Being aggressive

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Digging through eBay's “category 99” where all the odd stuff, including gay erotica is buried I ran across a paperback entitled Ronnie.

Put me in mind of Ronnie Knowles. Or as he was inevitably called Runny Nose. Ronnie went to Eli Whitney Elementary School with me back in Savannah. Wonder if it still exists? Ronnie was addicted to the Beatles and wanted to have his own band. Pretty exotic in an elementary school back then. Well my late elementary school education consisted of learning to masturbate – though it would be a year or so before it became really entertaining - and learning dirty rhymes and discovering obscenities beyond my parents familiar four letter words.

Ronnie used to kick me on the way home from school. You ask what did I do? Nothing. I was a passive boy. Something I'd said had violently offended Ronnie. Something calmed him and he quit.

Socially I'm often passive. I'm one of those guys who'll wait until you close your mouth so that I can finally make the point I was essaying to address when the conversation began. Since my attention is confined to the movement of your lips, you don't really win this unplanned conversational battle. You get my eye. My inner ear and eye are attending to more enthralling interests. As yours may be when you finally grant me a word.

You may say, Richard, you are just a pussy (what a sexist, tactless thing for you to utter). Maybe.

From my tranquility I watch you dominate the conversation. God may know what you said but he doesn't care either.

As a young man I enjoyed socially aggressive boys. I fear I found their intemperate nattering on about irrelevancies {ouch} cute. It did seem to be coupled with an aggressive hunger to be on their backs. Once their pretty mouths shut or perhaps found something better to do, I was the aggressor.

I get much more aggressive if someone I know is being temporized with. If I go into a shop and am ignored I don't much care. If someone I'm with has been rendered invisible by salesclerks' selective vision I'll raise Hell. Don't be tardy in waiting on one of my friends in a shoe store.

In my twenties I learned that lowering my voice would get me quick, polite service. My discovery was a mix of delighted surprise with a surprise that people could be so easily manipulated. But if dropping to a bass note gets you “Yes sir, what can I do for you?” instead of toe tapping boredom who was I to complain.

I came to appreciate the power of quiet aggressive. The civilly curt sentence, disinterested stare or distance glance. All I want of many people is to shut up and go away.

Living in the inner city I learned the utility of swinging my shoulders: the manly swagger. Putting a grimace on my face as if I were off to some sober, probably somber purpose like kicking someone's ass. How wonderful is the force field that makes people veer away. Not that anything will block the truly importunate. But surrendering a quarter or cigarette never bothers me. Ask me for a dollar and you won't get the time of day.

In aging I've come to cultivate my apparent aggression. The years left to me are diminishing. I need to husband my remaining time, not squander it on fools. That is always true but when we are young we are spendthrifts with our time. Not that I'd say it should be otherwise. The genuinely gifted are normally driven by their muse. For us ordinary folk adhering to some master plan might or might not give us better later years.

Surely it would if your life's great goal is real estate development. But why are you reading me? If you want your days to be spent agreeably, see lovely objects, kiss charming boys, well, there is no formula. There's luck. By definition, as it were, you can't plot your fortune. Heartlessly it lays it wait for you.

Wonder whatever happened to Ronnie Knowles. Perhaps he manages a Kroger's somewhere. Ponders his irritated bladder and his misshapen wife. Or changed his name and is one of the most successful record producers of all time and married a supermodel.

To Hell with Ronnie, what about Richard?


Ronnie and Minnie Knowles, Willacoochee, GA???

One RK in Dubai, too.

Who knows, who cares! Actually, I’m sitting on some swampland I’d like to sell to the Nature Conservancy. Who else would want it! Yeah…. what about Richard?

Whoops… that was me, it didn’t remember my info from before!

I read you because it’s a way to keep an eye on you and kinda make sure everything’s okay. It’s not as if I can do anything about it. But all the same.

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My Life is an Open Blog
Being aggressive
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