Thank You, ThinkPad

I work in a high throughput screening lab for the National Chemical Genomics Center, a branch of NIH. One day I'll explain what that means, but right now the only thing you need to know is that my job involves some bench work and some data analysis (aka, computer work). Because of the latter, upon starting my job my supervisor was kind enough to give me his laptop (since then, I have discovered that it was perhaps less a "kindness" and more an act of vindictiveness. I missed the maniacal laughter). Since he primarily uses his desktop this wasn't a problem for him, and I didn't have to jump through eighty bureaucratic loops and wait three weeks to get a functioning computer. I was pretty happy.

It took me a while to realize the extent of my predicament. This is partly because my first six months here were really heavy on the bench work, less on the data analysis. I spent most of my eight hours a day setting up and running experiments. I also worked primarily with an instrument in a separate part of the lab that has its own computer, which also happened to be right next to my work, so I tended to use that computer when I needed to read webcomics and check my e-mail.

Thus it has been a fairly recent discovery that my laptop is a piece of virus-infected crap. What with finishing several projects in the past few months, I have had a ton of data to sift through on my computer. Not to mention, I am currently working on a couple presentations/papers, and looking up lots of journal articles for information on some of our newer projects, all of which require programs like powerpoint, excel, and firefox. I have become veritably attached to my laptop, and incredibly dependent on it's fragile workings.

I first discovered my laptop's large potential for fail when I saved some data off my computer to a new flash drive, then brought it to one of our data analysts to upload to the shared database. Upon attaching the flash drive to his computer, a giant warning of imminent danger popped up in various bold red fonts, clearly indicating that under no circumstances should anything on that flash drive go anywhere near functioning computing equipment. I think the specific recommendation was to eject it immediately and incinerate it in a sealed container, then launch it into the farthest possible reaches of space.

"You should probably submit a ticket to get your computer checked out," the data analyst said. He looked concerned, and promptly handed my flash drive back.

I told my supervisor, and we submitted a ticket so that some computer person could hopefully come sort out this mess, install an antiviral and get my IBM ThinkPad in functioning order. Honestly I had started to have my doubts about my little laptop even before this incident, but I convinced myself that I've just been spoiled by my macbook, and this is how PCs do their thing. Maybe it takes twenty minutes to start up because it really wants to teach me the value of patience. Maybe it has really important things to do. Who knows?

Anyway, I submitted my ticket two months ago. I have yet to see anyone come near my computer, and I can't really blame them. I know next to nothing about computers, but I assume that when it runs slower than traffic on the beltway, something must be wrong. However, I have done my best to be patient, to understand that my ThinkPad is probably suffering a great deal, beset by myriad viruses and who knows what other computational diseases. I've gotten used to not asking it to do complicated things, like right click, or run two programs at once. I'm now in the habit of stopping working around 4:45 so I can log out and leave by 5:10.

(Okay, so, I admit I have thus far avoided one of my largest problems. On occasion, when I am taking a brief break and perhaps entertaining myself by reading a webcomic or two, my boss has a habit of sidling up behind me to discuss something or other. Unfortunately, due to my ThinkPad's specialness, I can't quickly minimize the screen or bring that excel file to the forefront. Instead, my computer screen delays several very long moments behind my frantic clicking, and my boss' gaze turns confusedly towards the perhaps inappropriate punchline of today's SMBC or xkcd, while I try desperately to keep his eyes averted from the screen. Thankfully, he has yet to chastise me in these moments of unproductivity, but I'm not about to push my luck. I have resorted to keeping my computer screen dim and the firefox window small).

Despite my many adaptations to working with my ThinkPad, lately my frayed patience has worn to the breaking point. When it takes several minutes to load a saved powerpoint, or transfer one excel file, or send an e-mail, or load a webpage, that all adds up. And I end up at 11, after arriving at work at 9, having done close to nothing, while the data lies, tantalizing, just beyond my reach in the depths of the shared drive.

