The Pursuit of Contentment (Again)

Someone recently pointed out to me that I've been writing these columns for just over a year now. I missed my first anniversary as a wannabe professional writer. This provoked two reactions.

First, I was kind of bummed. I've been at this for over a year without somehow going viral or someone stepping up and offering to pay me to write? Sheesh. Sure, hundreds of thousands of people, millions for all I know, have the same goal, but I thought God was on my side. 

On the other hand, I'm proud of the fact that I've published a new column every week, as I set out to do. 

If I drop dead as I'm writing this I will have managed to leave a batch of love letters for the Stickies and my daughter and son-in-law, which are what my feeble scribbles actually are. I feel like I've followed through on a New Year's resolution for the first time in my life.

The Pursuit of Contentment, my first column, remains, as far as I can tell, one of my most frequently accessed columns. But the statistics and technical tools helpfully provided by Google (the force behind Blogger which is the force behind my columns) often as not leave me baffled. 

For example, I just managed to accidentally delete the original column, and I have no idea how I did it, or where it went. It was my intention to re-publish my first and most popular (at least I think it is) column so far to celebrate my first anniversary and make it available for anyone not aware of it. 

Fortunately, I just happened to have a copy of the original stored offline, which is amazing since I stuff almost everything into the cloud. 

Anyway, for the record, The Pursuit of Contentment, my very first column, was published on 7.23.15. However, if you go looking, the first column you will find is Republicrats v. Depublicans, 7.29.15, because of my technical incompetence I'm technically challenged. Happy anniversary to me!

When I become king I'm going to order that the phrase, "...the pursuit of happiness" in the Declaration of Independence be replaced with, "...the pursuit of Contentment."

As to precisely what Mr. Jefferson meant by the original phrase, well, that depends on which scholarly interpretation you choose to accept. I'm not a scholar, nor do I play one on TV. I've conducted a (brief) in-depth study and the result was a mild headache and an inexplicable desire to watch reality show marathons.

Since I plan to alter one of the nation's most sacred and fundamental founding documents once I become the King, I must explain the logic at work in this fantasy.

Granted, my critics may claim that any logic promulgated by a man that thinks he should be the king of America should be dismissed as pretzel logic. Two quick points. First, I promise to be a benevolent tyrant. Also, note the fact that I refer to myself as I, not we, a clear demonstration of my sincerity.

To me, and I suspect I'm not alone, the right to pursue happiness means that we — Americans (well, everyone actually), not my would-be royal personage — have the right to choose whatever course of action that we find agreeable, within certain limits, that we feel (hope) will make us happy.

I use the phrase within certain limits because most of us semi-rational adults, though unfortunately not all, understand that we're not the king/queen of, or even the only kid on, the playground. This is important. We must share the swings, sliding board, etc. with others.

However, there's a problem. It's human nature to believe that once a certain goal or desire is realized, we will, at long last, be happy. "Once I graduate, turn 16, 18, 21 or 65, get the job, have sex, win the lottery, retire or _____, I WILL BE HAPPY!" and we will — until we're not.

This tendency is amplified by a consumer culture that bombards us with a firestorm of advertising promising happiness will at long last arrive, via UPS, in 3 to 5 business days. Feelings, like coins, flip easily.

Contentment is also a feeling, of course, but I use it here in a philosophic sense, as a way of looking at things and a strategery for getting through the day. I wish to change a common noun to a proper noun, kings can do stuff like that. Full disclosure: I freely admit that what follows is merely my personal, highly condensed take on a particular aspect of Stoicism, a philosophy that's been with us for over 2,000 years.

Also, I must acknowledge my debt to a book you should read called, "A Guide to the Good Life: The Ancient Art of Stoic Joy" by William B. Irvine. And, to my late wife, Ronbo, who always insisted on looking on the bright side... which sometimes pissed me off (GRIN).


It could always be worse, much worse.

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, an agnostic, 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.

How do I maintain my contentment buzz in the midst of a crap storm? Reminding myself that it could be worse fosters a sense of gratitude. Gratitude is important because while our wants are seemingly limitless, what we are given is not.

If you know any recovered drunks or druggies, ask them to explain the phrase, "attitude of gratitude." Being grateful for what I have serves to curb my longing for what I don't. I still want stuff, but I seek Contentment in what I do have today, not what I might have tomorrow.

When I go out to eat I sometimes find myself wishing I could afford a better restaurant than one where the decor includes much in the way of brightly colored petroleum byproducts. Of course, I'm fortunate to be able to eat out at all, or even to count on regular meals since many Earthlings can't.

And Wendy's is waaay better than having to sharpen my spear, round up the gang, and engage in mortal combat with a wooly mammoth.

Have an OK day.

