Hollywood, California, is my spiritual hometown. I actually grew up in three other communities in California, but it hardly seems to matter which three. How could my heart take root anywhere under the tyranny of American public schooling?
I don’t have to work for a living. After my father died in December 1997, my family and I won a legal settlement.
The Blog About
Nothing: Sudheer of Hyderabad, India, is a big fan of Playboy and an
even bigger fan of Seinfeld. In this blog, he composes humorous
dialogues for the show’s characters.
Hit & Run: the official
blog of my other favorite magazine, Reason: Free Minds and Free
Markets; winner
of the 2005 Weblog Award for Best Group Blog; “the best
libertarian blog” according to the October 2005 issue of
Playboy.
Scoobie Davis Online: a self-described “filmmaker, surfer, and party crasher” in southern California. He’s also a Playboy fan, a left-leaning political gadfly, and a connoisseur of Jack T. Chick religious tracts.
The Search for
Health in Decadence: poetry and philosophical writings of Will, who has
engaged me in lengthy, good-natured debate through comments on my
blog.
Up the Tao Staircase: self-deprecating wit and wisdom from a Taoist perspective.
The Blank Slate: The Modern Denial of Human Nature by Steven
Pinker. With stylistic flair, a Harvard cognitive scientist
refutes myths about human nature underlying a multitude of political
beliefs—including many of those that would either favor or
oppose the sexual revolution.
God in Popular Culture by Andrew M. Greeley. A liberal Catholic
priest sees quasi-Christian messages of grace abounding in the
allegedly soulless realm of commercial pop culture. For all I know,
Greeley is not necessarily a Playboy fan. But his
interpretation of Madonna’s song “Like a Virgin”—more plausible than the interpretation in Reservoir Dogs—has
influenced my impression of Playboy. (In case anyone wonders, my religious heritage is German-Hungarian Lutheran on my father’s side and Anglo-Scots-Irish secularist on my mother’s.)
A month ago tomorrow, I changed the outgoing message of my phone answering machine, making it even angrier than it had been. It was good for me. I think I’ll keep it.
In a certain manner of speaking, a poltergeist invades my psychic space several times a day. After learning too well the lessons in spinelessness of America’s oppressive public school system, I accumulated countless memories of failing to resist abuses of authority—even at home. Too many memories of one’s own cowardice, and the world becomes a scary place all the time. Minor setbacks and frustrations in everyday life become sources of great terror, confusion, shame, guilt, and rage. When I hesitate unreasonably out of these feelings, I sometimes make horrible new memories of being a coward, too.
In 2007, middle-class Americans are expected to take their unseemly emotions to a therapist’s office. But I say no. In the spirit of my anti-therapy post of yesterday, I reaffirm my right to take my madness to the streets instead. My suffering is not my problem alone. My suffering is the entire community’s problem. Otherwise, a lot of squeaky wheels may never get greased.
Besides the political argument against therapy, I now have an empirical, practical one. This past month, I’ve felt stronger, more effectual, and more capable than ever. I have every reason to believe the trend will continue. As a therapy veteran, I think a therapist who would have endorsed my angry phone message, or anticipated its benefits, before the fact would be hard to find. To paraphrase Dickens, therapy is an ass.