I triumph over group theory via Halloween costume and rum

I realize I have been slipping into the blogosphere for some time now, but only recently did I achieve acceptance. I don’t think that my past concerns about being labeled as a “blogger” were groundless. While some blogs are wonderful, well-written narratives that range from moving, to funny, to just incredibly interesting, they are few and far between. In fact, you should just exclude this shining minority from everything I say in the rest of this article.

Instead, I ask you to look at the other 98.2% of the blogs that comprise the underbelly of the internet. Overly emotional. Terribly written. Careless, self-indulgent work that you can’t even shudder at and then burn off with a handy cigarette.

Perhaps I’m being uppity, but I feared being lumped in with a crowd that, in large part, sees correct spelling as optional. A crowd that is often willing to list their “mood” above their post. Maybe this is just the wide-eyed optimist in me, but if you’re writing multiple entries about how breakups are hard, the reader can infer things like “feeling frowny.”

Sometimes, I think about all of this… and I think about how alien overlords probably wouldn’t allow things like this to go on. And then, next thing you know, I’m writing in Glaxxor the Wrathful in on my voting slip.

Of course, I did also dress up for Halloween, and in doing so, tacitly joined forces with another questionable group altogether.

My costume was simple: I decided to be the “wrong kind of Indian.” Being of the more Asiatic variety, I procured an absolutely stone-bitchin’ headdress, and just wore that with my normal clothes. I wasn’t the most dressed-up person, but I also didn’t have to worry about people spilling drinks on something I’d spent hours putting together.

More importantly and relevantly, I was part of a group that, very arguably, was made up entirely of idiots. We were all dressed up like lunatics, and, well, it would be charitable to refer to some of the people as just “drunk.” Suffice it to say, none of us would have really excelled on the MENSA exam that night. In fact, more than half of that crowd would have looked at that test, snickered, and then peed on it.

Of course, this was a special and temporary occasion for all. But the fact remains, that while this group was vastly more entertaining and somewhat less scorn-worthy, we did share at least one thing with the blogobots that hang in clusters from the armpits of the internet: we could not possibly be taken seriously.

At the risk of sounding inane, it’s tricky to belong to a group. Groups, by their very nature, embrace some sort of agenda. And, as I’m sure you can imagine, they often have their counterparts.

These détentes can be easily observed, such as in our current bipartisan political system. Or they can be a bit more abstracted, i.e. the ongoing conflict in most high schools of “Is it better to wear a boatload of eyeliner and sneer in the back of lit class, or be constantly pert and sleep with select members of the lacrosse team?”

I think that the tricky part arises from the categorical, lazy thinking that each and every one of us is guilty of when it comes to groups. It’s simpler and quicker to assign the characteristics of the whole to each part, but the truth is that any particular practice doesn’t necessarily mean an individual belongs to any particular collective.

I mean, technically, a happy little kid leaving handprints on his parents’ new wallpaper is a painter. And since I take women to untold heights of ecstasy, you could probably call me an astronaut.

You see what I’m getting at, right? For the most part, group definitions fit individuals about as well as hand-me-down underwear: loosely and very disconcertingly.

Of course, it’s easy enough to say that you don’t care about definitions or whatever. You’re you. But then, if you’re making statements at all, you’re either a human being or a very well-trained gorilla.

I personally believe that all human beings care about what other human beings think of them. At least on a subconscious level, we calculate the perceived social value of every single thing we do.

And so when a person is seen as part of a group that they aren’t exactly comfortable with, it can be distressing. Whether they actually fit in with that group well or not is sort of irrelevant, since this is much more of a matter of personal perception.

So maybe you’re the sort hackie sack player that doesn’t like the assumption that you love the smell of hemp. Or maybe you’re the guy in your frat that wishes you could do something besides grill out and listen to Rush. There’s every last kind of person out there.

In an interesting turn of events, I actually won an honorable mention in the costume contest at the bar we were at this Halloween. I should mention at this point that a) I had no idea a competition was even going on, and b) as you may remember, my costume consisted entirely of a hat.

In winning these drink tickets, I received confirmation that not only was I a costumed reveler, but I was a good one. It was a group I had never meant to join, and probably not something I would list on most job applications. But when I won that prize, I learned something about the quandary of belonging to a group.

Of course, I’m pretty sure that what I learned was fundamentally different from the conclusion I bet I was supposed to come to, but that’s a whole different issue (which I plan to never think about).

The general notion of dealing with group theory implies a sort of universal tolerance towards one and all, as well as a peaceful, confident sense of self. My far-superior notion, on the other hand, allows me to keep making fun of people for enjoying something that I myself enjoy.

I’m lucky, in that I have the sort of rare, planet-consuming narcissism that allows me to think like this.

Here’s how it goes:

* Ideal notion: Don’t worry about whether something is “cool” or not. A group doesn’t define who you are… you do that yourself. So just go with the flow and have fun. We’re all individuals, and we’re all special.

* What I learned: Stupid things can be awesome, but only if I do them.

My epiphany was over, and my heart was at ease. I had given myself permission to do things I previously would have avoided, for the simple and wonderful reason that I’m me. I settled my headdress firmly on my brow, and went off in search of some stupid, some awesome, and about a million rum and cokes.