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.

Fascinating.

As I do myriad laps in the pool of self-reflection, like some sort of eternal penance, realizations slowly dawn on me. This is the most recent: my problem is not clarity (at least, not just clarity), but fascination. I am easily fascinated, and when something captures my imagination, all of the energy in the manic portion of a manic-depressive's personality catalog is fully available. It is truly a wonderful feeling, where literally all things are possible.

The downsides are that the sensation is temporary, and its end does not simply indicate a return to normal, but necessitates that the pendulum swing fully to the other end of the mental and emotional spectrum, where depression and malaise await. But once this is identified, the fear that it will never lift is largely nullified, and that alleviates half the concern involved. I digress.

I think that my trouble is that I have trouble staying fascinated. Take stand up comedy: it is one of the toughest gigs a person can undertake. It requires some sort of talent, and it helps if you have a distinct world view (solid grasp on reality not required). Both of these are hard to fake. Also, it involves public speaking, often listed as one of the top fears among humans. Slather on top of that that the things typically spoken of during the public speaking mentioned above are the most personal, fundamental perceptions a person can develop, and you have a recipe for one daunting undertaking, my friend.

So all of this perceived downside makes for one hell of a thrill ride, and the apparent cost of admission is to grab a mike, check your ego and try not to puke until your set is over. What a rush! Until... there you are, six months, two years, or however long into your daring endeavor, and you've exhausted your primary lineup of custom-tailored oratory. Your momentum has been consumed by all of the unpaid performances, late-starting open mikes and the occasional bombing inherent to all stand up wanna-bes. Your fascination has fed upon itself as much as it's going to, and ground to a pathetic halt.

Enter our hero.

What do you do? Well, if you're not as self-aware as you thought you were, you try the old remedies, and try to kick-start the old magic that used to be a given. Failing that, you whine about it internally and externally. None of that shit works, so you just... coast for a while. Lacking a better alternative, you free fall, and try not to think about what you've lost.

Then you have some minor revelation (caption reads: "Present Day"), and hope to the Jesus you don't believe in that you've at least identified the problem, if not its solution. You realize that you'll have to renew your fascination with the "task" at hand. It shouldn't be too hard - as with any art, there is as much or as little challenge there as you choose to seek. Yes, getting on stage was a hurdle, a hurdle you've now cleared. Yes, finding some shit that total strangers are likely to regard as funny was as much magic as science, but you've done it. Now though - now comes a bigger challenge, engaging creative potential you'd never considered before: now you must imagine new ways to flagellate yourself. You devise your own challenges, and surmount them. You must find ways to impel yourself towards self-imagined horizons, summoning not only the strength but the very desire (this type of dramatic phrasing is necessary, I assure you) necessary for the journey!

Making people laugh is hard enough. Making people laugh via a specific technique (one liners? prop comedy? music?) is a more focused goal, and therefore more difficult. More fascinating. Why, it's almost enough to challenge a person. Some people thrive on challenges.

And then there are half-assed adrenaline junkies who wouldn't call it thriving, but something basic and necessary, to be sure.

Genius

Henry David Thoreau's "Walden," from the chapter "Sounds:"

"Follow your genius closely enough, and it will not fail to show you a fresh prospect every hour."

Man, that's good stuff.

Gotta get back on the horse

What the hell is wrong with me, that's what I'd like to know.

I used to relish stealing a few moments and write about the thoughts, inspirations and urges that occurred to me throughout the day. For this whole year, I can't be bothered to hock up so much as one passionate, thoughtful or funny contemplation? Oh, the shame.

It was one of my favorite things to do: sit down, pour out and sift through the little notes in my head. It's a little embarrassing, but I love reading my own writing, at least when it's any good. It's the literary form of loving the sound of your own voice. It was sloppily (if lovingly) proofread and occasionally pretentious, but it was mine and I really dug it. My brother liked it, too.

Now? The well has gone dry. The Muse is silent. Shit! I used to think I knew what to do when the creative cupboard was bare:

I'd take in something that inspired me, like music, television, current events. Something would always rise to the surface. Lately, I take in all the entertainment I can process, and... zero.

Or, I could sit down and write something, anything. Get the mental motor running and see where it takes me. I am ashamed that the only place it takes me these days is right here: moping aloud about my inability to do something besides mope aloud, and waiting for that old feeling to recur. It's fucking sad.

