The Type Who Craves Punishment

It has recently been suggested to me by a woman I first met on a Greyhound bus that I am the type of person who craves punishment. She offered this indictment as a possible way to explain the motivation behind my helping her move into a new apartment on what (I suppose) qualifies as our second date. I did not confirm her suspicion, choosing instead to stammer something about believing in acts of generosity and not caring much about the NFL playoff games on this particular Saturday (which did not include my favorite team, the Green Bay Packers). It's a quirky experience, lugging dozens of garbage bags stuffed with clothes, boxes heavy with possessions, and bulky furniture pieces on behalf of someone whose phone number you've only known for a week. But it's also quirky to ask for the phone number of a girl you sat next to and chatted with on a Greyhound bus ride, and so I figured I was merely adhering to the general flow of the relationship.

My body is not exactly built for heavy lifting; no, it's more the type of body that could incite a million Youtube hits should anyone capture footage of me being grabbed by the belt and collar by a burly bouncer and launched halfway down a back alley littered with condom wrappers and shattered glass. In truth, the word “punishment” did invade my mind while supporting what felt like a 900-pound dresser through a living room, then an entryway, down a flight of stairs slick with snow, and finally hoisting it in exhausted tandem with a much stronger man into the bed of a pickup truck. In my effort to please this woman—a borderline stranger—I exerted more physical energy into moving her possessions (and the possessions of her new roommate) than I did in her bed the night before. (To my credit—and I am pathologically bashful about sharing this sort of thing—at the bar Friday night she did complain that the salt she licked prior to a shot of tequila stung her lower lip, which had been cut after a very long time of blissful smooching. My boastful comments about sex always seem to be only slightly more scintillating than a bawdy quip from a character on “Saved by the Bell.” Second base is where it gets too personal for me to share.)

In my defense, the punishment I experienced during this unlikely transport of someone else's belongings was more of a consequence than a desire—the consequence that all-too-often accompanies a good deed.

I'm a bit irked by the suggestion that I pursue punishment—primarily because there is a degree of truth in the accusation. Men who desire punishment are automatically associated with sadomasochists who cum in their adult diapers when getting booted in the taint by a dominatrix in ten-inch leather heels while they scrub the tiles behind the toilet with a toothbrush. I can think of at least ten things more erotically satisfying than the perverse substitute for intimacy described in the previous sentence. I once spent ten days in a mental hospital, and yet I don't feel like a hypocrite in my disdain for men who pay a lot of money to enact their humiliating S & M fantasies. I think these men are psychologically damaged, deeply troubled deviants. Self-hating, pathetic, and craven lunatics. There's a chance I'm being too critical of this sort of abhorrent consensual “sex,” and if that's the case, the very least I can say on the matter is that sadomasochism just isn't my cup of tea.

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Like what you've read so far? I hope so. Listed below is the link to buy a copy of the book in which this essay makes an appearance.

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

The Truth about Opinions

As a dissatisfied young(-ish) person with access to the Internet and secret urges for self-importance and complaining too much, I have an account on Facebook. When posting my status, though, I avoid providing mundane details of my life—such as, “Today I slept for too long, smoked a cigarette, watched ESPN, ate a cold slice of pizza, then decided not to go to the job center to search for work because it was snowing outside.” Worse than mundane, those autobiographical tidbits are kind of depressing, and I'd rather not advertise my unhappiness. I'm beyond shallow cries for help.

But even if I was living a more fulfilling life at present time, I wouldn't share that information with anybody (on Facebook). I never care to learn that someone I never speak to woke up early today and decided to wrap Christmas presents. It doesn't intrigue me to read that a girl I drunkenly smooched on two occasions in college is going for a run after a long day of work at the newspaper office. When an old acquaintance informs the Facebook community that he is drinking more coffee than usual this morning because he didn't get much sleep last night, I have no opinion on the matter. Facebook does not provide a magical sheen to enhance the magnitude of such happenings. I think these people believe on some level that we are united by the commonplace normalcy of our lives, and that offers them comfort.

The true upside of having an account on Facebook is that I'm reassured of the existence of people from my past that I otherwise would have lost all contact with. One of the affects of living in troubled, bleak times is the reliance on nostalgia as a coping mechanism. The present may be dire, but I have shared memories with these wayward people I have seen sporadically or not at all since the advent of the Great Depression Remix. Some of these memories are meaningful, exciting, and joyous, and I can afford to ignore all the memories that are meaningless, dull, and gloomy because I am overstocked on those types of memories anytime I think of pretty much everything that's happened to me in the past year-and-a-half. Nostalgia is what reminds a lot people of the prospect of happiness, and if you have a Facebook account and a deep fondness for “The Good Life” by Weezer, you can no doubt relate.

