Tag: Travel

Clown School Break Day 18: More than Flavor

JulianLeave a comment

In Which Our Hero Eats Theater for Dinner

“What do you plan to do after clown school?”

  1. Gonzo theater in NYC
  2. Play with children
  3. Live a damn good life

That’s about it.

Other topics?

—

This weekend I attended, for the first time in my life, a Michelin-star restaurant.
A two-star place that, until this year, carried three.

What struck me wasn’t the prestige.
It was the theatricality.

The whimsy. The humor.

They turned a hot dog into a 1 × 1 × 0.5 cm gelatin cube that tasted exactly like a hot dog.
They turned a PB&J into a deconstructed PB&J, complete with hand-peeled grapes.
They opened the meal with torches and epic music.
They ended it by painting dessert onto the tabletop.

My main experience throughout wasn’t taste — it was laughter.

Yes, the flavors were excellent.
Yes, the chemistry and artistry were impressive.

But come on: a tiny gelatin hot dog? A micro-PB&J?
These are jokes. Delicious jokes. High-budget pranks.

For $3 I can go to The Wiener’s Circle and get an actual hot dog.
Here, for $30, I got a hot-dog-flavored Lego brick.

And weirdly: I loved it.

Not because of the taste (though the tastes were good) but because of the experience:
the camaraderie, the conversation, the atmosphere, the emotions.

These were absolutely, unquestionably worth it.

And they had nothing to do with flavor.

The one dish that didn’t land — a caviar-and-chocolatey-coffee concoction — failed for a simple reason:
I didn’t know how to feel about it.

It tasted fine. Interesting. Curious.
But I couldn’t tell whether the intended emotion was awe, nostalgia, whimsy, melancholy, or… “???”

That’s why it faltered.

A performer needs to tell the audience how to feel.
Is this a comedy or a tragedy?
Where are we going?
What’s the poster of this show?

My mother didn’t like Uncut Gems because HOLY SHIT THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU EXPECT WHEN YOU PUT ON AN ADAM SANDLER MOVIE.

It wasn’t the film’s fault.
It was the emotional contract she thought she’d signed.

I like immersive performance art.
I like blurring reality and theater.
I want to perform in vivo, turning ordinary spaces into meta-experiences.

But the key to all of that is simple:
Make people feel the way you want them to feel.

It helps when they know what you’re going for.
Or when the emotional direction is obvious.
But those aren’t required.

At clown school, they never tell us what the outcome should be.
They poke, prod, nudge; but they don’t name the destination.

That’s the challenge.
And the gift.

If they knew where we were supposed to end up, maybe they’d tell us.

But they don’t.

So we must each find our own path.

🤡

Clown School Break Day 15: The Lightness Advantage

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In which Our Hero learns that ease is its own form of status.

The skills of upper-class social engagement and the skills of clowning: shockingly similar.

Can you keep it light—even when the topic isn’t?
Can you remember the game? That this is a game. That life is a game. And the more you remember it’s a game, the less you’ll feel poked. The less you feel poked, the less likely you’ll commit a faux pas.

When meeting someone new:
Can you stay present? Open? Emotionally available? Can you find pleasure in what they’re saying, find pleasure in yourself, and entertain yourself while entertaining them?
Do you make eye contact instead of studying the floor or the ceiling?

Can you jump to the new game quickly?
Roll with the punches without letting irritation leak? Or if you do get irritated, can you metabolize it quietly so others don’t feel it?

In short: are you easy?

Even shorter: be social soy sauce: enhancing whatever flavor is already present.
Do not be social tofu (merely a warm body), nor wasabi (adding too much kick), and certainly not ginger (an entirely unrelated taste altogether).

Some people don’t need to be easy. They have structural reasons to be included—money, skills, status, connections. Their mere existence provides value.

If you have those advantages, you can afford a little heaviness.

But if you lack them, ease becomes an important asset.

—

I met someone today who was surprised to learn a fairly large fact about her husband.

I get that.
It’s also foreign to me.

When one (A) has enough happening that there’s no need to narrate every detail, and (B) is so deeply present with others when actually together, the result is fewer facts shared and more connection felt. This is an instance of putting the text on the game.

Perhaps these people live such driven, full lives that they don’t need to lean on each other for conversational ballast. They’re satisfied by the things they’re doing. Their overlaps shrink. Their presence expands.

—

Maybe this is why the skills of social ease and clowning feel so linked for me. I had to learn lightness. I had to learn the game. I had to learn to entertain myself, then others, and to orient toward warmth and pleasantness.