So today I asked my boy (he knows all about the computers) what I might do. He told me to check out the system properties in the control panel to see what we're working with. That was when I discovered the sad truth. My little IMB ThinkPad is handicapped. It is handicapped with a single processor, 1.5GB of RAM, Windows XP from 2002, and old age. At six years old, my ThinkPad has the computational equivalent of Alzheimer's. When I told my boy these stats (which meant fairly little to me), it was difficult to distinguish if he might be crying or laughing. He did say (in direct response to my comments) that he wanted to take a shower.

It is thus that I have arrived at a zen viewpoint of sorts when it comes to my laptop. I have tried focusing on the things it can do, instead of it's shortcomings, and made peace with its limited abilities.

So after all that ranting, what I really want to say is thank you, IBM ThinkPad, for your service. I am sure you are trying your very best to complete the many complicated tasks I ask of you on a daily basis. I greatly appreciate the level of complexity required to open a whole program and run it, as well as your efforts trying to balance doing this not just for one, but sometimes for two whole programs at once. Thank you for providing me the opportunity to practice my typing, since I often get to rewrite things lost. Thank you for allowing me to look out the window for long minutes while you log in and log out. Thank you for the extra time to read my book while waiting for data to load.

Finally, thank you for teaching me patience, and thank apple for giving us macs.

Edit: As of this morning, my computer is humming. Not in a happy go lucky way, but in a high pitched screeching way. I feel somewhat guilty, as if my poor ThinkPad is keening in pain and misery that I somehow caused through neglect...

Introversion

One of the many reasons I started this blog was to attempt to open up somewhat. As I mentioned in my first post, I like knowing more about my friends and people in general, and perhaps others would like to know me as well. Thus I think I might share something, other than an anecdote from my life, that has recently been on my mind.

I am introverted. I mean that in the live-in-my-own-world way, not in the I-hate-people way. Being around a lot of people for a long time is draining, and being by myself is necessary for my mental well-being. I don't really like crowds. I don't often like big parties. Actually, wiki gives a pretty good description of introversion: "...'the state of or tendency toward being wholly or predominantly concerned with and interested in one's own mental life.' Introverts are people whose energy tends to expand through reflection and dwindle during interaction."

Wow. That sounds pretty bad actually. "...concerned with and interested in one's own mental life." I can hardly think of a better way to say self-centered. Hm perhaps openness isn't the best idea...

I feel a little explanation might be necessary. When I say that being around a lot of people is draining, I don't mean that I always dislike being around a lot of people, or that every time I'm with a group I wish I were on my own. I simply mean that I usually prefer smaller groups to larger ones. Wiki's description is pretty accurate to me, but only interpreted in the spacey way, rather than the self-centered way. If I'm not paying close attention to the things or people around me (which is pretty pretty often as I'm sure you know), it's not because I don't care, but because I'm thinking of other things. They probably aren't more important or interesting things even. I may not be thinking of anything at all. It's just easier to live inside my mind, if that makes any sense, than in the outside world. Paying attention to all the people and things going on around me takes effort and concentration. It's not unpleasant, but it can be a challenge.

Anyway, I believed my introversion was a perfectly obvious characteristic of mine until I thought about it for a couple of seconds. If you'd asked me a year ago, I probably would have said I was as extroverted as they come. I like people. I like meeting new people, and having conversations, and learning about people. I want to be a doctor, and interact with lots of different kinds of people every day. My primary activity is lindy hop, a social dance. Not only do I meet new people all the time, but I go dancing with large crowds, often in crowded spaces, on a very regular basis, and enjoy it.

It wasn't until this year that I really did some reflection and made sense of my introversion. It clicked though. As a kid I preferred reading or playing in the woods by myself to playing with others most of the time. I never liked parties, even in high school and college. I rarely make friends quickly. I tend to get cranky after a night out, although I enjoy it at the time. I get quiet in crowds of people. I love wilderness and one-on-one conversations. I tend to eat lunch by myself at work.

