There's not a lot I enjoy more than going along to one of Shaun's gigs, or jamming with him on a Monday night over pizza. But one would be forgiven for wondering whether I was ever plagued by demons - some grizzling gremlin crouching on my shoulder, on the grainy periphery of my vision - that I should be better than him. No no no nonononononono NO! Of course not! Get that thought right out of your head! This instant! My path is clear to me - I enjoy my profession and do not lack for creative output! And although no longer at the top of my game, I can still belt out a few tunes when the situation calls for it... I don't need the groupies, the traveling, the recognition. I'm a programmer!

But still...

He's only my little brother, and one of the defining characteristics of little brothers is that you get to show them how to do stuff... but gone are the days where I'd sit in my room pumping out the Metallica riffs while little Shaun would sit waiting for me to show him a few more chord progressions, or where my stern countenance would provide the advisory role of aged wisdom while he slapped away at a few tunes he'd meticulously composed.

No, for better or worse I've moved on to a different part of my life where creating music plays little part. Now the boundaries of my creative world have moved to enclose computer programs and online rants. These things I do better than Shaun. The Argument is Over.

And then my browser inevitably crawls straight into the manically grinning toothy facade of Rock God Seshna. Double-take! WHAT!? WHAT IS THIS!? Awesomely groomed wild sideburns whistling in the harsh wind, manipulating his hordes of wailing groupies with wild swinging windmills, this ENIGMA explodes all over the internet with alarming elegance, wending hypnotic spells and alluring visions that invariably draw the humble reader into his conjoured world. Channeling raw character through cracks in language itself to form glacial blog formations; pressurised gas that escapes the confines of his mind to crystalise and foment in the open atmosphere, forming icy droplets of soliloquy.

Yes, with this new personification of his rock essence, Shaun has yet again begun to co-opt a whole genre of culture in which I had carved a small place for myself. Though it has not yet occurred I can clearly see the moment approaching where my role has reduced to a Monday evening session where my authored works are allowed to bask in the trickles of light his literary shadow has not yet soaked up.

The ironic insult, of course, being that the very weapon he would use against me on the Internet - the personified Rock God - is a very echo of the musical betterment from the past!

I am left to ask myself: what do I have left? I guess I did get to do the whole Uni thing - at least I've got that over him. Yes, that's it! I shall lord the erudite backwash of my tertiary training over him! The path that leads to the title Ba Sc (Hons) Comp. Sci is no merry walk in the park I'll have you all know!

Of course then there's Matty. Not content to just do Comp Sci like I did, he's gone ahead and done a double major with Mechatronic Engineering. I see it now; the little bastards have conspired to totally undermine me! Their festering plot has flourished under my innocent inattention, and I have awoken to it almost too late. I shouldn't have stopped here, this is twin country.

Accept my fate; move to another creative area and fortify; or resort to crude sabotage and name calling?

At least I can still beat em up.

I assume I can still beat em up.

Seshna's blog has moved to cechner.com
[Presumably] to celebrate the move, Director Bob has written him a screenplay.

Read my surname out to yourself. CECHNER. Try a few different permutations, possible different pronunciations. The truth is, unless I have put you through the standard 15-minute induction, you just mispronounced my name. Don't feel bad, its natural. It's one of those weird mind twisters that the brain is not set up to understand.

Another form of this test is to pronounce my name to someone (phonetically: Seshna), then very carefully spell it to them, while they write it down. Now have them recite the letters they wrote. I can almost guarantee that they will have written C-H-E-C-H-N-E-R or put an 'S' in there somewhere, or some crazy shit.

My name is like some kind of in-built security device. Somebody could steal my wallet and be writing my name on some document while reading it directly from my credit card and I guarantee they misspell it. My name by its very essence resists being copied. My name should be encoded on computer CDs and used for copy protection.

These phenomenon have some very interesting psychological side-effects. Quite a few of my quirks can probably be explained by my having to negotiate so delicately through every-day social interactions wielding this bulky handle.