The Importance of Things We Take For Granted, a Tribute to Andy Rooney

I wish to salute the 1,001 conveniences of modern life that we take for granted. There's a vast range of various variables concerning the size/significance/importance/etc of these things, and I could live, no, survive (there's a difference), without many of them, but all are important to one degree or another or they wouldn't exist.

Dr. Deirdre McCloskey, the subject of a recent post, would call them market-tested betterments. They exist because someone had an idea, and multiple someones found the implementation of that idea useful.

Paper towels, or rather a lack thereof, is the genesis of this column. I live in the attic of the large house that me and my freakishly large household lease from our tight fisted but blessedly mostly absentee landlord. It's quite pleasant, as far as starving artists garrets go. It's a finished attic and my hunger pangs will be alleviated shortly via my portable refrigerator and my microkiller. Incidentally, my late wife called call microwave ovens microkillers, for no reason other than it made us both smile and just sounded right. It still works for me. Miss ya' babe.

However, I'm out of paper towels, which I discovered yesterday, much to my horror, when I was doing a bit of cleaning. This means that I'll have to use two paper plates instead of one since I don't have a paper towel to place betwixt the pre-cooked snausage (please refer to microkiller justification above) patties I'm rapidly becoming obsessed about (I told you I was hungry) and the aforementioned paper plate. See, without a paper towel to serve as a pork grease absorber ("pork fat rules!") a second paper plate will be needed to prevent pork grease from leaching through and leaving a spot on my desk, which apropos of nothing, is actually a high-quality, six foot long (30" wide) utility table. Well, it's apropos to me, I like a large desk/workspace.

[Marie-Louise and Dana, are glancing at each other, and me, nervously, as if to say, no, you ask him if he's having a breakdown of some sort.]

Lest you think I'm having some sort of breakdown, fear not. I'm merely setting the stage for what follows.

[Dana heaves a sigh of relief; Marie-Louise smiles and administers a brief back scratch of encouragement.]

See, everything mentioned above, except the utility table that I use for a desk, are relatively recent inventions. All of them exist in the background of my life, I take them for granted and give them very little thought except for when they stop working (or need cleaning). I'm a firm believer in, and derive much enjoyment from, cleanliness in general. However, I don't enjoy having to do the work necessary to effect a clean environment.

I suspect this is genetic. For those of you that don't know, or may have forgotten, I am descended from a very old European aristocratic family. By the time I came along, years of deep dissipation had caught up with them and when I was kidnapped by gypsies my family refused to pay the ransom (it's complicated). This led to a series of events that culminated in my "father" winning me in a poker game at the Gem Saloon in Deadwood, South Dakota.

I've always felt that I was destined to have a small, devoted coterie of servants (to whom I would be exceptionally kind) to deal with all the daily humdrumery. I've also assumed that at some point I would be independently, but not embarrassingly, wealthy and would live the life of a mildly dissipated, but nevertheless enlightened, dilettante. I'm still cautiously optimistic but I'm 62.75 years old chronologically speaking (39 spiritually) which means I only have 38.25 years left.

At this point, I'd settle for enough dough to take the Stickies to Disney World. But none of this has anything to do with the Importance of Things We Take For Granted so I better move on. Dana and Marie-Louise are starting to look jumpy again.

I go to great lengths to use paper towels responsibly. Primarily because I'm cheap relatively poor frugal. Also, for environmental reasons, though I must admit that while I suspect paper towels degrade quickly and efficiently and constitute no threat to mother Earth, I don't actually know. Better safe than sorry.

But there it sits (I've secured a fresh roll.) A pristine, white, sanitary sentinel. While I'm an enthusiastic user of rags, because I'm cheap relatively poor frugal, but sometimes only a paper towel will do. When certain things need cleaning, I must have paper towels.

Stoicism...

[What!]

Bear with me.

Stoicism, I refer to the now mostly ignored philosophy (not an attitude) that teaches that the remedy for longing for stuff we don't, or can't have, is to be aware of the stuff we do have and contemplate how we would feel if we were to lose it. Paper towels for example. Or computers.

I have lived without both paper towels and computers. I need to check in with my older sibs for verification but I don't remember having paper towels in our house when I was a kid. I do remember being amused when my roommate (I was about 25 at the time) came home with not only paper towels but with a paper towel holder/rack/dispenser as well (which was installed with limited success so we stopped using it eventually and just left a roll sitting on the kitchen counter).

I was amused because paper towels seemed like a waste of our limited resources, and besides, that's what worshrags were for (see ubiquitous My Pillow commercial wherein the "inventure" of the My Pillow brags about it being machine worshable). However, over the years I've developed a deep and lasting affection for paper towels. Oh, I also have a deep and lasting affection for my My Pillow.

And computers. I lived without a personal computer for more than half my life and I'm so old I personally know people that don't use one, don't even own a cell phone. I currently don't own a cell phone, but for the record, I was an early adopter and had given up my landline very early on just to see if I could, and I did. But now I hate them, cell phones I mean, but there's no point in getting into that just now, so I won't.