Most of my life I was convinced my introversion was actually just weirdness. I thought, "Maybe I am just socially awkward, and people are too nice to say anything about it." (Actually, that may really be the case, and I'm just using introversion as a nice excuse...). But that didn't really make sense. I have good friends, and I'm not particularly shy.

So introversion it is.

Which might be a surprise to many people, as I've said. A good many of my friends are people I've met dancing, and since they tend to see me most often at crowded dance halls, with lots of people around, and being energetic, I can see why my introversion is not so obvious. But even my best friend doesn't think me too introverted (then again, we tend to hang out one-on-one, and go camping and such, so it doesn't really come up much).

Because of this possible misunderstanding about myself, and the nature of being introverted, I worry. I worry my friends will be hurt when I choose to stay in rather than go out, assuming it's personal. I worry I will lose the friends I have because I don't spend all my free time with them. I worry people will be offended by my lack of overt cheeriness at a party, or think me bizarre for wanting to read at lunch.

This worry is somewhat tiring, and a little sad, and probably mostly unwarranted. After all, my friends care about me and want me to be happy, I'm sure.

But the fact remains that I still find introversion somewhat unusual, or besides the norm. It's not something we really celebrate as a culture. It's not exactly looked down on, but it also isn't admired. When you think of leaders, role models, the kind of person your parents and teachers (maybe) encouraged you to be, you think of someone who is outgoing, the life of the party, who makes friends easily, who works well with others and likes being around people. It seems to me like our culture does generally celebrate extroversion over introversion. People who like to spend time alone are weird, or loners, and there is something wrong with them. They aren't "normal." Which is why I thought myself pretty bizarre for a long time (okay, I know I'm weird, but I'm weird for a lot of reasons that have nothing to do with introversion).

It all makes me wonder, are there really many fewer introverts than extroverts? Or do us introverts just learn to hide it better, and pretend? Or am I just unaware of the many other introverts out there because they are out on their own doing stuff rather than hanging out with me?

Anyway this whole train of thought brings me to something else I just recently thought of. It would be great if our education somehow included something about psychology, even if only the most basic concepts like introversion and extroversion. Up until fairly recently, to my great chagrin, I was under the impression that most people are pretty much alike, and I should probably treat people as I like to be treated. There are lots of traits that all people share simply by grace of being human. Nausea is bad. Laughter is good. Smiles generally indicate happiness. Everyone needs alone time. No one likes planning. When someone is upset you should probably leave them be and they'll get over it. Right?

I could go into some rather awkward and perhaps amusing stories here on how these assumptions screwed me up in the past. (Ok, I won't lie, I still have these problems all the time, and if you can recall any, you should probably remind me, because I've been feeling way too secure lately). Maybe I will save those for another post. Suffice to say that treating other people how you would like to be treated doesn't always work. There are people, for example, who hate to be alone, as baffling as that seems to me. There are also people who like talking on the phone, and planning, and loud noises and crowds (also baffling). And the world would be incredibly boring without them, and I would probably be short many friends.

Perhaps I am the only person who remained for so long ignorant on this point (not that unlikely). Maybe it's something we all need to learn on our own, and through experience. But I for one think that if someone had explained the concepts of introversion and extroversion to me as a child, and perhaps told me that different people like and dislike certain things, and why, then life would have been much easier and kinder. I could have spent middle and high school experiencing emotions other than confusion, for example, and possibly avoided just a few middle school taunts.

The Song of Ice and Fire

Have you ever been reading a book and halfway through realized you did not want to keep reading, but you really needed to know how it ends? So you keep reading even though it's tortuous, because you have to know?

