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.

Xanax (Before I Wake Up Dead, Pt. 2)

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.

[Bloggaramians: 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)

"Old friends pass away, new friends appear. An old day passes, a new day arrives. The important thing is to make it meaningful; a meaningful friend -- or a meaningful day." -Dalai Lama. I wonder if his mom or his friends call him Dalai?


Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grandstickies,

OK class, let's review. In last week's column, after spending an embarrassing amount of time promoting my -- New and Improved! -- website and its new features such as my Come On and Safari With Me tab where I post interesting shtuff I've found while web surfing -- inhale -- I initiated a new series of columns based on the following notion, what would I want to make sure I've said to My Dear Stickies if I knew my deletion from meatspace was imminent.

The first thing I thought of was the importance of finding (positive) meaning in life/in your lives. "..in order to find positive meaning in your life, you need a goal that you find valuable." Having run out of time I left you with a video clip from a lecture by Dr. Jordan Peterson who is not only much smarter than me, he also explains things better than I do.

If you haven't seen it yet go ahead and watch it now, I'll wait till you get back. If you're a dead trees reader, fret not (but you really should get over your..., well, nevermind). Anyway, now you're stuck with dealing with only my bonkercockie, without Dr. P. to help you out.

All right class, if everyone's ready we'll...

[Yeah-yeah-yeah, whatever. What's the point of anything? Why bother getting out of bed in the morning? 'Scuse me, I gotta' go find my Xanax. SOUND OF DOOR SLAMMING] 

Keep spreading the sunshine, Dana! Sorry, geez, I hope I didn't trigger you.

Anyways... The very first thing that comes to mind concerning the very first thing that I'd like to make sure I tell you about, that is, the importance of finding (positive) meaning in your life/in your lives is -- without meaning/purpose/goals/etceterals -- you're sunk. You're doomed, Your fresh meat for pill popping/pill pushing shrinks.

Now, the thing is... excuse me, the phones ringing again, I've been ignoring it but repeated re-calls to my freakishly large household may indicate that one of the denizens of Casa de Chaos really needs help. I'll be right back.

DISCLAIMER

This column in no way wishes to disparage licensed psychiatry, the practices of its licensed practitioners and/or patients that benefit from legally prescribed prescriptions. The author acknowledges that there are any number of legitimate psychiatric problems that require medication. In fact, personally knows many H. sapiens that might benefit from same. 

Sorry, it was some nameless, nervous, newly minted associate calling for my lawyers -- Dewey, Cheatham & Howell. They're always calling about something, claiming to be proactive. I think that they're just pro-billable hours.

As I was saying, the thing is, while of course there are no shortage of legitimate reasons for psych meds, if more H. sapiens consciously cultivated meaning/purpose/goals/etceterals it would make a considerable dent in the fortunes of Big Pharma.

[Enlighten us then oh Cranky one! (giggle). A glassy-eyed Dana speaks (with a slight but discernable slur). Where, pray tell, does one find said qualities in a world where everyone dies? Marie-Louise and Iggy each take an arm and gently escort him out of my consciousness.]


The answer to that question is the stuff books are made of, but I'm writing as if my deletion is imminent in case my deletion is imminent. Let me begin by pointing out that regardless of your feelings about any given traditional religion, automatically reject any claim that they're right and everyone else is wrong. God only knows what the truth is.

Big But

If the bulk of their dogma is primarily concerned with how to get along with the other kids on the playground in a civilized way without bullying anybody and leading a moral life more or less in line with the 6.5 commandments, well, judge not, lest you be judged.

Now, I'm not saying that in order for H. sapiens in general, or yinz guys in particular, to cultivate meaning/purpose/goals/etceterals that it's necessary to belong to a particular religious sect.

I am saying that regardless of the motivation of these folks -- to go to heaven, to stay out of hell, or just to cover their butts -- whatever, psychologically speaking the result is the same. I'm also saying that many people, not all but many, with a bit of effort, can get the same results -- or close enough. (However, I can't guarantee you'll get into heaven or even if it exists.)