Other people don’t always need those skills. They build companies, hire teams, command rooms, confer opportunities. What do I confer? Stories. Emotional resonance. Connection.

I’ve lived as a writer for the last decade. I’ve flown around the world, lived in a van, written books, attended clown school, played competitive pickleball, lived as an œstrogen-powered life form. These things made me interesting, but they did not give me structural advantages to hand out.

What I offer is not leverage. It’s wisdom. Presence. Delight.

So it sure as hell helps if I’m light.

Airy.
Gentle.
Easy.
Fun.
Funny.
Generous.
Kind.

This makes it possible to add me to your car, to your dinner, to your team. It makes me someone who lightens your load, even when you carry me on your shoulders.

But when I’m heavy?

Well.

🎈

Clown School Break Day 12: Poker vs Clown

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In which Our Hero manages his emotions (and plays poker because, with a broken foot, what else are you going to do?)

If clowning is about managing your emotions in service of giving pleasure, then poker might actually train part of that muscle. The emotional management is enormous.

Earlier today I lost three spots in a row.
One I misplayed slightly.
Two were just unlucky.

I assumed my strategy wasn’t working.

But it was.

I do this in clowning, too: I try a thing, it doesn’t land, and I immediately abandon it. But that’s rarely the answer. Sometimes you need to push the thing farther. Sometimes you pivot to a different game. But the one thing you don’t need to do is collapse inward and quit. You don’t just give up and take your ball and go home.

Instead, check your fundamentals.

In poker: Is this still a good game? Am I playing well?
In clowning: Have I found the game? Am I playing it?

Yet the two arts couldn’t be more opposite.

Poker is about hiding.
Showing nothing.
No emotion, no tells, no generosity.

Clowning is the opposite: openness, earnestness, authenticity, giving.

Poker is selfishness.
Clowning is generosity.

At one point today I was down $650. I kept playing because I was playing well—and because, in theory, I’d been winning the whole time.

That’s another key difference: poker has theory.
Clowning has only practice.

Poker’s truth reveals itself over hundreds of thousands of hands.
Clowning’s truth reveals itself instantly.

If everyone’s laughing at you at the poker table, you’re the fish.
If everyone’s laughing with you on stage, you’re the clown.

—

I was also especially open with my family today. That was nice 🙂
Time and place, boys. Time and place 😎

Clown School Break Day 8: Selfishness

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In which Our Hero… is selfish?

A friend says my attending clown school is selfish.

A second friend concurs.

The second friend, at least, says it without judgment. They think it’s a selfish act, but not necessarily a bad one. (I didn’t ask the first whether “selfish” = “bad,” so I can’t report on their view.)

The second friend is a professional poker player. I asked if studying poker is selfish. They said no. I asked why. They gave reasons like: “it keeps my mind sharp,” “it teaches me skills I use in other areas.” I pointed out that clowning does the same. Just swap “understanding randomness and variance” for “learning to connect with others and bring them pleasure.”

I’m surprised people find clown school selfish. I don’t find it more selfish than acting school, sales training, or learning accounting. Maybe slightly more selfish than learning to be a plumber. Definitely less selfish than being a momentum trader or a poker player.

I get that performers are self-involved. Sometimes self-obsessed. But selfish?

The job of a clown is to bring people pleasure. Joy. Happiness. Are the best in the profession—Jim Carrey, Sacha Baron Cohen, Robin Williams—selfish? That seems unfair.

So what do people actually mean when they say “clown school is selfish”?

They might mean something like:

  1. “Clowning doesn’t contribute much to other people.”
  2. “Julian will get more personal joy out of clown school than he’ll generate for others.”
  3. “Clown school isn’t contributory (either because clowning isn’t, or because clown school won’t lead to clowning).”
  4. “Clown school interferes with more contributory things you could be doing.”

Here’s how these land:

1. “Clowning doesn’t contribute much.”

I’m dismissing this outright as a misunderstanding of what this school teaches. This school teaches how to find pleasure in order to share it. You can believe pleasure is unimportant, but if you believe it matters, clowning is clearly contributory.

2. “You’ll get more out of this than others will.”

This becomes a comment about skill.
If I will always be a bad clown, then yes: clown school would be more self-pleasure than other-pleasure. But that assumes failure as destiny. I’m earnestly trying to learn these skills. I want to be good at play, connection, and generosity. Multiple people—people with no incentive to flatter me—have said clowning seems like a particularly great fit for me. I think so too.

3. “Clown school won’t lead to clowning.”

