The following is meant as observation only - the events depicted did not lessen the overall lovely time I had.
While attending Nicole & Mark's house warming party this past weekend, I came to the conclusion that people named Justin(e) and I will just never get along. Before I had about a 50% chance of getting along with them - but recent years have proven that my track record with those names has just plummeted into the negatives. There seems to be a distinct personality clash - between my own moodiness (which I will explain in a moment) and their...I don't know, a part of me wants to call it reserved nature, another part of me wants to say "pretentiousness without the grasping qualities that might make them great". But that latter definition also requires some explanation - so let's start with that.
While attending Nicole & Mark's house warming party this past weekend, I came to the conclusion that people named Justin(e) and I will just never get along. Before I had about a 50% chance of getting along with them - but recent years have proven that my track record with those names has just plummeted into the negatives. There seems to be a distinct personality clash - between my own moodiness (which I will explain in a moment) and their...I don't know, a part of me wants to call it reserved nature, another part of me wants to say "pretentiousness without the grasping qualities that might make them great". But that latter definition also requires some explanation - so let's start with that.
For the most part, I'm cool with pretentious artists. I'll let a musician, painter, writer, director, whatever, slide by with complaints about modern life, a consensus world view, the soul crushing blandness of the everyday - if they are trying to depict not just those problems, but why they are problems and the potential for better. That's the "grasping quality" I actually like about those nigh-on insufferable people, and view it as fuel for their work while making bits written about them impossibly boring. Even if I do not share their views, or hope for different solutions, I can still enjoy their work and have respect for them even if they aren't my cuppa.
When the pretension falls from critics, however, that's when I begin to have a problem. This happens every now and then, and for me, it usually takes the form of Rex Reed, film critic for the New York Observer, and is probably best put into view by his take on the movies of 2008. His top film? The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Mine: The Dark Knight. While I don't think either will age that well (for as great a character as the Joker is, his plan doesn't hold up to repeat viewings), I doubt I'll ever watch Button again. I didn't like it that much when it was Forrest Gump, and while the digital effects are astounding, I could feel indifference settling into my bones. My enjoyment of something equally stupid and smart (serious, the Joker's plan does not hold up to repeat viewings) versus something that in my view brought little new to an already overloaded table and failed to get a "huh" out of me.
Now that I've set this up, it seems as though I'm about the thrash the Justin(e)s of the world - not yet. All the pieces must be put into their starting positions.
My own moodiness is not in the "always sullen" vein it once was. It's no reached a level where people think I'm bi-polar...is the triggering mechanism were a light switch in a room where an unpopular kid is trying to throw a rave (quiet, I had a lonely childhood). For the most part, I have a leash on it, and can choose varying degrees of either depending upon company, but for the most part my public persona is either one of detached observation or grabbing life by the hand and running through the sprinklers. I can see where either would rankle others, hence my willingness to alter.
There are some, though, for whom there is no pleasing. First impressions are important, I know, just as every impression after that - but I only really get good around number seven. Pat of this is because I've moved beyond fretting over looking like a fool. I'm a writer who can't spell - a story teller who always prefers the spoken word to writing - if I wasn't okay with making a fool out of myself, how the hell could I cope with others pointing it out?
Which is why I tend to avoid parties - it's all new people, which I like. But it's meeting new people, which is down right bowel shaking for me. It's when I think detached observation is called for, but nothing kills a party atmosphere faster than someone standing in the corner with a facial expression you'd warn the stewardess about during the per-flight explanation of emergency exits. Also, I have a fear of getting sick and a taste for steampunk, so my methods of avoiding spreading airborne toxins is slightly less than subtle.
But, in doing my best to entertain and be entertained by the lovely people I met, I kept hearing remarks from a fellow who just seemed to be...adverse to me. "That's a lot of energy," he'd say during one of my rants. When Stephen M. and I reunited for the first time in five years, and continued our flickering friendly combat of pop-cultural commentary, there was a muttered "Jesus, now there's two of them" - he being already versed in Stephen's antics and taste, which are kindred to my own when surrounded by the mostly urbane sensibilities that the party engendered.