I remember every award I've ever received in Primary School, High School and Uni because of a single common moment in each of them. That instant where the announcer - whose only job is to pronounce the names of all the different recipients - first glances at The Name. The Name has ambushed them unawares, as if a huge fucking circle just dropped in their game of Tetris.

People who know me often chuckle when they hear me on the phone because I go to great lengths to avoid saying The Name:

Them: What name should I book this under sir?
Me: Paul is fine thanks.

Or if I absolutely need to give my surname, I'll just spell it outright:

Them: And your surname, sir?
Me: C - E - C - H - N - E - R[1].

Of course, people's natural curiosity and need to maintain some kind of repoire often leads to the question:

Them: Oh, how do you pronounce that?
Me: Never you fucking mind how you pronounce that.

Or if they go out of their way:

Them: is that pronounced 'Chechner'/'Kechner'/'Checkner'/'Chekrier'[2]?
Me: Yep[3].

I remember one day I was running late to catch a plane. The plane was boarding and I was tapping my foot at the check-in counter (still with the anti-terrorism disrobing countermeasures to pass through) when the registrar informed me with a look of polite confusion that I didn't appear to have a booking. I ran through some quick mental aerobics: was it possible I had the wrong flight/terminal/date? No, I had the itinerary in my hand. Who had given it to me? The person who booked it - the company secretary. Oh, wait a sec...

I turned to the registrar and said

Me: Are you sure you spelled it correctly? C-E-C-H-N-E-R?
(tap tap tappity tap)
Registrar: Hmmm... yes sir, nobody by that name on this flight...
M: *sigh* How about C-H-E-C-H-N-E-R
(tap tap tappity tap)
R: Ah! Here you are sir...

When the time comes, I'm not sure I'll be able to maintain a clean conscience while inflicting this crazy legacy on the poor woman I've chosen to marry. I can just imagine the mental warping effect that the first few months will have on her as she makes the many hundreds of little behaviour adjustments necessary to survive. I'll just shake my head sadly when I hear her on the phone saying '... that's right, Cechner: C-E-C-H-N-E-R.' You've done it now, you poor fool... never say the name first!

On the up side, I generally have a guaranteed unique ID that becomes ironically simplistic in the digital world. You need to find me? What other bugger would have cechner (at) gmail (dot) com, cechner (at) hotmail (dot) com, cechner (at) yahoo (dot) com or indeed cechner.com? I could use cechner as my password without fear of anyone guessing it, the chances of someone getting the spelling right are mathematically about zero.

Notes:
[1] Pronouncing The Name seems to open neural pathways in the brain that directly sabotage the pathways that get used when interpreting the follow-up pronunciation. Therefore the wary Cechnerite will avoid pronouncing it all together.
[2] 'Checkrier' is officially the most bastardised spelling of my name I've ever witnessed.
[3] Needless to say, I answer to any of these different names. To make an issue of it is a waste of time.

...in which our intrepid protagonist finds himself deep in Western Australia's unpopulated wilderness with only his wits, girlfriend, three dogs, a booked-out campsite of tourists and a car full of food and camping gear to survive.

I love fishing and camping. I'll freely admit that I am perhaps one of the least competent fishermen to ever associate himself with that tag - where some guys can readily associate the subtle signature of the yanks and tugs on their line with some specific fish species and weight (in pounds, no less,) I have difficulty recognising a fish when it's in my hands. And when Mark points out a hole to hit where he reckons hungry fish may be waiting to die, I'll often nod dumbly and yell with delight when my cast results in a wet sinker. If there's going to be a group picture taken at the end of a fishing day, I'll be the guy helping someone else hold up their prize catch. You get the idea...

That aside, I've often fancied myself a decent camper. Though I don't go often, I always enjoy it. My tents jump together so quickly they often get mistaken for Transformers (in my minds eye, at least,) and I don't mind eating with grotty hands, burning the soles of my thongs on the campfire, or sleeping in the cold on a hard floor.