Maybe you've never experienced this, in which case you're lucky (or not, because you clearly aren't reading some of the best books out there). Anyway I am going through this right now, and it is quite an experience. I am currently reading Storm of Swords, the third book in the Song of Ice and Fire series by George R.R. Martin. This series started ages ago, and has an incredibly huge fan base. Enough that they are starting a live-action HBO series based on these books (coming out tomorrow actually).

Right now I am beginning to wonder how this guy ever managed to get such a huge fan base. This is not because his books aren't fantastic, they are. The plot is intricate, there are many well developed characters, the world is interesting with just a hint of fantasy, and the pace is enthralling. It's hard to put down. Mostly I wonder because I can't believe someone hasn't actually murdered George R.R. Martin yet and put an end to his writing days.

His books make me want to tear the pages out. And my hair. Possibly also my eyes. I don't want to ruin anything with spoilers, but I can try to give you an analogy so you can grasp the experience of reading the Song of Ice and Fire.

Pretend you are a child again. Imagine that today is your eighth birthday, and you have been looking forward to this day all year, because lets face it, eight is a much better age than seven. You have been planning with your parents for weeks now. You have a party this afternoon, and everything is going to be perfect. You got a cake, which is chocolate and huge and decorated in pretty colors with your name on it. You and your friends are going to the park to have three legged races, play pin the tail on the donkey, eat burgers and cake, run around in the woods and generally go crazy. Then there is the sleep-over where you will play video games, eat more cake, tell scary stories, watch movies, and play truth or dare (where the worst dare you could get would be to sneak into your brother's room and write in marker on his face while he sleeps).

Then imagine that about an hour before your party is to begin, it starts raining. You are very disappointed, because you were so excited about the park, but Mommy makes it all better by saying you can have the party at your house, and play all the fun games inside instead. You are placated, at least a little.

Then you get a call. It is your best friend's mom, saying that your best friend has suddenly come down with a stomach flu and is vomiting everywhere and can't possibly make your party. Again, disappointment and sadness. But there are still lots of other friends coming, and cake, and games, and movies, and more.

Your party begins, and while it's indoors because it's raining, and your best friend isn't there, it's still pretty okay. Your friends are all having a fantastic time and you almost forget that it isn't exactly how you wanted it all along. Then it's time for cake, and your mouth is watering at the thought of all that chocolate. Only on her way to bring the cake to the table, your mother slips and the beautiful chocolate deliciousness that was to be your cake goes flying and lands right on the dog. Un-salvageable. Your dog starts lapping it up in delight and you begin to cry little tears of frustration at your perfect day going haywire.

That's when you realize Mommy is hurt. Turns out she managed to twist an ankle, so she can't walk. Realizing that they need to go to the emergency room, your parents have to cancel the rest of your party, call your friends' parents, and have them all go home without cake.

While your parents are taking care of the calling, they delegate the task of cleaning up cake to you. Luckily the dog did most of the cleaning. Unfortunately, dogs shouldn't really eat chocolate, and twenty minutes later you have to clean up dog vomit instead of cake. To make it all worse, your friends are starting to mutter that this is the worst party ever, and you are the least cool person they know. Your social life is ruined.

Your friends all eventually get picked up, and you get to the hospital, trying not to show your disappointment because Mommy is hurt and you don't want her to feel badly. After all, there is always next year, right? To cheer yourself up you start imagining all the better things you will do for next year's party. Your friends will forget about today soon, Daddy says. The nice lady in the hospital gives you a lolly pop when she hears it's your birthday. It's your favorite kind, with a tootsie roll in the middle. Your brother is extra nice to you because he feels badly your birthday was ruined, and plays with you in the waiting room. There is a TV playing your favorite show and you're actually starting to feel marginally better about the whole thing.

Imagine then how you would feel when your parents come back with tears in their eyes and tell you that Mommy actually has swine flu. And also Ebola. She will spend the last few months of her life in haunting pain, then die miserably while you watch. Your father will take his own life in despair, and you will end up in an orphanage. You grow up bitter and sad and maltreated, and by the time you are sixteen are a cocaine addict. You turn to prostitution to feed your cocaine habit, then contract HIV from sharing needles.

