Hands Off!

Karen and I with our homemade signs. Karen hand-lettered hers. I suggested she make the "P" stand for "Poopyhead" but she didn't go for it. I did NOT hand-letter mine, but I did draw and watercolor the penguin.

Making good trouble in downtown Santa Rosa, Calif., today as our little part of the "Hands Off" rallies happening in some 1400 cities across the country. Hard to estimate how many turned out, but we filled the town square and the sidewalks on both sides of three city blocks. Maybe a few thousand? Not the hundreds of thousands who demonstrated elsewhere, but a nice group of witty people with a lot of positive energy. 

We ran into several friends because we know quality people. Someone on Facebook cautioned about posting photos of people at these events without their permission and, while I'm not that paranoid, isn't it a shame that we even have to give a thought to the government rounding up protestors and shipping them to secret prisons? That's why we're there. Anyway, I won't out them in this post, but if you were one of those friends it was great to see you.

Look: I have no illusions that a few thousand people in my hometown are gonna change the world. That's not the point. Community, fellowship, letting other people know they're not alone and we have their backs--that's the point. Pebbles make an avalanche.

Makin' trouble. Woot. I pointedly wore my red, white and blue Fourth of July shirt to reclaim its iconography for the good guys. RIght-wing fascists don't get a monopoly on patriotism or the flag.

My view for most of the event, across the street from the park at the center of town, Courthouse Square.

A long shot down Third Street. I was standing on the right side of this street about halfway down when I took the previous shot; Courthouse Square is out of sight to the left. This was just a fraction of the folks who came out today.

250 Words on the Leader of the Pack

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

I carefully observe my little dog, Riley, trying to figure out how her brain allocates its resources. 

It’s around 50 percent food and treats, 25 percent pee, 15 percent poop, 5 percent guarding her territory from any bicyclist or cat that wanders past, and 5 percent a sense of affection for the apes she allows to love her on her terms.

That deal’s OK with me, but I try not to fool myself that it’s more than it is.

I often recall my writer friend Mike Peterson’s observation that a dog’s extraordinary sense of smell must make the world feel like being on psychedelics all the time. Riley and I have totally different experiences walking around the block.

I got one insight into Riley’s mind a few years ago, when I helped a neighbor close her broken garage door. My fingertips momentarily got caught between the hinged panels, and I let out a yelp before yanking them free. From a couple hundred feet away, Riley rocketed down the street like a fur-covered torpedo, ready to fight demons by my side. 

“I’ve got your back, boss!”

That kind of courage and loyalty earns a lifetime of unrequited belly rubs.

I do tell Riley how much I appreciate her many contributions to the team. Dogs are dogs and people are people, and anthropomorphizing doesn’t do either of us any favors. But as inscrutable as her mind is, I’m certain we’d both fight fiercely for our pack. I’ve got your back too, pal.

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NOTE FROM BRIAN: I wrote this essay a while ago and randomly assigned it to post today; it is a very sad coincidence that Riley died last week following a bout of congestive heart failure. She was a month shy of 13. Riley was a terrier mutt that someone had left tied to a bus stop when she was a pup, and we gave her the best home and family any dog could have had. 

My wife, Karen, read today’s essay and told me to edit it to read, “Riley devoted 50 percent of her brain to loving her Mom.” That sounds about right, if not low. 

George Carlin said that getting a pet means "you are purchasing a small tragedy," and here we are. For being such a small dog, she leaves an enormous hole. 

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Dr. Bryant Lin and Stanford

My friend Elaine messaged me this morning to say, "Your book is on TV!" And so it was, in a story by ABC's San Francisco affiliate, KGO TV, about Stanford physician and professor Bryant Lin.

I know Dr. Lin and have spoken to his students a few times (and am scheduled to do so again next month). He is a cancer researcher who has a very serious, probably fatal cancer himself. The knowledge and passion he brings to teaching the subject is extraordinary. 