Is there nothing worth writing about? Of course that's not the case. I've got a son whose vocabulary is quickly outstripping his mother's and approaching his father's; I've got a daughter whose right to vote and ability to procreate had a foot race, and voting won, but not by fucking much; I've got a job whose many dynamics deny those of what other people call the real world; I've got a good friend who always has something stuck in his nose hair or the corners of his mouth. The shit is out there, and I'm... just blind to it. How can this be??

So, I dunno. I'm sad about it. My madness has abated, possibly even died outright. I feel like I've lost a limb, and I don't even have the ghostly itches and pains that sometimes accompany such a loss. It's just numb. All I'm left with is a funk, a foggy void that would pull something into it if there was anything to draw in.

I am so sick of writing about how I have nothing to say. It's paradoxical and stupid and depressing. I wish I could blame it on too much drink, not enough sleep, too much work, not enough stress, but the fact is that these have all fluctuated enormously in recent months, and none of the extremes have brought me the raw materials or the fire that I crave.

Ech, Jesus, am I becoming normal? For all the troubles I've ever had, that taught me to love and appreciate humor (and its children: sarcasm and irony and mirth and glee and joy and playfulness) in a way that only someone whose life has been saved by it can, I never wished that Pinocchio would become a real boy. I've never wanted to trade all the woes as a square peg in this world for a smooth, comfortable fit into a round hole. And now I seem to have it forced upon me. If I was on medications, I'd go off of them. I'd rather suffer and laugh at life's irritants than be free of them. Horrible, horrible freedom.

But fuck it, I'm not quitting yet. Where there's life, there's hope, right? (Right...??)

I've got all the tools I could possibly ask for to broadcast my stupid opinions and desires all across the planet. While it's unfortunate that I currently have nothing to say, I'm going to keep the light on so that that fucking bitch Muse can find her way back when she gets done farting around at whatever she's doing, and starts feeding me the spark of life that I miss so profoundly. I'm going to keep my mind open and write stupid shit like the 571 words above, and putting it where anyone can see it and almost no one will and I don't blame them.

Because I'm not about to stand around barking and braying mindlessly like so many of the other zoo animals that harp about Dancing with the Stars and Sarah Palin like they really matter; because if nothing else, if I still have the sense to realize there's something missing, then I haven't faded into the herd completely and I'm not going there without a fucking struggle. A loud, profane, kicking-like-a-little-girl struggle.

So there. Nyah!

Snit

I'm pissed off this morning, for no apparent reason whatsoever. Everything's in the way, nothing works out, computers too slow, the time goes by too fast. I think this is what the hipsters mean when they type "FML," or "Fuck My Life."

If you're gonna have the highs, you've gotta tolerate the lows.

I am this close to punching myself in the face for thinking that, and typing it out.

Paris beckons

Yesterday, I sat down with French wine, French cheese and some French websites. And some not-overcooked lamb. And I dreamed of going back to Paris.

I just might make it this spring (he said, as he crossed his fingers).

I really thought I was going to go this fall, but it didn't work out, mostly because I let it ride. Ever since though, I've been eyeballing the prices of a hotel and a round-trip flight. They've dropped over two hundred dollars in the last month or two, and it's making my feet itchy.

I had never traveled, unless you count San Francisco as a teen, and Utah as an idiot in search of love (and you shouldn't count it, I assure you). I had such a ridiculous, cartoonish expectation of the city and the country on my first trip. What's bizarre is that Paris and France still met and exceeded my expectations. History, art, architecture, big-city bustle - it was like meeting a celebrity every single day.

Pretty much the day I got back from that trip, I let my French language studies collapse, making only occasional attempts to revive them. Having a sense of the language made all of the difference in the world, and improving it would make that much more.

So would the ability to walk for hours on end and pay for the occasional meal. So would studying up on the place's history, and the art in the galleries. On our last trip, I gaped dumbly at hall after hall in the Louvre, packed with paintings, statues and other near-priceless items, things that kings and heads of state would be proud to display. I stared, and only slightly sensed the massive aesthetic and historic value before me. They could have been bumper stickers, as far as my expertise was concerned. Pearls before swine, to be sure.

If you're reading this and have advice on how you improved the value of your trip abroad, please share them with me. I have lots of work to do to get ready. Wish me luck!

Connecting the dots

It's funny where the little things will take you.

A Facebook pal of mine ran some app that tracks how many times he swore in his status updates. I left my own, two-word silly remark, and noticed that one of his entries that said: "Wierd shit: google your name and look in images..." It sounded sufficiently goofy, so I did it, and the first click was ThomasBickle.blogspot.com.

