Age brings more reminders of what we've lost

It’s a well-known phenomenon. You hear that song on the radio, and it takes you back to your senior prom, your first concert, summer camp or some other event relegated to memory. It activates that memory and makes it new again. You know you can never go back there again, but in that moment, you remember what it was like to be there.

You smile a little smile, and maybe you get choked up a little, too. It’s the essence of “bittersweet.”

Because music is such a potent reminder of the past, it hurts to realize it’s going to stay there. That’s what happened a couple of years ago, when a large number of famed musicians from my childhood all left us: David Bowie, Glen Frey of the Eagles, Prince, George Michael, Leonard Cohen, Merle Haggard, Keith Emerson and Greg Lake of ELP, Leon Russell.

It wasn’t just the year the music died, it was a year a part of us died, because with their deaths, we knew they’d never be making new music again. We’d never get another chance to see them in concert. Even if their bands had broken up, there had always been a chance they’d get back together, at least for a reunion show. No more. I remember thinking about that when John Lennon died. There would never be a Beatles reunion. Maybe there wouldn’t have been one, anyway, but there had always been that hope.

Hope is about the future; memories are about the past. They work best in tandem, and when we lose one part of that equation, we’re a little worse off for it.

We didn’t just lose musicians in 2016. My childhood sitcoms were decimated by the deaths of Florence Henderson (The Brady Bunch), William Christopher (M*A*S*H), Abe Vigoda and Ron Glass (Barney Miller), Alan Thicke (Growing Pains) and Garry Marshall (creator of Happy Days, Laverne and Shirley and Mork & Mindy).

They live on in reruns, but in some ways, that’s just as hard, because whenever you see them, there’s a chance you’ll be reminded that they’re no longer with us.

This happens to me a lot, with music, TV shows, landmarks, mementos, old photographs.

I see movies starring Alan Rickman or Robin Williams, and I can’t help but be reminded how much I valued their talents … and now, they’re no longer here.

TAKEN FOR GRANTED

You take things for granted when you’re young, at least I did. When I first became aware of things, I assumed they’d always been that way and that they always would be. I think the first time I realized they wouldn’t was when I moved back to my hometown, Fresno, at age 15, after six years away. The radio station formats had changed. The big discount department store called White Front, where everyone had shopped, was gone. The Lesterburger fast food chain, which had been ubiquitous in the 1960s, had gone out of business, too. It all seemed surreal, impossible even.

Three more years passed, and there was a new freeway and a new football stadium. Both were big improvements, but I still remember sitting on the splintery wooden seats at the old stadium and watching Fresno State’s football team rout Los Angeles State (back when it had a football team). The splinters aren’t a pleasant memory, but the game itself is, and they’re tied together in my soon-to-be-55-year-old mind.

Going south on a trip to San Diego last weekend on U.S. 101, I passed through the area where I lived for six years as a child and young teenager: Woodland Hills. I was reminded of riding in my parents’ Buick LeSabre down that same Ventura Freeway to see the Dodgers play every summer in the 1970s. People mention Bill Buckner’s error on his gimpy leg for the Red Sox in the 1986 series, and it triggers memories of when he was my next-door neighbor in Southern California, making circus catches in the outfield for the Dodgers before that leg slowed him down.

When I went back to Fresno as an adult a year or two ago, I went back to eat at the first Me-N-Ed’s pizza parlor on Blackstone, where my folks introduced me to my favorite pizza (cheese and black olives) when I was 5 or 6. Yes, it’s still there, and that’s comforting. But it also reminds me that my parents aren’t, and that will never stop hurting.

When I see high school football games, I remember when I used to cover them as a reporter for the Tulare Advance-Register. When I drive by my old office, I remember when I used to work there.

"BACK IN MY DAY"

Then there’s the music.

Whenever I hear the Eagles’ Best of My Love, I remember sitting by the radio in my room, listening to the week’s top 40 countdown and wondering what would be No. 1 that week.

When I hear Have You Never Been Mellow? by Olivia Newton John, I think of riding to summer school at A.E. Wright Middle School, the ride so much longer than it needed to be because of all the stops they made in the canyons and foothills west of the San Fernando Valley. And me, sitting there, my legs cramped and hurting because, even at that age, I was far too tall to fit comfortably in bus seats designed for third-graders.

