My Hillbilly Hat

 

The Big City

Part 2 of 28

You have to know I hate the old attitude cosmopolitans have of making fun of a guy’s hillbilly hat and laying it on thick. In my world, that’s just plain rude. And if it weren’t me on the receiving end of their “fun,” but some other put-upon innocent guy, I’d be first in line to take them on and put them in their place.

First, there’s nothing wrong with a hillbilly hat. On simple practical grounds, it fits loosely, it covers a lot, and it’s quite comfortable. So I don’t know exactly what their point was. It might be that one of the idiots decided hats like that are behind the times and started the pointing and laughing. Then the others, who honestly didn’t see anything wrong with it thought they needed to jump in on the festivities so they wouldn't be teased. So none of them except the first guy really knew what they were laughing at but did it anyway out of some crazy immature group-think.

That conclusion completely minimizes their fun and puts me in the driver's seat. Although it's equally possible that all of them knew exactly what they were doing and knew it was wrong. So it's likely they did respect me but were unsure of the opinion they should show, which should have been just common sense good judgment, but they couldn't do the right thing because they weren't sure the others would go along with it. So that's it, these dweebs knew better, but with a roughhouse group dynamic like that it always seems good to jump on someone. Let’s say there’s just one or two of them who started the fun. The others have a problem to resolve: “How can the rest of us stand back and not get the joke?”

Or it could've been the joke was obvious and they were just looking for a little validation -- anything would do -- before erupting in one boisterous mass. It’s a clash of civilizations, and naturally they think their civilization -- the Big City -- is not just the dominant but the only valid one. Anything varying from their mode of dress and head covering, allowing for slowly shifting fashions over the years, is too quaint, too Hicksville to tolerate in this more enlightened present. So ... “Dog-pile on the Hillbilly!”

It’s really despicable, but unfortunately a thing I’ve seen over the years in various social settings. One year I showed up at the family Christmas celebration in gold psychedelic button bib overalls, and you’d’ve thought Liberace had come to town. With my own family! Who had one hell of a time razzing me, getting up in my grill, fingering my bibs, wondering where the candelabra was (!) and if that brand of newfangled overalls came with tails! That was the Christmas I ruined. Grandma gave one of my cousins some deodorant for Chrstmas, which I promptly took outside on that frigid night and pushed the button. It stuck open and fizzed and spun in the snow, giving him another year of smelling bad to endure.

As for my hillbilly hat, they had to think I was a sight, a regular troll under the bridge, with a fashion sense pretty stale for the Big City scene. I reject their mean-spirited attitude (in these understanding times!) and hope someday they get theirs. Curses on them, actual curses! May their homes burn to the ground, and may all their dates lead to various diseases for themselves and their partners. And may their stumbling parents fall and not be able to get up.

Misery Adores Company

 

Part 2 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

What about you? Did you ever get one of those childhoods where anything that could go wrong did go wrong? And it ended up doing a number on your whole personality, to the point that on a good day you’re still a big fat zero? I see a few sad hands. This month we’re touching on these unfortunately common issues of fragile self-esteem. And that's the proper way of saying it, as editor-in-chief here, although I realize all too well that “Misery adores company.” But if it weren’t for my fellow-sufferers, probably no one would believe the things to come. Our dismal past exposed to a disbelieving, disapproving public!

Of course I should know quite a bit about it, and I could even be called one of the foremost experts on it. I think that’s true, at least, and I’m flattered if you think it too. But the story could be told as well by my sworn enemies, wherever they are, those who tormented me beyond all sense. And yet I’m willing to concede they perhaps had good reasons, even if they were only reasons of their own. The degree to which indeed I was "squirrelly" hasn't been conclusively proven. But certainly they know who they are, to the extent that I’m that memorable, and it’s not hard to imagine that wherever they are they’ve made a success of their lives. Perhaps as prison guards, mafia hit-men, factory foremen, professional wrestlers, or gym teachers.

I know this much, I’m certainly not going to look up any of them. And I’ve avoided class reunions for this reason. Because anywhere there’s a punch bowl there’s a potential drowning. And I’ve managed somehow -- a guy hypnotized me at the shopping center once, about the time I took Abraham Lincoln as my personal spirit animal -- to live a semi-proud life, semi-proud of myself for respecting myself enough to sit up and take nourishment. Today I had my usual bowl of plain oatmeal, and just because my fragile self-esteem is such a vital part of my outlook, two pieces of burnt toast with butter past the expiration date.

Some of you may have sympathy for me. I'm proud to have your sympathy, because that lets me know that in a rough and tumble world there are still good people. So let me confer a few blessings your way. "This reader, among my best friends, knows a sad sack story when he or she hears it. May he or she be free of all bullies, evil-doers, letchs, trolls, souped-up athletes, gym teachers, prison guards, towel snappers, and extortionists. Let his or her self-esteem be up there with the immortals, who know the glory of righteous suffering but wouldn’t inflict unnecessary pain on a fly, killing them, yes, because we’re trying to avoid the next global plague, but quickly and with mercy."

Did I do the pledge yet? Looks like I didn't: “I pledge destruction to fragile self-esteem, and to the mental conditions from which it thrives, one person, under valued, too divided, with happiness and private showers for all.” Now, c’mon, guys, get me off this damned nail!

