Cliff is gone.

My brother, Cliff Bickle, passed away yesterday at 6:20 a.m. after a long fight with a brain stem tumor that took nearly everything from him over time, before it finally did take everything, and a damn good chunk of something from me and the rest of his family, too.

I can't take the time to memorialize in this space or anywhere else just now because I have to work and it tears at my heart to think about it (although my wife and I celebrated and remembered his life just a bit last night). This post is just to plant a temporal flag that it happened and when. Soon, I'll have the opportunity to grieve and remember more appropriately one the damned few friends I had in this world.

Nadir

Today's post brought to you by Thesaurus.com.

Man, I've been feeling puny lately. Too much smoke and too much drink had apparently weakened me; that's all I can surmise. Then I caught a flu-like bug that raided each system that workaday illnesses can attack, starting in the gut, working into my sinuses and then through the throat, finally settling in my lungs, which feel coated with a layer of goo (probably because they are).

As fat and likely to thoughtlessly scarf junk food as I have always been, I've rarely had a problem with stamina. As little as my regular life demands of me, I've always been able to meet the challenge. Lately however, I've been panting for breath after only a few minutes' exertion, winded after what is even for a pudgy office-jockey a meager imposition. This must not stand.

The good news is that I have somehow managed to lose about 15 pounds in the last month or three, owing to a more careful examination of what slips into my shameless, vacuous maw. I am jealously vigilant of this recent development, being mindful of how difficult and near-magical the alchemy is that brought me to this improvement. While I am not impervious to temptation, I do make more room for resistance to the temptations of beer and sweets.

Even so, I have never felt so old, even as I acknowledge that each day I am literally older than I have ever been. Weakness and fatigue are not welcome in my shabby temple, even as I admit that I have taken it for granted for so long.

Let today be the low point, even as I hoist a few tributes to another tick on life's odometer. Let today be as shallow as my breath can be found to be. Let my energy reserves only climb from this point, my stamina increasing to new heights. Let my lazy, flabby ass find ways and pockets of time that I may put some lean, slow-twitch beef on this overly-marbled frame, and not be found so soft a target for life's challenges anon.

There's always a Hitch.

Christopher Hitchens is at it again.

Hitch 22: A Memoir

Writing books, being clever, and getting all showy about how book-writingly clever he is, living life to its fullest and skewering others in a manner verbally brilliant, (a manner that is both harmless and crushing to anyone found on the business end of his pen) Hitchens is so compelling that I am helpless not to watch whenever he is on-screen, online, or in print. If Mr. Hitchens took a grunting dump between two hardcovers and signed the front, you better believe I'd pay top dollar for it. And proudly show it to company.

This time, however, the subjects of the book are his own exploits and experiences. If you haven't seen portions of the media blitz he has undertaken, it's your loss. Rarely have I found promotional propaganda so enthralling.

I have added this to my birthday wish list and sent a quick e-mail to my loving wife, so if you're thinking of buying it for me (bless you), coordinate with my gal so as not to duplicate efforts.

I'm afraid I'm gaining my mind

All my life I've had this feeling of being out of sync. Apart, and wondering at all the strange activity of the collective I beheld. Who are these people, and why do they do this or that? It was an off-kilter view of the world and although it could be painfully lonely sometimes, it was loads of fun, and that more than balanced feelings of isolation.

One thing that has always generated lots of friction and heat in my head was my habit of contemplating, but comparatively little 'doing.' Of anything much at all. Not even self-interest or interest on behalf of others motivated me. That sort of cognitive lopsidedness generated jokes, quips, blog posts and general nervous energy that created lots of fun content inside my head.

Now though, I am doing more, learning more, opening my mind up to real possibilities in ways I never had before. I can't be sure, but I suspect that getting out of my mental Lazy-Boy and embracing the real world may have diverted or stunted what I thought was a more ingrained character trait, my out-of-step experience of the world.

I am improving the frequency in which I pick up my guitar. I bought an old, hand-me-down electronic keyboard at a yard sale and have ordered a used book to learn it. I am awash in a river of data at my day job, whether I like it or not. I am drinking from the fire hose, and it feels a lot like it sounds: overwhelming.