Maybe it’s because I’ve done so much historical writing that these memories hit me so often, but I think it’s the other way around: The feeling that the past is somehow slipping away has prompted me to keep some portion of it alive, if only in recorded memory. I suspect it happens to a lot of people like this, even if they don’t write any of it down, and that’s why our elders reminisce so often about the way things used to be “back in my day.”

My dad did that, and now I’m doing it, too.

It’s bittersweet to remember the things that are gone, but the alternative, forgetting them, is far worse.

Trump doesn't want us to think for ourselves

Note: This is a free bonus chapter you won't find in my new book. Media Meltdown in the Age of Trump chronicles the decline of the mainstream media, the rise of Donald Trump and how the two developments have created a new and dangerous reality in the 21st century. It's now available on Amazon.

Donald J. Trump doesn’t want you to read this.

He doesn’t want you to think about it. He doesn’t want you to think, period.

He wants doesn’t want you to consider the evidence and decide for yourself, because if you do, he knows he’s in trouble. There’s a boatload of circumstantial evidence against him, and if we start piecing it all together, he knows he’ll look pretty damned guilty. He knows Robert Mueller is doing just that, but he also knows that the ultimate decisions will be made in the court of public opinion, because our system subjects presidents to political, rather than judicial remedies for “high crimes and misdemeanors.”

So, he’s attacking Mueller personally before the special counsel even presents any evidence. He’s seeking to discredit the messenger, just as he does with the press, because he’s afraid of the message.

Trump admitted doing this to the press, CBS journalist Lesley Stahl said, when he told her, “You know why I do it? I do it to discredit you all and demean you all so when you write negative stories about me, no one will believe you.”

He’s doing the same thing with Mueller, accusing him of partisan bias and of drawing things out, knowing that the public doesn’t have the same patience as a court does for sifting through mounds of evidence and arriving at a conclusion based on thoughtful analysis. Fatigue sets in and process itself becomes unpopular, so Mueller – as the driving force behind that process – becomes unpopular, as well.

Poisoning the well

A bias against the process can be used as a wedge to open the way for bias against the person, which Trump can use to taint the entire process and to discredit the evidence based on who’s presenting it rather than how strong it is. In logical terms, he’s resorting to an ad hominem fallacy, a baseless form of argument that’s used to distract from the facts at hand.

Why should Trump want to discredit Mueller, who at the outset of this process was lauded by Republicans as well as Democrats as a straight arrow who would act impartially to unearth the facts? Why doesn’t he simply follow the advice of political handlers to let the process play out?

Because Trump is scared the evidence will lead to him. He believes he should be above the law, and he’s exploiting the weaknesses of our system to make that belief reality. If he can get public opinion on his side and retain a majority of his own party in Congress, he knows guilt or innocence won’t matter. Political expediency will. And he’s determined to use that to his advantage.

Think about it

Courts use circumstantial evidence to establish guilt or innocence through reasoning. They lay out a series of facts, connect the dots and ask that juries reach a conclusion based on those facts, whether or not there’s any direct evidence.

Verdicts based on circumstantial evidence are every bit as valid as those where there’s DNA, video, fingerprints or some other form of “smoking gun” to connect the accused to the scene. Frequently, such evidence simply isn’t available. Eyewitness testimony? It’s often unreliable, and can be less worthy of consideration than a healthy dose of circumstantial evidence, because it’s notoriously unreliable.

Despite this, there’s a public perception that circumstantial evidence is less credible than direct evidence. We want to “see for ourselves,” and it’s only when we do that we’re satisfied. We were both satisfied and outraged when we learn that Richard Nixon had erased 18 minutes of White House tapes, even though he retained broad support until close to the time he resigned. We reacted the same way when we saw Ray Rice on video decking his fiancée in a casino elevator. But not before. Such conclusions don’t require thinking or reasoning. They’re based a simple, visceral reactions to sensory input.

Trump wants us to rely on those visceral reactions. He doesn’t want us to think. He wants us to devalue reason as a means of arriving at decisions – specifically, his guilt or innocence. He can't control people’s reasoning, but he can control their reactions to some extent, and he does so by feeding our bias against circumstantial evidence (and the thought process we use to evaluate it) at every opportunity.

