As an unapologetic sandwich devotee, I have no right to ever discuss wraps or salads. I lack the tools and wisdom to know what the absence of bread does to a person. Croutons, however crunchy, do not count as a viable alternative to a radiant loaf of marble rye.
As a city driver, it’s simply not my place to bring up bicycles or scooters into casual conversation. To rail against the idiocy of reducing car lanes and threatening the sovereignty of pedestrians. I don’t pedal much these days, nor do I don a goofy looking helmet for safety’s sake. I hit the gas and go.
As a resident of Queens County, far be it from me to discuss the many problems endemic to Nassau County, to the east in Long Island. It’s not for me to say how a place that’s caught between the Hamptons and the City has a perpetual identity crisis. How it’s a region still living off a reputation built by Jay Gatsby and honed by Billy Joel. A cultural and intellectual vacuum, whose finest export is the cookie cutter community and strip mall.
As a passionate defender of all things Paul Cezanne, where do I get off critiquing the clumsy brushstrokes of Pierre-Auguste Renoir? Remarking to anyone who’ll listen that his lazy talent isn’t worth the canvas it was painted on. Saying things like, “Monsieur Renoir, with his dismissal of fruit and anatomical deficits, wouldn’t know the difference between an apple and an Adam’s Apple.” But Cezanne, with his affinity for juicy fruit and Provençal peaks, understands humanity on the deepest level. I have no right to claim any of that.
As a feeder of birds, sprinkling birdseed on the ground like so many nickels and dimes, I don’t know what it’s like to hang a swinging piece of sirloin in front of a famished wolverine. The fear of being caged in with a ravenously hungry animal is beyond the capabilities of my admittedly limited imagination.
As a baseball fan, how can I in good conscience excoriate those who adore golf? People who willingly toss grass clippings in the air in some peculiar Al Rokeresque display of meteorological insight. Snidely saying that the game reminds me of doing laundry, since there’s no shortage of irons and I’m always bored. What makes me think I have the freedom to put golf into the same category as Parcheesi and Boggle?
As a Groucho Marx enthusiast, where do I get off commenting on that big German Commie, Karl, as if he were merely another brother in the comedic crew. Oh look, it’s Karlo Marx, miming with Harpo, yukking it up with Chico and wondering what it is Zeppo does exactly. Gummo’s there, waiting backstage, and wondering: is this is the guy who wanted us to pay everyone equally, including Groucho? I can’t do any of that.
As a proponent of radio, man’s gentlest medium, can I actually argue that Netflix and Hulu have too many shows for a single person to digest? That the over-saturation of programming has resulted in the proliferation and acceptance of mediocrity? No, I cannot do that.
I can’t say any of this. It’s not my story to tell. Not my truth. The lesson here is a simple one. Talk about what you know and nothing else - never straying into subjects where you don’t belong. You'll get the hang of it. But it's not for me to say.
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