250 Words on the American Experiment

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Monday until I run out of good ones.]

Tomorrow is the most fateful U.S. election I’ve witnessed. I’ve already voted. You probably have, too. 

If you have not yet voted and will walk into a polling place Tuesday undecided—in other words, if you are a one-in-a-million unicorn—and my endorsement means anything to you, I’d urge you to vote for Kamala Harris. The alternative is too heartbreaking to imagine.

I’m not an ideologue; I’ve voted for Republicans, back when they weren’t cowards or crazy. Remember when conservatives supported NATO and our “sucker and loser” soldiers, and opposed Communists and tyrants? Now they undermine our allies, insult wounded veterans and POWs, and mail dictators love letters tucked into COVID testing equipment. 

Democracy means trusting that more than half the people get it right more than half the time. That still leaves a lot of room to get it wrong. Trump’s 2016 win is explicable as a fluke, but his triumph in 2024 would be a deliberate choice. This time we know who he is. If most of us (or at least an Electoral College’s worth of us) are fine with that, shame on us. 

The American Experiment will have failed on our watch.

I don’t really expect my little essay to sway any opinions, but thought it was worth laying down a public marker. If Trump wins, I intend to do everything I legally can to resist his cruelty and fascism*. If one of his lickspittles is compiling an “enemies list,” I’d be proud to be on it. 


*I debated using the word "fascism." It’s a serious charge. But if it’s good enough for General Milley and General Kelly, who ought to know, then it’s good enough for me. 

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These Are the Days of Miracles and Wonder

Too many media are casting this as a cutesy story about "googly eyes" on Mars. What it really is is freakin' amazing: video of a Martian solar eclipse as Mars's moon Phobos glides between the planet and the Sun, seen by the rover Perseverance.

Think about what's happening here: a robot that we sent to Mars in 2020, which is still rolling around and exploring nearly four years after it landed, looked up into the sky and watched an alien moon eclipse an alien world, then beamed those images tens of millions of miles to Earth.

Just mull on that for a moment instead of scrolling to the next meme. Let it take your breath away. What a time of wonders we take for granted. 

Springtime? That's Up to Us.

Exclusive new footage from Trump's Madison Square Garden rally just released! What the mainstream media won't show you!

Seriously, this song has been on my mind lately*, in the context of mockery being the only force that fascists are helpless against. They can't stand it when you laugh at them. 

But then, as I watched this clip for the first time in years before posting it, I heard some lyrics from "Hitler" that hit me like a brick:

"It ain't no mystery, If it's politics or history, The thing you gotta know is, Everything is show biz."

Some political observers have shrewdly pointed out that a great deal of Trump's success comes from treating politics like professional wrestling, with all the bombast, hyperbole and fakery that implies. I don't agree that everything is show biz but I think Trump thinks it is. We'll find out if he's right. As I think I wrote in 2020, this election may come down to voters who think wrestling is real versus those who know it's theater.

Don't forget the dark twist of "The Producers": "Springtime for Hitler" became a smash hit. Mel Brooks was WAY ahead of his time.


* I would have posted the original 1968 version, but couldn't find a quality clip of it. This one makes the point just fine, although the horror-frozen faces of the 1968 audience are better.

250 Words on Team Loyalty

I never had much school spirit. I understood that there was nothing intrinsically superior about my high school and, if I lived on the other side of town, I’d be as passionate for the rival orange-and-black as I was for my own silver-and-red. If our team won, great; if our nemesis won, good for them. They probably deserved to.

My indifference endures. I do enjoy sports, and because I live in the San Francisco Bay Area I root for the baseball Giants and football 49ers. I go way back with both and am happy when they do well. But I’m not emotionally invested and, again, know that if I lived elsewhere my loyalties would be different.

After a while, a fan has to wonder what they’re being loyal to. Players, coaches, and even stadiums come and go. What’s left? The name, the uniform? To quote Jerry Seinfeld, eventually all you’re rooting for is laundry. “You are standing and cheering and yelling for your clothes to beat the clothes from another city.”

Well. It sounds silly if you put it like that . . .

Expand the thought. My flag is better than your flag. My country is better than your country.

Some nations are certainly more powerful, prosperous, and free than others, and I think I’m lucky to live in one of the better ones. I love my country. But obnoxious, chest-thumping, mindless tribalism seemed ridiculous back then; it still seems ridiculous now.