One regret: my creativity for comedy has waned to a frightening degree. I will head to an open mike this week, but not because of a burning desire to get onstage again or a bursting sensation that I must get some new material out.

All comics experience lulls or writer's block or periods of doubt, like any creative artist. I hope it passes, because it feels like impotence, and I'm not okay with that.

Birthday wishes

Oh, another birthday is rounding third and about to steal home. I am thrilled and feel what the religious folks called "blessed" that I have no material or emotional desire that has not already been met. What luck and joy that I can honestly say that a giftless birthday would not leave me lacking in any way.

As true as that statement is, I'd be mad not to ask the universe for a few small things. One of my good fortunes is that some people in my inner circle might want to buy me something. It would be downright selfish of me not to make a list of birthday wants, I tell ya!

This is all I can think of for now. I used to own the two movies below, but I was foolish enough to lend them to a stupid, blackhearted dog who never returned them. Live and learn.

Amazon.com: Thomas Bickle: my stuff

Movie: League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

Movie: Shallow Hal

Blue Devil Action Figure

That's all I can think of for now.

Appended 5/22/10:

Religulous (2008)

Hitch 22: A Memoir

Bobbing in the surf

Holy crap.

The tempo of my day job has gone from Hank Williams to Metallica. Chores at home lay incomplete. Comedy and other interests have taken a back seat to... to what? Nothing, apparently.

Life has got me by the tail, and I struggle to catch up, keep up. Keeping a minimum of commitments is the most I can do right now. I am the master of nothing. I feel like a sock trapped at the bottom of a load of laundry, jostled and sloshed about.

I expect that balance, strength and confidence will return eventually, but for now, I am treading water.

Rejuvenated

I just wrapped up a luxurious stint of 5 days off work in a row. I admit that I am a somewhat happy with myself for finding the right attitude towards this time off, and spending it wisely. It was rejuvenating, as it should be.

How could someone screw up days off work? Me, that's who. Usually I get so tensed up at the opportunity to embrace the gift of unrestrained time I get set on this frenzied autopilot and do nothing but housework until a better idea comes along. Inevitably I end up at the end of a stretch of time and look back at a trail of domestic breadcrumbs that the birds are nearly finished eating already. Laundry and dishes are a noble-enough goal, but there's got to be more to life.

And so there was.

• I took my family to a trout internment camp in Sonora with my wife & son and "caught" some of the easiest fish on the planet.
  
• I ate like a king (but not like a hog), including genuine French red wine and Brie cheese. Also including some fresh trout.
  
• I picked up that damned electric guitar and dumbly plowed forward with attempts to look less like a chimp with a slippery handgun. Minor progress made, but progress!
  
• I picked up a book on 3D animation that I've had for months and ignored with heroically stupid stoicism.
  
• I got some exercise, which is always a good, if intermittent thing.
• I performed comedy at a place two hours away for no money; kicked a fair bit of ass at it, too.
  

...and some other stuff, but that's the lion's share of it. I am facing a stunted work week without much regret at all, and that is a very good thing. There's a lot of good in my life, but chances to stop and breathe and reflect are too few. I'm very glad I had my head on straight for it, rather than screwing myself out of it with a the wrong attitude.

I bore myself, sometimes

Ach. I'm sick of my own navel-gazing. Looking back over my blog, it's not (quite) as full of self-interested, how-do-I-feel-about-me narcissism as I recalled, but it's still too much. Even this post is all about it, even as I reject it.

I've tried to let it flow, write it out of my system and look towards the day when I have something external and interesting to blog about. You've got to give yourself creative space to deal with the things that bother you, and work it out.

I suspect part of it is that I've increased the "action" side of the ledger, which has always been disproportionately small compared to the "ruminate" column. I've spent most of my life up in my frontal lobe, gnashing my teeth about all the things I could do. Now that I'm doing a little more about all these Big Ideas, I think there is less friction, less heat and less light generated there. Less goes in the blog, but more is going into real life, and that's not a bad thing. Unless you're a blog reader. Sorry about that!

