A programmer enters a moderately high brow Greek restaurant in a moderately high brow neighborhood.  The type of neighborhood that fines people for parking in front of the residents’ houses whilst dining at  local restaurants.  He sits down, and waits for his luncheon guests.

Greek Waiter:
Hello and welcome.  My name is Mmmrmpf-Mmmrburgh.

Programmer:
I beg your pardon?

Greek Waiter:
Mmmrmpf-Mmmrburgh.

Programmer:
Um, yes…

(He uses the only Greek name he knows)

Thank you… Nico?

Greek Waiter:
Yes?  Are you waiting for someone?  Can I get you anything?

Programmer:
If I were a beer here, what kind of beer would I be?

Greek Waiter:
I’m sorry sir?

Programmer:
If I were a beer here, what kind of beer would I be?

Greek Waiter:
I’m sorry sir, I can not hear you.

Programmer:
(very loudly)
If I were a beer here, what kind of beer would I be?

Greek Waiter:
No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Programmer:
Sorry.  If I wanted to order a beer here, what’s the selection.

Greek Waiter:
Mythos.

Programmer:
Mythos ?

Greek Waiter:
Yes, Mythos.  Mythos beer.

Programmer:
What kind of a beer is Mythos

Greek Waiter:
This is a Greek restaurant.  It’s Greek beer.

Programmer:
But what kind of beer is  it?  Light, dark, made from wheat, extra hoppy?  What kind of beer is it.

Greek Waiter:
It’s the only beer we serve.  Do you want one?

Programmer:
Well, under those circumstances, yes, absolutely, bring me a Mythos beer.

Time passes.  Eventually Nico returns with a tray holding a glass and a bottle of beer.

Greek Waiter:
Your beer sir.

Programmer:
This is Mythos beer?  Why does the label say Hilas?

Greek Waiter:
That’s because Mythos beer comes from Greece.  Hellas is Greek for Greece.

Programmer:
Not Hellas, the label says Hilas.  The back of the bottle says that the brewery was founded in Athens by Nico Hilas, and the beer is named after him.  What happened to the brand of beer you said you were bringing?

Greek Waiter:
Enjoy your Mythos sir.

The other luncheon guests arrive.

Another Programmer:
Trying one of those Greek beers?  Specialty of the house?  What’s it called?

Programmer:
Mythos, they call it Mythos beer.  You should order one.

Another Programmer:
Is Mythos any good?

Programmer:
I don’t know.  They won’t bring me one.  But this other stuff isn’t too bad.

CURTAIN

Sandwich Specialist:
Hello and welcome to Subway! What kind of sandwich would you like.

Programmer:
Umm, I’ll have a foot long tuna on…  What’s that new bread?  I think it has ‘cheese’ in the name?

Sandwich Specialist:
Yes, a foot long tuna. What kind of bread?

Programmer:
Umm, it’s one of the new breads.  It has ‘cheese’ in the name.  I’d like to try that.

Sandwich Specialist:
What kind of bread?

Programmer:
Look, I don’t remember the name, but it has the word ‘cheese’ in it.

Sandwich Specialist:
There is a list of the new breads on the sign right in front of you.

Programmer:
Yes, but I’m not wearing my spectacles, and can’t read the sign.  The new bread has the word ‘cheese’ in the title.

Sandwich Specialist:
Urban Cheese?

Programmer:
Urban Cheese?

Sandwich Specialist:
Yes, Urban Cheese.

Programmer:
You mean like cheese from dairy cows raised in the city?

Sandwich Specialist:
No… Not urban cheese.  URBAN cheese.

Programmer:
I don’t understand.  You mean urban, instead of rural cheese?

Sandwich Specialist:
UR…  Ban… Cheese!

(a second Sandwich Specialist appears with a felt pen and begins to writes on the back a promotional poster and shows the result to the Programmer)

Second Sandwich Specialist:
See.  URBAN cheese.

Programmer:
Oh.  You mean Herb and Cheese?

Sandwich Specialist:
Yes!  Urban Cheese.  Urban Cheese!

Programmer:
Maybe I’ll just have it on white bread then.

