Input is key

I have to take a moment and acknowledge some gratitude.

My wife bought me this wireless Bluetooth keyboard I asked for for Christmas, and I love love love it!

If you're wondering which model, it's an "iAccessory" jobber available on Amazon. I don't know that I would love another model more or less, I think I just love the ability to type into my iPhone.

I have hated the iPhone "virtual keyboard" since the moment I began using it. Given my predilection for text-based creativity, it may be partially to blame for the lack of new material on many fronts. I forced myself to sit down this morning and type a few words with it, and before I knew it, I'd banged out enough new material that I'm looking forward to going to my next comedy open mike, which has't happened in months!

I already have a laptop and sit in front of a keyboard at work all day, but those situations don't allow my brain to slip into the right gear for creating. With this new doo-hickey, I combine the finger-jamming ease of use of a full-sized keyboard with the portability, and "instant-on" flexibility of my iPhone, and i am able to steal the free time to work a few things out.

Bliss!

San Francisco

We went to Pier 39 in San Francisco yesterday, shopped the outdoor mall and had a good time. We took Michelle's nephew James along, and I'm glad we did. He's grown up with a good heart and strong sense of humor. Plus, he bought me a beer; that always helps.

We caught a street performance by a performer who worked juggling into a love-triangle skit. It was a little forced, but she was lively and charming enough. I tipped her a fiver, and I gave Brian a buck to tip her, too. Brian started out cranky, but she had won him over by the end.

We saw the seals, Brian and Michelle went on a cool Merry Go Round, and I got to eat a fantastic chocolate dessert crépe that Brian "shared" with me after swearing he didn't want one. That's ok, I pulled the same trick when he got an ice cream ten minutes later!

It was a beautiful day out.

Life + creativity = mixed results

It's the end of another week. It seems like that should mean something, but I'm not sure what that is.

As with all of my weekends of late, I try to make something of them, but my planning is almost entirely spur-of-the-moment, meaning very little of my weekend equals more than the sum of its parts. Without long- or medium-term planning, results remain basic and difficult to build upon.

I had this inspiration to restart my idea to create a podcast, and things started out okay. I had some online brainstorming sessions with a fellow comedy enthusiast, and one in-person meeting. We agreed on the basics, and I brought some ideas to the table I could feel good about.

While I had hoped to begin taping today, life got in the way.  I got the equipment set up and tested, so the basics were in place. However, my partner didn't show and I didn't get all the pre-production finished that I would have liked.

I'm trying to focus on the positive these days, and I can take heart in that I've gotten closer to my goal than I was a few, blurry weeks prior.

Onward... I guess.

What a week

It's the end of the week.

What's more, it's the end of a vacation week, and in advance of my vacation I had promised myself that I wouldn't end it by having nothing more to show for it than a pile of clean laundry.

As I write this, I am finishing up a load of whites.

But: I am resolute in pointing out that although I didn't take a class, nor visit an exotic locale, neither was the time wasted.  I spent all of Monday and other times this week with my son, playing and talking and playing some more. There's a deficit there that needed addressing, and we both benefited from it.

I downloaded and read from top-to-bottom Chris Hardwick's "The Nerdist Way - How to Reach the Next Level (In Real Life)."  I thoroughly enjoyed this book.  It helps that I've been a fan of Hardwick's for years, cementing an affection for his ethos and his personality.  Not only is he funny and smart, he is also sincere and sufficiently deep that I would pay for his advice on how to improve my own mental/physical/spiritual throughput. I'm glad that I did.

This detour into self-improvement is part of a building and evolving need within me, an acknowledgment that well, shit is fucked up around here (around here being inside my head and anywhere within my realm of influence). I'm dissatisfied with so many things these days, even with the results of past efforts to change them over the medium-term.

It reminds me of my reaction to news of someone's suicide (anyone's in general). It's a common and healthy reaction, perhaps you've had it as well. Upon hearing that someone took their own life out of depression and desperation, you think to yourself: "How could someone do that? My God, if things are that bad, you can always..." with the "dot, dot, dot" being progressively more outrageous options to snuffing out the only life you're guaranteed to have. Things like: like changing your name, shaving your head and moving far, far away; anything that breaks the cycle of desperation.

It's funny though; that cycle looks different from the inside. I'm not suicidal or even depressed, but I've been fairly desperate lately, for a good while.  Things have been unsatisfying for some time, for more than one reason. One reason is that I'm just not pleased with my current situation as a whole.

Another is my inability to appreciate the good things with which I am surrounded on a daily basis (which I know is stupid, but there it is).  I've got family who cares about me, friends also, and a full-time job that could be way, way worse, even aside from not having one at all. Part of the problem is that all these great pieces don't fit together; it's like they're parts from different puzzles, and I can't figure out why my beautiful city skyline has a blue whale in the middle of it.

