Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Designated Morose Guy
In one of Mr. Whisky Prajer's blog posts, he refers to a linking dance that ends with a list of questions.
Specifically, these:
"1) What regularly (or most) tempts you to second-guess/abandon the principles/worldview you hold dearest, regardless of your belief system?
2) What makes you want to "give up?"
3) What's the most hope-less situation you can imagine finding yourself in?
4) What have you failed at so much that you've either quit trying or you go into that situation knowing you're going to fail?
5) What points of comparison do you use to make you feel better about yourself?
6) What are the things in your life that feel pointless, like a waste of time?
7) Do people really distrust preachers with facial hair?"
A daily visit to whiskyprajer is always interesting and usually thought-provoking. The posting of this Seven Questions link resulted in a knee-jerk reaction on my part. A kick to the section of the memory files that, I'd thought, had been rusted closed. Never know when an incident or a set of words will hit like a ball pean hammer and loosen experiences that were long forgotten or filed away.
Within the confines of gangdom that I moved in and out of in my youth, an understood but never talked about structure was in place. From a parents’ front porch perch, our activities were viewed as a disorganized rudderless physical-to-almost-violent ramminess that was threatening the survival on that one last nerve of theirs that we were eternally on. We weren’t thugs or mugs; lugs maybe. We loved hanging out on our street, playing at a park nearby, or going on scoping trips to the other side of town. It wasn’t a Jets/Sharks sort of thing. We were too clumsy to be handling knives or such; we would have cut ourselves, poked our eyes out, or gotten mixed up with groups that were a bit more into the melodrama of teenagedom than we were.
Lunks that we were, we were organized lunks, nonetheless. The core of 6 kids with 3-4 doing Haley’s orbits around us every month or two had defined characters and roles. One gangly kid with perpetually grayish greasy hands was “Wheels”, because he was a whiz with fixing our bikes (as in bicycles). Since we were continually smashing our bikes into curbs, trees, and the rears of moving cars, Wheels was a prized member of the gang. Another kid, hands perpetually in his pockets, was “Marbles”. Suffice it to say that his hands were quick and eternally busy, whether they were in his pockets or out, easing the weight of coins, cakes, or toys. I was in the core of 6 along with Marbles, Wheels, Fatman, Tuba, and Spazzie. My nom-de-guerre was Eeyore. Since I seemed to be the only acknowledged reader in the bunch, my talent lay therein; reading bred thinking bred brooding bred depressive observations. I found out much later that Tuba had out-read me each summer by 3 to 1. He just didn’t want to give up his acknowledged talent, loud cursing, so he hid all his books under his bed. His younger brother ratted him out one long hazy summer when he wanted to break into the group.
What were my duties within this fine organization of young men? The short of it was that I was the designated morose guy. The fact that I read over the summer when other kids welcomed the respite seemed to be the only qualification needed qualify for this non-physical job. My opinion would be sought if one especially stupid or egregious deed had been completed. As expected, I’d opine that while removing the grate from a street sewer was a socially unacceptable act, the possibility that one of us would end up in the sewer as we attempted a lame bike trick would land me a smack on the head as I’d just ruined an evil deed. As the grate was being pulled back over the open hole, 5 pairs of eyes would shame me into a dark corner, where my powers of jaundiced perception would recharge.
Our character within the gang was unique only within the gang. When we met other groups of like-minded half-assed truants, it was always interesting to compare notes with that group’s designated Eeyore. Socialization of this sort worked well to prepare me for high school, college, and professional association conventions. The only thing that seemed to change was the price of the cloth I wore.
As we got older and as we branched out from our group’s designated specialty, we found we missed the sanctuary of our group designated talent. Some of us honed that talent to our future profession. Marbles transferred his fingers’ magic to his mouth and is a stockbroker. Wheels uncomfortably let his talent for bicycle mechanics take him into Mechanical Eng. I kept on reading, but have consciously tried to tone down the “Oh me, Oh mys.” I found that Eeyoring one’s way through life doesn’t get you invited to too many parties.
I’ve realized that statements or questions such as the ones referred to by Mr. Whisky Prajer are fine as long as they’re singular or, at the very least, sandwiched between statements or questions of hope or humor. Even if posed from the safety and grandeur of a pulpit, a stream of such verbiage will only drive away the curiosity of the listeners. What will be staring up at the speaker will be a wall of blank faces, beseeching some hint of joy.
Eeeyore has left the building. And he’s now clean shaven
In one of Mr. Whisky Prajer's blog posts, he refers to a linking dance that ends with a list of questions.
Specifically, these:
"1) What regularly (or most) tempts you to second-guess/abandon the principles/worldview you hold dearest, regardless of your belief system?
2) What makes you want to "give up?"
3) What's the most hope-less situation you can imagine finding yourself in?
4) What have you failed at so much that you've either quit trying or you go into that situation knowing you're going to fail?
5) What points of comparison do you use to make you feel better about yourself?
6) What are the things in your life that feel pointless, like a waste of time?
7) Do people really distrust preachers with facial hair?"
A daily visit to whiskyprajer is always interesting and usually thought-provoking. The posting of this Seven Questions link resulted in a knee-jerk reaction on my part. A kick to the section of the memory files that, I'd thought, had been rusted closed. Never know when an incident or a set of words will hit like a ball pean hammer and loosen experiences that were long forgotten or filed away.
