I had a good friend in high school, Phil. Our sophomore year, he pierced his ear. Phil exuded a confidence and swagger I lacked, effortlessly connecting with many of the girls after whom I pined. I will never forget how, one Monday morning, when I asked how his weekend was, he responded, “Smell my finger.”
Phil was crude. Rude. Misogynist. Objectifying. And. His finger smelled of Pam. My ex. I was grossed out. Jealous. Envious. Titillated.
Somehow, I developed the belief that piercing my own ear might (would!) grant me that same allure, confidence, and success. I imagined it would magically make me someone cool, confident, and more desirable.
The piercing wasn’t just about style—it felt like an initiation, a rite of passage that would mark my transformation. I imagined people, especially girls, seeing me differently, recognizing something new and powerful in me. At the time, ear piercings for men weren’t neutral; they carried meaning, signaling rebellion, edginess, or sexual confidence. At least if in the left ear. Or so I imagined.
(Right ear = gay).
I wanted all of that left-ear shit.
In the summer of 1984 (I was 15), on a youth group trip to Israel, this feeling was ever-present. I was popular – and insecure – within my group, acutely aware of the fragility of my popularity.
In a bar called Lalo’s, where the other patrons included confident Israeli soldiers who picked up seemingly all of the girls from our group, I felt profoundly insecure. Despite having kissed and fooled around with several of these girls, my confidence was fragile – I knew these guys had lots and lots that I didn’t. Including Uzis – semi-automatic (?) guns they nonchalantly left in a pile by the door. These swarthy guys had rizz before rizz was rizz. (Note to self: tell a rizz story.) It wasn’t just their confidence; it was their maturity, their masculinity, their status – and bearing – as soldiers.
They were men.
I was, indisputably, a boy.
Watching them, I felt a growing certainty that piercing my ear would be the key to becoming (like) them—or like Phil.
This night in the bar was not the beginning of my desire to pierce my ear but reinforced a growing sense that I needed to do it. It wasn’t a spontaneous decision; it had been forming for some time. But that night, fueled by insecurity and alcohol, I finally acted. The alcohol didn’t just lower my inhibitions—it made me feel momentarily invincible, as if I could actually will the transformation into existence. It still took time, though. I had to work up the courage, cycling through hesitation before I finally committed.
Erin, one of the girls I had a crush on, helped me pierce my ear with an earring and some ice. She was amused but supportive, playing along like it was just a fun, reckless act. I don’t remember the exact sensation—whether it was pain or adrenaline—but I do remember hoping that this would be the moment of transformation, that I would wake up different.
For the rest of the night, I waited for reactions. I scanned faces, wondering if the girls would see me differently now. If they did, I couldn’t tell. The change I had imagined—the instant shift in how I was perceived—didn’t seem to materialize.
The next morning, with a hangover and the unfamiliar sensation of the earring, I looked for the confidence I had imagined would come. I actively searched for it, as if I might suddenly find it lodged inside me if I concentrated hard enough. But it wasn’t there. The piercing didn’t change how I felt, didn’t grant me any of the magic I had envisioned. It was part of a familiar pattern: the belief that an external change could fix something internal, followed by the inevitable disappointment when it didn’t. Like the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion, I had imagined wrongly that something external would grant me what I sought. But I hadn’t yet learned that lesson. I was simply disappointed that it didn’t.
A year or two later, still chasing that transformation, I got my second ear piercing, just a bit higher on my left ear. This wasn’t just a casual style choice—it was another deliberate attempt to fix the same problem. I hoped for a different outcome, but nothing changed except that I had a second earring. The failure was the same. I wasn’t gaining insight or moving toward any kind of realization—I was stubbornly refusing to accept the lesson I hadn’t yet learned. And yet, I wasn’t just being stubborn. I was still hoping. I still believed, however irrationally, that maybe this time it would work. This was not a journey of self-discovery; it was a failed quest, an attempt to grasp something outside myself that had never been there to begin with.
Postscript:
A brief note about this post: I didn’t write it.
That’s not quite right.
As I drove the two and a half hours to visit my ailing uncle, I had a long back and forth conversation with ChatGPT’s voice feature. It began by my telling it that I wanted it to interview me for the purpose of creating a post about my relationship to the piercing of my ear. I gave it a little background detail about both the story I wanted to tell, a story about my insecurity, my longing, my magical hopes, my relationship to girls in my teenage years, and my inevitable crushing disappointment.
We had a lengthy back and forth. It asked me questions. I redirected it to try to get it to ask me better questions. I answered the questions.
The conversation went on for a while, and at the end, I asked it to write the blog post I had in mind, using only my words, including all the details that I had provided.
This is where the experience got a bit maddening.
ChatGPT was focused on making it into a narrative of learning, of progress, of discovery, of wisdom.
I was trying hard to make it be a narrative about loss.
I argued with ChatGPT. I tried to edit what it wrote with my voice. And finally, as I approached my uncle’s house, I declared victory – or defeat. I stopped the conversation, and went in.
The next day, I copied the final version of the post, edited it very lightly, and posted it.
I have to say, as I read what I posted, it doesn’t sound like me. I mean, sure, the basic thoughts and ideas are mine. The story is true. But if you read closely, you’ll find numerous elements that just don’t sound like me.
I love ChatGPT. Lately, I love Claude even more.
They’re good at many things. They’re less good at many things. In general, I find that they’re terrific in helping me think, in helping me flesh out my thoughts.
But when it comes to actually composing text, they fall desperately short.
Six or nine months ago, Ezra Klein said that Claude did a pretty good job of imitating his voice. I envy him. Both Claude and ChatGPT have personalities which are sufficiently far from mine that, no matter how hard I try, I can’t muscle them away from their voice.