But, enough is enough. One reason I haven't blogged more lately is that I can't think of anything to write that I or others would want to read. I've reached the end of the creative cycle, the well is dry and I've got nothing new to rant or lament. Until I kick start that process, I'm just gonna be quiet.

Something will come around. If it doesn't, I know how to prime the pump. Failing that, I'll just wait some more.

Talk soon!

Let's get the obligatory, "I haven't blogged in a while" B.S. out of the way:

Holy shit, has it been more than two weeks since I blogged? Gee.

There, that's better. For a little more thought on that:

As I've mentioned before, I have a problem with focus. When I can arrange my thoughts and efforts toward a specific goal or topic, my ability to remain creative with that goal vanishes. It is a maddening blind spot on my mind's eye. The flip side of that is that when I am forced to labor for another's ends, as most of us are for much of our adult lives, the peripheral items that catch my eye seem to stir up much more useful grist.

In other words, when I'm stuck at work mining for cubicle lint, I am much more likely to dream up and obsess about things that strike my fancy. Things about which I might blog someday. Which brings me to my point:

Whilst I do still toil under the master's yoke, I have been engaging more and more in activities and experiments that, rather than insult and spurn my creativity and such-as-it-is intellect, they yank them in, grind and twist them in their ruthless clockwork and spit them out dirty, tattered and exhausted.

I have more to do and less to bitch about, which makes for a spindly blog entry, especially when you're accustomed to belly-aching about things outside your control.

This turn of events should make for an entirely different and no less interesting blog - one that describes the acquisition of hilltops and slaying of dragons. But it involves a switching of gears that I have hardly pondered until now, much less undertaken. I'm not used to acknowledging solutions and goals attained and describing successes; I find that it puts me back a bit!

In any event, I have been doing more 'doing,' and less postulating and navel-gazing. Therefore, the skimpier blog. This is a good thing. Once I can rework the machinery of my self-expression, it's entirely possible I have much to say.

We'll see!

Tired

Yesterday was just about perfect.

I woke up early, felt pretty good, and started the day by lifting some weights. I've been making another in a string of countless attempts to exercise with regular frequency, and over the last two weeks I've made a good run at it.

After that, it was housework for several hours straight. My brother-in-law John is coming for a visit this week, and if we don't make a big push over the weekend, there's no chance the place won't look like Hell when he arrives mid-week. We should have company every week; maybe then the place won't look like we rent it out to slaughterhouses and fraternities on the weekends.

Weather was perfect, and the afternoon and evening saw me building a nice little campfire in the firepit, and farting around with it (and a few Red Tail Ales) until after the sun went down. I played with my son throughout the evening, and generally had a great time.

One drawback of note: spring is here, and on the very day we set the clocks forward, I started a familiar routine of waking up sneezing. Here we go again.

Creative myopia

I am blessed and cursed with a powerful combination of cognitive short-circuits.

I am blessed in that I find many topics wildly fascinating at the outset. This is a blessing in that I can summon great amounts of interest and energy, sufficient to support an initial onslaught of research and genuine engrossment, some of which actually survives the rigors of time and occasional intoxication.

I am cursed in that this interest and energy necessarily abate over the medium term, at best. Always! No matter what the subject - computers, guitar, comedy and others - my fascination and ability wane after the first blush, and I am frustratingly unable to generate the wondrous blossoming of creativity (that sounds admittedly flowery, but it really is wondrous to me) that originally characterized my introduction or re-introduction.

Take comedy for example: for the longest time, questions abounded. "How do you start an open mike comedy night?" "What's the best way to light a comedy show?" "How much do comedians command for a given performance?" (If you've searched your way to this blog entry for answers to these types of questions, by all means, go to my comedy-related website, www.HumorMeComedy.com, for answers to questions like these, and more!) As I've progressed, I'm proud of the fact that I've answered many of these questions to my own satisfaction, and moved on to new ones. However, the levels of wonder and fascination have waned.