I love my computer, it's a current events junkies/music lovers/dilettantes delight. "Need input!" And unlike a cell phone, If I choose to ignore it occasionally to read a real book or play around with my keyboard (as in music, as in piano, not the device that I'm typing this on), that I'm going to someday actually learn how to play, when I'm out and about in the world no one will approach me, wild-eyed and salivating, demanding to know, "when was the last time you checked your phone! I left you a gazillion messages!" Sorry, I said I wasn't going to go into that.

But the other day Mark's Toy IV, my current computer, for some mysterious reason wouldn't let me fire up Chrome, my window on the world, my access to all the stuff that I keep in the cloud -- until I rebooted, which fixed everything. Phew! Which set me to thinking about Stoicism and how appreciating what you have is much better than bitching about what you don't.

Have you ever wondered why phew starts with the letter p? I miss you, Andy Rooney.

Have an OK day.

©Mark Mehlmauer 2016

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The Secret of Life

The secret of life is that so-called real life is just high school with money. Once you embrace this notion, much becomes clear.

When I was in school, I noticed a phenomenon that has not changed. Much has changed since I graduated from high school in 1971 and the subsequent, but unrelated, beginning of the collapse of Western Civilization in 1972. (1972 was the year disco songs started showing up on the charts). I'm certain it hasn't changed because I have several hundred grandchildren, all children of the new millennium, all of whom I monitor closely.

[Aside: I help to support this sticky syndicate of savages in various ways for various reasons. I've been unusually lucky in that all of them, without exception, are fundamentally kind. Thanks to good parenting they're all well aware that while it's sometimes difficult to discern the straight and narrow path, it does exist, and should be followed if at all possible. I believe that the future will benefit from the fact they're in the world. 

Also, I'm reasonably confident that if I help them out as much as I can now, they'll make sure a certain old crank will never starve, or go without internet access, even if it's just from guilt.]

Where was I? Oh, yeah. As a young callowyute, I found it interesting that kids of only slightly different ages were often radically different creatures. Grade levels served as a reliable index. Every September, when I returned to school after another summer of back-breaking work in our family steel mill that was located in the Sou-side-a-Pittsburgh, it was the same.

Most of the kids that were one grade level behind me, the one that I had been in three months previously, were childish and dorky. Most of the kids that were one grade ahead, who were in the grade I was now in, just three months ago, were cooler than me and seemed to know something I didn't know.

[Begged question: Why is the American school calendar still built around an agrarian economy that no longer exists?]

As a callowyute, I was taught that at some point this process would end; that I would be a grup. All that was necessary after that was a slow but steady accumulation of skills and wisdom which I would pass on to the callowyutes in my life. Of course, I wouldn't be like most grups, I'd still be cool. I'd never wear socks with sandals. I'd open a vein rather than wear an all-polyester outfit that included a white patent leather belt and shoes (and sandals with socks). I'd only drive cool cars. Etc.

[Legally speaking, in the US at least, we're adults, or at least callowyutes with privileges, at the age of 16, 18 or 21, depending on the subject at hand and/or the location. Science tells us that H. sapiens are not fully mature until roughly the age of 25. This explains a lot. I find it interesting that car insurance companies figured this out before I was born based strictly on statistics. No theories, opinions, or legal judgments were needed or called for. The careful collection and verification of the facts was all that was needed. Life as it is, not as we would like it to be. We need more of that.]

Once we finally fully mature we spend the rest of our lives waiting for the next dramatic step -- that day we will wake up filled with wisdom and certainty -- which never actually happens. We never graduate. The rate of change slows down, the lines blur, the average reasonably well-adjusted 40-year-old will find the average reasonably well-adjusted 30-year-old lacking, in specific as well as vague ways.

Most will gradually/slowly/painfully get better at impulse control and learning to share the playground with others, perhaps even pick up a bit of wisdom here and there. Many will not. We will start out confident that we won't be like our parents; that our lives will be _______, _______, and _______! Then our lives will mostly just happen to us.

You're probably in better shape than me. I'm almost 63 years old and over think everything but in my heart of hearts, I'm the same horny, insecure callowyute destined to be a rockstar and enlightened Taoist master that I was in high school -- just less so (thank God).

We will do our best to keep the boat in the middle of the stream and going in the right direction. For a tiny minority, this will be easy, not so much for most. Some will win, some will lose, most will tie.

We will do the job, take care of the kids and the parents that are morphing back into kids, keep the car running, etc. Since it's relatively easy to fool most callowyutes/ourselves/other grups, we will all participate in a lie agreed upon (HT: David Milch). We'll all pretend to be well-adjusted grups when in reality we're just high functioning high school kids.

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)

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