Too Early For Suicide?

Seriously, look at your watch. How often does suicide cross your mind dear friends? ("Elk" friends would make no sense). My guess is that it would not be often, but, I'd also wager that it might be a bit more then one would typically guess.

Would it be out of line to venture that your suicide fantasies might be on par with The Christmas Story's young protagonist Ralphie, when he envisioned himself going blind later in life, rightfully making his parents grief-stricken and regretful for sending him to his room and washing his mouth out with soap all those years ago?

I'm sure we've all thought how our own death would devastate a family member or an ex lover, though, sadly, we would not be conscious to enjoy it (as far as we know). Yes, friends, I've been through this, "I'll make you sorry", line of thought since I was a youngster, but this whole phase is new, and unfortunately more serious.

I've thought calmly, and with disquieting frequency, about ending my life in the last year. Thoughts that have gnawed at me with greater and greater tenacity as time moves on. This time they are not because my Dad gave me a spanking, or the girl at school I had a crush on likes another boy.

ME VS. LIFE

For the longest time (by Billy Joel), what has somehow kept me from really wallowing in the notion of killing myself at any time and place was a viewpoint I held, in which I was facing off against the personification of existence itself, and were I to just give up and end it all, life would win. I would have willingly admitted, for all to see and interpret, that I was too weak or unable to solve my own problems in life. I couldn't cut it, I failed, I gave up. Literally, life would have gotten the better of me.

Just like the poor loser in sports games from childhood, the kid who found himself on the short end of the stick, and did not have the sportsmanship (yes, I'm citing sports), the good humor, or the willingness to try harder, decides to dramatically quit mid-game out of frustration, making sure to call plenty of attention to himself, and how "unfair" or "unfun" the game has become. In reality, no one likes this kid. He is a poor participant, immature and childish.

I don't want to be this kid, and for years, the idea of becoming that kid has stopped me from doing the dramatic version of leaving the sports game when things aren't going my way. And oh, how they aren't. Oh.

And I'm not alone (well, I am, but you know what I meant). My own sister, who by all accounts is an extremely intellectual, witty, creative, aware, and humorous female, is also feeling this way. What would cause such an intelligent person, who obviously has a lot of great traits and talents, a person that could do something wonderful in this world, to become so disillusioned, faint, and filled with despair? And if both my sister and I suffer from this, could there be something related, perhaps something genetic? Or are we both simply victims of an overactive mind?

THE STATE OF THE UNION

At this point A) you're still reading, and B) you may be saying, "Things can't really be that bad, Niko," or, "You're just being overly dramatic," or even, "What a douche. Go cry to your fucking mom you pathetic child," which I do by the way. Often. Except replace the mom with a dead cat, and replace the dead cat with the memory of the dead cat, and then you got it about right.

As I often lament, and mostly from an exaggerated point of view, that I literally (figuratively) have nothing. Literally. (Figuratively).

Thats just how I feel. To me, and let me state that I'm quite good at taking things for granted, my current existence is all for naught. Dramatic? Sure. Emotionally accurate (notice the word 'emotionally' to qualify the accurate)? It sure feels that way.

2008 was, and so far still is the worst year of my life to date, but things have not really brightened up much since. I still struggle in almost every facet a person can struggle in: mentally, emotionally, physically, financially. Not spiritually though, since there is no such thing as spirit (beyond the one Nirvana smelled).

To keep things a bit more general, one of the biggest deficiencies in my life is the lack of anything even the least bit enjoyable, and positive. In a nutshell (why one would be in one of those I'll never know), I have absolutely nothing to look forward to. Seriously. Not a god damned thing. And that, my "friends", really sucks.

HAPPY LITTLE TREES

Let me paint you a lovely Bob Ross-esque panorama of my existential bitterness (you can't resell it though). Last time, we created a beautiful lake in the foreground, painted in vibrant Inability To Accomplish Your Goals, surrounded by a leafy deciduous forest, consisting of a delicate blend of Guilt For Not Accomplishing Enough and No Solace From Pressure And Obligation. See how the light dances over those highlights?