It's not that I don't still love comedy (for example); I certainly do. But I am no longer on the outside looking in. I am still near the outside of course, but have passed the most daunting palace gates. The waves of lust have broken against the honeymoon period regarding a topic, and at the end of it I find the reservoir of "I must know" drawn low. I feel like a honeybee or hummingbird flitting maniacally from flower to flower, sucking up nectar but rarely finding a reserve that lasts.

Currently, I maintain the will to see through the content-building necessitated to continue an endeavor like my comedy website - it's a potentially huge draw to create content of any kind for public consumption; the only constant requirement is to produce more - only because I remember, with active (though minimal) effort how much joy it has brought to me. The camaraderie of others with a similar love of the art, the creative challenge of putting a few minutes' material together, the joy when its success brings laughter from others, and the technical challenge of coordinating a real, live, no-shit comedy show like those I've attended myself and thought "I must be involved with that, too."

Even with that happiness firmly in recent memory, I can feel the intoxicating romance of firsts dim. Although it's never quite drudgery, my legs become heavy as I trudge around in my mind, trying to arouse again the springtime of wonder I felt before. I am not discouraged, because I find that I still can rouse it readily enough, but it does cause me to wonder if it's like this for everyone. It also causes me to suspect that genius may simply the ability to maintain a grip on this mental inertia, this wonder, allowing it to ford the obstructions of weariness, ignorance and other difficulties that keep us from excellence and success.

I'm glad I don't ultimately tire of writing/blogging, though. Although I tend to repeatedly (maybe tediously) revisit and dissect topics like this over periods of time, it still feels good and useful to me.

Sometimes you eat the gator, sometimes it eats you

I went to our local meat market, minutes from closing time. As I scanned the displays, the clerk behind the counter asked if he could help me find anything. I said: "Yeah, ya got anything weird? Snake, alligator, anything unusual like that?"

And by golly, he had a deep-frozen plastic pouch packed with alligator portions. My dubious wife sauteed the meat for me and my son, using her patented, secret spice recipe. By the time she was done, well, I can say that was the best damned alligator I've ever had.

My wife thought that it (the one whole bite of "it" she had) tasted like chicken. I disagree: it tasted like alligator. I'm beginning to think that that oft-noted chicken reference is the product of a limited frame of reference, both of vocabulary and culinary comparison. I'll take my own whack at it:

It had a mild flavor, similar to pork. I didn't know that alligator meat had light and dark portions (you know, like chicken! and other meats). Although I've read it has a low fat content, the dark meat had the luxurious, gelatino-fatty texture I would compare to catfish or pork. The white meat was a leaner, stiffer version of the same, but I've always been partial to dark meat.

I guess it should be no surprise that a land-and-water creature should have comparisons to land and water creatures, but I was pleasantly surprised that the comparisons are so favorable. I look forward to having alligator again, although its expense ($20 for two, hand-sized gobs of meat) will relegate it to "special treat" status.

I knew it

No political issues stick in my craw like those associated with "The Nanny State." The government putting its nose in your business and its hand up your shirt, telling you what to drink, smoke, eat, wear, do - it drives me absolutely mad. "Sin taxes" are among the worst, with elected officials (and don't forget, they're just a bunch of clumsy dicks like you and me, only less intelligent on average) deciding it's appropriate to discourage you from doing things that it thinks are naughty (though not naughty enough to be illegal) through exorbitant taxation - and by the way, if it fills their coffers quite a bit faster, so much the better, yes?

That's why I'm glad to see this study: Cell phone bans don't reduce accidents - CNN.com. I shudder to think of the slicing and chiseling of personal freedoms in pursuit of the illusion of a little more safety, while it's been determined that another of the measures that crowd your personal rights don't have any beneficial effect (except to extract funds for government accounts, of course).

Bah!

What if...

Given the amount of unnecessary anxiety and negativity that I for some reason inject into my every waking thought (I do, and it only sounds unnatural when I say it externally like this), it occurred to me to wonder the other day: what if I were to replace all that tension with joy?

