UPDATE AND A WORD ABOUT MY FUTURE PROJECTS

You've probably noticed that I haven't posted anything in a few days. Once again, I've been extremely busy handling my partner's health problems. I spent the better part of the last two days in the hospital. I didn't sleep much during that time and when I got up this morning I was too exhausted to think, let alone generate a decent post. Aside from that, I was out of town this weekend and have been occupied with lots of new things; and don't worry: They are good for me!

Still, all these events have denied me my writing time. That bothers me on many levels. It makes me feel better just to let you all know what's going on with me, since I'm accustomed to a certain weekly output. On the other hand, I realize that life does not always offer the best circumstances in which to create. And if I have to go into "writing dormancy" more than usual in the coming weeks, I will have to face it. I apologize in advance if I don't crank out my hoped-for three or four posts every week.

I always get so many ideas during my breaks. When I just live and observe, I amass new thoughts, experiences and impressions. I know those ideas will all buoy me when I settle down into another long writing phase. I've actually jotted down three big ideas for longer pieces in the future. Although I do not have the time or space to discuss them all here, I will say that they involve these issues: Truth; confessions; power; capital punishment; free will; death; sexuality; categorization; identity; desire; subjectivity; happiness; prejudice and reflection. I have conceived both fictional and nonfictional structures in which to explore these themes. But my piece on sexuality will be part reflective, part anecdotal and part polemical. Think of it as a sequel to Foucault's work on sexuality, with a personal twist to make it accessible.

To share some detail from my own personal experience lately, I have been entertaining serious doubts about my own sexuality. And my doubts move in an unconventional direction. Namely, for almost 14 years I have been quick to characterize myself as "gay." But in fact I'm not so sure what that means anymore. By the same token, I cannot say what "straight" means, either. In truth, the only reliable conclusion I've made in this inquiry is that sexual identity is never clear-cut. That is because it reflects basic desire. Basic desire, in turn, is purely subjective. It is impossible to categorize desire because there is no limit to individuals' deepest subjective tastes.

I don't think people appreciate just how fluid sexual identity is. That is what I will address in my piece. In the process, I will discuss the unfortunate human tendency to associate absolute meaning with artificial categories. I plan to show that categories like "gay" and "straight" are not talismanic. Rather, I will show that they are at best "rough guidelines" that exist in various proportions in us all at different times in our lives.

I also plan to discuss why I think the term "gay" is absurd. When it comes to categorizing groups, sexual "orientation" is a dubious--and barely unifying--characteristic. That is not to say that people who identify themselves as "gay" do not merit certain assistance or solicitude under law. My main argument will be that "gay" is not a good identifier, nor is it absolute. There are plenty of people in the world--including me--who find men attractive, yet have no difficulty whatever finding women attractive, too. The bottom line is that one desire never excludes another. And "gay" is a category that essentially implicates a particular sexual desire.

So that's what's on my mind these days. Forgive me for the sparser posting. I promise there is plenty more to come. I have a whole list to get to!

Take care. And thanks as always for reading my archives.

Oesterhoudt

PROPERTY OWNERS SPEAK OUT AGAINST DISABLED AMERICANS

CONSIDERED OPINION

By : Mr. Irwin D. Gallant, Chairman and Chief Executive Officer, Lexington Property Management Group LLC (A Delaware Limited Liability Company specializing in commercial property rentals to Fortune 500 companies in cities across the Nation); Harvard Business School (M.B.A. summa cum laude 1990); Avid Jogger; Amateur clockmaker and watch collector; Christian; aficionado of numerous activities requiring undamaged arms and legs.

Hey you. Yeah, you: The fat fuck in the wheelchair. Get a goddamn move on it. I've got a whole line of customers trying to get into the store, and there you are struggling to maneuver your fucking lard cart through that double door. Yeah, yeah, yeah. We know you're disabled. But it's about damn time for property owners like me to tell you what we really feel: We can't fucking stand your lame asses.

How many times have property owners felt this way? They all do--every day. Disabled people are simply not fast enough to keep up with the pace of business in America. They frustrate normal people with functioning legs who are just trying to go to work, buy a few groceries and get home before 10 PM. And how much money have property owners spent trying to accommodate these worthless crippled fuckers? Let me give you a ballpark: BILLIONS!@!@! And I'll tell you another thing: Building expensive ramps for drooling fucktards with canes has driven numerous enterprising Americans straight out of business.

America faces worse threats than foreign terrorism. As a property owner and businessman, I can say without hesitation that the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 (ADA) is the greatest threat to liberty this Nation has ever encountered. Fuck the Times Square bomber; he didn't hurt anyone. But the ADA hurts honest business owners every day by requiring them to build costly additions to their properties on their own nickel. And when business owners hurt, the whole country hurts.

Think about it: The Red Lobster on West 41st Street could have hired 100 dishwashers and 50 waiters in 2009 if it hadn't had to install a freaking "supplemental dumbwaiter" to lift paralyzed midgets from the dining room to the balcony. So in the end, a few lazy fuckheads got to eat the fried shrimp special in 2009, while 150 people lost their jobs. Fair trade? I think not.

Liberty is about owning property and doing whatever you want with it. Liberty is also about making as much money as you can from your property without worrying about other people. But the ADA forces property owners to do things with their property that they'd rather not do. It forces them to accommodate people on their premises who do not help them make more money. This violates property owners' liberty. It also robs them blind by compelling them to build doorways, elevators, extra exits and conveyor belts all over the place. That shit is expensive. And when business owners spend money on useless shit like that, it prevents them from paying out dividends, hiring people or opening new locations.

Put simply, the ADA is a terrorist law because it tramples liberty. In fact, most business owners would simply prefer to die in a car bomb explosion than watch their companies go bankrupt after wasting all their money on unnecessary elevators. Castrating a business' economic potential is just as terroristic as slamming airplane into a skyscraper. The result is the same: People lose their jobs--and their lives. And both are scary.

When we reflect on just how much it costs to comply with the ADA, we must ask ourselves: For what? What do we get for destroying businesses and bankrupting property owners? What do we get for boosting unemployment and dampening our prosperity? A society in which crippled fucktards can wheel into any building they want to spend their pension money.

I know it's "American" to say that everyone deserves an "equal opportunity" to see the Yankees or eat at Red Lobster. But who really gives a flying fuck about some paraplegic kid with a tube down his throat? OK, so we build him his own goddamn elevator and his own goddamn entrance door. Once he's in, does he spend money? Maybe his mother buys him a candy bar, a hot dog or some shit… oh wait, he eats through a tube. Never mind. What I mean is that crippled fucktards don't usually have much money to spend, and there aren't that many of them anyway. So basically property owners waste all that money accommodating them; and they get zero in return. In business, that's called a loser bet. And that's exactly what the ADA forces property owners to do.

I know what you're thinking: How can I be so mean when talking about Americans with disabilities? Well, I've got a simple answer: Because I'm honest. Life isn't easy in America. It isn't easy to run a profitable business and pay your bills. Life is fast-paced; if you can't hack it, you can't hack it. It's hard enough to turn a profit even with full body function; you can just forget about it you're legless. If you had the bad luck to get crippled--or you were born with some freakish defect that condemns you to lifetime care--that's your problem. You have no business doing business. You shouldn't be in the race. Sorry about that. That's just the way the ball bounces, mon frère. Apply for charity or something. Just don't stand in line or apply for a job with everyone else. You really annoy us.

Normal Americans just plain don't like being around crippled people. It makes them uncomfortable. When a family goes to the museum, they don't like waiting for a half-dead, moaning retard on a motorized gurney to navigate a narrow passageway. When young professionals go to a discotheque on Friday night, they don't like waiting two minutes for a blind war veteran on two canes to hop his way up the steps. When hardworking American workers get home at night, the last thing they want is to wait for a paralyzed woman to fish out pocket change in line at the grocery store.