Once the party died down, and we were left with the last stragglers, the hosts, and the last of the beer, Justin appeared ready to puke - this isn't hyperbole, he had been pounding drinks throughout the day and into the current wee small hour of the morning - while the rambunctious of us grilled one another on matters like State Capitals and and the map of Canada. When the time came to leave, I shook hands with those who remained, and Justin said good bye with a "Sean, it was a shame I had to meet you". Nicole apologized for him, but the comment was accepted without rancor (intended or not - the fellow was drunk). There's just some people you will never mesh with, and that's part of life. What can you do?
I'm fine playing the part of the fool, and laughing while others laugh at/with me because, fuck it, I think it's funny, too. Others don't, or can't and it's fine - because that's them, and they probably won't change so it's not worth bitching about unless you can make it entertaining, as I hope this has been to some extent.
And I'll be running into him again at a clam bake in July! When I start re-enacting scenes from the Muppet Show with crabs, I think he might deck me. So, at least I know what's coming. You gotta give me that.
When the pretension falls from critics, however, that's when I begin to have a problem. This happens every now and then, and for me, it usually takes the form of Rex Reed, film critic for the New York Observer, and is probably best put into view by his take on the movies of 2008. His top film? The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Mine: The Dark Knight. While I don't think either will age that well (for as great a character as the Joker is, his plan doesn't hold up to repeat viewings), I doubt I'll ever watch Button again. I didn't like it that much when it was Forrest Gump, and while the digital effects are astounding, I could feel indifference settling into my bones. My enjoyment of something equally stupid and smart (serious, the Joker's plan does not hold up to repeat viewings) versus something that in my view brought little new to an already overloaded table and failed to get a "huh" out of me.
Now that I've set this up, it seems as though I'm about the thrash the Justin(e)s of the world - not yet. All the pieces must be put into their starting positions.
My own moodiness is not in the "always sullen" vein it once was. It's no reached a level where people think I'm bi-polar...is the triggering mechanism were a light switch in a room where an unpopular kid is trying to throw a rave (quiet, I had a lonely childhood). For the most part, I have a leash on it, and can choose varying degrees of either depending upon company, but for the most part my public persona is either one of detached observation or grabbing life by the hand and running through the sprinklers. I can see where either would rankle others, hence my willingness to alter.
There are some, though, for whom there is no pleasing. First impressions are important, I know, just as every impression after that - but I only really get good around number seven. Pat of this is because I've moved beyond fretting over looking like a fool. I'm a writer who can't spell - a story teller who always prefers the spoken word to writing - if I wasn't okay with making a fool out of myself, how the hell could I cope with others pointing it out?
Which is why I tend to avoid parties - it's all new people, which I like. But it's meeting new people, which is down right bowel shaking for me. It's when I think detached observation is called for, but nothing kills a party atmosphere faster than someone standing in the corner with a facial expression you'd warn the stewardess about during the per-flight explanation of emergency exits. Also, I have a fear of getting sick and a taste for steampunk, so my methods of avoiding spreading airborne toxins is slightly less than subtle.
But, in doing my best to entertain and be entertained by the lovely people I met, I kept hearing remarks from a fellow who just seemed to be...adverse to me. "That's a lot of energy," he'd say during one of my rants. When Stephen M. and I reunited for the first time in five years, and continued our flickering friendly combat of pop-cultural commentary, there was a muttered "Jesus, now there's two of them" - he being already versed in Stephen's antics and taste, which are kindred to my own when surrounded by the mostly urbane sensibilities that the party engendered.Once the party died down, and we were left with the last stragglers, the hosts, and the last of the beer, Justin appeared ready to puke - this isn't hyperbole, he had been pounding drinks throughout the day and into the current wee small hour of the morning - while the rambunctious of us grilled one another on matters like State Capitals and and the map of Canada. When the time came to leave, I shook hands with those who remained, and Justin said good bye with a "Sean, it was a shame I had to meet you". Nicole apologized for him, but the comment was accepted without rancor (intended or not - the fellow was drunk). There's just some people you will never mesh with, and that's part of life. What can you do?
I'm fine playing the part of the fool, and laughing while others laugh at/with me because, fuck it, I think it's funny, too. Others don't, or can't and it's fine - because that's them, and they probably won't change so it's not worth bitching about unless you can make it entertaining, as I hope this has been to some extent.
And I'll be running into him again at a clam bake in July! When I start re-enacting scenes from the Muppet Show with crabs, I think he might deck me. So, at least I know what's coming. You gotta give me that.
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