Odd, introspective and to me, bizarrely revolutionary, but a useful proposition nonetheless. What if I just unclenched my butt cheeks, trusted that the universe is one of plenty, and just let it go? What if I replaced the sniveling, risk-averse functions of my thought process with those that have a measure of hope, trust and (if I must say it) faith in them?

Other people do it; live without making every decision like there is a Murphy's-law boogeyman, gunning for them around every corner. It seems to me that it serves them really well for the most part.

With that, I also realize that choosing joy is a tricky maneuver on several levels. For one thing, I imagine that doing or not doing it is largely a matter of psychology and/or chemistry, and unless I devoted the next two lifetimes to developing the physiological control of a Tibetan monk until I can choose to sweat out of only every other pore, I'll not likely achieve such a degree of control over this flabby vessel of mine. Indeed, it would be something of a miracle if I could simply lose 30 pounds.

Back on the other hand, negativity and fear are a choice, and changing my mind to think more positively is the type of incremental, ongoing task that I think suits me.

I get these minor epiphanies, and not only do I wonder how such a departure would manifest itself, I wonder what my wife would think of me embracing such a core change, to make a true break with the reservations I've known much longer than I've known her. There are a number of weird-ass things I might have done by now, if not for her to keep me grounded. Some good, some potentially not-so-much. She said something to me recently, something she'd never said before: "I just want you to be happy." I nearly collapsed!

Now, I know she loves me and it's no surprise to hear it said out loud, but I know she feels the same worries and responsibilities as I do, at least as keenly. Maybe I'm not explaining it sufficiently, but to hear my stoic darling say such a thing out loud, it was overwhelming. Maybe it's because I've been pondering these things on the sputtering back-burner of my consciousness. Maybe it's because my woman, as my delicate, late, saintly mother used to say: "wouldn't say shit if she had a mouthful."

In any event, such a change, like all change, involves fear and uncertainty, which is the subject at hand, isn't it? Dragging others into such trepidating exploration sounds selfish to me. On the other hand (Daddy has a lot of hands), maybe it's just one more excuse not to make a hard decision, to stay on the same, dumb, apparently-safe path I'm on.

Don't be a pussy, Tom.

Plug in

There has been a thread that has run through my life, and it always will; that of turning away, flinching, retreating from things that sound difficult, tedious, un-fun. That of avoiding a person whom I have failed, ignoring an unpleasant circumstance, pretending that something bad will get better with abject, single-minded neglect.

This condition is not a thorough one. Certainly, I have embraced difficulties, met challenges and steamed through tough spots with courage, confidence and certainty. I don't run from every spooky corner, but I've tiptoed away from enough to recognize a pattern.

As with most of my areas of progress, recognizing and correcting this trend has been glacially slow, but I'm glad to say that it's persistent. I'm getting engaged in areas that were always walled off in my mind, stenciled garishly: "Not My Problem." I'm opening up to more, accepting more, embracing more readily than before. I feel like a cable box that's been upgraded to the Premium Package: "Holy shit, there's a lot going on out there."

It's not always easy, but it's always the right thing to do. I'm growing from it and I recognize the old traits in people around me who keep their narrow blinders clamped on tight. I feel better this way.

Nothing

I have nothing to say. I don't like it, but there it is.

Middle Age

I was talking to a friend last week about middle age. He is older than I am, and told me not to worry about that, because it's still a few years out yet. I looked at him quizzically (which isn't easy because I haven't perfected that expression), and it brought up the meaning of middle age. I always took it to mean the forties, or roughly half your reasonable life expectancy. At the rate I'm going, I would consider myself fortunate to be at the halfway point now, and I'd less surprised if the sun didn't come up tomorrow than if my true, chronological midway point was still ahead of me. The only useful observation I have on the subject is that I've recognized one warning sign of maturity: you become the one who sends holiday greeting cards, as much as or more than you were the one who sits around waiting for them.

In any event, it raised the question of middle age, including an ever-popular subject inside my head, the midlife crisis.