This is the critique I take most seriously.

My goal isn’t to become a professional clown per se: it’s to become a better performer, a better player, a better connector. I want to learn charisma. I want to learn to bring joy not just onstage but in everyday life. I want to learn to play for the sake of fun rather than optimization. I want to play well with my nephew. I want to play well with future kids of my own.

If I’m truly seeking personal enrichment more than professional clowning, then yes, one could call that “selfish.” But personal enrichment that increases one’s capacity to love, play, and be present seems… not exactly a moral failing.

4. “Is clown school the best use of your time?”

Honestly? I don’t know. A year is long. (Well, seven months of actual school.) But I’m not locked in. Students drop in and out. There’s one course in March I’m particularly excited about. For the rest, I’m open: if more-contributory opportunities appear, I’ll take them. If someone offered me a full-time job tomorrow, I’d consider it. (And, notably, I applied to one recently.)

At the moment, my time is quite unoccupied. I’m writing for one company, and that leaves plenty of space. So: clown school.

I want a family someday. I want kids. Cultivating lightness and play feels deeply aligned with the values I want to bring into a home. And I’m at a turning point: many friends are settling down. If not now, then when would I ever have the time to go to clown school? When else would learning to stay light during stress be so valuable?

I was bumming around the U.S. in a van.
I was working half-time, sometimes quarter-time, vaguely searching for more.
Given that reality, filling the time with something joyful and growth-oriented seems… pretty reasonable.

But if someone wants to hire me for something more productive, I’m here for it!

(Finally: when pressed, the poker friend admitted he couldn’t clearly articulate what he meant by “selfish.” He guessed it was closest to number 3, but also said his inability to articulate the position probably means it’s weakly held. That’s reassuring. I thought this assessment was more associational than well-considered. Still, it’s good to check.)

[P.s. I’ll share this write-up with the first friend, too. They might have a whole different analysis of how the selfishness works, in which case I’ll jot up a part 2 🤓]

Clown School Break Day 6: What Does the _____ Say?

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In which our hero echoes (echoes, echoes, echoes).

Apparently I’m good at vocal impressions.

That’s cool.

That’s fun.

I’ve been doing them for years.

The first one I ever mastered was my cousin Lawrence, who speaks like a college-professor walrus with an abiding love of donuts. A classic.

Then, at some point, people told me that doing other people’s voices was rude.

And then recently, a travel buddy pointed out that I unconsciously slip into people’s accents when I talk to them. It’s not intentional—I just mirror their sound.

It’s nice to realize I have an actual skill.

And that my joy leaks through in the process.

Fittingly, the first thing I did well in clown school was an impression: I imitated the sound of someone singing in Japanese. The room laughed. The teacher approved. It worked.

America is too uptight about accents.

Doing impressions isn’t inherently offensive.

Relax.

—

Completely unrelated: I feel noticeably worse when I eat carbs—less emotionally present, more buzzy and numb.

I think diet will have an impact on my clowning.

Says a friend: “Maybe the challenge is to feel present and emotionally in tune regardless of what you’ve eaten or how you’ve slept or whatever”

And that’s fair.

But also, isn’t one generally better at life when one is living aligned with what one wants?

Clown School Break Day 4: Return of the G

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In which Our Hero gets his groove back. 

Friend: “We’re looking for ladyfingers”
Grocery store employee: “What are those?”
Me: “They’re like chicken fingers but made out of women.”
Employee: “I can’t stand men, but that’s a good one.”

A friend told me I’m funnier now than before clown school—that I tell jokes for other people more than I used to.

That’s nice.

I do feel myself joining other people’s worlds more readily. It feels more comfortable, somehow safer. Like I’m less afraid of being hurt by them. Like I’ve internalized the fact that the pain of rejection is both temporary and unreal. 

And I am still unquestionably afraid. But the fear is now useful. It’s a companion. A friend. I just need to embrace it, befriend it, and place it properly so it doesn’t own me.

At dinner, my dad asked me to do an impression I’ve done before: one of the teachers from my Le Jeu course this summer. I did it, and it was fun. The fact that sharing pleasure is more important than the impression’s accuracy put me at ease. Historically, I’ve refused in spots like this. Maybe because doing someone else’s game felt uncomfortable. But why? Who cares? Might as well give pleasure. Spread joy. 

I was more open and comfortable and relaxed in general.

And noticing the spots when I wasn’t. And releasing them. 

These are nice.

Thanks, clown school. 

Clown School Day 34: Frustration Sans Fun

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In which Our Hero wonders what specific problem is afoot.

