#because he’s rather sit at the kids table and make macaroni maps than have to do grown up shit

[yorshie]

In case this goes to shit I want everyone to see how adorable sketchHoyt looks before I try and render him.

[barryhuff]

Nostalgiaholic - The Remix

When I used to look up at the night sky alone as a child, I imagined a sinister, infinite, black, blanket sprinkled with glitter. Although, when my eyes followed the tip of my Uncle Jon’s finger, as he both traced celestial, stick-figures in the same sky and narrated their mythic, Greek stories, space always transformed from that lifeless blanket and into a destination to be explored. 

Jon, at times, was so inspired by space and space travel, he filled canvases dedicated to the filtered visuals he discerned.  As a dedicated science-fiction nerd, his paintings certainly had their share of stylized spaceships, laser beams, and explosions.  But as an equal part, planetarium-loving, star chart-studying, telescope-owning, amateur astronomer, Jon’s celestial backgrounds were wild, bubbling layers of greens, whites, blues, and reds, instead of a simple, flat, all-consuming blackness. Those paintings showed the cosmos as a tangible, topographic map ready to be explored, and not a deep, infinite sea of loneliness. 

That being said, I used to daily study a picture Jon painted of an astronaut floating upside down in the aurora borealis lights of Jon’s interpretation of space.  The figure held tight to the lifeline coming from his spacesuit at the waist with his left hand.  However, the same lifeline extended from the suit like a piece of floating spaghetti getting smaller, until it vanished in the distant horizon.  His right hand (so big that it appeared to explode from the canvas), desperately reached out for salvation.  

The reflective shield on the helmet hinted at the impending doom of the astronaut.  The reflection didn’t show a ship or even another hand reaching back, instead there were simply more endless miles of lively, colorful flashes of the space setting to die alone in.

No matter how much I wanted to imagine hope for the character, there was none… at least for him.

I often wonder if Jon’s painting was inspired by one of his favorite movies, the 1968 Stanley Kubrick classic 2001: A Space Odyssey.   When it finally, came on network T.V. one Saturday afternoon in the 1980s, I was excited to see it.  Hell, if Jon liked it, I would certainly like it.

False.  It turns out there were two barriers to me enjoying 2001: A Space Odyssey --  Star Wars and silence. 

One summer, my brother and I bragged about watching Star Wars 47 times on HBO.

I thoroughly enjoyed "The Bar Scene".  Especially the part in which a handsome, tanned, mischievous Han Solo (brown, feathered hair parted evenly in the middle) tried in vain to smooth-talk the twitchy-trigger-fingered, reptilian, green-faced, bug eyed, intergalactic thug Greedo (bald head).

Shit, reciting Greedo’s opening line to Han for anyone who’d listen (“Oo-nah too-tah, Solo?”) is still one of my favorite past-times.

In Star Wars, everyone could cover vast distances in the dark, dusty, intensely cold, INFINITE vacuum of space. It’s as easy as a con-artist pulling a few levers, confidently bellowing the order, “Punch it, Chewie”, and going faster than light without having to even buckle a seatbelt.

In reality, distances in outer space were not so easily traversed.

The Earth’s moon is 238,000 miles away. It took Neil Armstrong and the fellas six days to get from Earth, to the moon, and back, all while being cooped up in basically a large, flying port-a-potty. Their spacesuits looked about as comfortable as wearing every outfit in the average American’s good-credit-infused, stuffed closet AT ONCE.

This detail of space travel was not lost ‘Stanley Kubrick’s flick.  Even though there are a beautiful array of stunning special effects, it often felt like the audience traveled each second of the 365 million mile trip from the Moon to Jupiter.  There were no visual cues of a blurring landscape to both gage speed and generate a sense of movement.  The stars are perched in the background like apathetic teenagers forced to sit at the table during dinner, when they’d rather be in the solitude of their own rooms.

Body movements and conversations in the film were also slowed, as if everyone was walking in a filled swimming pool.  Mix in a relaxing soundtrack of orchestral music, and it’s the perfect lullaby capable of depowering my movie-watching enthusiasm.  In fact, the first five times I tried to watch the movie, I would fall asleep at an early scene featuring a space stewardess silently laboring down the aisle in her gravity “grip shoes” on her way to ultimately retrieve a floating pen for a sleeping passenger while composer Johann Strauss’s famous waltz, The Blue Danube, rhythmically chants in the background.

