“Too much agreement spoils a chat.”
Eldridge Cleaver
Forgive an old man an occasional, and likely potentially regular, dimness of bulb.
(Not to mention a bit—no to be honest, a lot—of reiteration and restatement in the following. This is to aid and comfort the skim readers and cherry pickers among you. And no, I don’t know who you are, but I do know all too well you’re out there.)
In that same moment, and with that same charity, please forgive that same old man for a number of moments of self-congratulation, to accompany what might very well be only a brief flickering of recognition before I slip into a state of all too likely intermittent befuddlement, to the delight, I suspect, of more than a few of you.
All this is to say that it never crossed my mind, until I arose from my midday daily meditation yesterday, that there was connecting tissue running from my recent Substack post of a few day’s back, and a post remarking on a Facebook memory, from a few years back, a week or so ago.
The Substack post was a queasily discomfited rumination on a convention’s uninviting of a major comic book talent at the behest of what I gather was a number of other guests. These other guests, newcomers apparently well regarded for good work in service to literacy via comics, had been justifiably offended by work done by this longtime and venerated comic book veteran more than a decade ago. I also have heard he has disavowed this work, but clearly not to the satisfaction of the offended.
In the name of full disclosure, it’s worth noting that this veteran was someone I regarded as a friend forty years back. That friendship melted ages ago for a number of reasons, none of which come immediately to mind, really, and we haven’t spoken in well over a quarter century. Not out of anger, certainly on my part—I can’t speak for him, of course—but, I suspect, out of mutual indifference to each other’s personal lives, personal beliefs, and professional careers.
None of that had any impact on my disturbed reaction to what was a cancellation. I call it this, because, despite claims to the contrary by many of the more vocally confident representatives of the progressive side of the trench, that “…cancellation culture doesn’t really exist,” well, you know, really, it does.
And yes, yes, I know, I know, I can already hear it. “It’s all about consequences.” This, as if there were a universal system of Solomonic judgment making clear, morally pure and decisive decisions for us. Like Santa Claus. Or the Electoral College. Or drunk dialing.
Really now. In this case, the consequence for making what sounds from all reports like a shameless piece of raging, terrified anger driven dreck, id-based material that hurt the feelings of other guests, was being cancelled.
Call it what you will, or don’t, but own it—and that ownership includes the promoters who folded under what can only be called well-intentioned bullying by well-meaning people for the passive aggressive to enjoy, too.
As noted, my motivation for making public my thoughts in regard to the dismissive treatment of this industry veteran had nothing to do with any love for this person. The post was about the pall that such treatment casts on our commercially fragile and apparently emotionally fragile little business, and, to be honest, how that chill effect might have a negative impact on me, personally—not to mention any one of you who might someday purposefully or inadvertently cross a line you might have had no idea was there to be crossed in the first place.
Bear this in mind next time you feel the call to grab your digital pitchfork and join a mob hungry for digital blood. The bell tolls, and it swings, too, potentially for thee, despite what might be a well-tempered and utterly unjustified sense of entitlement, granting you the right to adjudicate how others live their lives, express themselves and censor in self-righteous joy and gleeful glory.
To their credit, as far as I know, at least those assuredly well-meaning newcomers, who demanded to have this veteran removed, didn’t do it anonymously. Credit where credit is due. I also have heard they’ve withdrawn from the convention as well. Apparently, like all those superheroes who fly off, capes flapping in the wind, their work was done.
Or something.
Now, anyone with a half-ounce of awareness knows, even those of you who, like most normal people, don’t give a fuck about comic books nor its internecine wars waged between what all too frequently are no more than the world’s tallest midgets, this colleague of mine doesn’t need my help.
He’s got a massive public, professional, and commercial footprint, as well as what seems to be a swarm of enablers, sycophants and parasites protecting him from life’s rude shocks, to make the inevitable musical theater reference I would hope some of you have been waiting if not hoping for.
But I have learned a valuable lesson from the morally performative and willfully fragile ninnies with their evangelical commitment to doing their best to make my life and the lives of those who hold me in any public esteem occasionally miserable. I finally do understand that minding one’s own business has now become as passe in the modern good old USA as is the comical thought of still regarding ourselves as members of a plural society.
So here I am, doing my version of their busybody thing. With one more stroke of that self-congratulation running through this screed, I’m proud to say I’m never too old to learn. Old dogs, new tricks. Plenty old, certainly, but to be honest, not so new.
That baying pack of pearl clutchers is convinced, in almost evangelical terms, that they’re right and, to be sure, despite their secularity, divinely justified in their righteousness. Me, I’m hardly righteous, filled with doubt as I always am. But despite that constant doubt which shadows my every moment, I believe wholeheartedly that taking a position in a situation such as this is the honorable choice.
For me. Not necessarily for you. I flatter myself for my choice, yes, but not for whatever phantom of influence I may have on you or anyone. You’re welcome to do what you like.
And take, as noted above, the consequences.
