Wednesday, February 29, 2012

I'm Just Bloggin'...

I'm really not a complainer.

Regardless of what my wife, kids, friends, family members, or that guy I talked to for three minutes in the grocery store checkout line yesterday, might tell you. But there is something I want to get off my chest. And out of my head and ears. So, get ready, I'm about to complain.

Everybody has a phrase that sets them off. A combination of words, that once uttered, immediately generates a quick and negative response in the listener.

It could even be one word, or as simple as a solitary sound. I know people who become physically agitated over the repeated use of "um". If they um, hear a person who um, continually leans on the crutch of um while um, giving a speech, they clench up, as if reaching into the television and smacking the um out of the violator were a feasible option.

I am not that person. Ums don't necessarily bother me. I find them amusing, treating them more as a drinking game than as a reason to visit your local Anger Management branch office.

My daughter has a couple examples that give her fits. One is when people exchange the "d" for a "b" in the word supposedly. "Supposebly". The other follows along the lines of Um Factor ~ she despises when people unnecessarily use the word like.

It's like, the best place in the world! 

"Do you mean that it IS the best place in the world, or it's merely SIMILAR to the best place in the world? And if you mean that it's not the best place in the world, then what is the best place in the world that you're comparing this one to? Please, tell me. I may want to visit!"

I, myself, am guilty of tossing out a few likes every now and then. Not trying to suggest that it makes it right simply because of my usage, I'm merely pointing out why I'm not as bothered by it as others.

Which brings me to what has been bothering me lately.

"I'm just saying..."

Yes. You are. Thank you for pointing that out.


Idioms constantly fall in and out of fashion ~ an odd twist of a phrase from a television show might be quoted the next morning at the water cooler for a laugh, then repeated throughout the day, multiple times, by multiple people at multiple water coolers, (actual and virtual), all in hope of trying to recapture or remember that initial moment of laughter. Within hours, the phrase has become a meme, quickly wearing out its welcome on YouTube.

Then there are those people who repeat a phrase for no other reason than to appropriate it for themselves. To overcompensate for the sad fact that they have no personality of their own, and desperately needing something to fill those empty minutes when they are forced to relate to other people (see my previous entry regarding awkward silences). How many people knew a guy at work or school who's schtick was walking up to women and sneering, "How YOU doin'?" Thanks, Friends.

And then there's just lazy and stupid. In my estimation, that is the category where "I'm just saying..." is filed.

I cannot describe how much that infuriates me, but don't worry, I will give it a good try.

As far as I can tell, that egregious phrase was introduced to the public by comedian Paul Reiser back in the 90's. He would tack on said catchphrase to the end of a comical statement, implying that the comment was not made as a judgment or criticism, but merely an observation.

"You're fat. I'm just sayin'." (Not a Paul Reiser joke. Only an example to prove my point.)

Think of it as the bookend to "No offense, but..." or, "Don't take this the wrong way, but...".

It was humorous when Reiser said it because it was part of the joke. His onstage persona would make fun of someone, then, almost as an afterthought, quickly gloss over his indiscreet remark by insinuating that he wasn't  trying to disparage his target in any way ~ no, not at all! ~ he was "just sayin'..." It was an off-handed topper to the punchline, a designed gimmick employed to convince his audience that he's not really a bad guy ~ he's just pointing out the obvious.

I found it amusing when Reiser used it. My problem with the phrase now is that the intent seems to have changed. Rather than bothering to craft a joke, people feel free to hurl insults, and as long as they tag "I'm just sayin'..." to the end of it, like that somehow makes it acceptable.

It not only acts as a lazy and ineffective cover for all manner of derision, but it also ends up mocking you.

"You're fat. I'm just saying..."

Translation: "Hey, in case you didn't realize it, you're fat. In fact, it's so obvious that you're fat, I'm not even going to bother wasting my time to find a clever was to say it, so I'm just going to say it, because it's so damn noticeable."

Some offenders have become so frigging lazy about it, that they skip speaking the setup themselves, and add the punchline to someone else's statement.

"Damn, he's fat."
"I'm just sayin..."

Are we really that lazy as a society, that we can't even try to be clever anymore? It's like the old Jerry Seinfeld joke about seeing someone walking around in public, wearing sweatpants: "Did you just give up?"

I don't like bringing up subjects like this because it sounds too much like the Old Man And The Lawn Syndrome, but sometimes we have to fight the urge to remain silent for the purposes of a greater cause ~ to convince people to try harder. Use their brain power. And goddamn it, get their own catchphrases!

