It's a new year, and I'm off to a very mixed start, with positives and negatives coming from unexpected places. This is a good thing I guess, as at least it's not boring.

On the downside (so I can finish with the "ups"), my intentions to eat healthy and get more exercise have gone right in the shitter. The same habits and weaknesses and struggles with discipline don't give a dry fuck whether it's a new year, they just want what they want, and they're getting it. Hope springs eternal, where there's life there's hope, and tomorrow's another day. Three cliches oughtta do it. But obviously, I cling to the idea that I can always try again tomorrow, as long as there's another tomorrow in me.

On the other hand, comedy started January off with a big show in a big room in a new place, and not only did I do a pretty good job performing, I earned a little respect from my booker, I stretched and did more time than I'm used to and earned a little for myself. Best of all, I basked in the company and hospitality and dare-I-say-it love of some good friends while I was in their area. I haven't had a non-family member say "I missed you" and mean it in longer than I can remember.The effect was startling and warm. Wow, as a social misfit, you sometimes forget what you're missing, which is probably an excellent coping mechanism, and so for the best. Still, I was awash in the glow of genuine, unexpected affection. How do I show my appreciation for that, and pay it back in kind? I'm not good at that.

Also, I'm working on getting an open mike together in my area, hopefully strengthen my performing muscles. This has come along with a small but healthy breakthrough in my attitude towards performing, and I hope that I can capture this and develop it. These types of mental changes are mercurial, and can slip away if not acted upon, so we'll see how it goes.

Anyway, happy new year out there, people. It's looking like a good launch to a wobbly vessel on this year's journey. See you on the high seas!

Value

Let's talk about value for a minute.

In all exchanges, social, romantic and financial included, there is at least an implied transaction. You get something you want, and I get something I want. You pay your taxes, maybe we'll come when you dial 911. You rub my feet, I'll scratch your back. You pay your bill, the phone will work when you need it to call 911.

Transaction.

So when I sign up for an online newsletter for a television personality or musician, it's because I aniticipate value in the mailing. Tour dates, television appearance schedules, maybe some sort of "club member" discount, you get the idea.

All I get from any of these dinks is pure commercial advertising. "Buy my latest CD," "buy my clothing line," "spend money now!" Do I get a note when you've updated your much-neglected blog, which I do value? Do I get advance notice, discounted pricing, behind-the-scenes content or interviews that other pedestrian jerks who aren't on your spamletter list don't get? No? Then you're doing it wrong.

Look, I know you've gotta make a buck; hell, so do I. The difference is, when I make a buck, somebody gets something out of it. I earn it. And I also know that signing up for your fan club or newsletter mailing isn't heavy lifting; I don't expect a medal. But it does hold value for you. If I know when you'll be in town, or when you're on the tube next, I'll natter to my friends about it. Hell, I might even go out of my way to see you. That's what you get out of it, but you've got to come across. Don't just flood me with your blatant, commercial propaganda. Remember when big shots pretended to care about their fans, the little people? Make it worth my while and throw me a bone every now and then. Until then, I'm out.

It's the least you can do.

"I've just gotta be me" or "This explains a lot"

I have long noted inwardly the clash of two very different forces in my approach to life. On one hand, there is the outward compulsion to conform, to be 'normal.' It doesn't sound like much to ask.

On the other, there is the inner impulse to be myself. In movies, in school and in conversation, there is always the noble and near-holy moral of a story to "just be yourself." "To thine own self be true." To put it diplomatically, I have always been an individual. I learned French in a state that is flooded with Spanish-speakers. I taught myself to juggle for no reason at all. I not only made balloon animals at my kid's preschool last week, but I taught two of his teachers to do the same. Why? I don't know, other than it is irresistible. To say that I am possesed by the imp is like declaring that water is wet; it is accurate without being sufficiently comprehensive to the subject at hand. I just must be different.

But opportunities to blow my own cover constantly abound, and it is in my very physical nature to take said opportunity and do something memorably unusual with it. I wouldn't say that it's necessarily cost me jobs in the past, but I am certain in my inner depths that it has had such a contributory effect.