In a word, crippled people frustrate and frighten everyone around them. Nobody likes them. Nobody has patience for them. In that sense, it is perplexing that the ADA forces both business owners and customers to deal with them on even terms. If it were up to the American people, they would stay away from cripples like the black death. But the law forces Americans to treat them "equally." This is both wrong and unjust.

To summarize: Commercial life is fast-paced; and disabled Americans are not fast-paced. They simply cannot cut the mustard. From an evolutionary standpoint, crippled people don't belong in commercial life. They can't keep up. That's the truth, no matter what goody-goody rhetoric apologists on it. If it came between hiring an able-bodied man and a wheelchair-bound man for the same job, no rational employer would ever hire the cripple. Why should he? If both men had the mental ability to do the job, why hire the man who needs a special entrance door and elevator just to get into the building? Why assume the extra trouble? In business, we move fast. We avoid inconvenience when we can. And cripples are inconvenient. The bottom line is that we don't have time to be nice. Time is money. So we hire the man who takes less time to do the same job. Plus he can get up and run errands once in a while.

Commercial life is like nature: Only the strong survive. Yet the ADA compels commercial actors to accommodate cripples and hire them on equal terms, no matter how unprofitable it may be. This is not only counter-evolutionary. It is also unnatural. Would a bee colony support bees without wings? Would a cattle herd help a cow with broken legs? Certainly not: Caring for cripples threatens the well-being of the healthy community. Commerce, like nature, is a death struggle against bankruptcy. Just as a herd depends on healthy, contributing members to avoid death in nature, so too do commercial actors depend on healthy, contributing employees to avoid bankruptcy in commerce. And just as a herd abandons crippled members to avoid death in nature, so too do commercial actors jettison crippled employees to avoid bankruptcy in commerce. In this light, the ADA forces commercial actors to unnaturally hire crippled workers who do more harm than good for the enterprise.

Viewed as a whole, the ADA terrorizes liberty and makes war on nature. In the name of "decency, compassion and humanity," it forces property owners into bankruptcy just to accommodate worthless crippled Americans. It hamstrings employers by forcing them to hire employees who are physically unable to make money. And it frustrates everyday Americans by forcing them to watch pathetic cripples take entirely too long to accomplish rudimentary commercial activities, like boarding a bus.

What is liberty if not the freedom to spend money as we please, to hire whom we please and to keep the company we please? And what is liberty if we must spend money in ways we'd rather not, hire clearly unsatisfactory people and keep uncomfortable company with paralyzed invalids who defecate on themselves in public? That is not liberty--that is terrorism.

As a property owner and an American, I say with all my heart: The Americans with Disabilities Act is terrorism. And I believe in freedom. That means the freedom to shut out cripples from movie theaters and fire people without arms. And it also means the freedom to walk into a grocery store at 6:45 PM without fear that a deaf-mute fucktard on crutches will hold up the line for seven minutes.

I speak for all Americans who believe in unrestricted commerce when I say: "Hey lady. Yeah, you, the amputee. Pick up the fucking pace, will you? I just got out of work. Friends is on soon and I'll be damned if you take two more fucking minutes to pay for that soup."

MOMENTS IN TIME : JANUARY 1, 2000

A REFLECTION

Sometimes memories return to me with uncanny clarity. It is not just the clarity that strikes me. More often I wonder why certain memories return to me so long after the event. After all, of all the things I have experienced in my life, why would one day's details suddenly reemerge? What triggered it? And then a more vexing thought crosses my mind: As clear as my memory seems to me, perhaps reality was very different from what I remember? Who can say now? That is one reason why memory fascinates me so much. It is exquisitely subjective. It seems real, but only to ourselves.

I got up this morning and suddenly remembered December 31, 1999. On that day, I worked from morning to night and beyond. Back then, I was a 22-year-old kid with a "bowl haircut" and a jean jacket. I wore ripped $30 pants for days at a time. I was a college senior who memorized Nietzsche quotes without fully comprehending them. I basically had no money; my mother gave me about $20 a week to spend. So starting in 1997 I worked as a DJ to make a few extra bucks. Much to my good fortune, I met a much older guy named Joe who had been DJ'ing parties around the city for decades. He used to tell me stories about going home with women after disco parties in the 1970s. He was a Vietnam veteran and--to be kind--rather eccentric. He lived alone in a food-strewn apartment on 122nd Street brimming with records and 5 or 6 yappy Chihuahuas (one or two died over the years; but a few more were born, so I can't remember the exact number). Basically, the place was squalid. But somehow Joe kept getting gigs and holding his life together really well. He kept a zillion post-it notes all over his bedroom to remind him to do this and that each day--and he always got it done. For years, we worked really well together. He farmed me out to jobs he couldn't do and I gave him a cut of what I made. Plus we became really good friends.

Both Joe and I knew that New Year's Eve on Y2K would be a gangbuster night for DJ's. After all, everyone was partying that night. Some people thought the world was going to end. I knew it wouldn't. But it was an unprecedented atmosphere. And most importantly, entertainers like us were in demand that night. So we could charge huge fees and we knew people would pay. We could name our price for a change.

Joe wound up scheduling a $2000 job. At the same time, he booked me a job for $1800. We agreed I would get $1500. He would take a $300 commission. That seemed fair to me; in fact, I was thrilled. For a kid who wore torn pants and got $20 a week to spend, $1500 was a treasure trove. I could live the whole semester on that--and all for just one night's work.

I remember the job exactly. We did it in a brand new loft apartment on 21st Street near 6th Avenue. Some nouveau riche woman and her husband were throwing a party. Joe and I drove down to the apartment the morning before the gig to set up. Joe drove a virtually unroadworthy mid-80s Chevy station wagon. It had no muffler and a pretty disgusting, food-like crust clung like a glaze all over the interior. The car had roaches. And Joe stuffed in so many speakers, wires, amps and record crates into it that I was amazed the bumper didn't scrape the pavement as we drove. In short, despite all appearances, Joe was a master of limited space management. The cops never pulled the jalopy over, either.

I remember schlepping all our equipment two flights up to the apartment. The woman and her husband were frantically decorating the place and setting up long tables for the hors d'oeuvres. I had a few words with her. She said she liked hip-hop and R&B. I said that was great because "that was my specialty." She seemed to like me. She didn't seem to like Joe too much, though. After all, at first glance he looked really gruff and he spent his time hauling speakers and wires all over the place. He was always polite and even charming. But he just didn't look the part. Some customers really used to treat him badly, and that hurt me.

After we set up the equipment, Joe and I sat in the car for a few minutes and talked about the plan for the evening. I would show up at the gig and do my thing. He would go to his gig and do his. Then he would pick me up from my gig and I would give him his cut. We would drive back uptown together and call it a night around 4 AM. It was a good plan. We then went our separate ways.

I remember the party went very smoothly. I got to play the music I wanted. The crowd was easy and did not complain. My DJ station faced east; the crowd looked west out the windows over 6th Avenue. Joe set up the lights and I controlled them with a little hand console. It took a while for the alcohol to get the party moving; eventually it did. I started off playing 70s funk and rare grooves. That gave a nice ambiance to the early part. Later, people started asking me to play hip-hop and assorted Top Ten pop. I obliged. I remember one Asian chick kept asking me to play Lauren Hill's "That Thing" over and over again. That tune always generated a huge crowd response, so I waited to play it until the place was really hopping. I kept telling her "it was in the pipe." She never quarreled with me; she just kept going back to her friends and dancing.

Before midnight, nervous excitement came over the room. People started wondering aloud whether the world would end at 12:01. I remember people throwing their drinks and hooting in the minutes leading up to midnight. I also remember looking outside and seeing helicopters flying low over the city with spotlights on. There was a lot of honking and yelling on the street below. I could hear it even over the music. Finally, 12:01 came. Nothing happened. A huge cheer went up on the dancefloor. Then the party went into overdrive. "Hypnotize," "Walking on the Sun" and "Backstreet's Back" were particularly popular that night. Oh, and of course "Groove is in the Heart" and "It Takes Two" made everyone move, too, even otherwise respectable-looking bourgeois with jobs: I always laughed when I saw white bankers singing along to rap songs. But by that point at the party, the alcohol was guaranteed to make everyone dance, no matter what was playing. Even so, as a DJ, I felt like I had accomplished something. Lots of drunk, happy people profusely thanked me for "all the great tunes" as the evening approached its end. It was always a nice perk to get compliments, even if the partygoers were fall-down drunk and virtually incoherent.

