Why I am declining the MacArthur Genius Award
May 96
WHY I AM DECLINING THE MACARTHUR GENIUS AWARD
Well, they haven't actually notified me yet that they are indeed giving me the award. I notice that my name is inexplicably absent from the list of geniuses published just yesterday. There must be a mistake, an oversight. Because, of course, it's only a matter of time. My question is, why haven't I been given one already?
Perhaps it's my innate modesty. Far be it from me to shout the news of my genius from the rooftops. I never considered it necessary. Genius WILL out.
Still, I find it a bit irritating that so many others have been recognized ahead of me. Not that they didn't deserve it. I'm sure they are all genuine geniuses. Any anonymous committee invested with the power of giving hundreds of thousands of dollars apiece to dozens of individuals MUST know what it's doing, just as John Beresford Tipton knew what he was doing when he doled out those millions. Can you imagine what a travesty the whole affair would be if they didn't know what they were doing, if they were just a buncha stoolies carrying out the will of an ignoramus, moneybags foundation?! Unthinkable! If the Charley MacArthy Foundation holds in its hands a list that says the lucky bastards are now, or ever have been, geniuses, they're geniuses, and I'll brook no argument about that.
But are they all greater geniuses than I? Are they, for that matter, greater geniuses than you? I don't know about you, that's for you to say. As for myself, I feel I am a very great genius. A zen genius. All the great zen geniuses are invisible, sometimes even to themselves. And they're a little stupid, as well. I certainly qualify in THAT department, or so I'm told.
The voices in my head tell me I'm stupid more frequently that you'd believe. They make me feel deliciously subhuman.
And my genius is very often as invisible to me as it is to others. The difference is that I always know it's there, even if it isn't manifesting itself. But those outside me seem to have their doubts. I can hardly blame them. They're mere mortals. If they see no obvious outward manifestation of genius, why should they take me for one.
If they themselves were zen geniuses it would be a different matter. They'd know that the very fact they can't see, hear, taste, touch, feel my genius is proof positive of its existence. Zen enlightenment would give them the third eye, and third ear, and 11th finger, and second nose and tongue, they would need to see, hear, feel, smell, and taste the rarefied spoor of my, yes, I'm not afraid to say it again, my genius.
At heart, as you well know if you've been willing to read this far without projectile vomiting, we are all geniuses, and perhaps the biggest idiots are the greatest geniuses of all. That must be why Henry Kissinger was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for prolonging the Viet Nam War. That's the explanation for my unshakable confidence in my own genius. And, if you're still with me and still not experiencing reverse peristalsis, you ought to have a similar confidence in yourself.
But I don't want to dwell unduly on YOUR genius. I'm here to talk about MY genius. I'm bringing it out of the closet at last and shaking it like a big ol' dusty mop, or a horse's ass, for the whole world to see, feel, hear, smell, taste, and touch with its, yes, its third eye, 11th finger, third ear, second nose, and, well....you can probably fill in the remainder. After all, if you've gotten this far I'm ready to concede you ARE a genius. Too. Not necessarily one of my magnitude. But a genius of any magnitude is nothing to sniff at. Not even with a second nose.
Now it can be argued that there's a certain symmetry and right thinking in me ACCEPTING a Joe MacArthy Genius Award. After all, it IS an award given to recognize genius, and that's what I am.
But I have a few bones to pick with The Anonymous Committee. Most especially, why have they kept me on pins and needles for so many years? There are times when I could have really used that quarter million. If those people are so smart, if they're smart enough to sniff (with their second noses) out the authentic AND DESERVING geniuses of these United States, and I don't doubt for a moment that they ARE that smart, because who could be smarter than the people officially designated to recognize true genius---they are, by definition, the geniuses' geniuses---if, as I say, they're so damn PERSPICACIOUS(who but a genius could use such a word?!), why didn't they realize my need and give me those simoleons so I could take care of my basic needs without totally humiliating myself by working office temp as a legal proofreader on the nightshift in a Century City law firm?! I wish those MacArtless Bigwigs, being the geniuses' geniuses that they are, would riddle me that.
