To Be or Not to Be (Written about
"There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about."
― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
Aside from my wife, with whom I've lived for over half the time I've been writing this blog, no one has appeared in more posts than my dear old friend Brian -- currently chasing the dragon of enlightenment in a far-flung Burmese Buddhist Monastery. I've been so busy that I can barely keep track of my schedule, so how far along is Brian into his scheduled 60-day retreat? Who knows?
I'll admit that I don't always paint the most flattering picture of Brian and occasionally I write something that tests his work-in-progress Zen temperament, but despite being justifiably annoyed at some of the things I've written over the years, he knows what makes a good story and what doesn't and, thankfully, he cuts me a lot of slack. Honestly, the fact that he knows what makes a good story is sometimes what gets him so annoyed. Sure, he gets mad at me for revealing things he'd rather not be revealed, he occasionally gets upset because he wants to be the one to reveal them -- wishing to retain ownership of his exploits for when it comes time to write his memoirs. "Stop stealing my material!" he likes to say.
Because of the leeway Brian allows me when using him as a "character" in my running narrative, I sometimes take it for granted that everyone has his same attitude. Sometimes they do. I wrote about my friend Jason's "creepy guy van" recently, without thinking whether he would be insulted by my description of his rusted-out, jerry-rigged jalopy. Thankfully, he understood that it was precisely the funkiness I described that gave his van character and made it fun to write -- and hopefully read-- about. But not everyone is so forgiving. A family member of mine was once so disturbed by a story I wrote that he threatened to bash my head in with a baseball bat. He didn't.
Deborah recently discovered that her cousins in both Pennsylvania and Kentucky have been harboring resentment for a couple of years now over how they were portrayed in a few of my posts. I don't know precisely what I said that insulted them so much, but maybe the specifics aren't as important as the broad strokes. I imagine that simply referring to Deborah's bucolic hometown, nestled in the rolling hills of western Pennsylvania, as "Pennsyltucky" could be enough to ruffle feathers and make me seem like an elitist asshole from New Yawk City. Although, like I said, I don't remember what I wrote, knowing me, and the history of this blog, it's probably no surprise that they were offended. I do remember Deborah asking me to delete a post a couple of years ago, which I did, but it was too late; the damage was done, and they've been angry about it ever since. Not just angry at me, unfortunately, but angry at Deborah, too. I don't understand the logic, but so it is. Guilt by association, I suppose.
Never mind that no place has suffered more snarky descriptions than New York in general and the dirty ol' borough of Brooklyn in particular. I've been scolded in the past for not being more positive about all the good things this town has to offer. "I think you're unfair to your neighborhood," someone once commented, and then went on to list all the positive things about my former neighborhood of Bushwick that he felt I'd been ignoring. "If you hate Brooklyn so much, why do you live here?" Well, I don't hate it. And the things that make it annoying are the same things that give it a peculiar energy. The other night, two guys pushed me and several other people out of the way as they boarded the B62 bus. They both had ultra-processed hair and wore flamboyant outfits that nearly matched. One wore a short shearling jacket over a black turtleneck, and the other wore a three-quarter-length shearling jacket over a black button-down shirt. Despite the subfreezing temperature, their jackets were wide open, revealing flashy necklaces. They both had on square-toed brown dress loafers polished to perfection. Little Richard and Big Richard, I dubbed them. They were speaking in the loudest, most obnoxious "gay accents" imaginable and had more attitude than they knew what to do with. It spilled all over the street as they pushed and shoved old ladies out of the way to get a seat on what turned out to be a rather uncrowded bus. They managed to make the ride home equally aggravating and entertaining.
You're not likely to see such characters in Deborah's hometown, but that's not to say you don't see characters there. A different breed is all. And next week, when we make the long drive across the yawning span of the Keystone State to its western edge, we might even see some. Two of the most colorful people are Deborah's parents themselves. Oddballs in the truest sense of the term. But lovable oddballs. Confusing and confounding at times, but with good hearts who, despite a few horror stories from Deborah's youth, mean no harm to anyone. I'm not sure if we'll see Deborah's cousins or not. Although they live right next door to Deborah's parents, she is frustrated that they harbor such resentment toward her for something she didn't do. She'd like me to write an apology to them, but since we'll be right there, I may as well walk next door and do it in person.