One of the most gratifying and surprising outcomes of writing Mom's Cancer is seeing it taught in medical schools such as Stanford. I did not anticipate that at the time--wasn't even on my radar. Mom would have been thrilled. 

Here's the KGO story, which is definitely worth 5 minutes of your day:

250 Words on Immortality

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

Most stories about immortality are cautionary tales whose moral is “be careful what you wish for.” Living forever, we’re told, consists largely of ceaseless boredom and ennui.

Sounds like sour grapes to me. I think I’d handle it well.

“Millions long for immortality who don't know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon,” wrote novelist Susan Ertz, but I excel at rainy Sunday afternoons. I’m very good at doing nothing; if I feel boredom coming on, I’m also good at finding something to do.

I should define my terms. My vision of immortality doesn’t include invincibility. I could still be killed falling off a cliff or getting hit by a Cybertruck, but absent mortal trauma I wouldn’t die. Also, learning from the mistake of the mythological Tithonus, who forgot to read the fine print and won eternal life but not youth, I wouldn’t grow older. My DNA would simply stop making copying errors, which many gerontologists believe accumulate into the condition we call “aging.”

I imagine I’d read a lot. Master some trades. I’d keep a diary and send volumes to the Smithsonian a century at a time. Live in exotic places long enough to settle in and learn the language—maybe 50 years—then move on. I expect I’d become detached. It’d be hard to care about immediate problems, people and politics after you’ve lived a few centuries. I’d be a quiet loner.

I’m already halfway there!

Forever is just an infinity of rainy Sunday afternoons.

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250 Words on Dexterity

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

I used to be ambidextrous. When I was a kid, I wrote the left half of a page with my left hand, then switched the pencil to my right hand to write the right half of the page. My third-grade teacher declared that the laziest thing she’d ever seen and made me write right.

My handedness hardened into a hash. I write and draw right-handed but play most sports left-handed and left-footed, although I bat and golf (if I golfed) right-handed. I can paint with either hand; I think my left just lacks the muscle memory and fine motor control of my right. My left eye is dominant—good to know for archery and astronomy. My wife, Karen, marvels that I can flip pancakes both ways.

That ambiguity makes me flexible but can also lock me up. I once stood frozen in the kitchen trying to remember how to open a jar. Neither hand felt correct.

Because I’ve enjoyed, studied, and worked in both science and art, people sometimes speculate that the right and left halves of my brain are more interconnected than most. Maybe, but I’m doubtful. As I understand it, the “rational left brain/creative right brain” generalization is overblown. There’s a lot of slosh and overlap between the hemispheres’ functions. 

It is true that doing science and art feel similar to me. Both involve discovering patterns and expressing new connections using the tools in your toolbox, whether those are math and scientific instruments or ink, paint and paper. 

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The Ides of March Already?!

The Ides of March are a noteworthy date in world history and an even more important date in our family's history: it's when my daughters changed my life by going to the trouble of being born. Happy Birthday, Chiquitas! Dinner, cake and presents are waiting.

(Photo taken when they were 18 months old. They're all grown up now.)

Whose Story Is It?

My friend Matthew Noe pointed me to this thoughtful essay on what a writer's obligation should be to real people who appear in their stories. I've faced that question myself so I left this response on his post, which I thought worth sharing in a post of my own.

It's an interesting and important question, especially for those of us who occasionally tell nonfiction stories. 

As mentioned in the piece, I think the first responsibility a writer owes to all the real people in their story is to get it as right as you can. I treat everything I do as journalism (even my fiction), and aim for accuracy while understanding that objective truth in human interactions can be impossible to know and everyone has their own perspective. Sometimes people tell me I got it exactly right; other times they say, "Well, that's not how I experienced it, but I understand how you did." I can live with that.

Also, to put it coarsely, you have to decide who and how much you're willing to betray. People live their lives in your presence with no expectation you'll be recording and broadcasting the details. Nobody is always at their best. I believe Alison Bechdel has talked about that in relation to her mother and family.