I know being funny is important to you, and trust me, I realize how hard it can be. But just like how growing a porn star mustache doesn't automatically make you a porn star, stealing material and using it in a half-assed manner does not automatically make you funny. At best, it only reminds the listener or the reader of how funny the original person is who delivered the line. At worst, it reminds the listener or reader of how unfunny you are.

This all may seem harsh, but, no offense, you need to stop. It's annoying. I'm just saying.


Saturday, February 25, 2012

Aimless Wanderings

"There once was a young bear cub who went wandering out in the woods and got lost."

"Who?"

"Who? What do you mean who?"

"The bear cub. Who was he? What was it's name?"

"I don't know."

"Why don't you know?"

"It's not relevant to the story."

"I disagree. If that was your bear cub lost in the woods, it would matter a great deal."

"I wouldn't have a bear cub lost in the woods."

"You don't know that."

"Yes. Yes, I do. I can resolutely confirm that I would never have a bear cub lost in the woods."

"Probably ran away because you wouldn't name it."

"Glenn! Okay?"

"Glenn? The bear cub's name was Glenn?"

"Yes. Now, can I get back to the story?"

"This was an actual bear cub? And his parents named him Glenn?"

"Yes."

"Was it a family name?"

"What are you talking about?"

"It's just...Glenn? Seems like a strange name for a bear. You'd think a bear would have a more majestic name. Something imposing. A name that strikes fear into the other animals. So, I'm thinking, was that the father's name? I don't know, maybe Glenn has a different cachet for bears than it does for humans."

"Xenophilos the Fourth!"

"What's this now?"

"Glenn was his nickname. His birth name was Xenophilos the Fourth. There, happy?"

"Is that a joke?"

"Why would you think it's a joke? That's an imposing name."

"Xenophilos. Xeno, from the Latin for stranger..."

"I don't know."

"...and philos, also Latin, meaning having a love or preference for."

"I guess."

"You're telling me, this bear was named, Person who loves strangers? No wonder he was wandering in the woods."

"You're reading way too much into this."

"And if he was the Fourth, all that pointless gallivanting is a genetic trait he undoubtedly picked up from his father, the Third."

"Sure. I don't know. Whatever. Now can I...?"

"No, hold on. You don't know about that, either? Is there anything in this story that can be verified as true?"

"How would I know?"

"Seriously? Research! Ask questions! Didn't any of this strike you as odd when you first heard it?"

"I was two!"

"That's no excuse."

"I could hardly speak!"

"Are you inferring that the inability to speak automatically makes you gullible? I know many mute people, and none of them are that naive. Unless you're just making it up as you go along. And if that's the case, you should stick to your day job. Unless your day job is being a storyteller."

"Are you finished?"

"Are you finished?"

"I haven't even begun!"

"Fine. Then please, continue on with your remarkably unsubstantiated story."

"It's not unsubstantiated."

"How can you say that? It's obviously not factual."

"It's a story!"

"Okay...Fiction, or nonfiction?"

"What difference does that make?"

 "You're kidding, right? Do you really not know? How were you raised? Hold on...Is this story about you? Are you really the lost bear cub?"

"No!"

"Then it's an allegory, isn't it? You're trying to deceive me into believing some fictitious nonsense as the framework for your personal draconian moralism, aren't you?"

"I'm just trying to tell a story...!"

"Well, you're doing a lousy job of it."

"Will you two please stop?"

"Who said that?"

"I did."

"Who are you?"

"I know who it is. It's Egan."

"Oh, hey."

"Just couldn't stop yourself, could you?"

"Stop myself from what?"

"Inserting yourself in the story. Holy hell, man! Does everything you write have to do with you? You know, only last week you were complaining about other people being narcissists. Maybe you should take a look in the mirror and make a little confession. Then again, when aren't you staring at yourself in the mirror?"

"Look. Stepping into the story wasn't my initial intent."

"Sure."

"You need to stop arguing and get on with it."

"Mister Big Shot."

"He has a point."

"I knew you'd side with him."

"Nobody is siding with anybody. It's a simple fact. The story's not moving forward."

"I'll move you forward."

"Is that some kind of taunt?

"Yeah? What did that mean?"

"It wasn't supposed to mean anything."

"This is too confusing. I'm outta here."

"Who said that?"

