When Slackers Judge (An Editorialized, Cultural Report)

Many don't know what "cultural reporting" is, or as some used to call it, "new journalism," in particular in light of the present, fabricated, Orwellian narrative. For the record, the likes of Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, Norman Mailer's The Executioner's Song, Alex Haley's Roots,  C.D.B. Bryan's Friendly Fire and Gay Talese's "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold" are examples of such documentation, where recalled and/or recreated dialogue is inserted into non-fictional accounts. On this basis (and for the sardonic wit of it), I offer my wee stab at the format (with a stroke of editorialized proclamation), inspired by a gathering that continues to perturb me. 

In recent years, official conventions and large-staged get-togethers of like-minded people have fallen to the wayside in my neck of the woods. Sure, we have once-in-a-blue-moon flea markets and craft shows in which we may mingle, but the convention format is (give or take) most infrequent. It's been that way since the pandemic broke, when our magnanimous, local leadership (ahem) took to shattering social affairs through all-out, Draconian measures, a habit which quite frankly, has come to prevail and doesn't seem inclined to fade any time soon. Bad habits die hard. 

Now makeshift, wannabe gatherings grow like shady weeds, rising in a variety of cloistered corners, where people of similar interest converge, but often disappoint through their narrow-mindedness. 

Case in point: I met a group of "men" at an impromptu signing, thrown at a shaky, comic/collectible sojourn this past weekend and while there was able to flaunt some of my publications. After I endured a twenty-minute hate-fest from a western-world-thrashing, Sinead O'Connor ideologue, I said hello, shared my biographical background, offered an overview of my publications and cited some sources that inspired them. 

It was a short time thereafter that these fellows approached me, one looking to be in his late twenties and his four companions no doubt middle-aged. They asked me a number of the anticipated but acceptable questions, including how I come up with my story ideas. But then the youngest threw me a clever curve, inspired by a fleeting comment I'd made: "Why would you do all-nighters to meet a deadline? Isn't there enough time in any given day to get the job done?"

I responded with "Gosh, there isn't. I mean, it's hard to write when one holds a day job." I then explained how I wrote Mark Justice's The Dead Sheriff: Purity for Ron Fortier and Airship 27, toiling with its completion through wearisome, nocturnal patches. I wouldn't have met the deadline otherwise, I explained, in that my day job, which at that point was as much a partial, night/weekend job, dominated my existence.

"So, you were really, truly employed during this period with an actual, full-time job?"

"Uh, yeah. I had to put food on the table, you know, pay bills, take care of my medical insurance. For sure, I was working a day job and working on a novel during the few, 'free' hours I had."

My enquirers shook their heads and snickered, which shouldn't have surprised me. They had already admitted, for whatever off-the-cuff cause, to being unemployed and were proud as peacocks for it. Two even declared to having never even held part-time jobs. They had gotten by through family support and moreover, the state's. Yeah, the munificent state always figures in. 

"Well, maybe if you weren't so conventional, you'd have a better time of it," one of the middle-agers scolded me, giving a supercilious swirl of his finger as he regarded me in his crinkled, Big Fish t-shirt. "Look at you, man. You went and got yourself a job. You went and got married. You support some woman. You see, we have the freedom and means to add to our collections without any hitches. In the mornings, we fuel ourselves at Starbucks and in the afternoons browse the comic shops. In between, we comb Ebay and watch Potter films, The View and Charmed. We're not like you. We do what we want, whenever we want. We get the most out of life."

This absurd explanation is one I've heard before, in particular from a Munchausen proclaimer who resides in upstate NY. Over the years, he's been brutal to me for tackling the daily grind. This individual, mind you, has never attempted to make a career for himself. He was supported by a lifelong mate, who didn't do much to fortify a financial future and whose passing motivated the insolent clinger to seek disability assistance, the type that exploited his cowardice as the reason he couldn't (wouldn't) work. I'm not exaggerating. This is the excuse that funds the bum, but the yellow-belly says it's not his fault. It's my fault, the world's fault, everyone's fault but his own that he can't do his part, because life has been so boohoo-unfair to him. (Listen, I know legitimate people who've been denied disability benefits and yet are impaired by severe, physical deterrents, like advanced multiple sclerosis, and yet this entitled shyster gets covered for playing the fraidy-cat! Like whoa, man! Whoa! If this doesn't show how convoluted the system is, what does?)

Anyway, getting back to my makeshift gathering, I asked my deemsters how they could be so cavalier when not contributing their social share. They explained that it's all a matter of holding the right mindset. They shrug off worries before they even sprout. They remind themselves that they're supported by others who "have it better." In other words, these parasites feed off the beleaguered working class. And in these braggarts' estimation, those of my diligent demographic are nothin' but ignorant chumps, not radical enough to pluck the hand-out string. 

To say the least, I gave these magisterial numskulls a piece of my mind, explaining that I, too, procure collectibles and engage in various indulgences, but I do so through traditional, financial means: i.e. through my hard-earned, taxed-to-death earnings. I'm proud to say that I established a career, while still finding time to write. I've even worked fulltime while going through prostrate-cancer treatments (and mind you, without the assistance of any mind-numbing drugs). I've made friends during my employment, securing unbreakable ties, and yes, I actually met a flesh-and-blood woman during this stretch and married her. (I do my best to take care of her, and for that, I offer no apology.) Interestingly enough, along this long mile, I've never received an ounce of thanks from those who refuse to do as I do, even though my efforts have sustained them. If anything, I've only received criticism for doing what the slothful choose to evade. 

In the end, my critics took offense to my defense, with one dismissing me under his breath as "nothing but a little Jordan Peterson." Heck, I'll take that as a compliment. 

Anyhow, I decided to document my reflections on this matter because I realize that there are others like me who are equally tired of being demonized. The slackers may label our ilk "common" because we shun bureaucratic tokens, but hey, our adversaries' indolence epitomizes current commonality to a tee. In other words, the goldbricking way has become the despicable norm. So much for living outside the Norman Rockwell box, eh?  Well, I'm proud of the path I've taken, and I could never hold my head high, if I dared to behave like those who justify their pathetic states by deriding those they will never rival.