My roommate asked if I’m on the spectrum.

He teaches improv to autistic kids professionally, so the question wasn’t random. He even offered some lightly camouflaged feedback he gives his students:

  • They find the game and play it very hard, but ignore the pleasure of the people around them.
  • They approach situations with a kind of childlike openness, but the moment someone comments on them, they build a thick, impenetrable shield.

I asked him if he is on the spectrum.
He said no.

I’m grateful for his attempt to help. I’m also aware his description fits me in class. What I’m still missing are the “what” and “how” of changing it.

–

I’ve only worked in one real office. I was 19, a sophomore in college, with a summer job at a NYC marketing agency. They paid me $16/hr to make the same repeated mouse clicks, transferring digital assets from one system to another. I downloaded a mouse-recording tool and automated my job. Then automated the interns’ jobs. Then automated my direct superior’s job.

And nobody liked me.

I was there to work. To do the task. To be effective. Clock in, clock out, $16/hr. Promotion was not on the menu. Mostly, they just wanted me swept quietly under the rug.

The connection between that summer and here isn’t skill: I’m far worse at clowning than I was at automating workflows. The connection is the feeling in the room. The details are different, but the emotional texture is uncannily similar. There, as here, I tried to make friends. There, as here, people were cordial but uninterested.

To me, clown school feels like a coworking space. Others have formed friendships; I’m batting maybe 2-for-10 on hangout invitations, with no successful follow-ups/second hangs from the two. Eventually you give up, videochat friends from home, and read a book.

It makes it harder that I’m not enjoying the classes.
Nor am I learning well.
It’s just terrifically challenging.

Maybe that’s intentional: the hardest class comes after the fundamentals.
Or maybe I’m unraveling.
I keep wondering whether the problems I had back in April/May were different ones. I was in a completely different psycho-emotional state then.

–

After class today, a teacher asked what I planned to do with my broken foot.

I told them I’m of two minds:

  1. Take it as a sign from the gods and get the fuck out of here, returning in January.
  2. Stay and see whether this new, legless constraint allows for new growth.

–

Last night a friend told me I only ever talk about myself.
Sure.
My pleasure is in the game. And it is vast. But it doesn’t seem to be in the sharing. More autistic people become computer programmers than clowns. Perhaps I’m less naturally equipped. Maybe my version of sharing the game is the multiple clowns who I helped with visa applications. Maybe it’s in the creation of a clown house so people aren’t stuck with individual roomshares. Maybe it’s cleverness or intellect. Those play poorly on this stage.

High achievers share one trait: grit.
Do I want to grit through this?
Do I even want to be a clown?

At the beginning, my clown school goals were 80% spiritual and 20% tangible. The tangible ones were:

  • Learn the practice.
  • Learn the theory.
  • Make friends.

Right now:

  • I’m injured.
  • People keep telling me they don’t connect with me (and act like it).
  • Peers are also sharing their suffering.

–

One performer friend says the physical restriction might actually help my clowning. Another says being forced to “not try so hard” might help me be better at clowning and enjoy myself more.

Personally, I’m unconvinced the foot bone is connected to the trying bone. Or that either one attaches to the funny bone.

Meanwhile I spent six hours crying on Tuesday.
Cried three more times today.
And feel like I’m banging my head against a wall.
(This feels like a particularly intense few weeks, not my new permanent state.)

With my foot injury, I even lost morning movement class, which I liked more than afternoon improv.

Ugh.

Today in class I performed one of the “substances”: Chloric Acid. I struggled because I didn’t know what specific acid she meant. She said it was something used to unclog drains, so I did drano. She said my rhythm was too slow. My later googling suggests chloric acid can have a fast, popping rhythm—but it is definitely not a drain cleaner. Maybe she meant hydrochloric acid? If this is my problem at clown school, maybe I’m better suited to be a chemist. (Tomorrow, I hope they ask me to play Barium Disodium.)

When it came time for “cream,” I sat out.
Then I lied down on the floor so I could elevate my fractured foot above my heart. Which my roommate later said indicated to him I was autistic.

What’s next?

Ugh.
Time for more searching.
The searching is the practice, I guess.

😮‍💨

​​Clown School Day 33: Milk, Movement, and Metatarsals

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In which Our Hero boils over, breaks down, and opens up.

I was milk.

Not your boring half-full breakfast glass:

I was milk on the stove that someone had forgotten about.

Warming gently, then rapidly, then dramatically.

I boiled, I foamed, I rose.