Finally, I've tried to deal with this uncomfortable arrangement of mental furniture by inebriating myself, numbing my head to the aforementioned "yuck" sensations. Not too much, but more than is good. Sadly, it hasn't worked to a sufficient degree, and what's worse, it has seriously eroded into the qualities I liked about myself: my intellect, and my sense of humor.  Without these, I am nothing.

In addition to intoxication, I just eat like crap most of the time, get almost no exercise and treat myself like a cheap rental car in general. It all came into focus this week during a dental exam where the results of a year's shitty maintenance threw bad teeth, gums and high blood pressure to the forefront. Do you know how bad it must be when a dentist stops and says: "Hmm, let's stop and check your BLOOD PRESSURE?" Not even in this guy's wheelhouse.  This is like a chiropractor saying: "Let's set your spine aside and examine this GAPING WOUND for a minute." It's gotta be pretty bad.

And so this week, I've had time and presence of mind to get my head's shit together, enough to make a few rational, calm decisions.  This has given me some hope, which in turn helps me make better decisions, etc.

Happily and by the way, I've had an acquaintance ("friend?" I guess you could say that) respond to a recent anguished cry into the universe (or as I call it: "Facebook") with a sympathetic pat on the back and  a supportive nod. I could have cried when I received this unexpected gesture of solidarity, and it meant the world to me. This is to say nothing of the oodles of bolstering provided by my wife and some others in my regular realm of social interaction, but the unexpectedness of it was truly touching.

I don't want to overstate it, but this week has certainly seen a definite improvement.  And I didn't even have to shave my head!

Rubber neckers

Rubber neckers
Rubber neckers
With your little rubber peckers

Is a lane closed, perhaps construction?
 We dawdle in a road without obstruction

Drive, drive!
Just drive.

Like a school of retarded fish
You seem to forget our common wish

To achieve on time our destination
I'm astounded by your procrastination

Is someone hurt, is someone dead?
My front row seat for a pulverized head

Your halting progress makes no sense
Pausing to gawk at cars with dents

If dented cars you wish to see
Just press the gas, and look at me

Beautiful day

Such bliss today. Influences include the chemical, the meteorological, the musical, the circumstantial, and maybe the most important, the whimsical.

Whatever the reasons, I'll take the chatter of birds to the left, the equally boisterous chatter of family to my right, and the burgeoning sunset dead ahead. I'm not given to emotional hysterics, but moments like these prick my eyes with emotion.

It's a beautiful day.

FU, FB

I very nearly dumped my Facebook account this past weekend.

"How can that be?" a voice in my head cries out. "Facebook has the power to connect people all across the planet, make images available from children to Grandmas to cousins alike, empowers small businesses to have a presence on the web for free where in the past they had nothing!" My split personality makes a good point, even as it becomes indignant.

And yet, for all the potential of Facebook, I've never met anyone there from a distant land, never formed a meaningful connection that wouldn't have been formed without Facebook.

What I have done however, is wasted countless hours clicking and browsing and gaping at the goings-on of people on my social periphery, juuust relevant enough to justify a phrase I had never used before Facebook: "time suck." Facebook holds an allure barely-sufficiently tantalizing to trick the brain into believing that the time spent staring dumbly at all the on-screen words and pictures is a useful endeavor, while the truth is that porn or cereal commercials or YouTube videos of kittens climbing into shoes are more productive.

The downsides don't stop there. While I can't be sure, I suspect that my frequent, long-form blog entries, the writing of which gave me so much joy, were truncated and subjugated and pacakged like Velveeta cheese into "status updates," the literary version of "The Jersey Shore." Just having the optional outlet of Facebook statuses seemed to divert the flow of my creativity, a turn of events that I still smartly lament, whatever the true cause.

Getting back to the unfulfilled potential of Facebook: just why is it that people do not reach out of their narrow social avenues and make friends in other countries or social strata? Granted, Facebook does a globe-hopping virtual tourist no favors -- have you ever tried to search for something or someone you didn't already know? A true Facebook search is still maddening, to this day.

Even so, the lack of broad interaction cannot be laid largely at Mark Zuckerburg's feet. I have found an iPhone app called "Wander" that hooks people together from different countries. I made a friend recently in the Netherlands; once we exchanged some personal details and became pals, we connected on Facebook and he is now free to witness the quizzical madness I exhibit there. However, we never would have met if were left up to Facebook alone.