At about 3 AM, Joe showed up from his party. People had already started to leave. Beer and broken plastic cups littered the dancefloor, along with squashed finger foods and dirty napkins. Everyone was shouting, hugging, hooting, caressing and laughing. The mood was very good. Almost all the food was gone and the wine was running low. Joe went over to the hostess and whispered to her. She then came over to me and told me it was OK to start wrapping up.

Within 30 minutes, almost everyone had left and I stopped the music. The house lights came up. Joe started breaking down the lights and sound equipment. I chatted with the hostess for a while. She complimented me in the highest terms, even though she was utterly shitfaced. I still felt like I had done a good job; for my part, I did not touch a drink that evening. I had a few Sprites and some ice water. Finally, the hostess pulled out an enormous wad of $20 bills and handed it to me. I thanked her. She went away and I started helping Joe move all our stuff downstairs. Meanwhile, the hostess and her husband started brushing trash off the floor with two big push brooms.

It took us a good 30 minutes to haul all our stuff downstairs. We loaded it into the car and--once again--got it all to fit. After that, Joe and I shook hands and congratulated each other on a job well done. I handed him his $300 commission. Then he headed back uptown and he dropped me off at my dorm on 114th Street and Riverside. I wished Joe a happy new year and thanked him for being so generous to me. He said no problem and drove off into the predawn darkness.

I went upstairs to my room on the fourth floor. There was no way I could sleep after the night's toils. It was about quarter to five in the morning, January 1, 2000. I walked over to my single-size mattress. I took the enormous cash wad from my pocket and laid all the money out on the bedspread. I was in awe: $1500 in cash, all for me. I never thought I could ever make that much in one night. It was unbelievable. What a way to start the new year, the new decade, the new millennium. I felt like life could not get any better than this. I even felt that time had suddenly stopped, as if I could never get older, that this moment would last forever. After all, it was the year 2000! To that point in my life--indeed, in everyone's life--it had always been the 20th Century. I couldn't really fathom that life would go on as it always did. On that night, time froze as I sat there ogling my massive money pile. For a few hours, I felt utterly invincible. I felt that I controlled time and that I would never age.

I was hungry. I went out to get some food at Tom's Diner. It was extremely quiet. All the partying was over. A few stragglers appeared here and there, but that was it. I saw a few "2000" party eyeglasses in a trash can. It was still dark. As I headed down Broadway, a New York Times truck pulled up and a man tossed out the morning edition. I bought one. It had an unforgettably bold headline: 1/1/00. Underneath, in typeface almost as big, was a headline saying that Russia's President Yeltsin had resigned. A new man, Putin, was taking over.

Wow, I thought, everything was looking up! It was a fresh new morning in a fresh new millennium. I had $1500 in cash and there was a new Russian President. One era ended. Another was dawning. Time stood still and I was in control.

Then I went to Tom's and ordered a shake and fries. I stayed there for a while. I let myself get tired. Finally, I headed back to my dorm to go to sleep. It was dawning. Time for bed. It was a good night.

I still have never made that much money in one night as I did on January 1, 2000. I think that's why I remember it so vividly. It felt really good.

Too bad life got harder after that. But on that night, I didn't think anything could ever go wrong.

WHY I WRITE ABOUT TIME

A REFLECTION

In recent weeks, my writing pace has slowed. I am thankful for that. It has allowed me to look back over my work and reflect on what is important to me. No one likes change, but I welcome this one.

I write thematically. Last week, I looked over several old pieces and started to think about the themes that occupy me most. I asked myself: "Why do I write about these things? Why are they important to me? Is it apparent why they are important?" Perhaps it is apparent why I write about reason, dignity, evidence, law, power, money, death, fairness, equality and happiness. Perhaps it isn't. Perhaps people think it's just because I am a hermit who writes whatever he thinks on a certain day.

But that would be incorrect. Common threads unite all my themes. Those threads bind all my pieces together. Taken together, they present an overall philosophy about our existence. I am a consummate individualist: I never surrender who I am. I do not like to follow, but neither am I a zealous leader. I am not presumptuous enough for that. If my ideas gain traction, it is by quiet assent, not by compulsion or advocacy. In the end, I am a voice against all the forces in our society that subvert individual creativity and value. I criticize commerce because commerce is antithetical to both. I do not like forces that instrumentalize human beings or reduce them to purposes. I do not like convention. That is why I write satire, too. Normality makes me laugh--hard.

Among the threads that unite my work is a respect for time. I write about time in many ways. But in the end I admonish my readers to remember that time is vital because it is all we have. Without time, we cannot cultivate our interests or expand our personalities. Nor can we experience joy or feel good about ourselves. Yet so many forces compete for our time. When we lose our time to some competing interest, we lose the opportunity to live for ourselves. That is one reason why I am so critical of employment: Employment robs our best time and leaves nothing for us. It purports to "compensate" us for the robbery with a paycheck. But what good is pay (even really poor pay) if you can't spend it until your best time is gone? We have just a limited time to experience positive emotions before we die. If we give up our time in unpleasant ways, we never get it back to spend it pleasantly. We have only one shot at joy.

My views about time have changed significantly over the years. Before my father died in 2006, I had a very dismissive attitude about time: I always thought I would have more. I did not mind working for 14 hours a day in an office because I knew there would be time to enjoy myself later in life. I had smug assumptions; I thought life would just wait for me as I slaved away, wasting my time. I thought for sure that I would have at least 25 more years with my mother and father. I thought they could wait until I put in all that work, so it wouldn't hurt if I skipped seeing them for Christmas. I thought they would understand if I had to work a weekend.

But all those smug assumptions came crashing down when my father died. He died without any warning. In January 2006, he was a healthy 58-year-old who ran half-marathons every year. Then he developed pancreatic cancer. By June 2006, he was dead. And I had skipped his birthday every year for five years before that because I had no idea that he could die. I was focused on my "traditional career program." I did not respect time. And I suffered for it.

Thankfully, I learned my lesson. Only after living with death did I start to respect time. It made me rue the choices I had made in my life. I did not care about "success" any more. After all, what good does "success" do when you can suddenly just die at any moment like my Dad? Who cares whether you get a certain job or own a home? It's all meaningless; it can all end before you know it. Recognizing how fast life can end makes you respect time. And it makes you start spending your time more wisely, too.

Within six months after my father's death, I resigned my job at the law firm. It came to nauseate me. It probably would have nauseated me even if my father had not died. But after experiencing his death, I simply could not bear the pettiness of law practice. I could not bear hearing people whine and bicker about money. I could not bear the infighting about filing papers, sharing copy costs, managing calendars and setting docket dates. And I could not bear the ceaseless criticism about "not moving fast enough" to make profits on cases. It all seemed utterly, utterly meaningless. I did not care in the least. After all, what difference did all this make? I could just die suddenly like my father; what good what profits and docket dates do then?

When my father lay dying, he was not thinking about success, careers or money. He was thinking about his own existence. He was thinking about the fact that his time was running out; and whether he had spent it well.

I took that lesson to heart: Was I spending my time well? Or was I wasting it in a chase after meaningless rewards? I concluded that I was wasting it. I began living in the awareness of death; and that made me treasure my life. I started savoring my time. I resented anyone and anything that impinged on my time; for how was I to know whether I would be here tomorrow? I wanted to be master of my own time, because time gave me my chance to live. Obviously, this did not make me a good candidate for employment. So I had to adjust my approach to supporting myself.