Next take your number 2 brush, and let's load it with a bit of Overly Negative Self Image and Cavernous Insecurities and lets paint in a big mountain. Your mountain can live anywhere you'd like it to. There we go. That looks nice and insurmountable.

And lastly for the sky, since we already put down a layer of Desperate Need To Be Appreciated And Loved, which I had already mixed ahead of time with plenty of Inability To Assimilate Into Common Social Environments, just to help the paint stick to the canvas.

To this we'll put the last metaphorical touches on our painting, namely the light fluffy clouds that represent any and all worthwhile moments of existence that help pad the onslaught of dreary, bleak and and life de-firming bile that makes up the majority of the waking hours. No need to paint the bile, I think it can be inferred from the fluffy white clouds that are quickly drifting away on the breeze from the nearby dog food factory, never to be seen again.

EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE ALRIGHT

Do you know what does not help? Throwing me shallow cultural proverbs designed to lift the spirits (by 'lift the spirits' I mean a way for you to say something without getting personal, and make yourself feel better).

"Well, sorry to hear that, but don't worry, things are going to be alright."

Really? You know this. . . how? An amazing gift to see into the fourth dimension and view the outcome of future events? WOW!!

Don't ever tell me that things are going to be okay. Fuck, that pisses me off.

You have no idea how 'things' are going to be for me, and to simply say something just because it sounds pleasant, and has no grounded, factual basis, only helps to add to my bleakness and depression by making me enraged as well. Bullshit does not comfort me. It solves nothing beyond you feeling somehow better that you said something. Void, and empty of genuine examination and solution of the problem(s) at hand, but still something.

Never say that to me again.

THE PEANUT BUTTER SOLUTION

If there is a solution to this abyss of apathetic dissipation, I've not found it yet. I have trouble getting beyond the simple assessment of how much I don't enjoy living. I'm beginning to see that I seem to like piling all of my frustrations and problems into one lump sum, making them unwieldy and overwhelming.

Viewing the awful representational conglomerate from a distance it can often look rather silly. Yet it does not change the fact that I am extremely unhappy with damn near everything and anything. Being the pleasure-based creatures we are today, why would I want to continue an existence that was starkly absent of any bit of pleasure? What would be the incentive for me to "keep on keepin' on"? Hope? Hope for what? Don't get me started. Or actually, do get me started, but not until another blog.

With nothing to look forward to (my biased, subjective outlook of course), no respite from my own depression, strange guilt, internal and external frustration, loneliness and failure, I truly find it challenging to come up with a list of reasons for perpetuating what feels like mental and emotional molestation. And in my version, no one buys me a toy afterwards to keep me quiet.

We all deal with shit, and none of us are always happy, nor should we be. For all I know everything I feel could be a product of my built-in neural chemistry, by which I mean a "programmed" response. Something out of my control. Does that help to make it any better? Fuck no. The things I have to offer the world, no one seems to want, and the things the world tries to offer me I am violently allergic to. I believe this is what the proud Lakota Sioux call a "good trade".

EVERY LITTLE STEP (L.A. REID/BABYFACE)

Honestly people, this is not a cry for help, just an airing of my emotional laundry (which reminds me, I need to do my physical laundry. All of my socks are becoming potent enough to be used in the chamber on death row. Not the most humane way to go, I can attest).

I still don't want to be the childish kid that leaves the game early, then makes up excuses as to why they never wanted to play in the first place. (Hasn't this whole blog been a list of excuses?).

Obviously, the problem(s) lies with me, not the outside world. The only way I can rid myself of this excruciating spinning-kiddy-ride (as I've tried holding up two fingers for quite some time now) is to stop looking at everything as the fully assembled Voltron mega warrior, but instead as each individual robot cat. As much as I love viewing the collective garbage heap of my life, progress can only be made by removing each soiled diaper and used condom individually.

Of course I'm probably just being dramatic and emotional about what is essentially a miniscule blemish on my otherwise pristine, super-privilaged rip-roaring existence.

By my clock it's barely even lunch time. Too early for suicide?



