Pride (In the Name of Love)

Take pride in your work. I ain't too proud to beg. Beam with pride.

Of the deadly sins (including, but not limited to, lust, gluttony and standard definition television), pride is considered by many to be the most egregious. Putting oneself ahead of others at others' expense. When we see or hear people who speak in the third person about their prowess on the basketball court, or when we see corporate execs get massive financial circle-jerked bonuses, it rubs us the wrong way because we've all been so indoctrinated into the Christian ethic of humility being good and pride being terrible.

Homer was, unfortunately for his purgatory-bound soul, pre-Christ. I don't intend this to be some sort of religious statement, but one can clearly see that every major character in the Illiad and the Oddyssey isn't too concerned about humility. From Achilles to Odysseus to Hector to Menelaus to Paris... all of the characters are pretty proud of who they are, of the people they've killed or seduced, and of what their presence means to lesser folk around them.

Forgetting for a moment that almost all the major characters die, I don't think that Homer's characters are in any way reduced for the lack of humility. Hector pussy-footing around and being humble about how many Greeks he had killed would have minimized his influence not only in the story but in the war.

Life would be easier if things were black and white. Or even if they were black and white with shades of gray in betwee. With pride, though, it's technicolor and figuring out what is Good and what is Bad is difficult. Humble is good, right? But false humility is condescending and often worse than a realistic appraisal of one's own abilities.

Is honesty the best policy here? Can one avoid falling into the trap of arrogance and pride by accepting credit and admitting failure with a straight face? Hypocrisy is avoided, perhaps, but without tact feelings are going to be hurt (in the case of discussing a strength with someone else) or bad impressions are going to be made (in the case of conceding a fault in oneself).

This whole topic is something that I think about a lot. I try to be realistic and honest and tactful and all of the other things that make me socially acceptable. A couple of things in the last couple of days, though, have triggered me to think about it all morning, though, and actually induced me to get out of my cat-covered (and cat hair-covered, I'm sure) bed and type this out.

With both things, some background is needed. So stick with me (although, to be honest, if you've made it past the Ancient Lit for Dummies intro, you're probably going to stick with this until the bitter end).

So. First thing.

Harlan Ellison is an author. A very, very good author. He wrote a lot of really great science fiction and horror-type stuff in the 1970's and 80's. He's also quite short and very feisty. He's known for having an incredibly large ego and I find him quite entertaining as a person.

Anyway, it's not uncommon for writers to have workshops where they get together and hone their craft. I'm not exactly sure what that means, but I understand that it means they bring bits they've written and/or do writing exercises to get feedback from other skilled writers... authors that they respect.

Larry Niven is another science fiction author that I enjoy. He has written a lot of stuff that has stuck with me and a few basic concepts from his writing (asymmetrical facial hair and having a plug right into the pleasure center of your brain, for example) have stuck with me. He also wrote a memoirs-type book, where he talked about participating in writing workshops and I remember he discussed that Harlan Ellison attended one or two, and that it didn't go well.

How did it not go well? Harlan Ellison had such an ego and took so much pride in what he wrote that he couldn't stand to see it criticized. He argued and lashed out at those who dared to do what, apparently, writers do at workshops.

Is Harlan Ellison a great writer because of his ego? Or in spite of it?

This relates to me because, whether it was back in law school or writing creatively or technically for my job, I've historically had very little ego when it comes to my writing. I can hammer out words and sentences relatively easily, and if someone thinks it's better if I change a word or lose a sentence, I'm rarely going to bat an eye. I'd just do it.

When I started writing this blog, I doubted I was going to keep at it. I doubted that anyone would read it. I wrote it for myself and ONLY for myself.

As I found out people were reading it and that some people liked it (at least enough to check it out once in a while) it felt good and I was proud (*gulp*) that I was able to write things people liked. I've had over 19,000 views on my blog now and I'm starting to think maybe it's not just my mom reading it over and over.

The feedback I got was almost universally positive, even though I know that much of what I've written is simply not that good. It's easy to deal with feedback when the most difficult thing is thanking someone for praising an entry that I didn't think was that good.