I have always been the first to admit that I am an odd duck. If I were a cow among the mooing herd, I have no doubt that I would stand around all day going: "Mehhhhh..." in an innate, irrepressible expression of individuality, and giggling when I fart, with a conspicuous distance between me and the other, rightly-nervous cows. If midlife crisis is a time in a person's life where he is hit with a jangling, unavoidable reflection of his life and its direction, then I've been in such a crisis since my preteens. I've been trapped in a pulsating, recurring loop of myopic introspection, complete with gaping blind spots, for years. I've always been had this sensation of rudderless self-doubt, and I suspect I always will. My friend Joe would likely decide that I have a lesson to learn about certainty, or confidence or some shit. It's as good an explanation as any I have thus far.

The good news is that my wife and employer can expect that I won't thrash about in a sudden, flailing attempt to right my leaky, wandering vessel and change its heading on the ocean of my life, especially by taking up abruptly with some skank or buying a Corvette (not that my credit would allow it anyway). It's just not in me.

The bad news is that I certainly will thrash about, reliably and often, with moderate, less-frightening but still-moderately-bizarre decisions like doing stand up comedy when I have the chance (and enthusiastically seeking out more of those chances), and keep a vigilant vigil for a lifetime pursuit that feels right and true and rewarding. That is most definitely within me. Lots of people can happily watch television for years on end and not feel like they're missing anything. Although I have a lot in common with those folks, I can't quite escape the nagging feeling that something truly fantastic is whistling quietly by, and that if I don't snap out of it I'll wake up at the end of a very steady, boring ride to discover that I've slept through the best parts. It's a very petulant, fearful feeling, but that's usually the only thing that will motivate me, so I guess it's as good as anything.

The above paragraph is a fair description of midlife crisis as I understand it, but it's always been there. The only difference today from when I was twelve is that I'm not getting any taller or thinner, and the bottom of my hourglass is getting noticeably fuller and it makes me sweaty thinking about it. Maybe this is just splitting hairs so that I can still feel set apart from the other cattle, but it's a distinct enough distinction that I feel it's worth noting.

Nike should strike endorsement deal with Herzog

CNN features an article about film director Werner Herzog, where he offers advice to film directors:

"Rejection is not something you should be afraid of," Herzog advises filmmakers just starting out. "It happens to all of us, in particular when you are beginning. You have to have the courage to move on anyway."

He goes on to advise, and I'm paraphrasing: "just do it," highlighting the value of experiencing things, especially in relation to learning things in academic settings. The story offers nuggets, saying: "the world reveals itself "to people who travel on foot. Period.""

For good measure, he throws in the value of the threat of bodily harm to an impossibly difficult cast member:

On the set of "Aquirre: The Wrath of God," in 1972, Herzog admitted he threatened to shoot Kinski if the actor made good on his threat to walk off the set.

"I told him it was impermissible for him to walk away," Herzog said. "I explained to him calmly that he would not survive if he tried. I had a rifle ... and I told him I would shoot him. He screamed for the police. The nearest police station was 40 kilometers away."

I think I like this guy.

Empty

Just feeling empty this week. Desolate, running on "E." I don't feel strong, and I don't like it. Maybe I need more Jesus in my life.

Hah! That felt good; I needed a laugh.

I've been lower than this, often and recently, so I know it could be worse and that gives me some strength. Still, I feel spent and I get the sense that a remarkable change is necessary to alter this course; half measures won't cut it. If I knew what to do, I'd do it. I guess that's the fun of free will and the human condition: we're all just scrambling around in the dark, hoping to stumble into something that smells like joy.

If I bump into you, try to smell like joy, will you? It's not really that much to ask. I'd do it for you.

Snow, man

Sunday morning (yesterday) woke up to an unusually snowy condition, in Valley Springs and elsewhere in the state. Newsworthy, even.

We wrapped up my boy and sent him out to frolic in the flakes, his gear including a boy-sized pair of house-slippers. Hey, we never said we were good at this.

We even managed to put together a pretty fair snowman. One departure from the norm: we didn't have any carrots, so the part of his nose was played by a dill pickle. I had to discourage a boy who'd skipped breakfast for flurrying fun not to eat the snowman's proboscis.