The Hazard of Googling One's Self

In an entirely weak moment on a lazy Sunday, I typed my own name into Google. Big mistake. For days now, I have been hot and bothered about a particularly mean-spirited tirade on my newspaper column. I really should rise above a standard flaming incident. However, it is infinitely more pleasurable on a hot summer night to jump directly into the fray.

I frequently discourage my boyfriend from reading message board tripe out loud to me when I am about two sips into my morning coffee. Why would one spoil one's mood with so much negativism, I say. But hypocrisy is so human, now that I have pulled up the personally offensive post and made him read it once more just to refresh his memory before I point out all the flaws in the writer's logic.

As an op-ed writer, one must roll with the punches. It's the reasonable, mature thing to do. You can't please all of the people all of the time, and columnists are not even aiming for universal appeal. We invite controversy, right? However, in cyberspace, intellectual discourse is rarely the goal; personal attacks are the standard-bearer. Critics are not bound by regular debate procedure, or even decent manners. In this case, the writer describes his dislike of me largely due to nonexistent details about my personal life - i.e. he doesn't even know me, but rails on, unencumbered by reality.

The kicker here? The rant against me was written by a Macon writer who also happens to be a columnist for that edition of our paper. We are unseen co-workers in the virtual office space.

Dear Macon Columnist: For the record, I am rarely one to blather on about jambands. In fact, the major events I have attended in 2008 would include the Lou Reed show in Asheville and Tom Waits at the Fabulous Fox. I would bet good money that either Lou or Tom would curbstomp anyone who linked their names to the term "jam band". I also don't smoke pot, I hate the music of Dave Matthews, am friends with many soldiers, have never aligned myself with the libertarian party, have lived a tattoo-free life, and never stepped inside a yurt. I don't feel as though I am compensating for a lack of some earlier, essential life experience by being a middle-aged person who writes two columns a month. I will eat the occasional veggie burger, but prefer barbecued pork a la Vandy's of Statesboro. I don't speak derisively of the troops, although when a security guard screams that he has been to Iraq before touching breasts in a so-called patdown, I think that I can call a spade a spade without criticism from someone who wasn't even present to witness this.

I do, however, own a pair of Crocs as you surmised. But so do most Americans, so that's only a half credit for a lucky guess.

In other words, it is lazy thinking to attempt to turn anyone, either liberal or conservative, into a cultural stereotype so that the person does not have to be dealt with as a real human being. My life extends far beyond the boundaries of newspaper and web pages, as does yours.

The larger point is not which sort of columnist is more interesting, the one who aspires to be Charles Bukowski or the one who aspires to be Molly Ivins. That’s based entirely on whether one is more concerned with tales of excessive drinking, or tales of political life. I enjoy a stiff drink considerably more than I enjoy the presidential campaign, but there’s only so much I can say about alcohol. I’ve seen its destructive power on close friends, so it would be dishonest of me to recommend it wholesale, particularly to a readership of largely twentysomethings. I might hate politics on some level, but am afraid of what happens to the world when too many good people ignore it. We can’t let the bastards shoot up and poison Planet Earth without a fight. So I write about the things I care about; and those who regale us with drinking stories are also writing about what they care about. Only the late great Hunter S. Thompson and a chosen few get to write about it all.

Write what you know, that’s the first rule of all writing.

It’s a brave thing to put yourself out there, no matter how a person chooses to do it. I commend all those who write with their own faces and names - I avoided it as long as possible myself until served with a photographic ultimatum, and deliberately chose a picture that my daughter took of me from a safe distance. I behold the hundreds of photos that the current generation fearlessly uploads online with a sense of wonder as they smile confidently at the universe. I hope that such self-assurance will follow them all the days of their lives. The lessons here are slight - don’t Google what you don’t want to read, and when it’s too late, try to work through what it is that bugs you. Be honest, and avoid cheap shots - that’s too easy, and ultimately is unsatisfying. Feel free to respond, whether privately or within a suitable public arena. Then get over it, because life is way too short to do anything else.