Two-pronged attack

Because he’s the president, Trump can take advantage of a powerful bully pulpit to pound home his message continually. He does so through social media, his cronies and his PR machine, who love to repeat it, and through mainstream media outlets, which have to do so because it’s news. In doing so, he makes the very people he wants to discredit (the press) complicit in his efforts.

These efforts amount to a two-pronged attack on our ability to reason and our right of self-determination.

First, Trump encourages us to rely on our emotions in making up our minds. He nurtures and feeds hidden biases against black Americans, immigrants, Muslims, women, Democrats and the press for precisely this purpose. He calls them names to discredit them or make them appear “weak.” It’s not that he hates these people. His personal sentiments toward them are irrelevant. What’s important is that he can condition us to rely on our emotional biases, rather than our brains, to make decisions.

Second, he attacks the evidence itself – and its sources. We should discount that evidence because (he says) it’s “fake news.” Then, he replaces it with his own propaganda – which is itself fake. Because we’re relying on our biases instead of our brains, we’re no longer using the only tool at our disposal to tell the difference. This is why the press is a particular target; if he can cut off the flow of information, the biggest source of temptation to think for ourselves will have been cut off.

He’ll have us right where he wants us. The process is taking too long, which proves Mueller is on a fishing expedition and out to get him. This means any evidence Mueller might find is suspect and, probably, tainted by his own self-interest. It should therefore be discarded in favor of our own biases in favor of the Republican Party, conservatism, nationalism and, most importantly, Trump himself.

That’s reasoning based on assumption, not fact, which is exactly what bias is. We rely on it based on our need for instant gratification in a busy society where we have little time for the kind of analysis that’s necessary to call him on his B.S.

Divide and conquer

This tactic isn’t new to Trump. Hillary Clinton did the same thing when she blamed Republicans for engaging in a vast right-wing conspiracy to bring down her husband – who, like Trump, was accused of womanizing and lying. Clinton denied lying under oath, even as he admitted misleading the American people about the Lewinsky affair. He was impeached in the House of Representatives but acquitted by the Senate, not based on evidence, but on political considerations.

The Democrats controlled the Senate then, just as the Republicans control both houses of Congress now.

Trump is exploiting that advantage, but he’s going much further. Instead of simply relying on politics to save him from one or two serious accusations, he’s striking at the core of our ability to access information, to process it: to reason. Because even if he escapes the Russia probe, he’ll have to deal with other accusations. Stormy Daniels and Michael Cohen. Obstruction. Taxes and political donations. His financial interests and his family’s role in all of the above.

He needs us to stop thinking for ourselves, so he’s fueling our own hatreds, fears and biases to divide us as he feeds us his own distorted version of the truth. He’s keeping us at each other’s throats so we don’t realize we have a common enemy: him.

The problem, however, goes beyond Trump. In conditioning us not to think – to accept that Barack Obama was born in Kenya; that Mexicans are drug dealers and rapists; that climate change isn’t real; that his inauguration crowd was the biggest in history – he’s creating a “new normal” that could be exploited by others long after he’s gone.

There’s only one way to stop a steamroller that threatens our right and even our ability to think rationally by dumbing us down and cutting off the flow of information.

Don’t ignore circumstantial evidence. Don’t give in to your biases. When Trump or anyone else asks you to believe something based merely on what he says or your own biases, refuse to simply accept it.

Question. Analyze. Insist on thinking for yourself.

This is what it's like to be laid off in America

This is what it’s like to be laid off in America. Whether you’ve been working at an auto plant or a steel mill, at a department store or a white-collar job.

It means telling your family you no longer have a job, and feeling like you’ve let them down by failing at the one thing that you’re best at. The one thing they were counting on you to do.

It means trying to act “professional” even though you’re suddenly without a profession.

It means no longer living from paycheck to paycheck, because now you’re living from no check to no check.

If unemployment is low, you see yourself as part of the bottom 5 percent. If it's high, you feel like just another statistic.

It means asking others for help even as you update your resume to read that you’re a “self-starter.”

It means knowing you might not have the money to pay the rent, but that you might not have the money to move, either.

It means being pissed as hell that you’re losing your health insurance. That you might have to accept a job that doesn’t include that benefit. And that the government still hasn’t figured out how to be compassionate to its citizens when it comes to their health.