This is how Song of Ice and Fire makes me feel. Except that I'm so invested, I keep thinking, "Maybe they will find a cure for HIV, and a wonderful doctor will save your life and fall in love with you, and you will live happily ever after! That can happen, right? Or perhaps this was all a dream and your party hasn't started yet, and you will wake up and everything will be fine! Or you will find a time machine and go back and save your party and your parents! Yeah! That will totally happen!" So I keep reading.

Hence my curiosity about George R.R. Martin's continuing existence. I feel like a relatively sane person, but the first book made me want to track this man down and start breaking his fingers, one by one, screaming, "WHY? WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?" until he repents and writes the story I want. If that was my reaction, I imagine there must be someone out there enraged enough to find Martin and do something even more dire. I must be underestimating his readers though, or else Martin predicted this reaction and went into hiding, because he is still around, and still writing. The next book is coming out this summer. I will probably buy it right away and read it, cursing George R.R. Martin as I do.

Anyway I hope I haven't discouraged anyone from reading the Song of Ice and Fire series. It's absolutely perfect if you enjoy torture and misery.

Karma

I believe karma is out to get me. I must have done something in a past life to put me on the naughty list of fate. Or perhaps the powers that be just want revenge against my stubborn determination to bring upon springtime before they were good and ready to give me spring.

I say this because I have been struck, for about the dozenth time in the past nine months, with yet another death plague. You might think I am exaggerating, but recently my boss asked me (with the utmost concern) if I was either a hypochondriac or a werewolf, worried about my propensity to be "ill" at least once a month. Unfortunately, I am not a werewolf (that I am aware of), and I'm pretty sure I'm not a hypochondriac either.

I could blame this on a weak immune system, but until this year I never had this problem. I caught a cold once or twice a year like everyone else, and very rarely got the flu or any more dire illness.

Now this could just be the unlucky consequence of a less than healthy lifestyle, but that's also a bit of a stretch. I don't drink in excess, I sleep 7-8 hours a night, I wash my hands a *lot*, I am a sometimes-vegetarian, I go to the gym or dance (which is like a workout) a few times a week, and I tend to avoid people carrying death plagues or tropical areas where every square inch of space carries an entire ecosystem made up of various creatures, bacteria, plants, and insects that could kill you.

And yet somehow, I still manage to catch these malicious viruses and bacteria every time, while everyone around me is spared. It's actually not unlike my experience with mosquitoes. Every time I am trying to enjoy a warm summer evening outdoors with friends, the moment will inevitably be spoiled by a dozen or more mosquitoes attracted to my alluring scent. They will immediately descend upon me with their probosces and gluttonous ways and seek to make a family feast of my blood, all the while injecting their poisons into my body. I will quickly become an itching, seething mass of irritation and frenetic activity, trying to swat away the tiny miscreants. All the while my friends will stand by, bemused, completely unaffected. I am reminded of this scene from The Life Aquatic every single time:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=214w5Bh9mp4

You might think I would be used to these episodic illnesses by now, this year having been rife with them. However, what makes this particular plague even more irritating than usual, and the reason I am convinced my karma is running rather low, is that today happened to be the nicest day this year. It was sunny and over 70 degrees. There was a light breeze. It was the kind of day I have dreamed about all winter. It was the reason for my months of sacrifice (that I detailed quite extensively in my last post).

And yet, karma and fate saw fit to punish me today with this terrible disease.

But I am made of sterner stuff. So I said, "Fuck you Karma! I'm going hiking anyway!" And I did. Shenandoah was beautiful. And while my nose ran about as much as the Potomac in flood, and my white blood cells battled valiantly against poor odds, I hiked, and felt the sun on my face, and stuck one to karma.


