Show me the way to a square hole. No, seriously man, I got this square peg and no matter how many times I try, I can never get it to fit in that round hole. My sanity has been questioned so many times now that I’ve learned to take it as a compliment. What do the common folk know anyway? They’re all just living their boring lives, while I get to collect frog eggs and create new worlds with a stick of charcoal and a sheet of paper. I get their point, though. I will never fit in with normality, sanity, society, or the general population of a summer camp for kids. I’ve been called an unrealistic dreamer, a space-shot, a loser, a loner, a misfit, a crazy artist, and a hopeless optimist. During my teens, I had more than just a couple of guys (needing to prove their manhood), who were determined to have a fist fight with me because I smiled too much for their liking. They wanted to – “Wipe that smile off your [my] face!” They told me that nice guys finish last. It’s dog eat dog! (well, at least that’s what Ted Nugent sang). I’ve heard them demand that I, grow up, beam them up, come down to earth, and get my head out of the clouds. So, of course, I just wanted to fit in somewhere while I was learning to fly. Where did I find my flock? In the counter culture parking lots among the post-Woodstock hippy children. And still I felt utterly alone. Apparently, they couldn’t lead me to a square hole either. They were too busy “Fixing a hole where the rain gets in.” Yes, that’s a Beatles reference, straight to you from “Scott – The Loner” (Neil Young reference). As you’ve probably figured out by now, I’ve always looked to rock and roll music for messages of acceptance, validation, revolution and good ole fashioned anarchism. Driving to Groton, I was definitely on the highway to hell, and when I was flying high, I was always asking Alice something, although as far as I can remember she was never ten feet tall, and none of her answers made any sense. So, what’s the big deal, says you? It’s likely that 80% of the population feels like a misfit at some point in their lives. Some people never fit in throughout their entire lives and they live happy lives, as hermits, in caves, eating fish carcasses they stole off of Aqualung. Well, the problem with me is – I’ve always had a deep longing just to fit in somewhere, anywhere. And I always came back to the same road block, no one can understand you Scotty, because you’re weird. By the way, I have a problem when other men call me Scotty, partly because I am sick and tired of hearing lame William Shatner impressions, but mostly because I am convinced that it’s a way that certain men are attempting to establish dominance over me. The pecking order at its finest. I am not a little boy anymore, nor am I your subordinate on a spaceship, so unless you’re okay with me calling you Baby Huey, please refrain from adding a “y” to the end of my decidedly manly name. Yes, I am staying on point here, and there is a moral to this whole misfit rant. The point to the story? When I was young, in fact through most of my life, I’ve been looking for acceptance and not finding any, because I couldn’t even accept myself. I was flawed. Imperfect. Not worthy. Most of my friends and family had no idea how unhappy and lonely I was. I would always wear the finest masks I could conjure, to keep the inquiring minds out of my head, and out of my business.
Stay with me now. This free wheeling ride through my head will have its twists and turns, but I promise to bring you back home in one piece. Almost always!