What result? You'll keep getting out of bed and you'll keep trying, secure in the knowledge there may be a rainbow after the crapstorm passes.

The Bad News

If you've been around for more than a minute or two and paying attention, regardless of whether you're a glass-half-full, glass-half-empty, or a screw the glass gimme the bottle sort of person you know three things. 

First, paint rainbows all over your blues, crawl inside said bottle, or, seek moderation in all things -- life will sink its teeth into your cute ass at random intervals. Second, sooner or later, you're going to be deleted. 

Finally, when your response to the bad news is to declare the battle lost before it starts and pull the covers up over your head and go back to sleep and/or embrace despair/negativism/nihilism/postmodernism/etceterism the best you can hope for is stasis. That is, to be reliably miserable, and hope you don't get even worse. You know this.

The Good News

If you've been around for more than a minute or two and paying attention, regardless of whether you're a glass-half-full, glass-half-empty, or a screw the glass gimme the bottle sort of person you also know three other things.

First, as soon as you take a single step in the direction of reaching a defined goal -- be it cleaning up your room or the pursuit of enlightenment -- you'll feel good, or at least better than you were, and, you'll find life does have meaning, if only for a minute. When the meaning fades, set another goal. 

[If this doesn't work for you, then yes, you need to talk to someone. However, first look yourself in the eye and ask yourself if the reason you think life is meaningless is that it means you don't have to put away the chips, turn off the primary rectangle, and get a life. That it means you don't have to do anything besides feel sorry for yourself.]

Second, if you do get out of bed and try, there's at least a chance you, and your corner of the world, will get better/be better. If you don't, you, and it, definitely won't.

Finally, having taken the time and trouble to build/maintain a house with a well-stocked medicine cabinet and a storm cellar, when a reality snake sinks its fangs into your ass, you'll be ready. When the inevitable crap storm hits -- physical/psychological/financial/etceteralogical -- you'll be ready. You know this too.

There might even be a rainbow -- eventually. Poppa loves you.

[Since this already longish column has inadvertently turned into an hommage (pronounce with a French accent, oo' - maa... never mind, stop laughing Marie-Louise) of sorts to Dr. Jordan B. Peterson, a potential savior of Western Civilization (let's hope so), here's some tough love for ya, eh?


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.

  

  

Before I Wake Up Dead

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)

"Some people die at 25 and aren't buried until 75." -Benjamin Franklin

DANGER!

Possibly Excessive Self Promotion Ahead

Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grandstickies,

Please hold on for just a sec', I've got to speak to the gentlereaders first...

My Dear Gentlereaders, FYI, my website, TheFlyoverlandCrank.com is not only -- New and Improved! -- it's still improving even as I write this. First, the Please Read This If You're New Here Tab is now called, Who Is This Guy Anyway?

If you've read Please Read This If You're New Here before, well, it hasn't radically changed but it now explains who I am and what this column is about more clearly and might be worth a reread on your part.

If you've never checked out my site it's definitely worth reading my -- New and Improved! -- introductory essay, Who Is This Guy Anyway? It's only the length of about two of my average columns but it attempts to provide my gentlereaders with the who, what, and why of my semi-humble missives.

The Glossary is updated, expanded (and ever expanding). This is where you need to look for explanations when you encounter a made-up word, be it my creation or one I stole borrowed from someone else. You'll also find the explanations behind corrupted/distorted/etceterated words such as shtuff or snifficant or etceterated.

I think it's worth reading for its own sake (You'll Laugh! You'll Cry!) but I don't get out that much.

There are two brand new tabs (you may have read about them in The New York Times or heard them mentioned on your favorite polarizing cable news channel).

Come On And Safari With Me, a title stolen borrowed from a Beach Boys song, Surfin' Safari, is where I post links to interesting shtuff I find when I surf the Web. Though obviously a thinly veiled attempt to get you to visit my website to check for updates, I pinky swear that I will do my best to post cool links there.

I used to post these sort of links on the Flyoverland Crank's Facebook page. Going forward I'll only use the FB page to announce new columns and post links to Wall (no fake news) Street Journal articles, the only way to share WSJ articles due to a very sturdy paywall.

