009
I had arrived — literally and metaphorically. Through a desert to an oasis of people just as excited to see me as I was them. Deliverance from the doldrums of default interactions. No talk of work or weather. Telepathically linked by inside jokes and references. Constantly in a state of ecstatic uproar as a new face arrived on our little island. Alchemy — transmuting sound and story to flesh. An idea uploaded into physical form. Hugs, smiles, slapping knees and clinking glasses. What a time to be alive. No tension, no awkwardness, no orbiting. Black, white, young, old, rich, poor — not defined by what we were, instead by what we weren’t. Normal.
21st Century Stonehenge, a gathering in celebration of the strange probability of the universe. All making the pilgrimage for this singular event. Life on pause. On the internet you can be anyone — even yourself. We didn’t care if you were a gay furry who informed us all of what “sounding” was and to not knock it until we tried it, or if you were a buttoned-up church-going software developer with four kids and a southern drawl. We only cared that you were you, unedited and unfiltered, because that meant we could all be ourselves, uncensored and unabridged. These virtual “alter egos” were the manifestation of life’s deadweight loss, the sections of existence we had to hide during the day, that found an outlet in this space free from judgement. Vibrantly eclectic, a Justice League of people all missing something from day-to-day life. Where there was nothing to prove, no keeping up with anyone.
That’s 2018 **** describing it. Older, wiser, more secure. The Monday morning quarterback of a crazy weekend in Sin City. Because in reality, even at this misfit mecca, my insecurities got the best of me.
Fuck me was I nervous. I had no reason to be. Surrounded by generous, caring souls who were simply glad to see me, a new anxiety still formed. No longer able to hide in the dim light of my monitor, comfortable behind the keyboard, some of those same feelings I had in **** were seeping in.
That I had to live up to something — not sure what it even was. Some internal voice convinced that regular me was somehow not good enough, pushing me to overthink and edit and strategize to be some other dish of the same ingredients. I had done that my whole life, I had a Taco Bell personality — always rearranging the same half-dozen things into something seemingly new. Now I was doing it in Vegas as well, my subconscious churning and spinning the Rolodex of possible combinations: whether I should give them the burrito, gordita, or Crunchwrap Supreme.
Restricting myself into the narrow, self-imposed margins of what I assumed I had to be, tempering, removing, or amplifying characteristics based on some strange rubric I had dreamt up, some delusional idea of what I ought to be like, built upon some wobbly, uninspected foundation of social norms, personal ideals, insecurity, and an unidentified and unknown self.
I don’t care for Frank Sinatra’s music or persona, or the masculine cult of personality surrounding him and the time “when men were men”, but I remember seeing a quote of his as someone’s social media bio:
“I’m for whatever gets you through the night”
and that always stuck with me, resonant to my outlook on life. I just wanted to do what everyone else wanted — no boat rocking, no personal interjection — simply going with the flow of more dominant personalities, and deferring to whomever felt the strongest about something.
In and of itself, that’s a great skill. I’m an excellent compromiser due to it, and I have come to understand that I make much deeper, more empathetic connections to the needs of others. I more easily put on their shoes and see life through their eyes. But living like that, without balance, creates an equal and opposite reaction.
That’s how everything in life works. Newton’s Third Law of Motion is in reality the First Law of Life. Action, reaction, cause, effect, consequence. The consequence is living that way prevented me from defining a true self — I had interests, hobbies, and traits that seemed rather steadfast, general morality and beliefs that constituted my conscience, but that’s about where it ended.
Some of you may hear that and think it’s a pretty full inventory of a person. I thought so too. But it isn’t. **** didn’t have personal needs, wants, wishes, or desires. He didn’t have an autonomous place, he didn’t have his own path. I was a unique entity without a unique purpose. Lost, wandering, so mutable to the minutiae of life and everyone in it. Intentional or unintentional, so much of my person was liquid, filling the container given to me — whether by circumstance, situation, or self-prescribed suppositions as to what I should be, often gathered from conjecture and presumption, my unreviewed narrative, rather than concrete evidence.
Get used to that theme, this won’t be the last time it enters this story. It is is as much a character as anyone else, as important to the plot as me. These letters are not only a record of what I did and who I was — that would only be half the story — but also of what I didn’t do, and who I was not.
I, like I imagine many, spent much of my adult life feeling like I had the whole story. It wasn’t until recently that I realized I had only been reading the even-numbered pages, only getting fifty-percent of reality. Trying to understand myself with half an autobiography. That’s an inherently human flaw — to think we have it all figured out — that since we can’t see how we might be wrong, therefore we must be right. Politics, relationships, family, work — our story is the only one we know, and until it’s fully explored, it’s never a complete story, even though in our heads we’re certain.
A perfect example is the “Change My Mind” meme that was so popular earlier this year. Originally “Male Privilege is a myth, change my mind”, the internet did what it does best and took the piss — satirizing and amplifying it to sow just how ridiculous it was.
“Penguins are panda chickens”
“I’m Dirty Dan. No I’m Dirty Dan, change my mind.”
“Country is just emo music for rednecks, change my mind.”
Circular logic: defining the parameters within ourselves, providing evidence in the form of our own personal thoughts and experiences, and concluding that from the seemingly-universal sample that is our own head, we must be correct. So change my mind.
