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.

Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me

Since my vacation to Las Vegas was cancelled I decided to blow the "gamblin' money" I'd been saving on music and books. I bought some good new albums but I had a hard time finding something decent to read.

Scouring through book stores is one of the greatest things in the world, and one of my favorite time-wasters. When it fails to end in the triumph of finding something to read, I'm left with a definite itch. Why couldn't I find anything that piqued my interest? I'll explain.

While I'm pretty much set on what kind of music I listen to and the kind of films I like to watch, my taste in literature is very eclectic. I admittedly love a good crime novel but once you wander past the writings of James Ellroy and Scott Phillips the pickings are disturbingly slim. So, I like to have an open palette for books that spans across genres. I only require that it interests me and makes me think. I’ll go into a book store, pour over the shelves and find something that meets my criteria. This last trip left me cold.

Every synopsis I read started out with "Carl, a disenfranchised black man..." or "Sara is a struggling and vulnerable young woman..." or "Manuel picks strawberries..." and on and on it went. It was all the same bourgeois agenda with different names and locations. Now, I’m positive that every book written in the last decade didn’t subscribe to the self-pitying underdog; I just couldn’t find one outside that realm. Anyway, I was left thinking as to why we have hundreds of books about the same stale and tired story? Every one was some sort of bestseller or had Oprah's stamp of approval (who made her some a literary authority anyway? I’d like to see her credentials). Am I the only one who finds these literary soap-boxes that force-feed the reader a healthy dose of altruism to be contrived and boring? I’m totally fine being the pooper at this particular pity-party if that means I’ll be able to find a decent read the next time I stop at the Barnes and Noble.

My problem is that the cutting edge on which great literature sits has become dulled by political correctness and social climates. It’s like these authors don’t want to take chances anymore. I mean, the only person who probably hasn’t heard about the “racial climates” of America is Paris Hilton and seeing as how she’s illiterate I’m guessing she’s not the intended audience. Seeing all these books is like staring at the same word written over and over: it loses all meaning. Same thing happens with these books. But what can I really expect from a generation of idiots who say things like “lol?”

Are You Experienced?

I’m calling all you musical heathens to repentance. Consider me a prophet of the Rock Gods sent to liberate you.

I was chastising someone the other day about her lack of musical prowess. “You’re one of those guys who buys whole albums still, aren’t you?” she asked in a particularly sassy rebuttal. Yes, I am one of those “guys who buys whole albums,” and let me tell you why: an album is supposed to be an experience.

I remember my parents’ old turntable very well. It was metallic gray and sat on top of their matching stereo system. I used to sit on the couch, entranced, listening to my father’s original vinyl of “Zoso” (what some of you might know as “Led Zeppelin IV,” or for the musically unaware it was the album that gave light to “Stairway to Heaven”). I would listen to the entire 45 minutes in silent wonder; absorbed into the album from the dirty guitar intro of “Black Dog” to the melodic strum of “Stairway,” at the end of which I would take my cue and flip the record to finish with the pounding, seven-minute, blues anthem (and my personal favorite from LZ) “When the Levee Breaks.”

Even now, decades after my first love-affair with Led Zeppelin, I make time to “experience” every album I buy. It’s more than respect to the artistry of it, but any real artist worth their salt makes albums that should be listened to in their entirety. An album is a product as a whole. Listening to only one song is like buying your favorite chapter out of a book. Yeah, it might be good, it might speak to you, but it’s only a single part of a greater work.

Maybe you can get away with your single-track iTunes purchase with “Nickelback” or “Beyonce” but there is a whole world of music that needs to be experienced as a sum total. How many hits would have remained undiscovered if a DJ hadn’t simply flipped the record over to see what was on the B-Side? Great music is waiting to be listened to, but you’re not going to find it if you only pick the mainstreamed hits you heard on the radio. Go on Philistines, go have an experience.

It's another sunny day in Hell

Let's clear something up, just because the blog is titled "The Weekly Misanthrope" does not mean I've resolved within myself or to some higher power that I will update this weekly. Simply "The Weekly Misanthrope" rolls off the tongue easier than "The Intermittant Misanthrope." This is my blog and it will hold no real weight over me. This blog is my bitch and I will write when I feel like it whether that is bimonthly or biweekly if my self-loathing is running exceptionally high. Let it be known I don't really even like "blogging," I just need an outlet because my editor won't let me use the word "poontang." Apparently it isn't objective.

Now that we've cleared that up lets address something more important: we might not be friends and yes, I'm totally fine with that. The point of writing is for someone to read it; it's a dialogue, an expression of ideas. I won't be one of those absurd digital natives who posts their shopping list in some vapid attempt to superficially connect because they're otherwise incapable of true human contact. I'll write about what I deem to be important. I'll write about my current obsessions or beefs or whatever I think is wrong. If you don't agree with me about something: tell me, I invite you; get it off your chest. I believe in opposition, I believe in conflict. And we'll both feel a lot better if you say what you want. We writers don't do what we do to be popular, we do it so that A) our progeny won't be left sifting through petrified baskets trying to determine our intellect and B) to express human thought in an almost tangible manner.

So, let's raise another glass to the unforgiven and kick this mother off. I'll be drinking to my own health, feel free to do the same.


Unfaithfully yours,

Sousa