It’s no surprise to anyone who knows me that I am a victim of “SAD”--Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder. I had to look that up because I really think it should be pronounced the same but the acronym should read “SED”. I guess it just doesn’t roll off the tongue as nicely. I know Spring is in the air. I have previously written about the hope and optimism the season brings as if I was Barack Obama himself. This morning as I peered out my window to see the heavy snow falling I remembered why I hate hope and optimism. I’m just so sick of being dissapointed. I’m not sure to whom I should attribute this quote… perhaps it’s me: “Optimists are always dissapointed, while pessimists are pleasantly surprised.” There are a whole class of people who claim: “I love the Winter! I love to go out and cross-country ski and go ice fishing and snowmobiling and walking along the frozen shore of an ice-covered lake.”
Those people piss me off.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy being outdoors; camping, boating, hiking as much as anyone. But in the winter? I sense some sort of contrived attempt to hide the appearance of SAD amongst these people. I mean, no one really enjoys freezing their ass off and excercising at the same time do they? “Hey look at me! I’m fit and in-shape and enjoy outdoor winter activities. Aren’t I an optimistic go-getter getting the most of life?” No, you’re an annoying, self-delusional liar and we all know it.
Bite me.
Back to my point. I have SAD. I get depressed and consumed by a sense of ennui and morose internal reflection: “What have I done with my life?” “What have I accomplished?” “Where did my hopes and dreams of a life filled with love and adventure go?”. You know… the usual shit one goes through when they haven’t seen the sun or felt the warm evening breeze in forty days and forty nights. I’m not alone. It’s to be expected when you live in a place like Minnesota (or God help you, North Dakota). But there is a point in the season where my Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder starts to become Meteorological Affectiveness Disorder and instead of walking around all sullen and despondent, I’m just… pissed off. “Fuck you winter! Get the hell off my front lawn!”
It’s these last days of winter when it is, in fact, actually spring that really get me MAD. I’m not feeling introspective, I’m feeling MAD. I am just about done with this. The only small amount of joy I take in a late season heavy snow fall (eight inches forecasted for today) is that those annoying snow-shoeing winter activity people are exhausted by now. The fraudulent front of optimism has been worn down. They can no longer maintain the lie and they fall victim to SAD themselves. The usually up-beat, stupid, happy grin on their faces is replaced with a malaise and a grimace that I recognize immediately. In the true spirit of schadenfreude, I find a sense of calming satisfaction in their suffering. “Don’t like all this snow huh? Wish it was warm? Sick of shoveling and scraping windows and cold, wet socks?”
Welcome to winter.
I am sure somewhere there is a detailed explanation of this--either from some scholarly journal of psychology or, more likely, from a particularly astute comedian. Same thing.
The stereotype here is that this is a “girl thing”. As usual, the stereotype is correct. We have all noticed that women embrace the word cute much more than men. Ladies, men don’t like being called “cute” to our faces. Like the words ‘menstruation’ or ‘commitment’; cute is word better left spoken only to your girlfriends. In other words, calling a man cute is exactly the same as saying he has a small penis.
For some reason absolutely anything small is cute. As many of you know, I recently purchased a Cooper Mini. “It’s so cute!” Like a kitten, or a Keebler Elf. If the value of money were set by women, the dime would be the most valuable denomination. As a man, I have struggled with the reason for this all my life. Why the hell is ANYTHING small immediately and unquestionably “cute”? The answer is so simple. It’s part of the genetic, instinctive desire to possess, create and care for something small. A baby.
Babies aren’t cute because they are small. Small things are cute because they are like babies. I guess this is typically why men like things to be large. We hate babies.
So yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day--or as I prefer to call it: “rookie night”. Don’t get me wrong. I love the Irish culture. There’s something beautiful about an entire people dedicated to drinking themselves silly and getting into a fist fight with their own family members. I’ve spent my fair share of time in Irish pubs; it’s my preference for 364 days of the year. But on rookie night, I’d rather French-kiss the urine encrusted Blarney Stone than spend my time watching 25 year old girls vomiting green beer into their own shoe.
As Americans we have, for some reason, really embraced the Irish culture. But I just don’t see how. I mean, I like strong beer and the sound of bagpipes in the morning… but I get the impression that most of America doesn’t. So what gives? I mean, what has this wonderful culture given us that the typical, American St. Patrick’s Day reveler appreciates? I mean, I don’t see Guinness out-selling Miller Light any time soon, and I certainly don’t expect men to take to the streets en masse wearing kilts. I don’t expect to see hip-hop replaced by Celtic classics. So really, this is just an excuse to behave like a stupid, pathetic drunk--which is too bad since these rookies don’t have the necessary drinking skills to pull it off with anything approximating a true Irishmen’s skill.
Going to an Irish pub on St. Patrick’s Day is as fun as a barrel full of monkeys. You must realize however, that a bunch of angry, drunk monkeys crammed into a barrel will start flinging their own feces at you and clawing each other’s eyes out.
