Jack Fear Doesn't Love Me Anymore

'tother day I had a good long ego-surf, as is my occasional wont: like everybody else, I like to know who's quoting me without permission, and what people are saying about me (more about that later)—but there's more to it than that. While my presence on the Web (however modest) means that the vast majority of the 585 references returned by Google are indeed to me, I'm far more interested in the ones that aren't—in those people with whom I, by dumb luck, happen to share a name—in the obscure connections of fate and chance.

These references to these other people with my name are like an alternate-history novel, or past-life regression exercise—a glimpse at alternate selves, lives lived in parallel. A life as a New Zealander, born 1883: I had a brother named George, in that life, which is just exquisite, considering who gave me my name in this one.

And the odd little patterns, and the puzzle of trying to figure out which hits refer to the same people—this one, for instance: my band and I apparently played the 1953 New Year's Eve Ball at Colston Hall in Bristol, England... and many years later, this notice in the newsletter of Trinity School, a C of E secondary school in Teignmouth, Devon:

We were sorry to say farewell to Jack Fear, who retired at Easter after many years teaching woodwind at Trinity. Jack was very much involved with the early days of the Swing Band and he has always been a tremendous ambassador for the School. We wish him a long and happy retirement.

Same guy? I'd like to think so: wild young bebop Turk settles down and becomes a beloved teacher—it's a bit Mr. Holland's Opus, yeah?

Churches, naturally enough, loom large in my lives: my name's on a plaque in St. Agatha's, at Rudmore, Portsmouth, for dying in World War II: and I'm a parishioner at Trinity Church, (that name again!) in Houghton, Michigan, though apparently I actually live in nearby Bootjack, where I inveigh against gun control in letters to the local newspaper. Ahem.

And I'm a registered New Forest Pony breeder, in Norley Wood, Lymington, Hampshire (where my brand number is 1471), as well as a dinosaur-loving under-eight soccer player from Treorchy Rhondda, South Wales.

That should be lives enough for any man.

Meanwhile, back in this one and only life that I'm a-living, I really have no idea what to say to this, over at Pin's blog, the brilliant Batman Doesn't Love Me Anymore...

The arrival of [someone I know offline] on Barbelith is scaring me.... But then that’s an obvious reaction to have, and what’s far less obvious, and far more dumb, is my reaction to Jack Fear’s reaction to him. The good Mr. Fear, amongst other things, hasn’t bitten his head off. He’s possibly made it all a bit red and sore with his scratchyscratchy beard, but he hasn’t bitten it. I don’t get either from him, instead existing in an emotionally stunted state of pinning [sic]. Frankly, Mr. Fear is just one of those shockingly... something people, and I can’t put my finger on it is about him, or why it rankles me so much that Barber’s getting the attention and I’m not.

Reassurances of affection to Pin, who should hardly need them, as I loves all my children equally—and I did sort of name the protagonist of an unfinished novel for him, after all.

Then there's lovely lovely Andrew Wheeler, writing dismissively in the aftermath of my being banned from The V: when my name came up in a thread about lockouts & gaggings, beloved big-time comics writer Gail Simone asked, "Who is Jack Fear?" To which Mr. Wheeler responded...

I think that's the only name he's known by. He's just some guy, not really remarkable...

Is that irony I smell? (Andrew who?)

...although I think he fancies himself as a righteous firebrand of wisdom and anger.

Fair cop.

He was banned for his frankly rather over-the-top attack on Harry Potter fans.

I blame Gillen.

Or rather, that was the stated reason.

Oh.

Ouch.

Wheeler doesn't love me anymore.