There are some things that Facebook provides for which I am glad. I am glad that I can share images, videos, events and thoughts across the Internet in a format that children and old ladies can navigate, and that it is ostensibly free. I am glad that I can keep in touch with my daughter and her new baby, even if we don't make the most of it. I am glad that my friends have an outlet for themselves; some of them would never have exposed themselves in such a way without Facebook.

But for me, it's time for a step back; an acknowledgement that the currently-most-popular social platform has its limitations; a recognition that the web offers myriad other choices for self-expression and connections to other humans; and a renewed interest in an old friend, my blog.

And if I don't have a significant increase in the frequency or length of new blog postings, I'll feel like a real dick.

In a bad place

What a mess I've been in lately. As a snapshot, I'm barreling down the highway at 72mph, the potholes are brutally grudge-fucking my tires and suspension, I've got a stress headache and I'm not really looking forward to getting home.

How did I get here?? I don't get headaches! I've got a lot on the ball, plenty to be happy about and grateful for, and I'm utterly miserable. I'm supposed to be too smart to allow myself to get into such a predicament, and yet here I am.

I have a definite, yet inexplicable sense that I'm going like Hell, but in the wrong direction. What's more, that if I could tune into some inner monologue and listen, the perfect answer is available to me. But I'm having serious trouble tuning in to that signal.

Some clues are available to me, though: when I let my mind wander and play, it drifts to Paris. Nostalgia for my trips there, French cuisine and the more-grounded lifestyle for which they are so well reputed. There is a whisper in my ear that this is the direction in which my happiness and fulfillment lie.

Side note: just when in the fucking Hell are these blog postings going to be joyous, triumphant boasts about how stupidly happy and successful I am to be living this life? GodDAMMIT, every day that doesn't happen is a sin against humanity and I should be ashamed of myself.

Anyhow... Why am I not studying art? European history? What could be more grounding and basic and satisfying than learning to cook French or Mediterranean food? I haven't looked at my French textbooks in ages! What, do I think I'm going to live forever, that I can afford to waste the time that's been given to me, and not pursue these things? (Don't worry, this is how I psyche myself into embracing changes that require any effort. I'll be done in a minute.)

Maybe these discomfitures are symptoms that I'm off my true path, like the noise and smell from the engine of a car that's been driven on flat tires (bear with me; if a shitty metaphor is the cost of personal growth, at this point it's a bargain; I need answers so, so badly).

I've got to find a way to connect with the real me, my higher power, my true calling, my rainbow elephant (again, small price to pay) or whatever lets me get back into the groove I've so abjectly lost and so woefully need.

The answers are there. The tools are within my reach. Let's get cracking, motherfucker.

Wish I were here

It's a beautiful, overcast day in Paris.

Don't take my word for it: http://www.earthcam.com/france/paris/

Panting

Having trouble keeping up lately. An insufficient amount of my creative desires are being exploited, due to poor time management, exhaustion, and general frazzled-ness.

My frustration at this inability is driving me mad. I am trying to adjust my expectations accordingly, down from: "I can do every little thing that occurs to me," to: "if I make to work and back, I should be happy with that; all else is gravy." It's a grudging admission, but necessary.

Even my numbed self-awareness is telling me that something isn't working for me. I am not living that higher-purposed existence that spiritual and self-help gurus are always on about; the joyous synergy that comes from doing what you love in a way that fulfills and rewards.

I need a change, but I don't yet know what it is. Ah well, back to work. I'll figure it out someday. Unless of course I don't.

Be yourself, for God's sake

I am unimaginative. I am a lobotomy patient. I have taken several blows to the head in my life and am too lazy to think for myself, not even the simplest mouthings of the voice in my head I call my Self. I cannot be bothered to ape the most basic, original utterance to the world

I am deathly afraid someone might get to know the real me and not like me, so I copy N paste the most hackneyed tripe ...I can find on the social networking pages I stumble into in order to "connect" with people I barely know, squandering the opportunity, unprecedented in the known universe, to connect with people regardless of not only distance but culture, heritage, race, religion or social status. I am a sad, thoughtless individual, and I don't deserve the gift of life nor the blessing of a sentient brain and the chance to use it.

Copy N paste this to as your status for an hour if you want someone to put a bullet in your empty little head and end the suffering we all feel when we read sad, pointless status updates like this.

Paris webcam

This is a great Paris/Eiffel Tower webcam. Unlike the few others I've found (really, Paris? Only a couple webcams??), this one is clear and has good enough play that you can watch birds and clouds fly by.

Nifty. Magnifique.

