I've had me a few

My friend Professor Mondo is fond of saying, "Cynicism is my whiskey, and I've had me a few."  Ever since I saw that for the first time, I loved it (and I've warned the good Professor that I'm so stealing that line).  It's not only awesome in its own right, but I love it because in a way, it describes my own life.

This is on my mind because the subject of how humor helps you deal with life came up in one of the late-night conversations I had last week with my friend up in Alaska.  We always know our little summit meetings, be they for a week or just a couple nights, are going to involve some fairly heavy discussions of philosophical matters.  This one was no exception, and during the course of those conversations, one door opened another, and so forth, and I ended up discoursing about the cynicism in my own life.

Cynicism isn't something I developed because I wanted it; it's something that happened because of certain things that happened along life's journey, and having to play certain difficult cards dealt me by life, the knowledge that I was never going to be the golden girl in life's little pageant, all the things that happened along the way when I realized I would rather take the roads less traveled, roads that were often beautiful but could be extremely lonesome.  My overdeveloped, incredibly sick sense of humor is one way I've dealt with these things.  But, as I told my friend, if you strip away all the layers of titanium that have developed over my psyche all these years, you'll find someone who is an incredible romantic, who would really love to believe in the stories that have fairytale endings.

So often, though, life has dealt me circumstances or thrown me curveballs, and I've had a choice: flip out and lose all hope, or find a way to deal with the disappointment, work the problem and do the best I can to put the best possible ending on things.  Sometimes part of that coping process is for me to let the dark humor take over, let cynicism and irony do a bit of the driving.  The cynicism tells me to expect the worst, and that way anything that doesn't turn out badly means you're one step ahead.  The backhanded humor lets me lose some of the angst, and dealing with the dark side of it helps me to eventually see what silver lining that does emerge.

This was on my mind not only because it came up during one of those marathon conversations last week, but with something else that happened a week before my trip.  It would take too long (and, honestly, not be all that interesting) to tell you the full set of circumstances, but I'd gone to bed the night before a little bit melancholy about something. The next morning, I was reading in a book called By the Bomb's Early Light, a fantastic book about how American philosophy and culture changed in the first years of the atomic age.  The chapter I happened to read that morning began with a section on James Agee's unfinished story "Dedication Day," a story about the dedication of a monument in Washington commemorating the Bomb.  It's this completely over-the-top story that, from the description, seems like a particularly grotesque dream.  It was Agee's unfinished attempt to parse his complicated feelings about the Bomb and all it implied.  But in the mood I was in that morning, somehow it made perfect sense -- because it's how I handle my own complicated feelings about some difficult things, myself.  If I didn't deal with these things in a way that let me blow off some steam and make myself laugh, I'd go crazy.  My reaction to "Dedication Day" was something like "Holy cow, that sounds like something I'd write."

It's the same with other things.  For instance, why it is the first time I started to listen to Warren Zevon's songs, I had a reaction I've had very few times in my life: "He writes songs the way I feel."  It's why I can't listen to 98% of modern popular music: it's just not me, but Zevon's twisted tales often nailed how I felt, as did the way he composed and performed so many of them.  I just can't get into Sarah MacLachlan singing about angels, but Zevon singing about roguish characters?  That's my speed, right there. 

Or, for instance, why I often say I feel like my life is a Preston Sturges movie.  Would I love to be the Grace Kelly character in some great sweeping epic romantic tale?  You have no idea how much I wish that was me.  But it isn't.  My life story hasn't been that great sweeping epic romantic tale.  My life has been a tale Sturges would have had a field day with -- yes, there's a deep emotional center to it, but it's  accompanied by a lot of crazy things, screwball characters, things going hilariously awry.  That's why I can't really watch romance movies.  Part of me would really love to watch those movies and get into them and imagine myself in the fairy tale, that I could be one of those ladies who could put in a DVD and watch it and have the best time bawling my eyes out.  But I can't, and you'll find very few romance movies in my collection.  I just can't relate to them.  I wish I could say they were, but they're not me.