A glorious dairy geyser.

I was beautiful, exciting, energetic, light.

They loved me.

I was milking it for all it was worth.

And then I landed. Hard.

On the outside of my right foot.

The outermost digit rolled under the meat of the foot.

My milk, so recently ascendant, suddenly boiled over and ran down the sides of the pot.

Call it a turning point.

Or a turning-sour point.

Someone asked if I was hurt. I said no.

Classic milquetoast behavior.

They told me they loved my milk.

I felt genuinely glad: I’d worked hard yesterday—six hours improving myself, skimming off the emotional scum, clarifying my internal butter.

And today, between movement and improv, I stayed in the classroom to feel my feelings.

To laugh, to cry, to laugh-cry.

Just to be with myself.

A short personal pilgrimage to the Land of Milk and Honey.

No wonder my performance rose, like cream to the top.

Now I’m at the hospital.

I don’t think it’s broken.

I assume they’ll give me an X-ray, recommend some painkillers, and send me home.

A quick skim.

The triage nurse, Leo, asks if I’m a clown student.

The international ones usually are, he says.

Last year he had:

– a ruptured Australian Achilles (hi, A!)

– an American with a back problem, delivered via ambulance (hi, M!).

This year, he gets me: whole milk, 2% structurally compromised.

Leo asks where I’m from.

“California.”

He says “Alcatraz.”

I say I’ve never been.

He says it’s scary.

(It curdles his insides.)

Now I sit in the waiting room, surprisingly not souring.

Throughout this whole experience, I’ve actually felt my feelings pretty well—

and feeling them has made them less bad.

So much has to work in concert to enable walking, let alone clowning.

Bones, muscles, tendons:

a whole orchestra playing in tune.

Until suddenly the music sours
And my fifth metatarsal decides it has a bone to pick with me. (Alternate joke: “has beef with me”.)

The teacher who drove me here says I’m the first of the year.

The first!

The early bird. The early calf.

The first one to fall before the cows come home.

—

Diagnosis:

A fracture non-déplacée—a nondisplaced fracture of the 5th metatarsal.

Pain meds.

No weight on it.

Three weeks to heal.

A season put out to pasture.

Oddly, I’m calm.

It’s almost a relief to have a socially acceptable excuse for being bad at clowning.

(“Sorry, I should have been cream of the crop, but I was overwhipped/overbeaten and now I’ve split. Maybe I need to find butter things to do.”)

And despite the pain, I stayed with it—

full-fat presence.

—

I bought crutches, pain meds, and a boot from the pharmacy.

The pharmacist noted the challenge of carrying crutches while also needing crutches.

She asked where I live.

“Just across the street.”

She walked with me.

A small, wholesome kindness:

like a neighbor bringing over cookies and saying,

“Here, I brought you some warm milk for your soul.”

She knows my upstairs neighbor.

They have coffee together every day.

We bonded over our love for her cat, chausettes (“socks’ in french).

—

A surprising emotion: relief.

I told a friend about the injury and she asked how much of it might be emotional—

how sometimes a bone breaks when something else is begging to break.

She said when she broke a bone, it partly came from a life she didn’t love.

I get that.

My milk was already foaming over.

I wasn’t enjoying clown school.

I wasn’t doing it right.

I wasn’t satisfied personally either.

Then—splat.

Here comes God to shake it up.

And by God, I mean my own discoordination.

(Or the universe saying, “Time to churn.”)
As a friend sometimes describes about me: “Julian plans, and Julian laughs”.

So now I have a fracture.

And honestly… I don’t mind.

Sometimes the carton needs a dent.

—

My teacher offered to let me watch the rest of the course now and then take the actual course next year.

I’ll take them up on it.

The cows will come home eventually.

Perhaps it’s better that I watch this course.

I might have been trying too hard, mooving with too much vigor.

And at least—

miraculously—

I didn’t cry over spilled milk.

Clown School Weekend 6.2: The Rules of Clowning

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In which Our Hero attempts to eff the ineffable.

For weeks I’ve been trying to reverse-engineer what we’re actually doing in clown school.

There are moments in class when something works—a laugh, a tiny eruption of joy—and the teacher says, “Yes, that.” And then there are moments when the entire room goes still and we all collectively realize the joy has petered out.

Our teachers keep highlighting the importance of the game. I kept wishing there were actual rules. Not to restrict play—but to name what’s already happening.

So I wrote them.

