Dear John,
We haven't met (as far as I remember) but I would like to let you know
that more and more people have asked me if I am related to you in the
past year than I have ever been asked that question before in my life. Which either means
you have elbowed your way into the popular culture with your book Areas
of My Expertise and your day job on The Daily Show or my circle of friends has expanded enough to finally get some interesting questions beyond "do you work here?" I mean, do I look like I work here?
Sure, I read your
book, too, and laughed along with the rest of the world, even though
there may have been one hobo name too many. And I just saw your picture
on the cover of my Wired magazine and I certainly chuckled and shook my head at the
workings of your brain. There's a twist in your cranium that only a few
people have, my friend. And you have the look of an information geek down pat.
The name confusion comes from, well, your name. Hodgman. The man of
Hodge. My name is Hodgson. The son of Hodge. I may seem to have a bit
of inferiority complex but it isn't true. I am just trying to gather the
fruits of our family tree. And I wonder if you are one of the products
of the same tree, fallen to the ground and maybe gotten a little bit moldy. No
offense. It happens, even to the shiniest apples in the tree. I am just trying to drive my metaphor into the ground here,
John. It's what us writers do, isn't it? Take our humor to the limits
and see what happens. Back to my query, though, I keep returning to a
few vexing mysteries.
First of all, who is this Hodge fellow and is your Hodge the same Hodge
as my
Hodge? (say that 10 times fast and see if your tongue won't dance right
out of your mouth). If your Hodge is my Hodge, then how come you get to
become a man and I remain merely a son? That
just doesn't seem fair to me whatsoever. And if it is not the same
Hodge that we share, then how come there are so many Hodges running
loose in the
world, pointing fingers at folks and saying, "You! You are the son of
Hodge. And you! You are the man of Hodge" and so on. It seems very fickle.
(By the way, the trusted Internet -- which must be your competition
when it comes to authority on everything and a giant bee in your bonnet
-- informs me that Hodge is another way of saying Roger and Roger means
"renowned spear" -- so you could be Rogerman, John, if you wanted and
go around with a toy spear as your literary symbol. You have the renown part down cold pat, my
friend. Then I would be Rogerson, or maybe, Little Spear!)
Here's another mystery: where are all the women of Hodge? Are they
planning some
retaliation against all of us manly/sonly Hodges? I just want to go on
the record that I believe that Hodgedaughter is a fine name, if a bit
tricky to say. Hodgewoman? The same complaint. But I think you and I know
that if it weren't for the woman of the Hodge tree, there wouldn't be any tree at all, so let's give a big
shout-out to the HodgeWOMEN of the world. Boo-yaaa.
Getting back to us, John, what I want to know is, if we share the same
Hodge, then do we share the same brain cells? Because that worries me.
I notice that more and more, I am hearing the word "hobo" being kicked
around the lexicon of my life. Walking down the street the other day, I
heard two teenagers talking about some "hoboes" panning for money with
a guitar. I teach sixth graders, and in the past month, I have heard
the word "hobo" injected into conversation at least four times. What is
going on? It makes me think one of two things: either you are on to
something with your hobo kick or I am losing my mind in the Hodge
labyrinth of hobo-ism. At this rate, I may need my own nickname for
your ever-expanding list. (Now that I think of it, maybe something
around the concept of Little Spear makes sense, like LittleSpearKabob).
And I truly wonder about your claim of being the expert on everything.
Do you really know everything? I mean, come on, that's a lot of
knowledge up there in the noggin'. (OK, OK, now I know you disclaim
that claim in the same breath you make it but you and I both know how
few people actually read every sentence in a book. Seriously, do we
really believe that anyone in the world has ever truly finished War and
Peace? Did they truly read that sentence Tolstoy wrote on page 4,331 that sparked the
beginning of the classic "Three hoboes walked into the bar ..." joke -- now, see? Hoboes
again!)
John, if you are truly the world's expert on everything, then I am formally
requesting a Hodgeman investigative report on this Hodge fellow who
seems to have settled himself comfortably right into both of our names. We need to get to
the bottom of this mystery, John. You know what I think? I think ...
gulp ... I think Hodge may actually have been a hobo. Dear God, no.
And yet, it would all make sense, would it not?
Thank you for reading this gentle assault on our
names. I enjoy reading your books and articles and watching you make
Jon Stewart squirm every now and then.
Yours truly,
Kevin