Reflections on Assholery

So, my bff/roomie and I decided to throw a big party in which we all pretend to be much more culturally adept than we are. We wore black, we only listened to vinyl, we had a haiku-writing contest. I made portonics (port + tonic = potently potable portmanteau) and basil chocolate cupcakes (because basil and chocolate is the dessert flavor combo amongst the gourmands these days). People brought a ton of wine and cheese and pastries. They dressed up. They mingled and drank too much. The best haiku writers were awarded "Understand Modern Art Instantly" breath spray and fake tattoos. People had fun.

The was only one fly in the ointment--let's call him "Bobert." Bobert showed up wearing shorts with his tie. He talked endlessly and inflatedly about his being a writer. He argued that "portonic" was not a portmanteau, but a neologism. (He was not conciliated when I pointed out that portmanteaus are a subset of neologisms, so we were both right.) He argued that Foucault was neither a philosopher nor a historian, but a trope. He offered readings of my bff/roomie's paintings--to my bff/roomie. Just about every conversation I had that evening included the question "Who is that guy?"

I didn't have anything to tell them. I didn't know.

But then I remembered.

Almost exactly a year ago, I was at a party. I came early because I was responsible for the cake and needed to frost and decorate it. Bobert was there. I offered up, "My, it's hot today," since no one was really making any conversation. He then attempted to prove I did not in fact feel hot, because the ambient temperature was the same as body temperature. I said a lot of other polite banalities hoping to land on a uncontroversial topic. There were none. Everything I said was completely mistaken and stupid, according to Bobert. I was getting red in the face. So, I tinkered around on the piano hoping to avoid having to speak until my friends showed up. And then he said that my piano teacher must be rolling over in her grave because my tempo was all wrong.

I think my response was something like, "First of all, my piano teacher is alive and well, and second, YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE!"

"No, I'm not."

"YES--YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE!!!"

And I grabbed my shit and left in a big prissy huff, called the dude whose offer of a date I dutifully turned down for my friend's party, and managed to eventually simmer down. (Things went well on that date--I ought to be grateful to Bobert.)

But, meanwhile, the party heated up. From the reports I heard, every single guest at the party managed to call Bobert an asshole to his face. I know many of these people--they are the considerate, peacable type, most of them. Some of them unflappable, I thought. But they got flapped.

After my own party wound down (one of my friends had to offer Bobert a ride to get him to leave--every other guest had gone or was heading out the door, and he was intent on carrying on), my bff and I reflected on Bobert's unfailing talent for making himself unwelcome. The bff much more admirably than I scrounged up some pity--he seemed to be trying to be awesome and likable, but just had no idea how to do it. It really is tragic--to want it so bad and fail utterly. I recognize all this. And yet I am unmoved. Can't help but wonder if that makes me an asshole, too....