Notable exceptions to my rugged facade include: an inability to tolerate mosquitoes in my tent, and my ardent fear of sleeping with dirty feet (I'll go to great lengths to ensure my feet are pristine in my cozy sleeping bag.) Other than these reasonable compromises, I'll generally feel comfortable telling people I'm a bit of the outdoorsy type. People who don't really know me, at any rate.

Recent events have shifted my perspective in this matter somewhat, however. A few weeks ago I went on a short camping trip with my girlfriend and some of her mates, and learned a bit about myself in the process...

My first lesson came with the realisation that my previous ideas of bare living involved a powered campsite, only one deli within walking distance, and moderate showering facilities with hot water (but I'm man enough to put up with those water-saving shower roses they often have.) And of course I never go camping without all the conveniences my mate Mark (and his Utility Vehicle of the GODS - aka the Uterus) could bring, including a pergola nearing circus tent proportions, all BBQ goods you could possibly want, all the fresh fish you could catch (and subsequently deep-fry or smoke,) and sometimes a full sized fridge stocked with a literal ute-tray-load of home brewed beer.

So it would be fair to say that I got a bit of a shock when I discovered my new campsite not only was absent of any showering facilities, but had only the long-drop toilets[1] and was completely unpowered. Life for the next two days would be tough, but not impossible.

However, my optimism begun wearing thin pretty quickly. I soon found myself despondent when my electric toothbrush began to show signs of a waning battery. Oh, I hid the fear well, but my gaze ever wandered disconsolately toward my leather toiletries bag.

Then came the realisation that I was a complete food snob! That's right, as far as I was concerned, I only brought the bare essentials - namely six porterhouse steaks, a kilo of bacon, a bag full of mushrooms, two tubs of butter (one mixed with freshly crushed garlic), a dozen eggs, sandwich ham and salami, and a bunch of bread, buns and hot-dog sausages. In other words, enough to see us through two nights and one day. Snacks, of course, included dips, salsas, and marinated stuffed olives.

It turns out everyone else brought cereal, bread and tinned minced meat things. Feeling bad for them, I cooked up plenty of extra stuff for each meal, but it turns out they all preferred their own 'food'.

Of course, we brought a separate tent for the dogs. Carla set that one up while I slept.

The entire second day was wasted on a sore neck and shoulder. I don't understand how I can be expected to sleep on a bare blow-up mattress like my cave-dwelling ancestors probably did - I now understand that evolution has removed from us the ability to sleep in such rude conditions.

Having been out-camped by a bunch of girls (did I forget to mention that?) I drove home quietly, my ego bruised. The next day I went out and did some work on my car (this always makes me feel better[2].)

OK, so when I say I worked on my car I mean I changed my tyre. Because it was flat. And my car was driving all wobbly.

So the nuts were on really tight, and while I was removing them I hardly even noticed that sweat was dripping on the ground. Barely worth mentioning really. Then when I'd finished I threw things about in the boot of my car.

I carefully left some grime on the bathroom sink when washing my hands so Scroop would know I've been doing some manual labour and couldn't be bothered cleaning the sink (it will probably just get dirty again when I do more car work anyway.)

On to another subject: I'm pretty sure that because programming is a completely male dominated area we can consider it a manly thing to do. Very much like coal mining, fist-fighting, football and such.

Footnotes:
[1] A long-drop toilet is basically a hole in the ground with chemicals way down out of sight. Fortunately being a guy means you can avoid approaching such facilities significantly longer.
[2] I've only ever really worked on my car this once, and I did feel better afterwards, so this statement is technically true.

At some point during a lengthy argument today with an unabashed capitalism apologist, I realised that a fundamental cause of friction in our argument was more a matter of naïveté or cynicism (depending on your point of view) than political polarisation.

The argument centred loosely on the relative societal benefits resulting from the generosity of philanthropic billionaires.

Arguably, the discourse began with a fairly polemic Scroopular statement: "Society needs more people like Bill Gates." I don't believe it would be fair to say my reaction was knee-jerk, but I did take the bait, quickly pointing out that the generosity of the private sector is hardly solid scaffolding with which we can address societies many ills. Riposte: of course this was not what he was saying - but that society is without doubt better off for the donations of these people.

