names as F. Scott Fitzgerald.

So I turned to my middle name and found only Spencer, which, at my current age, doesn’t seem too bad. But to a twelve year old with glasses, that’s not much of an improvement. That’s like putting a “Punch me, jerk!” sign on your nose and then poking the bully next to you with your sharpened #2 pencil. So I stuck with Chet. At least I had the advantage that nobody gave me a nickname, since they thought I already had one.

For a time, I was in a phase where I would tell people that Chet was short for Hatchet Killer. In fact, I'm still in that phase.

Part of the reason that people actually know the name, despite nobody they know actually having the name (or admitting to it) is that books and Hollywood keep it alive. That’s right - I have a character name. When Hollywood wants a character with a strong stereotype personality, Chet is one of the first names they consider.

Apart from one oddball use of the name in a mystery novel (I believe it was the excellent Carl Hiaasen mystery novel Double Whammy), in which there was a redneck character named Chet, nearly all of the Hollywood uses of the name boil down to this: uptight oddball.
The Hardy Boys: The kid-detective's dorky, overweight, uptight friend was named Chet. Great.
Weird Science: Apparently I’m also an uptight military-school character.
Fargo: Chet was the doorman for the sleazy hotel where the author stayed.
Bay Boys: Once again, there was a doorman named Chet. Apparently it’s the only job Chets can get in that town.

There are other examples, but that’s the general trend. Uptight oddball, with a little bit of redneck mixed in.

Then I saw Turbo this weekend with the kids. And there’s a Chet in it. And you’ll never guess the character he plays. Ah, you guessed it - it’s the uptight, flaccid, and totally dull brother.

But here’s the disturbing part: As soon as the character (played by Paul Giamatti) started speaking, my whole family decided that it actually was me. Negative, sarcastic, and (I suppose) purple: I’m all of those things. So maybe Hollywood’s had it right all of this time. Or maybe I’m just playing the part really well. Because Turbo nailed it: I am that purple shelled, bad-attitude mollusk.

When I am King, Hollywood will change the rules and start using Chet as the name for action heroes and leading roles of all kinds. No more dorky sidekicks: we’ll have the big stars as our role models: tall, strong, … and probably still dorky, because they got stuck with the name Chet.

What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Except Chet. Don't name that flower Chet.

When There Is A Donut

When there is a donut,

There is nothing wrong at all.

Life could be ruined, people could die,

Nations could crater and fall.

But if there’s a donut, just one single donut,

Then everything’s good as can be;

I open my mouth and suck it all in and

I am a happier me.

Some people might find me vapid,

My philosophy lacking and sad,

But when I taste the warm sugar and fat,

I figure it can’t be that bad.

Everyone has their own weakness,

Their own special thing they adore.

For some it’s true love or power or clothing

Or shopping all day at the store.

For others, it might be fun gadgets,

Or video games played all day long,

And who am I to judge these pursuits,

Or tell everyone that they’re wrong?

But meanwhile, I just need donuts.

In fact, I’ll just have that one.

(And then when I’m done with it, I’ll have another;

This time a cinnamon bun).

So let all the governments fail,

And storms break the Earth’s crust apart;

As long as I have my one single donut,

I’ll also have joy in my heart.

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

Actions speak louder than words, UNLESS YOU USE ALL CAPS.

Talk is cheap, so be really verbose if you want your sentences to have any value at all.

See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Tasting evil is fine.

Speak softly and carry a big stick. AND A CAPS-LOCK KEY.

Santa's Mantel

I've always made my own Christmas cards, partly because I prefer my own jokes over store-bought ones. But mostly because I'm a cheap bastard.

Here's one of my first card covers, from way back in 1989.

The Great Poets: Dylan Thomas

In this first installment of a series of Great Poets reading some of their classic works, we see Dylan Thomas reading his holiday classic, A Child's Christmas in Wales.

'Twas the Night Before Donut

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a donut was stirring, nor a crumb on a blouse.

The donuts were stacked by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St Nicholas would see them all there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of donuts danced in their heads.

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I with my donut,

Had just settled our brains for a big winter’s donut.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I instantly ate a big donut from the platter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Then back to the donuts (no need to be rash).

A dozen fresh donuts on a gleaming white plate

Were more interesting than anything else on that date.

But what then happened to surprise all our souls,

A dozen fresh donuts, and eight donut holes.

With a donut old donut, so donut and quick.

