Navin Johnson’s (Steve Martin’s character in the iconic film, The Jerk ) meal that his adopted mother served him on his birthday was a tuna sandwich wrapped in cellophane, a Tab and a Twinkie. Most of my favorite things are like that- simple, cheap and uncomplicated. I share Navin’s enthusiasm for Tab, and I like a good tuna melt from time to time, although I’ve not had a Twinkie in at least ten years.
I’d like to admit to complicated tastes, as in: oh, yeah, I sit around drinking vintage Cabernets and imported cheese while conversing about world history and literature with influential and erudite people. I study some rather obscure and esoteric subjects (have you seen my collection of 19th century postmortem pics, for instance) from time to time, but in social circles, I’m not that good of a performer. I’m not that pretentious. Since I am pathetically socially inept, and not at all well connected, my evenings are usually spent watching Jerry empty out the Natties, go from just a little drunk, to full-on fall-over shitfaced drunk, as he attempts to argue philosophy with the dogs. Jerry is not an eloquent conversationalist even when he’s stone cold sober. Alcohol does not enhance his verbal communication skills.
FYI: Natty does NOT make you an enchanting conversationalist. Ever.
Jerry isn’t the greatest company, but he is predictable at least. He tolerates my eccentricities, which is saying a lot. It’s easier that way, and I don’t have to worry about what to wear or whether or not I am avoiding eye contact again. To him, I’m just the tepid body that pays the cable bill and medical bills, buys food, and wanders around cleaning up the beer cans. He’s doing good to refrain from calling me Mildred and asking me about my diarrhea, but that’s OK. I’ve been married to him for 19 years and neither one of us has succeeded in killing each other or making good on threats made in the heat of anger to leave, so it must be all good.
I don’t know what to make of current events. Robin Williams committing suicide was just plain bizarre, although I can certainly attest to the truth that comedy is the flipside of tragedy. We shouldn’t really be surprised that comedians invariably suffer with depression and all the psychological baggage that goes along with it. Humor is a defense mechanism. Usually the funnier a person comes across, the more tragedy that person has endured. Most of the time I try to laugh to keep from crying- or to fill that awkward void when I just don’t have the words or when that proper, polished façade just doesn’t materialize when I need it to.
This dude must have had some pretty serious childhood trauma to try to rock the Daisy Dukes AND the crop top.
Perhaps it is better to elevate sarcasm to an art form than to take out one’s pain and hurt and anger in more destructive ways. I don’t want to hurt anyone, especially in the ways that I have been. It might be a bit mean-spirited to show pics of people who have made unfortunate fashion/life choices, but hey, you set yourself up for those. If I appeared in public looking like a crack ho, or morbidly obese and/or otherwise badly dressed, then someone posting my sorry ass pic online should be a wake up call, a sort of, “Get your shit together, bi-atch!” statement. I would be asking for it.
Now, going as a Twinkie for Halloween might actually be funny, but I don’t think that was this chick’s intent.
Sort of like a Twinkie, anyway.