Smock Blogs

You’d think it would be easier.

Just relax your grip.

Open your hand.

Simple.

Sometimes it’s all you can do.

Holding on is hurting you.

But it’s all you’ve known.

Muscle memory.

Painful, but familiar.

What comes after?

When we’ve let go?

Sometimes journeys start with a step.

This one?

Starts with a fall.

Sometimes it’s just best to start over.

Clean the slate.

Open to a new page.

Find all new people to run for president.

Seems easy enough.

Just start fresh.

Except that we’ve invested more than just time, or money.

We’ve put ourselves into whatever this is.

Whether that’s a cake or a candidate, that’s hard to let go.

But if we don’t?

We’ll probably ruin somebody’s party.

There are a thousand miles ahead.

So take that first step.

And the next one.

And the one after that.

Just by taking a step, you’re ahead of the game.

It’s not how you started, it’s that you kept going.

Even that can feel like a reach.

This morning it’s just “Don’t quit”.

And that’s going to be enough.

Watched the 2024 reboot of Roadhouse last night.

It’s a movie that, like the original, worked very hard to give the main character depth.

Make them into a nuanced reflection of the world they move in.

And, like the original, it did that.

But not so much that we forget that our hero is, at the end of the day, a guy who’s really good at hurting people.

For a cause, to be sure, but still.

Punchy McPunchface punches his way to glory.

That’s one way for me to read this movie.

The other way?

Is that it’s a big, stupid, loud movie that veers close to Vin Diesel territory with some of the stunts, but still manages to make you believe it’s just a couple of guys beating on each other in a bar.

Big. Dumb. Fun.

Set in America’s home for big dumb fun: Florida.

Sometimes that’s all I want from a movie, is just to be loud. Silly. Dumb.

Because so much of the real world is Big Dumb Awful.

Felt good to find the fun.

The Debate has assumed capital status in my head, somewhere between 9/11 and the day Jerry Garcia died.

Biden lost.

Democracy won.

Or at least what comes after Old White Guys.

Because we don’t have Biden at 51.

Or 61.

Not even 71.

This is Biden at 81.

Age has caught up to him.

He always said he was just a bridge.

He knew at 77 that he was there to walk the country back to civility, then hand it off.

Now, faced with that reality, he’s doing what any of us would: refusing to let go.

Believing in himself despite the facts.

Becoming a parody of his opponent, cursed with that same affliction.

The Debate was his to lose, set as it was in a way that should have played to his strengths.

But those left the building before he even took his place behind that lectern.

It’s not whether he could win the election, it’s whether he should. Because whoever’s in charge in the White House, the guy who’s prioritizing sleep isn’t it.

The Debate showed us what his staff wouldn’t: a president shielded from scrutiny by those unwilling to let go of power.

If he runs? Of course I’ll vote for him. The alternative is unthinkable.

Give America the chance to win this one.

The tribe has spoken.

Bring in the torch while there’s still a flicker.

Before time snuffs it out.

Freedom of choice.

Freedom from choice.

Language is tricky.

It’s a syllable.

Just the one.

Couple of extra letters.

But it means we’ve got two options:

1. A convicted felon and pathological liar bent on revenge
2. A principled leader so diminished by time he needs someone to lead him off stage

I like having fewer choices.

Helps me work with my brain, not against it.

Think I’m ready to make an exception here.

Broaden the field.

Open the primaries back up.

Make politics interesting again.

Not in the Chinese way.

In a way that energizes the base.

The base that wants something other than tyranny.

Or at least tyranny on a less terrifying scale.

I saw it from across the parking lot: an American flag better suited to the skies over a car dealership than where it was, bolted to the back end of someone’s T-Rex/’murca Machine/Compensator 1000 or whatever the hell we call those side-by-side golf carts on steroids that all the wannabe cowboys and monster truck drivers tear around the neighborhood in.

For a moment, I had hope that this was just the usual American exceptionalism, that coming as the sighting did close on the heels of the celebration of the nation’s independence that this was just some overly enthusiastic light beer chugging proud owner of one of them nice doublewides getting provisions for their backyard barbecue and extemporaneous amputation fest courtesy of the fireworks they had purchased in sufficient quantities to lay siege to most structures in the Middle Ages.

Then I saw the 2nd flag.

The “don’t blame me, I voted for Trump”.