Finally, the new Privy Council of Perspicacious Polymaths tab lists the names of the individuals chosen to be members of my privy council once I become the King of America. Each name is accompanied by a video that will introduce my future subjects to my favorite polymaths.

Warning!

The format of my website contradicts the conventional wisdom of  people that make a very nice living advising other people how to make a very nice living by constructing their websites to be honey traps for people who don't like to read and/or whose attention spans have been reduced to the level of high functioning chimpanzees due to the pace of modern life and social media addiction. This is why so much of the web is beautiful graphics, minimal words, sexed-up titles, bums and boobies, and aggressive never-ending, advertising. I offer mostly just words, and no ads.

Now, where was I... oh, yeah waking up dead. Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grandstickies...

Death Is Natures Way of Telling You to Slow Down

...And although this saying of uncertain etymology is only vaguely relevant to what follows I threw it anyway because I like it and want to use it somewhere before I die. 

Although I currently self-identify as a 39-year-old drop dead gorgeous African-American lesbian woman person named Coco, I'm trapped inside the body of a 64-year-old cranky white dude who's currently dealing with spinal stenosis.

Spinal stenosis (sounds ugly don't it?) generated problems range from relatively mild to relatively awful. For now, I'm at the relatively mild end of the scale. That could change with time, but I'm on it.

The reason I mention this is because I've been mildly obsessed with death for couple-a-three years now because, one, for the first time in my life I had/I have some serious health problems and two, I know a lot of dead people. Oh, and an awful lot of famous people that I've been aware of for decades are dropping dead.

As to number one, yes, of course I'm grateful. As to number two, yes, of course, I'm aware that people succumbing to involuntary dirt naps with depressing regularity is a logical/inevitable/commonsensical/etceterical stone cold fact. No need to take it personally, right?

For the record, while I don't want to die just yet -- I've got a bunch of shtuff I need/I'd like to get done -- I don't fear death. In fact, I'm kinda/sorta looking forward to it for philosophical reasons, positive ones that I won't go into here. But, I must admit that the possibility of dying slowly and painfully is somewhat disconcerting.


Now, when I say mildly obsessed, I mean just that. It's always sort of there, in the background, like a simmering pot of subtle potpourri.  A simmering pot of subtle potpourri... say it out loud with a French accent. Cool, huh? Well, not exactly, because I hate the smell of a simmering pot of potpourri. Subtle -- or as strong as a house full of Glade Plug-Ins cranked all the way up -- I'll pass.

But I fell in love with the simile as soon as I wrote it so it's probably going to still be here when I click on the Publish button.

While I don't sit around all day thinking about death (though I do sit around all day, it's a stenosis thing) I'm, um, TRIGGERED! that's it!, something for the Millennials to relate to. I'm triggered when I'm reminded of my inevitable deletion from meatspace.


Until relatively recently, I thought I was bulletproof, ten feet tall, and going to live forever. The realization that I'm not is one of the reasons I started writing these letters/this column.

However, the death of Tom Petty + spinal stenosis + siblings in worse shape than I + the fact that the Wompa Woman can't be bothered to do her exercises anymore + other shtuff = 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 momentary deletion...

[Dana: Huh?]
[Iggy; Tom who?]
[Marie-Louise, stops scratching, places hands on hips (hers, not mine): French accent?]

While fervently hoping I'm not. But ya' never know, ya' know?


Having already crossed the 1,000-word threshold due to my intemperate self-promotion, it's too late to thoroughly explore the very first thing that came to mind when I thought about what I'd like to make sure I told yinz if I were facing impending deletion.

That is to say, the importance of finding positive meaning in life/in your lives.

However, rather than just leave you hanging, here's a taste of what's coming next week

A few weeks ago I wrote about Hope and/or Goals (Heavenly Graces, Pt. 3). I mentioned that there are physiological reasons for why goal seeking makes you feel good. Well, in order to find positive meaning in your life, you need a goal that you find valuable. The pursuit of goals will make you feel good and supply meaning which will make you feel even better.

See, the thing is...well here, step into Dr. Peterson's class for just a minute. 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.