Cure for the Common Cynic

Hello my limited, yet much beloved fanbase. After a long hiatus I’m back in the saddle again and ready to pick at the scabs of society; and it feels fantastic. I’ve had some time to think as I’ve been away, had some time to watch, had some time to let the world get under my skin enough that I want to drag it out into the street by its hair a teach it a few lessons. Compton style, be-yotch.

So let’s talk about something called happiness. Happiness is a talent. Regardless of what your kindergarten teacher told you it’s not something that can be taught, it’s not something that can be learned, and it sure as hell isn’t something that can be picked up by singing along with Mr. Rodgers. It’s something that takes a natural tendency on a fundamental level to be able to achieve it. And to achieve happiness it takes work; that natural tendency needs to be nurtured, it needs to be strengthened, it needs to be fed for it to be worth a damn. And these days that seems like a tall order. Working hard for something isn’t really this culture’s style. It’s 2012 and unless something has an app we don’t really give a collective shit about it. Happiness is a dying art, one that been hastily replaced with bitterness and cynicism by unskilled hands.

Now, I know, it might seem like I’m part of the problem. Cynicism is sort of what I do best. But I said “unskilled hands” so let me get to my point. Happiness, like I said, takes some effort. But instead of putting forth that effort a lot of people would rather fall back and complain about their lives, so they try to be cynical, they try to be hard, and they try to act too cool to feel anything real. They’re a bunch of frauds and I’m sick of hearing it. Just like happiness is a talent, so is misery. If you don’t have the raw natural ability for it you can’t pull it off with any class or style. I go to the store, I sit in a restaurant, I log on to facebook and there are people trying to be miserable because they think it’s the hip thing to do. But all those people, they haven’t earned the right to be miserable. And because they haven’t earned it they have no idea how to use it. Those people wave cynicism around like a kid that found his dad’s gun. They’ll attack anything for any reason; tear it down because they want people to think they’ve got an edge.

Those people, the faux-cynics, they make me sick. They’re a putrid mess that stinks of ungenuineness. They’re a sham, they’re a counterfeit, and it’s so obvious to everyone around but nobody says a thing about it. These people don’t know what misery is, they don’t have the balls to sit in a cheap tavern between a trailer-trash white-boy in a wife-beater and two shady-looking Mexican guys in cheap suits while you all listen to a lonely, crippled black guy in crutches sing karaoke to Marvin Gaye’s “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” as you desperately avoid asking yourself how you ended up there. Cynicism has rules, it has limits, and someone who is just jumping on the bandwagon hasn’t mastered the discipline.

If someone is truly miserable, they do everything in their power to change that. Misery is a disease and it can’t be faked. Anyone that truly is a cynic, they understand the power it has. They know how to wield it properly and maybe even on occasion and under rare circumstances they might even be able to do some good with it. So, please, stop being a cynic if you don’t have a reason for it. It’s not cool, it’s not fun, and it sure as hell isn’t easy. If you have any chance at happiness at all you grab on with both hands and ride that thing bareback into the sunset. Leave the cynicism to the ones who know what they’re doing and just enjoy the show.

Life on the Fringe

People ask me why I’m so angry. I can only wonder why they aren’t angry too. This is a generation of fear. Every week there's some new scientific bullshit assertion to declare that everything we use is trying to (and will eventually) kill us all. Cell phones give you tumors; the internet makes you stupid; jerking off causes blindness. Don’t be fooled though, everything is trying to kill us. And why shouldn’t it? We’re terrible.

I grew up on the fringe of suburbia. It’s filled with low income housing and nefarious landlords looking to squeeze out every dime they can. It’s where all the people who were too poor to live in a real house had to go as there was no inner city nearby to hold our kind. It’s the place that people like to forget because there’s nothing in it for them. It’s for the people caught in a social purgatory. People on the Fringe aren’t pathetic enough to warrant sympathy from the powers that be, but those powers that be sure as hell aren’t inviting them to their Tupperware parties either. Instead the residents of the Fringe were forced to wedge their way between worlds where they didn’t belong.

No one in the Fringe really dreams. If you can stay out of prison and manage a C average then that’s as close as a victory as you can come by. The Fringe is where ambition goes to die.

