I was not a popular kid.  There were several factors that conspired to ensure my unpopularity:

1.    First, I moved around a lot.  While far from being an orphan, my home life wasn’t particularly stable and hence I never spent long enough to mesh with a particular peer group.
2.    I had curiosities—intellectual, artistic, etc.—bred at home (the product of hyper-intelligent, albeit questionably stable parents (at the time…they’re very cool now)), but these same curiosities were stifled and squashed at school and by my schoolmates (or at least it felt that way); being curious and different seemed anathema to most of them.
3.    Third, the intangibles:  call it karma, fate, whatever.  I just seemed to be born to be maladaptive.  Girls and boys alike—far from disliking me—were indifferent to me.  They didn’t feel strong enough to include me nor to actively cast me from their circles.

For much of my life, I strove to reconcile this lack of childhood popularity—to fit in, to feel included.  For example, I remember one time hanging with some boys who made “pressure bombs”:  Drano and something else in a 2 liter soda bottle, whose chemical combination created an explosion that burst forth all over the suburban streets of where I lived at the time.  I tried to force a sense of amusement from this profoundly juvenile endeavor, but I couldn’t do it.  Everyone knew I was fraud.  They knew I didn’t enjoy blowing shit up and my pained masks of enjoyment just served to further ostracize me from their inner-circle.

While the pressure bomb is an extreme example of foolishly trying to fit in, I’ve subsequently had many other opportunities to feign enjoyment.  I engaged in activities I knew were at odds with my authentic self:  the truth seeker, the conversationalist, the artist, the man who gives a shit about the fate of the planet and its inhabitants.

I’ve strained to tap my foot at house parties where House of Pain blared (an apt anthemic band if there ever was one)—drinking grog from red Solo cups hoping it’ll make it bearable.  I’ve endured the booze-saturated bouquet of countless bars and clubs where the music is so loud and the crowd so numbed from alcohol that the prospect of a real conversation is virtually nonexistent.  I’ve even been in some pretty lofty places where the conversation often devolves into talking about “stuff”—vacations, 80’s/90’s TV trivia, cell-phones, celebrity gossip, etc.  I’ve done this all in the name of fitting in, pathetically attempting to heal that 14 year-old who couldn’t get excited by making things go boom.

While I’ve gotten pretty good at both leaving situations that don’t serve me, as well as railroading conversations in directions I find meaningful, I have still felt a void.  I feel like the vast majority of social infrastructures are designed for escapism.  Bars, clubs, lounges and many private parties (that curiously try to replicate the experience of those former institutions) don’t lend themselves to social engagement.  They create barriers.  They try to sell you booze and the idea that anaesthetization and cosmetic posturing equal having a good time.  I don’t mean to rag on these institutions—God bless people who enjoy them—but ultimately, they are not for me.

When I organized my first Lucid event about a year ago it was based on the premise of creating a context for engagement.  Just as alcohol and loud music create the context for a bar (things that work against engaging with the world and your fellow human), at Lucid people talk about amazing projects and ideas (things that promote engagement).  I’ve also tried to keep volumes at conversational levels (if you like music that much, go to a concert), and I’ve limited the booze to wine and beer.  It doesn’t make one right and the other wrong—it’s just a choice of how you want to spend your time.

I’m still working on refining the events—they’re not perfect and I need your help.  But the intention is there:  I want a place where it’s not only tolerable to be curious and smart and shining and sensitive and different and weird and expressive and eclectic and whatever—I want a place where these things are exalted.  Whether you felt excluded or included in the past; whether you excluded or included in the past—you’re welcome to come to Lucid in the future.  Just be and bring yourself, whoever that might be that particular day.

If this sounds interesting, I hope you attend the events and make them your own.

Yours,

David Friedlander