Fresh out of lighter fluid and my matches at home, rather than expressing myself in maladaptive but effective ways by burning the vehicle down to the rims, I shed a (metaphorical) tear for the death of patriotism, because here was the invasive species MAGAttus Nationalistes, aka ”nationalist” aka “cultist” aka “co-signer of a felon, misogynist, and pathological liar”, conflating a nation with a man.

It always comes down to a nail.

For want of a nail the shoe was lost.
For want of a shoe the horse was lost.
For want of a horse the rider was lost.
For want of a rider the message was lost.
For want of a message the battle was lost.
For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

Credited most often to Benjamin Franklin, who included a version in Poor Richard’s Almanack, it’s a reminder of two things:

1. Try the simple solution first
2. Fix what you can, while you still can

Don’t mistake simple for easy, because all you need is a nail, but what if you don’t have any nails, and the nearest nail is at the Tractor Supply Company and that’s 20 miles away?

And if we wait to fix today’s simple problem, we lose the chance to manage it while it’s within our capacity to do so.

The next president could order Seal Team 6 to assassinate a political rival with impunity.

That’s the takeaway from yesterday’s Supreme Court 6-3 decision that former presidents have immunity from their official acts while in office.

The pearl clutching and the cork popping has commenced, depending on which said of the aisle is corrupt at a level you’re comfortable with, as the morality playlet begins that follows everything in our bid to be first to the front with our performative outrage.

What’s notable is how arguments like this are framed depending on party.

When either side wins, it’s a win for freedom.

When they lose, it seems to break down thus:

• On the right, freedom is at stake
• On the left, humanity is imperiled

Because the Democrats continue to position themselves as the party of all that is good and right about the world.

The Republicans would be seen as the champion of American values.

Neither of them can define those positions clearly.

Much of their energy is spent pointing out how at least they’re not THAT guy.

And since they can’t define who they are, but rather who they’re not, they will all continue to govern on loopholes, not foundations.

Went to Cidercade yesterday.

It’s an arcade that serves cider.

The kind you have to be 21 to order.

And no, it’s not a remixed Dave & Buster’s.

Couple reasons:

1. All the games are set to free play
2. They only serve pizza

It’s Chuck E. Cheese without a ballpit.

Circus Circus without the clowns.

Had a blast playing games half-remembered from the few times I went to an arcade as a kid.

There’s nothing profound about Cidercade.

Except that we just went there to play.

Something we do less of as adults.

If we do it at all.

We’ve been robbed of that, chasing likes and clout and virality.

Forgetting what fun was like.

When you did things for their sake and not for the clicks.

Nearly two and a half years ago, I decided to step off the hamster wheel.

Write a book.

Reasonable, if risky, proposition, I thought.

That is, if I had built up some momentum.

I had, but didn’t sustain it.

Wrote a few things that got published in places.

But I liked it. And I’m good at it.

Wasn’t like I had another job I’d turned down.

The project I was working on came to an end.

I went home.

And stared at a screen for a few months.

Typed some words into a novel I’ve been scribbling for over 10 years.

It’s not that complex, I just get in my own way.

A lot.

Start to think about whether this too shall fail.

Because most things I’ve done have failed.

More accurately, never went anywhere.

Self-sabotage is the best sabotage.

What if I fail?

Easy.

Quit.

Or half ass it.

That way you’ll know why it didn’t work.

It’s about control.

Working through some of that.

Because in the dark, when I ask myself, what it is I like and I’m good at?

It comes down to writing.

Creation.

Bringing something into the light.

And it feels like it’s all I have left.

Since I haven’t been good at much else.

Call this a last stand.

Time to save myself.

Stop looking at the wall, and turn around.

Because there’s a better question.

What if it works?

Might be fun to find out.

Got around to watching Dune 2.

Been on the list for a while.

Two things stopping me.

1. Paul
2. Chani

Let’s be clear: Denis Villeneuve's vision of Herbert’s books makes me love movies again.

Visually stunning, the storytelling is deft, and caputures the immensity of the vision while still making it about smaller stories.

It’s what the MCU could have been before Marvel bloated the genre with cash grabbing nonsense.

I don’t find Chalamet or Zendaya relatable.

It’s watching a couple of kids who got lost on their school’s field trip to Joshua Tree and stumbled into a military recruiting depot, ending up on the front lines because someone screwed up the paperwork.

Their casting as fierce warriors is slightly less believable than Pauly Shore’s war epic, In The Army Now.

I knew that from the first movie, so no surprises.

Bit more surprising?

