Truesday: Much Ado About Importance

Whenever someone decides to up and draw a line somewhere, I believe it fair to assume what’s involved in that process is a stick, which is being intentionally measured in uneven ends. There’s the long, fat and plentiful end. Then there’s the runty, splintered and frayed end.

Someone gets the short end of said stick, whether they realize it or not. And they usually take it willingly, sometimes thankfully.

Now this empirical pull from experience appears to run fully against all my idealistic beliefs concerning economic systems and the potential for symbiosis or (fuck, this word is shit now), synergy.

You know what, strike that last word usage. Any time anyone uses that word it always turns out that their actual intent is the complete opposite. It should be relegated strictly to high school football coaches and con men from Reno.

The short of it is this: things are rarely what they’re played out to be in our minds, unjustified expectations tend to ruin the actual possibilities of a situation, and even the most awesome-seeming trophy-stroke of good luck can cast a long, nasty-ass shadow that we might step in, getting all tangled up and broken, if we aren’t careful.

I’m serious, that really is the short of it. As short as I’m capable, anyhow.

A couple of weekends back, I had the wonderful opportunity to work the VIP check-in booth at Fun Funffun fFunnf ffuff Fun Fest. I did this for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the opportunity for me to operate on the exact opposite side the fence I always find myself pressed against. I wanted to see what it felt like to have the longer, fatter side of the…

I’d continue with the short/long ‘stick-end’ analogy/metaphor, but it just gets more dickish as I drag (pull? How vulgar!) it out.

I wanted to know whether or not those who actually wield the VIP power could feel it. Could they at least feel as powerful as I always felt powerless on the other side of things? Are they as conscious of their position as the VIP wanters are? Every time I’ve been in one of those snaking velvet-fucking-rope lines, I’ve been frustratingly aware of just how Very UnImportant my Person is.

Is that awareness reflected?

In brief, yes, that power is easily felt. There’s less mystery to it than I thought. Than I initially hoped. Most importantly, there’s less intrigue to the whole thing than I expected. Expectation is key here.

I expected that I would wield supreme authority, and then never use it. You know, like a benevolent dictator or some shit. Like how Santa could totally use his skills to be a mass murderer, but instead he chooses to enslave midgets and deliver toys to ungrateful white children the world over. Or how Jesus could have told his followers to only use broken glass to brush their teeth, but he turned rain run-off into alcohol instead. That's word, right there.

I wanted to see how it felt to be that dickhead with “the list” who vets all the comers. The Gate Keeper. The Nay-Yay Sayer. The Grande Free-Booze Potentate.

The List Whisperer.

But alas, in most ways, it was just like working the register at a shitty retail job. There was always a line of expectant, yet pleasantly patient people who needed something from me. And just like a shitty retail slug, I was pretty putt-putty about executing my job functions and unrepentantly hung over. Most people knew about the hang over because I told them. Repeatedly. Because otherwise I would have needed an eyepatch, elephant trunks for arms, and a handler with leash to legitimize the speed-of-mold I employed to get people set up and into the festival.

It was far from the bang I was expecting, and much closer to the whimper that most things turn out to be. Sure, there were some moments in there where I got to grant VIP credentials to some guy who was obviously bullshitting, but doing so with style (dude, I live in this park, and I left my meds under one of the bridges in the VIP area). Or some girl who was obviously a psych student (or whatever) who insisted she was a writer for Southern Cuisine Weekly and doing a piece on Regional Bouquet Differences Of Texas Festival Beer*.

And the kick-ass capper: come the following Monday, I had me a sweet case of pneumonia, complete with hallucination fevers and debilitating Parkinson's shivers. I can only assume that it was a parting gift from one of the many VIP jockeys who got turned back because their bullshit stories were la-haaaaaame. Good on them though, whoever they were, because they got me GOOD. Pneumonia fucked my shit all kinds of ruinous. Killed my week. My weekend. And my left lung.

Such a cool form of revenge. Much respect.

But all I really learned was that there’s no VIP Illuminati out there. No real velvet rope. And that no one is any more Important than the story they’re able to convince others of. Which kinda sucks, really.

Because when you’re a cynic, and you start getting the notion that things are actually a-lot more equal than you used to believe, then it feels like there are only short ends of the damned stick.

*Never happened, but I totally would have let them through if it had, based on principle alone.