"First Guy said it. He's gone."

"Seriously? After all that?"

"I guess so."

"How the hell am I ever going to find out what happened to the little bear cub?"

"Oh, I can tell you that. He kept wandering, deeper and deeper. Stayed lost. Never found his way out."

"So, it was an allegory!"

"Hmm. How 'bout that."

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Hey! That's Disgusting! Stop It! Now It's My Turn!

Hello again.

I find myself staring at my monitor, wanting to write about something, but not quite sure what that something will be. Nothing uncommon about this. Of course, realizing it's regularity doesn't mollify the frustration.

Often times, inspiration can be found simply by examining the current state of both you and your surroundings. A modification of the old theory, "Write what you know".

Let's see...in my pajamas, crazy hair, drinking a fresh fruit smoothie for breakfast.

Really nothing inspiring about that. Especially if you were peeking in my window. Unless you consider an immediate desire to run away from a window as a form of inspiration.

Ah! Now there's an idea: peeking in windows!

I'll calmly walk up to each house on my block and peer into every uncovered window, looking for something to arouse my creativity. What could go wrong?

What could go wrong? is usually the line uttered by a dimwitted TV character right before the scene cuts to "LATER THAT EVENING", when us viewers find out exactly what went wrong. But don't worry, I won't get into any trouble with the law over this. How could I? We have people in elected office right now who are not only snooping into our living rooms, they're opening the front door, walking into our bedrooms, lifting up our women's skirts, and examining their uteri with over-sized probing devices. With deviants of that magnitude strolling our streets, how could a mild-mannered window peeper ever spark anyone's attention?

For the record, that is the first time I ever used uteri in text. Not that I have anything against used uteri, all uteri is good uteri in my book, theoretically speaking. I don't discriminate. It's just that I don't find myself writing about it all that often. So, if anybody wishes to celebrate this significant occasion with me, I'll wait while you fetch the champagne.

Why do so many people on the right want to monitor and legislate other people's sexual habits? First of all, in what context is that ever an example of "Small Government"? That aside, why does it matter to you if the neighbor you get along with out on the street is performing a slightly different dance in his or her bedroom than you are in yours?

If you found out after forty years of marriage that once a month, your parents were engaging in an act that personally revolted you, would you call your Congressman and demand that their marriage be terminated? Or force it to be declassified as a civil union?

How would you like it if, the next time you were laying on top of your bored suburban wife, someone busted down your door and prohibited YOU from having sex in the future, merely because you lacked variety and imagination? (I'm sure your wife would welcome it).

Would you feel like your civil rights were violated? Or would you say to yourself, "they are only doing it because of their strongly held beliefs, and I should abide by their decisions"?

Stupid questions, huh? Especially the last one.

Yet, here they are, the current flock of flunkies, achieving near orgasm in their daily diatribes about other people's morals. All the while they themselves tip-toe through the garden of their own fetid indiscretions.

Staunch belief in religion is often cited as the reason for their desires to stop our fun. But if they truly believed in the Bible, their ignoble crusades would be thwarted by text within the Bible itself. There's more than a few passages about the evils of judging people, throwing stones, and mere mortals trying to do God's job. But none of that information ever seems to faze them. They soldier on, insisting that soldiers should not be on each other.

Jealousy is another possibility. If I can't do it, then nobody can!

Psychological projection is another ~ they themselves have an insatiable taste for a lifestyle considered by many in their flock as aberrant, but since they don't want the rest of  world to know it, they call out others, hoping that their objections will act as a smokescreen to conceal their own behaviors.

Yeah, like that ever works.

Or maybe their actions are so strategically devious that they rise above our normal scope of awareness. What if the people complaining about morality are, like previous stated, just as "guilty", (again, in their minds only), as the people they are condemning. But, these lascivious politicos/religious leaders are sick of hiding their fun. What if they want to experience it out in the open, but without the stigma attached to it by the rest of their brethren? How could they successfully manage that tightrope act?

By forcing a vote on the issue.

Get on your ivory soapbox (not the brand name, but the color of the soapbox ~ because most of these folks are white), and scream how wrong it is. Force a bill to be written, or create a state Proposition that is brought to popular vote, and hope for it to be struck down. Hope that enough people become so outraged that the act you are supposedly against becomes legitimized and legalized. Then you may finally announce to all that you, too, are partaking in the newly accepted legal activity.

Nah.

