Author: Joey deVilla

Roger Highfield’s very entertaining book, The Physics of Christmas (a Christmas present from my sister from a couple of years ago), recounts the legend of St. Nicholas, who would later morph to become Santa Claus or Father Christmas:

Legend suggests that St. Nicholas was born around A.D. 245 in the town of Patara, an important Byzantine port in Turkey, only a couple of hours’ sail from Gemiler. When Nicholas was a young man, his father died, leaving a great fortune. Nicholas began anonymously giving the money away, especially to children. Eventually he became the Bishop of Myra (the modern-day coastal town of Demre), at the southernmost tip of the Bey Daglari mountains. (The name “Myra” is derived from that of the resin myrrh.) There he supposedly performed several miracles, including saving sailors from drowning and resurrecting three boys who had been killed by an evil butcher. It is the best-known of his miracles, however, that helps to wrap St. Nicholas into the legend of Santa Claus.

This miracle concerned a noble and his three daughters, who had fallen on hard times. The daughters had little chance of marriage, as their father could not pay their dowries, so they faced a life of prostitution. One night St. Nicholas, hearing of the girls’ plight, threw a sack of gold through a window of the nobleman’s shabby castle. The sack contained enough gold to provide for one daughter’s marriage. The next night he tossed another sack of gold through the window for the second daughter. But on the third night, the window was closed. Ever resourceful, St. Nicholas dropped the third sack of gold down the chimney. Townsfolk heard the story and began hanging stockings by the fireplace at night to collect any gold that might come their way, preseumably — hence the tradition of the Christmas stocking and Santa’s affinity for fireplaces.

A real stand-up guy. A dude, if you will.

One of those defining moments in childhood is when you discover or are told that there is no Santa Claus. Many kids take it badly, and one vicar in England forgot this in an well-meaning attempt to explain what Christmas is supposed to be about.

According to this report in from BBC News:

It is the news no child wants to hear – and certainly not from the mouth of a vicar.

Youngsters at a Christmas carol service were devastated when the Reverend Lee Rayfield told them Santa Claus was dead.

Even parents at the service in Maidenhead, Berkshire, were shocked to hear Mr Rayfield say it was scientifically impossible for Father Christmas to deliver so many presents so quickly.

Mr Rayfield has admitted making a serious misjudgment in telling the story to children as young as five.

He said: “I did not realise how young some of them were and I am sitting here now wondering how I managed not to realise.

“Even when I was there, I did not twig. I am mortified and appreciate I have put some parents in a difficult position with a lot of explaining to do. I love Christmas.”

Mr Rayfield also told the youngsters that reindeer would burst into flames if they had to travel at the speeds necessary.

Ah, yes, Exploding Rudolph. That’ll put the kids in therapy for years.

By bringing scientific proof into matters of faith, the vicar is treading ground that even angels with lots of insurance give a wide berth. He may have to explain why the science that proves that Santa cannot exist cannot do the same for God.

[Thanks to Loki for the link!]

My sister-in-law Grace is in town for a little while and staying over at my sister and brother-in-law’s place out in Etobicoke. They live on a nice secluded street in a neighbourhood with old trees and well-kept houses where many young families live. I thought that Grace might find it a little too quiet being there all the time and invited her to come out with me on Saturday night.

“By my standards, it’ll be a fairly low-impact evening, but it’ll give you a chance to get out. You might want that, now that my Eileen’s living in the slow lane.”

“Hah,” said my sister later on, “I’d like to see him try my schedule — getting up at 5:30 a.m., taking care of a little boy, work (she’s a doctor), PAIRO (an doctors’ organization, in which she plays an active role), and keeping house — and then see if he still calls that the slow lane.”

Okay, so it’s a different kind of “fast lane”. It’s just not my kind, at least not now.

I’ll be the first to admit — and I’m certainly not the first to point it out — that good chunks of my life have been rather carefully “constructed” — a term my friend Dera used to describe it — to be a somewhat offbeat one full of interesting and amusing happenings. (I always find it odd that people put so much planning and effort into their careers but somehow expect that the rest of life will simply sort itself out.) I’m sure that when the time comes, I’m going to have to give a little of that up for Joey Jr. — or what ever his or her name will be.

(Or maybe not. Perhaps I’ll be at the forefront of the “strollerpunk” movement.)

So, sis, I take back that bit about slow. You may no longer be the hard-partying vodka-guzzling machine, but you’re now a cooler supervillain than Evil Overmom.

As for me, I think I’ll twist a quote from Augustine:

Give me domesticity…but not yet!

According to my sister (who saw it while shopping last week), there’s a Christmas stocking with “But Santa, I can explain!” printed on it.

Snow whirling downward

Daytime: coding; evening: schmooze

Someone, please hire me

Let me get this design document done first, and then I’ll write something a little more meaty. (I have a lot to write — I’m more backlogged than Marlon Brando after dinner).

Nothing says “suave” like an accordion and a fun-fur leopard vest.

The work involved in giving my career a kick-start while maintaining some semblance of a social life has meant that the blog entries aren’t as regular — or at least as substantial — as they’ve normally been. I intend to make this situation a temporary one. In the meantime, thanks for your patience.