River Deep, Mountain High

River Deep Mountain High

When I was a little girl, I had a rag doll
Only doll I've ever owned
Now I love you just the way I loved that rag doll
Only now my love has grown

It gets stronger in every way
It gets deeper, let me say
It gets higher day by day

Do I love you my, oh, my?
River deep, mountain high, yeah, yeah
If I lost you would I cry?
Oh, how I love you baby, baby, baby, baby

I found this song on a Tina Turner greatest hits-type CD, and I love it. It has what my limited musical vocabulary describes as a boogie beat, a lotta horns, just a good song. It talks about the depth and breadth of love for another human being in real and human terms; expressive without being fancy. Very down to earth.

I played it for my wife, and she didn't get it. She didn't like the style of music, didn't understand Tina's lyrics due to her screeching (some might say, wrenching wail, in a good way) style. The whole thing left her cold. When you're trying to express to someone how you feel about them in another medium, the blunt force trauma of the dearth of connection there is chilling indeed.

Why is it so hard to make these connections? Why is the chill of rejection, even minor or imagined rejection on such a small scale, so bitterly cold? I used to think I was immune to the pain of social isolation, and maybe I was. But if I was numb or emotionally armored for years, that desensitivity has vanished, that armor has turned brittle and flaked away.

The kicker, the proof in this pudding, was my trip to Paris, France this past spring (yet another eye-opening revelation from a trip to Paris, this one not necessarily as welcome as the last). I was so horribly lonely, desperate for human contact of a sort that I could not achieve; what anguish. Now that I'm back, I can't deny that the sensation persists, if much less acutely.

I think I was happier with my social blinders in place; this new sensation is anything but pleasant. It's like an ache in the bones before the coming rain; I'd much rather just depend on the weather report, and leave the discomfiting forecast out of it. Apparently I have no choice in the matter.

Just as hunger is an excellent motivator, maybe this gut-borne longing will propel me to do or find or go to or be something useful or valuable. I hope so. My friend Joe believes in an ultimate sense to be made of these types of things, a cosmic logic; I hope he's right. 'Cuz this malaise is just a nagging misery at this point, and I'd just as soon be rid of it.

Doing OK

Life has been interesting these days. And strangely better. I'm writing a little more, which has been a real problem. Seems like that's easing and improving.

Met some pals and made s'mores with the kids last night. What a good night.

Michelle smiled at me today. Nice.

I mean: "I'm fine, how are you?"

Gravity. Bacteria. Entropy.
They are but hungry, tenacious wolves
patiently waiting to pull us down
expose our guts to the cold sunlight
and draw us inexorably back into mother nature's deathly silent embrace.

A strange and intrinsic longing

I'm surprised at how quickly nostalgia sets in.

My trip to Paris is well under two months old, and you can already find me mooning pathetically over Google Maps's street view of the unromantic location of the hotel in which I stayed. This, even though the second week of my trip served nothing if not to confirm that it was a week too long.

I met two people in my travels who were the sufficient combination of interesting and approachable that I could suggest keeping in touch. Both readily shared their contact information, but neither have responded to my attempts at contact. The cynic in me is quick to nod and say: "I knew it," and remind me that they're in the hospitality industry, one that people don't necessarily choose there so much as they capitulate to it until other arrangements can be made. The cynic goes on to speculate (he's still long-winded despite my efforts to deprive him of oxygen) that even the friendliest waiters and hotel clerks must gnash their teeth at the thought of extra-curricular contact with their guests.

That perspective doesn't save me from the sad disappointment of unanswered e-mails. I also admit to the internal (if not eternal) optimist, who fancifully and unrealistically hoped to make a distant contact or two, fostering a human connection that would span geographic and cultural divides. The optimist takes these setbacks with as much dignity as can be expected, and struggles to endure, even despite the extra coaxing and oxygen that's been diverted to him from his pessimist sibling.

Still, it's not all gloom: I hope to make an appointment with a local friend and fellow Paris-lover to go over the details of my trip and wistfully mull the charms of the city we both love. Also, I recently took inventory of the remaining souvenirs and scraps of paper from my trip, sharing them with my son. While he is immune to the effects of nostalgia, he did find a surprising degree of joy in the sugar candies I saved for him. Nothing fancy, just the shiny-wrapped bits you get in the tray with your bill at a restaurant.

It's funny where you can find life's little rewards.

Plop, plop, fizz, fizz

As you may know, I work at a place that handles industrial-grade chemicals, and I drive for nearly two hours to get there. The relevance of these two facts intersected last week when, arriving after a long drive, I decided to relieve myself.

I'll be forty years old this year, which is apparently the age where one begins to more deeply appreciate the value of a leisurely, thorough crap. Settling in for one of the high points of my day, I happily and innocently released a nugget into the wild.