That I could thank the Marine Corps for my ad-free experience.

Pop quiz: which force do they represent?

• Harkonnen: bloodthirsty sadists who kill with impunity to gain power.
• Sardaukar: bloodthirsty minions of the Emperor who kill with impunity to maintain order.
• Fremen: bloodthirsty fanatics of Paul Atreides who kill with impunity to bring about a new order.

Killing in the name of an emperor, a prophet, or a country: it’s all still killing.

Everybody’s killing someone.

It’s all just a matter of charter.

Person first?

Or.

Diagnosis first.

I’m either:

• A person with autism, an example of people first language (PFL), or
• An autistic person, an example of identity first language (IFL)

Which one’s more acceptable?

Like most things, it depends.

A survey conducted in March 2022 by the digital resource Autistic Not Weird polled more than 11,000 people with or connected to ASD. Over 76% of respondents favored IFL (being called, “autistic person”). However, parents of children on the spectrum leaned toward PFL (having their children be called, “person with autism”) as they feared IFL would label and limit their children.

If you’re the diagnosed, IFL.

If you’re their parent, PFL.

I’m on team IFL, because to me, “person with autism” sounds like I’m in search of a cure, like I’ve got cancer, or Parkinson’s, or I coal roll Teslas in my Compensator 1000.

However.

Most of the time?

I’m PFL.

Because then you’re faced with a person, instead of their deal.

They’re a person who uses drugs.

Not a junkie.

A person who broke the law.

Not a criminal.

By putting humanity first, we must face ourselves.

Remembering that if we were them, we’d be them.

First heard that from Pete Holmes, and I’d be forever grateful to a reader who found the source, since I don’t think it originated with him.

If we kept that front of mind, might be easier to dismiss and discard those that don’t fit our view of the world.

I’d moved out, told her I was filing.

Left a letter on her desk in the home office.

I know, I know, I am a gem.

Then the job I had fell through.

Had to move back in.

And it starts again.

That voice.

The one that tells you it’s not so bad.

Because it isn’t.

Not really.

She’s a genuinely good person.

It didn’t end because I cheated.

Not this time, anyway.

See “gem” above.

We get along, most days.

Except “not bad” isn’t good enough.

Not anymore.

Because the monster doesn’t have to be a dragon.

No one needs to be screaming.

Nothing has to be on fire.

It’s OK to walk away.

Even if the village is still standing.

I was a bigger U2 fan once.

Probably still am.

You outgrow those things, but they never really leave you.

I was raised on classical music and an eclectic collection of nearly-pop albums, like the soundtrack to Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Neil Diamond.

I read the novella, never saw the movie.

Played instruments, starting the piano, since I was 4.

Music’s always been there.

I pick it up, discard it again.

Big Dumb Autistic Brain and its special interests coupled with a crippling fear of failure.

Of not adding up.

Can’t say that I’m in recovery from that.

Not quite yet.

Don’t think we’ve hit bottom.

“Running to Stand Still” is the 5th track from U2’s 1987 Joshua Tree, an album I can still listen to all the way through to this day.

It’s about people who use heroin, living in Dublin.

Heroin isn’t my particular bag.

More angst and NA beer.

Running errands today, though, the title kept at me.

Driving through traffic, watching all of us dart in and out to get a half car length ahead.

If that.

We’re addicted to motion.

Associate it with progress.

Even when stopped, we aren’t at rest.

Worried about our next move, however small.

Assigning importance to moving.

Because still, we’d catch up with ourselves.

And so she woke up
Woke up from where she was lyin' still
Said I gotta do something
About where we're goin'
Step on a steam train
Step out of the drivin' rain, maybe
Run from the darkness in the night

I’m “in between opportunities”.

Kind of like Van Damme’s in between these trucks except they’re pulling away and sure funds are flexible but at some point I’ll need more.

Until the barter system goes into full effect.

Or I suck it up and post feet pics.

Not mine, though.

Just random pics generated by AI.

I’m sure there’s a bot for that.

Applied for a job with a previous employer.

Did not pan out.

Literally the same thing I did for them before.

Beginning to think it’s me.

The problem with looking for work, is that all your employed friends/acquaintances/thought leaders on LinkedIn are full of helpful advice.

Even though they don’t work in the same field.

Have the same career path.

Know nothing about you.

But.

Rest assured, if you just give them $399, they’ll absolutely guarantee that you’ll be out nearly 400 dollars.