I contented myself with making just enough money to feed and house myself. And I did so in a way that did not rob my time and dignity. Since then, I have been happier with my lot. For the most part, I am master of my time. That brings its own rewards.

I never forget what happened to my father. It tempers me whenever I feel the impulse to get into the "success race." I reflect on how little time I have to relish my life. Then I think how much time I will have to yield in order to achieve "career success." That is to say nothing about the sacrifices in dignity, ethics and happiness I would have to make to achieve it. Finally, I think: "Even if I do achieve 'career success,' what will I feel? What good will it do? What if I simply die on the way? When I lay dying, what will I think about how I've spent my time? Will I regret all the days and nights I toiled in an office fighting for a company's profit?"

These thoughts comfort me. They assure me that I have made the right decision for my life. Having said that, I know not everyone will make the same decision. My views about time reflect my experiences. They work for me because I live in the awareness of death. My respect for time intertwines with my respect for death. After all, life--with all the joy and misery it can write upon our bodies--hangs by a thread. It can end instantly. And life is time: There is our time, then there is death.

That is a pretty good impulsion to spend our time well. Because once it's over, we're over, too.

That is why I write about time: It is the tragic, ever-diminishing coating that encapsulates us all. When we waste it, we waste ourselves. So I choose not to intentionally waste it on anything that does not bring me joy.

SURRENDERING, WASTING TIME AND FOLLOWING ORDERS : THE LANGUAGE OF EMPLOYMENT

THE MYTH OF EMPLOYMENT IN AMERICA

PART 1 - LANGUAGE

Last week, the White House announced some encouraging news about the economy. It said that the "Job Report" for March showed "significant gains." Apparently, more people found private employment during the early spring; and that meant more people were getting paychecks. Since late 2008, the "Job Report" had consistently reported losses. So last month's news was cause for celebration: When people have private sector jobs, it is a national victory.

What makes jobs cause for celebration in America? After all, what exactly is a "job," and why do Americans fetishize them so much? Is there something magical about jobs that makes people live their whole lives seeking them and toiling at them? I say no: In most cases, jobs are a poor way to spend your life; and they are sure way to obliterate your spirit as an individual.

Viewed in the abstract, jobs are nothing to glorify. In most cases, they are just a waste of time. People only work because they need to earn money to stave off material ruin at the hands of creditors, landlords, banks and other superior economic beings. They do not enrich people intellectually or spiritually. Rather, they commit people to a "service obligation," namely, unswerving dedication to the employer's economic mission. That economic mission might involve questionable ethics or outright deceit. But jobs require people to put those concerns aside and "do what the company wants." Worse, if the employee does not "do what the company wants"--or if he simply does not justify his cost in company profit--he is fired. If anything, jobs are gloomy reward. In return for a paycheck, an employee not only must sacrifice his time, dignity, ethics and individuality; he must also commit himself to another's material gain. That is a high price to pay for freedom from bankruptcy.

But still Americans thirst for jobs. Everyone wants one. Economists even measure national commercial strength by evaluating "job creation" and "job robustness." In other words, the entire economic system depends on everyone getting a job and doing what they are told so that larger commercial interests can profit and pay more employees. Jobs depend on hierarchies and disparities in power. Some live to benefit the employer; meanwhile the employer makes off with all the money. The employer expects total dedication to his economic mission; he pays just enough wages to keep the employee fed and under a roof. The employee must follow instructions and be productive.

It is not a fair system: No matter what free market apostles say to the contrary, very little labor is actually voluntary in the United States. True, no one is pointing a gun at employees to force them to work. But deluging people with ceaseless economic obligations under threat of homelessness amounts to practical coercion. If the choice is between letting one's children starve and taking an unfair job somewhere, is it really a choice?

If the field is so tilted, why does everyone want a job? If jobs are inherently unfair, coercive and wasteful, why does the White House tout them as the ultimate measure of national success? Does it not say something about our collective life expectations that we view our jobs as the highest expression of who we are? After all, most jobs are quintessentially counter-creative and anti-individualist. To understand that, consider that in American discourse it is often possible to replace the question "Who are you?" with "What do you do?"

Language relating to employment paints a bleak picture. It tells a story of banality, wasted time and exploitation. By investigating a few common words that regularly appear in the employment context, we see an oppressive, anti-individualist motif at work. And in the process, we begin to understand that the whole mythology surrounding "jobs" in America is exactly that: An elaborate hoax that sustains itself on false expectations and wretched servility.

Let us begin with the most obvious example: "Job." The word "job" is ubiquitous in modern American discourse. We cannot escape it. We even think we know what a "job" means; we visualize some guy slapping on a Starbucks apron and serving up mocchachinos for $5.50 a pop. But do we really understand the word? Where does it come from? What does it tell us? Is it really the sacred thing the propaganda tells us it is? Is it really the thing that determines our strength as a nation? Is it the be all and end all of our lives?

Let us look.

No one can agree on "job's" precise etymology. Most scholars agree, however, that "job" relates to the Middle English word "gobbe," meaning a "lump or mass of something," like clay, mud or grime. Dictionary.com says that "gobbe" did not imply "work" in 1400. But by the 17th Century, it began to assume a new meaning. Specifically, it meant a "specific, discrete piece of work done for an agreed-upon price." That distinguished it from long-term employment; jobs were "petty" and "inconstant." The handyman did "jobs," while the priest had a "profession." A person with a "job" was common trash. The fact that the word relates to "gob" tells almost the whole story. Jobs are grimy, unsavory and despicable ways to spend time. They are like lumps of filth with which people contend every day for a few lousy shillings. And they have always occupied the lowest spot on the "employment hierarchy." Only the meanest types worked "jobs." "Better people" spent their time with "professions" or "callings."

In this historical context, who would ever want a "job?" The etymology tells a nasty story. Only common rogues would deign to be "jobbers" slaving away at their daily lumps. What a horrible way to spend a life. While the word "job" may have taken a more neutral meaning over time, etymology never lies. It is indisputable that the word "job" reflects low social standing and abject surrender to a superior master. Only the most wretched people did "jobs" in the past, like cleaning privies or washing horse dung. Yet now Americans fetishize jobs. Who would have ever thought that so many Americans would have wanted to be the linguistic successors to Elizabethan shit sweepers?

Other employment-related words do not really improve the overall linguistic image. Those fortunate enough to avoid having a "job" might have a "career" instead. Like "job," "career" has become ubiquitous in American discourse. And like "job," Americans think they know what a "career" is. They also understand that "careers" are somehow "better" than jobs. They might not know why; it just seems that "career people" make more money than common slugs with "jobs."

But from an etymological perspective, "careers" are just as pernicious as jobs. While "career" has always elevated itself over "job," both concepts do the same thing: They voraciously consume time. "Career" especially implies a lifetime dedication to a chosen economic pursuit. It derives from the Latin word "carriara," meaning a "road intended for vehicular transport." See Dictionary.com, v. 1.1. "career" derivation. The dictionary's definitions stress "career's" temporal demands: "1. An occupation or profession, esp. one requiring special training, followed as one's life work; 2. A person's progress or general course of action through life or a phase of life." Id.

On its face, "career" does not necessarily imply economic service to a private master. But in American discourse, it does. People go to "Career Schools" and learn how to "prepare for their careers." They hear that it is "great to have a career" and that losing a career is worse than death. In all these usages, "career" implies dedication to a particular economic mission. It is wonderful to have a "life's work" if you believe in it, but how many "careers" really inure to individual benefit? A corporate "career," for instance, is not about the worker; it is about the corporation. A lawyer's "career" is about purposeful economic activity, not individual enrichment or creativity. In this light, "careers" in American discourse paint a disheartening image: They show people slavishly dedicated to a particular economic master for their entire lives. While "career people" may need special training to have a "career" rather than a "job," and while they may earn more money at longer engagements than "jobbers," they are no better in dignity. After all, to have an American-style "career," you have to give up your life to a "particular course of action;" you must "get on the road." In most cases, that means disciplined, directed service to a private economic master. If you do that, what time do you have left for yourself? Very little, if any. In this sense, "careers"--like jobs--generally reflect an essential hostility to individuality and creativity, as well as dedication to superior economic masters. And that is exactly how it is supposed to work, too.