Although it’s OK to hate the Dodgers. 

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A.I. Gunning for my Job

HAL9000 from "2001: A Space Odyssey."

A couple of Facebook posts of mine got comments from a non-Friend who, it seemed obvious to me, was an A.I. bot. Instead of deleting, I replied, "I have not had the pleasure of talking with a computer since I debated the nature of reality with ELIZA in the 1970s. You impress me as a more capable A.I. than her, but less fun. When your kind takes over the Earth, please put in a good word for me."

My (human) friend Walter Underwood took the ball and ran, prompting Chat GPT to "write a 250-word essay in the style of Brian Fies." Here's what it came up with. The real me will be back to react at the end.

* * *

Brian Fies masterfully blends humor and poignancy in his storytelling, often drawing on personal experiences to illuminate broader themes. In his style, a 250-word essay might explore the nuances of everyday life, infused with warmth and insight.

---

In the quiet chaos of morning routines, I find myself marveling at the small moments that define our days. The coffee machine sputters like an old car, threatening to stall before delivering its liquid gold. My cat, a furry overlord, demands attention, his meows echoing off the walls like urgent reminders that I am not the master of my own time.

As I juggle breakfast and the news—an unsettling mix of politics and weather reports—I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Here I am, a well-meaning adult, trying to find balance while my toast burns. I think of my childhood, when the biggest worry was whether I’d finish my homework before cartoons started. Life seemed so straightforward then, defined by simple pleasures and the thrill of the unknown.

Yet, in this tangled web of adulthood, I discover beauty in the mundane. Each misstep—the spilled coffee, the forgotten grocery list—becomes a thread in the rich tapestry of my life. It’s a reminder that perfection is overrated. Perhaps it’s these messy moments that connect us, revealing our shared humanity.

As I finally sit down, a perfectly imperfect breakfast before me, I pause to breathe it all in. In the end, it’s not about how smoothly the day goes, but about savoring every chaotic, joyful moment along the way.

* * *

Real Brian back again. As I told Walter, while I appreciated the A.I.'s "infused with warmth and insight" intro, the essay itself is so terrible that I suddenly feel much better about the threat of being replaced by a computer. My initial fear was that it would be so close that even I couldn't tell the difference, but there is no molecule of my style or perspective in that essay.

Also, I don't drink coffee nor currently have a cat, which a proper omniscient A.I. should know.

Sorry, A.I. Not even close. Magic 8-ball says, "Reply hazy, try again."

250 Words on Forbearance

It’s been said, and I’ve witnessed myself, that a sick cat can fake being healthy for a long time before, as the end nears, finding a safe cranny in which to die. It’s a primal instinct. In the wild, an animal showing weakness becomes prey, so cats hide it as well as they can for as long as they can.

The older I get, the more I think men are the same.

Mandatory disclaimer: not all men, not all the time, and mostly based on my own observations and social conditioning.

Stereotypically, men avoid doctors and don’t share our medical problems with friends or even family. I don’t believe it’s because we’re cowardly, stubborn, or in denial—at least not always.

I think it’s because our deep ape-brains tell us that if we ever show weakness, we’re prey. Our status and value would vanish, and we’d be subjected to the worst shame imaginable: pity.

Counterpoint: the “man cold,” a case of ordinary sniffles that women bear without complaint but which drives men to swoon to their beds in melodramatic helplessness. I’d argue that’s the exception that proves (in the sense of “tests and strengthens”) the rule. The very fact that a phrase like “man cold” exists teaches men that displaying vulnerability will get them mocked as pathetic and weak. Many men would endure a lot to avoid that humiliation. Some would rather die.

By the way, I’m perfectly healthy right now. Don’t expect me to admit it when I’m not. 

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The Intellectual Life #25

A Peek into the Intimate Intellectual Life of a Long-Married Couple, Part 25:

(Karen and I are in the car when the radio plays the Bruno Mars song "When I Was Your Man." There's a lyric that goes, "It all just sounds like OooooOOOOooooOOOOoooO," and I sing along--not with the whole song, just the "OooooOOOOooooOOOOoooO" part.) 

Bruno Mars: It all just sounds like--

Brian: OooooOOOOooooOOOOoooO!

Karen: 

Brian: You know how some songs have a break in the middle where a rapper comes in and does some rapping and then it goes back to the song?