Oh sure, now things are different. Now I've got plenty of credit cards, some of which actually have balances not exceeding their limits. Things aren't as desperate as they used to be. This is one genius who's no longer up against the wall. But that is not the reason I'm declining the award. Even if I were completely desperate I'd turn it down, just as Sartre once turned down the Nobel Prize for Literature, just as Soupy Sales or whoever that was respectfully declined the Oscar and, in fact, sent a Chicana posing-as-a-genuine-Indian-princess in his place garbed in full-Shasheen-Littlefeather-headdress-and-buckskins to respectfully decline said Oscar before the massed members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences and billions of slavering fans watching on television and hundreds of pairs of Hollywood starletta highpoppers in respectful attendance upon the Princess's every word, which words, as I remember it, were a stirring defense of the predatory habits of killer producers and their right to devour everything in town smaller than they are. And when they unhinge their jaws, they can swallow corporate entities even larger than their own, though they may then take weeks or years to digest them. And as for those highpoppers, well, you should have seen them, exposed so magnificently in their deep dish formals as they were, why, they looked like a convention of ostrich eggs. But I digress. Where was I? You're a genius, aren't you? Can't you follow my train of thought? So what if I roll off on a siding once in while. Isn't that the prerogative of genius?
Oh yes. The real reason I am turning down the MacWhopper Genius Award. I'll admit it. There was a time when I hungered for the recognition. I viewed it as my due. As soon as I heard of its existence, I figuratively held my breath till my face was blue, waiting for that knock.
I know it isn't as much money as the Publishers' Clearinghouse Award, but I don't expect as much of Ed McMahon's ability to select correctly as I do that of the MacDither Genius Committee. I like Ed, I really do. But he clearly likes a toot now and again. And he's probably secretly resentful for having been second banana to Johnny for all those years, so there's no telling how his bitterness, which can be clearly discerned in that sycophantic, obsequious, Falstaffian (who but a genius uses adjectives this polysyllabic?!) guffaw of his, might have led him to compromise himself with the Clearinghouse people. What I'm daring to say, for the first time in public, because it is the nature of my genius to speak the truth that others haven't the courage or brains to voice even to themselves, not even in a dark deserted wine cellar at 3 AM, is that I suspect that the FIX IS IN with the Publishers' Clearinghouse Award. We are led to believe that selection process is random. Ha! I spit upon your random! My genius, and no doubt your genius as well, allows me to see, with my third eye, and my second nose, that NOTHING is random in this world of ours. Everything happens according to plan.
And the plan of the MacWampum Committee can only be one born of jealousy of my great, my unparalleled, yes, I'm not afraid to say it: GENIUS. I was the man who should have been given the first MacWigwam Genius Award. And after me, some of my friends should have been given the next bunch of awards. And after that, because I'm such a great genius, I should have been awarded one annually. And my mother should have been given one, because her 75th birthday is coming up, and I don't know what to get her, and she deserves to be honored for having had the genius to have me, a genius nonpareil. And not only should I be given the award annually, but after everyone who is my friend because they have acknowledged my genius, thus proving their own genius, has been given the award at least once, I should be given ALL the remaining awards, diplomas, money, trophies, kisses, speeches, whatever and the award should be retired and its name changed to the Mendacio Huffington Superdupermega Unbeatable We're-Sorry-We-Were-Jealous-of-You Genius Award. And you MacMugwump Committee People ought to stop trying to hurt my feelings and you can kiss my rosy red....
But I digress.
If I used to be so obsessed with awards, why didn't I just buy lots of lottery tickets and win the California State Lottery. That's usually worth more than the MacAdam Award, isn't it? It is. But I'm proud. I'm proud of my genius. I feel that people ought to come to ME, unbidden, to give me an award. I shouldn't have to humiliate myself by going to the 7-11 and buying a Pick 6 ticket. That would be admitting that my life wasn't perfect already. And if I am a zen genius, my life is, by definition, completely fulfilled in every ongoing moment and there's no need for me to resort to desperate measures such as buying lottery tickets, which can run into serious money if you buy enough of them every day, which certain people I happen to know whose names shall go unnamed do. But I'll be discreet about their shame because I don't want to admit that I have acquaintances who are not only not genius zen masters but who are dangerously unfulfilled to the point of being downright dirtydog raggedybutt desperate.
But what's this!? A knock! At my door! Can it be anyone other than the MacKoody Committee, come crawling around at last, anonymous tails between their legs, begging my forgiveness, offering me all their trophies and money and kisses and speeches, INSISTING that they retire the award in my name? Just a moment while I give those geniuses' geniuses whatfor.