If it even wants to.

This is what it’s like to be laid off in America …

It means starting from scratch in the middle of life. It means putting plans for vacations and celebrations on hold. Indefinitely.

It means changing your personal information on Facebook from “works at” to “worked at,” and signing up for LinkedIn again, which you’ve let lapse because you’ve never had much use for it and thought you never would.

It means listening to people tell you how sure they are you’ll find something else, something better, and agreeing with a smile because it’s socially acceptable, even though deep down inside, you have no idea whether it’s true or not.

When strangers ask you what you do for a living, it’s too embarrassing to tell them you’re unemployed, so you cushion the blow by saying you’re “between jobs,” even though you know they’ll get the message, anyway. Which is something you didn’t want to share. But, again, it’s the socially acceptable thing to do.

And if you’ve got impostor syndrome, if you feel like you’ve been faking it all along, you take this as confirmation. But knowing you were right doesn’t help because you’d been hoping you were wrong.

Yet now you have to put your best foot forward and sell yourself again, even though you’ve been made to feel as worthless as you have in a very long time. You know it’s not your fault, but that doesn’t stop the emptiness that somehow manages to tie itself in knots down in the pit of your stomach.

It means feeling taken advantage of, betrayed and used. You find yourself saying the words “irrelevant” and “expendable” in your head, and applying them to yourself.

This is what it’s like to be laid off in America …

It means putting on a brave face for co-workers at your going-away party, even though you know you might never see them again and, yes, you’ll miss them. They say nice things about you that make you choke up, and they give you heartfelt gifts. This makes you feel like you’re a Viking at your own funeral, receiving treasures to preserve you in the afterlife, and you tell yourself you were slain in battle and that being a Viking is pretty damned cool.

You tell yourself that there are far worse things in life, like incurable cancer or losing a spouse — that it would be far worse to wake up each morning without the love of your life beside you, or knowing that you only had a short time left to live. But knowing these things doesn’t help; it just makes you feel guilty for feeling bad about your own situation when others have it worse, and that guilt is like toxic frosting on top of the pain you’re already feeling.

It’s being told that it’s nothing personal. That it’s a business decision. And you want to tell them that people are more important than their bottom line, but you know it won’t make any difference, so you keep your mouth shut and act professional. Like you understand. Like you’re comforting them. But they’re the ones who don’t understand.

When they say that, it’s like when your significant other breaks up with you and says, “It’s not you. It’s me.” And you want to say to the bearer of this bad news, “If it’s your fault, then why aren’t you handing in your resignation?

You wish it had been a performance issue, because then they would have just written you up and you would’ve had a chance to improve. Then you would have had some control over the situation.

Not like this.

You wonder if you were let go because you were making too much money. If you did your job too well and they could no longer afford someone with your skills. Was this your Catch-22? If you do well, you’ll get a raise, but at the end of the day, that will be the cause of your termination?

You feel like collateral damage, marginalized into the minefield of someone else’s bottom line.

It’s hating that your former employer did this to you, but wishing the best for the people who still work there. Your former comrades in arms. Your friends. It’s trying to reconcile those two feelings in the back of a mind beset by new worries and fresh disappointment.

But mostly, you just feel empty and rudderless, hurt and alone. And disempowered.

This is what it’s like to be laid off in America.

Why I support Michael Erin Woody for Congress

For the first time in 12 years, I’m voting for a Republican.

A lot is at stake in this midterm election, but something bigger is at stake in the history of our country: the right to choose. As both parties become more polarized, independents like me are left with no choice at all. We vote for the candidate who most closely reflects our views, even though that candidate is often more extreme than we are.

We become party-line voters, not by choice, but of necessity, because there are no other real options. This creates a false sense that we’ve endorsed extreme viewpoints and reinforces those viewpoints in the future. We are, in effect, encouraging candidates to continue running far-right or far-left campaigns, because we keep on voting for them.

This inherent weakness in the two-party system was kept in check during an era when civility was still the norm, both in the halls of Congress and in society. But increasingly, that’s not the case. Decidedly uncivil, even rude behavior has been on the rise, and as we condone it in our candidates, they feel free to keep upping the ante.

Because. It. Works.

