I DISAGREE TO DISAGREE
In which my mind presides over what matters

I have good friends -- some of whom actually sit on the editorial board of this very publication -- who think that footballers who down the ball to run out the clock or hoopsters who foul intentionally to stop the clock are actually engaging in sport. Clearly, this behavior has no place in organized athletics, though perhaps it would be acceptable in some Austrian prison yard. No, Gentle Reader, I am not kidding. They actually find this conduct to be acceptably strategic, despite hours of my beneficent arguing to the contrary. I wonder if fear holds them back, as it tends to hold back the French.

After becoming friends with my co-workers, I was recently chagrined to find that "Cecilia," by Simon and Garfunkel, would be the root of a completely unnecessary discussion that has resulted in my harboring thoughts of "physical re-education" of my office mates. By all accounts, "Cecilia" is a terrific song, even as repetitive hold music. I nearly swallowed my tongue when a worker remarked "Ugh. Cecelia is the poor man's 'Second Hand Muse,' by Fleetwood Mac." What? First, the song may be "Second Hand News," but I really don't know (Muse is a better title). Second, how could anything by S&G be considered poor man to Fleetwood Mac? Besides predating them, S&G made great music. Fleetwood Mac is the kind of perennial rock that blends together over the years in a useless haze of semi-catchy, forgettable music. The only lines I know from "Second Hand Muse [News][Noose?]" are "I'm your second hand muse, I'm your second hand muuuuuuse." Not only are these lines self-serving and presumptuous, they may be entirely incorrect. And this song blends with the one that goes on soullessly, "Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, bam…." What is this crap? My co-worker would have been much better advised to stick to the incontrovertible, "Gary Busey is the poor man's Nick Nolte," or to the indistinguishable, "Foreigner is the poor man's Kansas." It should be noted that this same co-worker finds Chris Katan funny, which causes me no end of retching.

There are people out there, who, even after several hours and drinks in my pleasurable company, leave the table still thinking that Amistad was a good movie. I have people I call friends who do not enjoy eating any kind of cheese, despite my evidence that cheese is delicious. There are women who have decided against dating me, or continuing to date me, heedless to the hours I spend telling them about my fine and finer points. There are those that unblinkingly pay cover to get into a bar. Clearly, this is madness.

For a time, I was forced to contemplate the validity of my own ideas and ideals. I put myself through the white-hot fires of self-reflection, hoping to emerge tempered, leaner, stronger, sharper. Long did I commit myself to this journey, wandering through strange lands with nothing but my wits and powers of observation. I learned much about myself, about others, and about the history and future of mankind itself. Hours later, I awoke, successful, as I became both more temperamental and convinced that there was nothing wrong with my own brain. In fact, I had a whole new respect for it. The part about the dragon battle under the sea was particularly convincing. Therefore, the fault of the discrepancies between my beliefs and those of others must lie in their brains. Perhaps there is some synaptic malfunction. Maybe none of them ate enough green beans as a child. What does it all mean?

Well, it seems to me that I must be destined -- pre-ordained, if you will -- to be a pillar upon which the rest of the weary world leans for strength. A light, shining its guidance, through the grimmest, grimiest tunnels of man's meager mind. Why else would I be the one of the very, very few of my generation who knows in his heart of hearts that Rod Stewart has some very worthwhile music? That people should stay to the right side of the sidewalk? That you don't need a bag every time you buy something? That car racing is a ridiculous waste of time? That life is too short for hair gel?

What do I do with this knowledge? I do not know. It might involve running for office, but I doubt it. I feel that my natural leadership involves less artifice and fewer handlers than politics. I have not asked for this role; it is rather as though I have come into great responsibility I have no right to disdain. I am Daedalus to the Icarus that is humanity. I must try to show the way to the sightless, witless public the way of Truth. Whether they follow is up to them. After all, I am only one man. One brilliant, visionary man. Do you disagree, you feeble-minded, feckless poltroons? I know my fortune is true; I was told as much by the turbaned woman who foretold my future after palpating my skull and cutting my hair for the low, low price of $12.50. Don't tell me that just anyone could sniff out that kind of a deal.