Smart aleck-free Friday

posted 10:27 PM 05/14
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Sincerity: Noun. Freedom from deceit, hypocrisy or duplicity; probity in intention or in communicating; earnestness.

I've been accused many, many, many times of being a smart aleck, and some people have even used an anatomical term for the word "aleck." To the offense, I plead guilty your honor, but I throw myself on the mercy of the court.

I'm the youngest of four children, and being a smart aleck seemed the best and quickest way for me to get the attention I so richly deserved, especially since I didn't have any particular performing or athletic talents.

My brothers and sister, as well as my mother and father, have always been articulate, cognizant people who are good at telling a story, so I was clearly at a disadvantage when it came to the rough and tumble oral fisticuffs that characterize the dynamics of a large family. I couldn't match my siblings or parents for cogency or deft delivery or life experience, so I'd satisfy myself by throwing a grenade into the middle of a conversation. This condition is not unusual for the youngest child of any large family, and I bear no ill-will toward fate or family members for my current state of smart-aleckness.

Sometimes I'd get a laugh when I threw the grenade, but more often I'd get a series of eye rolls and the conversation would continue unimpeded and I'd wait for the next opening. That method of contributing to conversations has continued to this day, but I've become more skilled. I have a much better grasp of the shrapnel dispersal zone of grenades.

But I'm not a boy anymore, and I've become more aware of my reliance on smart-aleck ways, thanks to my 3-year-old boy Ryan, who is fond of explaining away errant behavior by saying, "I was just kidding, Dad." Like the time he dumped the contents of a cereal box on the kitchen floor.

"I was just kidding, Dad."

Saying "I was just kidding" is the often-used antidote for smart-aleckisms that cut too deep or in the wrong direction, and I've relied on the phrase "Just kidding" to extricate myself from a lot of jams in my life, sometimes successfully.

It occurred to me that Ryan might be picking this up from me.

So I thought I'd try something new, for Ryan's benefit: A day where I didn't say anything smart-alecky. Maybe one day would lead to another day. I picked last Friday because I don't work that day and the rest of my family is in school or at work. I wanted to start slow by limiting my exposure.

I started out the day intending to watch "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood" because Fred Rogers always struck me as someone who was never a smart aleck. Mr. Rogers was an exemplar of sincerity and thoughtfulness, and I figured he'd super-saturate me with the antidote to the venom of sarcasm that courses in my veins.

Fred Rogers really was an amazing human being. And I'm not being smart-alecky here. Mr. Rogers was one of the finest human beings to walk this Earth. I'd trade my outlook for his outlook in a second.

Unfortunately, I overslept, so I missed Mr. Rogers, but I did manage not to say anything smart-alecky for nearly two hours. I was alone at that time, but progress is progress.

I figured I should field-test my new-found sincerity on human beings, so I went downtown.

First, I went to Rainy Day Records to buy the new Ray Davies CD for a friend of mine who admires Ray Davies. My sincerity had made me think that my friend would derive more joy from Ray Davies than losing $18 would pain me. I delivered the CD to him, and when he realized it was still in the shrink wrap and that I had bought it for him, he looked at me like he was looking at me for the first time.

What was the look pointed in my direction? It looked like the look of appreciation.

"Wow. I'm really excited to listen to this. Thanks," he said.

Hmmm. Maybe sincerity begets sincerity?

Next I went to Batdorf & Bronson coffee shop and magic elixir emporium, and a ping-pong buddy of mine was working behind the counter. We bantered a bit, and then I ordered a single tall mocha.

He replied, "We have 10-ounce, 12-ounce or 16-ounce cups. I can put the 10-ounce in a 12-ounce cup or the 12 in a 16."

I wasn't sure what he was getting at, but it was clearly a test.

The temptation was too great and I am weak.

"OK. I'll take a 16-ounce drink, but could you put it 12-ounce cup?"

My buddy chuckled, but it didn't feel good. If I was going to fall off the wagon, I should have waited for a better moment. It's like being an alcoholic, not drinking for a morning, and then breaking your sobriety with a Pabst Blue Ribbon at noon.

I'll give giving up on smart-aleckism another shot one of these days.

No kidding.

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