Counter point - point - counter point. Much was discussed, but as interesting as a blow-by-blow account here would be, it would actually detract from the main thesis of this rant, which is: in the end I discovered that we each actually took offence at the motivation of the arguments more than the arguments themselves.

That is, Scroop took offence to the fact that I would even bring into question the actions of seemingly charitable individuals because it's their own private affairs. With respect to what they do with their money, what right do we have to question their motives, or besmirch their good intentions with suspicious accusations? Scroop believed that I was revealing a blindly far leftist agenda simply by asking why we should not assess the social costs of this transaction between a private entity and the broader public.

I, on the other hand, would encourage anyone to question anything that effects themselves or the society in which they live; so while I wouldn't say that the Gates foundation should be dismantled or their incredibly generous work to worthy causes should be overlooked, I would say that only a fool would keep their hands out and their eyes closed. In fact, I firmly believe that in all things that interact with society, all possible social costs should be measured. To quote Thomas Jefferson, "the price of freedom is eternal vigilance".

Needless to say, when we realised the true sources of our disparities we swiftly made amends. Barriers were dropped, tears were shed and we swore we'd never argue again. Although I believe Scroop still holds a rather disapproving view of my perpetual scepticism, I think we each share a better understanding of the others respective dispositions, and how they influence our language and colour our respective points of view - the raving sceptic and the blind apologist.

Living in this tiny, tiny city, subject to the restrictive timetables of our draconian shopping hours, one can quickly tire of shuffling between one day and the next of our weekly work-bbq-sleep agenda. Betwixt the summer evenings pushing electrons around the Internet, the Saturdays stumbling down the wobbly slope from sobriety to drunken forgetfulness, and the Sundays of squinting, yawning recovery, the weeks can all too easily blur into hazy months, even years.

What is a young, middle classed suburbanite to do? How can one escape this war of attrition with yuppie indulgence - this taking-for-granted of lifestyle?

My answer came in the acquisition of one Director Bob. Bob, Bob, wonderful Bob! Arriving on the doorstep one day with a toothbrush, two packing boxes full of DVDs, and a skull-full of movie trivia, his smiling bearded visage was the blessed promise of relief from this tedious routine. Don't worry, it seems to say, chuckling slightly, I'll help you transform your life, help you out of this gutter you've fallen into! Just let me in, and give me Coke.

We knew time was limited, and that nothing we could do would stave off the feeling of a wasted opportunity when he'd gone. As if some wealthy proprietor said 'take what you want from my electronics/gormet cuisine/computer game shop! As much as you can fit into this here little basket!' and left you with your gross indecision... where do you begin? How do you begin?

The Sopranos. That is, in fact, about where it started and ended. One of the finest television series ever made, we spent those halcyon days exploring the complex relationships between that crazy family, helping Tony work through his problems, and mourning the diminished social significance the Mafia now commands. Psychology and cunnilingus brought us to this! we'd quip; And proctologists? I don't even let anyone wave their finger in my FACE! Oh Anthony Soprano, you whacky funster...

We spent weeks cramming in Sopranos episodes, between pizzas, potato salad and exotic soirées. And movie scripts were drafted, computer games played, jokes shared, anecdotes told, and Simpsons were quoted. For three full weeks Director Rob was the pale moon that shifted the tidal flows of our lives, gently changed our patterns for the better.

And just like that... he was gone. From one day comfortably ensuring our lounge room did not lay in a wasteful state of unuse to a sudden vacuum where his quiet form once wandered, he left no trace but a small thank-you cartoon on the kitchen desk, and three series of Sopranos. The gift of his presence will always be remembered, but I wonder how long until it was as if he'd never come?

It's whispered that if you listen really hard, you can still hear the explosive vomiting from the back toilet; a Director Bob filling the house with mighty ghostly retchings... possibly rupturing internal ghostly blood vessels.