I wish everyone didn’t feel so damn
good about themselves. For example?
Sigh. I wish that the following did not make me out to be a judgmental “fat-shamer”. There is no one, you must understand, no one who understands better than me, who was born gayer than Liberace’s goose and became the unwitting inventor at age five of male camel-toe, what it feels like to be shunned by normal members of society—the Everypersons who awaken each morning, pull on the baggy-assed catsuit of mediocrity and slink through their days, unnoticed and unreviled.
But, true to the schizoid nature of our time that enforces great overbearing hugs of total inclusiveness yet awards all the gold medals to the sociopathic narcissists, I have to be honest. And, let’s face it, like all caution-to-the-winds honesty, this is all about me, capisce?
In case that went over your head: My need to be honest trumps any tiresome inhibitions I might have about sparing anyone’s feelings.
Phew! It was great to get that off my chest and thanks for listening, you’ve been AWEsommmmme!
So, getting back on track with my needs, I really need Dexter Mayfield (above) to be a little less celebratory. Nothing too demanding. Maybe, say, two points less on a scale of ten—assuming his runway-model coach has managed to hoist him up to nine—with one on the scale being “I left a perfectly comfortable womb for this?” and ten being “I am the backyard where happiness awaited!”.
I wish he could, without denying himself a bite from the juicy apple of self-love, have at least a small portion of the dry, unsweetened oatmeal of clear-eyed honesty.
I don’t want Dexter to hate himself; no, never would I want that for a fellow human. “Hate” barely makes it into my vocabulary. I just don’t want to receive a suffocating, wobbling faceful of his self-esteem.
I would like, as it were, to throw the gigantic, bouncy beach ball of his pride back at him, where it can bobble lightly in the Atlantic Ocean of his cognitive dissonance.
I don’t want to be misunderstood here. Make no mistake, I love Dexter. I want him to know he’s a wonderful guy, deserving of every right, freedom and show of dignity we can muster.
I just want him to realize that, though we agree he’s wonderful, he could just as easily be wonderful at home, in Flatbush, with the drapes pulled, wearing a caftan, power-watching the deluxe boxed set of “Six Feet Under“.
This is, after all, the golden age of TV, and I do wonder, if only in passing, if people like Lionel Trilling or Mary Renault, or even William Blake or Emily Dickinson, would ever have contemplated putting “golden age” and “TV” together, in the same sentence, assuming that BBC America was even around then.
But I digress.
You know, and can I just say, seriously. There are times when I hate being a nasty, disagreeable old prick. I know that’s counter-intuitive. But those times do occur; then, as my day progresses, it may come about that I say something really mean to someone—let’s say, for the sake of argument, a young girl with pigtails and freckles who’s confined to a wheelchair, and I say the really mean thing to her—I don’t know why I do, maybe she cut ahead in line, or she’s taking way too long to reach the packet of organic couscous on the top shelf.
It’s just an example, OK?
She’s taking SO long, and even glaring at her and rolling my eyes and sighing dramatically doesn’t seem to speed her up, like, can she not take a hint? And so I say that something to her that’s really mean, and she bursts into tears.
That’s when it clicks, and I think, FUCK YEAH! This is what I was BORN to do!!
And with my self-esteem all plumped up again, like a prune thrown into a barrel of Curvoisier, I just let it all go.
Man, that feels good! No goddamn Anne of Green Gables in a wheelchair, struggling to reach a sad little couscous package on the top shelf, is gonna bring ME down!
Just let it all go, like a Victorian matron peeling off her whalebone corset, and walk.
Go on, hash-tag me #NastyDisagreeableOldPrickPRIDE, let the Twitter wars begin! I dare ya!
Then, there’s Madonna.
(Quick question: Did you KNOW it was Madonna, even without her head? You did, didn’t you? Go on, admit it!)
Now, you have to know something: I love Madge almost as much as I love Dexter Mayfield. By which I mean, as far as you can measure these things, Madonna is right up there, though still slightly behind the Dexter position, if you were to look closely.
And I know, as only one shy person can know a fellow shy person, that being ignored hurts. So I can totally understand why Madonna would need some attention today. Totally.
I mean, it’s the Metropolitan Opera Gala, the room is filled with peeps who are not you, there’s, let’s say, Michelle Obama looking regal, and maybe Dame Helen Mirren, Great Britain’s classiest, most Shakespeare-laden MILF wearing something clingy and cut on the bias, and it just friggin’ calls for a little girl-illa warfare in the name of attention grabbing and owning that focus like that focus is your bitch.
“If you have a problem with the way I dress
it is simply a reflection of your prejudice.”
Well! I wouldn’t say problem, really. I mean, my recoiling with my hands over my eyes is not the result of a problem, per se. It’s not a reflection of my prejudice, either; though it might be a reflection of a little bit of good taste that managed to sneak in, through the cracks.
Maybe, one day, when I get that deal with HarperCollins, I, too, will hijack the Met Gala to my own ends.
I will top up the bottomless well of my ego and celebrate the self-esteem-y wonderfulness of me in leather harness, jockstrap and gladiator boots; I will slap black electrical tape over my nipples, hang chains from my scrotum and draw the fickle, fluttery moths of public attention to the crackling flames of my lasciviousness.
It will be everything you’ve always wanted in a political statement.