They're just arrogant assholes who think they know what's best for the rest of civilization, regardless of what or how civilization feels about the matter, and nothing any of us say or do will change how they feel.

Okay, that's settled, but it still doesn't solve the problem of needing something to write about.

Sigh. Guess I have to go peep in a few windows.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

The World Speaks...And There Is No Immediate Response.

Hello to all of my readers in Taiwan, Russia, and Belgium!

Yes, you read that correctly ~ according to my stats, I'm multinational! Not bad for a guy who hasn't traveled further than 30 miles beyond his house in the past month.

Since I don't know anyone in those parts of the globe, I'm guessing the reason for these page views is due to the fact that my blog was added to StumbleUpon. For those of you who never heard of it, StumbleUpon is a discovery engine that searches, and recommends, random web content for users, based on their marked preferences. If you've never used it, I highly suggest you give it a try. You could literally lose yourself for hours bouncing from page to page.

Okay, commercial over. I'll keep an eye out for that endorsement check.

It's been over a week since my last entry, and for that, I apologize. I never promised that I'd write every day, but there was an implication that I wouldn't allow huge gaps between new posts. Let's see if I can make up for that today.

So, what do you want to talk about?

...

I know. What about silent pauses? That seems contextually appropriate.

Chances are, you're a person who feels uncomfortable during pauses. Most people are. But unless you're on a talk show and have an abundant supply of pre-written index cards, lapses in conversation are bound to happen. (Okay, that's not entirely true. The world does have it's share of blowhard narcissists who never stop talking about themselves long enough for there to be a pause in conversation. If you know someone like this, let's toss them from the equation, since they're not the subject I'm trying to address. However, if you claim to NOT know someone like this, at the risk of sounding like a Jeff Foxworthy joke, you just might be a blowhard narcissist. And if that's the case, feel free to leave a reply in the comment section. Just don't be upset if everyone scrolls past it.)

Some think of themselves as the person who tries to fill the breaks, while others consider themselves the type who stay silent and hope someone else does all the heavy lifting. And talking. Either way, these occasions are awkward, frustrating, and hazardous to navigate. But why?

The reason silences cause so much anxiety is because they get us thinking. And based on our ridiculous thought processes, you might conclude that thinking is an activity us humans should avoid at all costs.

Long pauses during our interactions with others lead us to moments of personal introspection that we would not normally entertain. They compel us to question our intelligence. They force us to ponder our personality. Most of the time silently, but some times verbally.

"I am so stupid," you mutter aloud. "And really not very interesting."

Your friend takes this in for a moment, before finally speaking. "Huh? You say something?"

What fascinates me the most about this is, why do we always jump to the immediate conclusion that it's us? A two-person conversation is a two-person exercise, (at least, it should be), so why can't it ever be their fault? Why don't we ever think to ourselves:

"Damn, this person is stupid. And really not interesting." (By the way, saying this out loud is a guaranteed catalyst to break the silence. Just in case you were looking for a quick fix.)

Does this in fact, subtly confirm a form or our own narcissism? That by filling every empty space with dialogue, we are attempting to prove to ourselves, and others, that we are indeed smart and interesting?

Or, does it uncover our deep-seated fears that maybe, just maybe, the reason this person isn't talking to me is because they don't really like me? Does anybody truly like me, or is it all a big charade? Oh my god, I have to say something, because if this quiet lasts any longer, it's going to make them realize just how shallow I really am. Holy shit. What if the entire world finds out? Thanks to StumbleUpon, there's a few people in Russia and Taiwan who already know. What if they start talking?

So you search your brain for any bit of pointless information ~ do Alaskans like purple? What else smells like a balloon? ~ it doesn't matter what. Speaking must occur. Which is why we have the cliched fallbacks of "How about this weather?" and "See the game over the weekend?". But those are such patently obvious proxies for real conversation, that once uttered, you wish you had remained silent.

How we react to pauses, and waiting in general, (see my previous entry on this subject), says more about us than we're willing to admit. We don't blame the other party for not being smart enough to hold up the conversation because we'd rather use these moments as a screen onto which we project our neuroses.

If you think someone hates you, or is mad at you, that's why they're not talking.

If you suspect that you aren't as intelligent as the other person, (and dammit, there's a word for that particular condition that's on the tip of my tongue. I'm sure he knows what the word is, but if I ask, I'll really seem stupid), that's your answer right there.