Hi. I'm back. It was neither the MacMaunder People nor the MacMahon People nor MacNamara's Band. There must be some confusion about my address. I'm sure they WILL be at my door momentarily. That was my landlord. Something about the rent. He wants some. I told him I had already paid him---months ago, but he didn't seem to understand. If he persists in pursuing this mad idea that he is entitled to a monthly rent check, I may just strike him from the list of deserving fellow geniuses I am going to give to the MacHeartless Committee when they come crawling, at long last, round to my door. The way he behaves, you'd think I was some kind of awards committee, and he was the superdeserving recipient who is selected 12 times a year, year after year. He has actually threatened me with eviction. To hear him tell it, my back is closer to wall than I know.
But do I despair? No. Because offers of credits cards and loans at usurious rates are constantly arriving in my mailbox. As far as I can determine. This is free money. It's probably all a plot secretly engineered by the MacCrackhead Committee, or possibly the Nobel Committee, or the State Lottery, or Publishers' Clearinghouse, to pipeline me the money my genius merits. These shameful sonsuvbitches are trying to salve their consciences without having the courage to come right out and give me the award or awards which are rightfully mine!
[Note: Pomp & Circumstance plays softly in background for this final flourish]
I'll tell you something about genius. In its purest form, it's not only invisible, it's proud, and it's not only proud, it's humble and forgiving and compassionate. It's able to take the God's Eye View with its zen third eye, and I mean the kindly New Testament God, not the old-timey thunderbolt throwing Guy. So I'm going to overlook the MacArsole Foundation's past meanspiritedness, I'm going to forgive Ed McMahan's corruption, I'm going to turn the other check to the Nobel Committee's obstinate blindness, and I'm going to swallow my pride and accept that free money in the cowardly form in which they have proffered it. Not for my sake. Oh no. I already know I'm a genius. I don't need outward monetary confirmation of that fact. I'm accepting this free usury as a favor to them, because I forgive them and grant them absolution because they knew not what they did when they earlier overlooked me and gave their damn money to lesser geniuses, and because my heart is pure and great, as only the heart of a true genius can be. --FIN—
WHY I AM DECLINING THE MACARTHUR GENIUS AWARD
Well, they haven't actually notified me yet that they are indeed giving me the award. I notice that my name is inexplicably absent from the list of geniuses published just yesterday. There must be a mistake, an oversight. Because, of course, it's only a matter of time. My question is, why haven't I been given one already?
Perhaps it's my innate modesty. Far be it from me to shout the news of my genius from the rooftops. I never considered it necessary. Genius WILL out.
Still, I find it a bit irritating that so many others have been recognized ahead of me. Not that they didn't deserve it. I'm sure they are all genuine geniuses. Any anonymous committee invested with the power of giving hundreds of thousands of dollars apiece to dozens of individuals MUST know what it's doing, just as John Beresford Tipton knew what he was doing when he doled out those millions. Can you imagine what a travesty the whole affair would be if they didn't know what they were doing, if they were just a buncha stoolies carrying out the will of an ignoramus, moneybags foundation?! Unthinkable! If the Charley MacArthy Foundation holds in its hands a list that says the lucky bastards are now, or ever have been, geniuses, they're geniuses, and I'll brook no argument about that.
But are they all greater geniuses than I? Are they, for that matter, greater geniuses than you? I don't know about you, that's for you to say. As for myself, I feel I am a very great genius. A zen genius. All the great zen geniuses are invisible, sometimes even to themselves. And they're a little stupid, as well. I certainly qualify in THAT department, or so I'm told.
The voices in my head tell me I'm stupid more frequently that you'd believe. They make me feel deliciously subhuman.
And my genius is very often as invisible to me as it is to others. The difference is that I always know it's there, even if it isn't manifesting itself. But those outside me seem to have their doubts. I can hardly blame them. They're mere mortals. If they see no obvious outward manifestation of genius, why should they take me for one.
If they themselves were zen geniuses it would be a different matter. They'd know that the very fact they can't see, hear, taste, touch, feel my genius is proof positive of its existence. Zen enlightenment would give them the third eye, and third ear, and 11th finger, and second nose and tongue, they would need to see, hear, feel, smell, and taste the rarefied spoor of my, yes, I'm not afraid to say it again, my genius.