Tired mothers would send their kids off to under-budgeted schools. They’d do their hair big, let their asses get wide and tan their skin to leather all while waiting for their limp-dick husbands to bring home the proverbial bacon from their dead-end, blue collar jobs because he could barely manage the community college he attended for two years before giving up entirely. The teens in the Fringe are the skinny white trash that dress like meth addicts. They stand on street corners tonguing their overstuffed girlfriends, rubbing up against parked cars and ramming their hands into her tightly packed, bargain-bin jeans trying his best to maneuver a decent fingerblast below her sizeable rolls. They stand in the street because it’s better than being inside the tiny apartment with their family who are inside yelling out their mutual resentment of each other.

You’ve probably seen them, the people of the Fringe. They’re the ones you avoid in supermarkets. The neighbors who get the cops called on them. The ones you don’t want your children to be friends with.

I was lucky enough to get out of there. I’m not a particularly nostalgic person, but I still believe that you should never forget where you came from. Whether I like it or not the Fringe is part of me. It’s taken me a while to want to visit it again, afraid it might try to suck me back in. I’ve driven past it for years, working up the courage to visit the streets I knew. Finally, I went to see what had changed, but it had only gotten worse. While I was there I saw a friend of mine that I had grown up with. Now he lives a couple blocks away from the apartment his family lived in. He was recently paroled from prison, too late to see the birth of his daughter. Her name is Celeste and she’ll grow up in the Fringe too. Not the Fringe that I grew up in though, the new one that’s worse.

So, if you ever want to ask me why I’m so angry, this is why: because I’m constantly disappointed.

A Dog and his Vomit

I have been thinking crazy thoughts. Thoughts of will and rage; love and blindness; of evolution, revolution, degeneration and redemption. I’ve thought of pride and then the fall, crime and punishment, life and then death. I’ve thought of misery and Misirlou. I’ve thought about fate and I’ve thought about God. Mostly, I’ve thought about myself.

And in thinking about myself I’ve had two realizations:

1.) I am an addict.

I’m addicted to the edge, to the next day, to the unwritten life. I’m addicted to the hunt, to the chase, to the uncertain end. I’m in love with a cruel mistress and her name is the blank page and I can’t help myself. She beckons with her sultry sway and seductive call; a siren waiting to sink me. She’s always there when I need her; waiting to use me as much as I use her. I can never say “no” to her because I never want to. And I’m left to wonder if it’s better to fight the urge or to try to fill the void.

A void that deep will make anyone a miserable son of a bitch, which leads me to my second revelation:

2.) I am a dog.

And a dog will always return to his vomit. Like the fool I am I want to return to my folly. Given the options, it might be the best one. We live in a world that’s constantly trying to kill us all, but that’s not called “insanity” that’s called “life.” So if I do go back to that place then logic states that I deal with it the same way humakind has dealt with the world: try to conquer it before it kills me.

Maybe the should have killed me the first time because they've only made me stronger. Or angrier. Or dumber. Or all of the above. And now the real dilemma: should I be miserable fighting my way through the mess or miserable wishing I was?

Any guesses on what happens next?

Being Alone: A Love Story

I spent Valentine’s Day alone. I wanted to.

The honest truth is that I went most of the day forgetting it was even February 14th. The day was mine and I spent most of it in book stores. I didn’t really even consider the significance of it until I went and bought myself a steak at the local grocer and the invasive cashier asked “cooking your valentine a dinner tonight?” Realizing what the situation looked like, I smiled and answered “yes.” Of course, she didn’t know what I really meant, and I didn’t expect her to. So, with love on my mind, I took some time to think about loneliness and what it means to be alone.

Now, in a rare instance of unabashed honesty, let me open up to you a little and share an intimate secret about me that I think will help illustrate my point. I wish I could say I’ve never told someone that I love them; it would make my life seem less messy. It’s not a word I like to throw around carelessly. It carries a very significant weight to it. Checking through my laundry list of insignificant others I’d be lying if I said I never told any of them that I loved them. Within context and relative to each given situation and understanding, I did love them, or at least some part of them. Now, before you assume I’m referring to certain tangible (i.e. jiggly) qualities, let me assure you that while I am only human, I do operate on levels beyond the superficial. What I’m saying is that each woman has a unique, individual part of her that makes her beautiful. Sometimes it’s a smile, a laugh, a brush of the hair that’s seductive in its carelessness; other times it’s an idea, a secret, or knowing just how dangerous she really is. These beautiful parts vary as widely as each woman does. So when I say that I love women, and that they’re all beautiful, or have the capacity to be beautiful, it’s this singular and unquantifiable quality that I’m talking about. And when I told those girls that I loved them, what I really wanted was for them to love themselves and to find that part of them that was beautiful.

