Quiet Dignity

A Forgotten Vitality

Ever since indulging in reverie while sitting at the party table at David’s wedding in September, I’ve been painfully aware of the root of my problems. At the time, I alluded to some possibly nasty things I have to say but ended up not elaborating on.

This awareness was brought into even sharper relief when discussing with the Captain our surprisingly similar ideals for the ultimate New Year’s party many weeks ago. Basically, it involves a rented room (such as at riverboat casino) with light catering, by invitation only (or as a guest of invitee), and with the caveat that conversation about your kids and jobs are prohibited. Don’t bring it down to the level of Cliché Suburban Summer Barbecue. A summer barbecue is nice, and it has its place, but it is increasingly depressing that that venue is “as good as it gets” for us anymore. People have forgotten their glamorous side, their adventurous spirit, their ability to break out of the mundane.

I am hesitant to use the word “glamorous,” as it just sounds hopelessly vain. But glamour is sort of what it comes down to, isn’t it? What the hell happened to us? We used to plan events, schmooze with guest composers from all over the world, put on concerts of all kinds, go to art museums, and have zealous discussions about our Grand Ideas over tumblers of Scotch in dim lighting. We used to do, not just talk, and when we did talk, it was as just as exciting and creative as the doing. Now, our conversations are generally about work, pregnancy, or some permutation thereof.

Long ago, when I was first beginning my undergraduate degree, when I was an idealistic teenage kid with stars in my eyes and ants in my pants, I would constantly assert that I would never end up like the older people whose only socializing is done while sitting on the couch and talking about work. This kinetic energy lasted until about a year ago, where somewhere along the line I ceased being a “man of action.” What the hell happened to me? To us? We have forgotten who and what we are: creators, dreamers, explorers, doers.

Granted, I’m including everyone in the Summer Barbecue Conversation Guild, including (especially) my family and their friends—people who were never part of my personal Rat Pack, so they would never see the difference—but still, what happened to us? Don’t say “life” happened. That’s bullshit. Life didn’t happen—it decayed. You can be responsible and vibrant.

As for the people who don’t have a frame of reference, that leads me to another significant discourse… how my circle of acquaintances of late has unappreciatively cast me as the opposite of my old persona, due to zero credibility on my part. As hard as I try to explain or demonstrate, most people simply do not comprehend my application of the word camaraderie…


A Disparity of Acquaintance

Okay. So. I realized that my problem is that, for the past couple years, I have almost exclusively been surrounded by (and at the mercy of) a certain set of people.

For the sake of rhetoric, I shall divide friends and/or family into two general sets (not to say it is a matter of “friends” versus “family”)…

One set of people offers a great sense of fellowship, entailing mutual respect and admiration. These people offer Words of Affirmation, giving credit where, when, and if credit is due.

These people see me and see virtues. They say I am patient, wise, courteous, kind, fiercely loyal, dependable, considerate, sensitive, and capable of exercising great restraint. These people are my friends and they honor me.

The other set of people… offers no sense of fellowship, only chastisement. These people offer Words of Rebuking, assigning blame where, when, and if blame is due… or not.

These people see me and see flaws. They say I am impatient, unwise, discourteous, unkind, disloyal, undependable, inconsiderate, insensitive, and incapable of restraint. They say I am master of my own misery, that I want to be unhappy, that I create conflict where there is none. I refer to this latter segment as “Psychoanalysis Amateur Hour,” to say nothing of their presumption. Compare and contrast these fucking paragraphs. Go ahead. Reread the last four paragraphs.

I am not exaggerating, I am not being paranoid, and I am not making this up. I am talking about actual things said by actual people on both sides. I am talking about actual judgment calls, both good and bad—coming in contradictory pairs. I am not inventing a reason to be irritated. I am not. I am talking about real things people tell me FAIRLY OFTEN.

One set lauds me for being an optimist. The other scolds me for being a pessimist. Funny what people may think of you, isn’t it? Um… those two are mutually exclusive. You can’t be both.

One set tells me how selfless I am, the other how selfish I am.

One set understands, respects, and appreciates me. The other continues to bring me down, however unconsciously. One set assures me that I am always being too hard on myself. The other castigates me for always blaming my troubles on everyone but myself.

Can they all be right? As the good Captain says, “You care way too much what people think of you.” Perhaps. I’m not trying to make a huge issue out of this, but it certainly is an interesting phenomenon, well worth blogging about. Or perhaps he’s half right, that I care too much about changing the minds of the wrong set of people. Unfortunately for me, the “right set” is largely unavailable, at least geographically.