American discourse about employment reveals its hierarchical function through other words, too. Beyond the basic distinction between "jobs" and "careers," there are also "professions." In modern American usage, "professions" are "special careers" that involve some unique learning or discipline. They pay more than other careers and certainly more than mere jobs. "Professions" even conjure mystical connotations because they involve special skills that average people cannot even fathom. "Professionals" use highly specialized language. They ply highly specialized procedures to obtain almost miraculous results. Generally, they go to school for a very long time before going into business. And on that basis they demand more money for their services. The word "profession" is all about "exclusivity:" Not everyone can be a "professional." We cannot all be so smart or skilled. If we were, we could pull our own teeth or conduct our own trials--that would not be good for dentists and lawyers.

"Profession's" etymology bears out these colloquial connotations. The word derives from the Latin "professio," meaning the "taking of the vows of a religious order." Dictionary.com v. 1.1 (profession etymology). In modern usage, the word means: "1. A vocation requiring knowledge of some department of learning or science." Id. Professionals, then, are modern-day mystics. Their very name invokes a "religious order." But they are not free spirits; they "took oaths" to the "religious order." This commits them to their "craft," or--in modern terms--their "knowledge of some department of learning or science." And they are essentially secretive: Not everyone can join a secret religious order, let alone master its complicated rituals or rites.

In practical terms, there is not much difference between a "career" and a "profession." Both refer to constant work for pay, most likely in the service of a private master. In that sense, "professions" consume time even more than simple "careers." Some "professions" genuinely do good. But in most cases, "professionals" band together to maximize their profits by exploiting public need for their "special knowledge." And in America, people do not become professionals to do good. They become professionals because they want "high-paying careers." In the process, they commit themselves to the profession's narrow "department of learning or science" for their entire lives, ruling out all else. Like jobs and careers, then, professions work strongly to suppress individuality and creativity. There is simply no time for anything but the profession--and profiting from it.

Finally, there is a general word that applies to almost all employment-related terms: Occupation. In many ways, occupation perfectly summarizes the temporal difficulties involved in employment. It is a relatively simple word; the subtlety lies in the imagery.

Occupation derives from the Latin "occupare," literally meaning to "occupy." But beyond the familiar "occupation," the word implies a "taking of possession of time or space." There is an element of both superior power and control in the word. It implies that someone or something takes possession. Obviously, anyone or anything possessing someone or something else is superior to the person or thing possessed. In this sense, "occupation" requires a subject and an object, a dominant element and a subordinate element. There is an "occupier" and an "occupied object." It is all about power.

These are revealing insights when applied in the employment context. After all, if a person has an "occupation," who is occupying and who is being occupied? Does the work "possess" the worker, or does the worker "possess" the work? I would venture that the work possesses the worker. It possesses his entire being, including his mind, his time, his creative strength and his focus. He allows someone to occupy him for pay. But he sacrifices his dignity in exchange. It is fundamentally submissive. And it confirms the essential power struggle that pervades all employment relationships: Someone occupies; another is occupied. The occupier profits by occupying the occupied object; the occupied object receives "compensation" for allowing the occupation. Yet make no mistake: It is always the occupier who holds the power, just as a carpenter holds power over his tools.

Where does all this leave us? It leaves us with an ugly picture about employment. American employment propaganda tells us that we should all want jobs or careers. Or a career of jobs. Or maybe a profession, or a professional career. Or at least an occupation. But if we understand what those words actually mean, we should hesitate before so zealously pursuing them. Jobs are just gobs of nasty filth. Careers are time thieves. Professions are hypnotizing, mind-narrowing cults. And occupations are invitations to be "possessed" or "owned." They are all about surrender. They are all about submission.

But maybe that's the point. Maybe we're supposed to surrender and just do what we are told. After all, the White House says we're a stronger nation when we all have jobs.

That is pretty scary if you ask me. Then again, not everyone reads the dictionary like I do.

ANOTHER BUSY WEEK

Well, it looks like I won't have too much time to write until late this week. In a way I'm disappointed, but in another way I'm happy to see that times are changing. For almost two years, I wrote this blog every morning because I literally could not leave the house. Now, as my partner heals, I have more and more time to pursue life outside. I might even make a few dollars this week. Who knows? Believe me: I need the money; I live in New York and landlords don't take excuses for long.

So against that background, please forgive my minimal production this week. I still have a long list of issues to discuss. I just won't get to it until Thursday!

Thanks for your patience. And thanks always for reading my catalog.

Oesterhoudt

GERMAN BREAK

In 1999, I lived with a German family in Berlin. In retrospect, it was probably the happiest year of my life. I was still very young, but I just remember feeling exhilarated every day in my new environment. My German "parents" seemed to respect and understand me better than my own parents. It broke my heart to go home when I did. Although I have been back to Berlin many times over the last 11 years, I have never recaptured the pure joy I used to feel when I lived there.

As the years passed, I gradually lost touch with my German parents and their two daughters. I regretted this very deeply. I tried several times to contact them but to no avail. That is, until yesterday. My sister called me from Brooklyn to tell me that my German mother had called looking for me. She gave my sister her number. I was overjoyed.

I called my German mother early this morning. She was busy and couldn't talk, but we agreed to have a nice conversation tomorrow morning. I was a little disappointed that we could not talk at that moment, but I'm so glad we've reconnected. Now, I'm just full of memories and old emotions. I can't concentrate at all on my writing, so I'm going to take a day off. Tomorrow I might take another day off so I can talk to the German parents I haven't seen in 7 years.

I'm really quite excited! Hopefully I will have time to write a post, too, but if I don't, you know the reason.

Thanks again for checking in!

Oesterhoudt

HOPEFUL TIMES

I've been getting a lot of phone calls lately. Never fear; there's been no bad news. On the contrary, I have lately reconnected with many old friends and I hope to see them over the next couple weeks. Additionally, I have received a few offers to do some "paying" work from home, and with my finances as critical as they are, I am loath to turn them down.

Against that background, I am going to do my absolute best to keep up my writing schedule. But in the coming weeks, I may have to without a post for a few more days than usual. I apologize for that. On the other hand, I am grateful that I am starting to spend more time out of the house. For the first time in over a year, my partner is feeling well enough for me to reasonably start pursuing some additional interests, seeing more people and rekindling a social life that has been dormant for quite some time now. To put this all in perspective, I have not been able to leave the house for more than a few hours at a time since late 2008. That is changing now.

My life is getting richer every day. I know that richness will aid my writing. This is certainly not to say that I am going to stop writing. In fact, I am committed to this blog more now than I have ever been. I am grateful for my readers and I always look forward to hearing from you. I am proud to have amassed so much writing about so many subjects.

Having said all this, I will be branching out a bit more in the coming weeks. If that means two and three posts per week rather than the customary five, I am willing to pay that price. It is simply a question of free time. When I have it, I will write. When I have something else going on, I won't. But all in all, I think time off the blog will be my exception, not my rule. I just want to keep the option open. And I wanted to let you all know about it.

Thanks again to all who stop by for Reason, Commerce, Justice and Free Beer! I am excited about the future. And even when I don't write, I experience, observe and analyze my surroundings. Experience always delivers me onto fertile creative grounds; life is never really dull when you dare to live it.

See you all soon!

Oesterhoudt

BUSY WEEK AHEAD

It looks like next week will be quite busy for me. I have a ton of appointments. They are going to rob my mornings. I'm not looking forward to it, but at least I can anticipate it.

I always put undue stress on myself when I expect myself to generate a post every weekday. But if I explicitly "excuse" myself from writing for particular reasons, I somehow feel better about missing a few days. So I'm going to do that today: Next week, I likely will not have time to write effectively every day. If you don't see a new post each day next week, you know the reason.