To say that I struggle with the two conflicting forces is inaccurate because it assumes that I spend a lot of time dealing with awkward situations in advance of their occurrence, which is not true. I do consider, worry over and deeply regret these instances, but only ever in the wake of their occurrence. I never consider consequences "at the moment," but every break from the herd that draws attention to itself leaves a little psychological scar; many positive events in my life are lost to the dustbin of mental history, but for some reason the wincing, second-glance inducing departures from the norm stick with me for years, maybe forever. The time I sang Karaoke so forcefully badly in the shitbag bar that the DJ all but shut down the vocal channel in his equipment, as my wife and her friend looked on, torn between feigning support for the dare they ushered me into and running away in proper shame. The time early in my technical career when I told an ex-Navy friend of my Dad's in front of several colleagues that the automated web design software DreamWeaver was "for queers." Nearly immediately and for years afterwards I wonder to myself: "Christ, what was I thinking?" I am still uncomfortable thus reminiscing even today, and yet I can't help but chuckle to myself in recalling them to write them down here. Something within me is truly off-center (I firmly resist to say "wrong"), and yet it is within me.

Looking up at the family tree, I see that it is very likely genetic, on my father's side, where there are fruits and nuts hanging clearly from every branch in view. Both my Uncle and Dad buck the system in their own odd (and admirable) way. My Dad, for example, takes great joy in the occasional opportunity to ambitiously fuck with any sort of door-to-door salesperson, be they commercial or spiritual in nature. Woe be unto any vacuum cleaner salesman, Jehovah's Witness or pest control entrepreneur who commits the tragic sin of darkening his doorstep. The man is fairly known for it; maybe it's his years in law enforcement that helped him to craft the proper balance of malevolence vs.liability, to loosen the bowel of a weary ware-hawker with wordless threat of impending harm without being actionably illegal, I don't know. All I know is that anyone within earshot of the exchange is immediately filled with sympathy for the pathetic zombie that trudges defeatedly away from the mean old jutting-jawed man in the doorway. Kids in Africa should get this kind of soul-eyed compassion.

Why does he do it? Why am I the way I am? Even writing this blog; who puts down this viscerally private shit, too personal for friends to read but just fine for people I don't know? These are philosophical questions, asked of a natural event, akin to asking why tornados favor trailer parks. There are no scientific answers, only conjecture, which at best might soothe a trouble soul, yearning for reason in an unreasonable world.

I'm told the Chinese have a proverb, roughly stated thus: "The nail that sticks out gets hammered back in." I sense the harm that "being myself" does in my everyday life. I am certain that I would be higher in the vocational food chain if I were more like the slick-talking, fast-walking schmoozers I've run up against over and over in the world.

But an indignant part of me rails against that course of thinking as soon as I've thunk it, stomping and griping and rebelling against the thought of living someone else's preferred view of my conduct, no matter how convenient and streamlined my life might be (which must be a powerful innate force, as otherwise lazy as I know myself to be).

I do struggle with such questions, even if only after the fact. It is a troubling question to me, whether to toe the line and live everyone's expectation, or to follow my gut, and throw curveballs when presented with the chance. Both sides of the argument have their temptations, but I know one thing:

As my son grows older, I will teach him juggling, and some French.

Conversation: a symbiotic relationship

The world is full of know-it-alls, dime-store connoisseurs who have never done what you're thinking of doing, but they know more about it than you. They know because they've seen something on T.V., read it in a magazine, or had a friend who had an Uncle who worked at a company that did that type of thing. "...I think he was the janitor, but hey, he worked there, man..."

Adding to the tedium is their unwillingness to entertain other points of view, even for the sporting aspect of it. Even if they're unconvinceable, it would be good manners and good fun to consider an alternative viewpoint.

But oh, no - their third-hand pseudo-knowledge is much more valuable, potent and important than your conjecture and the anecdotes you may have collected, carried and offered to share. So shut up, breathe deeply and listen politely until you can make up an excuse to escape the vortex of hot air.

You didn't have anything to contribute anyway, did you?

I've got enough mystery in my life as it is

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: If you're going to leave a voicemail/answering machine message for someone, indicate what the whole call is about. Following is one of the messages on my machine lately.

"Hi Tom, it's , just had a few questions for you. Call me back..."

I'm not calling that guy back. I don't mean to be selfish, but what's in it for me? I have a terrible habit of living my life primarily by fear, and until I kick it, I'm not calling back on this type of message. What if it leads to bad news? I'm not contributing to that situation at all. What if something's outta whack? Why so cryptic, unless he's trying to catch me with my guard down? Just because I'm paranoid, it doesn't mean they're not out to get me. Good luck getting a hold of me, pal.

Plus, it's lazy, inefficient and inconsiderate. Can't you just mention the questions, or type of questions, in your message? If you leave me the questions, maybe I can call you back with answers, having had a chance to review them, research them, and put some useful information together. That way, if I miss you and have to leave another message, I can just deposit your response in your voicemail, and leave playing tag to the kids in the street.

Hm? Am I on to something, or what? You bet your ass I am. Next time, leave a real, whole message, or don't bother leaving anything at all. My life has enough mystery and blind alleys already.