Other people are stupid
When I was an exhibit design preparator at the local art museum, one of my co-workers had a nice one. We were sitting around talking about the basically awful situation we were in, i.e. in between the always epic battle between Curatorial and Operations, which is to say, between the Art side of the business, and the Business side of the business. What my co-worker said was reminiscent of something that had been said, so resonantly and somewhat recently in cultural/trivia history by an obviously brain-damaged black man, seeking to quell riots in a city that no longer had time to listen to him, and in a bold display of cynicism perhaps more blatant than any I've seen (and I don't shock easy), the po-lice made him ask that people rioting over the obscene verdict in the case where he was clearly caught being beaten to shit by the police Just Because They Could, and on tape, stop rioting. What he said is a matter of cultural/trivial record. What my friend and co-worker said was, "Can't we all just...Leave?"
He had a point. I was wondering that one this evening, where the person who had clearly been my benefactor, handsomely outfitting me with several pints of good, thick stout, went all sideways on me and started declaiming on gender politics in a manner that she even would have found indefensible, were she sober, and though committed to the ideal of women being more nurturing and better communicators, was not letting other people speak at all, as she generalized horribly. She even disagreed with my thesis, which was just that regardless of race or gender, the richest one has better access to a forum in our society, and will always get what they want, provided that they are crafty about it.
I was interrupted in the middle of this by an ex-girlfriend of mine, who recently told me (for the second time in both our lives) that she would never speak to me again. I saw her last evening, as I walked into that stoopid bar after the teevee show, to hang out with the teevee people. I thought, well; there's no reason why this has to be stupid. I mean, yes her table is adjacent to the one I ostensibly will be sitting at, but she said we are no longer talking. Yes, she is sitting with two women who I consider to be friends of mine, but why fuck up a perfectly beautiful evening for her and for me? Except that it ain't beautiful. And I don't really care about these drama geeks who act on the stoopid show, and why don't I just throw down a shot and slink out the back, like the shameful, cowardly dog I am?
So, she called me. My Son Timmy, as I most cruelly called her, back in those confusing days of the middle 'Nineties. I immediately answered, as I do care about her in a big-brotherly way (which was always part of the attraction, and always part of the problem, as she could take care of her own damn self just fine), and that I just can't take someone I love being mad at me, especially when I know that I had been a jackass, and could perhaps be afforded something in the way of forgiveness, if the person who had been wronged was enough of an adult about it.
(The thing was, back in the day; she could take care of herself just fine, but maybe not so much in the highly judgmental atmosphere of Olympia in the middle Nineties, where, regardless of what the ladies said, it was still all about appearance. This person needed someone to remind her that she had worth, and even an international playboy such as myself could love her, and laugh openly in the face of those who scoffed at her. They were fools: she was one of the good ones. They were highly privileged whiners: she was for realsies. They were white, educated and rich, and wanted the rest of us to feel sorry for them. She was white, yes, but that was about it.)
In any case, we are friends again now, and I have no regrets about leaving that other table, as we had been the loudest table in there for hours; the kind of table that I am always sneering at, and wanting to say, "Who asked for your input, in this goddamn universe? You think that you're unique? No. Yer just more immature, and therefore don't consider that there are other people, y' fuckin' cattle."
He had a point. I was wondering that one this evening, where the person who had clearly been my benefactor, handsomely outfitting me with several pints of good, thick stout, went all sideways on me and started declaiming on gender politics in a manner that she even would have found indefensible, were she sober, and though committed to the ideal of women being more nurturing and better communicators, was not letting other people speak at all, as she generalized horribly. She even disagreed with my thesis, which was just that regardless of race or gender, the richest one has better access to a forum in our society, and will always get what they want, provided that they are crafty about it.
I was interrupted in the middle of this by an ex-girlfriend of mine, who recently told me (for the second time in both our lives) that she would never speak to me again. I saw her last evening, as I walked into that stoopid bar after the teevee show, to hang out with the teevee people. I thought, well; there's no reason why this has to be stupid. I mean, yes her table is adjacent to the one I ostensibly will be sitting at, but she said we are no longer talking. Yes, she is sitting with two women who I consider to be friends of mine, but why fuck up a perfectly beautiful evening for her and for me? Except that it ain't beautiful. And I don't really care about these drama geeks who act on the stoopid show, and why don't I just throw down a shot and slink out the back, like the shameful, cowardly dog I am?
So, she called me. My Son Timmy, as I most cruelly called her, back in those confusing days of the middle 'Nineties. I immediately answered, as I do care about her in a big-brotherly way (which was always part of the attraction, and always part of the problem, as she could take care of her own damn self just fine), and that I just can't take someone I love being mad at me, especially when I know that I had been a jackass, and could perhaps be afforded something in the way of forgiveness, if the person who had been wronged was enough of an adult about it.
(The thing was, back in the day; she could take care of herself just fine, but maybe not so much in the highly judgmental atmosphere of Olympia in the middle Nineties, where, regardless of what the ladies said, it was still all about appearance. This person needed someone to remind her that she had worth, and even an international playboy such as myself could love her, and laugh openly in the face of those who scoffed at her. They were fools: she was one of the good ones. They were highly privileged whiners: she was for realsies. They were white, educated and rich, and wanted the rest of us to feel sorry for them. She was white, yes, but that was about it.)
In any case, we are friends again now, and I have no regrets about leaving that other table, as we had been the loudest table in there for hours; the kind of table that I am always sneering at, and wanting to say, "Who asked for your input, in this goddamn universe? You think that you're unique? No. Yer just more immature, and therefore don't consider that there are other people, y' fuckin' cattle."
Labels: my personals
posted by rich bachelor | 10:08 PM
1 Comments:
My only complaint of your blog so far is that i wish there were one posted twice, three times, four times per day as i can't get enough of these cynical, sentimental, outraged,witty, social commentaries. you're like a soap opera and i'm you're middle-aged divorcee who even buys soap opera digest.
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