What's in a Name?

I catalogued a series of children's books yesterday called Magic Castle Readers. They're about twenty years old at this point, which is depressing because I was older than the target audience when the books were first released. You get a lot of that when you're cataloguing all of the old books libraries send in because their patrons wanted to get rid of them and couldn't get any money for them off eBay. It's a constant trip down memory lane, except now Memory Lane's full of crack dealers and prostitutes.
I noticed that a lot of the books in this Magic Castle series were illustrated by a very unfortunate person. Not in the sense of unfortunate meaning she was a bad illustrator; indeed, many of her drawings were well-suited to the intended audience. It's that her name was Linda Hohag.

How does a surname like that exist? How? What kind of cruel God would let a name like that tumble down through the ages? You know, if that was my last name, there's no way I'd have ended up doing cutesy-type drawings for children's books. I'd probably be the meanest son-of-a-bitch who ever lived. I'd be mainlining heroin into my eyeball. I'd be punching presidents and pissing on preachers, that's how damn angry I'd be. And yet, here's Linda Hohag, giving the world some of the most saccharine drawings that have ever been committed to paper. I mean, look at them! Those are her pictures scattered around this note.
To have such a cosmic burden and still be able to draw stuff like that? That takes a special kind of mental illness, my friends. A mental illness beyond the likes of which modern medicine can cope.

After that, I looked at a book titled Thank You, Mr. Falker. It's a sweet story about a teacher who helps his student overcome a learning disability. I was reading it and was trying to focus on how I'd like to help somebody like that someday, too. But could I keep my concentration? No Falking way.

...I think you can figure out why.