Donnie Darko & Sweater Vests

I love judging other people. Do you?

I know it probably sounds a bit shallow, but we all do it. Even as I sit here writing, sipping over-priced free trade coffee at a tragically eclectic hipster hangout, I am evaluating all my fellow patrons in my head. He’s trying too hard; they’re ugly; he hasn’t had sex in three years; she needs to realize she’s 35 and that skirt is 22.

If you have never done this you really should try. It’s quite fun! Whenever I feel self-conscious or existentially unsatisfied, I just go into public and put down other people. It almost always makes me feel better, even if the sensation of superiority is only ephemeral.

I would like to believe I love this hobby so much because I am just a bad person, but unfortunately, that’s not true. Contrastingly, I am afraid I’m just horribly self-conscious and feel compelled to mentally assault other people to make up for that fact that they would never have sex with me or because I am so jealous of their obvious contentment.

Screw happy, balanced people! Why can’t they be more like me?

Crippled by a sense of inferiority, I find myself constantly going out of my way to seem intellectually chic, purposely pretentious. This need manifests itself in all areas of my life, from my carefully orchestrated wardrobe to my special request at Chili’s to add water chestnuts to my side salad.

A great example is my recent subscription to the New York Times. On weekend mornings there is nothing I love more than pouring a roasting hot cup of coffee, slipping on my leather-soled slippers, and nonchalantly strutting down my drive way to pick-up the paper. (I have learned that if you really want to sell this image you have to refer to it as just “the paper”; a newspaper is for whores and gypsies.) Stretching before I reach down, I take a moment to appreciate the contrast between my blue bag and my neighbor’s orange ones; they only read the local paper, plebeians.

Slipping the Sunday edition out of its case, I flip open the front page as I was wander back to the door, hoeing and humming over the news from the world of the liberal, rich, and mostly Jewish. Don’t let the fact that its 1:30 in the afternoon and my hung over ass just now crawled out of bed smelling of urine and tasting like a Denny’s ashtray fool you. I have a blue bag; I am a somebody.
This need for self-importance has also led to a number of interesting purchases on my part. For instance, I own a $100 pair of hiking sandals known as Chaco’s. Do I hike? No. Do I enjoy the outdoors? Not really. Does it bother me that when I wear them my feet get dirty and the strap cuts off circulation to my big toe? A little. But all the indulgence and discomfort is worth it when I wear them to my favorite coffee house and fantasize about what other people must be thinking. “Hey, look at that guy. He is wearing those expensive trendy sandals; I bet he shops at Whole Foods.”

You see, I really can’t help myself. Just the other night, for instance, I found myself accompanying my fiancé to a cocktail party populated by her “old friends.” Intimidated by the inside jokes and story punch lines recited in unison, I knew I needed to bring my “A” game. Walking around sipping the ostentatious Eastern European beer I had brought, I floated from group to group commenting on everything from Barack Obama’s “Neo-Liberal Politics” – I find that if you insert “neo” in front of any subject you seem much more versed in the topic – to the best golf courses in Memphis. My old standby, however, has always been the film Donnie Darko.

If you have never seen the movie, I could not even begin to tell you what it’s about, despite having watched it many times. My own confusion is a mute point, however. I don’t know why, but this film is a rallying cry for 20-something, liberal, white, want-to-be intellectuals. If you are ever searching for your own kind, just bring up “Granny Death” or “the film’s portrayal of the complexity of time” and watch the pale, skinny, sexually frustrated come bulldozing over to you. I have spent countless nights explicating the film’s subtle suggestions with strangers as we sip micro-brewery beer and puff on our clove cigarettes.

Shit, I don’t even know what the damn move is about! I don’t think anyone actually does, but its New Wave soundtrack, explicit dialogue, and Gram Greene references make it the perfect cloak for us, the pseudo cool.

My obsession with social over-compensation dates back to as long as I can remember. I still clearly recall that very special day in the 2nd grade, as I sat uprightly in my navy blue plastic chair, scoffing at the poor posture of my counterparts, when Mrs. Perkins announced the destination of our holiday field trip: the Nutcracker Ballet. Well, as the miscreants surrounding me groaned and moaned about tights and tutus, I saw opportunity. Now was my chance to make up for that glue eating incident back in October; I was going to be a theatre patron.

Leaping off the school bus at the end of the day, I burst through the kitchen doors, insisting my mother immediately drop whatever she is doing and take me to JC Penny’s, the mall anchor store of the sophisticate. If I was going to appreciate the dance and impress the knuckle draggers who made up my class, I had to do it with style.

After many weeks of whining, begging, and negotiating, my mother finally caved and took me along on her annual shopping spree for panty hose and shoulder pads. The torture of the ladies intimate apparel department was worth it once I saw my prize. A black cable-knit sweater vest, complete with over-sized buttons and fashion pockets. This was the statement I had been waiting to make.

Apparently, my idea of unexpected cool, of casual elegance, was just seen as “faggy” to everyone else. My emblem of distinction was shoved far up my ass long before the show ever started, and I realized my plan to impress was ruined when my shiny black loafers were ripped from my feet and used to pummel my head as soon as the house lights went down.

Bleeding but not broken, I knew my day would come. Somehow, someway I would be appreciated and understood for the person I was not but wanted people to think I was.