I often cite the example of my graphic novel "Mom's Cancer," in which I was not willing to betray my mother. If she hadn't supported the story, or it had caused her a moment of concern or anxiety, I would have killed it and no one would have ever seen it. On the other hand, I decided to include my stepfather in the book regardless of what he thought of his portrayal, which wasn't entirely complimentary. So you have different levels of pain you're prepared to inflict and take, and I urge memoirists to think that through before publication. It's one thing when it's on manuscript pages in your desk drawer, quite another when it's printed in thousands of books around the world.

With both "Mom's Cancer" and "A Fire Story," the predominant response I get from real people who appear as characters is some measure of gratitude for telling their story. Many are indifferent, a few are even sort of proud of their "celebrity" and brag about it to their friends. I can't recall anyone getting upset. Partly that's because I'd never use a book to deliberately make someone who's peripheral to the story look bad or settle a score. Villains (incompetent doctors, bureaucratic insurance weasels) are anonymous composites.

That's a line I draw that other nonfiction writers or memoirists wouldn't. Everybody's got to figure out where their lines are and ask themselves, "Can I live with the consequences?"

If it helps you sleep at night, there's always the quote by Anne Lamott: “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”

250 Words on Life Drawing

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

People sometimes ask how much art I’ve studied, and the answer is as much as possible in high school and college. Art was hard to fit into a university schedule because studio classes were three hours long, but I did what I could. Otherwise, I’m self-taught.

The best, most useful art class I ever took was life drawing. That’s drawing naked people. I strongly encourage anyone interested in visual arts to do it.

For me, the value of life drawing was breaking bad habits and learning to draw what I actually saw rather than some preconception I imagined. It was the sort of environment where on Day One the instructor looked over my shoulder and said, “Ah, you’re a cartoonist.” Not a criticism, just an observation. Cartoonists draw contours, the outlines of things. That can be a start to good art but is far from the end.

The lasciviousness of sketching nudes evaporates fast. A body quickly becomes interesting shapes and shadows connected in challenging ways. In fact, the best models are those who don’t fit stereotypical beauty standards. Scrawny, fat, or wrinkly people are a delight to draw. 

It’s also an artistic legacy stretching back centuries. Artists have always depicted nudes, through the Renaissance to the Greeks and earlier. How do yours stack up against Michelangelo’s or Rembrandt’s? (Not well.) Good life drawing reveals us to ourselves.

I believe the real trick to art is seeing what’s truly there. After that, all you have to do is capture it. 

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Genius/Time

My Top Three List of History's Greatest Explosions of Genius in the Shortest Amount of Time:

1. Isaac Newton, who in 1666 (while hunkered down at home avoiding the Great Plague) invented calculus, optics, the laws of universal gravitation, and basically most of what's now called classical physics.

2. Albert Einstein, who in 1905 published papers on the photoelectric effect (which won him the Nobel Prize), Brownian motion, E = mc^2, and the special theory of relativity in a span of six months.  

3. Dolly Parton, who in 1972 wrote the songs "Jolene" and "I Will Always Love You" on the same day. 

Other candidates are welcome in the comments!

Recommended for Women's History Month

Mom's Cancer got a nod as recommended reading for Women's History Day/Month from a blogger and English literature teacher from the Philippines, A. Eleazar. I love the breadth of his other selections, ranging from Jem and the Holograms to Pride and Prejudice. That's fine company to be in. 

Eleazar and I corresponded a bit, and I appreciate his passion and wide-ranging interests. I was also struck again, as I often am, by how worldwide the worldwide web really is. I routinely talk to people in the Philippines, India, Japan, all over the planet about my books. Take a second to reflect on how remarkable that is. 

Thanks for thinking of me, A.!

