I’m an asshole

I’ve known this for some time, understand. I vaguely recall my mother being the first to name me a smartass – a similar, yet somewhat elevated, example of the breed. No doubt others had appended the label to me behind my back, but that was the first time I’d been forcibly made aware of it. Her saying it with a smile rather than a scowl took away any sting, and so began my lifetime affair with sarcasm.

Sometimes I take great delight in having been slotted into that particular cubbyhole, wielding it as some sort of writ giving leave to engage in outlandish or crude manners, apathetic toward any perceived social stigma – indeed, raising it from mere gutter commonality to a sort of Art, dependent on quick thinking and some breadth and depth of knowledge. Other times, I cringe when my mouth bypasses my mores and engages in that sort of cutting verbal repartee just as my brain is recognizing its crass inappropriateness. All that’s to do at that point is apologize and hope it will be seen as a wayward witticism - not intended, and obviously not to be repeated.

Knowing my propensity for engaging in asinine behavior, I try to channel it into acceptable means of expression such as my writing, where it can be foisted off on some hapless character, who will then bear the brunt of scorn and enmity rightfully mine. Another valve is listening to obnoxious music at high volume. This tends to happen mostly when I’m alone in the car. Even so, I keep the volume down until I am out of residential areas, unless I know for a fact that no one is home.

As is the case in my neighborhood.

Coming from downtown, you turn right off of a central street to get to my house. The road you’re now on goes from commercial to residential very quickly. To your right is a graveyard; to your left, a bank followed by two empty houses, then the street upon which corner sits my home. The two houses immediately behind us are empty as well, and our closest neighbors all work days. Understandably, I felt fairly comfortable in cranking the volume up to absurd levels as I was returning from a recent outing.

The oppressive humidity had finally broken, and as it was cooler than it had been, all windows were down and the moonroof open as I enjoyed a few choice selections from a Goth Metal band. These were not your dreary, all-is-hopeless Emo-esque Goths, nor the ephemeral all-this-is-but-fleeting-so-celebrate-the-moment-with-these-odd-harmonics Goths. No. These were paganistic power-chord shock Goths, idealizing Death and emotional pain, with a large helping of sex in the backbeat. I topped the slight rise, letting the wails and groans carry me the last few dozen yards to my driveway.

Remember the graveyard across the street? Yep. There was a funeral going on.

There’s no real way to justify that as being anything other than the grossest intrusion, and I’m a champion at rationalization. You can’t even apologize for it without compounding the damage.

So I’m an asshole.






Speaking of the graveyard:

There’s a walking path that winds through the shadier spots. Its upkeep is underwritten by a nearby funeral home, and there are a couple of signs to that effect. These signs give the length of the path, note a couple of rules, thank the funeral home, and have a little motto:

Enjoy the Journey

I love it. The unspoken “Because you’ll end up here no matter what” really makes it a much more introspective stroll.