So. Which set do you think I would like to be around? Which set do you think I have been around? Better question: which set do you belong to?

My friend Jordan told me, in all seriousness (a rarity for him), “I am privileged to know you for your humanity.” I still don’t know what he meant by that; I was so used to being around people who are convinced that I have none that I didn’t even know what to say or think.

Certainly, I have fallen somewhat from grace. I admitted that a long time ago. I can get it back, but I sure as hell can’t do it while living with family, however frequently visited by other members of the second type. Herr Vogler once said that all I have to do is “reach out” and that my friends are always available. Well, then, where the fuck is the cavalry? Because I’ve been feeling put down for two years now… both by people and by circumstance.

My favorite part of when people impugn my character is when it is so conveniently self-adulating at the same time. “You need to be more like me: I make the best of it. I roll with the punches, and you don’t. See, I handle things better than you do.” Bully for you. Do you listen to yourself?

I’m sorry you think so little of me. I’m just down on my luck. It’ll turn around, and I’ll get back to the level of esteem you once had for me. Ha. As if you ever did.

Save your judgment. Save it for someone deserving. Oh, and it’ll come back to you. Tenfold. So practice what you preach, and mind your own Graceful Tongue. I am self-aware enough to already know where I need improvement, so I don’t need to hear it all the fucking time from you. I already know I’m a failure and a loser—I don’t need the committee to remind me why. I am not interested in letting this evolve into a fight. You just need to be aware of how fair or unfair you are being. Because I do NOT use the term “friend” lightly.

I just thought I needed to throw all this out there.


Casino

For some reason, though ostensibly unrelated to the subject(s) at hand, I keep thinking of one particularly morose night in St. Charles, in my car, reflecting on the last several years of reflection itself, watching droves of revelers amidst the Christmas lights on the stretch between Picasso’s Art of Coffee and Ameristar Casino. I was melancholy and whimsical, listening to Casino from 007: The World Is Not Enough.

In my car that night, I was struck with an inexplicable, overwhelming remorse for never really learning how to play jazz piano. I had always wanted to, and piano was my primary instrument in college, but I never got into jazz beyond the most basic theoretical level. I still want to get into that. I guess this inadequacy compounds my current feelings of regret. It seems relevant to the issue to me.

I’m seriously looking into it.


Another Class Altogether

You can understand how stifling it must be for me, since family has a monopoly over my time. Sure, once in a while I get to socialize with the Captain and the Amazing Brando, but even they only know me for penis jokes and angry tirades (basically, the in-person version of my online persona… which would be entirely my fault). And I get to see Andrew and Annie, but that’s the extent of my social life.

You can understand how wearing it must be for me, having misplaced character rebukes drilled into my head after months on end by people who seem to actively obstruct my enjoyment of anything, then make me feel like shit for it. You kick a dog enough times, he starts to think he deserves it.

You can understand how much I value the camaraderie of people like the Dynamic Scott Blanchard and the Fashionable Dean Yzon, those who knew me in a better light, with mutual respect. It wasn’t glamour or vanity—it was just plain, simple respect and appreciation. I would even describe it as recognition. These are the people of another class altogether, the people I would invite to that Ideal New Year’s Eve Party outlined by the Captain. Again: camaraderie.

As for the good Captain, well… my fault for quoting Peter Griffin a thousand times too many. But may he retake his own long-lost “Rat Pack” persona. As for me, I’m doomed to live with my standoffishly neoconservative parents in the middle of the flattest, least accessible corn-and-soybean wasteland of rural Missouri, thirsting to death in the Desert of Intellectual Isolation, my creative juices fermenting into a bitter sauvignon.

Save yourselves. I’m already lost, but save yourselves! Take back what used to make you smile. Take back what used to put some spring in your step. Take back what made you feel alive before you completely forget what it was.

Here’s to the next time I’ll find myself in a tuxedo: may it be when I am surrounded by truest fellowship and under the best of conditions as well as the merriest of circumstances. And on that Day of the Bard, I’ll never have reason to look back to this, to St. Louis, or to Overland Park.

It’s not about glamorous image: it’s about rapport. It’s not a vanity or superficiality. It’s called fellowship. Fellowship with class, style, and quiet dignity. It may be long lost, but it doesn’t have to be.

”You’re so fucking money and you don’t even know it!”
—Vince Vaughn, Swingers