The Intellectual Life #26

Photo source: Potterymakinginfo.com

A Peek into the Intimate Intellectual Life of a Long-Married Couple, Part 26:

Karen and I were watching TV last night when we saw a commercial for the weight-loss drug Wegovy. Karen noticed that one of its fine-print side effects was "clay-colored stool."

Karen: What color is "clay-colored?"

Brian: I don't know. Clay comes in a lot of colors.

Karen: Brown.

Brian: Gray.

Karen: Beige.

Brian: Yellow.

Karen: Terra cotta.

Brian: Naturally.

Karen: What are you supposed to do if you have clay-colored stool? Call your doctor?

Brian: Glaze and fire it.

This has been a peek into the intimate intellectual life of a long-married couple. I'm not proud of this one. 

Crossing the Streams

Since Trump's inauguration, I've been watching poll aggregator 538 for just this milestone: a larger percentage of Americans now disapprove than approve of him. Individual polls report a scattered range of results, some more positive or negative than others, but 538 weights and averages a lot of polls to reach something like a consensus. 

Trump has crossed the streams.*

Although smart readers who are politically astute and well informed may marvel that Trump's numbers are anywhere near this high, I accept them as a clear snapshot of the electorate's mood. Inexplicable, but clear. Democrats are a minority party in Congress, powerless to do much more than inform, protest, persuade (which I wish they would do more of) and occasionally filibuster, so it's evident to me that little is going to change until Trump's own people--both voters and legislators--start to sour on him.

Which won't happen until they feel the pain.

I don't wish misfortune on anyone, but I think it's more likely than not. If prices rise, if unemployment soars, if the Stock Market tanks, if farmers can't sell their soybeans or afford new tariff-inflated tractors, if VA hospitals close, if Medicaid is cut, if budget battles shut down the government, if Social Security is threatened, if an epidemic or natural disaster hits and no one comes to help, if a Russian cyberattack takes down the power grid, if more of the factories scheduled to create thousands of local jobs under Biden's Inflation Reduction Act are canceled, if Red States finally realize they rely a lot more on government handouts than the Blue States that pay for them, if Republican politicians continue to be jeered out of their own town hall meetings, then maybe things will change.

Some folks, especially those low on compassion and empathy, simply won't care until trouble hits home.

Good people just have to hold on, resist, and help each other until they do. I don't really see any other way around or through it. 

Trump's numbers will bob around and may even float back up momentarily, but in the long run I think he has nowhere to go but down. He will never be more popular than he is right now. 

In Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises, a character described how he went bankrupt: "Two ways. Gradually, then suddenly." I wouldn't dare hope, but also wouldn't be surprised, to see Trump's political fortunes do the same.

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* Ghostbusters reference. Crossing the streams is bad.

250 Words on Little League

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

I played Little League baseball when I was around 7 and 8, a stereotypical right-fielder distractedly counting the clover while balls rolled past me.

My handicap in baseball was that nobody ever taught me the rules. Coaches just assumed we knew how to play the game. 

One of my first times at bat, I didn’t understand how I could be called out on strikes when I hadn’t swung at the ball. Another time, I managed to make it to first base when the next batter hit the ball to second, so I turned around and headed back to first. I saw no reason two players couldn’t share one base. Why not? The coach had to drag me off the field to laughter and red-faced humiliation.

I grew up convinced I was uniquely terrible at baseball. My awfulness at the sport colored my entire self-image. 

Then, as an adult, I found myself in a neighborhood ballpark with time to kill, so I watched a bit of a Little League game. In a flash, I realized that almost all 7- and 8-year-olds are terrible at baseball. They ran the bases backwards and toppled over as balls dribbled between their feet. They stunk!

It was an epiphany. I realized I hadn’t been a uniquely terrible baseball player at all. I’d been ordinary. Average. It’s not an exaggeration to say that watching those kids bumble about the diamond recalibrated how I thought of myself. A weight lifted. 

“Ordinary” and “average” were a big relief. 

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