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Tags: suicide commit death die dying life exist existence psychology philosophy sarcasm

You Should Meet My Friend Niko.

"Hey there you!"

"Hey!"

*hugs*

"It's great to see you again! You look great!"

"Yeah you too! It's been quite a while, hasn't it?"

"Too long. Let's sit down and grab a drink. Have you been here before?"

"No, I like it though. Looks nice."

"I like it a lot. Nice atmosphere you know? Oh! You should try this one, it's awesome." *Points to drink menu*

"Sounds good. I'll give it a try."

"So what have you been up to since I saw you last?"

"Wow. All kinds of stuff. I've been pretty busy for sure."

"Are you and. . . what's his name. . . still together . . "

". . . no. We broke up a while ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I didn't know."

"It's okay. It's probably for the best. I've actually tried to go on a few dates here and there, but so far nothing worthwhile."

"You know, I have a friend that's single, very interesting guy. You might like him."

"Oh? Who?"

"This guy named Niko. He's a musician."

"Hmmm. I don't know about the musician thing, but what's he like?"

"Well, he's kind of an odd guy really. He's kinda hard to describe."

"What do you mean odd? What does he do that's odd?"

"In regards to relationships, he doesn't really date much. He says he has a lot of weird issues about sex and love. I'm not really sure what that's all about but he made a big deal about it."

"He's got relationship issues? I don't know. . . Well, I guess, to be fair, we all have our issues. Is that all that makes him odd? He doesn't date much, or has issues about relationships? That doesn't seem that odd."

"Well no, he also acts very pretentious, you know, like he's smarter, better, and more talented than everyone else."

"That doesn't sound very good."

"Nope. Not really. He's kind of an elitist. If you don't know certain things, or topics he instantly thinks less of you and acts very dismissive and condescending."

"He sounds like an ass."

"He sure can be. He's not always an ass though. Sometimes he's really insecure about nearly everything about himself, and spends hours pacing around his small apartment dwelling on everything that is wrong with him. I guess you could call him a bit of a pessimist"

"So he's a bunch of fun then?!" *laughs*

"Ha ha ha. He can be a real downer at times. Really bitter and sarcastic. Niko's like an angry, jaded old man who hates most things."

"And you're trying to set me up with this guy?"

"Well, I guess, yeah. I mean, he's not all bad. He's really passionate about music. He's written some interesting things over the years. Well, assuming you like that kind of stuff."

"What do you mean "that kind of stuff"? You don't like his music?"

"Well, I like a few things here and there, but his new stuff is really, well, just like he is. Pretentious, and overly complex."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that. . ."

"Totally. It's the kind of music that makes you feel dumb for not knowing music theory or whatever."

"Great. So he's an ass who thinks a lot of his music that only college people would get, and he's also a bitter angry downer? Where do I sign up?!" *laughter*

"Ha ha ha! Pretty much, pretty much. I mean, well, he's actually a really intelligent guy though. But the more I think about it, it actually kinda sucks because he makes you feel stupid every time you pronounce a word wrong, or are not familiar with an outdated cultural reference."

"I just have to ask. What does this guy do for fun?" *giggles*

"Honestly, I have no idea. I think he just sits around at his apartment reading philosophy books or yelling at Youtube videos or something. Come to think of it, I don't think he really leaves his place much. He's like an introverted hermit type of guy. I don't think he likes people very much."

"You can stop selling me on this guy now. I really don't want to meet him. He sounds like everything I would not want in a guy, or at least the bad sides of things I may want. Are you sure this guy is real? It sounds like a character from a bad movie or something!"

"Oh he's real. I just talked to him the other day about how much he resents other people's happiness, or something like that. Then he talked my ear off about how anyone who believes in anything remotely spiritual or metaphysical are deluded and completely ignorant. Seriously! He went on and on about how much he hated religion, belief and faith. Needless to say I don't talk to him that much!"

"Heh heh heh! Man, I really don't like people who are like that. They are always trying to point out everyone's flaws and basically ruin everyone else's happiness. I bet he has no sense of humor."

"Strangely enough, he actually does, and when he's not making obscure references to things I've never heard of, or really offensive jokes about inappropriate subjects, he can be pretty funny."

