Once, I Thought I Was an Intellectual...

...it didn't last long.

Nowadays, I'm sure that I'm not an intellectual. A thinker. Someone who enjoys wrestling with, and perhaps even creating, problems, existential questions, crises of the heart and of the head, engaging in spirited debates with like or different-minded others about politics or philosophy or psychology or other issues of portent that begin with the letter "p". I, once upon a time, thought that I was someone who would spend much of his life grasping onto the issues of today, yesterday, and tomorrow and steadfastly refuse to let go until I had methodically explored the hows and the whys and the wherefores of these matters.

I was eighteen or so when I realized that this, really, wasn't me.

For one thing, I was masturbating too much to be a real intellectual. Intellectuals masturbate when they are intellectualizing-- it's not literal masturbation, it's just talking. An intellectual engaged in the process of hearing him or herself talk is basically masturbating, and can actually achieve a surreptitious, tangible orgasm while so doing. This is why so many intellectuals wear tweed trousers, because stains don't show.

I noticed, too, that I get restless, frustrated and, sometimes even angry when I try to engage in an intellectual conversation or argument with somebody. Sometimes the anger and frustration is pointed at the other person, but, oftentimes it is self-directed. I know a little about a lot of topics, but I only know a lot about precious few topics, and so I get annoyed with myself at being bereft of facts and/or background knowledge that would otherwise make me a keen and cogent debater on, say, the subject of Syria's place in the Middle East or the ethics of mandatory decanoate shots for severely, chronically psychotic patients.

Of course, I know that you can't rationally expect yourself know everything, but, when you hold yourself to impossibly high standards, rationality doesn't enter into it. And, if it does, you just masturbate until it goes away.

The other thing is-- I find I lack the attentional capabilities required for sustained bouts of intellectualism. When talking to someone about a thick, meaty, marbelized matter, after only several minutes, I find my attention wandering. I am easily distracted/distractable. I'd love to blame it on ADHD, but I don't have that. I think it's more that my brain is filled with things to worry about, obsess over, become horny about, perseverate on that I just can't engage in an intellectual debate about something. I can be in a two-hour play, but that's because all that other shit turns off because I'm a character, and the character isn't distracted and focus must be maintained because there's a paying audience who will boo and stone me if I start thinking about my mortgage payment and begin wandering around the stage aimlessly looking for a cheesestick in the middle of a Chekhov short.

When I was fourteen, I wrote a letter to Prime Minister John Major (Queen Elizabeth II was cc'd out of consideration) about the arming of British police officers. This event, which garnered a reply from both sources, marked my last official recorded act of intellectualism.

When we're young, delusions of grandeur are fanciful and often remarked brought up at the dinner table when reunited with our parents. When you get older, delusions get you committed to psychiatric facilities until they (the delusions) are medicated out of you. I'm glad that, today, I no longer suffer from the delusion that I am an intellectual. I'm pretty much a realist about who and what I am.

I'm an amateur performer, I'm not an actor.

I'm a blogger, I'm not a writer.

I'm a husband, I'm not Dick Van Dyke.

I can play six chords on the banjo, I'm not a musician.

I'm a relatively okay person, I'm not perfect.

And I'm certainly not an intellectual.

Contrary-wise

Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dumb must have been onto something.

I also think they were probably doing each other, but that's another post entirely.

One of those numbskulls-- I forget (and don't care) which-- frequently says, "Contrary-wise" to the other.

I am contrary, though far from wise. I am what I suppose some might call a contrarian. It's not easy being a contrarian, because, more often than not, your contrary services are required in the course of normal, every day conversation, and you will be expected, if not required, to take up a contrary position to that of another, or to that of the mainstream.

Because contrarians aren't very much into the mainstream. Or others. Even other contrarians tend to get on our nerves. Because they're even contrary to us.

The nerve.

I was thinking about how being a contrarian both gives me pleasure and, at the same time, removes what is most likely a fair amount of pleasure from my very existence. Take yesterday's little English event. Contrarians are, by law, not permitted to take even the smallest amount of enjoyment out of a happening like a royal wedding. An avowed contrarian cannot, for instance, awake at 4:15am, tie a little Union Jack ascot, wear a funny hat and enjoy tea and biscuits with clotted creme whilst being glued to the televison screen and spelling the word "color" with a "u" between the second "o" and the "r".

It just isn't done.

Contrarians don't do that.

We're just not allowed, see?

Si.

We're not allowed to see movies like "Titanic" and "Avatar," (or any film by James Cameron, actually), you know-- movies that the remainder of the population is allowed to see. If, by accident, we do see these films, we are not allowed to enjoy them. If I, for example, saw "Titanic" (which I haven't-- because I'm not allowed) I would not be permitted to like it.

And I certainly wouldn't be permitted to "Like" it, you know, on Facebook.

Speaking of Facebook, I'm not allowed to like (or "Like") that, either. Though it's been a while since I've looked at the Contrarian Constitution (ratified in 1788 by a bunch of assholes and naysayers in stockings and periwigs) but I'm pretty sure there's an amendment in there somewhere called "The Zuckerberg Clause" that states that a contrarian may engage in Facebook-related activities, as long as s/he "periodically and sincerely mocks and/or otherwise disparages the idea or practical application of Facebook and/or its affiliated entities."