We desire to be liked so much, that other people's opinions of us, whether actual or perceived, often times become our own opinions of ourselves. We then drive ourselves wacky trying to disprove or correct these criticisms, when most of the time, there was never a problem to begin with. But don't get me wrong, I'm not insinuating that there is never a problem, because there can very well be one, and when that's the case, it should never be overlooked. What I've discovered though, is if someone has a real problem with you, you'll know it. Of course, they seldom come right out and say it, so you'll have these long periods of uncomfortable silence that only gets worse if you try to talk. 

Didn't I say it was difficult to navigate?

If by now you realized that this post is meant to be a rationalization for why I haven't written in so long, congratulations, you are the winner. Winner of what, I'm not saying. But don't take it personally. This isn't your problem. I think it might have something to do with the weather. Kinda been weird lately, hasn't it? What are the temperatures like over there in Russia?

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Ooh, Get Me...I'm Turning All Philisophical And Everything!

My last blog entry got me thinking about all of the time in my life I wasted worrying about inconsequential matters ~ i.e., stupid shit. After a few moments of contemplation, I concluded that the Number One dumbest notion that I was most obsessed with in the past was failure. More to the point, the absolute debilitating Fear Of Failure, (capitalizing the first letters in each word to Stress It's Importance!). I was afraid if I failed, I'd look like an idiot. And that fear of looking like a fool, when boiled down to it's essence, was really a fear of people not liking me. How I even morphed into a person like that is anybody's guess. I'd say go ask my parents for a clearer explanation, but they'd probably deny even knowing me.

I did standup comedy for a while, and no matter how much my friends might tell me that they liked the material, each time I had to walk to that microphone, I was scared to death. Scared that my friends were only telling me my jokes were funny because that was their job as my friend, and soon, every stranger in the club would find out the truth. That I was a pathetic failure.

Now I look back on those paranoid times and think, so what if they didn't like it? Too bad. You can't please everyone all the time. I think President Lincoln said that, and we all know how prescient that comment turned out to be.


And then, as humans are wont to do, my mind strayed to the subject of regret. As in: do I have any?

Interesting concept, regret. Analytically reflecting on your actions of the past. Some say that ability is what separates us from the animals. I'm sure that can't be the only thing, though. There's all that business about frontal lobes and thumbs, too. For a full documentation on everything that separates humans from animals, I'd have to first consult with my friend the anthropologist. I wouldn't want to make any mistakes and look like an idiot. Okay, I know what you're thinking, "there you go again with your fear of making mistakes". Well, this one isn't irrational. If there's one thing I learned from hanging around with an anthropologist, it's you can't pretend to know the subject of anthropology. The better choice is to throw your hands up in the air and ask a couple questions. Otherwise, that sense of foolishness you spent a lifetime trying to avoid will not be a mere neurosis confined to your mind. It will be on full display, for all to see. And I'll give you a little piece of advice, if you ever find yourself chatting with an anthropologist, don't ever make a passing reference about monkeys being the same as apes. Not even as a joke. Because it's not a joke. Not to an anthropologist. They will NEVER let you forget it. It's not in their nature. For chrissakes, these people dig up the past for a living!

Back to the idea of regretting.

Regretting implies that you are unhappy with the way your life currently is: "If I'd only done ---- instead, maybe things would be better." And that's just not the case with me. True, I don't have the career I always wished for. Yet. I still have hopes that it will happen. My main problem with regretting is, what guarantees are there that assure me I would have had my dream career if I took a different path?

The Robert Frostian map of roads not taken is pretty clear for most people. We can easily look back and see exactly when and where our path split in a different direction. For me, there were two major splits.

The first was during my last year in college, when I was in a comedy group with a couple people who are now rather successful. For the moment, I won't say who, because as my good friend George Clooney told me while we were visiting Jennifer Aniston at her winter place, "Name dropping can be kind of douchey." Suffice it to say, one is a very annoying actor that everyone in the business makes fun of for his off-the-stage troubles, and the other is a well-known writer and producer, who just recently was on a sitcom playing a guy who has star shaped sideburns. The name of his character escapes me.

Anyway, way back when, the three of us we were friends, and in a group. The second fellow and I were not only writing partners, but also roommates in the worst apartment imaginable. My life was good, but not great. Similar to most other actors our age. Then out of nowhere, I had some panic attack about my life and bolted for California with another friend who was out here trying to make it as a musician. I just left. Broke up the group, probably the friendship, and left him alone in a first-floor walk-up dungeon. The two guys I left behind reformed the group, and within a couple years, were regulars on a TV show.