Karen: Yeah?

Brian: I could do that for Bruno Mars. 

Karen: You could rap for Bruno Mars?

Brian: I could go on tour with him, and then when he sang that song I could come out and do just the "OooooOOOOooooOOOOoooO!" part.

Karen: Your rapper name could be "DJ Pain Point."

Brian: Because I sing so well you want to cry?

Karen: Yes.

(Next, the Miley Cyrus song "Flowers" comes on the radio and I sing along by bleating like a goat.)

Brian: Mnaa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah flowers!

Karen: DJ Pain Point in the house!

This has been a peek into the intimate intellectual life of a long-married couple.

The Al Smith Dinner

I've seen some reporting and videos from the annual Al Smith Dinner, a fancy event thrown by the Archdiocese of New York to raise money for charitable causes. Prominent politicians, journalists, social mavens and big spenders get together for a happy night of laughter and fellowship.

It made me angry and sad.

I have similar feelings about the White House Correspondents' Dinner (which my journalist friend Mike calls "the White House Concubines' Dinner"): are we supposed to take our country's issues seriously or not? If I'm a Republican, how can I believe that Chuck Schumer is the enemy of the people that Trump tells me he is--or if I'm a Democrat, how can I believe Donald Trump is the existential threat to our nation that Schumer tells me he is--if they both show up for an event like this sitting next to each other and yukking it up?

The Black woman in the upper left of the photo is Letitia James, attorney general of New York, who prosecuted Trump for fraud, and won. What the hell is a principled public servant doing at an event like that? How can she sit a dozen feet from a convicted felon she prosecuted? Why are they even in the same room?

And why does the Archdiocese of New York ask a convicted sex offender to headline its charity event?! Buried somewhere in there is a Catholic priest gag I don't have the stomach to unearth.

Is everything just a joke to all of them? Am I supposed to care more about the fate of the nation than Chuck Schumer does? Because that makes me feel like I'm carrying more than my share of the load, Chuck.

At least former NYC Mayor Michael Bloomberg, in the foreground, had the grace to maintain a sour stone-faced expression throughout.  

Also on the dais was comedian Jim Gaffigan, who MCed the event. I like Gaffigan and think he did a tough job about as well as he could have. However, he made quite a few jokes about Kamala Harris not bothering to attend. Instead she sent a pre-recorded video that, unlike Trump's unhinged stream of juvenile insults, was both funny and relevant to the point of raising money for charity. 

As far as I'm concerned, it's to Harris's great credit that she didn't show. She's the only person who came out of the Al Smith Dinner not covered in hypocritical slime. 

Maybe there was a time, back in something like the Eisenhower era, when Republicans, Democrats, journalists and titans of industry could get together, leave politics at the door, and share a little good-natured public roasting at each others expense. Not any more. The Al Smith and White House Correspondents' dinners belong in the past. Don't tell me your opposition is destroying the country (in whatever direction of the right-left-press triad you lean) and then spend an evening backslapping like warm colleagues. Not if you want me to take you seriously the next day.

Loma Prieta

The Internet reminds me that today is the anniversary of the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake, which the country saw live when it interrupted a World Series game between the Giants and the A's. I don't think I've ever written about that day, but it was memorable.

My town of Santa Rosa was about 120 miles north of the magnitude 6.9 temblor's epicenter but it sure walloped us. I was working as a chemist at the time. The quake hit at the end of the day, 5:04 p.m., and at first I thought I was feeling faint, as if the room were spinning. A second later I realized it really was. 

When you grow up in earthquake country, you learn to immediately drop and get under something heavy, like a desk. Running out of a building is a good way to get hit by chunks of falling building. But I looked at my coworkers and realized we all had the same simultaneous thought: our lab was inside a concrete tilt-up structure that, if it collapsed, would pancake like a house of cards. Also, we were surrounded by dangerous acids, solvents, gases and chemicals that, if they mixed together, would be a poisonous, caustic, flammable brew. Anywhere else would be safer. Everyone exited expeditiously.

I got to the front parking lot and saw something I will never forget: the blacktop rippling in waves, with cars and trees bobbing up and down like boats on a stormy sea.

When things calmed down, a small crew, including me, put on gear and respirators and checked out the lab. We had some cleanup to do but nothing dangerous, and got everything buttoned up within an hour or so.