"That was almost the first good thing you said about him. Minus the offensive humor or overly intellectual stuff. Damn. What a weird sounding guy. Now I almost want to meet him now, just to see if this is really true. Not to date him, mind you."

"Yeah, I guess I don't blame you. Heh heh heh. After talking about him, I realize he does seem like a pretty awkward and sad human being. So what did we come up with so far? He's arrogant and elitist, he writes pretentious and complicated music that no one else would understand. . ."

"Heh probably because he desperately wants to impress people."

"Ha, yeah, probably. That makes sense. So he's also really insecure about himself, and dwells on everything that sucks in his life, he's angry and bitter like an old man, he hates spirituality and religion, which, of course, is always a very inviting quality." *laughs*

" He's not a people person, he never goes outside of his dark cave, he's got weird issues with relationships and sex, and he's apparently offensive or obscure with his humor, which really, is just another way for him to act like an elitist I guess."

"Good point. Man, I guess he really has some serious psychological issues huh?"

"I'd say so, yeah. I almost feel sorry for him, the way you describe him. He sounds so pathetic and lonely. All this stuff about him acting overly intellectual and stuff, it sounds like he needs to impress everyone, or feel superior."

"Did I mention he barely has any money?!"

"Ha ha ha, please stop! I don't think this can get any better! Ha ha. . ."

"Well then. Pretend I never said anything about him! Ha ha ha. I think I might know someone else who you might actually want to date."

"As long as he's nothing like that guy! He he he he. So, are you feeling hungry at all?"




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Tags: humor self+deprecating terrible human being pathetic elitist pretentious awful

Sports Hatred

The tension is thick. The star player drives up the court, ball in hand, seconds left on the clock. The crowd stares, transfixed in the excitement, as collective breathing slows. All eyes on him, the player finds his moment, he jumps, he shoots and. . . . who fucking gives a shit!! OH!!!

That's right, I'm not a sports fan. In general. Never have been. Which make my balls ripe for the eating, by you (care for a condiment?). And yes, this entire essay will be devoted my hatred of professional sports, their fans, and the psychology thereof. Are your defenses up yet?

I've wondered (with rage) for a long time what people seem to see in professional sports. Why the importance placed on them? Why so much passion for it? Why does it seem to be the most common national, if not international, outlet for entertainment, emotion and social connection? As usual, I have some notions, each more diabolical then the last. (Except for the third one which is really quite tame and uninspired).

THE OUTSIDER

A former manager at my current place of financial slavery, once asked me, during a football game, about the score. I, of course, replied that I had no idea, due to the fact that I was paying no attention to the TV screens.  He quickly amended his question to, "so you're not a football fan then?" I smiled to myself, rolled my eyes (only slightly, I promise), and simply told him that I was not. He paused a beat, and then asked, "do you like any sports?", to which I also gave him a simple "nope".

"That's really weird. I've met people who just don't like hockey or baseball, but I've never met anyone who didn't like any sports before."

Congratulations. Let me shake your hand sir. I'm assuming you don't have a big circle of friends that consist of intellectuals, artists, and philosophers do you? Well, nor do I, regrettably, but you've just met one. I'm the filet mignon of potato chips. In other words, I don't belong.

A simple but effective example of how disconnected I can be from typical social interests would be this year's Superbowl. My restaurant threw a large party with buffets and unlimited (piss water) beer for a reasonable all inclusive price. I was working the door that afternoon, dressed in typical work attire, while every other employee wore random sports jerseys, a sign of their enthusiasm and desire for social commonality. During the game, while all the staff were cheering, yelling, and talking about each play to infinitum, there I was, at the front, paying no attention to the crowds, engrossed in a book about the history of secularism in America.

"But how can you not like sports at all?"

How indeed. A quick smattering of my reasons include, but are not limited to the following: it means absolutely nothing to me; I learn nothing from it; I have no personal connection to it; it bores me; it does not make me laugh; it does not make me feel; it does not make me think about things in a new light; and if someone wins or loses, it affects me not at all in the grand scheme of awareness and existence.