So the question is, had I stayed, would I have eventually broken into the business, too? Would I have become a success? Or, would I have upset the cosmic balance and ruined it all for everyone? Would I have made a decision for all of us that caused them to miss out on their dreams?

Who knows? My continuing to be part of their life would have added at least one more road, one more divergent path, to consider. A road that could have led nowhere.

A year later, my musician friend informed me he was moving back to Chicago, and I freaked out again. The only thing was, I had just heard back from a literary agent, who told me he loved a couple scripts I sent him, and was positive he could get me a job writing in television. So, even knowing that, and the fact that I had forged a couple very good friendships in L.A., the thought of him leaving left me feeling very alone. And once again, I bolted.

Had I not left L.A., and possibly landed a TV job, what would have happened? Again, it's all conjecture. When people look back with regret, they always imagine the best case scenario as how their life would have played out, so of course, the what-ifs are always million dollar success stories. But if you take in all of the factors that comprised who you were as a person at that time, you begin to get a clearer picture of what really might have been. I was young, and without any guidance. All of the people I called friends in L.A. were only part of my life for less than a year. And I can admit now that at the time, I was also ridiculously needy, and apt to pay visits to the dark side whenever I was invited. There's a chance I could have become a success. There's also a chance I could have become the subject of  a "What Ever Happen To...?" show ~ my episode opening with ominous music and an old headline. As I said, there are no guarantees that any other road would have proven to be any more advantageous.

I confess, there have been any number of times when I wish I could transport back in time and slap my younger self in the face. Or better yet, just let him have a look at the way I turned out: "Eat more vegetables, and do some damn situps! Please!" There are friendships I wish I had spent more time working on. I wish I read more. And I wish I was a little more fearless, about life in general. But I don't need a time machine for any of those. Each of those concerns can be worked on now just as easily. Well, perhaps not all that easily. The older I get, the less I like vegetables and situps.

There is one important detail to keep in mind whenever mulling over regret ~ don't fall into the trap of focusing completely on the roads NOT taken. Consider also the roads that you did take, and how important they are to your life. You see, after I returned to Chicago from my brief stay in California, I met this incredible woman. Purely by accident. We just happened to be sitting next to each other at a bar, and started talking. So amazing was she, that after knowing her for only a week, I couldn't bear to spend any time away from her. Within a matter of months, she became my best friend, and a year after that, she became my wife. We now have two wonderful kids, and a pretty happy life. I can guarantee that none of that would have happened had I taken another road. And I'm grateful every day that I didn't stray from that path.

So, when it comes to regrets, my suggestion to you is, don't have any. I know that's easier said than done, but remember, the regrets of the future are the inactions of the present. Take a chance. Be fearless. You might surprise yourself. And if you don't like the results, change them. It's not worth a minute of your life wasting time thinking what if? Just give it a shot. Sure, you might feel like an idiot if you fail, but years from now, you'll feel like an even bigger idiot for not trying.

Monday, February 6, 2012

To First Time Readers...

If you like my blog, please become a member, so you can receive email notifications whenever there is a new entry.

If you really like it, please feel free to repost the link on your page to help me reach a larger audience.

Thanks for reading!

Patrick

A Change In Direction

Yesterday was revelatory. I'd like to say it was epiphanous, but an epiphany is a sudden burst of insight, and quite honestly, it's almost and entire day later, and I'm just now starting to make sense of this. It could merely be further proof that my brain is slowing down, but let's take one thing at a time.

I know I can be an asshole. But, as my lovely uncle pointed out, that's not really news to anyone. The truth is, I don't like to play games with people, and if I find you annoying or obnoxious, well, it's fairly evident in my manner. Generally speaking though, I'm a nice guy who only slips into asshole mode when provoked. If you're nice to me, I'm nice to you. You have to reveal and engage your asshole-ishness first before mine kicks in. Think of it as company that matches funds for a donation. The reserves are there to distribute, but remain dormant until you show intent.

Probably the number one thing that sets me off is arrogance. If someone acts like a dick for no apparent reason, I see no justification to be nice to you. Granted, there are times when people have a valid excuse to behave like a jerk, and when I'm aware of such a scenario, I allow a certain amount of wiggle room.