As soon as it hit the water, it was obvious that something was up. My chunk of butt-spawn instantly began crackling and fizzing like a red-hot coal fired into seltzer water. "Jesus, what did I eat?" and "I don't know what it's doing, but it must be really cool to see" were two initial reactions that competed inside my head.

As I briefly contemplated rising and turning to witness what I could only imagine was the spontaneous evolution of a hideous new life form, the fumes overtook me. My eyes teared up effusively and I suddenly couldn't breathe.

Luckily, there was an adjacent anteroom, still-private, and absent the poisonous wraith that had suddenly attacked me. Oh, how grateful was I for this space of grace, for it spared me the legend-creating indignity of shuffling woundedly, coughing and sputtering out into the open, thrusting my privates into public, and imposing my undabbed brown eye on the conservative old gentleman whose desk was unfortunately situated directly outside the restroom door. Oh, that is the type of event that lingers in one's consciousness. While I have enough of the comedian in me to appreciate the hilarity of such an occurrence, I can't quite bring myself to welcome it.

Hobbled by the pants that were around my ankles, I wobbled into the nearby chamber, my brown eye still in need of hygienic attention. A watery glance into the mirror afforded me a momentary, out-of-body reflection of the moment's absurdity, although I don't think it needed emphasis. Panting in the relatively clean air, I gathered myself and weighed my options. Then, heaving a deep breath, I shuffled back into what I now had correctly dubbed the "gas chamber," grabbed some toilet paper, and waddled ignobly back out to wipe that which needed wiping.

A few more like that, and my harrowing, humbling business was concluded. I emerged into the fresh air with a story to tell and questions to ask. It turns out that my boss had ruptured a bottle of chlorine and had decided to make use of the otherwise-useless chemical, apparently figuring: "waste not want not - why throw this out when I can just as easily poison an employee in a hilarious and life-threatening practical joke?" I spent the rest of the day comparing him to Saddam Hussein for gassing his own people.

Oh how we laughed - between coughing fits.

Out with it

You know that moment when someone says something unexpected and inappropriate and the thing that pops into your head in response seems too real or awkward to say, so you create an uncomfortable silence? Don't be a pussy, just say it already! What, you think you're going to live forever? Life is not a dress rehearsal, just go with what you've got.

Papa's got a brand new bag

Did I mention I have a new job? (Why no, you orangutan, you haven't mentioned anything at all in over a month, now that you mention it)

Well, I do. Similar work to the old one (Office Management, information wrangling, customer service), but the environment is soooo much nicer. I am giddy with the unusual circumstance of being well-liked, well-treated and just being treated like I'm wanted at all. Pinch me.

The commute is longer than I'm used to, but is so far manageable. Much of the angst of commuting (aside from gas/money woes and wear 'n' tear on the ol' rickshaw) is generated inside my head. It's only frustrating to sit in slow traffic if you expect and feel like you deserve to be in the slot in front of you. I am using podcasts, radio and audiobooks to use the time available to me happily and/or productively, in a mental experiment to keep me from the spittle-flicking road rage that tends to creep up on one who spends hours behind the wheel every day. So far, good results!

A note to simple-minded employers: just because it's a down economy doesn't necessarily mean you can play silly, cruel games with your employees, with the mindset that they are vulnerable and their options limited. Sometimes, that game can turn on you in an instant, and leave you spinning and holding the bag during the toughest season of your whole year. But then, one of you has already learned that lesson, I'm guessing.

Who's got two thumbs and weekends off?? This guy!!

Onward!

The Hyena Men of Abuja

Wow. Pieter Hugo has a fascinating story and pictorial record of a troupe of Nigerian performers who keep and use baboons, snakes and hyenas for a traveling show. The photos themselves are amazing, and the story is wonderfully interesting.

The story touches on many things, including animal rights issues, and the comments section after the post is as rife with passionate and opposing viewpoints as you'd expect. What did surprise me is that some of the comments are pretty thoughtful; I don't see a lot of that, usually.

Speaking for myself, I think an ideal world wouldn't involve the keeping of wild animals as pets, but none of us lives in that ideal world, and certainly not the Hyena Men of Abuja. The complaints against this practice miss the point, and sound a little too much like: "Why don't these guys just get a job??" Good for them for finding a bold, unique way to make an honest buck. I'd pay to see it.

The pleasure of anticipation

The first time I went to Paris, I spent weeks or even months planning the trip. I agonized over the air fares and hotel packages among different offers, and ran the numbers like a coked-out Accountant with OCD. I noodled over sights and how the Metro worked. Already a student of the language, I kicked my studies into a higher gear, and made a lot of progress.

