THE PENNY PUB
Here Comes the Man
Self-defining and self-aggrandizing
“Everything I’m not made me everything I am.” — Kanye West
Life is a weird cosmic play we all play our parts in. My friends are no exception to that. When I talk about ‘my friends’ I am referring to a group of individuals I like to think is comprised of a hodgepodge of misfits, rapscallions, and scallywags. Most of these bandits are unique, rough around the edges, and brilliant in their own ways. Most — I say with a high degree of certainty — are good people.
Approaching the topic of ‘How would my friends describe me in three words’ I submit myself to judgment and hope that the scales tip in my favor. It would be neigh near impossible to predict exactly what the group of raucous friends I have cultivated over the years would say about me. So, in the absence of certainty and in the name of vanity, I hope they use a simple yet beautiful triplet of words. I hope they recognize that the most befitting way to describe me is…
The fucking man.
The. Fucking. Man.
I’m not unaware that declaring myself “the fucking man” is a statement reserved for those who dine on the lamest of dishes at the highest of douche-like tables in the kingdom of Douchebag. But it is also — and rightly so — a highly punchable offense. It’s a statement dripping in a juicy lameness akin to the gristle dripping off a pork shoulder slow-roasted for eight hours waiting to be devoured. It should receive a weighty barrage of mocking, a sharp tongue-lashing, and a firm booted kick in the ass.
But, I’m the fucking man.
I’ll explain.
Being useful. Being useful to others is one of the greatest things that we can do for people. It’s kind of the name of the game. It sounds like a self-important statement used to make ourselves sound thoughtful for others. But, it’s true. Trees grow fruit to be consumed by people. The earth takes care of us. We take care of others. Insert more hippy platitude bullshit.
Being useful is important, but let’s look at what that actually means or does not mean. This is not to say that you have to be out hitting the streets, donating money to anyone and everyone, or solving everyone’s problems. There are a lot of people and a lot of problems, and that is an absurd expectation for yourself or anyone else.
There is a never-ending litany of ways that we can be useful to others. You can find ways to donate and support the less fortunate if you have the means or desire to do so. But, cooking a meal for your friends and providing them a meal over which to share stories, share grievances, or enjoy the company is a way to be useful. Taking a friend to the grocery store can be useful. Just being there and providing peace, understanding, and sanity for your friend or partner after they have spent the day dwelling in the wastelands of work and dealing with those insane hobgoblins that peek their head out every day to bother us all…other people.
I was in Paris once. I was a young stupid kid. Really stupid. Like, every stereotype about young stupid Americans traveling abroad is ground up and used to bake a pretty stupid cake. Farm-to-table stupid. You get it.
Due to a spree of mistakes, mix-ups, and one rude Parisian bus authority determined to fuck up my day in any way possible I missed not one but two buses from Paris to Amsterdam. A trip I needed in order to catch a flight home. I was down and out. I had exhausted almost all of my resources and was more than ready to curl into the fetal position and render myself as a tribute to the beautiful city. It keeps its looks and charm by feeding off the spirits of twenty-something-year-old idiots like me who flame out spectacularly.
I bought a third bus ticket and, after what I can only estimate is the most anyone has ever struggled to reach a bus lobby, find an area to sit, wait, and try to cultivate what sanity I had left.
That is when a fifty-something-year-old South African woman sat down beside me. She let a gasp of pure exasperation that I understood all too well. She turned around and posited the most beautiful question that had ever vibrated on my eardrums: “Do you mind if I bitch about the Parisians for a little bit?”
Yes! Please!
This immaculate human being and I spent three hours swapping war stories over how our plans were upended by this city and its citizens that seemed locked into the objective that was preventing these people from leaving.
The misery was beautiful. It was one of the most therapeutic moments of my life. A sweet note in life’s unending symphony of struggle.
That lady was kind to me and provided me an outlet to let my pent-up rage loose without burning the world down. She was a friend for a brief moment. I hope that I can be useful and of service to others in this way.
It’s all about being useful, being of service, or just being not an asshole to others. It’s the little holes of kindness we poke in the dam wall of daily suffering holding back the waters of relief.
When others describe me they’ll call me fun. They may say I am laid back. They might even mention that I am not for everyone. But, if and when my friends think of someone who is useful, kind, and helps the world in their own way, I hope they think of me. I mean…it’s me. I am the fucking man.
