Slings and Arrows, Sticks and Stones
The mizzus came home the other day with some real bad news. It seems she’d been at some soiree or other, schmoozing with the local philanthropists and somehow or other my name was brought up. She loves being guilty by association – or marriage – when the discussion turns literary. “Her husband is Skeeter Daddle,” they say and she knows by now there’s no hole on all of the South End big enough to crawl into. Me, I just tell her she swore For Better or For Worse and she got Door #2. Apologies and half assed jokes aren’t good for much after 32 years, I guess.
Seems there was a gentleman at the soiree who was NOT a fan of the Daddle School of Dark Humor. Hard as it is to believe…. “I won’t read that stuff,” he declared, referring to my contribution to South End Culture with about the same regard as his neighbor’s dog’s leavings on his perfect fescue. Not much room for further conversation after dropping that little buzzkill, but she managed to remain graceful. After all, she’s had practice.
I have never subscribed to the school of thought that art, whether musical or visual or literary is some kind of popularity contest, although, in full disclosure, I understand that on some levels, particularly the fiscal, it most certainly is. Offend enough of your would-be audience and see how much work you find. Explains why the South End String Band doesn’t play politics. Our fan base is small enough without cutting it in half.
The trick, you understand, is not to sell out for the applause. Or the popularity. Or the bucks either. Sometimes you have to offend some sensibilities, not necessarily intentionally — well, okay, intentionally! — if you’re going to make Art. Otherwise you might as well work for a corporation. (Gosh, no offense to those of you who did.) They’ll pay you to say the correct thing. They’ll promote you if you toe the line.
These are polarized times we live in. If you didn’t offend someone most of the time, you weren’t saying anything. To the guy who won’t read this, I guess I’ll just have to live with the weight of your disapproval. Me, I don’t give a rat’s patootie. It’s the mizzus I worry about — and I notice it was her you dropped your criticism on, not me. What do we make of that, Ace?
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