CURTAIN

Sandwich Specialist:
Hello and welcome to Subway! What kind of sandwich would you like.

Programmer:
Umm, I’ll have a foot long tuna on wheat.

Sandwich Specialist:
Yes, a foot long tuna. What kind of bread?

Programmer:
Wheat.
(Looks at a sign promoting ‘Omega 3 Wheat Bread)
Umm, what’s the difference between wheat bread and Omega 3 wheat bread?

Sandwich Specialist:
It’s wheat bread. There is no difference.

Programmer:
But the sign says that it’s the new Omega 3 Wheat Bread.

Sandwich Specialist:
No. There is no difference. They are both wheat bread.

Programmer:
But the sign actually says that Omega 3 Wheat Bread is both new and different.

Sandwich Specialist:
No.  They are exactly the same.   The sign is new.  Only the sign is different.  What kind of bread would you like.

Programmer:
I guess I’ll try white bread this time.

CURTAIN

Everyone used to drive pickup trucks. Now not so much. On the one hand you were never in charge of driving everyone anywhere as part of the car pool. On the other hand, you always spent your Saturday mornings ‘Helping Friends Move Things.’ You also spent a disproportionate amount of time listening to the girlfriend ‘explain to you’ - some might say berate - why my choice of vehicle served to undercut her image with… I never really understood with whom the actual undercutting was taking place, but there you are. Automotive undercutting was underway with someone, somewhere, at all times.

Driving on the freeway a few weeks after the break up with the afore mentioned girlfriend (the story sounds better if it’s on the drive back from her place immediately after the break up, but it actually was a couple of weeks later.) I was stuck in LA bumper to bumper, going no place fast, traffic. The three gardeners in the beat up pick up to my right made the internationally recognized gesture for ‘roll down your window’ and began negotiating with me to buy my truck. They seemed pretty eager, and offered me cash, but then they asked what year it was. Blissfully ignorant I said, “It’s a 1993.”

Horrified, they exchanged meaningful glances and their leader replied, “It’s a 1993? Man, chore truck is in bad shape. We all thought it was an 86. No thanks.” Then the traffic picked up and they drove away.

This gave me pause to think. I mean if my truck was too beat up for consideration by three, possibly undocumented, gardeners in an equally derelict vehicle then perhaps I should consider purchase of newer transportation. The idea was accepted in a positive, indeed one might say enthusiastic, fashion by most of my friends who advised that any new vehicle would need to enhance my marketability to clients. The new car would need to say; dependable, not flashy, responsible, and successful but not so much that a client might think I was over billing. So I went with a Volvo S-40 coupe.

The week after purchasing the car I was down at my client CPM-IX. Actually they didn’t manufacture anything. They printed tickets, but they were still crazy. So maybe they should have been CPT-1. The president of CPT-1 saw me arrive that morning. Walked over to me and said, “Is this your new car? Didn’t you used to drive that green pickup?” When I said yes he replied, “Good for you. When you finish here today stop by Phil’s office, he wants to talk to you.” Phil was the vice president who had brought me on as a consultant.

So I finished up my traditionally wacky day at CPT-1, listened dumbstruck as they explained their business procedures, made no real forward progress on their project, took note of the time I would bill them for the visit, and dropped by Phil’s office. Phil shook my hand, told me what a pleasure it had been to work with me, said that the ‘Old Man’ had seen my new car, and had decided that they were paying me too much, and now I was fired. They would later bring me back, and fire me again 3 times the following week, but that’s not part of the car story.

Apparently the ‘Old Man’ reasoned that if I could afford a new car they must be paying me way too much money. As Phil put a fatherly hand on my shoulder and eased me out the front door I remember saying something to the effect that CPT-1 wasn’t paying me too much. There were these lunatics in San Diego who were throwing wheelbarrow loads of money at me for practically nothing, and they were paying for the new car. This argument had little affect on Phil, and he waved at me pleasantly as he closed the high security, bullet proof glass door in my face.