A lot of people ask me if I believe in love, while I could write chapters about that idea alone I’ll simply answer “yes” on this occasion. Yes, because I have to believe in love. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen it, or felt it or if I ever will feel it, but I have to believe that it’s out there somewhere. What I do know about love though is that it’s impossible to love someone who doesn’t love themselves. That’s what my day-after-Valentine’s message is really about. I sat alone last night, eating a perfectly seasoned steak I prepared myself, but I wasn’t lonely. Despite my self-destructive tendencies and tendency towards self-loathing, I enjoy who I am, and so when I spend nights alone I don’t pine for a lover or scoff bitterly at happy couples. There’s a whole year before the next Valentine’s day and I think this year, instead of searching for meaning in someone else and finding existence in co-dependence, it’s time to follow the old adage and “know thyself.” You might just like what you discover, and then you can show that off at your younger sister’s wedding.

Winter of Discontent

As the winter of discontent begins, a front of depression sweeps across the populace. It’s December’s foggy freeze that shoulders the blame for the epidemic, but Jack Frost is wrongfully accused. What these huddled masses disregard or forget is that regardless of wind chill, snow pack, or barometric pressure, life is always miserable.

Seasonal depression is but another long-winded excuse concocted by an already heavily-medicated culture. People are depressed because life is miserable. Life is miserable because people make stupid choices. In an attempt to evade consequence, pseudo-sophisticated justifications are manufactured to hide society’s dysfunctions and inefficiencies. The idea of taking responsibility for the dire conditions of life is just too much so the despondent instead hide and hibernate, finding solace in a clinically accepted pretext.

Seasonal Affective Disorder, or SAD, is now a widely acknowledged and commonly diagnosed mood disorder. The idea behind it is that the lack of sunlight causes people to become depressed, gain weight, and be more lethargic than in warmer months. It’s thought to be seasonal because when spring arrives the symptoms seemingly melt away with the snow. While this idea of seasonal depression is in vogue some doctors remain skeptical, or perhaps they are simply less keen on padding their wallets. Some believe that this so-called “depression” is more like a human hibernation. Like many animals, the human body craves rest with less sunlight and the body stores fat in preparation for this. Of course the weight gain and lethargy could also be explained by the rich foods commonly consumed during the holidays. It’s less a matter of mood disorder as it is a matter of too many cookies left for Santa or adding another notch in the belt after feasting on the cornucopia of fats and calories that make for a satisfying Thanksgiving dinner.

Another factor that provides skepticism is the fact that many people remain depressed even after relocating to a warmer, sunnier climate. Of course the drug-pumping doctors have another theory for that: too much heat and sunlight has the same effect as too little heat and sunlight. Curious. SAD is thought to be caused by a vitamin D deficiency from lack of sunlight. It appears that too much sunlight, what should actually cure the disorder, can cause it as well. Of course there is the much simpler, albeit less scientific theory that people simply lead depressing, meaningless lives and it presents itself throughout the year, regardless of season.
Holidays too mark this time of wintry wrath. The end of the year is plagued by a thick façade of good cheer and charity, begetting an implicit reminder of just how miserable life is the rest of the year. This too might be a cause of what seems to be seasonal depression. It’s an example of what life could be; it’s a concentration of happy times which quickly dissipate once the season ends. Perhaps this is a major cause of depression, the contrast with what life is and what it could be. There’s also the myth that suicides go up during the holiday season. It’s a popular idea that’s actually been proven wrong. The suicide rate goes down during the holidays; as it turns out more people are concerned with hanging boughs of holly than themselves.

“Accept despair” as Sartre would say. Realize that it’s not just these months and weather systems that are depressing. This is an unloved generation, isolated by technology and left with the unpaid tab of former generations. There are no bail-outs for the depraved debt that’s been accumulated. Instead of donning the heavy mantle of responsibility for the misery of life it’s much easier to claim depression and sulk away. With no responsibility there is no consequence; with no venture there is no gain. Winter’s not to blame, rather isolation and the inability to cope with a cold and uncaring world is at the foundation of this widespread melancholy.

