This is the second part in my Failure Fresno Trilogy. Last time I discussed a bit about why complaining isn’t ipso facto funny. Next time, I get personal.
Arguing about which city is better is like arguing which pizza toppings are better. Are you going to convince your uncle who loves Hawaiian that it’s intrinsically inferior to Meat Lovers because “pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza”? It’s doubtful. Hell, you could make a really good argument about how he likes linguisa way more than Canadian bacon, but guess what? He still wants the Hawaiian. And—if you leave aside the hackneyed snark—we all have to admit, that’s just fine.
Because pizza, like cities, is always—always—a matter of pros, cons, and priorities. In a word: opinion.
Even “objective” measurements like crime rates boil down to personal experience. Go ahead and comfort Jimmy of Blogsville, MI—whose car has been broken into three times in three weeks—with the fact that the rate of car vandalism is four times higher in Tweetsburg, PL—where his friend Johnny has lived for 20 years without once becoming a victim.
Subjective experience plus priorities is what it’s all about. It’s pointless to try to convince people who like their city that they shouldn’t (and that’s what your complaining is; if you’re not trying to improve it and you’re not trying to convince someone, then you’re just whining, which nobody likes).
Just the same, it’s pointless to try to convince people who have decided to not like their city that they should. And I say “decided to not like” because if a person isn’t sure yet if they like their city, you can direct them toward aspects they may enjoy; if you direct them toward things they won’t enjoy, you’re a sociopath.
“Trapped”
Listen. I have a minor in psychology, so let me break it down for you.
If you really hate Fresno, you’ve got some issues. I’m not saying it’s unreasonable to dislike Fresno. After all, it’s just an opinion. But if you find yourself hating a city—so much so that you create an unfunny anonymous Twitter account to call attention to the fact—we need to take a look at what’s going on under the surface. (Same deal if your hatred of BBQ chicken pizza reaches these levels.)
It no longer surprises me that so many of those who hate Fresno respond to the obvious question—”Why not move?”—with a variation on the following.
“I would, but I have to take care of a sick relative here.”
Or, “I would, but my baby’s mama is here.”
Or, “I would, but my boyfriend doesn’t want to quit his job here.”
Or, “I would, but I’m on house arrest for selling drugs to school children.”
What do these things have in common? Hint: nothing to do with a longitude or latitude.
We interrupt this blog post for a TICN exclusive interview. We’re here live with Charlie Grumble, who has been rescued by federal agents after his abduction and twelve days’ captivity at the hands of some bad people. Charlie, tell us about your harrowing experience.
“It sucked, dude. The rope around my wrists and ankles was just really shoddy quality. It was real itchy. Oh, and the lighting conditions in the basement were subpar, at best! I could barely see the notches I marked on the wall to keep track of the days. And the dust down there did a number on my allergies! The entire setup left a lot to be desired, let me tell you.”
Yes, but what about your captors? The ones who locked you up? Those who are actually responsible?
“Oh, them… well, whatever.” [shrugs]
OK, back to our regularly scheduled blog.
You don’t have to have a minor in psychology to recognize the classic displacement defense mechanism. If you’ve ever observed ten or twelve minutes of human interaction, you’ve seen people taking out frustrations on some less threatening scapegoat, rather than the source of the frustration.
It’s cool, I can dig it. When I lived in SF and was hating life, it would’ve been easy to inflate my daily irritations into full-blown animosity. Luckily, I had no problem blaming my job and myself (that stupid asshole!) for my discontent, so I bear no ill will toward the great City by the Bay.
As I said, I’m not going to convince anyone who hates Fresno that they shouldn’t. If anything, I’m just offering myself as another target for their displacement. That’s alright.
My goal is just to point out why I don’t want to engage in any more “Does Fresno suck?” debates. If anyone wants to have some thoughtful conversations about improving the community or discovering the cool things that are already here, I’m all for it. On the other hand, it’s OK with me if you want to leave. Perfection is impossible, but if you find a city you think is perfect for you, by all means move there and enjoy.
Subjective experience.
Priorities.
Opinion.
Pizza.
Hiding behind my own face
One of the oddest aspects of the failfresno situation was the accusation that I was somehow being disingenuous by discussing things on Twitter but “saying nothing in public.” The accusation came at me first via the failfresno account and then via the personal account of one of the guys behind failfresno. I wrote a 2,500 word essay detailing the complete context, but decided it would be counterproductive to post. Still, there are some interesting issues that I wanted to address in this abbreviated post.
It turns out I actually knew the guy. Not the one who doesn’t live here, but the other one. The one who does live here. He’s a friend of friends. We’ve never hung out together or had a conversation, but we’ve been introduced and have shaken each other’s hand, probably. But that’s the extent of our physical interaction. We’ve spent literally less than 5 minutes, total, in the same vicinity. So I was confused when he complained that I was “timid outside of Twitter”—implying some sort of duplicity on my part—because there was simply no way for him to know what I did or didn’t say anywhere elsewhere.
I’ve spent too much time trying to piece together why he would see things this way, what the exact misunderstanding was. In the end, there’s not much use trying to figure out what was going on behind the eyes on this one. What’s more interesting to me is the assumption that there is a dichotomy to be drawn between who I am on Twitter and who I am anywhere else.
His complaint seems to betray a kind of 1998 view of the Internet as an exclusive domain of ubergeeks and MMORPG addicts—people who lose themselves in the web. It shows a fundamental misunderstanding of how most of the world works in this Internet age, and I don’t think he’s the only one who sees things this way.
In the past, there was a stark differentiation between Internet Life and Real Life. The Internet was a hobby, a curiosity. In the early years, “social web” meant meeting and cultivating friendships with cyber pals you’d never seen or met (and probably never would). But now social web is built on friends you already have and staying in contact with them. The web now augments real life, and vice versa. Facebook, et al, is more about communication than it is about exploration. Sure, new friends and colleagues may first encounter one another online, but this isn’t some totally separate world.
The days of hiding behind obtuse screenn4mes and avatars with pictures of Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft Tomb Raider are done (except for some emotionally stunted individuals, like YouTube commenters). It’s just not how things operate anymore. In 2010, the fact that social transactions occur online renders them neither anonymous nor innocuous. It’s a necessity of living and working in the modern age, and it’s only going to become more necessary.
For most young adults, including myself, there is no transition between Internet life and real life. It’s all life. Yes, perhaps I take an extra moment to compose a thought into a 140-character online update rather than stuttering through it in face-to-face conversation. But the thought communicated is the same.
The idea that I’m deceiving anyone though some “online-only” persona is ludicrous. I prominently display my real name. My phone number and email address are readily accessible. For criminy’s sake, my giant ridiculous face is rubber-stamped next to everything I publish online. If I’m somehow hiding behind a detached, unaccountable online persona, I’m not doing a great job.
Whether we like it or not, who we are online is, unavoidably, who we are. If you doubt it, try explaining to your boss why that Facebook picture of you urinating in his coffee cup shouldn’t be a problem because that’s just your online self.