Boy, I sure am a fucking nerd/idiot/loser huh?

So even at the outset, I'm the outsider, yet again, just like most of the observations I have these days. It's good to be the king. . . of deprecation. And by good, I mean hellish and bleak.

THE DELEGATES AND REPRESENTATIVES

I hope you enjoy extreme anger, because this next section contains more antagonistic rage per square inch than any of my previous recipes combined. Just a warning.


I've come to realize that what I really hate most about professional sports, is not actually the sport itself, but the fans. The ones I'm lucky enough to encounter seem to be the cream of the crop, or bare minimum, the crap of the cream.

Since the Nuggets ("of gold" presumably; though I prefer "of turds") have been in the finals, my restaurant takes the brunt of East Denver sports fandom during a game. In the course of the last several games, I got a good chance to consume a generous helping of the common fan (and then send it back to the kitchen, as they were mostly undercooked).

The sports fan has come to represent everything (or at least many things) I personally dislike and even abhor about society. One of the biggest things linking these pit-stained grunts is the lack of a sense of humor about themselves. Sure they may tell the odd level one joke about boobs, or how some dude they know is a "fag", but when it comes to looking at themselves with a degree of deprecation and humility, they show their true, pig-headed colors. It's interesting how much this one aspect factors so heavily into my like and dislike of particular human beings.

Never have I found a more disgusting example of rudeness, stubbornness, lack of empathy, lack of emotion, social bigotry (yes, I see the irony right now), and severe lack of intellectual prowess, then I have with this one, generalized group of neanderthals.

These are people who feel that everyone should treat them like they are at Burger King: They need to always have things "their way". Demanding is putting lightly, a thing, by the way, I don't do well (the lightly part).

So far, the sports fan I'm talking about comes in several external varieties. One of the most frequent spottings I've had is of the DEB. The common DEB, (which, in case you want to use it, is an abbreviation of Douche Bag, with an added vowel for better pronunciation), can be identified by their signature plumage; often a backwards white baseball cap, a non-descript button-up short sleeve shirt, tan khaki shorts and sandals or white sneakers. The DEB most often travel in packs of identical looking cohorts, and can be heard from afar by their characteristicly loud, obnoxious, stutter of a laugh, and the overuse of the words "bro" and "fag".

Another great specimen, highly worth mentioning, is the Grotesque Mongoloid Jocktastical DEB. These odd creatures are easy to spot from a distance, due to their hulking physique (either from muscles or fat) and look of continual pissed-off confusion. These hulking absurdities ooze a mallordorous paint-pealing musk, which contains the same chemical eye irritants as an onion, and upon closer inspection, you may notice an frightening emptiness behind their gaze which once used to house some semblance of what we in the industry call, "personality".

These "people" are some of the most dickish, pushy, unempathetic humans I've ever dealt with, who will fly off the handle at the very slightest inconvenience.

The female fans come with a few varieties of their own. I've been in contact with testosterone female sports fan, who can, at times, act, talk and even look almost indistinguishable from her male DEB counterparts. Though the variety I seem to see most often is the one that has been tagged at a mate for either the common DEB, or the GMJ DEBs, or for easier linguistical use, "UDEBs" (Pronounced "you debs", short for Über Douche Bags).

These quiet, subdued females are eerily human like, though I assure you that it has no feelings or consciousness, so you can breathe a sigh of relief. Interestingly enough, these DEB-mates are actually manufactured. One simply takes a hollow plastic Jello mold in the shape of a vapid, mentally-abused female, then spray on a thick layer of cosmetic foundation and eye liner. I'm still baffled at how they program these things to walk around and look so internally unhappy, and still portray a bitchy sense of entitlement in such a realistic manner.

The thing that unifies all of these DEB variants, beyond lack of humor for themselves, would be their blazingly obvious, and personally painful stupidity.

BOYS DON'T CRY

Boy, that was a lot of fun, eh boys and girls? Now that I've been a dick for a few paragraphs and had some good, old fashioned fun at other's expense, let's get back into what's most interesting, namely the psychological questions.