So time passed and I helped friends move less, but helped them car pool more, for several years. Then it came time to plant a maple tree in my front garden. I swear that as I was placing the order with the nursery/tree farm over the phone I actually thought that I could just put the tree in the back of the truck and, as long as it was covered with some sort of a tarp, everything would be fine. Then I remembered that I didn’t own the truck any more, and hadn’t for at least 5 years. But since I’d ordered the ’small,’ 6 foot tree, instead of the medium, 12 foot tree, I thought that I might be able to fit it into my car. After all I had the big Volvo trunk with the fold-down rear seats, and the fold-forward front seat on the passenger side. It would probably work.

It took a while for the special order maple tree to arrive from Central California. The salesman had told me it would be a week, but when I later phoned to inquire about delivery times I was later told that “Trees from Lodi always take a full month to deliver.”

So, a month passed, and I got the phone call to come down to Treeland and pick up my maple. When I arrived at the front desk the boss’s wife processed my paperwork. I made a hopeful inquiry as to whether the tree would be small enough to fit into my car, because I didn’t have a pickup any more. She made a joke about how I was going to transport the tree in a Smart Car, and I missed the joke entirely. Instead of realizing that she meant one of those new, tiny, high mileage cars I thought she meant that my car was smart, because of it’s high safety rating. So I said, “Yes, my car does have front and side air bags.”

She looked at me quizzically and said, “What good are air bags going to do with a tree in the car?”

I replied, “Perhaps they will protect the foliage in case of a head on collision?” And she laughed so hard at me that she had to sit down. Then she called Rudolpho on the radio and told him to bring the tree to my car in the parking lot. I guess she talked to Rudolpho some more after I left, because when he showed up with the tree on a dolly he said, “Oh, thank God this car has the full front and side air bags to protect the delicate foliage.”

Some of the leaves fell off inside my car, but the tree seems OK, and I planted it last week.

Or perhaps ‘Pratfall Puppy’ ?

Whilst taking the ‘Fluffy Little White Dust Mop Dog’ for walks he exhibits unusual behavior.  At least one hopes that it’s unusual.  It would be sort of depressing if all dogs were this loopy.

Upon seeing rival, and smaller, dogs across the street it seems to be necessary to assume a courageous pose, then bound forward at speed.  This sort of kangaroo performance is designed, one supposes, to intimidate, or at least impress, the Chihuahuas watching from across the road.

Apparently it is also necessary to look sideways, at the Chihuahuas, in order to gauge their level of intimidation… Rather than looking straight ahead, in the direction of travel.

I’m afraid that I’ve begun talking to the dog recently.  So as I jogged alongside in my efforts to keep up I actually said, “Look out for that tree.”  He wasn’t paying attention to my warning, and looking back it doesn’t make sense for me to give directions rather than yanking on the leash  to prevent the inevitable collision.  He actually bounced back off the tree, sat down, stared at the offending plant, and shook his head like a character from a Tex Avery cartoon.

Days later I recounted the story to a friend.  She tsk-tsked me and mentioned that back in July when she’d been kind enough to take the fluffy bonehead for walks he’d repeated the performance, and bumped into trees at least twice.

Her final comment was, “Yup.  He’s pretty cute, but awfully dumb.  Even for one of those dust mop dogs.”

Act I

A programmer enters his local Wells Fargo branch. He has held an account here for almost 10 years. He thought that he knew all the employees, and he thought that the employees knew each other.

Bank Clerk #1:
Hello. Welcome to Wells Fargo. Can I help you.

Programmer:
Yes, I have some questions about my account. I’ve been dealing with one of the managers here, so he already knows all the ins and outs of my recurring problems with the account, but I don’t see him here. Do you know where your ‘Assistant, Assistant Manager is?’

Bank Clerk #1:
‘Assistant, Assistant Manager?’ We don’t have one of those. I don’t know what that means.

Programmer:
I’m sorry. I don’t know the exact title. Does your bank have a Manager?

Bank Clerk #1:
Yes…

Programmer:
Does your bank have an Assistant Manager?

Bank Clerk #1:
Yes…

Programmer:
And the Assistant Manager is the number two officer here? What’s the title of the number three officer at this branch?

Bank Clerk #1:
That’s the Associate Assistant Manager.

Programmer:
Good. What’s the name of the Associate Assistant Manager?

Bank Clerk #1:
It’s Raphael. Did you want to speak with Raphael?