Another dubious benefit of Facebook is that it allows you to share your opinion with hundreds of other people without having to resort to human interaction or going outside. I have shared my opinion on Facebook, for what it's worth. After the latest installment of the Saw horror series was released in theaters, I informed anyone who was willing to read that, to me, watching the dreaded NFL on Fox robot perform jumping-jacks and run in place for two hours was preferable to seeing a series of grotesque torture scenes. I hate the Saw movies. Their continued success comes at the expense of my faith in humanity, and I made my opinion known, to the delight of my secret urge for self-importance.

Other people on Facebook have the same liberty to post their opinions, of course. An old classmate of mine from college recently declared his opinion of the band Radiohead. To wit: “Some bands only exist to make one awesome song. And for Radiohead, that song was 'Creep.'”

I disagree with this statement, but not as adamantly as I would have a few years ago. “Creep” is Radiohead's most commercially successful song. It established the group's fan-base in the early 90s, and with that quiet-loud dynamic of raging insecurity, it is the band's signature contribution to the explosion of alternative rock on the radio. Those are valid achievement for a rock band. And although most devout fans of Radiohead, and the band itself, dismiss the song as an amateurish novelty, a successful blemish on par with “Fight for Your Right” by the Beastie Boys, I think “Creep” is still a pretty good song. To me, the song's merit falls somewhere between the mainstream adoration expressed by my old friend Erik and the elitist disdain avid fans of Radiohead tend to feel towards “Creep.” But to type that Radiohead has produced but one great song after almost 20 years of commercial success and critical acclaim is a baffling argument that overlooks the existence of The Bends, OK Computer, and Kid A—albums that rank highly on lists compiled by people who obsess over tunes and write (mostly) informed critiques of the musicians in the world that command a lot of attention.

Paul is another one of my friends from college who majored in Communications. In response to Erik's status (which prompted a shit-load of comments), Paul typed the words: “That is just wrong in so many ways.” Below this, my response was, “Paul is right.”

Right after I clicked “send,” though, I was hit by a belated epiphany. It was a moment on par with what George Costanza felt after he failed to deliver a comeback when a coworker mocked him for eating too much shrimp at a board meeting. George kicked himself for having no tart retort to, “The ocean called; they want their shrimp back.” After the incident, an indignant George realizes that he should have said, “Oh yeah? Well, the jerk store called. And they're all out of you.” Similarly, it occurred to me that a more clever and abrasive response to Erik's post would have been to quote a line from “Paranoid Android” (one of at least 20 songs by Radiohead that are better than “Creep.”)

To wit: “When I am king, you will be first against the wall/ With your opinion which is of no consequence at all.”

That was a vile and dumb thing to regret, though, and the feeling didn't last for very long. It would have been too harsh and petty to stir up spite like that on the Internet.

And more importantly, if Erik's opinion is of no consequence at all, neither is mine, and the same goes for everyone. Plus, let's face it, I'll never be the king. The realization that I came to was that I had no business asserting that, “Paul is right.” Paul is merely somebody that I agree with about one specific issue, and it's a trivial issue, at that. In truth, the comment “Paul is right” is every bit as insipid as “Erik shops at the jerk store because he only likes one song by Radiohead.”

Had I quoted “Paranoid Android” on Facebook in order to refute one man's opinion, I would be even more damaged by the guilt of folly as I write this. My slow draw of wit as I tried to come up with something better than “Paul is right” paid dividends in the long-run. The reasons are as follows.

1.) I don't have anything against Erik. He likes Bill Murray movies and video games, and he's not adversed to beer, and so someday it might be cool to get drunk with him and play him in Tecmo Super Bowl while quoting lines from The Life Aquatic.

2.) Because Erik is obviously not a fan of Radiohead, he might not even get the esoteric reference to the lyrics of “Paranoid Android.” In which case, Erik might infer that I literally want to chain him to the wall in my basement (much like Jigsaw from the first Saw film), and that's not at all the message I want to convey.