I’m voting for the Republican candidate in California’s 24th Congressional District because he doesn’t look like a typical Republican (at least not in 2018). I don’t agree with Michael Erin Woody on everything. In fact, his opposition to single-payer health care is problematic for me, because I believe strongly that health care should be recognized as a right, not an opportunity for big corporations to make money.

But here’s the thing: We don’t have to agree with our chosen candidates on everything. Back before “compromise” became a dirty word, it was how we got things done. If a candidate is rejected because he or she scores “only” 90 percent on some interest group’s checklist, rather than 100, that’s a recipe for gridlock – which is where we’ll be stuck as long as we keep insisting that our way is the only way. We have to be willing to at least consider other options.

That’s what Woody does. He’s a civil engineer from Morro Bay who I know from my hometown, Fresno, where he served on the City Council. I consider him a friend. But I’m not voting for him because of that. On the contrary, we became friends in large measure because we share a key value: the importance of thinking for yourself, regardless of party platforms.

Woody told The Santa Barbara Independent that “the Republican Party has lost its way.”

I agree. With many moderates and mavericks on the GOP side leaving Congress, the party needs all the help it can get.

Woody supports same-sex marriage, a position that’s at odds with Republicans who fought tenaciously against it in passing Proposition 8. Woody not only isn’t apologizing for his stand, he announced it at the very outset of his campaign. He also supports continuing to allow transgender individuals to serve in the nation’s military, bucking the Trump administration’s position on that issue. And he opposes offshore oil drilling, another position at odds with President Trump – but one shared by a lot of voters in the 24th District. Woody’s not only willing to challenge the leader of his own party on this issue, he’s taking a position that puts his potential constituents ahead of party politics. That’s important, because politicians are elected to represent their districts, not other politicians.

Woody has named infrastructure as one of his priorities, focusing attention on a problem that Trump pledged to address, then abandoned. It’s a key issue in a state where many roads and bridges are in need of repair and replacement.

As many of my readers know, I’m no fan of Trump, but this isn’t about who’s president. I want to see Democrats stand up to their party leaders, too, and vote based on their principles and their constituents’ interests rather than partisan precepts. Dialogue is preferable to dogma, and it’s the only way to solve problems. I’m confident that Woody would encourage that kind of dialogue in Washington.

Politicians often talk about running the government like a business, then proceed to spend millions of dollars on their campaigns on the assumption that money equals votes. Woody hasn’t focused on raising money, but on spending it wisely and getting the most bang for his buck during the current campaign. That’s the kind of attitude we need in Washington, where Republicans who preach fiscal restraint bust budgets more egregiously than the Democrats they criticize. (Contrast Woody, who runs his own small business, with a president whose companies have declared bankruptcy six times.)

And Woody’s running an issues-based campaign, focusing on his own ideas rather than attacking his opponents. By contrast, Justin Fareed spent much of his time in televised debates criticizing Democrat Salud Carbajal. At one point, Fareed’s campaign even sent out a mailer accusing Carbajal of being a “Nazi collaborator and self-proclaimed socialist.” (Fareed, the other Republican in the race, later issued a retraction.)

That’s a big deal to me because, as a political independent, I’m tired of voting against people. I’m tired of holding my nose and voting for the lesser of two evils – and in this case, I won’t be. I would have no problem seeing Carbajal, for whom I voted in 2014, re-elected. I agree with him on a number of issues. But I want a choice in the matter, and I want a thoughtful approach to governing that puts constituents before political litmus tests. I believe Michael Erin Woody will provide such an approach.

You can find out more about Woody and his positions by reading his 44-page booklet, Priorities We Deserve, and about all the candidates by watching debates on KEYT and KSBY. Then decide for yourself.

Michael Erin Woody will give voters a real, rational choice in November and, if elected, will give constituents thoughtful, creative solutions to the challenges we face. That’s why I’m supporting him for Congress in California’s 24th District.

Editor's Notes: Epilogue

When you know you might not be in a place much longer, you start noticing things you’ve taken for granted. The wind in the pines that whips around the corners of your house. The shops on Main Street, housed in buildings from a bygone age and nestled against a crisp, blue springtime sky. Conversations with people who’ve been part of your life for the past few years but who might not be much longer … at least not in person.

