I despise labels. To apply a label to someone is to pigeonhole him or her, bind him or her with associations that usually aren’t legitimate, and ultimately discredit everything they think, say and do. Labels are a hindrance to free and open debate, a sophomoric strategy of the intellectually challenged, and a personal pet peeve. Ironically, the broader the term’s definition, the more conjecture arises to discredit and vilify that group by it’s polar opposite. No two groups are guiltier of this infantile behavior than the two major parties in the United States, Democrats and Republicans. All Democrats are sniveling, Europe-worshipping, Birkenstock-wearing, incense-burning, broccoli-eating, limp-wristed, commie Pinko, peacenik pacifists and all Republicans are money-grubbing, gun-toting, Hummer-driving, animal-slaughtering, cigar-smoking, mayonnaise-sandwich-eating, oil tycoon brown shirts. To pretend that one side of the aisle is more responsible for the paltry state of public and reasonable idea exchange is idiocy. I don’t need to point out the half-truths and misinformation employed by all members of the political process, we all got our fill running up to the second day November.

Labels function as mental crutches, very similar to the verbal crutches “uh” and “like” that are slowly destroying the art of oratory. These knob goblins that say “like” upwards of thirteen times in a single sentence, do it not because they’re stupid, it’s just easier. By saying “uh,” “like,” and “umm,” they afford themselves precious seconds of mental machinations in order to communicate a semi-cohesive thought. If they didn’t employ those verbal crutches every few seconds, they’d actually have to think while they were speaking, and if the label-goblins stopped using broad sweeping qualifiers, they’d actually have to evaluate someone by what they say and do, not by what they wish to be perceived.

There are obviously some labels that fall outside this spectrum. Calling someone an American is not label in the sense I am referring; it is a description of that person’s county of origin, or a notation of where they spent their burgeoning youth. (As a side note, something that is utterly unique to America is the ability of someone, anyone, to become an American.) Referring to someone as a diabetic is a factual representation of the current state of that person’s health, while calling someone an asshole is pure conjecture and can, perhaps, only be proven with photos of that asshole anally raping your mother while pouring sugar in your gas tank. The labels that really suck are political, lifestyle related, sometimes combinations of the two, and sometimes just plain nonsense.

Perhaps the most insidious form of labeling, in that reprehensible sort of way, is a self-applied label. I actually know someone who calls himself a “radical transportationalist.” Right now, you’re probably crossing your eyes, chewing your lip and rubbing your earlobe in deep thought as to what the fuck a “radical transportationalist” might be. Let me explain, he doesn’t own a car. He doesn’t just not own a car; he also doesn’t own a scooter, or a motorcycle or any nature of motorized transportation. We presume this also includes motorboats, commuter trains, jets, cruise liners, commercial airliners, tugboats, submarines, and spacecraft. That’s right, this guy feels so isolated by the %62 of Americans that own cars, he’s chosen to apply to himself, but none of the other %38, the term “radical transportationalist.” If the simple act of not owning something makes one “radical,” I guess that would make me a “radical Playstation-alist.” A condition, by the way, can be remedied quite easily by your generous donations.

Self-applied labels seem epidemic here in Portland. A close friend of mine, recently transplanted, was telling me about all the new and interesting people she was meeting here in the Pacific Northwest. I suppose, in an effort to make her explanations more concise, she began to pepper her speech with words like “animal friend,” “world-centric” and the ubiquitous “poly-amorous.” She then, as if in response to my quietly gritted teeth, said, “It seems everyone needs some kind of label to get along out here.”

Why can’t I just be Scott? You can obviously apply labels like drinker, video-game player, employer of poor sentence structure, the list is virtually endless, but please don’t tell me I need to be something new and exciting. Sell crazy someplace else, we’re all stocked up here.

My obviously limitless feelings of discontent came to something of a head only a few short days ago. During introductions, I overheard someone call themselves a “pseudo-vegan.” In case you didn’t know, a Vegan is a foul-smelling, humanoid creature from the Vega star-system, particularly adept at waving hand-written signs, chaining themselves to inanimate objects and speaking to non-Vegans like they’re Tralaxian lizard snot.

Kidding.

A vegan, as defined by Webster’s dictionary is “a vegetarian who eats plant products only, especially one who uses no products derived from animals, as fur or leather.” In an effort to be fair, and acknowledge that the definition is open to moderate interpretation, the British Vegan Society defines veganism as “a philosophy and way of living which seeks to exclude all forms of exploitation of, and cruelty to, animals for food, clothing or any other purpose; and by extension, promotes the development and use of animal-free alternatives for the benefit of animals, including humans and the environment.”

So what, then, is a “pseudo vegan?” Why, a vegan that will occasionally partake in fish, that’s what. “Well, wouldn’t that make them NOT a vegan?” you have just asked your computer monitor. “Why, yes, it would,” it politely answers back. If she’s not a vegan, why would she even use the word “vegan” in describing herself? You can’t be a little bit pregnant. You can’t be “sort of” diabetic. You can’t be a “pseudo-vegan” any more than you can be a “quasi”-pitcher for the New York Yankees; either you are or you aren’t. You sure can be “most of an asshole,” though.

She then went on to lament the fact that there was no other way to describe herself, even saying that “they” should “come up” with a better word for her to use. Why can’t she just be her? Even if she were a vegan, or a lesbian, or a car mechanic, or a weekend swimming coach at the YMCA, or a lover of post WWII European cinema, why would she coose to be defined by it?

Labels are dumb, but not as dumb as the folks that use them, either applying them to others (for perceived good or bad) or even more mindlessly applying them to themselves for no other reason than convenience. The moral of this sordid tale is very similar to soemthiong you may have been told by Lady Jane, or Duke, or Quickkick at the end of an episode of “G.I. Joe.” Be yourelf, be comfortable with yourself, and don’t feel the need to label yourself to justify your thoughts and actions or to feel included in something bigger than yourself. If you and I feel differently about a certain matter, you don’t need to call me a fascist any more than I need to call you a commie, it does nothing to further the debate and makes us incapable of agreeing to disagree. Now you know, and knowing is half the battle.