Happiness (Before I Wake Up Dead, Pt. 3)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View original (above↑) to solve the problem/access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My sublime, drop-dead gorgeous muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

"Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life." -Omar Khayyam

Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grandstickies,

As threatened promised, this is another letter about "...Cranky cranking out a column (or two or...) and writing down everything he'd tell his beloved Stickies if he knew he was scheduled for deletion." -me

The Secret of (Occasional) Happiness

I wrote a column titled The Secret of (Occasional) Happiness in July of 2016 that predates my Dear Stickies format but is nevertheless relevant. Its thesis was/is that "Someone to love that loves you back (a dog will do) and interesting work is the secret of (occasional) happiness." -me

I qualified happiness with (occasional) because as I explained in the article (briefly, and not well) everything contains its opposite, that is to say, something and its opposite are two sides of the same coin -- you can't have one without the other. Another way to put this is that opposites define each other.

Yet another is that if you were happy all the time you wouldn't know it because you'd be happy all the time. Wordplay I know, but it's true. Although I can't prove it scientifically/experimental/whateverly, it's still true.

The Pursuit of Contentment

The very first column I wrote, The Pursuit of Contentment  -- they were called blog posts several hundred days ago in the dim and distant past -- was published on July 23, 2015. For technical reasons (I screwed something up and I still don't know the what or the how of it) it's now dated 8.20.16. This is the date it was rescued from the (electronic) dustbin and republished.

My thesis was/is that once I'm crowned the King of America I'm going to change the phrase in the Declaration of Independence, the pursuit of happiness, to the pursuit of contentment (kings can do shtuff like that). The reason I'm going to do this is because:

"This is the central tenet of King Crank's Philosophy of Contentment. Be thou a believer (in God, a God, or the Gods), an atheist, or _______, the fact remains that if you choose to keep showing up you're going to occasionally experience happiness. 

You will also occasionally get caught in a crap storm. Mostly, you will just be doing what needs to be done to keep body and soul together. This is often boring, which may lead us to pursue happiness and explains why it's relatively easy to sell us lottery tickets, politicians, and beauty aids." -me yet again


You're saying to yourself "Self, if he's already written two entire columns about happiness why is he writing yet another entire column about happiness?"

Well, ask a recovered (recovering) drunk about the phrase "...we absolutely insist on enjoying life."

[For the record: many a recovered drunk, I'm talking people who've been on the wagon for years, insist on referring to themselves as recovering, not recovered. That is to say, they regard their sobriety as a work in progress that never ends until they do. I was married to one, Ronbo, for 21 years. While technically no longer with us, being a force of nature, she lives on.]

[Dana: With all due respect to, uh, Ronbo... where's this going?]

[Iggy: Is she..., is that the one uncle Ray calls Nana?]

Marie-Louise is scratching my back and smiling, she loved Ronbo.


Let me put it this way. I am, by temperament a -- the glass is almost empty -- sort of person. Also, having rounded the block once or twice and having obtained my Sexy Seasoned Citizen credential, I concur with the Buddha, life is suffering. Or, as they say on the Nor'side-a-Pittsburgh (HT: Ed), life's a bitch and then ya' die.

[Dana: Geez, sucks to be you but what...]

Which is why I've given/I continue to give a bit of thought to the subject at hand. I stand by the two columns mentioned above. Both of them are about what to do in spite of the spiritual wisdom of the Buddha or the more secular wisdom of the good citizens of the Nor'side-a-Pittsburgh.

That is, as the Big Book (not to be confused with the Good Book, but which is equally important to some people) says "...we absolutely insist on enjoying life" to which I would add -- when we can, as often as we can, and as hard as we can.

BIG BUT

How should we conduct ourselves when life is kicking our ass? given that it frequently does and often it's impossible gonna' take a minute (or a year, or two, or...) to get happy/get the door prize/see a rainbow.

Two points. First, as I pointed out in last week's column, you have two choices. You can pull the covers over your head and refuse to get out of bed. The best you can hope for is is a tolerable, stable level of misery that you hope won't get worse.