My last blog was entry number 300 and it was not that good. I did something different and I don't think it's my strongest effort. I also received about a half-dozen comments from friends (over chat and in person) who pointed that out to me. They were kind and considerate about it, but I felt like I let them down and I also felt a bit of a blow to the "blog ego" that had been steadily stroked.

Am I Harlan Ellison? Maybe it I had 19,000,000 views I would be, but for now I still have managed to legitimately hold onto some humility. Please let me know when my blogs suck... remembering tact is appreciated.

For the second test of my humility, I will have to tell a story that I've told several times before, but not in this blog.

Some time ago, I met a woman at Ozzies. We'll call her NoPants. Shocking, I know. From this woman I acquired a telephone number, but in spite of this acquisition I was unable to convince her to hang out with me. Shocking, I know. After a few attempts I gave up.

A couple of weeks after giving up, though, she reappeared at Ozzies and I ended up going with NoPants and her friend, The Bronx, back to The Bronx's place with a male friend. We had a nice conversation about politics (and by "nice conversation", I naturally mean I let them bitch about the state of the world while I kept mum and sipped on a drink) and we had met Yuniesky Betancourt (really) when NoPants said we should go to my place to watch a movie.

OK. Cool. Yes. Sure.

A short cab ride later, we were at my place. NoPants was wearing one of those dresses that can double as a top, and at the Bronx's place she had put jeans on underneath.When she got to my place, as I made us some food she went into my bedroom and removed her jeans and shoes.

We ate some food. Watched some TV. There was no funny business. She crashed on the couch, and I had a nice time hanging out with her. Looked forward to seeing her again. Etc.

I woke up a couple of hours later, at about 7:00 or so. I stepped out into the living room to check on her and she was gone. That's fine and all, but she left her shoes and pants crumpled up in my bedroom. I txted her to make sure she was OK, and she replied that she preferred her own bed. I shot her a txt back reminding her she'd left her stuff at my place and that I looked forward to seeing her again.

No response. The next day I called and left a voicemail. No response. A week later I txted her, letting her know that I would be happy to drop the stuff off somewhere--it wasn't that I was holding them ransom so she'd go out with me.

I just wanted her shit out of my apartment.

Eventually, after consultation with friends, I threw her shoes and jeans out.

Naturally, about a week after I did that I saw her again at Ozzies. She was stumbling down the stairs at closing time and I had a chance to talk to her for the first time. It went something like this:

Me: Hey there.
NoPants: [blank drunken stare]
Me: So what have you been up to?
NP: School. Working.
Me: You know that you left stuff at my place that one time?
NP: What stuff?
Me: Shoes. Your jeans.
NP: Oh... they were cheap.
Me: So you never got back to me? I thought we had a good time.
NP: Your apartment smelled like SHIT!
Me: Wha--?
NP: Smelled like cat shit!
Me: Uh... ok. Bye.

Checkmate.

Other than one brief encounter at the bar where she works, I have not seen her since.

I did, though, see The Bronx last night. At closing of Ozzies, I said hello to her by name. She was startled and didn't recognize me. We had something like the following conversation:

The Bronx: Why do you know my name?
Me: Because I hung out with you and NoPants that one time. Tell her hi for me!
TB: Ah... she and I are not talking.
Me: Really?
TB: Yeah. We're having a bit of a tiff.
Me: Well, I haven't talked to her in a while. She never called me back after that.
TB: ...
Me: What?
TB: Why would you admit that a girl didn't call you back right in front of all of these people?

I was sort of taken aback by that. It didn't register to me why The Bronx would be surprised that I would admit it. Would I prefer that she would have called me back? Sure. Am I embarrassed that she did not?

Fuck no.

How does this relate to humility and pride and all of the stuff that the (verbose) preamble of this post discussed? I'm not sure. Am I humble enough to admit my failings? Or am I proud enough to not give a crap if a woman chooses to abandon perfectly good denim rather than having to risk encountering my cats again?