Not long from now, I'll go again. The thought of returning was just as dream-like as the first time, right up until the time I booked the flight. At that moment, when it became real, a combination of events began churning into reality and quietly began to erode what I didn't realize were some of the best parts of the trip: the anticipation.

The run-up is the dance before the kiss, when all things are possible, a story not yet written. It's all potential: the dreamy, cartoonish whimsy where imagination and expectation meet, and jerk each other off. (Egads, what a jarringly crass turn of phrase. I think I'll keep it.)

As soon as I pulled the trigger on this little event, stuff started happening. Some pending items in my personal life, much like my trip, went from "someday" to "pretty frigging soon." My work life was much the same, taking a typically lax span of time and filling it with strife and tension. Even my stand up comedy life, deep in the drowsy doldrums, twitched and demanded attention.

In short, all the slack was pulled out of my line, and it was all I could do to hold on.

I had hoped to renew my love affair with the French language (which never should have lapsed). It's currently what I'd call "passable," but I wanted it to be so much better. I wanted to study art so that when I went to the Louvre and other museums, the things I'll see would have more meaning. I had hoped to scout out my sights online; for my last trip, I cyber-stalked cemeteries, streets and sights within an inch of their lives.

What will I see in Paris this time? I've barely put together a list, and even that was fairly flung together.

When will I see it? I hastily threw sights into a calendar like darts at a dartboard, and who knows if reality will reflect the slots I've chosen.

Where will I eat? I've got a wonderful book my wife bought for me, describing all sorts of restaurants there. I haven't read nearly enough of it.

I've barely been able to keep track of the paperwork I'll need to get on planes and trains involved in the plans I have cobbled together. I almost lost one of them this morning. My shit is not wired tight.

I feel sad and cheated that I haven't managed my time well in advance of the voyage. I've got to get a better mastery over the way the data is arranged in my noggin. I can do better than this.

...

Often, these blog posts give me perspective. The emotion I note here isn't the only one; sometimes, not even the dominant one. Still, it's useful to look back and see where my head was at, and that's reason enough to register my disappointment here.

So, on the bright side, I'm going to Paris, punk! If you had told me six months ago that I could go to Paris without a moment to plan, I'd have kissed you on the mouth and gotten on the plane. Things aren't so bad. I could happily sit on the street and consume cheese and wine and stare at the buildings and people and be as happy as a dog eating shit.

Here's to the happy dog!

Dime store wisdom is still wisdom

As further evidence that FaceBook is cheating my blog out of all my good brain droppings, I submit the hard-earned knowledge below, originally posted to answer a question that nobody asked (much like all the other posts in this blog):

I don't know much, but I know this: "drama" is like a sickness, it weakens you. The only person it helps is those who hope to catch you slippin'. Abandon and ignore the haters. Let go of the negativity when you can. The heat from flame wars burns down your house long before it touches anyone else's. (They're fun, though!)

Build your alliances with those who have treated you well; those investments pay dividends early and often.

Since I'm adopting a professor's tone, here's some extra credit: try to forgive the lesser slights against you. With time, you may even come to realize that you were as much to blame for what amounted to a misunderstanding, and your empire will be built that much bigger.

Class dismissed.

Narcissus in print

I have a weakness.

Okay, I have many, but the one I'm addressing today is my love of the sound of my own voice, in print. When I write something and it goes well, I can't help but read it over and over. It's proofreading made mental masturbation.

Greek mythology includes a character called Narcissus, who was so vain that he was cursed by the love of his own reflection so abject that he starved at the edge of a pool, so reluctant was he to leave his own image.

I have my vanities, but I don't think this is one of them. The ability to shit out a thought (granted, this phrase is not among the prettier ones I have wrought) and turn around and look at it scratches a very basic itch. I can feel it dance along the tiny nerves and neurons that conspired to give it life, little cerebral high-fives as it retraces the steps it took on the way out of my brain.

Then again, it may be the nature of vanity, that one doesn't realize or want to realize that it is vanity. That just adds to my assertion that it's a weakness. An indulgence, certainly!

Paris beckons

I sat down yesterday with red wine, a chunk of lamb and several coffee table books on Paris, and I tried to start planning my trip: things to see, which days to see them. Two hours later, I'd consumed some of the wine and lamb, and was not at all closer to an itinerary. Phooey. Still, an afternoon spent dreaming of Paris is never wasted!

Still, there are opportunities and questions to consider: side trip to London? When (or if) to see the Chateau at Versailles?

Planning is a big portion of the fun part, and I've neglected it for too long. Work, life and my chosen passions keep getting in the way! I must prioritize.

"The Course of French History" by Pierre Goubert

Retail therapy + impending return trip to Paris = reading material.