I donut in donut, it donut St. Nick.

More donut than donuts his donuts they came

And he donut and donut, and donut by donut.

Donut, donut, donut donut.

Donut, donut, donut donut.

Donut donut, do-o-o-nut,

Donut, donut, donut, donut.

Donut donut donut donut

Donut donut donut donut

Donut donut donut donut

Donut donut donut donut.

Donutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonutdonut.

Donut.

The Reason for the Season

People often talk about the “reason for the season” at this time of year. It's so easy to lose sight of what it's all about, what with all of the shopping, and the fuss, and the arguments leading to restraining orders, breakups, and [totally unwarranted] manslaughter charges. So I thought a small history lesson would provide some important context.

Did you know that Santa Claus was based on a real person? Did you also know that this person was named “Jacob Torvoldtsen”? The change to Santa Claus makes more sense when pronouncing Jacob’s name in the original Finnish language; that language is actually just a simple code where letters represent completely different letters in other languages. This approach to their language also explains why people with Finnish accents often sound like Stephen Hawking’s voice, because their brain is too busy processing the code algorithm to spend much time on subtle human nuances of pronunciation.

Mr. Torvoldtsen (hereafter referred to as Jacob, because I have the darnedest time spelling his last name) was famous in his community as someone who gave stuff away. Specifically, he was the local drug pusher, standing out on the corner of Blakemont and Fünfnoggle at all hours, selling temporary happiness to junkies of all ages. He was well known for giving the first one away for free, knowing that his highly addictive products would have customers come back clamoring for more at any price. He sold mainly two products, which he called “Merry” and “Happy,” in a desperate attempt to use marketing spin to cover the fact that they were both basically nothing but fermented reindeer dung. Even in the dead of winter, Jacob would be seen standing there, in drifts of snow 15 feet deep. Actually, only the snow was seen, but passers-by could hear him deep inside the snow peddling his wares, with a muffled “Have a merry! And a happy!”

The drug business wasn’t easy in those days, especially since he depended heavily on foot traffic in an area where it was too cold for people to leave their houses ten months out of the year. So, keen businessman that he was, Jacob entered the flesh trade, becoming a pimp for the local street walkers, whom he referred to as his “pack of elves.” Soon it was common for the community to hear his hawking cries at all hours of the night, crying “Ho! Ho! Ho!” as he tried vainly to interest sailors, businessmen, and young school boys in women so deeply embedded in parkas that potential clients had no idea what they looked like or whether they were actually women. Jacob tried, of course, to have his employees dress in slightly less clothing, but this ended up costing him as those women usually died of frostbite or ended up in the hospital.

It was really only when he took his tawdry business on the road that things picked up for Jacob. One night, more to elude the local constabulary than for any other reason, he sleigh-jacked a young lumberjack on his way back from the forest, tossing the man into a local snow drift and racing off with his vehicle and the pack of reindeer pulling it.

From that point on, Jacob’s fortunes were looking up. He was able to dash quickly into new towns, push his drugs and elves onto unsuspecting people, and race out of town before the police caught up to him. His reputation grew and it wasn’t long before townspeople, knowing that he was on the move, would exclaim, “You’d better watch out! Santa Claus is coming to town!” Unfortunate children who were insufficiently hidden in nearby snow drifts would catch his attention, and he’d ask, “And what would you like for Christmas?,” often throwing them some drug-laced, highly addictive candy canes (which were actually meant to be straight sticks of candy, but which melted into a cane shape, due to the ferocity of the drugs).

Over the years, his wild rides ceased and his adventures faded into legend, attracting, as most legends do, an air of nostalgia and level of falsehood usually reserved for politicians. What were once warnings to the townspeople became friendly greetings, and the man who once was regarded as the “Scourge of Jyväskylä” became the basis for the story of the jolliest man to ever invite small children onto his lap.

So if you happen to see any Santas about this weekend, greet them in the traditional way: say “Hello, Mr. Torvoldtsen!” and then call the cops on them.

Patterns, Shmatterns

I enjoy programming. I enjoy giving presentations. I enjoy comedy. And I really enjoy giving comedy presentations about programming.

My satire talk from the Devoxx conference is now available on parleys.com. It was meant to be a "quickie", although blowing through my 15 minutes' worth of slides in 4 minutes wasn't quite was I expected. Nevertheless, the Q&A session was fun. And totally educational. Totally.