Or, you can get out of bed, do what ya' gotta do to keep body and soul together (or the bodies and souls of those in your charge together) and take baby steps towards a positive goal. It's OK if your most important goal is to not feel like crap all the time as long as once you don't you get another most important goal.

Second, and I credit Professor Jordan B. Peterson for getting me to start thinking about what follows (Dr. J. will be the Chairmanperson of my Royal Privy Council once I assume my throne, please hold the throne jokes).


Given that we're wired to pursue goals (sublime or profane) because we're wired to believe that reaching our goals will make us happy

And,

Given that we soon discover that once we reach a given goal we need another one(s) to stay (more or less) happy

And,

Given that we're capable of projecting what we would be/could be like, and what effect we could have on the world/in the world if we if we were to eventually rise far enough, one baby step at a time

And,

Even if you don't ever have much of a life, if you spend it trying to have a substantial life you'll not only feel better physically/emotionally/spiritually, you'll have chosen Nobility over Nihilism -- and there will always be ice cream. Poppa loves you.   

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.

Beware of Darkness (beware of darkness)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View original to solve the problem and access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

[Gentlereaders, please forgive the fact this column is late. The rumor that I was once again abducted by aliens from Tralfamadore is true. For the record, the Tralfamidorians are a very gentle and civilized race. Their "abductions" are scheduled at the abductees convenience. Their probe consists of providing their guests with ice cold whole milk and fresh from the oven peanut butter swirled brownies while asking pointed questions. 

Unfortunately, while their technology is bulletproof, their field interviewers (FI) are chosen for their entity skills and are notoriously technochallenged. Long story short, my FI punched the wrong settings into the Wayback machine and now my life is running almost a day and a half late. Sorry.]  


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies,

I recently watched a "Netflix Original" movie called Small Crimes. I discovered it accidentally while surfing around for a food movie, my current supply of acceptable food TV programs being temporarily exhausted. Fortunately, new TV shows, new episodes of existing shows and new movies, are always in the pipeline. Unfortunately, most aren't worth watching.

A food movie or (much more likely) food TV? Yes. And no, I'm not referring to food porn. See, I eat most of my meals alone in my lair/garret for a variety of reasons not interesting enough to bother you with and I like to watch TV shows while I eat. Always have. Movies are my (distant) second choice.

[No, I'm not lonely, so let's set that tired old cliche' aside immediately. There are six people that I love (and a very stupid cat that I have mixed feelings about) living downstairs at the moment. Sometimes I eat with them (the people, not the cat), mostly I don't. It's complicated, but as I mentioned, not interesting.]

As I have aged I've become quite picky about TV shows. I don't know that it's because I've become all that much smarter or more sophisticated. I am certain that hedonic adaptation (a cool way to say jaded) and formulaic, same old-same old writing has a lot to do with it.

Also, of course, the need to fill all that time on all those channels that result in shows like the one that features people with geographically induced speech impediments that hunt alligators for a living.

Also, of course, the need to fill all that time on all those channels that result in shows like the one that features people, one man and one woman per episode, who meet for the first time when they are taken to an appropriately primitive/scary/dangerous/etc. location.

They take off all of their clothes and spend the next 21 days trying to survive while making their way to where they will be picked up. All of the couples apparently have deformed genitals and all of the women apparently suffer from deformed breasts. Everyone has nice bums though.

Full disclosure -- I've only watched the show for about half a minute, a half dozen times or so. Channel surfing flotsam you see. A quick bit of googling turned up the fact there are no million dollar prizes and I was unable to discover if they all suffer from the same disease.

[Disease? What disease? Where did that come from? asks Dana, imaginary gentlereader.]

Simple logic. If they all suffer from deformed genitals, and, all the women have deformed breasts, and, all the newly formed couples are willing to appear on the same TV show, and, they can't win a bunch of money, and, they are all so deformed that while they are willing to get naked on TV but their genitals (and the women's breasts) must be pixilated out because they're so offensive, obviously, it must be a show about the victims of some sort of disease that, while it deforms genitals and women's breasts, mercifully doesn't affect the rest of the body. It must be a very empowering experience for the victims.