And it’s one thing when it’s month three and you’ve applied to less than <100 jobs.

When it’s into year 3 and Indeed is just shrugging its shoulders, it’s a bit…much.

Have a couple of “prospects” that will likely keep me out of a cardboard condo, but barely.

I’ve been told the role is “humbling”.

Not sure what hubris I needed punched out of me.

I do know this: I’m never, ever giving anyone hiring advice again. And there’s value in that. In that kind of growth.

BRB, shaving some toes.

This weekend, Lando Norris learned a tough lesson in performance vs. effectiveness, which unless he’s a big fan of the civil-military cooperation, and I don’t see him being much of a CIMIC fanboy, isn’t something he thought about much.

But I was, working my way through a week’s worth of growth with a weed trimmer, because doing a job well (effectiveness) is more important than just doing the job (performance).

Measures of Effectiveness (MoE): A metric used to measure a current system state. “Are we on track to achieve the intended new system state within the planned timescale?”Measures of Performance (MoP): A metric used to determine the accomplishment of actions. “Are the actions being executed as planned?”

Because everyone has a different standard for success, or effectiveness, that goes beyond just doing the job.

Whether it’s trimming weeds, or, in the Formula 1 example, losing a race by less than a second to Max Verstappen, as happened to Lando Norris, we are measured not by whether we do the job, but by how well we do it.

And the expectation is that we’ll do more than the bare minimum listed in the job description. That without additional compensation we will be the most effective employee that ever lived.

If we don’t?

We’re a quiet quitter.

Or whatever term we’re going to use this week for people that just do enough to get paid and GTFO at the end of the day.

And if you want a more effective team?

• Make sure you’ve got the right people on your bus
• Let them build the processes you need to succeed
• Get the tools they ask for to make those processes work

Then give them what we all want: a living wage, a flexible work environment, leadership that treats them with grace and humanity.

There’s a store here at the country club.

Cannot tell you how much that sentence amuses me circa 1995 thinking I was going to end up in a VW bus tooling around America playing in a band that would be the next Grateful Dead as I wrote On The Road for Gex X.

I say “amuses” because that’s an easier word than the yawning maw that opened up somewhere between college and the rest of my life and I shoveled whatever dreams I had into it in the hopes that it would spit out happiness.

But there’s a store, at the country club, where I live. And I watched a man I’ve met a few times and know a little bit shuffle his way to the electric carts and proceed to maneuver his way toward the grocery aisles.

Badly, because it’s a grocery cart and designed to diminish its user.

And he was diminished before he took his seat.

His life behind him looms large, having done things.

Good things.

Things that have meant a lot to a lot of people.

But now, he’s old.

Not just older, but old.

Recovering from injuries that happened because he is old.

Time doesn’t always take gently.

It rips at us, too.

Stripping away what we once were, leaving something behind that bumps its way through produce.

Today’s question no one’s asked: What’s with all the robots?

If I illustrate anything, it’s usually with some kind robot thing out of a Midjourney prompt, for two reasons:

1. We as humans are just big dumb machines, with amazing brains that do dumb things and we in turn do dumb things thanks to those brains.
2. As an autistic person, there’s a daily conflict between Robot Boy and Real Boy, in that Robot Boy is going to give you just straight analysis without considering your feelings, and Real Boy is going to try and activate that module where he thinks about how you might receive the message.

Oh, and I’m pretty sure robots are going to take on most labor in the next several years, so there is that. 

That 2nd point above doesn’t mean those of us on the spectrum aren’t empathetic: quite the opposite. I won’t speak for my people, because it is a spectrum, but I know I spend most of my days with lowkey anxiety as a subtext, worried that I’m going to get the response wrong, and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.

Also, decades of masking mean that I’m pretty damn good at reading how someone’s receiving me, and there has never been a time when my anxiety gave me a false read: I know when you’re not into me, because living in a daily state of isolation from neurotypicals, I’m keenly aware of my efforts to try and connect. 

And no, they’re not a special interest, but they’re a machine and as an autistic person, I do like me some machines.

So that’s why the robots.

Better to have, and not need, than to need and not have.

Attributed to Franz Kafka.

The problem is that we attribute need to too many things.

Telling ourselves that we can’t live without them.

Usually that’s stuff.

Sometimes it’s people.

We all need people, but if the people we have aren’t meeting our needs, are they people we should have?

Emotional capitalism at its best tells us we need more: more relationships, more friends, more interactions.