Ask me a complicated question. Nullo problemo. I will bullshit my way out with the best of Seneca and Socrates at the frontier. Wittgenstein if you can’t take a hint.
Ask me a simple question. Multo problemos.
When I say simple I don’t mean: “Does my bum look BIG in this?” If you have to ask me you know the answer without compromising my good manners. So stop it and go back to the changing room.
However, I will, from time to time, find myself be thrown to the dogs when someone asks me whether I like something (on them) or a poem they wrote. A shit drawing they drew. Photos – smartphone – prevalent in blogland. It’s complicated (multo – on many levels). No one can accuse me of being backward in coming forward. However, there are limits. Even for me. I don’t want to deflate anyone’s balloon.
If there weren’t a place called Dodge City already I’d start putting down the foundations right now. Probably in Texas. Or Colorado. Or Kentucky. Or wherever they will tolerate me – no questions asked. Mexico. I can scale walls if need be. Ace of spades. A trump, nay, a death card if ever there was one.
Yes, so how do you tell someone who asks you whether you “like” it? Doesn’t matter what “it” is. All that matters is that you already know that THEY “like” it. And want your affirmation.
Good luck. Those are the moments you wish Clint Eastwood were there to shoot the noose before it tightens.