Within the confines of gangdom that I moved in and out of in my youth, an understood but never talked about structure was in place. From a parents’ front porch perch, our activities were viewed as a disorganized rudderless physical-to-almost-violent ramminess that was threatening the survival on that one last nerve of theirs that we were eternally on. We weren’t thugs or mugs; lugs maybe. We loved hanging out on our street, playing at a park nearby, or going on scoping trips to the other side of town. It wasn’t a Jets/Sharks sort of thing. We were too clumsy to be handling knives or such; we would have cut ourselves, poked our eyes out, or gotten mixed up with groups that were a bit more into the melodrama of teenagedom than we were.Lunks that we were, we were organized lunks, nonetheless. The core of 6 kids with 3-4 doing Haley’s orbits around us every month or two had defined characters and roles. One gangly kid with perpetually grayish greasy hands was “Wheels”, because he was a whiz with fixing our bikes (as in bicycles). Since we were continually smashing our bikes into curbs, trees, and the rears of moving cars, Wheels was a prized member of the gang. Another kid, hands perpetually in his pockets, was “Marbles”. Suffice it to say that his hands were quick and eternally busy, whether they were in his pockets or out, easing the weight of coins, cakes, or toys. I was in the core of 6 along with Marbles, Wheels, Fatman, Tuba, and Spazzie. My nom-de-guerre was Eeyore. Since I seemed to be the only acknowledged reader in the bunch, my talent lay therein; reading bred thinking bred brooding bred depressive observations. I found out much later that Tuba had out-read me each summer by 3 to 1. He just didn’t want to give up his acknowledged talent, loud cursing, so he hid all his books under his bed. His younger brother ratted him out one long hazy summer when he wanted to break into the group.
What were my duties within this fine organization of young men? The short of it was that I was the designated morose guy. The fact that I read over the summer when other kids welcomed the respite seemed to be the only qualification needed qualify for this non-physical job. My opinion would be sought if one especially stupid or egregious deed had been completed. As expected, I’d opine that while removing the grate from a street sewer was a socially unacceptable act, the possibility that one of us would end up in the sewer as we attempted a lame bike trick would land me a smack on the head as I’d just ruined an evil deed. As the grate was being pulled back over the open hole, 5 pairs of eyes would shame me into a dark corner, where my powers of jaundiced perception would recharge.
Our character within the gang was unique only within the gang. When we met other groups of like-minded half-assed truants, it was always interesting to compare notes with that group’s designated Eeyore. Socialization of this sort worked well to prepare me for high school, college, and professional association conventions. The only thing that seemed to change was the price of the cloth I wore.
As we got older and as we branched out from our group’s designated specialty, we found we missed the sanctuary of our group designated talent. Some of us honed that talent to our future profession. Marbles transferred his fingers’ magic to his mouth and is a stockbroker. Wheels uncomfortably let his talent for bicycle mechanics take him into Mechanical Eng. I kept on reading, but have consciously tried to tone down the “Oh me, Oh mys.” I found that Eeyoring one’s way through life doesn’t get you invited to too many parties.
I’ve realized that statements or questions such as the ones referred to by Mr. Whisky Prajer are fine as long as they’re singular or, at the very least, sandwiched between statements or questions of hope or humor. Even if posed from the safety and grandeur of a pulpit, a stream of such verbiage will only drive away the curiosity of the listeners. What will be staring up at the speaker will be a wall of blank faces, beseeching some hint of joy.
Eeeyore has left the building. And he’s now clean shaven
Comments:
<< Home Verging on Pertinence Just some more disposable thoughts clogging up the hinterlands
Oh me, oh my! I certainly hope my blog (nevermind my life) descends into Eeyoredom!
On a similar note to the questions, a friend once asked me which "Pooh" character I most identified with. He and his wife had somehow configured themselves to Pooh and Piglet (of course), but the more I considered the question, the more I wondered if I wasn't "Rabbit" - perpetually put off by the slightest quirk and inconvenience (particularly if said inconvenience was polishing off the slim pickings in my cupboards). Eeyore - I wish. Eeyore looks like Elvis, next to Rabbit!
On a similar note to the questions, a friend once asked me which "Pooh" character I most identified with. He and his wife had somehow configured themselves to Pooh and Piglet (of course), but the more I considered the question, the more I wondered if I wasn't "Rabbit" - perpetually put off by the slightest quirk and inconvenience (particularly if said inconvenience was polishing off the slim pickings in my cupboards). Eeyore - I wish. Eeyore looks like Elvis, next to Rabbit!
Did not Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones drown in the swimming pool at the original of the House on Pooh Corner?
I wonder which character he most identified with? Now that would be interesting..
I wonder which character he most identified with? Now that would be interesting..
# opined by 
: 12:52 PM, June 01, 2005
: 12:52 PM, June 01, 2005
Interesting post. Eeyore, hmmm. For some reason, this post reminded me of a Garrison Keillor story...
Stephenesque: I believe you're confusing Pooh with Poop Corner. Easy enough to do in those unclean R&R times.
Mr. WP & Ms. Pattie: As I reflect, being nicknamed any character from the Pooh oeuvre (Pooeuvre) is probably not the way to struggle through one's early teenaged years, even if there's a Keilloresque quaintness attached to them. I would've preferred Spike.
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Mr. WP & Ms. Pattie: As I reflect, being nicknamed any character from the Pooh oeuvre (Pooeuvre) is probably not the way to struggle through one's early teenaged years, even if there's a Keilloresque quaintness attached to them. I would've preferred Spike.
<< Home Verging on Pertinence Just some more disposable thoughts clogging up the hinterlands