And that's how I deal with life.  In the right light, under the right circumstances, the romantic in me feels safe to emerge.  Heck, I imagine those of you who read this blog have seen the romantic emerge on here more than a few times.  But, most of the time, the gallows humor is how I protect my romantic core.  The armor was built up over years of dealing with life's happenings and adversities, and it's helped me to hope for the best while being prepared for the worst.  Sometimes the stars do align and the romantic part of me gets to take the stage, and she's beautiful when she does emerge.  But, more often than not, you'll find her up in life's skybox, spending the time between romantic moments having a pretty good time helping herself to the buffet table and laughing her head off at the screwy things that happen down on the playing field of life.  Otherwise, she'd literally be bored to tears.

Comments

[Jose Jimenez]

Alas, cynicism isn't the right word: You're a realist (or, as I put it to my fiends, a disappointed optimist). I'm sure the good Professor could debate that with you, if he were so inclined...

Nonetheless: A real cynic doesn't care; he/she has lot all hope--and is bound in a world where nothing matters, because, well, nothing matters. Cynicism and nihilism share the same slippery slope toward something no one really wants to be, but too many become because it's the easiest course. To see the world in real terms--and accept it at face value, dealing with the issues at hand--is nothing more than being a grown-up. Sure, it may suck from time to time, and it's easy to develop a callous or two where the pressure is the greatest, but in the end you pick up, work the problem, move on and appreciate the results. Frankly it's a character trait that's all too lacking in people these days, and one that for as backhandedly complimentary as it may be, is one worth standing up for.

So keep being the romantic, closeted or not; and don't fall for the propaganda that cynicism is the catch-all for the disappointments in life. It's takes fortitude and wisdom to see through that, and if life has taught me anything you have both in quantities to spare.

NB Kudos for the Dr. Thompson reference in the 4th para... ;)

[ea757grrl]

Jose: Yeah, you're probably closer to it than I am; "the disappointed optimist" is probably closer to what I am. Its just that the good Professor's quote was on my mind in the wee small hours of the morning up in AK when this one came tumbling out, as I was trying to make some sense of some things that had been troubling me.

Eric Sevareid once said of his mentor Ed Murrow, "He wasn't an optimist about tomorrow, but he was an optimist about the day after tomorrow." I've often used that to describe myself. Probably closer to what I wanted to say, anyway. But, I saw the shot, and took it, and you know the rest. :)

Thanks for stopping in!

NB "Hey, Mr. Shepard! I think your Jose Jimenez is...A-OK. But what you're doin' with it is b-a-d...." :)

[Profmondo.wordpress.com]

And of course, that line was spoken by the greatest player in the history of the Cincinnati Bengals (admittedly, that's like being the World's Tallest Midget), Anthony Munoz.

The thing about "Cynicism is my whiskey" (which I lifted from Bruce McCulloch, adding the second clause myself), is that whiskey is of course a kind of drug, and so is cynicism. Both are subject to abuse, and each can too easily become a kind of crutch. For what it's worth, I don't see that in you. As I tell my students, if you scratch a satirist, you'll find a moralist (e.g., Swift, Waugh, and some of Harlan Ellison's work). Likewise, you and I have had to develop carapaces of snark to cover the delicate tissues -- and the certainty that Things Matter even when we can't quite make them out -- beneath.

And just because I like the writing (and since I namechecked him in the previous graf), here's Ellison's version of your Preston Sturges analogy (from his short story, "Grail"):

"The great tragedy of my life is that in my search for the Holy Grail everyone calls True Love, I see myself as Zorro, a dark and mysterious highwayman -- and the women I desire see me as Porky Pig."

Fortunately, we've both found folks who from time to time are willing to see us as we'd like to see ourselves. Happy New Year, Nerd Girl.

[ea757grrl]

Prof: Many thanks for the kindness and understanding (and for dropping in, of course). Happy new year to you and yours, too.