Programmer:
No, wait, Raphael? I thought that the Associate Assistant Manager’s name was… Well, I can never pronounce it, but it’s sort of like Marian.

Bank Clerk #1:
Yes sir. I’ll be back with Raphael in just a minute.

Programmer:
No, wait…

Associate Assistant Manager:
Hello, my name is Raphael. We’ve never met before.

Programmer:
Yes, I know. We haven’t seen each other before. I guess you’re the new Associate Assistant Manager?

Associate Assistant Manager:
No sir. I’ve been the Associate Assistant Manager here for at least two months.

Programmer:
But before you? I used to deal with your predecessor, and it’s rather embarrassing, but I could never pronounce his name. It was sort of like Marian, but I know that wasn’t how it was pronounced.

Associate Assistant Manager:
Marian? I’ve never heard of that name. Not in all the time I’ve been working at this branch.

Programmer:
You mean you’ve never, ever heard that name before?

Associate Assistant Manager:
That’s right.

Programmer:
Not in either of the two months that you’ve actually been at this location?

Associate Assistant Manager:
Ahem… Tiffany, have you ever heard of a manager here named Marian?

Bank Clerk #1:
No sir. I haven’t met anyone at this branch whose name even starts with an M.

Programmer:
Tiffany, I’ve never seen you here before. How long have you worked at this branch?

Bank Clerk #1:
Umm, six weeks.

Programmer:
May I speak with the manager please.

Associate Assistant Manager:
I’m sorry, but it’s the Assistant Manager’s day off.

Programmer:
Then I’ll have to speak to the manager.

Manager:
Hello sir, I understand that you are not happy with your account?

Programmer:
No, the account is probably fine. I just want to speak with the Associate Assistant Manager who always handles my account, and not only is he not here, but no one appears to have ever heard of him. His name stars with an M, and I can’t pronounce it properly.

Manager:
Oh, you mean Mah-Rioun? Oh he doesn’t work here any more. After several years as the Associate Assistant Manager he was promoted and transferred to another branch. It’s one of those small, inside the super market branches, but now he’s an actual branch manager.

Programmer:
Thank you. So his name did start with an M, and he did used to work here, despite the fact that these other employees denied his existence.

Manager:
What other employees?

Programmer:
Well, everyone else seems to have disappeared. You don’t suppose that you could give me directions to this new branch so that I could talk with Mah-Rioun?

Act II
A Programmer enters a local Vons supermarket. He wanders around the front of the store, looking for the small ‘inside the market’ Wells Fargo branch that he has been told is there. He approaches a checker at one of the registers.

Programmer:
Excuse me. I understand there is a Wells Fargo branch here, inside the market.

Checker:
Yes.

Programmer:
Umm, thank you. Where is this bank? I can’t find it.
(gestures helplessly at the front of the store)

Checker:
It’s not here. It’s over there.

Programmer:
Next to the Produce Section?

Checker:
No, it’s in the Produce Section.

Programmer:
They put the bank in the middle of the Produce Section?

Checker:
Well, where else would they put it?

Programmer:
Umm, they could have put it in the middle of the meat department.

Checker:
What? The middle of the meat department? That’s crazy.

Programmer:
Yes, of course. What must I have been thinking. The Produce Department makes far more sense for a bank location. I don’t actually see it. Where is it exactly.

Checker:
Over by the wall. Behind the big banana display.

Programmer:
Yes, makes far more sense behind the cardboard banana than next to the inflatable pork chop sign.

CURTAIN

The birds are singing, the flowers are blooming, the sun is (barely) over the horizon.  A programmer is awakened by the incessant ringing of his front door bell.  He stumbles to the front door, opens it, and is confronted by two friendly tradesmen in matching T-shirts.

 Programmer:
Yes?

Tradesman #1:
We’re here.

Programmer:
<pause>
Good for you.
<long pause>

Tradesman #1:
We brought your floor.

Programmer:
All my rooms already have floors.

Tradesman #1:
No, your new floor.  We brought your new floor.

Programmer:
Somebody gave me a new floor?

Tradesman #1:
No, you bought a new floor.

