Nemo Me Impune Lacessit
I shall be walking a proverbial tightrope throughout this post. On the one hand, I wish to explain to you, my friends and treasured readers, the perilous circumstances in which I have found myself over the past week. On the other hand, I wish not to inappropriately air private dirty laundry in such a public forum. On the gripping hand, The Secret Base of the Rebel Black Dot Society is first, last, and solely the rostrum from which I pontificate and opine, denounce and defend. Whatever you think of me, my bombast, and the causes I cherish or scorn, you are "here," in the curious parlance of ye olde interweb, of your own volition; you read these lines of your own accord. Each and every one of you has an absolute right to object to anything that might offend thine eye. But when you presume to suggest there exist topics about which I dare not write you have entered an entirely other realm of commentary and criticism. I alone, answerable only to my conscience, itself aided by the blessed touch of the Holy Ghost (quite a boon, that), and availing myself of the counsel of whomever I see fit, am the arbiter of what is apropos for The Secret Base and its august audience. To those who presume themselves lofty enough to dictate the terms of this blog, might I politely suggest that you take a very long walk off a very short pier. You and your ilk are not welcome here.

The most mystifying element of the past week has been that amid the howling about my grave offenses and the veiled threats that my apologies were "not enough," only one specific charge was ever leveled against me:

"I'm sorry the wedding was such an obvious 'horror show' for you."*

That is a preposterous lie. Its author is a liar, replete with pants on fire. In the first case, my account of the matrimonial weekend had not advanced beyond Friday evening, a full day before the wedding, of which no direct mention had yet been made. Secondly, I wrote, "Ohio is, as I have mentioned, a horror show." Ohio. The State of Ohio. Is the wedding in question the entire State of Ohio? I think not. I did not write, "The wedding was a horror show." Nor, "This trip to Ohio was a horror show." I said that Ohio is a horror show. My dear mother was born and raised in Ohio; I have more family in Ohio than in any other state of the Union. Two of my favorite places on Earth, Cedar Point and the United States Air Force Museum at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, are technically in Ohio. ("Technically" because Cedar Point is on a peninsula, as disconnected from Ohio as possible without being an island. Wright-Patt belongs to the USAF, and thus to all Americans, not just the blighted denizens of Ohio.) All this and yet Ohio remains, as I have mentioned, a horror show.

Fully aware of my boorish manners and ferocious temper, I am keenly sensitive to charges of having wronged my kith and kin. On Wednesday, 19 September, I was told that "The Irrevocable Shackles of Matrimony: The Wedding Album, Part 3" had scandalized two of my relatives. That I had committed offense was transmitted to me in three ways: via a mobile telephone call, via an email missive, and via a comment left at The Secret Base. Wishing to make right what I had done wrong, I embarked upon a two-pronged approach. First, I deleted "The Wedding Album, Part 3" and apologized for having caused offense. Second, I apologized through the three media by which word of the offense had reached me: mobile phone, email, and a blog comment.

Some may call this a trifling nuance, but to my way of thinking it is a critical difference: I apologized for any offense my words may have caused, but I did not apologize for having written those words. My intent had not been malicious and reviewing "Part 3" I saw nothing but a frank and candid account of an extremely busy day in my life. As I demand of myself when composing the tripe that constitutes this blog, I praised what I liked and mocked what I disliked. I could have omitted mention of those things I found displeasing, but a lie of omission is every bit as malevolent as a lie of deception. I've told many a tall tale in my time, but that is not the purpose of The Secret Base. Still, I had not intended to offend anyone and I rued having done so. Thus, I mutilated The Secret Base as an act of contrition and issued four distinct apologies: in the place of the deleted "Wedding Album, Part 3," in a replying comment, in a replying email missive, and during the mobile telephone conversation.

There is a tradition, the Ten Days of Repentance, preceding the Jewish High Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Yom Kippur is usually rendered in English as the "Day of Atonement," the day for making amends both with those you have wronged and with God Almighty. A bit of wisdom associated with the Ten Days of Repentance is intended to prevent the wronged from abusing those who are attempting to atone; it states,

"We are to apologize three times and if our apology is not accepted by the third offering, we are now owed the apology."

Believing myself to have done nothing wrong, I yet issued four distinct apologies and committed an unbidden act of contrition, a profound act given how greatly invested I am in The Secret Base. I apologized not three times, but four. In response, those apologies were spit back in my face as "not enough." Not enough. Further acts of contrition were demanded, though nothing specified. To get back into the good graces of those I had offended would take "a lot." A lot. Not enough. A lot.

The following moment was one of which I am quite proud. I have been working to master my temper, to tame it and bend it to my will. Upon being so defamed and so dismissively insulted, I was livid. My fury was a living thing, a monster with a soul as black as pitch. But I did not allow it to strike out in its fury. I demanded from it at least a semblance of decorum, a few moments' peace so that I could devise a course of action I would have no later cause to regret. I reined in the beast and on this one occasion, a moment of perfectly justified rage, tamed it to my will. In a final act of conciliation, and of farewell, I sent a bouquet of flowers to The Shire; the accompanying card bore a fifth apology.

And then silence. For days on end I received no word. To Skeeter's consternation I postponed any further episodes of "The Wedding Album" and laid low for a whole week, refocusing my blogging efforts on college football and the delightful trivia that is the hallmark of The Secret Base. All the while my rage festered and begged to be given a free hand, and my Bog what satisfaction I would have found in revenge, but I was resolved to take the moral high ground. Over a week later and I have been told nothing; so, I must assume my apologies are still "not enough." Very well.

You may call me vain, and you might be right; you may call me boastful, and you might be right; you may call me an arsehole, and I know you'd be right; but whatever you say about me I have made a conscious decision to live my life in accordance with certain principles. Among them is that no one - NO ONE - speaks to me like that. I have often played the villain; so, I am willing to kowtow and be meek when I have done wrong. But I apologized, even though I believed myself to be right. I held my tongue (technically, I restrained my fingertips from typing, but that lacks a certain drama), even though every instinct I have screamed for revenge. I prayed for the Holy Ghost to flood my heart with the all-too-familiar sensation of guilt if I had done wrong. And how was my contrition, the contrition of an innocent man, received? It was spat back in my face. It was scoffed at as "not enough." More was demanded, "a lot" more. I am no cringing milquetoast! I will not beg and scrape for forgiveness like a dog! I will not countenance being insulted and demeaned in this manner!

So, the offending parties have been exiled, removed from my sight. Until the conclusion of "The Wedding Album," they shall be "The Bride/The Wife" and "The Bridegroom/The Husband." For some not insubstantial period of time thereafter that shall cease to be welcome amid the happy happy joy joy proceedings of this august assemblage. This is to me a thoroughly unsatisfactory revenge for the harm done me, but for the sake of general domestic tranquility it shall have to suffice. Nemo me impune lacessit. Not yet, but every day I refine my methods.

Coming soon: "The Irrevocable Shackles of Matrimony: The Wedding Album, Part 3, Mark II"

*I know quotation marks are unnecessary with block quoted text, but, come on, quotation marks are always cool.

The Rebel Black Dot Song of the Day
Nirvana, "Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle" from In Utero (T.L.A.M.)

Commentary: And so shall I.