People only do what they want to do. Being miserable is comfortable. If people really cared about being happy, if that’s what they really wanted, they would find a way. Some do. Others instead they wallow in sloughs of self-deprecation and human ingenuity renders further excuses rather than eradicates them. Depression is an escape, a pretense to avoid adulthood and duty. It’s an elaborate hoax at best.
Winter, spring, summer or fall, life is a miserable mess. Responsibility for the dreary mentality that marks this time of year lies solely with those that nurture it. The huddled masses that bemoan the cold fronts are just looking for the richest and most believable reason to explain their pitiful state without accepting liability. Decades ago it was God’s fault. When belief in deity fell out of fashion it was the parents who took the blame. When it was realized that all parents were lousy and that excuse was rendered ineffective they went searching down the laundry list for new ones until finally arriving at weather.

People suffer the more they try to avoid suffering. This can’t be the pinnacle of human evolution when cold fronts cause a societal funk for an entire quarter of the year. The clouds aren’t to blame for the gray malaise that shrouds these bitter months, censure for this season of self-loathing and sadness belongs to those who enable it. It’s the rage against accountability, not bad weather, which creates this lamentable meaninglessness.

Domestic Terrorism

There are few things more irritating than a parent who doesn’t understand that their kid is, in fact, the most annoying presence in the vicinity. For example, the parent who buys their already annoying child shoes that squeak with every step. The only function those shoes might serve is to make the parent aware, at all times, of the child’s location. They serve no utility, however, as the child already at exists with a minimal volume exceeding 100 decibels. Obviously the parent, as well as everyone else within earshot, knows where the child is. Instead the shoes just serve to make the child grow exponentially more grating with each step. And why would the parent be so concerned with the whereabouts of such an undesirable thing, unless they’re tracking its movements so that they might eventually leave it behind? Perhaps many times the parent has almost successfully abandoned the offspring at a grocery store, only to hear the furious squeak-squeak-squeak behind them of that terrible burden in tow.

There's no excuse or absolution for the parent unaware of their destructive progeny who gaily throw items from store shelves and screech in high, almost ungodly, pitches. The blissfully ignorant are possibly the worst thing to happen to Western society, seconded only by the manufacturer of squeaking children’s shoes. The parent who acknowledges that their child is a hell spawn is far more tolerable. At least that parent can connect with the outside world with the knowledge that everyone is the room is just as annoyed as they are.

Sousa Hates You 101

After a long leave of absence (for reasons that don’t concern you at all) I’m back for an overdue update. With school soon to start and my life to quickly grow increasingly duller I’ve again excited myself to the point of blogasm; confident that this time the run will last longer and be more satisfying for all parties involved.

In my spare time, when I’m not conceiving ways to steal Katy Perry away from Russell Brand, I've been thinking of a few things I've learned navigating this collegiate wasteland. It's sort of a half-hearted mental attempt at gearing myself up to another sixteen-or-so weeks of absolute Hell. Of those many things I've learned I'd like to share some of these thoughts with you, at least the ones that don't carry a 15-to-25 year sentence in most states.

First of all, if you're one of those people who's actually excited for school to start you're kindly invited to go stick a fork in your own eye. You'd probably enjoy that considering you obviously have masochistic tendencies. Seriously, it's true. If one prefers the school life where you pay 2 grand a semester to run around with the stress level of an underappreciated mail worker to the superior summer lifestyle when you do WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT there's obviously some sort of mental instability. Nobody in their right mind enjoys college, at least not the college part of it. This brings me to my second thought...

...You can retake a class, but you can't retake a party. I rarely agree with the frat-boy crowd but on this we can see eye-to-eye. I'd much rather have memories worth keeping than sitting around in my old age reminiscing about all those good ol' days sitting in classrooms. And speaking of old age...

...All you desperate housewives out there: Obama may "want you back in school," but no one else does. You might feel un-hip and slow compared to your twenty-something classmates. Well, sweetheart, it's because you are; and, yes, we notice. There are plenty of online courses that allow you to stay home with your 2.5 kids, bake them pie, and (most importantly) stay the Hell out of my way.