I am now reaping the consequences of this decision, namely a cough that has joined forces with my runny nose, sore throat, and headache, nose plugs made of balled up tissues I'm using to dam the incessant flow, and a weariness that has me in bed at 7:30PM.

On Winter and Outdoors

There are some things you all should know about me, if you haven't figured them out already.

Firstly, I am addicted to the outdoors. As an example, I spent every single day from June through November eating lunch outside, unless it was raining. Think about that. Every. Day. In August, in Washington DC. In November. That is some love of the outdoors.

Secondly, I am solar powered. I should probably be studied as the first photosynthetic human being. This explains why when I was a lifeguard I could work 11 hours a day then go out with friends half the night, and get up and do it the next day for a whole summer, and now that I work in a lab I go home at 5:30 and promptly fall into bed and read, then get up the next day exhausted.

These two facts about myself have unfortunately led, lately, to withdrawal.

This happens every winter just around the second snow, when the excitement of fresh powder for skiing and snowball fights wears off and the reality of unforgiving cold and short days begins to dampen my desire to be outside. I crawl back under my roof and gaze mournfully out the window as I remember fondly the hiking, the camping, and the climbing that were my pastimes oh so long ago. Often, we don't get much more than two snows a year, and my indoor confinement is short. Up until this year I also had a hefty month-long winter break with which I could do what I wanted. This winter, however, has proven particularly difficult.

We had two snows before Christmas, and while ample supplies of pie and stuffing kept me satiated in spirit as well as in tummy for a while, in mid-January I started to falter. Real work kept me indoors from nine to five, which left me 30 seconds of daylight before night, more cold, and indoor banishment. Unfortunately those 30 seconds were wasted during the 20 yard walk to my car after work. Luckily I do have free weekends to do what I want, so I hoped beyond measure to get my fix of the outdoors Saturday and Sunday, despite the cold.

My first thought was, "Camping! That seems like a mighty fine activity for January!" I briefly had one person convinced that this might not be a terrible idea doomed to end in hypothermia and misery, and my excitement knew no bounds. I looked up snow shoeing, cross country skiing, and campsites open year around. There aren't many. I guess fortunately for my overall well-being, the incredulous, concerned expressions on my family's and friends' faces planted the seeds of doubt in my mind, and I finally decided to postpone my camping outing to a weekend when the snows were under a foot. Instead I went skiing, which was wonderful, and somewhat appeased my incessant craving to be outside.

My appeasement lasted about two days before I began to wonder when the winter would finally release it's grip on our supposedly temperate state, and I could once again spend my extra waking moments outside and in the sun. For some reason, I became convinced that if I pretended it was springtime, and not cold out, then I could myself encourage and usher in a more springlike clime. This began, of course, with a stubborn determination that it was no longer coat-weather, and I could indeed begin donning t-shirts once again. Who needs heat in their car? Or gloves for that matter? March is springtime, surely?

This might be a good time to mention my poor circulation, which I blame for feeling cold even in the balmiest 72 degree weather. My hands and feet are almost always cold, regardless of the temperature. My nose and ears as well. (In an attempt to mitigate the consequences of this, my mother has over the years given me countless pairs of wool socks, gloves, scarves, hats, a hot water bottle foot warmer, several blankets, and earmuffs, to no avail). This particular trait of mine has led to not just a few shocked exclamations as I try to warm my frigid hands on a poor unsuspsecting victim's back (by unsuspecting victim, I refer to my boy or my friends, whose hugs put them in the perfect position for sliding my hands up the back of the shirt and into the small of the back, meanwhile holding them close so they can't wriggle away).

The first time or two I did this to my boy, though shocked, he gallantly attempted to rub some feeling back into my hands and feet. But enough was enough, and after the third time or so even my puppy dog eyes couldn't get him to come close to me for a good hour after I came inside. This would lead to a merry chase as I tried to warm my freezing self and he tried to run away from my icy hands of death. This boded poorly for our relationship because as I cackled maniacally running around the apartment after him he became half convinced that I was, in fact, a zombie. That was around when he started suggesting I go see a doctor. I was a little unsure if he meant for my poor circulation or my mental state, and I guess I can't really blame him either way.

