Musings

The Whining Stranger on Invisibility, Ethics, and Confrontation.



Last week, a friend with whom I have a vexed relationship at times really pissed me off. The short version of the off-pissing is this: he has a history of self-promotion, which is as cardinal a sin as one can commit in the Whining Stranger's book, so devoted am I to some juvenile, Holden Caufield-inspired distaste for the ostentatious. (I'll admit here candidly that while I'm perhaps not always faithful to my desire for modesty, I'm at least mostly faithful to the performance of modesty. I know, I know--splitting hairs; hypocrisy; pot calling kettle black, yada yada... As Whitman famously said, "Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself. And keep on rocking in the free world.") In any case, what rattled my sensibilities by said friend-with-whom-I-have-sometimes-vexed-relationship is that he used, it seemed to me, the occasion of our beloved undergrad mentor's passing [see earlier post below] to insert himself quite forcefully (and shamelessly, I feared) into our mentor's life narrative in a long eulogy he posted to his blog. (And if you're trying to do a psychoanalytic reading of why said friend and I sometimes don't see eye to eye, consider the difference between posting a long eulogy in which you are central to many anecdotes on a blog that bears your real name and real photo vs. posting a brief eulogy on an anonymous blog... Anyway--)

Now, as in the past, at first I was willing to let said shameless-self-promotional offense pass with only my usual moody grumbling in private. (My poor partner has had to endure countless low-key jeremiads over the past few years in which I voice my annoyance with this friend's tendency toward self-mythologization and relentless advertising...) In fact, I might even hazard a guess that this friend doesn't even know that I think he and I have a vexed relationship at times because I have been so skittish about ever voicing my grievances and risking confrontation. (Ah, a second cardinal virtue of the WS's: avoid confrontation, even if you can feel your ulcer growing because of it...) But amidst this latest round of private grumbling, I actually considered a pseudo-aggressive (by which I mean not aggressive at all, really) act: I would take advantage of my new beloved expressive medium--this blog--and post a rant about his perennial look-at-me tendencies. This close was I, gentle reader, to composing an acerbic poison (digital) pen entry about his enormous ego, his lack of self-consciousness, his recurring acts of bad taste, etc. But suddenly I was consumed by a twinge of anxiety: what if, by some stroke of bad net-surfing luck, the friend found my blog, read the content, somehow sussed out that WS was me [Carl Hubhomeski], realized the contempt I've nursed at times over the past few years, and then, worst-case scenario, charged toward me like a rhino in full-out confrontation mode. (And trust me, this friend has a temper on him like Achilles, and a capacity for grudge-holding that would freak out even Old Testament Yahweh...) So, ever the diplomat (by which I might mean "wuss") I bailed out on the (sort of) public rant and went back to my private under-the-breath cursing.

Which begs that ol' Platonic conundrum for me. (And here, in case you're missing it, I refer to the narrative Plato offers about the ring of invisiblity and how the truly ethical person would still do the right thing even if s/he had a ring that made him/her invisible and thus offered him/her the potential to get away with all sorts of nasty shit... [This is a fantasy--oh! what I could get away with if nobody knew and I had preternatural control over my environment--that of course recurs throughout our culture, from Nicholson Baker's The Fermata to that new Adam Sandler movie I keep seeing commercials for, but really kind of looks like every other crappy Adam Sandler you've ever seen, save for Punch Drunk Love.] And this Plato business, I'll note, is one of the two things I really remember about Plato from my undergraduate days--the other being of course, the famous riff about handpuppets from The Republic. Well, and also that platonic love, as a friend explained to me insightfully one day in the fifth grade is the kind of love we see on Three's Company.) So, am I only an ethical (or diplomatic; or thoughtful; or unhurtful) person because of surveillance and public reputation? If given the complete assurance of invisiblity and anonymity, would I, at least rhetorically, tear my friend a new one without fear of consequences?

Maybe, I realized, with more than a tiny pinch of self-disgust. Maybe that's it exactly. I'm the king of the rhetorical sucker punch, but I tremble at the thought of a full-on drag-out slugest.

Sigh.

For instance, in the park at which I run, here in my neighborhood in [unnamed dusty college town, parts unknown], I often notice idiot dog-owners letting their dogs crap all over the grass and then leaving without picking up the mess and depositing it any number of trashcans around the park. This occurs--and here is where they really boil the Whining Stranger's bacon, baby--even though there are dog-crap-bag dispensers around the park to assist dogowners when they've forgotten to pack one for the road. After witnessing this egregious offense time and again, I started to think that it was up to me--responsible democratic citizen--to confront the dog-owners and set them straight about what role a public park is intended to play in a civilized society, i.e. it's not a big doggy toilet. But the solution that seemed most reasonable to me wasn't, sadly, just stopping mid-stride during my morning run and saying to these offenders, "You know, sorry to bug you, but I think it would be polite for you to clean that up so other park-users don't step in it," but instead to return to the park in the dark of night and post big signs on the dog-bag-dispensers which read something like, "Hey! You stupid fuck. Quit leaving your steaming dogshit and use one of these. What do you think they're for, dumbass?" See. I am the king of anonymous confrontation. With my sunglasses and my bandages removed, unseen by my opponent, I can be just as belligerent as Claude Rains with a touch of 'roid rage. But if I have to show my face, um, I suddenly turn into a quivering leaf, a diplomat by design, the kind of guy who tries his utmost to avoid getting sand kicked in his face. [And a sidenote, I abandoned the big-sign-approach; alas, dog shit steams there still.]

So, a resolution: don't be afraid to be assertive. If you really believe it, don't hide behind your invisiblity.

And so, next time I run, I, Carl Hubhomeski, will be watching the park with confidence, with assertive bluster. Dog-shit-leavers (and shameless self-promoters, for that matter), be warned.