I'M NOT YOUR DARLING, ASSHOLE

So, I have this habit.  Not sure if I picked up from my dad or if it's a Jersey thing, but I always tag a greeting or engage a conversation with a slang term of endearment.  If you're a guy, it's always, "Hey man, how are you, brother?" or "Missed you, buddy." or "That's awesome, pal!".  I do the same thing with women.  "Hey, sweetheart, how are you?" or "Love you, darling." or "All good, baby, I'll handle it."  

I used to give my father shit because he'd do it to my friends all the time.  Then, when I was in my twenties, I started doing the same thing and I realized it's because, like my dad, I'm great with faces, really bad with names.

I'm not saying it's a good thing and I understand how it could seem demeaning, but it comes from a place of candor and warmth.  I did catch shit from a cop once when I called her, "honey", and in grad school, I got lectured by a Nation of Islam member for referring to him as, "brother", but for the most part, I navigate through my day with little or no recourse to this practice. 

Then today.  I was coming from boxing and walking to my car in an underground parking garage.  As I was opening my door, someone called out, "Excuse me".  I turned and saw a forty-something, very slender woman pointing to a white towel on the ground.  "Is this yours?"  It was.  It slipped off my neck coming down the stairs.  "Yeah, it is."  I jogged over, picked it up and as she turned to head up the stairs, I expressed my appreciation, "Thanks, darling".  She stopped in her tracks and turned.  The look on her face was a mix of puzzlement and rage.  Then she elaborated, "What did you call me?"  The energy shift was so extreme I couldn't quite figure out what was going on.  I followed her query with my own, "Excuse me, I'm sorry --"  She cut me off with a blunt clarification, "I'm not your darling, asshole."  It took a moment for it to crystallize, then I realized what I said.  But she was up the stairs before I could apologize.  I called out, "Sorry... it's a bad habit..."  Somewhere from the top of the steps I heard her mumble, "Fuck you, Ronny Killer." I'm sure that's not what she said, but that's what it sounded like... 

I'm truly sorry I offended Ms. Towelfinder and I'm sure my choice of nickname affected her on a very personal level.  But quite honestly, I also know this event will have no impact on me.  I'm too old, too set in my ways to begin major upheavals in my vernacular.  So to all of you reading this: Baby, Sweetheart, Darling, Honey, Doll, Lovey, Brother, Buddy, Man, Pal, I mean no disrespect, most likely, I just don't know your name or I've forgotten it.  

And after this mea culpa and qualification, if you are still offended... Fuck you, Ronny Killer.

THE BESTED OF 2010

As I review the BEST OF 2010 lists, I cringe at the some of the names the blogosphere is giving season three of Sons of Anarchy.  "Uneven" "Problematic" "Counter-intuitive".  It's fucking hard to watch your child being bullied and yet I've realized that one must live and die by buzz. 

The truth is a lot of bloggers and critics are too fucking lazy to actually watch the show and form an original opinion, so they'll let a few other critics determine what the show is.  In season two, a few critics tagged Sons as one of the best shows on television.  That buzz was picked up and so season two was labeled "brilliant".  This season, a few critics struggled with the Ireland/Baby narrative and labeled those middle episodes as confusing and off-point.  That buzz was also picked up and so season three is being labeled "not-so-brilliant".  The reality is that neither assessment is true.  It's just that one is easier to accept that the other.

I, of course, did not see a problem with season three.  Obviously.  In my mind, it was the most complex and in-depth storytelling we've ever done on the show.  Perhaps that's the problem.  I do know that anything I say in defense of the show will land as sour grapes and desperate, so I'll let a critic describe my feelings.  Tim Goodman, former critic for the SF Chronicle, now head TV critic for the Hollywood Reporter listed SOA as one of the top 18 shows of the year (#13).  This was his follow up assessment --

Sons of Anarchy

 
Of all the excellent dramas here, fan reaction to SOA in Season 3 is the most interesting, and baffling. This outlaw biker-club series from Kurt Sutter embraces its heightened gangster mentality, its Hamlet-on-a-Harley agenda. You’ll find few series whose fans are as rabid and outspoken. The story line that took the club from the fictional Northern California town of Charming to Northern Ireland had a lot of viewers and critics claiming it meandered and that the skillfully riveting first and last episodes held together a soft middle. It’s too tough on Sutter; any creator/writer/showrunner ought to take chances — that’s essential to greatness. Had he kept SOA in Charming for a third year, playing the same tune, the backlash would rightly have been more fierce. Fans ultimately might look back at this ambitious season as instrumental in the series achieving brilliance.

Besides, who wants a show that resists change and shies from a creative leap? If you want that, turn on broadcast TV. Now that these shows are gone, you’ll get plenty of settling.

ANGER IS MY FRIEND, REASON IS MY BITCH, JOY TO THE WORLD

This started out as a holiday message, then the pressure of gifts, money and moving to a new house inspired something else.  So I share this piece of kurtness for your holiday enjoyment -- 

Even on medication, my first response to any challenge (fear) is never, "Let me understand" (reason).  It's always, "Let me cut your fucking heart out" (anger).  I've done quite a bit of work on myself in the last twenty years and I've come to realize that some of that response is just my humanity -- primal survival instincts.  Some of it is my obsessive personality.  Some of it was being raised in an unpredictable (alcoholic) household.  But mostly, it's because anger is my friend.  Rage, not so much, but anger feels so fucking good.  It's the sauce that makes the bland noodles taste like God's been cooking.  It gets my dick hard, my confidence up, my creativity ticking and focuses my mind like a bloody, gleaming straight razor.  I've discovered that I seek out opportunities, consciously and unconsciously, that trigger my favorite emotion.  I stir up trouble, then open wide to receive the backlash, using it to feed my beautiful hostile machine.  (Wasn't there an alien on Star Trek that did that?)

I am aware that this is probably not the healthiest trait.  It's created more than a few uncomfortable work experiences (Fox lawsuits) and garnered at least two or three death threats per season.  FYI: I don't carry a gun.  That would be bad.  

Well, that's it.  Merry Christmas, happy holidays.  Me, I'm hoping for a stocking full of coal.  Just a little something to spin me into the new year.  

Peace be with you.