My strong desire to usher in warm weather with a disregard for the current conditions compounded this problem exponentially. Coat, hat, gloves, and scarves were put away in a blatant expectation of springtime. All in an attempt to molify the weather gods and bring on some good outdoors times, much to my boy's dismay. But I am stubborn. And I prevailed.

So it is with joy that I say, you are welcome. My suffering seems to have appeased the weather gods, and it is finally starting to warm up. I am sure this is directly related to my unfailing devotion and sacrifices. We have had one 80 degree day, and almost three sunny days in a row. In the past month I have gone mini golfing and hiking, and soon it will be camping time once again.

Yessssssss.

Indigo Moose

For your viewing pleasure:

It is fairly self-explanatory why this will never by hyperboleandahalf. For those of you who are unfamiliar, hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com is one of my favorite blogs, and probably more entertaining than mine will ever be.

Brian has more artistic talent in MSPaint than I do:

Welcome

 I'm starting a blog!

Mostly the reason for this is that I like writing, and being in the habit of writing regularly. I write whatever comes to mind, things in my life, stories, essays, you name it. Another reason is that I like to make people laugh, or smile, or improve their day in any small way possible. It has often been the case that someone else's writing and stories have cheered me up on my bad days, and made my good days better. Maybe with some practice I can hope to do the same for you. The other reason for starting a blog is that I like knowing what other people think, and what they have to say about the things I think. I like reading my friends' stories, and know what's going on in their lives. It occurred to me that perhaps other people might be interested in the things I think about too.

For those of you who agree, and are still reading, be warned. My mind is not a pretty place. Anyone with whom I have shared my dreams would agree, I am sure (probably while wearing an incredulous, slightly terrified expression and backing away slowly). My thoughts are varied, at times sincere, angry, humorous, satirical, appreciative, speculative, and possibly even insightful (don't cross your fingers). I hope to entertain, and also to learn. That said, this blog might turn out to be a very eclectic and messy collection. Best of luck.

You might now be wondering about the title for this blog. I chose it because Nocona means wanderer in the Comanche language. If you're wondering about my own connection to the Comanche people, there is none. I am part Cherokee, and I'm pretty sure they came in very minimal contact with the Comanche, seeings how the Comanche were plains Indians and lived a nomadic lifestyle well west of the Mississippi and the Cherokee were mostly located in the east and lived a sedentary lifestyle. I came across the term Nocona years ago when I was reading a historical fiction of the Comanche (Ride the Wind by Lucia St. Clair Robson). Peta Nocona was the name of one of the characters, a real man who was once chief of the Noconis, or Wanderers, a Comanche tribe. If you really want to know more, I recommend the Wikipedia article, but suffice to say he was pretty badass. Anyway the name stuck with me. Perhaps I liked the ring of it. Perhaps I have always felt myself somewhat of a wanderer, in my interests, my thoughts, my travels, and mostly in the restless feeling I get whenever I have been in one place, or done one thing, for too long. When I tried to think of a title for this blog, the word came back to me, and I thought it appropriate. This indeed will be a collection of my own wanderings in thought and action.

I would also like it to be known that in close second as a title came "Indigo Moose." If you greatly prefer Indigo Moose, you can thank Brian, whose mind may indeed be more bizarre than my own, though I doubt it. But since I decided not to go that route, please feel free to utilize my second place title Indigo Moose however you choose. Perhaps as a name for your band, or for your dog, or possibly even a pet name for your sweetie, if you're into that.

So if you have interest in knowing me, or how I think, and what I like to think about, and perhaps have some thoughts you would like to share, then be welcome, and enjoy. I would love to hear your opinions, suggestions, and thoughts as well.