The last entry was from 2008; I figured it was another neglected blog, lost to the ages. Then I see in the upper-right corner: "How Thomas is Bashing a Big Bad Brain Tumor." "Oh, no, some guy has a similar affliction to my brother's," I think to myself. Then I realized that the child's photos that are plastered all over this thing are those of a little boy who didn't survive his condition. The last post, entitled: "How This Story Ends," is headed with "Sad News." the description of this little boy's last day is sweet and heartbreaking.

I've sat here for a time, trying to think of something to write. I've got nothing, except affection for this little boy, sadness for his family and a bottomless well of rage for the unfairness of life.

Weighting game

Several months ago, I had done so well. I watched what I ate and lost over 10 pounds. Then the inevitable backslide that so many supposed experts predict (and it burns me up that they were right).

However, I'm not taking this lying down. I have made specific efforts to exercise more and more-regularly. What really gets me is that for some reason, when I do these things, I reliably put on more weight than when I'm inactive, and immediately as well. I went from 215 to 218 pounds in just a few days, after running and lifting weights three or four times per week. This improvement borders on the miraculous for me, and I am discouraged at the Bizarro-world rules that seem to apply.

Is it water weight? Is it (snicker) muscle mass? Is it an increase in appetite or entitlement due to increase activity that causes me to eat more?

I don't know, but I know I don't like it. I know damned well that exercise provides a multitude of benefits, and that I'd be a fool to let weight fluctuations put me off. So, I won't.But still, it's troubling...

It's written all over my face

I have and love a singular inability to control my face.

If I inwardly suspect that you are full of shit, the muscles behind my eyebrows will contract, pulling the corners just a few centimeters to the left. My face will betray the rest of my body and silently but undeniably broadcast undiluted skepticism.

Similarly, if you've just barfed a half-baked conspiracy theory into my face or displayed a staggering ignorance of the subject upon which you're expounding, my eyelids will flap rapidly up and down, like psychic windshield wipers, trying to flick away the stupid before it really sets in.

This all amounts to a low-grade sort of mental telepathy, and over time I've noticed that my interlocutors have the ability to read my mind. What would seem like a disadvantage often turns out to be a subtle plus. Where it can be prohibitively awkward to verbally reject someone's whole program, it can be equally advantageous to do so visually. I've found that when people are trying to rent space inside your head for their own shabby luggage, the very wisps of doubt about their motives (or indeed their mental stability) can be expressed so quickly and directly that they themselves don't consciously perceive it, but nonetheless will pack up their ideological goods and make their way to the next sucker without so much as a sour puss and tip of the hat.

I do notice that I am more skilled at expressing hostility than welcome, but hey - stick with what you know. I wouldn't change a thing.

Happy faces for Uncle Cliff

I used to chat online with my brother a lot. Since he had moved away our busy lives made voice calls difficult, and since he got sick, he was stranded next to the computer a lot. It was a huge help in keeping us connected and rebuilding the tattered relationship left over from our youths.

My son would frequently want attention during these chat sessions, and he was very attracted to the cartoonish emoticons and other brief, goofy animations you could send to your correspondent; to say hi with a mummy, or let a vampire tell them their breath stank, or whatever. Pretty soon, Brian would want to "send happy faces to Uncle Cliff" all the time. Sometimes Uncle Cliff was at the computer on the other end, sometimes not; Brian like to interact with him, but was also well-entertained just clicking on the cartoons, which worked fine even if no one was watching on the other end.

My brother was good with my little son. He'd tolerate the toddling imp, his ridiculous energy, and even enjoy his crazy kid nonsense much more than I did. He could key into it in a way that I still wish I could better emulate. He also enjoyed the chat interaction with Brian, and would throw all the weirdest animations right back at Brian that he could find, and crack him up.

Right after my brother died, Brian would still want to "send happy faces to Uncle Cliff." I couldn't tell whether he intended that Uncle Cliff was on the other end of it, or if that's just what he'd come to call the act of clicking on those cartoons. Just to be sure, I had to gently explain that Uncle Cliff couldn't send happy faces back any more. It kills me, this contrast between nostalgia, tragedy and the unknowing innocence of a five year-old boy.

I still remember you, bro. We all still have happy faces for Uncle Cliff.

Aim for the moon

"Aim for the moon - even if you miss you'll still be amongst the stars." - W. Clement

I've seen or heard that quote three times in the space of as many days this past week. I'm not superstitious, but there are worse creeds to keep in mind as you go about your busy day. Perhaps I should grind a little harder and aim my sights a little higher for a while, see what happens.