Programmer:
No, I did not.
<pause>
I did not buy a new floor.

There is a very long pause, during which a fluffy white dog appears at the programmers feet and growls at the tradesmen.   Tradesman #1 leans back, looks at a portion of the house front where there is no street number and says.

Tradesman #1
Oh, this is the wrong address.

Programmer:
Then we agree on at least one  thing.

He closes the front door and starts to make the dog breakfast.

When I was a boy my father never said “car.”  He always said “automobile.”  My father was older than most of my friend’s fathers, and he came from another country.  He never learned to say “car.”  At a certain point our family stopped buying sedans, and he learned the new term “station wagon.”  He never stopped using the automotive terminology he’d learned as a boy.  He changed it a little, but never completely abandoned it.  So by the late 1960’s he’d say things like;

“Don’t set your soft drink can on the bonnet… ah, hood.”

“We can’t park too close behind that other automobile, or they won’t be able to open the boot… ah, trunk.”

He did fully accept the term “fender” in place of “wing,” but he never gave up “wind screen” instead of “wind shield.”

Many years later I use all American car terms.  I even say “car.”  Well, sometimes I say “automobile,” but that’s only when I’m talking about old or antique cars.  I don’t say “wind screen… ah, wind shield.”  However, I do say wind screen more than half the time.  The rest of the time I pause a little before saying wind shield.  Interestingly enough, I always refer to “wind shield wipers” even if I’m talking about the “wind screen.”

The one term I seem to have completely rejected is “glove compartment.”  Father always said “glove box” and so do I.  Last night, on one of my many new TV channelettes, there was a car commercial.  A pair of little girls were searching through the inside of… Maybe it was some sort of minivan?  Looking for holiday treats.  I don’t remember which holiday, but they were finding treats inside the numerous, handy, practical, convenient storage compartments that clearly added to the sales value of the vehicle.  At one point they found something; a movie, stocks, bonds, letters of transit that cannot be rescinded, inside the “glove box.”  At least that’s what the narrator called it.

Does this mean that American Automotive English is changing?  Or that the commercial was designed to target English financial printers born in 1908?

Before I was a programmer I worked in the Entertainment Industry.  Before that, I was a programmer.   So the arc of my business career might be viewed as; programmer (medical type stuff), made rubber monsters, programmer again (manufacturing type stuff).  It really was rather odd how experiences in one industry provided useful experience during unusual circumstances in another industry.  Many clients in manufacturing think of themselves as sharp when it comes to administering their accounts payable.   In this case sharp does not necessarily mean ‘good’ or ‘effective.’  It really means something akin to ‘tip toeing along the very edge of illegality.’  As one might imagine the sharp business techniques employed in manufacturing pale by comparison to those used in the Entertainment Industry.

Rubber Monster Guys are a lot like programmers in that both groups exchange work stories over beer.  These stories are along the lines of; “You think you worked on a stupid project, well I had a client who wanted to…” or “You think you worked for a crook well I had a boss who tried to…” Unlike programmers Rubber Monster Guys actually like to work for crooks, at least once, so they can join in with their friends complaining about how they’ve been cheated.  Smart, or lucky, Rubber Monster Guys arrange to work for these famous (notorious) crooks on small projects so that they aren’t cheated out of too much money.

Back in 1988 I went to work for ‘The Bonehead Family.’ (not their real name) They had done lots of Effects work in Hollywood for a long time, and had even won an Academy Award.  But their business model was not that of an Efx. House.  They really seemed more like a band of bunko artists.  A friend working in England once mentioned working for The Boneheads and a famous English director said, “But they’re not Special Effects Artists… They’re Confidence Tricksters.”

The Boneheads had a studio in North Hollywood.  Actually, they rented a studio.  I think that the only equipment they owned was three IBM selectric typewriters and the sign on the front of the building.  You knew that there was financial trouble when someone from the front office snuck the typewriters off the property, because that usually meant that creditors were bringing Sheriffs Deputies the next day to seize everything belonging to the business. Unable to find the typewriters, and unable to dismantle the sign, the frustrated creditors would depart accompanied by laughter from Law Enforcement.  The Boneheads would then take the company bankrupt, start a new company, install a new sign, bring back the typewriters, and start all over again.