Why do these games draw so much rabid enthusiasm and devotion from people? My personal theory deals a bit with some of the masculine aspects of social gender identity.

As you may or may not know, men, unlike women, aren't emotional. Ever. And if they do have any emotion (which they don't), it's never for anything that is seen as particularly feminine, like, I don't know, love. Nope. It's only "manly" emotions like rage, excitement, and pride (the more unfounded, the better). Oh, and I can't forget the big one: boys don't cry.

Men have been indoctrinated with versions of this bullshit for literally centuries. Fathers telling their impressionable children about what emotions they are allowed to experience, and which ones they should be shamed for feeling, since it instantly makes them a girl or gay (two things that are extremely god-awful I guess).

What we are instilled with as children goes a long way to shape the minds and "hearts" of who we will become as adults. Some of us are able to grow out of any mental or emotional hinderances that may be blocking us due to overly bigoted, gender specific parents and friends.

In addition to the emotional negative reinforcement, many parents (both men and women actually) will hammer home specific interests as unacceptable for males; namely art (why do you think they call them "art fags" huh?!), music (unless it's shitty emotionless drunken blues-based bar rock), philosophy (too heady and pretentious), dance (do I even need to say why?), poetry (pffffff), fashion and more. This is not even including the list of activities that are deemed "okay" for males, but not looked upon as manly enough, like anything in the sciences.

So where does this lead us? If all of the things above are off limits to males for varying reasons, where do you put all of that pent up emotion that you have regardless of whether you are supposed to have it or not (since you are human)?

SPORTS!!!!

Yep. Sports are an emotional safe haven for most adults, as cheering and getting worked up over your team is somehow socially acceptable, not to mention encouraged.

Get comfy, because I'm going to throw out a pretty negative generalization on this topic. Ready? No? Need to adjust yourself? There you go.

I'm going to assert that there is a correlation between people who have no or little creative outlets (or abilities), and those who are very passionate about professional sports.

As usual I need to augment my projections with stipulations that not everyone falls into this category, as my own father, who I would consider to be highly creative, intellectual and even emotional, still gets sucked into sports (and I make sure to give him a hard time about it of course).

Many times, enthusiasm for professional sports becomes an alternate viaduct for bottled up emotions and thoughts for those who are without the ability to 1) express emotion in a balanced human way, and 2) channel that emotion into personal creative expression like writing, drawing, building, singing, etc.

Yes, I realize that some creative people also like sports. But understand that I'm just going for the generalizations, since they are easier to take down (like the sick and wounded in the herd).

THE SOCIAL CONNECTION

Another important factor in its proliferation is the strong social bonding aspect that professional sports can bring.

I get asked about, or talked to about sports at least once a day by customers. Scores, stats, this player did this, this manager got fired and so on. It's always an awkward moment for me, when smiling and nodding does not do enough to send them on their way, and they persist on asking me my opinions on pointless sporty things.

"Looks like they fired Hurdle."

"I'm sorry?" I ask, not understanding the statement that a very butch, thirty-something lady just tried to involve me in, as she glanced at the TV displaying some sort of alien jargon.

"Clint Hurdle." She clarified.

I paused, likely with a squint of confusion, then shook my head slightly.

"I don't know who that is," I said.

She looked at me with a bit of frustration, then elaborated her supposedly-involving conversation topic with, "Clint Hurdle, manager of the Rockies?"

I stared at her without blinking, straight-faced, and gave her a shrug, signifying that I did not give even the wateriest shit about that. She then walked away, disappointed, and possibly even a bit pissed off, realizing that there would be no bonding, or common ground, and that I was, by all accounts, and idiot, a weirdo and a dick.

See what happened there? She wanted to use a very commonly understood outlet for social entertainment and interest in order strike up a conversation with a complete stranger. In most cases this would likely work quite well, as most people seem to know a bit about at least one or two sports, and also show a modicum of interest in them. However, being the perpetually strange outsider in most typical areas of common interest, I ruined her attempt at friendly conversation, due to my complete disinterest, and in fact, sneering contempt for the entire social sports phenomenon.

