Tuesday, June 25, 2013

CONFESSIONS OF A BADASS, PART 9

The latest in a continuing series of rants

It's easier being a caricature than a real human being — easier for me because being rondavis is fun and effortless, like a Frank Booth huff. People know what they're getting with the cartoon character; it's all vainglorious chatter and sardonic commentary on the stupidity of humankind, with a dollop of debauchery thrown in for That Extra Special Flavor.

Being a real human requires undressing — doffing the monkey suit and standing naked in front of people who'd rather pluck their eyeballs than see a sometimes-scared man, flaws and all. Being real is an effort. It is hard work. It's not a job for boys or playas or poseurs. It requires a badass.

Truth: I'd rather be the boy in the monkey suit. That guy fucking knows how to go apeshit crazy (as opposed to batshit crazy, a rare talent reserved for Some Women I Have Known And Loved, and I don't mean you, muse). The boy in the hairy suit just wants to caper without consequences; he wants everyone to like him for what he is not.

And people do like him. They think he's a funny guy. They also think he's the real badass, the larger-than-life character who struts with no frets and romps with no regrets.

But that guy? Just a 'toon. An entertaining one, sure, but punks like him can be found everywhere.

The real badass is this guy, Ron. No monkey suit. Scars. Willing to show himself, even though it means people I love turn their backs. Because being a caricature is no way to live the rest of my life. I tried it that way and it led to this quiet existence, where I stand on my own, beaten but unbowed and goddamned if I'm going to let anyone make me get back in that costume. I'll do it if I want, when I want. Which is right now, 'cause I've got to entertain.

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