Whatever Works

Let me teach you something about love. Okay? Naturally, there are exceptions to what I’m going to say, but they're the exception, not the rule. Love, despite what they tell you, does not conquer all. Nor does it even usually last. In the end, the romantic aspirations of our youth are reduced to... whatever works

CHANCE

I happen to hate New Year’s celebrations. Everybody desperate to have fun. Trying to celebrate in some pathetic little way. Celebrate what? A step closer to the grave? That's why I can't say enough times, whatever love you can get and give, whatever happiness you can filch or provide, every temporary measure of grace, whatever works. And don't kid yourself, it's by no means all up to your own human ingenuity. A bigger part of your existence is luck than you'd like to admit. Christ, you know the odds of your father's one sperm from the billions, finding the single egg that made you? Don't think about it, you'll have a panic attack.

The Horror

If you’re one of those idiots who needs to feel good, go get yourself a foot massage. What the hell does it all mean anyhow? Nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nothing comes to anything, and yet there's no shortage of idiots to babble. Not me. I have a vision. I’m discussing you. Your friends, your co-workers, your newspapers, the TV. Everybody's happy to talk, full of misinformation. Morality, science, religion, politics, sports, love. Your portfolio, your children, health. Christ. lf I have to eat nine servings of fruits and vegetables a day to live, I don’t want to live. I hate goddamn fruits and vegetables. And your omega-3's and the treadmill and the cardiogram and the mammogram and the pelvic sonogram and, oh, my God, the colonoscopy! And with it all, the day still comes when they put you in a box and it's on to the next generation of idiots who'll also tell you all about life and define for you what's appropriate. My father committed suicide because the morning newspapers depressed him. And could you blame him? With the horror and corruption and ignorance and poverty and genocide and AIDS and global warming and terrorism and the family-value morons and the gun morons! "The horror," Kurtz said at the end of Heart of Darkness. "The horror." Lucky Kurtz didn't have the Times delivered in the jungle, then he'd see some horror. But what do you do? You read about some massacre in Darfur or some school bus gets blown up, and you go, "Oh, my God, the horror!" And then you turn the page and finish your eggs from free-range chickens. Because what can you do? It's overwhelming. I tried to commit suicide myself. Obviously, it didn’t work out. But why do you even want to hear about all this? Christ, you got your own problems. I’m sure you're all obsessed with any number of sad little hopes and dreams. Your predictably unsatisfying love lives. Your failed business ventures."Oh, if only I'd bought that stock!" "If only I had purchased that house years ago!" "If only I had made a move on that woman." If this, if that. You know what? Give me a break with your "could haves" and "should haves." Like my mother used to say, "lf my grandmother had wheels, she'd be a trolley car." My mother didn't have wheels. She had varicose veins. Still, the woman gave birth to a brilliant mind. I was considered for a Nobel Prize in physics. I didn't get it. But, you know, it's all politics, just like every other phony honor. Incidentally, don't think I’m bitter because of some personal setback. By the standards of a mindless, barbaric civilization, I've been pretty lucky.