So, ordinarily, I know when I'm being an asshole, because it's a conscious decision I make to act that way, and it's therefore no surprise when people react harshly towards me as a result. It is a surprise though, when people treat me like an asshole, and there appears to be no valid explanation for it.

That was yesterday.

A little background: about a week ago, through diligent research, (me wasting time on the internet), I found an online "writer's community", (their phrase, not mine). I had a simple question to which I could not find a suitable answer, so I decided to register to this site so I could ask it to ask my fellow writers.

Doesn't that sound easy enough?

I started a new thread with my question. And waited. The main menu tallied the amount of reader's views for each thread, as well as the number of responses. Over a hundred people read the question, but only one person responded. (I bet you know where this is headed.) That person posted four separate times, but none of the comments actually answered what I asked. Instead, this person (using a screen name that made it impossible to distinguish whether it was a man or a woman, which is why I am using the gender-neutral they. Thought you might want to know. Now, back to the story!), anyway, he/she decided to use those four posts to inform me of how wrong my methods were, and instruct me of the correct ones I should be using. When I, very un-asshole-ishly at this stage, communicated that I was already using the exact procedures that they suggested, and that I was just looking for an answer to my simple questions, they wrote another post saying I was "awfully contentious and borderline rude for someone asking for free advice/info".

This is when I put on my asshole mask and flew into action.

Action that resulted in a private message from a sensitive moderator, and the deletion of my response. In my defense, I didn't verbally attack the person. I did not call them names, nor did I impugn their character. It was really just me being a smartass. But it was apparently enough to upset the delicate sensibilities of the board. I was warned, and given 2 infraction points. Which really pissed me off, since I thought my response was worth at least a 6 or 7. It was damn good piece of sarcasm!

Anyway, I amended the post, rewriting it as bland as possible, and free of acrimony. You would have thought my reply was penned by an overachieving grade-schooler who never caught on to the other kids making fun of him.

That post, too, was deleted. Something which I really didn't understand.

I wrote the moderator directly, and asked why.

After hitting submit, I realized that I desperately needed to have a margarita, but was out of the fixings, and had to make a quick run to the grocery store. While there, I came across my neighbor, who was out shopping with his two kids.

I saw him.

He turned his head and saw me.

I said, "Hey, -----, how 'ya doing?"

He turned his head without saying a word, and walked away.

His son walked past me, and I gave him a similar greeting. The kid cowered and scampered away.

I wondered, what did I do? Was he the guy on the writer's message board?

I went home and told my wife. She says it's odd, because he's always nice to her. The baffling part is, I've really been nothing but nice to this guy. A few months ago, his wife accidentally set a storage cabinet on fire in their backyard, a unit that stood directly next to their house. So, I called the fire department, possibly saving them from a considerable amount of damage. Another time, when they were gone, their dog somehow escaped from the backyard. I led him to a neighbor's house, so he could be off the streets and out of harm. And just last week, their son was locked out of their house. My wife let him use the phone to call someone to pick him up. No wonder the guy doesn't want to talk to me, huh?

I kinda just shrugged off the grocery store encounter, and made a pitcher of margaritas. What I really wanted to do was go online to see if there was a response to the question I wrote the moderator. There was. Believe it or not, he told me I was banned from the boards. For life!

This is when my revelation began to slowly unfold.

I started wondering if something was wrong with me. Was I over the line with this person on the board? Did I bring this all on myself in some way? Then it hit me. How would another writer act? How would Hemingway have handled this situation? I don't know why I chose Hemingway, but he was the first person who popped into my head. Would Hemingway have apologized to these people, and continued to take their smug put-downs, just so he could stay on the boards long enough to have his stupid question answered? The answer is NO, he would have told the person off even worse. Old Ernest probably would have tracked the poster down, and beat the hell out of him.Then write a boring short story about it.

My problem is I spend way too much time and energy worrying if people are upset because, I don't know, if my music is too loud, or if I don't acknowledge them as I pull into my driveway. Well, no more.  Whether it's being a pompous asshole to a writer with a question, or just being a grumpy asshole to someone who says hello to you, I learned that even when you try your best to be a nice guy, there will always be a contingent of assholes who treat you like you are a charter member of their club.

So I'm going to try and stop worrying so much if I bother you. Or offend you. I'm not going to go Full-Hemingway, or even Full-Asshole, but I'm going to care a whole lot less about your feelings on the matter. Don't get me wrong, if you want to be my friend, that's great, I'd love to have you. But enough of the drama and head games. High school ended a long time ago. I don't even care if you liked or disliked this post. It's my damn blog, and I can write what I want. Go find something else to read.