Still, I am not tired at all. My inspiration level is as high as ever. I constantly get new ideas. Life is interesting and fresh. It's just that a whole crosscurrent of banal crap converged in one week; and I know it's going to keep me from writing.

There you have it. Thanks so much for reading my posts. And remember to always check the archives or--if you're feeling adventurous--try a word search. I always amuse myself by typing in certain concepts in the dialog. It reminds me how much stuff I've written about so many different subjects. It makes me proud, actually. I have a complete record about my beliefs on every issue that matters in my life. And it will last beyond my years!

Oesterhoudt

MY TEETH ARE DOOMED

AN ESSAY

I am getting older. Every day, time leaves new marks on my body. When the light shines a certain way, I notice time's inscriptions. Lines emanate away from my eyes, especially when I smile. I have more wrinkles on my forehead. My hands are starting to look cracked, crooked and worn. Hair is sprouting up in places I'd rather not discuss. And my teeth aren't so pearly white anymore; in fact, I can feel them getting weaker by the week.

Our bodies doomed to decay. That's the problem with bodies. Beauty and youth please us. But we understand how fleeting they are. We understand that time is never on our side. When we see a beautiful person, we know they won't be so forever. It's all just a matter of time before remorseless months and years erode even the supplest beauties.

Aging is a natural process. But that doesn't make it any more appealing to us. Death is a natural process too; and very few people like death, either. Still, natural processes can be both scary and reassuring. They are scary because no one wants to get old and die. On the other hand, they are reassuring because everyone reliably knows they will happen. Just as everyone knows a flower will wilt and turn brown, so too does everyone know that we all will die one day. That is just what happens in nature. You can see it. And you can apply it to your own life. It is rhythmic. You can count on it.

But let's get back to the scary part. While nature might provide us analogies to understand what will happen to us in the end, it is no less unpleasant to consider. We are, after all, rather vain creatures. We do not like the idea that our youth and appeal may one day fade. We do not like the idea that our beauty will wilt like the flowers in the garden. We experience so many pleasures in youth. And God forbid that time will steal them from us. It is not a pleasant thought.

Still, we must confront it. I confront it a little bit every day when I notice the new little injuries time has left upon me. In a strange way, it makes me reflective. When I notice something going wrong with my body, it makes me remember how long I've been here. It makes me remember how much I've seen and experienced. I go back through the years and I remember the times when my body did not ache the way it does now. I remember when there was no hair in the places it grows now. Our bodies are like fossils; and our memory confirms to us how long we have been here. Although I do not like the idea that I am decaying, I can at least take some pride in the idea that I have made it this far.

Having said all this, my teeth are doomed. I think they are even more doomed than the rest of my body. My constant coffee abuse, advancing age, lack of insurance and insufficient funds portend a dental disaster of unspeakable magnitude. Last year, I managed to scrape up enough money to get an examination, along with a cleaning and whitening (I am still paying interest on the visits). The dentist scraped unbelievable amounts of plaque from places in my mouth I barely knew existed. Then she flossed mysterious cracks in those unknown regions. She drew blood almost every time she hit the gum.

Toward the end, she said: "It's been a while since your last visit, hasn't it?" Then she offered me some Tylenol.

My poor, doomed teeth. It does not help that I have English ancestry. Genetically, the English have bad teeth. My own circumstances make my naturally bad genetic situation even worse. Every day, I notice my gums getting whiter. There are stains between a couple teeth that were not there before. And I can feel my teeth moving in my gumline in a way I have never felt before. Plus, they tell me I have impacted molars that must be removed before they burrow into my nerves. Put simply, I am in dire dental trouble.

But this is what happens when you get older. Time brutally flogs our bodies. There is little we can do about it. It just happens. Sure, we can live as healthy as we possibly can. We can eat right, exercise and even think positively about the future. But these are mere salves: Nothing can stop time's slow, steady, corrosive assault on our flesh.

It would be nice to escape our bodies for a while. While our bodies might offer numerous ways to experience the world's pleasures, they are also enormously restrictive. They can produce as much pain as pleasure. Time's corrosion is just another terror our bodies must confront. Still, it is so easy to put trust in our bodies. It is banal in the truest sense. We know our bodies better than anything else in our lives. We are stuck with them. We see them every day. We monitor them and scrutinize them. We must endure their chemical tempests and painful discomforts. They matter to us because they place insistent demands on us: Feed me; relieve me; give me rest; make me comfortable; make me feel pleasure. If we ignore them, we suffer pain for it. And we learn from earliest memory that pain is not good. So we slavishly pander to our bodies.

It is no accident that the law targets the body. Almost everyone cares about his own body. If there is something no man wants to experience, it is bodily discomfort. So the law threatens to inflict bodily discomfort on anyone who transgresses its commands. While some exceptional people hold their bodies in contempt, they are too rare to make a difference. The law concerns itself with efficacy: It knows that almost everyone fears bodily punishment, so that is what it threatens to maintain order.

So we spend our lives worrying about our bodies until time slowly eradicates them. It is quite a pathetic lot if you think about it. Still, it is completely natural. As living organisms, we want to stay alive. To stay alive, we must preserve our bodies. We fear death largely because it means we can no longer enjoy what life has to offer our bodies. We know that we will die in time because we see what time does to others' bodies. So we fear aging, because we know what it leads to.

But what about life beyond the body? Is it possible to achieve some mental satisfaction without worrying about the body's inevitable decay? Throughout history, we find examples of men who did not put all their faith in bodily comfort. There have been men who lived for something beyond placating their bodies and avoiding death. In fact, we tend to revere men who lived beyond their bodies because they are so rare. It is no accident that Jesus Christ is the central hero in Western Civilization: He gave up his body so that others could enjoy theirs. There is a nobility in life beyond the body because so few people can effectively ignore their bodies. Most people fear aging and death. Most people simply live to experience the pleasures the body can give. Love it or hate it, that is just how we are.

I am no martyr. I am just as worried about my body as the next man. But I fear pain more than I fear death. I wish I could hold my body in contempt. Yet the body is rapaciously insistent; it is difficult to ignore its demands for long. No matter how strongly I believe in abstract principles and ideas, I cannot say whether I could maintain my commitment to them in the face of torture, hunger or agony. I am worried about my hair and my teeth, for goodness' sake; imagine how I would feel if confronted with genuine bodily scourges?

But death is different than pain. Pain is about the body and its limitations. Death is about existence and non-existence. Death rules out the body altogether. In that light, it is easier to romanticize non-existence than pain. In fact, non-existence lends itself much more to abstract principles than mere contempt for the body. Death frees us from concern about the body. Death liberates us from the body's incessant demands and penalties. True, death might cut short our ability to experience the body's joys. But it also forecloses the body's ability to torment us any longer. There is some objective, rational appeal to that possibility. If bodily life--on the whole-- appears to offer more pain than pleasure, why go on living at all? It is better to cease to exist in order to avoid pain than to exist for nothing more than pain.

Yet this broaches another conundrum: What if death does not end our pain? After all, no one has ever reported to us what death is like. No one has come back from that "undiscover'd country from whose bourn/ No traveler returns." Hamlet, Act III, sc. i, lines 80-81. We have all seen aging and pain because living people experience aging and pain. We see what happens to them. They can tell us how bad they feel.

But no one has experienced death and lived to tell about it. Who knows what awaits us there. That is what makes people fear death: Unknowability. Maybe something dreadful happens once we die. No one knows. No one can know. No one can sense anything once they die, let alone communicate what they sense. And that is why death continues to terrify us. So as bad as bodily life may be, we choose to "bear what ills we have,/ [rather] Than fly to others that we know not of." Hamlet, Act III, sc. i, lines 82-83.

I have argued before that it is unreasonable to fear death because death cuts short our bodily ability to sense anything. http://reasoncommercejustice.blogspot.com/2009/05/why-we-fear-death.html. But once again, we see that humans are not invariably reasonable. They fear death even though death eliminates their sensory capacities--including the capacity to experience pain--because they fear the unknown. That fear is not reasonable because reason is based in human sense. Death obliterates sense, so it is not reasonable to fear it.