I’m noticing such things these days. How long will I be in Cambria? I have no idea. But I figured I’d better do some things I’ve always wanted to do here while I still have the chance. If the Who and Derek Jeter can go on farewell tours, I suppose I can, too, right? I spoke at Mary Anne Anderson's open mic night last Thursday, and I've got a farewell party set for tonight.

I’ve been meaning to take a drive up Old Creek Road between Highway 46 and Cayucos. I’ll probably do that sometime in the next few days. I want to drive some of the other back roads, too. Maybe I’ll pop in for karaoke one last time at San Simeon Beach Bar & Grill if they’re still doing it up there. “Elvis,” who runs the show up there, is always a kick.

Last weekend, on my second official day of unemployment, Samaire and I went to lunch at La Terraza, using up what was left on a gift certificate she got me for my birthday last year. I’d been milking it through three meals, and I figured I’d better use the last of it while I still had the chance. The meal was great, as usual: a chicken tamale, carnitas taco and some flan for desert.

While we were there, we ran into Clive Finchamp, who has sent letters to the Cambrian on a regular basis, but whom I’d never met in person until today. Samaire was taken by a stunning purple outfit worn by Clive’s wife, Sharon, and she said so.

Not knowing who we were, they asked whether we lived in Cambria and what we did. I said, “Until two days ago, I was editor of the newspaper here.”

Recognition dawned, and when they introduced themselves, I recognized them, as well. It’s funny how you can spend three-plus years in a place and never run into someone, then do so two days after you’re out of a job.

When I stopped by the mailbox the other day on Berwick, Aaron Wharton pulled up alongside me in his truck and wished me well. A couple of days before that, Iggy Fedoroff drove up alongside me on Main Street and expressed his appreciation. So many of the people in this town have been so supportive, and I can’t help but feel fortunate at that.

When we stopped in at Linn’s for a bowl of tomato soup, we ran into both owner John Linn and his son, Aaron, both of whom have appeared in the pages of The Cambrian during my tenure. I interviewed John after he told me about an exclusive deal he had to supply preserves and syrups to Knott’s Berry Farm. It’s hard to believe that was three years ago. Columnist Charmaine Coimbra talked to Aaron about his efforts to support youth cycling on the North Coast.

Linn’s is one of my favorite restaurants, and we’ve been there a number of times, but I’d never run into both Aaron and John there at the same time before. As an added bonus, my wife’s favorite waitress, Jordan, took care of us that evening. Synchronicity.

Before we sat down for lunch at La Terraza on Saturday, Samaire and I drove down to Moonstone Beach Drive to visit Art Van Rhyn in his gallery. I’ve worked with Art as The Cambrian cartoonist since I got here, and he’d drop by the office every Monday to deliver the week’s submission and chat for a few minutes. I learned that, before he was an artist, he’d worked as an engineer for Caltrans, and he supplied me with some great material for my book on Highway 99. More synchronicity.

We spent some time talking with Art about his paintings, our lives and what we have in common as artists (his specialty being visual, ours being words). I hadn’t expected to, but I wound up purchasing a painting from him: a stunning springtime view of San Simeon Creek Road bordered by yellow-golden flowers, which you can see at the top of this column. As a lover of old roads and pastoral vistas, I couldn’t resist. Samaire purchased a painting, too, of a Monterey pine. They’ll be perfect remembrances of our time in Cambria, if and when we decide to move on.

(How, you may ask, can an unemployed journalist afford to buy original works of art? I’ll let you in on a secret: Art’s paintings are very reasonably priced. Sometimes, when he sells one, it’s like saying goodbye to one of his children, but he loves to see them find good homes. Make the trip. You won’t be disappointed.)

Now that I’m no longer representing the newspaper, I can do some things I couldn’t do before. I can extol the virtues of my favorite places in town, I can take part in demonstrations for causes I believe in, and I can plant political signs on my front lawn. I can even write books about politics (stay tuned, but no, I won’t be writing about the water plant; I’ve done enough of that already).

Still, I’m running this under the heading Editor’s Notes – the title of my column at The Cambrian – because they’re not replacing me there, so I figure no one else will be using it. I may not be the editor of a newspaper anymore, but I look at it this way: As of this week, I’m managing editor of my own destiny.

I like the sound of that.