Oh, and next time someone's house catches fire, I'm opening a bag of marshmallows.

Friday, February 3, 2012

Who Says Multi-Tasking Is Limited To Our Waking Hours?

I woke up in the middle of the night with a completely original (to me, at least), idea for a new novel stuck in my head.
Then I fell back asleep, and dreamed a large chunk of the story, from beginning to end.
And believe it or not, it's pretty damn good.
Unless I'm forgetting, that's only happened to me once before. About two years ago I had the same kind of nocturnal brainstorm, and that dream story is the next project I'll be working on.
So if you include last night's submission, I have six ideas lined up and ready to write. Four of them developed consciously. So to speak.
All I need to do now is get moving on them.
Maybe I can train myself to sleep-type.
 
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Thursday, February 2, 2012

Today in America

February 2, 2012:
Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow today, signifying six more weeks of winter.
Within minutes of this announcement, House Republicans issued a statement saying this proves that global warming does not exist. Any change in weather patterns are to be blamed directly on groundhogs.
As a result, Phil's Twitter account has crashed, and therefore, he could not immediately be reached for comment.


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Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Tom Petty Was Right About One Thing

The waiting is the hardest part. The topics that Petty were wrong about will be saved for another post.

Waiting sucks. And on so many levels. There aren't too many activities that cause both boredom and stress. At the same damn time!

When we wait, we are temporarily transformed into an alternate state of human existence. One which is treated with a universally accepted form of apathy and prejudice. When we wait, we are considered so abnormal from the rest of our species, that special rooms have been constructed to separate us from the rest of civilization.


ME: "Hello."
THEM: "Name?"
ME: "Patrick Egan."
THEM: "You're here to wait, aren't you?"
ME: "Please don't make me go in the room!"
THEM: "Sorry, but that's the rules. Down the hall. Go now."

Waiting causes us such exasperation and outrage that special music is played just to calm us down. (A quick note to the folks at Muzak: it doesn't help. Cough up the extra few bucks for the rights to the original recordings, okay? Hearing orchestral versions of our favorite songs makes us feel old, which only pisses us off even more. Thank you.)

(If you'll excuse one more aside, my wife just informed me of the time. It seems I have to stop writing in order to pick up my daughter and take her to the dentist, so I have to wait a while to finish. Ironic, isn't it?)

Three hours later...That took a little longer than expected, but at least the music during the car ride was good.

Let's see...where was I? Oh yes...

We don't like to wait, because waiting is a signal to us that we are not as in control of our world as we'd like to be. We wait because the activity we want to happen, and happen now, is no longer in our hands. And we all know how stupidly ineffective other people's hands can be.

Yes, yes, yes, I realize that our overreactions to waiting also suggests that we are impatient, and demand instant gratification at every turn. Blah, blah, blah...what an astute observation. Now shut up and let me finish.

I bring up the subject of waiting because that is what I currently find myself sweating through. Again. The waiting room in my particular level of hell is reserved for waiting to hear back from agents. I know that's not nearly as traumatic as say, the wait to see whether a Plus or a Minus appears on a urine-soaked stick, but it is nonetheless filled with anxiety and frustration.

The common strategy for writers is to only contact a handful of agents at one time, and not carpet-bombing dozens of them at once. So, believe it or not, the stress doesn't even concern whether or not the agents ultimately say yes or no. The tension is actually generated by not hearing anything at all. Thus, the waiting. I've been through this so many times by now, that I don't really care how they feel about my work. I just want to get a timely response so I can move on and bug another agent.

I'm swamped by guilt even mentioning my feelings on this subject because the matter always seems far too trivial to others.

"Don't you know how many people in this world really have problems? There are one-legged children in Kenya with nothing to eat but the legs of other children. Who they can't catch because they only have one leg to get around on!"

Trust me, I genuinely feel bad for those one-legged cannibal children ~ it's a gruesome life experience that I wouldn't wish on the majority of people I know ~ but you can't compare one to the other. I have the right to feel a sense of dissatisfaction at my problems in life, too. And I'm willing to bet if one of those kids spent over three years writing a story about something important to them, they would get annoyed at having to wait for an email response from an agent, as well.

So, keep your fingers crossed. Not just that my wait time is decreased, but also that you don't have to deal with me while I wait to be contacted. I can get a little testy.