Tom Naughton

To: Mr. George DiPaolo
Director, Studio I.T.
Walt Disney Pictures & Television
Burbank, CA

From:  Tom Naughton
Franklin, TN

Dear George —

I regret to inform you that after some serious soul-searching, I no longer feel it would be ethical for me to continue writing software for Walt Disney Pictures & Television, or for any other company.  I know I recently reported being about 75% finished with the updated version of the DVD Trailer Management System, which was true (actually, it’s closer to 85% as of today), but for the good of the company, you should delete all my code files from the SourceSafe database and hire a real programmer to begin the project from scratch.  You should also get rid of all the other systems I’ve programmed for Disney over the years, as it’s highly unlikely any of them actually work.

Bear in mind, I’m not quitting in reaction to anything you’ve done.  You’re a fine project manager.  The soul-searching began after several people posted notes on my Fat Head blog and YouTube channel, pointing out that I’m “just a comedian” without a degree in nutrition or any other health science, and therefore I have no business critiquing studies or challenging conventional health and dietary guidelines — especially any nutrition advice handed down by doctors, who spend several years learning to prescribe drugs.

Obviously, these critics are correct.  For several decades now, I’ve made the mistake of thinking that since my college education consisted of reading books and academic papers and listening to lectures, I could become educated in other fields by reading books and academic papers and listening to lectures.  So once I started doing research for Fat Head and became fascinated with nutrition science, I began reading like crazy.  I ordered dozens of books and downloaded more articles and research papers than I can count.  I listened to online lectures by MDs and PhDs, and sometimes even attended in person.

But it was all for nothing.  As one of my critics informed me, reading books and research papers on my own doesn’t count as an education since I wasn’t supervised by professors who could correct the errors in my thinking.  I must admit I see the point, even though I had a few professors in college whose errors in thinking were so profound, some of us wondered how they’d made it through graduate school.  But they did, and that’s what really matters.

Which brings me back to the programming work:  honestly, George, what the hell were you thinking when you hired me as a software contractor?  Programming large, complicated database systems with dozens of end-users (or hundreds, in the case of the DVD Trailer sytem) requires an awful lot of high-level skill and knowledge.  And yet you gave me those assignments in spite of the fact that I made it perfectly clear I never took a single programming class.  If you’ll recall our first interview, you asked me specifically about my education in computer science, and I replied that I’d bought some books and taught myself how to write software programs.

So while I apologize for my role in all of this, you’re the one who works for Disney, and you’re the one who kept calling me every other year or so with another big assignment.  You’re the one who let me program two of those systems in languages I’d never seen before, telling me to just order some books and get up to speed.  (God only knows how messed up those programs are.)  And you’re the one who offered to set me up with a remote computer at the studio so I could continue taking on assignments after moving to Tenneessee.  So now that we know my programming work is illegitimate, you have to accept your share of the blame.

If it’s any consolation, you’re by no means the only one paying the price for my lack of formal training.  I need to notify at least 25 law firms that they must immediately cease using my trademark and patent tracking software.  Worse, several pharmaceutical companies must now replace the hugely expensive clinical-trial management system sold to them by a company that hired me to build it.  Man, were they fooled … they told me I was the fourth programmer they hired, but the only one they kept.  One of the owners even said, “I don’t get it.  The last guy had a degree in computer science and every Microsoft certification you can name, but he didn’t have a @#$%ing clue how to build a decent system.”  I have no choice now except to urge that company to dump my work, re-hire the guy with the degree, and rebuild the whole thing.

The really frustrating part of all this for me is that I’m not even “just a comedian” now.  I never took a class in standup comedy either, so I can’t even go back to working the clubs and cruise ships.  Since my degree is in journalism, I’m stuck with hoping a newspaper or magazine somewhere is interested in hiring a 51-year-old rookie reporter.

Anyway, I’m sorry for the inconvenience.  I was really looking forward to showing you the new features I added to the DVD Trailer Management System.

Best,
Tom

p.s. —  If there are any electric light bulbs in your office, I suggest getting rid of them before they explode and start a fire.  Thomas Edison only attended school for four months, and his instructor described him as “addled.”

About an hour ago, I was sitting in the TV room, scanning through the on-screen guide, when my six-year-old came in to chat.  After a moment, she looked up toward the top of a window and said, “Daddy, what kind of bug is that walking around on the glass?”

I followed her eyes, then answered, “Well, Sara, that looks a … HOLY @#$%!!”

I try not to teach her four-letter words, but the shock overcame my inhibitions.  I hustled her out of the room and exchanged my shorts and tee-shirt for what is apparently becoming my official wasp-hunting gear:  jeans, a shirt, a sweatshirt with a hood, a windbreaker with a hood, and winter gloves. 