Me aside (like normal), sports represent a great and open social bonding experience for many people. I get that. A chance to interact with people who share at least one "important" (I beg to differ of course) interest, especially for those who may have a harder time socially fitting in. We all feel the need to fit in somewhere and somehow, including myself. If you like sports, you have an already established connection with damn near anybody, for potential social building, with the caveat that they are probably a DEB.

I'm constantly being bombarded by employee's waxing on about player stats during my work day, as if it meant something to their lives personally. As if the player performing well in a game profoundly altered their views and perceptions of existence itself; as if it directly affected them. (As if).

Yet some people base a good portion of themselves on the fact that they are a sports fan, almost as an identity marker. It becomes a part of who they are. They throw huge game parties, decorate their basements to look like football fields, and dress up in full costume and regalia for events. Listen guys, as far as I'm concerned,  it's just fine to enjoy some spirited competition all you want, but remember, it's just a fucking game, not a placeholder for you being uninteresting or having no sense of identity.

THE ORIGIN OF THE SPECIES

It has been theorized in several great documentaries, much better then I can do justice in this essay, that a likely evolutionary reason that so many people feel so strongly about competitive sports deals with our origins as wild hunters (before the invention of the briefcase changed mankind forever).

I'm sure it's a fairly obvious connection but it's still quite interesting to me that something like this might be ingrained into us as a culture.

Our less civilized (but more badass) ancestors had to directly hunt and kill their prey in order to survive. Possibly at the same time, we developed a surge of chemicals that released during the chase that made the whole ordeal very exciting and visceral.

Over time, less and less of us were directly involved in the hunt, and now most of us have no outlet for those primal and bloody urges of predator and prey. Where to put them? Hmmmmmm. You see where I'm going with this.

Fiercely competitive sports fulfill that ancient need within us to experience drama, violence and the reenactment of the dance of predator and prey. It makes us feel alive and gets our blood boiling (literally, watching sports boils your blood and cooks you to death from the inside out. Porn also does this. Somehow I'm still alive).

This inner need for physical carnage, the culturally acceptable outlet for bottled up emotions, plus the social bonding aspects go to great lengths to explain much of the underlying appeal within the realm of sports.

THE GOLDEN CALF

You might have noticed that I did not touch much on the actual nature of sports itself, opting to talking about it's fans and the potential psychological reasons for it's popularity. As I stated in the open, I've realized that it is these aspects that bother me more then the literal sport.

In closing this essay, I feel I need to put what really, truly irks me into perspective.

To me, the social and cultural glorification of professional sports represent the worship of all the "wrong" human traits. Is there something to be admired in the physical prowess and stamina of the best athletes and olympians? Sure, of course. I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge that it takes years of training and honing of skills to achieve such physical feats.

But in this day and age, creativity and intelligence are not valued as they once were. Many of our most popular sports figures, though physically apt, are often conversely unintelligent, almost anti-intellectual, self-important, and not well spoken.  Yet these people are looked up to by the vast sea of fans as role models and idols. The apex of human achievement.

This flies in the face of the ancient Greeks who were true renaissance men (even before the renaissance). Yes the Greeks cared about physical competition, but they also balanced that out with art, science, philosophy and music. Something so varied, open minded and cultured is, in my book, quite impressive and truly worthy of admiration and praise.

The modern idolatry of sports figures has us worshiping the pinnacle of egotism, pride, and superficiality. They are looked up to for their personal, and financial successes, and the lives of excessive hedonism they are portrayed to live. People like money, and people seek after those who have lots of it. Simply by our continued fandom and patronage, we are encouraging generally negative personality traits in our idols, namely ignorance and blatant, almost purposeful stupidity, and then applauding them for it. Is this really the best example of human achievement and expression? (If you answered 'yes', please go back to the beginning of this essay and actually read the words).

In the end, it deeply saddens me how little the general public seems to care about art, philosophy, science, (real) music, and deeper, more significant, life impacting ideas. But hey, as long as two people can bludgeon each other to unconsciousness on pay per view television for all the world to see, we're happy as can be.

. . . Aren't we?



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