There are quotes there, but, really, I'm paraphrasing. As a contrarian, I can't very well pander to your impish need for accuracy right at this very moment, because, to do so would interrupt the flow of this blog post and would, you see, be decidedly inconvenient to me. You understand.

And, if you don't, I don't care.

The thing is: there are times, not very many times, mind you, but there are times in which I would like to engage in mainstream, dunderheaded activities and not feel a pang of guilt that flares up when I ponder betraying my Contrarianist roots.

Sometimes, I just want to go to the beach instead of a museum or a play.

Sometimes, I just want to have breakfast at a greasy diner instead of at an upscale café.

Sometimes, I want to listen to mindless music instead of Robin Lustig on BBC Newshour.

Sometimes, I want to regard my smartphone as a technological gadget that I enjoy rather than an overpriced, overrated techno-pretension that identifies me as an insipid, self-absorbed jerkoff.

Sometimes, I just want to order Chinese food.

But not General fucking Tso's. I mean, come on already with that bullshit.

I'm Not Gay

This a difficult statement to convince people of when you're sitting at your computer, wearing a blue tie with little green goats on it, you've got a pocketwatch from 1921 with a gold fob dangling from your belt loop, and you're swilling gently from a bottle of Lorina Sparkling French Limonade.

And you're wearing a lady's wedding band.

But, at least I'm married to a woman-- and is it my fault my fingers are too slight to accomodate a man's wedding band? I mean, sheesh.

I've had to defend my heterosexuality for as long as I can remember, and the inconceivable amounts of heterosexually-based hardcore pornography I've consumed since age 15 aren't really appropriate corroboration, nor can they be readily accessed whenever a doubter is present. My dandy manner of dress, my incontrovertible knack for precisely matching outerwear, my ability to happily spend time at Anthropologie, enthusiastically and successfully shopping for outfits for my wife, my obsession with Gilbert & Sullivan and other aspects of the Victorian era and my involvement with theatre in general have all served to raise a few eyebrows over the years.

Sometimes, I'll say something to my wife, with complete and utter seriousness, whether it's a comment about a shirt she's about to inexplicably and ill-advisedly pair with certain shoes or about an antique that I think would look great over there, she'll stare at me and ask,


"Are you sure you're not gay?"


I'm pretty sure.


When I was a very, very young boy, I can remember sitting on the toilet in our downstairs bathroom and excitedly calling my mother into the bathroom.


"Are you sure you want me to come in?" I remember my mother asking from behind the closed door.


"YES! YES!" I cried. She entered warily, probably expecting to see yet another piece of my feces shaped like a question mark or a starfish.


"Look, Mommy!" I shouted energetically, my Osh-Koshes dangling around my ankles as I kicked my legs back and forth. Staring down at my crotch I proudly announced, "My penis can do tricks!"


(N. B. Although I was very young, it should be noted that I never, ever called it a "whingus" or a "teetletoo" or a "schmenkmen" or a "bing-bong" or whatever euphemism that was commonly utilized by little boys in 1985.)


"All I have to do is think about Vanna White!" I exclaimed. My mother crossed her arms in front of her and regarded me for a moment in my state of ecstacy.


"That's very nice, honey," she said as she turned around and walked out. See? My mother never needed Dr. Phil or Dear fuckin' Abby.


Please bear in mind that my taste in biddy has improved significantly since those days of my burgeoning sexual awakening. I mean, my wife's a little hottie-- let's face facts. Not only that, but I'm also slightly obsessed with English actress Natascha McElhone, if we want to face all the facts.


Of course, nobody actually thinks I'm gay. I don't think. Though I'll admit that, when I'm twittering and mincing about the stage inhabiting the 19th century clothes and effete mannerisms of a G&S patter role like Reginald Bunthorne, limp-wristed aesthetic poet extraordinaire or the ballet-prone Major-General Stanley, sometimes even I'm a little bit confused. I suppose the fact that the only dick I'd ever touch is mine keeps me on the right track.


The problem is with societal conventions that explicitly and implicitly portray manhood as husky, burly, sports-centered, slovenly, insipid, dull, monosyllabic, unshaven, eyes partially closed so as to look like he's on pot.


Oh, and did I mention stained sweatpants?

Ah, society-- with your preconceived notions and stereotypes and fucked up ideas about what it means to be male. If you're not eating a hoagie with extra bacon with one hand while the other hand is enthusiastically scratching your taint, you're just not really a real man at all, are you?

I have a great uncle who is gay. He's lived 80-some years and has never been truly outed, even though a select group of family and very close friends know. The world at large? Not a clue. Why? He runs track and plays tennis every week, smokes cigars and barrels his way through board meetings with headfirst, obscenity-laden gusto. He's a man's man if there ever was one, and he's always seen with a lady on his arm.

Thing is: he likes the peen.