It is actually more reasonable to fear aging than death. We can sense our bodies aging. We can feel our bodies weakening. We know that aging will bring us more pain and less bodily satisfaction. We can sense all these things. Our reason has something to grasp in that situation.

I reasonably worry about my teeth. I have every reason to believe they are doomed. And I know it's going to hurt.

But with death: Who knows what I'll feel? That is strangely reassuring.

MOMENTS I'M NOT PROUD OF

A REFLECTION

We remember moments in life. It is hard to remember particular days, or even particular eras in our lives. But certain moments inscribe themselves in us with uncanny detail. I think that's interesting, because moments are much shorter than days or eras.

On the other hand, it makes sense that we remember moments because they are sensory. Memory is little more than "stored sense" that fades over time. In a particular moment, we see, hear, feel or taste particular things. Sometimes our senses leave an impression. Most times, they do not. After all, we need to sense to survive; we can't possibly remember every little thing we sense. No, we only remember moments that are, well, worth remembering.

I have a lot of really good memories. My good memories generally fall into two categories: Moments when I felt inwardly good about a situation without external recognition; and moments when I overcame some external obstacle or achieved some popular reward.

I can give examples. First, I remember a night in November 1994 when my best friend and I frolicked shirtless through a school field in rural Connecticut. No one was there but us. The moon was shining. We laughed and screamed all night. We fell in the grass and just looked up at the stars. I talked about whatever came in my head and everything I said just seemed to be right. It was unusually warm for that time of year. Then we got into my car and just went home.

That was a "good memory" that did not involve any external recognition. I remember the things I saw, heard and felt. No one else witnessed what my friend and I did that night; yet it remains a cherished memory. I did not win any accolades for it. I just remember feeling so, so good. And I can relate that feeling to the things I saw, heard and felt that night in 1994.

Second, I remember several days in January 2004, during my first year in law school. I had just taken my first law exams and I was extremely nervous. I felt as if my entire future depended on how I did on those tests. For the previous four months, I had worked harder than at any other time in my life to that point.

New York Law School published exam results through a computer system. Every day, I nervously logged in to my account to see whether they had posted my results. I had to type in an ID code to access my information. There was always a brief delay between the time I entered my code and the time the webpage came up. I always held my breath during that moment. I remember that my heart even raced. I remember that I perspired a lot then, too. I remember feeling droplets of sweat fall from the top of my armpit onto my side.

After about a week of nervous checking, I finally saw results. I had gotten mostly A's on my exams and wound up with a Grade Point Average of 3.79, which placed me in the Top 10 of my class of 400. I felt a bizarre mix of relief, exultation and new confidence. Professors and friends congratulated me after the yearly rankings went public. I relished my success. It felt really good. I had overcome a huge barrier and received external praise for it.

Unlike the nocturnal moment in the field with my boyhood friend, this was a "good memory" that depended exclusively on official judgments. It was still "good," but for entirely different reasons. And I remember it differently, too.

But I am not ashamed to admit that I remember bad experiences as much as I remember good ones. In fact, I think I have learned more about myself by reliving my less-than-heroic moments and understanding why they were so bad. Our failures defines us as much--if not more--than our successes. After all, just as we can succeed in many ways, so too can we fail in many ways. We can fail externally, as through school grades or critical condemnation for "poor work." Others can tell us we have failed to reach an "acceptable" standard, and that feels bad. Or we can fail internally, as when we lose our composure or sacrifice our beliefs. We don't need other people to tell us we've failed when we fail internally.

I have suffered both kinds of failure. But I find external failure much easier to bear than internal failure. After all, you can always blame your judge or your critic if you fail externally. Maybe they just didn't like you. Maybe the test was unfair. It's easier to justify external failure.

But you can't run from yourself: When you fail internally, you've failed to meet your own standards. And you can't point your finger at some test-grader or theater critic for that.

I'm far, far, far from perfect. I have failed so much in life. In most cases, I can move beyond my failures. But I never forget them. I try to learn from them. Still, they sting me when I recall them, especially when I failed myself.

Here's a moment I'm not proud of. Last October, my partner, Steve, went to the hospital after suffering an acute manic episode. For several weeks before that, his condition had steadily worsened. He did not sleep for 60 hours straight at one point. He constantly busied himself with "tasks;" he woke me from bed every 15 minutes every night to help him re-clean the apartment or find some random webpage. He drew up long, detailed lists every day and tried to accomplish every little thing on the list, like buying a gurtel at some far-away store he found on the internet. He became angry when he did not complete everything on the list each day. Then he became hostile and profligate. He picked fights with random people on the street. He spent thousands on useless things, like Christmas ornaments and big rolls of fancy platinum ribbons for Thank You cards.

By the time Steve went to the hospital, I was ready to strangle him. Yet this was the man I had loved for ten years. I could not believe I was feeling the way I was. But I was so exhausted and so emotionally battered that I just wanted relief; and it seemed the only way to find relief was to cast him off. I felt better when I recognized that he had a serious disease. I tried not to take his abuse personally. The words still hurt, though. I was happy that he got the medical attention he needed. I was even happier to get a three-week break alone to rebuild my mental constitution.

I remember feeling somewhat disappointed when the doctor called to tell me that Steve was ready to come home. I felt a swirling mix of fear, resentment, childish selfishness and fatigue. I did not want to endure the same problems that arose when Steve fell ill. I didn't want to be woken up again every 15 minutes. Plus, I felt as if I had just caught my breath after a grueling bout, and now I would have to grit my teeth and start fighting all over again. Still, I tried to put on my most positive face when I went to pick Steve up at the hospital. I could not deny that I still loved him. I thought: "Maybe he'll be better now." I allowed myself to hope, even though my overall mood was dark and frustrated.

Steve was in surprisingly good shape when I brought him home. His doctors had found the medication he needed to achieve emotional stability, and he was on the path to a "new normalcy." I was glad to see that. We even went out to lunch late that afternoon. Steve moved very slowly. His eyes looked exhausted and glazed over. He was heavily medicated. One medication made him drool and he had to wear a bib. I had to help him walk from place to place. He used a cane because he was unsteady on his feet. Naturally, all these things aroused my pity. Steve cut a pathetic picture now. It hurt me deeply.

And I still felt past resentments. My temper was short. I was in no mood for any additional challenges. But sure enough, while we walked home from the restaurant, a challenge arose. As we crossed 4th Avenue at 12th Street, we tried to hail a cab. When the cabbie saw Steve's cane, he made a dismissive gesture and said: "No, no, no," then drove off. That made me angry. It also cost us time; the light was about to change. Steve was too slow to make it across 4th Avenue before the oncoming traffic got a green signal. It was around 5 o'clock. As we passed in front of a guy on a motorcycle, the horns started blowing. The guy on the motorcycle rolled his eyes at me and Steve as if to say: "Get going, will you?"

It touched a nerve. I completely lost my temper. I stopped right in the middle of the street and said: "What the fuck are you looking at? Can't you see I'm trying to help this man?" In the meantime, Steve made his way to the other side of the street. But I stayed. My voice rose and my heart pounded hard. I continued yelling. I remember saying: "So you think you're special because you're wearing that fucking hat, huh?" As I stood there cursing, the traffic started moving at full speed all around me. I was so enraged that I did not even recognize how much danger I faced. The guy on the motorcycle didn't say a word. He just smiled at me and shook his head as if to say: "What a fucking nut." He drove right past me. Another guy in a car almost rolled over my right foot. I remember feeling the tire graze the front of my sneaker. I was too livid to comprehend what was going on.

Ultimately we got a cab and headed home. Steve told me that my voice changed and that my eyes had bulged while I was out yelling in the street. After a few minutes, the adrenaline passed from my body and I started to feel extremely bad about what had just happened. I felt that I had made a fool of myself. Steve just shook his head. I tried to explain that I lost my temper because I was upset that people were so insensitive about his condition. That was partially true; I was also just really angry about having him back in the house again. Thankfully, the subsequent weeks proved that anger moot; Steve never went manic again.