(See? I told you I wasn’t going to stop writing!)

7 questions introverts ask themselves at a party

They call us wallflowers, because we stand along the walls at social gatherings, hoping not to be noticed. It’s not an insult, really. Flowers are pretty, and most of them smell good, so I’ll take it as a compliment.

They say we’re “antisocial,” which sounds negative but is fairly accurate. Given the choice of being in a social setting or just hanging out with one person we find really interesting, we’ll invariably choose the latter. If that isn’t an option — and sometimes, even if it is — we’re happy to keep our own company. To write. To paint. To read. To veg. To go on long drives and marvel at the scenery that has so much to say without even opening its nonexistent mouth.

We’d rather listen to the timbers creak in an old barn by the side of the road than we would to someone, cocktail in hand, making small talk that will be forgotten in the morning. We’d rather keep the company of those towering redwoods on the Avenue of the Giants? Or those canyon walls meandering through the desert, bedecked in striated hues of yellow-gold, copper and deep crimson. Or the snow-capped mountains thrust up eons ago by a slow-motion surge of tectonic plates. Each will outlive the inane conversations that constitute “mingling” and “schmoozing.” Each speaks with gravitas without saying a word.

If you see an introvert at a social engagement, it’s almost like sighting a penguin in the desert or a giraffe in Yellowstone. Introverts simply aren’t party animals. Most introverts end up at such affairs because we’re required to be present for work, as a favor to a friend, or because we’ve gotten so stir-crazy that we’ve momentarily taken leave of the senses that remind us how difficult it can be to go out in public.

Parties aren't our natural environment. We spend much of our time in blissful silence, safely behind the door of our bedroom, reading or meditating, creating or or just chilling. We also like to serenity of nature, beyond the cacophony and chaos of city life. Parties capture that chaos and confine it to an even smaller space. They're loud, and we can't hear ourselves think, let alone hear other people talk over the din. Most of the things people say at parties don't interest us, but we can't hear those that do without straining our ears to drown out all the white noise. It's exhausting.

For an introvert, the entire party experience is an exercise in containing stress and keeping a lid on anxiety — which takes a lot of effort. The anxiety isn’t chronic, and it’s not the kind associated with a phobia. This may come as a surprise, but for many of us, it’s not even an instinctive response; it's rational. In fact, it’s too rational: It involves overthinking the situation to such an extent that, before long, you just want to leave.

The Seven Questions

Here’s a step-by-step look at how the process can unfold in any given social setting: how an introvert can wind up miserable by analyzing it to death. Ultimately, the introvert is apt to spend more time and effort talking to himself — asking questions in his or her own mind — than to anyone else at the party. Questions like these:

One

“Do I know anyone here?” If so, the first instinct is to head in that person’s direction. A friend offers a familiar sanctuary in an environment laden with potential pitfalls. You can shut out the rest of the room and engage in the same kind of one-on-one conversation you might have over a cup of coffee. If the conversation’s really good, it can seem as if you’re not really at a social event at all.

Two

“Am I monopolizing my friend’s time?” Hanging out with a friend only works for so long, though. Before much time has passed, you begin to feel guilty and wonder if you’re being too clingy or exclusive. This is a party, after all, and your friend doubtless wants to talk to other people – not just you! You may even cut off the conversation early out of guilt, which will leave you right back where you started: faced with the prospect of being tossed to and fro on a sea of social chaos.

Three

“Is there any food here?” If you can’t find a friend — or run out of friends to talk to — food can offer the next-best kind of cover. Are you at a party where hors d’oeuvres, drinks or a buffet is being served? Make a beeline for it and fill up your plate with an ample portion. This will give you a great excuse not to engage in conversation with people you don’t know (it’s impolite to talk with your mouth full). One unfortunate side-effect of this strategy is that you might end up packing on a few unwanted pounds. Another is that (again) you’ll start feeling guilty about doing something socially inappropriate. So, you step away from the buffet table and ask yourself …

Four

“How can I avoid being noticed?” This is where the “wallflower” strategy comes in. It doesn’t necessarily involve pressing your back up against the wall; that’s just a specific way of staying near the perimeter of the social minefield — and out of harm’s way. It can be even more effective to find a window and gaze outside. Whatever’s beyond the glass will be distracting, and this approach has a key advantage: You can turn your back to others at the party, and they may not want to disturb you. On the other hand, though, you might actually attract their attention by making them think there’s something wrong. This is, of course, the last thing you want, because it might lead to a verbal interaction with someone you don’t know. That’s stressful.