3.) It's futile to argue about musical preferences. Whether I commented on Erik's post by quoting “Paranoid Android,” or suggested he pay a visit to the Jerk Store, or stated “Paul is right,” the upshot would have either been worthless or negative. The words “Paul is right” represent an obnoxious and puerile lack of decency, a grim regression into the perils of self-righteous subjectivity. Over the years, I have at length defended Nirvana against an onslaught of ferocious Phish-heads around a bonfire, scoffed scornfully at my best friend for claiming that Incubus was superior to Pearl Jam, wasted enough breath to revive a dozen half-drowned kids as I explained to a roommate why “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” is the product of moronic hillbillies. And for what reason? Nobody ever considered the opposing argument. Nobody ever budged on their stance. Nobody changed their minds. Nothing was resolved or gained, except for the kind of selfish vitriol that is (I'm led to believe) essential to the human experience.

The problem with the realization achieved in Reason 3, that it's futile to quibble about musical preferences, is that it leaves me at the uncertain crossroads of theory and practice. If it's futile to debate that “Creep” was not the only great song Radiohead produced, then likewise, there is no use in voicing your dissent when somebody assures you that Bon Jovi is the greatest rock band of all time. And conceding to this argument feels like surrendering to the overwhelming will of the idiots. But there is no objective rationale in dismissing all Bon Jovi fans as idiots; it's just a damn strong hunch that I have. I believe in God with as much certainty as I believe that Bon Jovi sucks, but I can't offer any solid proof for either conviction. Since I realize that I might be wrong simply because I can't possibly prove that I'm right, is there any merit in the columns I've done that vilify musical groups I don't enjoy listening to?

The answer is more complex than “Yes” if you agree with me about Bon Jovi (or Phish) and “No” if you don't agree. By acknowledging that it's pointless to argue that one artist is terrific while another is horrible—sheerly based on my opinion—I may have inadvertently besmirched stuff I've written in the past. What's worse, if I put my theory into practice, then from now on, I will have to avoid taking swipes at any band, movie, TV show, athlete, etc. that I don't care for. In short, I can either ignore the truth and continue to insist that the lead singer of Nickelback sits on a toilet while he records his vocals, or else I can honor the truth by not criticizing something simply because I don't like it...which would cut out a good chunk of my creative output.

At the same time, as a contradiction, there really is no objective rationale that dictates people don't have the right to be subjective. The truth is that people have opinions. It is, oddly enough, objectively true to claim that everyone has their own subjective viewpoint of the world. So when I suggest that avid Phish-heads share much in common with the members of bizarre religious cults, the assertion is but a small piece of the humble subjective truth that I have come to believe. What's interesting is that people feel more compelled to edify their personal truths than the objective truth. (Or worse, they assume the two truths are identical.) We're much more concerned with our own personal feelings about Michael Bolton than we are about how many Grammy Awards the man has won.

Logic contends that we can't be certain which religion is God's preferred choice because no one has ever seen God 1.) decorate a Christmas tree 2.) scream “Moziltaf!” in celebration 3.) refuse to say the Pledge of Allegiance or 4.) pray to himself five times a day while bowing toward the Mecca—but that seems like petty criticism to devoutly religious people of all denominations because they know the power of their own faith.

At best, we condemn those who lack the conviction to express and defend their own beliefs, which is probably valid and definitely more reasonable than condemning a person for not being certain of seemingly unknowable truths. At worst, however, it seems to me that because subjectivity means so damn much to us, we are all more selfish than selfless, more opinionated than enlightened.

Somewhere in between those extremes, I've determined that ignorant passion appeals to us more than enlightened apathy. This helps explain why Glenn Beck has risen to fame while J.D. Salinger faded into oblivion before his death.

Human beings are helplessly drawn to the delusion that the intensity of their feelings has a significant bearing on the truth, and as a member of this species I have expressed mixed feelings for, I don't transcend those limitations. I've become aware of the conundrum, but that doesn't mean I have the wherewithal to conquer it. Subjective truth is something we invented to feel more at ease with our ignorance. Objective truth is a secret God mostly keeps to himself.

And since I'm not God, I'm forced to adhere to the pitfalls of subjectivity, which means that, futility be damned, it is only a matter of time before I relapse into disputes about musical tastes and opinions in general. I have covered a lot of ground and burrowed into painful thoughts, and yet I haven't really learned a thing. In my mind, Paul is still right, and that matters the most (to me).

What I do sincerely hope, though, is that my opinions do not lead to the destruction of friendships—even if far too many of my friends are relegated to Facebook. In which case, I will offer to Erik, whose opinion prompted this essay, a quote from another rock band, the Strokes.

To wit: “Oh (dude), can't you see/ It's them, it's not me/ We're not enemies/ We just disagree.”

Right on. I'm done with this one. I'm moving on as I dust my hands off...and hey, incidentally, if you don't like the Strokes, Erik, then you're a fucking lowlife.