At heart, as you well know if you've been willing to read this far without projectile vomiting, we are all geniuses, and perhaps the biggest idiots are the greatest geniuses of all. That must be why Henry Kissinger was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for prolonging the Viet Nam War. That's the explanation for my unshakable confidence in my own genius. And, if you're still with me and still not experiencing reverse peristalsis, you ought to have a similar confidence in yourself.
But I don't want to dwell unduly on YOUR genius. I'm here to talk about MY genius. I'm bringing it out of the closet at last and shaking it like a big ol' dusty mop, or a horse's ass, for the whole world to see, feel, hear, smell, taste, and touch with its, yes, its third eye, 11th finger, third ear, second nose, and, well....you can probably fill in the remainder. After all, if you've gotten this far I'm ready to concede you ARE a genius. Too. Not necessarily one of my magnitude. But a genius of any magnitude is nothing to sniff at. Not even with a second nose.
Now it can be argued that there's a certain symmetry and right thinking in me ACCEPTING a Joe MacArthy Genius Award. After all, it IS an award given to recognize genius, and that's what I am.
But I have a few bones to pick with The Anonymous Committee. Most especially, why have they kept me on pins and needles for so many years? There are times when I could have really used that quarter million. If those people are so smart, if they're smart enough to sniff (with their second noses) out the authentic AND DESERVING geniuses of these United States, and I don't doubt for a moment that they ARE that smart, because who could be smarter than the people officially designated to recognize true genius---they are, by definition, the geniuses' geniuses---if, as I say, they're so damn PERSPICACIOUS(who but a genius could use such a word?!), why didn't they realize my need and give me those simoleons so I could take care of my basic needs without totally humiliating myself by working office temp as a legal proofreader on the nightshift in a Century City law firm?! I wish those MacArtless Bigwigs, being the geniuses' geniuses that they are, would riddle me that.
Oh sure, now things are different. Now I've got plenty of credit cards, some of which actually have balances not exceeding their limits. Things aren't as desperate as they used to be. This is one genius who's no longer up against the wall. But that is not the reason I'm declining the award. Even if I were completely desperate I'd turn it down, just as Sartre once turned down the Nobel Prize for Literature, just as Soupy Sales or whoever that was respectfully declined the Oscar and, in fact, sent a Chicana posing-as-a-genuine-Indian-princess in his place garbed in full-Shasheen-Littlefeather-headdress-and-buckskins to respectfully decline said Oscar before the massed members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences and billions of slavering fans watching on television and hundreds of pairs of Hollywood starletta highpoppers in respectful attendance upon the Princess's every word, which words, as I remember it, were a stirring defense of the predatory habits of killer producers and their right to devour everything in town smaller than they are. And when they unhinge their jaws, they can swallow corporate entities even larger than their own, though they may then take weeks or years to digest them. And as for those highpoppers, well, you should have seen them, exposed so magnificently in their deep dish formals as they were, why, they looked like a convention of ostrich eggs. But I digress. Where was I? You're a genius, aren't you? Can't you follow my train of thought? So what if I roll off on a siding once in while. Isn't that the prerogative of genius?
Oh yes. The real reason I am turning down the MacWhopper Genius Award. I'll admit it. There was a time when I hungered for the recognition. I viewed it as my due. As soon as I heard of its existence, I figuratively held my breath till my face was blue, waiting for that knock.
I know it isn't as much money as the Publishers' Clearinghouse Award, but I don't expect as much of Ed McMahon's ability to select correctly as I do that of the MacDither Genius Committee. I like Ed, I really do. But he clearly likes a toot now and again. And he's probably secretly resentful for having been second banana to Johnny for all those years, so there's no telling how his bitterness, which can be clearly discerned in that sycophantic, obsequious, Falstaffian (who but a genius uses adjectives this polysyllabic?!) guffaw of his, might have led him to compromise himself with the Clearinghouse people. What I'm daring to say, for the first time in public, because it is the nature of my genius to speak the truth that others haven't the courage or brains to voice even to themselves, not even in a dark deserted wine cellar at 3 AM, is that I suspect that the FIX IS IN with the Publishers' Clearinghouse Award. We are led to believe that selection process is random. Ha! I spit upon your random! My genius, and no doubt your genius as well, allows me to see, with my third eye, and my second nose, that NOTHING is random in this world of ours. Everything happens according to plan.