This document is the clearest articulation I’ve managed so far of how the “game” of clowning works in the Gaulier school of thought: the goal, the metrics, the tactics, the traps, the physics of pleasure, the difference between Major and Minor, how to avoid killing your own play, why dignity matters, why heaviness kills the audience, and the one rule that seems to underlie everything: maximize total pleasure without harming yourself.

If you’re in clown training, or theatre, or comedy, or anything requiring presence and sensitivity, you may find this helpful. Or validating. Or confusing in a way that becomes helpful later. That’s typically how this school works.

Here is the full writeup. Comments are enabled in case you’re curious or want to poke at any element:

The Rules of Clowning

It covers:

  • What the “goal” of clowning actually is
  • What makes someone an attractive player
  • Why the audience’s pleasure outweighs your own
  • How to find a “good game”
  • How to play it without destroying it
  • Tactics for impulse, aura, dignity, lightness
  • The mechanics of Major/Minor
  • How to play beautifully with partners
  • How to avoid hurting yourself—physically, emotionally, professionally

If you’re not a clown and don’t plan to be one, it still might interest you. Clown logic rhymes with life logic more than we admit: be sensitive, be generous, be open, don’t force things, play the game that’s actually happening instead of the one in your head.

And share your pleasure. People open to you when you do.

Clown School Day 29: Camouflage & Collapse

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In which Our Hero becomes a stickbug and briefly a rooster.

My b-b-b-boring dance

Yesterday’s boring dance left me with two lingering side effects:

  1. I am now wearing gray facepaint and an all-gray outfit for camouflage purposes.
  2. I am suddenly much more interested in doing dumb things for others’ pleasure—which, conveniently, is exactly what clown school is for. (“Paint my face gray so it matches my outfit because I’m a stickbug? Absolutely.”) [Reader: “But stickbugs aren’t gray.” Me: “It’s for camouflage. Have you ever seen a gray stick bug?” Reader: “No” Me: “So it’s working!”]

A friend asked me today: “What exactly is Neutral Mask?”
Good question.

Neutral Mask – the course I’m currently taking – is a theater exercise using literal plastic masks—blank, expressionless, un-opinionated. We use them because:

  1. With the face hidden, you naturally grimace less. (“Grimace” = any habitual expression or tic that blocks the actor from sharing themselves with us.)
  2. You’re forced to communicate with your whole body.

A typical Neutral Mask sequence:

  1. Put on the mask.
  2. Channel some external entity—this week: animals (reptiles, savannah, big cats, barnyard creatures). Last week: elements (fire, water, earth, air, snow). The instruction is always: Find the fun of the image.
  3. Midway, the teacher bangs her drum: “Fixed point!” Students from the audience remove the performers’ masks.
  4. Performers continue and are called on one by one to give voice to their creature.
  5. If there’s not enough pleasure, you’re kicked off.
  6. If you pass, you slowly stand, taking that pleasure “inside,” transforming the creature into a character.
  7. Perform that character, always keeping the fun alive, whether through movement, worldview, or physical logic. This fun must not be ideas nor the concept of fun: it must be actual fun.

My creature: the stickbug

The stickbug mostly sits still, scanning the horizon for predators. When bothered, it:

  1. drops to the ground, or
  2. throws off a limb.

When it moves, it scurries, antennae twitching, always on alert.

My character: Simon Schticklington

Simon is entirely gray: outfit, face, and demeanor. When frightened, he collapses from sudden “heart trouble.” He also has severe imaginary arthritis: elbows locked at 90°, hips straight, fingers in rigid blade-positions forever.

He lends himself to a few games:

  1. Motor incompetence. Want a soda bottle opened? Simon will attempt it with profound sincerity and fail with even more sincerity.
  2. Fear-collapse. When scared, he drops—and because of the elbow/hip rules, he cannot stand without the heroic assistance of classmates.
  3. Projectile panic. Startle him while he’s holding something and he throws it. Today I brought a baguette specifically so I could chuck it at a friend guilt-free.

He also just looks silly. Which is good. Yesterday’s boring-dance taught me the deep wisdom of looking stupid on purpose. It’s liberating.

Today’s unexpected triumph

Today I had my biggest solo success. I entered inspired by a rooster: chest puffed, arms akimbo-ish, each step ceremonial and deliberate. They laughed. I kept the pleasure. I preened (like a gym bro). They laughed again.

I lost the balance shortly after—but for a glorious five seconds, I was clowning.

It’s good to remember that I’m b-b-b-boring. It’s good to remember that I do dumb things. People like people who admit such things about themselves.

And anyway: I’m dressed like a stickbug. 🧐