[Dana stares at me for a couple of beats while blinking rapidly and then says, They aren't diseased, the producers use pixelation so the audience can't see the couple's genitals or the women's breasts.]

Dana obviously makes no sense whatsoever. Why would you take your clothes off in front of (potentially) the whole world if you didn't want people to view your naughty bits? Sheesh. Well, anyway, this column is about unremittingly dark entertainment, not diseased exhibitionists, so I'll move on.


The movie, the "Netflix Original" movie called Small Crimes mentioned above, is Netflix blurbed as "He thought he could move on, but the past isn't done with him yet. A darkly comic study of redemption and consequences."

Now, my life can be described as a darkly comic study with no shortage of significant consequences. However, I don't have/haven't had much need for redemption. It's not because I'm not a sociopath/psychopath, it's because I've gone out of my way, for the most part, to only sin against myself and leave my fellow H. sapiens out it as much as possible.

I mention this because I wish to point out that I'm wired this way, that it's my nature. It does not require a daily moral/ethical struggle against the forces of darkness. Fortunately for me, and mine, and the other kids on the playground, I'm a nice guy.

I'm not bragging. I think most of us, given a decent milieu, a decent zeitgeist, are nice people.

[Granted, I could've said, under the right circumstances, but milieu and zeitgeist sound much cooler, don't you think? Sorry, you know how I get...].

We all have our dark/hypocritical sides of course. But we have to share the playground with the other kids which serves (for most of us at least) to help keep us on the (more or less) straight and narrow. Life is occasionally a horror movie, life is occasionally bliss. Mostly it's just another boring/overscheduled/stressful (talk about cognitive dissonance!) day.

So, why is so much of our entertainment, so dark?

 "He thought he could move on, but the past isn't done with him yet. A darkly comic study of redemption and consequences."

At the risk of being accused of being a spoiler, Bonkercockie! There's very little comedy and nobody is redeemed of anydamnthing. The antihero protagonist looks the consequences of his dickish deeds in the eye -- and then doubles down. After wreaking havoc all throughout the movie he has a chance to walk away, with a pocket full of money -- but doubles down again. Surprise! this ain't gonna' end well.

As to the totally inaccurate blurb: I guess it's better than, "A depressing, occasionally slightly funny movie with a depressing ending about a few days in the life of a dick." That is, if you're Netflix, you paid for the movie, and you'd like someone to actually watch it.

[Dana, Marie-Louise, and Iggy, nervously looking past each other and at the ground, share in an awkward silence.

Sorry, sometimes you absolutely must call a spade a spade, or, a d-word a d-word. Note how quickly my auto censor kicked and switched to d-word. We must be ever vigilant lest we drain profanity of its power by treating all words as if they were the same.]

But, as usual, I've taken you for a (hopefully entertaining) drive down Digression Drive before finally getting to the point. Why is so much of our entertainment, so dark? That's easy, the More Paradox.


In most of the USA, and much of the rest of the world, a daily life and death struggle just to get by is no longer job one. In fact, this planet now has a weight loss industry, and business is good. In fact, America (having lived here for 63 39 years this is the country I'm particularly familiar with) has the most prosperous poor people on the planet, probably the most prosperous poor people of all time.

We're wired genetically/evolutionarily... common sensically to want more. More food/sex/toys/etc. because more might keep me alive for the rest of the week and not just for the rest of today.

BIG BUT.

It's our nature to believe that once we obtain enough more, that will finally be enough, and we will be happy. However, once we have enough, which is clearly to be preferred to not enough, we still aren't happy. Or rather -- we're happy sometimes, unhappy other times; mostly we drift between the two -- just like we did before we had more.

Dark entertainment provides cathartic compensation for anyone and everyone that realizes at some point they will never be happy all the time, that you can't have happy without unhappy. That is, everyone.

The bad news is that if you don't believe that there's an afterlife waiting, where you will finally be happy, or if you don't know the secret of a happy life (someone(s) to love who loves you back, and interesting work) you may require increasingly dark entertainment to cope with the knowledge you will not, at some specific point, be happy.

That's a RBFD, and that's why there's gonna' be a part two. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.