Walk On The Wilde Side

Self analysis and the ensuing self loathing are to me like gardening is to others. Each new round of self analysis yields its seasonal blossoms of deficiencies of character, behavior and appearance. Quite simply, the more I find out about myself, the more I find to loathe. It makes this grumpy man happy.

And now, like manna from heaven, comes the FaceBook Quiz. The types of questions heretofore reserved for beauty pageant contestants are now offered up many times daily to us FaceBook devotees. And not just stuff like, “If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?” No, good gnarly stuff like “Which Old School WWF wrestler are you?” (In TCG’s case, Ted DiBiase—The Million Dollar Man, but you probably already figured that out.) “Which glam rock star are you?” “If you were a car, what part of the drive train would you be?” I made that last one up.

And the great thing is……you don’t have to answer the question. You take the quiz and it provides the thoughtful analysis that generates an answer and its reasoning. Many times, I don’t bother to publish the results because either a) I have satisfied my daily need for self loathing, or b) The answer and its explanation are just too damn embarrassing, even for me.

This brings us to the crux of the biscuit. Yesterday, TCG took the “Which Crazy Author Are You?” Possible answers included, inter alia, Hunter S. Thompson, Oscar Wilde, Edgar Allan Poe, Thomas Pynchon, blah blah, Crazy Author, blah blah. TCG’s answer: Oscar Wilde. OK, that’s possible. Very cool, sophisticated, witty cat based upon what I know of the gentleman.

Here’s what the Man Behind the Curtain had to say about this selection: You are funny, witty, charming... and have, um, "unique" personal tastes. You like to have fun, you don't hide who you are, and you don't particularly give a damn what people think about you. (TCG: So far, so good, pretty on target) You're just as likely to be seen in an all-male Amsterdam brothel (Wait, WTF?!?! Emphasis added.) as a London literary society dinner. You see beauty in life, and humor in tragedy. If it weren't for the hosts' fears of you saying or doing something indecent, you might very well be the perfect dinner companion.

Oh My God. I’ve struck the mother lode, the Bakken Formation, of self loathing. So, I’m either having dinner and the hosts' are terrified I’m about to pull or drop something out of my pants or I’m whoring around with Hans Brinker and Bruno? Homosexual (their implication) or homophobic (my reaction)? Not that there’s anything wrong with the former. And now I can loathe my reaction to the latter. My life is an embarrassment of riches.

BTW, I did not publish the results of that one. Someone else tell my why.