Last week it was "The Course of French History," by Pierre Goubert. I practically stole this hardback version from Half.com for less than ten bucks, shipped (whilst even the electronic edition was over thirty bucks at Amazon (and everywhere else)!). I have read all of three pages of it, and am already in relieved love with the writing style.

I own several books on (among other things) French history, and so far they've all been written so cryptically that there is no such thing as a casual read. Sentences so thick and tangled, they are a Gordian Knot of dates and activities. I had to do push ups and cardio just to pick the things up and read them.

Then, along comes Monsieur Goubert's book (and Monsieur Ultee's translation), with simple, direct sentences that say who did what, when, and why. Oh, what an enjoyable three pages! Swimming against the current with these other heavy tomes, I feel like a bird in flight, I read with such minimal effort. It shouldn't be that hard.

I might just get some reading done.

Shouting across the gulf

Everything is going along just fine, but then I turn around and see the distance between us. I turn and move to close the distance. I look, and she's there, waiting. I open a channel of communication as I do so, and start to explain the view from my side of the gulf.

With a harsh word, she hacks at the bond that connects us and the line clouds with an intolerable static. Although she muddies the line, it's me who severs it. The bridge looked sturdy, but it slackens. The ground at my feet cracks and gives and inspires worry.

Should I beg to simply be heard? "Pride goeth before a fall," yes, but is a little dignity too much to ask, especially when you've anted up enough already? Maybe it's hubris, but at the moment my answer is no. Maybe it's an excess of ego. On the other hand maybe it's been not nearly enough.

That's the risk of wearing your heart on your sleeve: every once in a while, someone slugs you in the arm. The trouble with being Mr. Nice Guy: people routinely mistake it for a kind of weakness, instead of what it is: a kind of strength. It's an investment, and all investments involve risk. They don't all involve a payoff.

Artifacts

Our impending move has forced us to do things we should have been doing all along; things like sorting through our belongings and tossing the junk.

What strikes me most lately is the connections to the past, the sentimental items that remind you of other times, other people, other priorities. My wife and I both found ourselves making the face that accompanies difficult choices: a grimace where the things of the past are weighed against the practicality of the present, and the sentimental thing loses by a close margin, and enters the whirlwind of trash that roughly blows into anonymous history. The face gives unspoken voice to thoughts like:

"This used to mean so much to me."
"Cliff would have liked this."
"I really thought this would work out. How wrong I was."

I hate that face; both making it, and seeing it on my wife.

"No mere apple...!"

For decades I have tried to teach myself to draw. For the entire time, I have used a stupid and relatively unproductive technique that goes like this:

1. Buy book
2. Try to do what books says
3. Associate drawing with failure and frustration
4. Quit

I have some very good books, and I've had some that instruct you to simply draw things one step at a time, one, two, three, four, until you have drawn what the artist has drawn - easy! Except that you can't just skip the grinding and steady application of (even if enjoyable) discipline, effort and learning of technique that the acquisition of this skill requires (unless you're naturally gifted, in which case forget what I said because I hate you for it anyway).

Not so much admitting to the fact as succumbing to it, I surrendered to the suspicion that working with someone more skilled than myself might actually make sense, and I contacted local artist John Turnbeaugh who offers classes. We sat down recently at a local coffee shop and discussed what I liked, what my goals were, and what I had done so far.

We flipped through my sketch book, and he was mildly-yet-pleasantly surprised at the abilities I have cobbled together so far. I'm embarrassed to admit what thrills ran though me when he complimented the things I have done correctly. He has some encounters where aspiring artists are at a pretty remedial level, and he was relieved at some of the heavy lifting he wouldn't have to slog through with me. It's encouraging to find that after bashing my head against the Walls of That Which I Cannot Yet Do, I have absorbed some sensible ideas of space and perspective. Still, having someone acknowledge that and mean it - I could have hugged him for it.

It wasn't all a love-fest though, thankfully. We moved on to the areas that need improvement, and God knows that they are vast and numerous. Among the things I learned or otherwise gathered:

• Try to see objects as they are, rather than the generify (made up word "generify" Copyright 2011, Liberated Pachyderm Productions) them as they are in your mind's eye. For example, John produced an apple and instantly became the apple's Chief Advocate: "Don't see this as just any ordinary apple. See this apple for the unique apple that it is. This apple has its own character, its own dents and color patterns and shape. Draw the apple as it is, not as you imagine it to be." I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist.
• All pencils are not made equal. While I tend to favor mechanical pencils, that's okay, but I should embrace the use of the "B" pencils for their softness and use in shading. I need more practice and understanding among the tools I would use.
  