The Save Joey’s Christmas sale still has a number of items up for grabs, the best ones still being Logic Audio and Reaktor going for (ahem) a song. If you’re a studio musician looking to save some money, I believe I’ve got a nice deal for you.

Once again, thanks to everyone who bought something.

Does anyone out there know of a reasonably inexpensive hosting service that does ASP.NET? I’m looking for a place to host some example Web applications and services. Please let me know either in the comments or e-mail me. It’ll also be a good home for my other domain, the currently unused-but-mine justafreakinminute.com.

(Please, no recommendations for Brinkster unless they’ve upgraded their service. I used them as a testing platform and found that their server folded like cheap furniture most of the time.)

The Atkins thing — I know they no longer like to use the word “diet”, and I can’t remember what word or phrase they’re using in its stead — is going well. I’ve lost six pounds and my clothes are a little roomier now. The only downside is that I really miss my beloved Yeung Chow Fried Rice.

I’ve signed a contract for a small little Web programming project with my friend Jay Goldman. It should earn me a little money and give me a finished product that I can put in my portfolio.

Six months later, I’m still a regular attendee of Body Attack at my gym. It’s a nice change of pace from the weights, and more fun than the stationary cycles or the rowing machines.

I’m still the only guy in the class. This is a plus for many reasons, not the least of which is what happens when I run into people from Body Attack outside the gym. Oftentimes, they introduce me to their friends by saying “He’s in my Tae Bo class (remember kids, Tae Bo is a registered trademark of Billy Blanks Worldwide Enterprises, or whatever the company that owns it is called). He kicks ass.” So far, no one’s given me static of either the “yet another male encroachment on womyn’s space” or “You know what we call guys like you? Chicks!” variety.

I didn’t really give much thought to the payoff of hitting the gym regularly until last Saturday. I was on my way from my house to the subway, accordion on my back, when I thought “this is too easy. I should switch to a higher gear” when I realized I wasn’t on my bike, but on foot and running. Six months ago, that kind of run with an extra 30 pounds of weight strapped to my back would’ve winded me well before I made it to the station. I’m pleased.

Thanks to everyone who sent in ideas for software that they wish existed for the Palm. They’re all quite good, and I’m going to try to implement as many of them as I can. I can’t guarantee that I’ll develop all of them any time soon, but I’ve already started preliminary work on a couple of them. There’s no time limit for you to send me your ideas — if you have a concept for a Palm app that either doesn’t exist, or if you have any ideas on how existing ones could be improved substantially, drop me a line!

I have been informed, this time by my Mom’s co-workers, that my episode of HGTV’s Love By Design — the dating-game-meets-interior-decorating show — was shown again. And once again, I missed it, this time because they’ve moved the show to the Monday night time slot.

Of course, even if you caught the episode, you missed some of the best stuff, which I’ll have to write about later.

Osama bin Laden has just become the world’s most evil action figure.

The kids in Karachi (that’s in Pakistan, folks) are mad about the toy Osama. Says one misguided little rugrat: “As you know Osama is very popular in the whole world. The same thing is happening in Pakistan. People like him and he has become a celebrity now.”

With allies like these…

I used to think IKEA was a fun place to shop. A fair number of neat things that fit in with my house, Swedish meatballs with lingonberries, and an almost singles-bar like atmosphere — there are a lot of good-looking women and lots of flirty eye-contact at everyone’s favourite assemble-the-bookshelf-yourself store.

(I’ve even gotten someone’s phone number there once; while I’m sure the accordion helped, the IKEA vibe played a large part too. I’ve always held the belief that IKEA should turn itself into a singles bar on weekend nights.)

Now I’m scared of the place. Their new television ads creep me out.

I recently saw IKEA’s two new spots, which I mentally refer to as “marriage on the rocks” and “pregnant teenage daughter”. Here’s a description of the ads, taken right from IKEA’s own press release:

Directed by The Royal Tenenbaums writer/director Wes Anderson, the second series of the campaign’s TV ads, “Kitchen” and “Living Room,” use humorously frank family discussions to show that life is “unböring” and so is shopping at IKEA.

The first thirty-second commercial, “Kitchen,” peeks into the life of a couple that is in the midst of an argument. The wife is “stuck in here like some prisoner” and accusing her husband of “prowling the streets,” when suddenly they are interrupted by a voice, “so…” The camera pulls back to show an IKEA showroom display and an IKEA co-worker, “what do you guys think?” The couple looks around the IKEA kitchen and says, “it feels good, we’ll take it.” A product montage with the IKEA logo and “shop unböring” flashes during the last few seconds.

In the second spot, “Living Room” which will air later in the month, we see a young woman slouched in a chair across from her mother. “Honey, what’s wrong?” her mother asks. “I’m pregnant,” she answers. Her father begins ranting about her “creepy boyfriend” and saying “I knew this would happen.” An IKEA co-worker interrupts the two, “so…what do you think?” The camera pulls back to reveal an IKEA living room showroom display. “I like it. It feels good, we’ll take it,” says the couple. The IKEA logo and “shop unböring” flash during the last few seconds.

I’m waiting for an ad where a couple are sullenly eating their Swedish meatballs with lingonberries at the IKEA cafeteria when she throws down her fork, narrows her eyes to cold slits and says with gritted teeth: “Where…is…this…relationship…going?”

[Thanks to EveTushnet.com for the link.]