Intolerance on the Left

I graduated high school in 1970, and in my class was a fine young man whom we'll call Scott, mainly because that's his name.  Scott has a PhD and is a regular contributor to Psychology Today, which is not terribly surprising as he's a LIBERAL with an executive membership card and the official thermos and lunchbox.

A good friend of mine who shall remain nameless has a FB account.  Upon reading one article that Scott wrote, he pondered the significance for about ten minutes before he was distracted by a naked woman running around his front yard holding a For Rent sign.

One way or another, Scott was encouraged to write a follow-up article, and did so, which my friend also read.  Instead of ignoring the entire business, he wrote a response, posted it, and a few hours later discovered that Scott had deleted his thoughtful missive and blocked him on FB.  He was surprised - I wasn't.

So, for your amusement, here we go: The FaceBook Fiasco

These two articles were written by Scott G. Eberle Ph.D. (Scott Eberle on PhuckBook) and published in Psychology Today.  I've read both, and neither one makes a whole lot of sense to me.

The 7 Rules of a Highly Playful Retirement Boiled Down to 1

Replacing a preoccupation with doom-for-entertainment with play.

Stay Resilient - Further Advice From the No-Geezing Zone 

Play as an antidote for "geezing."

About the Author

Scott G. Eberle, Ph.D., holds a doctorate in American intellectual history, has executed scores of museum exhibits, is former editor of The Strong’s American Journal of Play and former vice president for play studies. Scott is author of Classic Toys of the National Toy Hall of Fame and co-editor of The Handbook of Study of Play. In his spare time, Scott is an avid downhill skier and biker.

Here is the response that evidently got on Scott's very last nerve:

You might have started this tirade at the beginning, and entitle the missive What Makes a Geezer? or Why Pollyanna Never Had a Bad Day.

When I was twenty-one, I worked with a woman who made Pollyanna look like a clinically depressed pessimist.  Upon removing her psychedelic rose colored shades one day, she noted I was a bit depressed.  I was fresh from a bitter fight with my psychotic girl-friend who was threatening suicide, my manager had just delivered a ten minute lecture to me on just why I was no good at my job (which hinged around the fact that I was straight; he and the others weren't), and my checking account had just hit a new low that was solidly into the negative numbers.

Her comment?

"Isn't life beautiful for you, Jack?"

I stalled out for a second or two while I formulated a succinct response.

"Well frankly Sharon, life's a bitch."

She went off to complain to the boss about my attitude.  I wanted a drink, but being badly bent, there was none to be had.

Ever have a bad day?  Every little thing goes wrong, starting with the toilet showing unmistakable signs of being plugged up, to the engine in the car making a funny noise that sounds like it might be a main bearing headed south, and then having to wade through a dozen or so people at work, none of whom you'd ever go out drinking with even if they were buying and you were as dry as the Sahara, and all of  these people sharing one outstanding trait: incompetence.  They fuck it up; you have to fix it.  

Then you have to miss lunch because your boss (may he catch the clap from his wife, and may she blame it on him, and may he believe her), your boss has scheduled you for a business meeting that surprises everyone with brand new and impossible to meet sales goals and budget constraints - which translates into no raise this year, and the Christmas bonus is going to be a turkey or a ham, your choice.

When you finally get home, and discover that the old ball and chain is over visiting her man hating, crazy as a sack of rabid porcupines, sister and has taken the dog - YOUR DOG! - with her, because Charlie likes to play with her kids.

So the only really, truly sincere glad to see you is gone.

And you're all out of gin.

And... you, Scott Eberle (and your friends and associates), can pour two fingers of top shelf whiskey into a glass, order a pizza with double cheese and pepperoni, and tell yourself that today was one real bitch of a day, but tomorrow will be better.  Then you have a drink, and maybe a beer with the pizza when it finally arrives, and that's that.  You're convinced that tomorrow will be better, if only marginally better.  But better.  See?

A geezer doesn't have that last part.  The true geezer knows that tomorrow won't be any better; it's very likely to be worse.  The light at the end of the tunnel isn't some fantastic Xanaduvian paradise; it's a train.  If the geezer is lucky, if the Lord takes pity on him and sends in some Divine intervention, tomorrow will only be as bad as today.  Not worse, just no better.

That's what makes a geezer.  That's why play doesn't work.

See?

I've often thought that most headshrinkers were head cases trying to make themselves sane.  Eberle has a PhD in American intellectual history, whatever that may be, but getting a doctorate lends to his credibility.  As for me, I barely made it out of high school.  I managed to stay one jump ahead of the sheriff all my life, and what I'm looking for now is to make it to the bell.  I didn't get anything out of either article, but I've a feeling that I am not a member of the intended audience.  I don't read Psychology Today on anything close to a regular basis.  In fact, I've rarely read it ever.

So, here's the deal.  Is the response over the top?  Does it display a certain morose outlook on the part of the author which obscures the little ray of sunshine in these articles?

If you want reality, do you play the stock market?

I'm supposed to be cutting back on my drinking due to my health, but reality is not making it easy.  Tonight I'm going out.  Tomorrow I'll be sober.