What Dat?

Excerpts from J.F. Masterson's The Search for the Real Self: Unmasking the Personality Disorders of our Age

It is relatively easy to spot narcissistic personalities in politics, business, and social movements. The limelight that goes with leadership is a strong magnet for narcissists, and even though success requires long hours and grueling work schedules, the payoff is worth the effort to them. Frequently, their staffs are overworked and are expected to produce perfect or near perfect results. The narcissistic leader or boss elicits martyrlike devotion from followers by manipulating their desire to be part of his achievements. With rhetoric and ritual, the narcissistic leader creates a sense of excitement and purpose and draws on his workers’ sense of mission. He is often fulsome in his praise of their devotion. In the end, however, the shrewd observer can see through the empty praise and the façade of concern for his supporters, for ultimately the narcissistic leader is only concerned about praise for his own achievements, and values others only in so far as they fulfill their role in promoting his own glory.

And . . .

One of the principal benefits of the activism of the sixties was the change in standards in all these areas – a change from authoritarianism to a greater emphasis on individuation and entitlements. These changes ostensibly created a better environment for the flowering and expression of the real self – in other words, healthy narcissism. Buy to what extent, then, does the sense of individual entitlement, now woven all the more tightly into the fabric of our society, also open the door for pathologic narcissism? Or to put it another way, does the resultant narcissism contribute to a unique and American character, or is it a pathological national flaw?

Ours Is Not

Excerpts from J. G. Stoessenger’s eerily prophetic book Why Nations Go to War, 3^rd Ed., c. 1982.

There is a remarkable consistency in the self-images of most national leaders on the brink of war. Each confidently expects victory after a brief and triumphant campaign.

Doubt about the outcome is the voice of the enemy and therefore inconceivable. This recurring optimism is not to be dismissed lightly by the historian as an ironic example of human folly. It assumes a powerful emotional momentum of its own and thus itself becomes one of the causes of war. Anything that fuels such optimism about a quick and decisive victory makes war more likely, and anything that dampens it becomes a cause for peace.

This common belief in a short, decisive war is usually the overflow from a reservoir of self-delusions held by the leadership about both itself and the nation.

The Kaiser’s appearance in shining amour in August 1914 and his promise to the German nation that its sons would be back home ‘before the leaves had fallen from the trees’ was matched by similar expressions of overconfident and military splendor in Austria, Russia and other nations on the brink of war. … Thus leaders on all sides typically harbor self-delusions on the eve of war. Only the war itself then provides the stinging ice of reality and ultimately helps to restore a measure of perspective in the leadership. The price for this recapture of reality is high indeed. It is unlikely that there ever was a war that fulfilled the initial hopes and expectations of both sides.

And again later . . .

… As these wars resolved less and less, they tended to cost more and more in blood and treasure. The number of dead on all sides bore mute testimony to the fact that America had to fight two of the most terribly and divisive wars in her entire history (Korea and Vietnam) before she gained respect for the realities of power on the other side.

As the Dawn Breaks

The autonomic responses which had served Liam so well to date seemed to hiccup momentarily as he stood frozen in place, gun smoke still creating an indistinct halo as it drifted lazily out of the leveled barrel of his Beretta. The Eye Brothers, still incapacitated by his furious onslaught, were beginning to regain their collective wits as their writhing on the floor became less agonized and more purposeful. As his brain slipped back into gear, Liam simultaneously lurched forward and examined his options. With no time for tactical analysis, Liam followed the elusive wisp of implicit memory which had carried him through the night so far. His gut was telling him that the Eye Brothers were more trouble than they were worth and that if he was going to get anywhere at all it would be through Cwik; Liam dutifully followed his gastronomical cognition out the door.

Not bothering to disarm the prone figures on the floor, Liam bolted the handful of steps through the mauled door frame and felt his breath threaten to pack up and go to Florida on vacation as the early morning air hit the film of sweat on his exposed skin. “I’m gonna have to find some clothes here eventually,” Liam thought to himself as he scanned the balcony, standing in the crepuscular gloom of blues and the first small hints of yellow and orange worming their way over the horizon. He was brought back to the task at hand by the muted metallic clank of Cwik stumbling against the railing of the balcony to his right as he continued his dogged, if not somewhat haphazard, escape. Hands still fastened in front of his body with the electrical cord, duct tape still encircling his head and hanging from his clothes, gangly frame skittering down the concrete and wrought iron balcony, Liam reminded himself to laugh at the memory when he wasn’t being pursued by two homicidal thugs and pursuing his only link. Rick seemed to be attempting to untie the cord while running and gaining his bearings all at once, and hadn’t made it more than 15 feet down the balcony. Somewhere a dog began barking an unenthusiastic monologue, and Liam could hear the Brothers begin sniping at each other through the wrecked door still swaying drunkenly on its hinges. Time to go.