Yes, someone really should change the mind of Stephen Crowder, the original signmaker and source of the meme-fodder. But not you or I or anyone else. Stephen should. Because in his own arrogance he purports to have the answers. A level of perceived infallibility and veritas so complete that he is incapable of considering that maybe he isn’t correct. He’s not asking, he’s demanding, challenging. He doesn’t want his mind to be changed, he wants someone to come along and enable his delusion.
We all do it. Think of the last big argument you had. How did you treat the other party? Did you do your best to try and represent their words and feelings in a positive, objective light? Or like a low-rent Atticus Finch did you try and twist their words to misrepresent them, until discourse dissolved into parrying prose, spending more time controlling the conversation than engaging ideas? Did you make their argument a strawman or an ironman? Did you look for ways you may have been mistaken — not seeing the whole picture? Or did you cherry pick the parts that best reinforced your reality?
Back to the Luxor. The anxiety of failing my delegated duty had melted away; the keycard wasn’t even needed to get up to the suite, so all I had to do was tell people the room number. All that worrying for nothing, but no matter. Let’s get a fucking drink, eh?
Things were great. I remember getting in the elevator with a guy who looked like Riker’s Californian cousin, wearing cargo shorts and Chuck Taylors, and once the doors shut and we started ascending, he turned to me and said “Hi, I’m Fen”. Holy Santa Claus Shit. Fen was the host of the show, and may as well have been the uncle I never had. Despite being twenty years older than me, we always connected on a lot. People tell me I have an old soul — I’m not sure if that’s true, but I do know way more about 80s and 90s pop culture than anyone would expect from someone born in 1994.
When I was a kid, our basic cable stopped at channel twenty-three, VH1. They had a series called “I love the 80s”, and later the 90s, which I often caught after school. Being the youngest child of my extended family, I always wanted access to the grown-up world. I didn’t want to be treated like a kid, I wanted parity with those elder to me.
I have a steel-trap memory, so I can remember the movies and actors and one-hit wonders of the time after only hearing about them once. Or the fads — pegged pants, pogs, pet rocks, aquanet — even though I never experienced them. Just a small amount of trivial knowledge goes a long way in cultivating capital in a connection.
Like when someone knows where your tiny hometown is, or they know a mutual friend, or are as well-versed in the discography of a favorite band as you are. One or two shared sparks can be the difference in deciding whether you’ll have common ground, or stand in no-man’s land.
As far as audiences go, at that time I tracked best with people significantly older than me, and not as much with my peers. Fuck if I know why, but that’s how it wound up. People my age seemed a little too immature, and their problems and occupations seemed so lacking in perspective or authenticity. Certainly a manifestation of the unaddressed trauma in my life, I think I found comfort in people who had seen and done more, who had experienced a greater breadth of life and emotion like I presumed to.
I freaked out in the elevator. We came together for a huge hug, the culmination of hours and hours spent on Skype, often known to go until the sun started coming through the window, a reminder from the real world that at some point I had to return. Fen brought me to the suite, and I met the rest of the crowd, finally putting humans to their handles. We called that day the “Catalina Fucking Wine Mixer” in reference to Step Brothers, one of the films that bore the most inside jokes on the show. Appetizers, drinks, conversation, uproarious laughter, it was simply delightful.
Some people were veteran listeners, frequent contributors, and chatroom lurkers, while others were recent additions, or most interestingly, complete unknowns who had long listened in the shadows, only to reveal themselves for the first time at this weekend retreat. I remember crashing hard that night, after being up for the better part of forty hours, so excited and anxious I didn’t sleep at all the night before.
Saturday was to be the biggest day of the affair. We had reserved a huge section at Medieval Times for the forty-odd people in attendance, then would be recording an episode live from the hosts’ suite with both a live in-room audience, as well as the usual live chat room. It being the first event of its kind, we didn’t really know how much or how little to plan. I remember there being an itinerary of activities, most of which got abandoned in favor of continued conversation and cocktails, the far more preferable option than getting in a cab to go see some TripAdvisor recommendation.
I remember waking up on Saturday feeling pretty haggard. Not hungover, luckily I was still at the age where my liver could entirely cleanse my body overnight. I hadn’t eaten anything besides In ‘n Out the afternoon before, in another state. Just Trader Joe's’ knock-off Coronas and that shot of 151. Which reminds me, my right thumb hurt like hell, and a sizable blister had formed on the side, next to the nail. We had been down at the bar that night, and decided flaming shots were in order.
Now, before I go any further, I ought to describe the effects of alcohol on me at the time. I’ve never been someone whose personality drastically changes after a few drinks, nor am I someone who gets truly drunk. My meter was basically sober, buzzed, and after that, shutting down. I wasn’t the kind of guy who could drink for hours and “Woo!” my way through a weekend, staying up until daybreak slurring my way through conversation and cutting loose all inhibition. Alcohol made me less anxious, more suggestible, and gave like most, a little dash of “fuck you I won’t do what you tell me” to my attitude.
So I went and ordered our round of 151, but the bartenders said they couldn’t light them — it’s a liability, safety, blah, blah — whatever, lady. I took them to our table, commandeered a lighter from one of my compatriots, and set about arranging our little inferno of intoxicants. But as I held the first shot glass to the flame, a hand grabbed my arm and pulled back. The bartender had come to prevent our pyromania, and in her infinite wisdom, acted before speaking, causing the glass to tip, and a river of fire to cascade down my hand.
I quickly patted it out on my pants, but judging by the next morning’s damage report, not fast enough. Just a flesh wound, I’d be fine. Saturday, late morning, a random room of the Luxor two fellow listeners let me crash in with them. Things were just getting started.