I went to the laundry room, picked up the can of Raid, and was dismayed to find it felt nearly empty.  I gave it one little test squirt … okay, it wasn’t empty, but I hate going into battle with a flying demon short on chemical ammunition.

The window goes all the way to the ceiling, so of course that’s where the wasp was when I returned:  right up by the ceiling, still prancing around on the glass.  I climbed up on the sofa near the window and balanced one foot on an arm, another on the back.  I extended my weapon slooowwwly until I was sure I close enough to guarantee a direct hit.

PFFFFFFFFFFFT!! 

The wasp fell, and I was sure for a moment it would wind up behind the sofa, leaving me with no option but to get back there and look for it … thus assuring myself of an ambush by one very pissed-off wasp.  Fortunately, the wasp landed on a window sill, rolled onto its back, and kicked its legs for awhile, calling me a mother@#$%*! the whole time.

It’s in the garbage can outside now.  I would’ve written about this earlier, but my hands just stopped shaking a minute ago. 

Damn, I hate those things.

When I was a wee lad in Iowa, schoolkids trafficked in Black Cat firecrackers the way some sell drugs today.  It wasn’t legal for kids to have firecrackers, of course, but everyone knew a supplier.  (The suppliers, now that I think about it, were usually tough kids who didn’t do well in school.  )

Weeks before the Fourth of July rolled around, we’d stop wasting our allowances on marbles, candies and other worthless junk, and start saving up for a personal supply of explosives.  If you saved enough, you could even stroll up to a supplier and proudly announce, “I need a brick.”  

A “brick” was the real deal:  an entire package, all wrapped up in waxy paper, complete with a logo of a snarling black cat.  When we tore open a brick, there they’d be … dozens and dozens of firecrackers, with the fuses twisted together.  We learned right away to un-twist the fuses delicately, or they’d snap off. 

But of course, we weren’t about to let the fuse-less firecrackers go to waste.  We’d tape those to the firecrackers we could actually ignite and explode them together.  That was also the preferred method for making use of a dud.  By the end of the day, the fields near our house would smell like gunpowder and be full of little bits of firecracker confetti.

The paper that wrapped each brick included clear instructions on how to enjoy the firecrackers.  PLACE FIRECRACKER ON THE GROUND.  LIGHT THE FUSE AND MOVE TO A SAFE DISTANCE.

Yeah, right.  In all my childhood years, I never saw anyone set a firecracker on the ground and move a safe distance away.  In fact, we considered it a test of our manhood to hold a lit firecracker until the last possible second, then could toss it in the air just before the explosion.  Our timing was generally pretty good … but unfortunately, quality control at the Black Cat factory wasn’t perfect, and some fuses burned more quickly than others.  I went home after one firecracker expedition with my right hand in my pocket, hoping my parents wouldn’t notice I had two black fingernails.

But there was no hiding the splatter of ink on my shirt.  No longer content to merely toss Black Cats in the air, my friends and I had started experimenting with more creative explosions.  We blew up anthills, dirt clods, and empty soda cans.  (The cans didn’t exactly explode, but they jumped a bit, and there was a satisfying WHOMP when the Black Cat went off inside.)

Then one of my friends had the bright idea of attaching a firecracker to a Bic pen with a rubber band.  I had the bright idea of volunteering to hold the pen-bomb while he lit the fuse.  The fuse had the bright idea of burning all the way down in a couple of milliseconds.  I realized what was happening just soon enough to say a bad word and make a panicky attempt to toss the firecracker, then POP! – black fingers and a forerunner to the tie-dye shirt.

Mom wasn’t happy, especially since she made many of our shirts back then, including the ink-stained one I wore home.  After confronting me with some rather damning evidence (the burnt gunpowder smell, in particular, was hard to explain) and eliciting a confession that I’d been playing with firecrackers, Mom stuck my fingers in glass of ice water, then gave me a lecture about a boy who blew off three of his fingers with a cherry bomb. 

In comparing notes with different kids in different towns over the years, I eventually concluded that every mom in America knew a boy who had blown off three of his fingers with a cherry bomb.  Strangely, none of us kids had ever actually met a boy with three missing fingers.  None of us even knew anyone who knew anyone with three missing fingers.  I could only guess that the missing-finger kid spent his life moving from town to town and introducing himself to all the local mothers.

I don’t play with firecrackers anymore, but my girls spent part of today delighting themselves by tossing little exploding caps against the sidewalk.  Tomorrow evening, we’ll head to downtown Franklin for a free concert on the town square, followed by fireworks.  I have fond childhood memories of the Fourth of July, and I hope they will too.  I also want them to understand what the Fourth of July means.  I’ve already told them about the Declaration of Independence, the Revolutionary War, and how the fireworks represent the battles that freed us from British rule.

And when they’re older, I’ll make sure my wife tells them about a kid who blew off three of his fingers with a cherry bomb.