A few years ago, I tried one final time to watch the movie. And this time with the help of a streaming video platform, I was able to pause, re-group, pause, re-group, pause, re-group, and finally watch the movie my uncle loved.  

The striking thing about the movie is how quiet it actually was.  For much of the movie, there are no musical cues to warn of danger or intrigue.  Dialogue was conducted over the subtle drone of machines simply doing their mundane jobs of keeping the enormous spacecraft running during its long flight to Jupiter.   Life and death sequences were not given intense music accompaniment like traditional horror movies.  It’s as if Kubrick was saying, “People’s lives aren’t being scored by some musician to bookmark key events.  Life is merely something that happens -- even in space.”

It’s this absence of audible hints that makes 2001: A Space Odyssey uncomfortably realistic, as if the audience was watching a livestream of a computer gaining sentience, refusing to die (be turned off) and fighting off his oppressors (the flight crew).  

I’ve read that when a “vacuum” exists, somehow all of nature rushes to fill that empty hole.  So it’s funny that many science experiments happen in conditions that closely resemble a vacuum, in an effort to ensure results unweighted by additional stimuli.  Interestingly enough, because the movie is set in the vast, unforgiving, vacuum of space, Kubrick’s storytelling, in essence, becomes an experiment to determine if audiences will stay engaged without the traditional musical trappings.  Indeed, this stark story about the thrilling birth of strange, other-worldly life injected energy into overall science fiction mythology, and also into my young uncle.

Over the past 11 years, I have written a fairly regular Facebook post titled Reasons I Know I’m Getting Old.  When I started this, Facebook seemed to simply be a 21st century photo album, in which many people posted similar, stiff, smiling, posed pictures and inspiring quotes which suggested my extended online community was living their own collective happily ever afters.

But it was boring...

I mean, I loved my kids too, but were only my kids getting whoopings and other childhood punishments?  My wife was awesome too, but was I the only person still having trouble translating to her the humor in my daily fart symphonies?  Was no one else dealing with the often deflating, drudgery of the work-place?  Was parenting a lifelong crap-shoot for me only?  Because there was no connection to what I was seeing on my finger strolls on my phone, I was having a hard time wanting to even own a Facebook account.

Therefore, on April 14, 2009, I conducted an experiment:  How would my friends respond to a post that showed some dissatisfaction?  Nothing political or religious, just everyday grumblings.  I wrote:

“[Barry Huff] is dragging in from coaching his daughter's basketball team only to be greeted by Cap'n Crunch and a [sic] yet another pile of papers to grade!”

It received nine comments (four of those were my own).  And one of those commenters hinted that they understood the challenge of managing the grading paperload.

Facebook soon became a sliver into my reality normally hidden, when I walked into my home and shut the door for anyone who wanted to see access.  Initially, reposting fill-in-the blank lists, or other people’s videos, didn’t interest me.  I just wanted folks to know it was okay to not have all the answers.  Here I was, boogers and all.

But the experiment gathered a more scientific component in March 2020 -- the addition of an actual vacuum.  

In March 2020, the United States of America instituted a national quarantine in the hope of limiting the possibility of infection from the rapidly spreading “severe acute respiratory syndrome coronavirus 2 (SARS-CoV-2)”, shortened simply to the “Coronavirus”.   I suspect that the horrified wails of a certain mexican beer company sharing part of the same name as the virus (after having carefully crafted years of popular commercials associating its product with serene, relaxing beach scenes) are still heard by masked customers now filling their shopping carts with other adult beverages.  Thus ensuring (at least in a few inebriated minds) binge drinking episodes without sudden, beer-birthed, pockets of community spread.

During this quarantine, the noise of my life (reporting to a building to teach, side-hustles, sporting events, car travel, movies, fast food) disappeared.  And with that sudden vacuum, came the desire to collect and revise the writings I posted about the uncertainty of navigating adulthood.

And while I still worry if I have the skill to create something that gives a clearer picture of my true self to my wife and kids, each vignette is a piece of the mosaic of my humanity.  And hopefully, this collection of blessed fallibility won’t be unnecessarily camouflaged during the stories told at my funeral one day, as attendees gulp down heaping portions of smothered pork steak, collard greens, macaroni, and apple pie piled on their sagging, disposable plates.