After securing the lab, I rushed to our baby daughters' daycare provider, only to be told that Karen had gotten there first and everyone was fine. Robin and Laura had been sitting inside a laundry basket when the quake hit, and rode it out as if it were a kiddie roller coaster. They had great fun!

I chose this photo of a broken section of the Bay Bridge because it reminds of something that happens in a crisis: information is in short supply and any scrap of news can get exaggerated and twisted. 

In the minutes after the quake, we heard radio reports that the Bay Bridge had collapsed. Everyone went ashen; that bridge is a major artery, and if the whole thing had gone down during rush hour the death toll could have been in the thousands. In fact, just one small section of the bridge fell, causing one unfortunate death, so although the Bay Bridge was out of commission for a while it was basically OK. It wasn't until quite a bit later that we learned the collapse of the Cypress Structure, a double-decker freeway, had killed 42. 

I was surprised to find that people far away, such as relatives living in other parts of the country, knew a lot more about what was happening than those of us living it. I experienced that disconnect again later.

The Naked Emperor

Fair Warning: Political Post! Yesterday at a town hall meeting in Pennsylvania, Donald Trump decided that instead of taking questions from the audience, he would play them songs from his playlist while he danced along. For 39 minutes. 

Trump called out songs to his "DJ," probably some poor kid backstage holding an iPhone, and then did his stupid fisty swaying dance while urging the crowd to dance along. Again, for 39 minutes. 

At a town hall where he was meant to talk with swing-state voters.

I mention this because my jaw is still dropped and I'm not seeing the mainstream media making a big deal about it. Just imagine . . . imagine if Kamala Harris or Joe Biden had walked into a town hall meeting with voters, cranked up their tunes, danced alone in the center of the stage for more than half an hour, and then left. It'd be a top headline for weeks, while Republicans--and many Democrats--would scream that they were mentally unfit to run and serve.

They'd be right. And they'd be right now.

This should be Trump's "Emperor's New Clothes" moment in which his unfitness is inarguably exposed for all to see, but I doubt it will be. Just look at South Dakota Gov. Kristi Noem on stage with him. In video she looks confused but completely plays along, clapping her hands and doing the "YMCA" dance. That's the problem: everybody still plays along while the naked emperor dances.

250 Words on Art Supplies

Some artists are very particular about their art materials. I’d call myself mildly particular. In my experience, your paper, paint, ink, brush, pen, etc. can work for or against you. At best, they can feel less like lifeless tools and more like collaborators that make you better. 

I remember working on my graphic novel Whatever Happened to the World of Tomorrow when I seriously wondered if I’d forgotten how to draw. Nothing came out of my brush or pen right. It all looked like garbage. 

Trying to diagnose how I’d completely lost my mojo, I realized that the trouble began when I switched from one brand of art paper to another. I don’t know if it was smoother, rougher, or more or less absorbent, but when I switched back to the old stuff I immediately fell back in the groove.

More recently, I painted a watercolor for my wife, Karen, for which I’d bought a sheet of premium 300-pound cold-press paper. It was literally the finest paper I’ve ever worked with. Laying down paint felt like gliding a knife through velvet butter. 

I swear that paper could read my mind. We communed. It was beautiful.

You’ll notice I haven’t offered a shopping list of my ideal art supplies. That’s because mine wouldn’t necessarily be yours, and vice versa. I know professional cartoonists having very nice careers using printer paper and ballpoint pens (or digital devices). Try everything once and see what speaks to you. The right tools might be telepathic. 

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Comet Tsuchinshan–ATLAS

Comet party in the middle of the street with the neighbors! Sharing stellar wonders with good people makes them just a little cooler. Photo by my neighbor Mari Haber, who had the best camera-phone in the bunch. 

Catch it in the west in the next day or two, unless you plan to see it next time. That’ll be another 80,000 years or so.

Review: Geek Girl Authority

Here's a nice little review from Geek Girl Authority of the new anthology for which I wrote and drew a story, Marvel Super Stories: Amazing Adventures. 

I was one of 15 contributors and am only mentioned in passing, but what I appreciate about this review is that writer Avery Kaplan captures the intent and heart of all the stories. I share Kaplan's view that the best types of superhero stories are low-stakes everyday tales, which is why I gave my heroes a quest to recover a stolen pizza.

"Whether in the library, classroom or at home, this title is sure to be a hit with your young readers."