Every now and then I need to take a moment to acknowledge a good idea when I see one. I have seen one: http://www.barseenlive.com/. It hasn’t really taken off yet, but the idea is outstanding. You put web cams in bars around town, charge a small fee to the bar and allow people at home take a gander at the goings on of your establishment. "Should I go there? Is it too busy? Not busy enough? Will I get a table? Is Frank working tonight?" Awesome.
The site was featured in the Pioneer Press today. Though the article is a little heavy on the cheeky side of the technology, the possibilities are there to make this a success should the local bar scene take to it without fear.
This is the next generation of .com start up. We’ll see how it plays out. If they can build a proper business model and generate some ad revenue they should do well. If not, well it’s another good idea gone the way of the dodo.
As I stepped outside for a mid-afternoon constitutional I noticed a certain spring in my step--a spring that is in step with spring itself. The first real melting of the snow—the first real sign of spring. My senses were awakened with a sound I have not heard in many months, the sounds of a babbling brook… or in this case, the sound of dirty, melting snow and ice plummeting down the storm drain. I walked to the drain and saw the melting pile of dirty, black, garbage-strewn snow at the side of the road gently—reluctantly-giving itself up and returning to its liquid state. As if the city is slowly cleansing itself; washing off four months of funk and stalled decay. There was something symbolic in it as I watched the melting water pour down the drain carrying cigarette butts, empty plastic bags and myriad tidbits of the accumulated dirt and grime of the city into its bowels. It seemed to me like all the frustrations, irritations, inconveniences and troubles of winter were hidden within that snow bank on the side of the road. The accumulated ill-will of our metropolitan collective was being swept away in a small torrent of cleansing, dirty-brown water.
Though I have no doubt the snow will come again before this spring has sprung, this small respite provides some sense of hope--a sense of better things and better days to come.
It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. I can’t wait.
As promised, it’s high time we address the issue of old people, and how much they irritate me. First we must define the term “old people”. For the purposes of this discussion, “old people” are defined as anyone older than me. That definition will hold true until such time as I am dead. But let’s start with the Baby Boomers. God I hate the Baby Boomers. They exhibit, in large part, what I hate about old people in general—this ignorant sense of self-entitlement and smug superiority. That’s really what it comes down to. They’re not the “Greatest Generation”. They are that generation's annoying kids. They are the generation that hoarded all the goodies from the piñata of post-WWII America, piled them up in a big field and set them on fire.
Thanks.
These people have no concept of what life is like for anyone younger than them. They have given their progeny the gift of a lower quality of life. For the first time in America (as far I can tell) their children are not going to have it better than they did. The selfish bastards. We are going backward and they don’t see it. They sit back and scratch their Rogaine-covered heads in bewteen sipping a Stabuck's latte and getting their Viagra prescription refilled wondering aloud: “Why can’t my kids seem to buy a house or afford college? When I was their age, I owned my own home had a college degree and already had children.” Maybe it’s because a new house doesn’t cost $30,000 any more and that the cost of a college education is roughly equivalent to the gross domestic product of Albania.
Do they realize that no one under 40 even thinks about Social Security? It’s not even considered. It’s just another tax. Like a user-fee at the library (remember libraries?). We just assume that all that money we are paying is going to go help somebody else or go toward some great public service. It’s not that we don’t think we’ll ever see any of that money again; it’s that we know we won’t. As such, it doesn’t even occur to us to think about it. Of course, if we did think about it we’d realize where all that money is going… to the Baby Boomers. The same self-important egomaniacal, irresponsible pricks that gave us this standard of living we are enjoying today.
Every time I hear one of these “old people” talk about the “good old days” and how younger people simply can’t handle responsibility, it makes me want smash a Neil Diamond album over their heads, tie an ascot around their necks and drag them bodily behind their Volvo through the streets of Maple Grove.
So thank you Baby Boomers. Thanks for the culture of distrust and for sucking every ounce of marrow from our economic future. Because you fucked everyone you met, we can’t fuck anyone. Thanks for that as well. I can’t wait to sit my grandkids on my lap and tell them stories about what life was like before we had to live in the dome.
As for the “Greatest Generation”… you raised these people. Thanks a lot assholes.
It’s no surprise to anyone who knows me that I am a victim of “SAD”--Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder. I had to look that up because I really think it should be pronounced the same but the acronym should read “SED”. I guess it just doesn’t roll off the tongue as nicely. I know Spring is in the air. I have previously written about the hope and optimism the season brings as if I was Barack Obama himself. This morning as I peered out my window to see the heavy snow falling I remembered why I hate hope and optimism. I’m just so sick of being dissapointed. I’m not sure to whom I should attribute this quote… perhaps it’s me: “Optimists are always dissapointed, while pessimists are pleasantly surprised.” There are a whole class of people who claim: “I love the Winter! I love to go out and cross-country ski and go ice fishing and snowmobiling and walking along the frozen shore of an ice-covered lake.”