Tiny Came Back As A Toilet Brush

I'm crediting this post to the influence of an adult education class I took at the community college a few months ago. Otherwise, I doubt I would've ever thought of it. I actually wasn't thinking about it ... it came like one of those flashes; you know how the brain works, no rhyme or reason to anything.

The class wasn't any big deal, nothing special. Probably everyone's taken it at some point. Certainly it's common enough, your everyday garden variety class on "Past Lives -- Intuitive Evolution." But it was sort of fun, a pleasant enough way to waste some time in the winter months. I just didn't think much about it after.

The funny thing about the class was how often everyone came to the "discovery" that they were famous people in their past lives. I think we had three different William the Conquerors, out of about 25 people! A couple U.S. presidents were in attendance, and of course Einstein. The rest of us were a little more reserved. If we thought we were famous years ago, we kept it to ourselves. My own thoughts about me, I'm sure I was a peasant, and in my non-human lives I can remember being a mollusk. Seriously. I picked up a dried empty shell by the lake the other day and once upon a time I think I knew the guy.

Anyway, today the class came to my mind when I had to do some spot cleaning on the toilet -- you probably know what I mean -- and I felt some intuitive sensations in the handle of the brush. Sounds crazy, I know, but a flash came to me, which was from the "intuitive evolutionary" part of the class. The flash, then a dawning awareness, then an absolute certainty, was the freaky knowledge that my toilet brush is the present life-form incarnation of a guy I used to know in high school. He came back as a toilet brush! Believe me, I know how it sounds, but if it weren't true, why would I have thought of it?

I held the brush, trembling -- having used it first -- and this guy's image came into my mind as clear as anything. And it's not even a guy I knew that well. I don't even remember his real name, just his nickname, which was Tiny. He was one of those big guys who got the ironic name of Tiny. Like Big Tiny Little, the barroom, honky-tonk piano player who used to record for Decca Records.

And it makes a certain amount of sense, the whole thing of him now existing as my toilet brush, because Tiny was a scourge toward me. How fitting it is that his karma would be such that he would reincarnate and devolve to a basic non-living (it appears) household implement for me to use. And, please, before you write in, don't blame me ... he brought it on himself.

I hadn't actually even heard that he died, because like I said, I don't even remember his name ... it might have been Don, or Clint, or Kenny, something like that. No, there was a different guy named Kenny who hated my guts. I haven't run across Kenny's soul yet. He's probably still living. I'd Google him but I'd have to destroy my computer if I found him. He was another scourge, much worse.

Tiny wasn't as bad as Kenny, but still he was bad enough. We were only in one class together, and there must have been plenty of time for talking among ourselves, because I remember him always being on me for some reason. This is embarrassing to say, in a way, because Tiny had a thing about masturbation ... know what I mean? He mentioned it all the time.

He was a huge guy, so that probably had something to do with it. He used to accuse me of various things and ply me for information on masturbation. What I'm saying, I hope you realize, is 100% true. Beyond that, he insulted me in various ways, probably because I actually was small and his name of Tiny had something to do with him being such a behemoth. He definitely saw me as a victim ... which I obviously was. I didn't have the confidence -- or sufficient knowledge on projection and karma, etc.  -- to be able to tell him, "Yeah, but someday you'll be a toilet brush and I'll still be a man." If only I'd known!

So there I was, this morning, with Tiny in my hand! I thought, Oh my God! I've used him a hundred times and didn't know it was him! But today was so completely different. I had the intuitive flash. I realized it was him ... and my reaction was something like this: I felt weird about it, the terrible conditions Tiny's been living in all this time...

You know how it is with toilet brushes. They have a holder. You use it and stick it in the holder, which always has about a quarter inch of water from previous days. I look down at that holder every time and think I should clean it. But then I don't, because what's the use? ...  it's only going to get wet again. Plus, it'd mean having to touch it, then having to wash my hands for 20 minutes. Still, it's like a little cesspool of germs, down among the rest of the muck, the occasional pubic hair, etc., very disgusting. This is where a guy should have maid service.

OK, how do you think I treated the toilet brush once the flash came to me that it was Tiny back from the dead? Did I use him with malice? Did I put him through the paces? Did I slam him back into the holder with the water? No, I didn't do any of that. I used it as normal, then put it back in its place as normal. One, I don't want to break it and have to waste money for a new one; I might get someone I don't even know. But, two, I am a merciful person. Mercy is my Number One rule. If they ever build a monastery in my memory, mercy will be their basic thing.

At this point, I don't really have any living enmity toward Tiny. Even though he was older than me at the time, I think two grades ahead, he was still just a kid. He had to be around 18. His brain hadn't really entirely formed ... and I don't know that it ever did. He was a bully, yes, but maybe he had troubles at home. And as far as his own self image, being huge and being called Tiny, then whacking off and having to torture other kids out of his guilt, let's say, the whole projection thing, he had more problems than he knew what to do with.

So, no, I haven't got it in for Tiny. And as far as his return, his devolution, his reincarnation as a lowly toilet brush, I did not consciously have anything to do with that. How soul entities are reincarnated, divvied out, is clearly not my department.