A lot of people seem to love travel . . . I hate travel.
I start out thinking I’d be happier if I could just go somewhere, but when I get there, I’m not any happier than I was at home.
I’m the same person with the same problems, and now I’ve spent all this time and money in another failed attempt to get away from myself . . .
In the early 1970s, when a friend and I were newly hatched social psychologists, we decided to write a book on happiness. The head of an eminent Boston publishing house took pity on us and, over lunch, explained the facts of life. ‘No one wants to read a book on happiness’, he said kindly. ‘Happy people don’t; why in the world would they want to? They are already happy. Unhappy people don’t want to, either. Why in the world would they want to read about happy people when they are feeling sullen and miserable? Moreover, it’s faintly embarrassing to be seen on a bus or park bench reading a book on happiness. It’s like being caught reading a book on paedophilia. A passer-by will question your motives.’ And so my friend and I went our separate ways; he to write a book on loneliness, and I, a book on anger.
My son is listening to his iPod as we take off from Tampa, heading back to Orange County. We’ve been cautioned to turn off electronic devices during takeoff.
The NW Rebels are from Oregon. We saw them play a little bit in the round-robin games. They have one very talented kid, but hockey is a team game.
Final score: Bulls 8, Rebels 0.
The Selects are from Georgia. They fall behind 2-0 on the first shift and go downhill from there.
Final score: Bulls 8, Selects 0.
Extreme Wolfpack is from New Jersey, Like the Bulls, they are 2-0 so far in the tournament.
Final score: Bulls 4, Wolfpack 1.
My son’s team, MPC Bulls Blue, is playing in the NARCh 12-and-under Squirt Silver division. Sixteen teams qualified in this division. Each team will play four round-robin games, after which the top eight teams will be seeded into the quarterfinals.
The hockey tournament starts tomorrow . . . the first game’s at 9 in the morning. We’ll need to be there by 8 to check in, so we’ll have to leave the hotel by 7:30.
My son and I are off to Florida, land of hurricanes and shark attacks, where his team will compete in the North American Roller Hockey Championships.
My wife signed our 11-year-old boy up for a week-long class in argumentation — sort of a moot court thing, I think — at UC Irvine.
The cost: $400.
Sometimes I get a song in my head and I have to walk around the house singing it:
I love rock ‘n’ roll
So put another dime in the jukebox, baby
“Why a jukebox?” my kid asks.
It’s the first morning of summer vacation and my boy is on the computer loading up his iPod . . .
“And what might you be doing?” he says as I walk by.
“Getting ready for work,” I say.
“Oh yeah . . . work.”
I’m listening to some new music on my laptop, while my kid delivers a running critique . . .
“Boring,” he says. “Lame.”
“If you don’t like it, go somewhere else. Move along!”
“Critics don’t ‘move along,’” he says. “Critics have to criticize.”
Few Americans either behind or in front of our cameras give evidence of any recognition or respect for themselves or one another as human beings, or have any desire to be themselves or to let others be themselves. On both ends of the camera you find very few people who are not essentially, instead, just promoters, little racketeers, interested in ‘the angle.’
The West reveals here a hatred of itself, which is strange and can be only considered pathological; the West is laudably trying to open itself, full of understanding, to external values, but it no longer loves itself; in its own history, it now sees only what is deplorable and destructive, while it is no longer able to perceive what is great and pure.
A woman calls to her dog, a mutt named Lucky.
“Why did you name him Lucky?” I ask.
“He got hit by a car and survived,” she says.
Hmmm . . . it seems to me if he were really lucky, he wouldn’t have been hit by a car in the first place.
What was his name before he got hit by the car? Bullseye?