Five

“If I do interact with someone new, how do I deal with that?” We introverts aren’t as prickly as we might seem. It really can be fun to meet new people, even for us. It’s possible to start up a friendly and fulfilling one-on-one conversation with a stranger who turns out to share some of your interests. But even if you do, you’ll soon feel that same old guilt creeping up on you — the kind you experienced with the friend you spoke to earlier — and it’s likely to be more pronounced. Your friend probably understood your anxiety, but this new acquaintance won’t know anything about it. If you linger too long in a conversation, the person might think you’re hitting on him or her, that you’re “too intense” or even “creepy.” So, you withdraw again, with a new question in your head …

Six

“How do I avoid interacting with one of those people?” “Those people” fall into a variety of categories, but the upshot is that you’re the one who thinks they’re creepy. Maybe they’re self-absorbed: They may not even bother to seek out a common interest before launching into an extended soliloquy about a topic you couldn’t care less about. These are the clueless talkers. If they talk too long, they morph into ramblers. Then there are the “close talkers” who invade your personal space (which for an introvert is typically larger than for others). There are “touchers” who put a hand on your shoulder or elbow uninvited. There are “honey bears” who immediately act overly familiar by calling you “honey” or “sweetheart” or “love” or “brother” or “sister.” (I’m always tempted to let my sarcasm get the best of me and tell them I’m an only child.) The fact that you think these people are creepy makes you even more determined not to behave that way yourself (see No. 5 above).

Seven

“How do I get out of here without appearing rude?” It won’t be long until most introverts start looking for an exit strategy. Handy excuses might be fatigue; a headache; the need to get up early the next morning for work/school; a pet that needs to be fed or let out; homework. … These possibilities will begin forming in your mind shortly after you ask yourself another question “How and why did I get myself into this?”

Stage and fright

Some of you who know me might be scratching your heads as you’re reading this. You might have seen me get up in front of a roomful of people and deliver a 90-minute talk on Fresno or ancient mythology or the history of Highway 99. You may have seen me do a reading from one of my books. Or you might have witnessed me do my best to channel Garth Brooks or Billy Joel or Def Leppard during karaoke. Maybe you’re saying to yourself, “I could never do that!” And you’re probably wondering, “Him? Antisocial? Not that I noticed.”

As hard as it might be for people with stage fright to understand, getting up in front of a room full of people can be far easier for an introvert than navigating the same room at ground level. Being on stage offers you the kind of insulation you can’t get in a room full of minglers. And the rules up there are clearly defined: You have people’s attention without having to compete for it. No matter how many or how few people show up to see you on that stage, it’s your room, and you’re playing to a more or less captive audience.

You might still worry about going on too long or (if you’re singing) hitting the wrong note, but not nearly as much as you’d worry about what might happen at a party. Clueless talkers might get in a few words during a post-presentation Q&A, but they can’t exert the same amount of control as they could at a party. Close talkers and touchers can’t get close enough to violate your personal spaces. Oh, sure, they might rush the stage, but this happens with rock stars, not authors and weekend karaoke kings.

You might need to do some mingling if there’s a reception after your talk, but it isn’t likely to last too long (people having already been there for an hour or more and will be eager to get home). Besides, any discussion — even with strangers — that takes place there is likely to revolve around the talk you just gave, and therefore be of interest to you.

This isn’t to say introverts only want to talk about themselves. In fact, many of us prefer to let others do most (but not all!) of the talking … as long as they’re talking about something interesting, as opposed to the frivolous or mundane topics that seem to dominate many parties. It’s understandable that they do. People like to test the waters before diving into the deep end of a conversation, and some weighty topics (politics, religion, etc.) can lead to nasty disagreements. But that doesn’t make introverts any less eager to spend time talking about the weather or health problems, celebrities, wardrobes or cars.

There’s always a better option, and it involves curling up at home in bed with a good book or a good movie or working on a creative project.

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Big ideas are infinitely more rewarding than small talk, that they’re a lot less stressful, too.