His bare feet thumping on the concrete, Liam overtook Cwik in a space of a few strides. With another deft movement which left him surprised, he stepped past him, pivoting with his left foot and planting with his right as he swung Cwik into a fireman’s carry and finished his pirouette to continue running pell-mell down the balcony. Cwik’s frame was surprisingly light on his shoulder, either from his scrawniness or from adrenaline Liam was unsure. He offered no resistance to his new mode of locomotion either, though whether due to surprise or some other reason Liam was again unsure.

Pounding down the stairs with the potato sack Cwik over his shoulder, Liam quickly spotted the black town car parked haphazardly over three parking stalls at the base of the stairs, lights on and engine idling. Apparently the Eye Brothers had been in a hurry to make it up the stairs. Wrenching open the back door, Liam deposited Rick in the back seat and slammed the door after him. Clawing open the front door, Liam swung into the seat. Above him, he heard Charles’ voice shout unintelligibly, answered by Hard Eyes. As he slapped the shifter into reverse and resurfaced a generous portion of La Concha’s parking lot in Goodyear rubber, the pop of pistols just barely inserted themselves over the squeal of tires. Three hailstones hit the roof of Liam’s borrowed ride, echoing with the hollow clunk of a tin can being shot. As he fishtailed out of the parking lot onto the deserted early morning street, he stole a look to the backseat over his shoulder. Ricky was clutching his right thigh with both thin talons and grimacing.

“Those peckers shot me!” he managed to growl, as Liam returned his attention to the road. “This ain’t good, Liam,” he continued, barely audible through his grunts and pants. “I think they nicked a vessel or somethin’. Imma need a Hospital . . .”

Liam should . . .

A) Pump Cwik for information in his wounded state
B) Take Cwik directly to the Hospital
C) Let Cwik bleed and the chips fall where they may
D) Attempt first aid on Ricky

All in the Family

I rattled into the South Fresno parking lot in the extensively long cargo van. Pressed against the screen leading to the cavernously empty hold, just behind the driver’s seat, I had already collected 5 lbs of specialty Italian Sausage and one bottle of super cool wine in a Exodusian trek back and forth across the wastes of the greater Fresno area to assemble a custom basket on order at the Sierra Nut House. Christmas was only three weeks away, and already the fevered pitch of the operation had crescendoed into a cacophony of insanity, resulting in me spending $50 in gas and three hours of driving time assembling a rush-order by piece meal. Logistics were not JoAnne’s forte.

Flipping open my steno pad to the page I had scrawled the address and rough map onto, I confirmed that I had arrived at the right location. Shoe-horning my square elephant into the only open small, round parking space about 25 yards from the store front, I slipped down from the driver’s seat and pocketed my keys, slapping the door locks and slamming the door in one smooth motion. As I headed towards the entrance of my destination, the now-flattening rays of the December sun lit with deceptive warmth the shop’s sign. Squinting against the glare and approaching the fairly non-descript store front, I noticed two figures standing a few paces from the door to my destination. A small, swarthy, balding man was standing next to a tall, thick, cruel looking man: Leo and Guido, respectively, I imagined.

Leo was, and had been, screaming Italian into the cell phone in his hand, only taking breaks to similarly castigate Guido. When it was the cell phone’s turn, Guido stood silently, hands clasped at his front, staring slightly up and to the left. When it was his turn, he slightly inclined his ham of a head down towards Leo and slowly nodded and occasionally muttered something unintelligible while continuing to stare at nothing in particular. My steps faltered as I entered their social range and came to a complete stop about 15 feet from the pair. Leo rolled his eyes and muttered scathing Italian into the phone. As he looked up and clasped his hand over the mouthpiece on the cell, sun glinted off the large gold medallion hanging on a bed of chest hair framed by the open collar of his black silk, short sleeve, button down shirt with a white tiger embossed on it. “What?” he spat, glaring at me as his eyebrows impossibly raised another ¾”. The word was a curse word. I kept my eyes trained on his woven leather loafers and the cuffs of his immaculately pressed white slacks.

“Is . . . um. Is, uh, I’m supposed to pick up an order from Sargento’s.’ After a beat and another 1/8” on the eyebrows, I finished, “It’s some cheese . . . I’m, uh . . . from the Nut House?”

Leo jerked his thumb towards the tinted glass door, sneering. Guido stared slightly up and to the left. The Italian diatribe continued and I hustled towards the door. Retrieving my order, I swiftly walked back through the front door and towards my van with my eyes unwaveringly fixed on the ground, Leo’s emphatic tones echoing in my nearly empty cargo hold all the way back to North Fresno.