In the spring of 1988 the Boneheads recruited me to help build a fiber glass robot puppet.

They didn’t actually recruit me, a chum was already working for them and he told me that every Rubber Monster Guy in Hollywood had to work for The Boneheads at least once, and this was my chance to do it without being cheated too much, because the project was only a TV commercial and thus very short. The commercial was for PBS, or a tape cassette phone answering machine, or a new brand of spaghetti. It was a long time ago and I don’t quite remember. I know that using a robot as a spokesman didn’t really make any sense to anyone who was actually building the robot, so it wasn’t a computer or a computerized anything.

A shifty vice president hired me and “because he liked me” offered to pay me not my daily rate, but a lump sum of $3,000 out of which I could pay myself and all the other crew members. When I seemed leery of this idea he suggested that “because he trusted me” that I might consider taking the $3,000 then lying to my crew about the size of the payment, and pocketing the difference. I’d never worked for The Boneheads before, but had heard enough stories to see how this ploy would work. They would offer me $3,000 but by agreeing to pay the rest of the crew out of my pocket everyone would come complaining to me when I didn’t get my check. I said no thanks, that I’d take my normal daily rate, and he could pay everyone on the crew directly. The VP kept repeating, “But you’d make more money my way,” without including the phrase “by cheating your coworkers.” I kept repeating, “It’s less bookkeeping work for me this way,” without including he phrase “and it will be more difficult for you to stiff five guys than just me.”

So we shot the commercial. Then everyone got paid the next week. Then all our checks bounced. Then everyone went after The Boneheads for our money. I don’t know if everyone was eventually paid. I do know that the sign on the building changed once before I got the second check, which was the one that eventually cleared.

The other day I was dusting pictures in my office and found a framed copy of my very first NSF check from The Boneheads. Below the check I kept a list of all the excuses used by the shifty VP to explain why I hadn’t been paid.

Responses from the Shifty Vice President.
1.) You didn’t give us an invoice.
2.) The check is in the mail.
3.) We’ll pay you on Thursday.
4.) We’ll pay you on Friday.
5.) The check is in the mail.
6.) You know that Tuesday is payday.
7.) Didn’t we mail that already?
8.) Why are you acting like this?
9.) We’re waiting for a check from the client.
10.) You have a real attitude problem.
11.) I’ve been in this business 10 years and I’ve never been talked to like this.
12.) What’s the matter? You can trust us until the client gives us a check.
13.) Fine, try to take us to court.
14.) You want to talk to Steve.
15.) Oh, it bounced? Call back later today.
16.) Call back tomorrow.
17.) You want to talk to Suzanne.
18.) I didn’t know that you were having a problem.
19.) I can’t get your money, it’s Columbus Day.
20.) The bank did it wrong.

Response from the bank on which the 2nd check was drawn
21.) It’s not important whose fault it is. What’s important is that there is money in the account now.

Back when I first heard the term ‘Mission Statement’ it was described as a “very broad, over all, strategic plan.”  I think programmers first started discussing Mission Statements round about the time Microsoft announced their new MS as “A PC on Every Desktop by 1990″  Not sure about the year, but I remember everyone being amazed that a company which didn’t actually make PC’s was angling for everybody to have one on their desk.  This was at a time when small companies would share a PC amongst several employees, and none of us quite put together that Microsoft was planning that more PC’s would mean more software sales for them.  Looking back on it I’d have to admit that their Mission Statement seemed to have worked out pretty well for the company.

Well, last week I was visiting a patient in the local hospital.  On the wall above the bed was a brightly colored poster which I suppose was sort of a Mission Statement for the nurses.  To me it seemed well meaning, but…  I leave it to the reader to decide.

The large font title said, “Remember the Four P’s”

Then it listed;
1.) Pain
2.) Position
3.) Personal Needs (bathroom)
4.) Emotional Needs

Then it summed up, “Always Remember the Four P’s”

Perhaps programmers are too literal, but shouldn’t the motto have been something like, “Remember the three P’s and the one E”  ?  Maybe it would have made more sense to me if I’d sat in on the presentation introducing the poster.