Jan. 1, 2009

Though I'm considering "I'm Pathetic, You're Pathetic" for my autobio title, I'm always upbeat this time of year. All my New Year's resolutions are still intact. I've stayed off booze and junk food for -- what? -- almost 18 straight HOURS now, doughty trouper that I am. I'm even hopeful that my ridiculous New Year's Eve bar tab can qualify me for a federal bailout. I'm about to be 16-4 in the bowl pool. Ain't no stoppin' me now.

To me the week between Christmas and New Year's Day, save for the weather, is by far the best week of the year. But it's over. No more days to screw off and MAKE resolutions before having to seriously consider the ridiculously remote possibility of KEEPING the cursed things. It's like the appeal of sports fandom: lots of passion with no need to do one bleepin' thing. Before the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve it could backfire to do anything but drink, even if your number-one resolution was to quit drinking. Why dissipate the power of the rocket blast into your new life that begins at midnight? Timing timing timing.

But, assuming you're like 99.99 percent of the human race, you'll keep your resolution[s] for no more than a few days. If you're a real dynamo, maybe a few weeks. But then you're done.

Why? Flip it and ask how resolutions are EVER kept. Almost as soon as we're out of the womb, Americans are conditioned to do two things: obey and indulge. It seldom changes. In first grade if not earlier, we learn that when the bell rings we're to get in line, take our seats, and shut up till called on. The fun is over till recess, so better take advantage of that.

Does it ever really change? Not fundamentally. For most, indeed, it gets worse. The 8:30-3:30 of school days changes to 9:00-5:00. Teacher changes to boss. But guess what, boys and girls: in the little free time you're allowed (Americans get far less than the people of other advanced nations) you get to hit the mall, take out the plastic and go nuts. It's yesterday once more -- recess.

Few can overcome that conditioning. The wonder is we're not even worse boobs than we are. Few get any training in the serious side of toughness, as opposed to the kind of the schoolyard bully or sports-bar trash-talker. The right kind of toughness means harkening to INTERNAL promptings, not to those of priests, coaches, bosses, gurus, gods, the herd, advertisers. It means acclimating oneself to the symbiotic relationship of pain and happiness -- to the depressing truth of "no pain, no gain" -- and learning "the pleasure of taking pains," instead of instinctively recoiling from all pain, even the necessary kind. (Since I'm sounding like Bill Snyder addressing the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, some comic relief: "Whip me," said the masochist. "No," said the sadist.)

Of course, if many actually developed that kind of toughness everything would collapse. To stay afloat (if afloat it still is) the economy requires a population of pleasure-now consumers. All is premised on gulling people through advertising to indulge themselves with infantile impulsiveness and shameless greed and vanity even at the cost of humongous debt. Those who own and profit from things as they are require spendthrift consumers as well as obedient servants.

With obedience and indulgence instilled and reinforced from early youth on, 99 percent of us, for all the inspired talk of self-discipline, being our own bosses, running our own shows, etc., or merely getting some mild exercise instead of couch-potatoing, might as well talk of becoming king of England or Sir Mick Jagger. The notion of being one's own boss derives from real bosses: someone who's not you that you answer to. Who thinks through what it really means to "be my own boss"? Who or what is commanding and who or what is obeying? Conscience? Ideally, of course. But in reality "unconscionable" is what describes so much of the way we live.

All the how-to-book bromides make little impact. To sell books, the how-to industry peddles the delusion that ignorance is the problem. (Hence such titles as "Secrets of X," "Four Steps to X," "Insider's Guide to X," etc.) But rarely is ignorance the problem. We know what to do but we don't do what we know.

Independent, self-starting spirits do exist. Some really do write the plays they star in. But because few of us get the training in the art of living that would enable us to overcome at least some of the conditioning that's designed to break us to the harnesses of obedience and indulgence, we veg on the couch before "She's the Sheriff" reruns while great books collect dust, subconsciously waiting for Daddy or the teacher or the coach or the priest or the boss to tell us what to do.

Or we're convincing ourselves that life is short and our real problem is we've not spent ENOUGH time bingeing and being merry. Far be it from me to counter that with stern arguments for hard work and clean living. Few have anything seriously describable as talent, and little of the wretchedness of the world can be changed. But all can experience simple pleasures, the only relief possible for most of us in this most workaholic of dungeons. So indulge baby indulge. I again quote an Aggieville signboard: "Get bombed -- what else ya gonna do?"

Because few have been trained in independence and toughness in their higher senses, most of us have failed even by our own standards, and are about to fail again. Hence the best advice is often to relax and lower expercations. We do learn something from failure, i.e., that we're likely to fail again.

But now hear this: behold the gold in the very sewer of failure. Failure is not the problem, but fear of failure. No joke: fail away as much as possible. What counts is not how many times you fail but the quality of your effort and successes, however rare. No one cares how many times Babe Ruth struck out. He knew that life's too short to bunt.

So put this on your wall in bold print: "Swing hard in case you hit it" [band cue]. Do that no matter how many times you whiff, and you'll be plenty tuff enuff.

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Thanks for the inspirational New Year's message, Sage. "Swing hard in case you hit it" is perhaps the best philosophy of life I've ever heard. But I would add that sometimes bunting does advance the game. Happy New Year!