Making a public statement in this regard seemed like the standup thing in a culture of blaming, of shaming, of denunciation, of outrage identified as a right to be addressed and acted upon with punishment for the offender, as opposed to what taking offense really is and no more…A feeling, ranging from discomfort to inchoate rage, to be acknowledged, certainly, but without any responsibility on anyone else’s part of address, action or response.
I offend as easily as anyone. My feelings are easily hurt. That said, I am all too aware that being offended or outraged has granted me no rights whatsoever to control anything other than my own feelings, my own reaction to that offense, that outrage.
I have opinions. I express those opinions, as I have here. It would never occur to me to consider those opinions, my feelings, as weapons with which to shove others around. Conclusions can be drawn, and acted on.
Or not. We have choices.
It seems, however, that a creep culture, a pervasive enterprise that is as much a part of the right as it is of the left, willfully and selectively mistakes feelings for facts, granting those feelings far more intrinsic social and moral value than they actually merit—as long, of course, as those feelings are sympathetic to a belief system that either echoes your own or, even better, also looks good on your social media resume.
Entre nous, this is only one of the many examples of latter day nonsensical post-thinking horseshit that offend the fuck out of me. And rest assured, your completely justified utter lack of concern for my outraged feelings in this regard is precisely what they merit.
Which is to say, of course, bupkis.
If we’re going to have to take seriously being offended as a tool of power, then, as an example, that means all those right-wing worshipers of toxic radio whose feelings were hurt when those on the left made mock of Rush Limbaugh’s (let’s face it, admittedly long overdue; the man was, after all, piss poor protoplasm) death are entitled to their day in consequence court, too.
Or does it only count when it’s your feelings—or the feelings of real or perceived members of victim culture you seek to impress with your unending capacity for publicly performative empathy—that are hurt?
Asked and answered. Of course, it does.
Be honest, at last, and at least with yourself. When the offended are on the other side of the trough, like all those who comically insisted that their late beloved Limbaugh was actually a hilariously Swiftian social satirist, they can go fuck themselves, right?
Well, yes. But so, I might add, can you. And just in case you think this is relativism, what the delightedly sub-literate mob gleefully reduces to “whataboutism,” be disabused of that.
The “fuck your feelings” crowd, in all their own deep sensitivities, can, as indicated above, go fuck themselves. But we do ourselves no favors by allowing personal sensitivity to make us into easily dismantled vessels of fragility.
That kind of thing is a guarantee of being eaten alive by an all too ravenous horde who are on record, as noted, for not giving a fuck about you or your feelings. That crowd is united enough to not eat its own, which remains an unfortunately favored pastime of too many on my side of the trench.
In sum, it is in our best interest to demonstrate fortitude, not victimhood, despite how delicious playing the victim card can be.
As noted, I am unfamiliar with the book this colleague of mine produced that generated this tempest of mischegas. As further noted, I gather from reports of those who’ve actually read it that it is utterly appalling, socially reprehensible and genuinely offensive. In which case, don’t buy it. Avoid the book like the plague. Or read it, so you can criticize it vocally, publicly, vociferously, and wisely. Object to its horribleness to as profound an extent as you like, once you know exactly how horrible it is.
Engage with your offender. Express your feelings to his or her, or their faces. Make clear your dismay at the awfulness of the work. Having and publicly maintaining the courage of one’s convictions is as satisfying a gift as society has to offer, too often squandered by whatever venal pleasure might be derived from the cowardice of digital anonymity. Find out, in a real-life way, whether anybody really gives a fuck what you think.
Or, of course, don’t.
You can also bow out, with some grace, and inchoate anger if you’d like, should you choose not to be in such company, from an event that hosts whomever offends you. You have every right to not want to be present at such an event. I’ve done this very thing myself. Not out of offense, mind you, but out of mutual loathing which were shared with other invited guests.
Life is too short to spend time in the company of assholes. And the same goes for creeps. I have no doubt those who loathe me, if they consider it at all, are just delighted to not see me, too, so everybody’s happy.
But give up, please excise from yourself, the entitled expectations that your feelings, your tastes, your beliefs, your sensibilities are so universally just, so worthy of acknowledgment, of so profound and deep-seated moral value, just so fucking right, that those feelings support you in shoving those tastes, those beliefs, those sensibilities down anyone’s throat to get your fragilely entitled way.
(It’s possible that your parents might have misled you to believe this nonsense. This might be one more reason to resent and reject them. Just a thought.)
You strongly and rightfully object to this bullshit when right wing assholes pull this bullshit. Doing it to them, or even to one of your own doesn’t make it right—rather it justifies the continuation of this nonsense, and ups the ante, too.
And, to be frank, and to hammer this home for those not paying attention, this thin-skinned display of fragility over what really is little more than hurt feelings gives succor to their far more in sync army of Foxically masculine butch assholes of any and all sexes on the fascist right. They will use this behavior against our side of the trench. This I do affirm.