I recount that story because it's a moment I'm not proud of. I take pride in my reason. I like to feel that I can coolly handle any situation with dignity. But on that day in October 2009, I completely abandoned my reason and fell headlong into dangerous emotion. Make no mistake: I do not flee from emotion; in most situations, I even relish it. But extreme emotion is dangerous. It undermines everything. I felt uncontrollable rage that day. It was as if I stepped from my own skin and became a wild beast. In addition, I reproached myself for the petty selfishness I felt that whole day. I knew that selfishness fanned my underlying anger, and that anger exploded into fury. That was out of character for me. I failed myself.

Still, I learned a lot from that moment. I learned that human reason hangs by a thread. Despite all our claims to rational intelligence and equanimity, pressures can drive the human mind straight back to animal depths in an instant. It is just a question of circumstance, mood and stimulus. After all, we are but sensory creatures. Sense might lead to science and discovery. But it can also lead to wrath and destruction.

Having said all this, I can still find some justification for my outburst. I truly feel anger toward people who are callous about Steve. I won't deny that. I love Steve. He is handicapped; it is obvious. When people look at him funny or rush him on the street, it really bothers me. For the most part, he stays indoors now because he knows that he can't handle the barbarians outside.

Most people just don't understand. I can't expect them to, either. But that doesn't stop me from feeling anger about it. I wish I didn't. I'm not proud of it. Yet I can learn a lot about others--and myself--when I reflect on it.

HAPPINESS, UNHAPPINESS, WORK, CAREERS AND DRINKING

AN ESSAY

When I practiced law, I learned the real meaning of the word “unhappiness.” I have garbled memories about my months in practice. Impressions flitter back to me without warning. No matter how they reappear, they put a bitter taste in my mouth. They confirm to me that I made the right decision to abandon the legal profession. They remind me just how awful I felt every day in a law office.

Before I practiced law, I never thought much about the concepts “happiness” and “unhappiness.” In my young mind, happiness was uncomplicated; it simply meant that you generally “felt good” in your circumstances and that “nothing was wrong.” Applying that definition, “unhappiness,” too, was easy to understand. It was just the “opposite of feeling good.” “Unhappiness” depended on “happiness.” If I knew one, I could abstractly imagine the other. I never considered that “unhappiness” could have an independent meaning.

It does. The mere fact that the word “unhappiness” contains the word “happiness” does not mean that “unhappiness” depends on “happiness.” To the contrary, “unhappiness” is a unique, pervasive, all-consuming feeling of malaise that darkens your entire outlook on life. It is not merely the absence of happiness; it is much more. It is a poisonous, enervating, hopeless mental condition. When you are unhappy, life appears bleak and pointless. Days pass slowly, even torturously. You just want to lie down and go to sleep. You expect bad news at every turn. When you are unhappy, you do not think to yourself: “I am not happy.” You think: “I am unhappy; and unhappiness has nothing to do with happiness.”

Practicing law made me unhappy. I could not bear to get up in the morning. I would lie in bed and pray that the minutes on the clock would not pass. From the moment I walked into the office, difficulties arose. My supervisor would yell at me for failing to make a phone call or fax something. She would reject my explanations with vague advice, such as: “You need to do better, remember more and move faster.” Of course, she never told me how to make people answer the phone or return calls. Nor could she tell me how to make the U.S. Mail move more quickly. Whenever I mustered the effort to fulfill her requests, she had a fresh rebuke for me. She called me names and told me she would dock my pay if I kept “fucking things up.” I tried to emphasize that no one had trained me. She told me to train myself by reading a 900-page “best practices manual.”

I felt disillusioned. I entered law practice after a very successful law school career. I thought my academic success would carry over into practice. It did not. Whenever I talked about legal theory, I was told to be quiet and do “case management” instead. That meant making phone calls and setting up appointments with doctors and engineers. Law had nothing to do with my practice. It was an elaborate horse-trading game that happened to revolve around a courthouse. All the while, intimidating people besieged me from all sides. My own supervisor told me I was incompetent. My adversaries called our lawsuits “baseless, stupid and worthy of sanction.” I even made judges angry because my supervisor instructed me to file idiotic motions in court. In short, I was castigated for following orders as often I was for failing to follow them. It was classic Catch-22 material.

My life degenerated into pure negativity. Nothing ever felt right. No matter what I did, I expected to be insulted, censured or criticized. I never received even one encouraging word from anyone. I remember losing interest in everything, even things I really liked. My libido vanished. Lawyers in my firm sympathized with me. But they, too, endured the same hardships I did; they had little time to worry about me.

And I could not escape. I stayed in the office for 11 hours or more for six days a week. I had no vacation time. I received cell phone calls before and after I left the office. The bad news and mean-spirited criticism never ended. Six months into my law practice experience, goodness seemed to have evaporated from my existence. It had become one grim, emasculating failure after another with no end in sight. My boss even reneged on a promise to increase my salary after six months, explaining: “You haven’t earned it yet.”

That’s when I learned what “unhappiness” really meant. I quit. It was one of the best decisions I have ever made. Since then, life has dealt me more tough cards. But at least I do not face ridicule, scorn and criticism every hour. I happier now than I was when I practiced law. In any event, I know I am not “unhappy” anymore.

Could anyone be happy in such circumstances? I remember something my supervisor said to me one Friday evening. It was about 6 PM. I was working on something that had to be done on Monday; there was still a long way to go. I knew I was going to be back in the office on Saturday, but I wanted to knock some work out before the weekend. Everyone else had gone home except my supervisor. She wanted to leave, too. So she came into my office and said: “Would you wrap it up? You’re cutting into my drinking time.”

I will never forget that. It made me seriously think about life, careers, happiness and success. Here was a successful law firm manager who divided life between “work time,” namely, Monday morning through Friday afternoon, and “drinking time,” namely, Friday afternoon through Sunday evening. When she said “I was cutting into her drinking time,” she implied that she drank at any moment she wasn’t working. For her, life was binary: Working and drinking. She must have liked drinking, because she did not like the fact that I was keeping her at work during her drinking time. If she had liked working, she would not have minded staying at work for a few more hours. But she was upset because I was encroaching on “her time,” and in “her time,” she liked drinking.

I am sure this is a common sentiment. But what does it really say about happiness and success in America? People are so proud of their jobs, especially people—like my supervisor—who achieve prominence and wealth. Yet despite this pride, they always yearn for days off so they can go get drunk. People say they love their work. But if they would prefer drinking to work, are they really being honest with themselves? Sigmund Freud wrote that intoxication is the “purest, most effective method” by which to ward off unhappiness. Civilization and its Discontents, S. 44 (Fischer Verlag, 10th Ed. 2007). Drinking “drowns cares.” If my supervisor loved drinking, she must have had “cares” she wanted to “drown.” This showed me that, beneath the collected exterior, she was somehow unhappy, too. She may not have been abjectly unhappy, but she must have been unhappy enough to want to drink as soon as she got home on Friday night. My unhappiness sprang both from my ill treatment and my disillusionment with a profession that cared nothing for the principles I struggled so long to master. My supervisor’s unhappiness came from some other source. I do not know what made her unhappy. She was powerful and had much more money than I did. She commanded people around the office and owned three apartments. Yet she was upset with me because I delayed her weekly rendezvous with the bottle.

Can we ever really find happiness in employment? It seems that every working person “lives for the weekend.” I know I do whenever I work a “traditional job.” I do not delude myself by saying “I love my job.” I do not like being a servant. I do not like sacrificing my time for a few dollars. Sure, in many cases it is necessary to sacrifice time for money. But that does not mean I like it. That is why I meticulously count the days toward Friday. During the week, a part of my mind always resents the idea that I am stuck doing someone else’s bidding for a shekel or two. Friday, however, represents a liberation from service. