The search for love, respect, and acceptance
Groucho Marx famously said that he refused to join any club that would have him as a member, which is altogether funny, telling, and true. How many of us feel this way about a great many things? Desiring only the things we can’t have, and entirely uninterested in the things within our grasp. If we can achieve it, how good could it really be? If we were accepted, how low must the threshold have been?
We want to be amongst our peers, as long as our peers are considered successful beyond our wildest dreams. We want to be the lowly rancher in a neighborhood of mansions. A minor celebrity hobnobbing with the stars. A dime among so many pennies. No one wants to be at the top of the heap. It’s not just lonely at the top, it’s depressing.
I came across a picture this morning of a group of famous artists, all together at a bar in New York City, sometime in the early eighties, I’m guessing. It was Keith Haring, Grace Jones, Fela Kuti, and Jean-Michel Basquiat. The photo was taken by none other than Andy Warhol.
My immediate reaction was to think of how amazing that must have been to be in that scene. All these amazing artists, all hanging out, getting to know one another, are all so different and unique unto themselves. Purely iconic. Then I think, this is what I’m missing. A group of like-minded artists who hang out and shoot the shit. Share stories, support one another, break each other’s balls, and get drunk. Why can’t I find that? Oh, right. That’s because I have no interest in being part of any club, let alone one that would have me.
I have, for years, shunned regular and constant invitations to get together with other artists, simply because I don’t care to hang out and make small talk. I don’t like parties. I hate crowded bars. I don’t want to talk about my work, and I don’t really care to hear about your personal traumas. If I had been in that photo of Andy Warhol’s, I would have been complaining about something, or more likely, simply drunk out of my mind.
Fantasy is always far superior to reality. Reality bites, as they say.
I only really like people in stories, because the ones in real life are way too messy and needy. I prefer an edited life to the unadulterated. I enjoyed watching Ed Harris play the artist Jackson Pollock on the big screen, but I understand that the actual artist was a huge fucking pain in the ass in real life. I’d have probably hated him, and he would have likely detested me.
Martin Scorsese produced a documentary recently about his friend Fran Lebowitz called “Pretend It’s A City,” and I loved it. She’s such a kindred spirit in her defiance of norms and her irritation with most of what we consider polite society. But by the end of the series I realized that I if I ever met her, she probably wouldn’t like me, nor I her.
I don’t usually think about whether or not people like me. It’s generally not all that important to me, even though I’ll readily admit that everyone would prefer to be liked than disliked. For someone who claims not to care what other people think, I’m easily offended. So perhaps I protest too much. The truth is, I’m comfortable being alone, so being ostracized isn’t the penalty some think it is. Your loss, not mine.
I follow this guy on Twitter from Missouri. He’s old and cantankerous, has a stable of donkeys that he is constantly talking about when he’s not railing against our corrupt system of oppression. He’s very liberal and very outspoken. I have often heard him threaten to leave the platform, only to double down on his posting.
He has lamented his own ill-tempered existence and recognized that he’s likely too old to change at this point. He also admits to tiring of his own persona, even as he perpetuates the mythology of it all. He’s sick of himself, and he’s the only one to blame. In a nutshell, he is me, only he has the donkeys.
There are moments of introspection when I think maybe I’ll turn over a new leaf, start anew, change my ways, and embrace the world around me, flaws and all. But I think it’s possible that that is about as likely as a leopard changing its spots. I’m pretty dug in at this point in my life. The best I could do would be to move away, change my identity, and begin again. I’m thinking maybe somewhere in Eastern Europe, where my natural demeanor would be considered downright optimistic and carefree. To be a Winnie-the-Pooh in a world of Eeyores.
A few years ago, two different friends from two completely different worlds dubbed me “Angry Dave.” I’ve been a few things throughout my life: White Dave, Beautiful Dave (I was a little too pretty for the punks in my youth), Skinny Dave, and even Fat Dave.
Angry Dave didn’t seem out of line. I get it. I’ve often been angry. It’s not out of context. At the time, I went with it, and for a while, it stuck.
My old friend Mark Bowman used to say that I was completely self-absorbed to the extent that if you didn’t owe me money or had blown me recently, I wouldn’t remember you. I’m not sure if my lack of recognition is clinical or sheer self-indulgence, but I can say that it’s not intentionally cruel or deliberate.
I have panic attacks when I have to introduce people. I’m not good with people out of context. If I see you at your home or business, I’ll know who you are, and possibly even remember your name. Even if I blank on your name, I’ll know who you are, personal and private aspects about you, past conversations, all the typical details of an otherwise normal relationship. But if you pop up in the lumber department of Home Depot, I’m fucked. You could be anyone from someone I slept with in high school to the bank teller I rarely see. I have no fucking clue.
I often get angry at the world indiscriminately. You don’t have to be Dr. Leo Marvin to know that I’m frightened, disappointed, or insulted by the world. There is almost nothing as disconcerting to me as my desire to be liked. It doesn’t feel like a superpower. It feels like mortal kryptonite.
It’s not an intimacy issue. I honestly don’t care whether you like me or not, at least not personally. I can always write you off. But the idea that I’m not worthy of admiration, let alone worthy of ridicule, is almost too much to bear. I don’t care that you like me, but I care very much that THEY like me. It never even occurred to me before.
Before you think I’m just another self-involved douchebag, let me suggest that it’s very likely that I’m fairly typical, if not entirely normal. Perhaps I’m just a bit more honest about my catastrophic personality — revealing more and hiding less.
I was never all that keen on being liked by everyone, but I always wanted to be respected. The old question of whether it’s better to be loved or feared is very real. Being feared is always better for retaining power, and being loved is clearly the route to celebrity. But I’ll offer the third option of being respected. I don’t need you to like me, to love me, or to fear me, but I’m desperately interested in your respect.
I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.