None of which is to say that I don’t empathize, or even to an extent sympathize, with the offended parties, who had every right to be offended. Hurt feelings can be horrid. But the demand to run this guy out of town, whether you like it or not, implicitly equates such hurt feelings with the sort of trauma that would be identified as PTSD. This is insulting to actual victims of actual violence, and the life changing trauma associated with this sort of experience.
The endgame of this outraged mindset, of presuming your feelings have value that grant you the right to act on them politically, was perfectly realized at the Charlie Hebdo offices in Paris a few years back. And the mass shooting at Pulse in Orlando. And the murders at the Chabad in Poway. To mention barely a few.
Accuse me of hyperbole at your own peril. Me, I’ve been fearing such a mass murder event at a comic book convention for years. Think about that for a moment, if you will.
But then again, maybe some of you thought some of those murdered by those whose feelings had been hurt had it coming. You know who you are, so identify yourself so I can avoid contact with the likes of you on a permanent basis.
The comments I made on that Facebook memory were in regard to those colleagues of mine who I once considered friends, who knew me well, who stood silent a few years back when I was pilloried by enthusiasts and other colleagues for work I’d done, and frankly continue to do.
Silence was kept as charges were made against me that were blatantly false, and perfectly refutable, by men and women who had the ear of those making the charges, and could have thus put an end to a profoundly disturbing aspect of my life which, along with their silence, continues to this day.
Mouths remained shut, defenses weren’t mounted, because, I would assume, such an interjection might have had an impact on the fragile feelings of their easily flattered, fatuous and facilely manipulated base, a swarm of developmentally arrested post adolescents who find it impossible to admit they might be wrong for fear of losing coup. Fear of too much to lose clearly put a chill into the hearts of these onetime friends.
And now here’s where the self-flattering part of this screed once again comes to the surface.
It never crossed my mind at any time for any reason to avoid comment on this issue, despite my uninterest in any aspect of that jettisoned colleague. Having witnessed the performative morality of the Posse Comitatus of outraged offense and their tactics as applied to me, it seems only fair to return the favor and point out just how shitty this sort of behavior is, not to mention the danger it poses for us all. The line in the sand, the bar…we live in so rapidly shifting a culture that we often don’t know from one day to the next who’s going to piss who off.
Voltaire was a serious Jew baiter, which naturally offends my Semitic sensibilities, to say the least. And he didn’t actually say “I don’t agree with what you say but I will defend to the death your right to say it.” Rather, it’s a quotation from Evelyn Beatrice Hall, an early twentieth century biographer of Voltaire, working under a pseudonym to conceal her womanhood from her readers, who felt it effectively summed up her subject’s belief system.
So not actually Voltaire, but an amazing simulation. And yes, and yet, the quotation has resonance.
That said, I’m not an all or nothing guy. There’s certainly some shit I’m not going to defend, and that’s my choice. I despise quite a bit of what passes for culture, modern and otherwise. And don’t get me started on the American fascist right and their faux innocent fellow travelers, greasing our national slide into the New Barbarism.
I will do everything in my power to disassociate myself from these clowns, despite their comic assumptions over the past few years that my feelings are so hurt by the assault from the left side of the trench that I’ve been driven up the ladder of their He-Man Woman Haters Clubhouse.
No. Never. They’re as ignorant of who I really am as those who dislike me on my own side. I am a breed apart from that all too frequently opportunistic and hypocritical bunch, too.
But we live in a society, a culture in which the identitarian American right has become the voice of “free speech…” which it defines within the narrow parameters of its own self-serving bullshit.
In that same culture, the identitarian American left has become the champion of “diversity…” which it defines all too selectively, choosing what is worthy of inclusion and what is not. Also, bullshit.
All this behooves me, admittedly out of enlightened self-interest, sure enough, to open my big fat mouth, digitally speaking, and defend, certainly not to the death—I mean, really—to protect, the right of any and all to offend any and all.
This book of his may have deserved condemnation. His chastened disavowal of it would indicate that this is likely true. However, on the basis alone of his near half century of service to this small-time, all too often chickenshit enterprise in which we all work, he didn’t deserve to be shunted off to the side and shown the door because he outraged and offended anyone.
Understand, I expect nothing of anyone but myself, and that would include my absolute assurance that if the situation were reversed, I wouldn’t be defended by this veteran, I am certain he couldn’t be bothered to do so.
No matter. Not everything in life is a quid pro quo.
And in that same regard, I never expected those former friends of mine to behave in any way other than the performances they delivered.
Consider how lovely it would have been had they surprised me, as I might surprise this summarily dismissed colleague of mine, by their demonstration of a touch of courage to go with all their vocal presumptions of moral clarity and the moral high ground from which they shout their highhanded self-mythologies to an easily flattered horde…or perhaps more specifically, their herd.
That said, I am rarely surprised nowadays.
As ever, I remain,
Howard Victor Chaykin—a Prince.