• Shading - we discussed cross-hatching, and its alternative which we dubbed the "traditional" or "other" type of shading, where you apply pencil to an area and skillfully smear it in from there. This is my biggest area of improvement, and I knew it. Still, we went over the apple and my representation of it. I was reassured that my lines and shape were generally strong (although deserving of some correction), but my ability to shade and imply form was nearly void. I actually sat and stared at the page when it came time to shade my apple-of-singular-identity, waiting for my brain to find the right gear and propel my hands to do something intelligent. It never happened. But, with some instruction and prodding from my new instructor, I started timidly adding more graphite here and there and I ended up with a pretty fair apple when we were done.
• Other artists to investigate: Alex Ross; John Romita, Jr.; Vincent Van Gogh; Frank Frazetta.
  

I am really glad that I allowed myself to move in a positive direction with this. What a wonderful thing it would be to be able to draw with skill.

We're gonna move

We're looking at moving. I hate moving.

I hate it so much that I always say: "The next time I move, they'll have to burn me out like a tick." Or sometimes: "They'll have to smoke me out like a nest of angry bees." Either way, there's the threat of fire and suffocation, which indicates my level of loathing for the experience, and it makes me feel clever for having said it.

I hate it so much that it is an integral part of the fear that goes along with "losing" your home. People say they've lost their home (especially frequently these days), and it evokes this profound sadness that encompasses failure, loss, nostalgia and identity, and often includes the unspoken specter of homelessness. It's this last one that really hits home and drives the panic that manifests as a stress that is so deep-seated that it's unsustainable in the long-term. You've got to find a way to kick it, or it will eat you alive.

Part of the problem with that is that if I find a way to nullify the gnawing fear that is useful when it feeds my discipline (the fear of failure keeps me going to work every day, for example), then I feel a little bit like a loser. I feel like I'm sliding toward the hippie, slacker mentality of a loser who doesn't care about his responsibilities, doesn't pay his bills, never shows up on time. But the fact is that while I maintained this seething sense of doom, the constant worrying was destroying me; whether it was a background hum or a deafening roar, the worry was always there, and it corrodes your entire outlook.

So I stumbled onto the solution a while back - and not a moment too soon, as I couldn't take it anymore. I employed a simple visualization: I reviewed my past and realized that we've never starved or slept in the cold. I could easily picture a time when we'd have to move all our shit to another house (this visualization still had us slinking away in shame, like some sort of parade of disgust, while our current neighbors all lined the road and tisk-tisked and shook their heads as our Caravan of Regret trundled by; bad habits don't go away in an eyeblink), but that was it. There was no mortal terror necessary; my wife and child aren't going to be starved and raped in the streets. At worst, we've still got family in the area and even if we were out, flat on our asses, help is available from several quarters. And that's "worst-case."

As I said, this relief came in the nick of time. I was starting to crack under the only pressure I've ever had to worry about: the self-generated kind. But beyond that, I've had to comfort my wife after she caught the very same bug. It's a good thing, because I don't know if I have the strength to bullshit my way through looking on the bright side when I can't actually see it for myself. I don't think I could be convincing if I really thought that everything was fucked and there was no hope in sight. Luckily, I could manage to be the positive one for five minutes, and offer some reassurance. It's surprising how powerful it is to have another hopeful voice to lean on when you're feeling despair. Even if it's only for five minutes - there's a spiral that is easy enough to stop, but not without some whisper of outside intervention.

As it is, it's only as bad as "lookin' for a new place to rent." The credit application, the hope that pets won't be a hassle, the mental and physical exhaustion that goes along with the logistics of coordinating the transport of ALL THE FUCKING JUNK that you've acquired through time, fear of loss and the reliance upon retail therapy to keep your mood positive.

But that's it: Tedium. Simple, slight embarrassment. Mental and physical effort. Money. That's all it costs, before you're back on track again somehow. Sure, you might have to downgrade to something less spacious or convenient or pleasant for a time, but you're not going to have to slaughter your pets for meat, or say goodbye to a love one for the last time. It's not the end of the world.

The loss of the illusion of control and permanence is a bummer, I'll admit that. But really, none of this is real, anyway. You live where you live until you don't; nobody promised that this would be the last place I ever sat my fat ass down anyway, except for the lying little bastard in my head, and the sooner I stop listening to him the better off I'll be anyway. The illusion of security is luxurious at some point. Just because some people are able to maintain that illusion until the time of their death doesn't make it a more real phenomenon, anyway. They just got lucky.

We've been lucky for a while, but luck changes. For the good, and for the bad. Today, it seems like hope is simply the belief that the coin will land right-side-up just once more than -down. If that's enough to get me through, I'll take it.