“Art is when you take pain and stuff like that and make something pretty.”

“Truly I tell you,” Jesus continued, “no prophet is accepted in his hometown.” ~ Luke 4:24

True that, Uncle Jesus…true that.  And you would know.  But so much for all that.

It’s September, which means we survived another summer.  Congratulations.  Some days, a summer goes by, and one’s fingers don’t move fast enough across a keyboard.

After a long day of hammering keys and ruthlessly executing latrodecti, I found myself in liquor-slicked conversation about my contempt for “_____-shaming.”  Fat shaming, slut shaming, body shaming, drunk shaming, weave shaming, ad infinitum, ad absurdum, ad nauseam.

As we sat and sipped our whiskey with elegance and panache, we chatted briefly but dismissively on the topic, and shrugged it off as just another bit of politically correct parlance being flogged into meaninglessness.  But in the sober light of the following mid-morning, I found myself still vaguely pissed off about “shaming.”  Here’s my issue:

Shame is, if not a full-fledged emotion, a feeling, and as such, is not something anyone else can do to you: it is something you feel.  And if I had a nickel for every time some therapist, psychologist, or psychiatrist told me with almost papal ex cathedra that “no one can make you feel one way or another…your are entirely in control of your emotions and feelings, as difficult as that may be to believe in truly difficult times,” I would have at least $3.15.  And ultimately, it is true: your emotions are your reactions and thus your choice, whether conscious or not.  Nobody can shame you.  Only you can choose to feel shame.  Or choose not to.  Even if somebody – even if a lot of somebodies – scream, “shame on you.”  If you know you are right, and that the herd is composed entirely of small-minded morons, you should really have no problem dismissing any of their opinions – but particularly demands for feelings of shame – as just noise to be ignored.  By giving them the ability to “shame” you, or to control any of your other emotions, you are ceding virtually all of your power, your self-worth, even your identity.

People can (and will) mock you, make fun of you, be rude to you, and sometimes insult both you and yo mama.  What you do with that is entirely within your control.

For some reason, this all makes me think of Heidi Fleiss and the “scandal” of her popular escort service back in the mid-90s.  After she was busted and her home raided and records seized, there was a collective pucker felt ’round the world as her long list of clients was about to be made public.  Several high-profile and wealthy politicians and “religious” leaders, people who had championed “morals” and “family values,” collectively shat at the notion of being exposed for their whoremongering ways.  But there were two people who were not only unpuckered, but proud of their rankings on the list: Charlie Sheen and Billy Idol.  They had the same amount of notoriety and wealth as the politicians and others who were in full panic mode.  So why the difference?  Simple: Chuck and Bill gaveth nary a shit.  While the others were afraid of having their hypocrisy exposed and having to then subsequently go on TV with their narcotized wives and tearfully confess their shame and pray for the public’s forgiveness, Big Bill and Chaz’s only hassle was having to find a new escort service.

I dunno…I think most if not virtually all of the world’s problems (including yours and mine) are direct results of the misuse or misunderstanding of language.  By saying somebody shamed you or anyone else, you give that somebody control they do not deserve.  By saying somebody insulted you or made fun of you, you gain an opportunity to bust that somebody’s mouth open with a right cross.  The choice is, as always, yours.

Bosslady:  Have a seat.

Me:  Thanks.  Jesus…you look great.

Bosslady: Thank you.  But that is extremely inappropriate.

Me:  No seriously.  My God: you really are attractive.

Bosslady:  Even more inappropriate, and you are not getting a raise, so you can stop.

Me:  Fair enough.  You’ve got shit in your teeth.

Bosslady:  As you know, we asked you to comment on and annotate a selection of our students’ papers.

Me:  Yes ma’am.

Bosslady:  In last week’s summary you compared our students’ collective writing ability to that of monkeys.

Me:  Well, not exactly.

Bosslady:  And I quote: “Your students’ dearth of writing ability yields worse than results than what would likely happen if you could convince the masturbating simians down at the zoo to let go of their weird little wangs and bang on a keyboard for a few minutes.”

Me: Yes, that sounds like a much more specific summary of what you underpaid me to read last week.

Bosslady: I’ve been reading along as you’ve made your annotations for today.

Me: You can do that?

Bosslady:  Bet your ass.

Me:  Shit.

Bosslady: Indeed.  Again, I quote: “The student has achieved nothing by this writing except the arousal of deep contempt in the heart of any poor soul unfortunate enough to set eyes on this turd of an essay.”

Me:  What remarkable prose.  Damn I’m good.  Too harsh, though, is what you’re saying here?

Bosslady: [flipping pages] As commentary on this paper, you opted out of actual words and simply used the poop emoji.

Me: Well, if the poo fits, which, in this case, if you’re honest, you simply have to admit that it does.  Like a glove.  A big shitty glove.  Made of shit.  Like the essay itself.  My commentary was perfect.

Bosslady: [flipping pages] Ah…here we go: “This student has a very bright and promising future in the composition of ransom notes.”

Me:  Did you see that “essay?”  Absolute pablum.

Bosslady: [flipping pages perniciously] “One gets the impression that this poor student is laboring away under the unfortunate misconception that he or she will be charged allowance money for each punctuation mark used and has thus decided against using any of it.  At all.  Whatsoever.”

Me:  That was my honest opinion.

Bosslady:  These are 7-year-old children, Mr. Gallaway.

Me:  Don’t try to make excuses for them, Bosslady.  I had the 5-paragraph essay dialed by the time I was 6.  But okay…maybe I was a little harsh.  But these were before lunch.  Some pretty ghastly things were going on with my physiology, blood-sugar-wise, so I may have been a tad harsh.

Bosslady:  Here.  “This three-sentence abortion of an essay is a most rancid example of the defects and shortcomings presently plaguing the entire educational system of the United States and its evidently dismally illiterate youth.”

Me:  Again, in fairness, pre-lunch.

Bosslady: [picking up a paper she had evidently already set aside for special attention]  On this paper, which, granted, seems to be just three unpunctuated sentences, you actually wrote, in writing, the following commentary: “Much like the student who wrote it, this essay is completely underdeveloped and has yet to even have its first period.”

Me:  That is absolute genius.  Do you know what you’re paying me?  And I’m giving you that?  My god, woman, you must be out of your tree.

Bosslady: And you, sir, are out of a job.

Me:  You smell like butter.  Like, all the time.  Everybody talks about it.  You smell exactly like stale movie popcorn butter.

Bosslady:  Get out.

Me:  And you still got shit in your teeth.  Looks like spinach.  Probably from that salad you were grazing on at lunch.

Bosslady: Get out.