And the plan of the MacWampum Committee can only be one born of jealousy of my great, my unparalleled, yes, I'm not afraid to say it: GENIUS. I was the man who should have been given the first MacWigwam Genius Award. And after me, some of my friends should have been given the next bunch of awards. And after that, because I'm such a great genius, I should have been awarded one annually. And my mother should have been given one, because her 75th birthday is coming up, and I don't know what to get her, and she deserves to be honored for having had the genius to have me, a genius nonpareil. And not only should I be given the award annually, but after everyone who is my friend because they have acknowledged my genius, thus proving their own genius, has been given the award at least once, I should be given ALL the remaining awards, diplomas, money, trophies, kisses, speeches, whatever and the award should be retired and its name changed to the Mendacio Huffington Superdupermega Unbeatable We're-Sorry-We-Were-Jealous-of-You Genius Award. And you MacMugwump Committee People ought to stop trying to hurt my feelings and you can kiss my rosy red....
But I digress.
If I used to be so obsessed with awards, why didn't I just buy lots of lottery tickets and win the California State Lottery. That's usually worth more than the MacAdam Award, isn't it? It is. But I'm proud. I'm proud of my genius. I feel that people ought to come to ME, unbidden, to give me an award. I shouldn't have to humiliate myself by going to the 7-11 and buying a Pick 6 ticket. That would be admitting that my life wasn't perfect already. And if I am a zen genius, my life is, by definition, completely fulfilled in every ongoing moment and there's no need for me to resort to desperate measures such as buying lottery tickets, which can run into serious money if you buy enough of them every day, which certain people I happen to know whose names shall go unnamed do. But I'll be discreet about their shame because I don't want to admit that I have acquaintances who are not only not genius zen masters but who are dangerously unfulfilled to the point of being downright dirtydog raggedybutt desperate.
But what's this!? A knock! At my door! Can it be anyone other than the MacKoody Committee, come crawling around at last, anonymous tails between their legs, begging my forgiveness, offering me all their trophies and money and kisses and speeches, INSISTING that they retire the award in my name? Just a moment while I give those geniuses' geniuses whatfor.
Hi. I'm back. It was neither the MacMaunder People nor the MacMahon People nor MacNamara's Band. There must be some confusion about my address. I'm sure they WILL be at my door momentarily. That was my landlord. Something about the rent. He wants some. I told him I had already paid him---months ago, but he didn't seem to understand. If he persists in pursuing this mad idea that he is entitled to a monthly rent check, I may just strike him from the list of deserving fellow geniuses I am going to give to the MacHeartless Committee when they come crawling, at long last, round to my door. The way he behaves, you'd think I was some kind of awards committee, and he was the superdeserving recipient who is selected 12 times a year, year after year. He has actually threatened me with eviction. To hear him tell it, my back is closer to wall than I know.
But do I despair? No. Because offers of credits cards and loans at usurious rates are constantly arriving in my mailbox. As far as I can determine. This is free money. It's probably all a plot secretly engineered by the MacCrackhead Committee, or possibly the Nobel Committee, or the State Lottery, or Publishers' Clearinghouse, to pipeline me the money my genius merits. These shameful sonsuvbitches are trying to salve their consciences without having the courage to come right out and give me the award or awards which are rightfully mine!
[Note: Pomp & Circumstance plays softly in background for this final flourish]
I'll tell you something about genius. In its purest form, it's not only invisible, it's proud, and it's not only proud, it's humble and forgiving and compassionate. It's able to take the God's Eye View with its zen third eye, and I mean the kindly New Testament God, not the old-timey thunderbolt throwing Guy. So I'm going to overlook the MacArsole Foundation's past meanspiritedness, I'm going to forgive Ed McMahan's corruption, I'm going to turn the other check to the Nobel Committee's obstinate blindness, and I'm going to swallow my pride and accept that free money in the cowardly form in which they have proffered it. Not for my sake. Oh no. I already know I'm a genius. I don't need outward monetary confirmation of that fact. I'm accepting this free usury as a favor to them, because I forgive them and grant them absolution because they knew not what they did when they earlier overlooked me and gave their damn money to lesser geniuses, and because my heart is pure and great, as only the heart of a true genius can be. --FIN—
posted by mobydoug at 11:55 PM
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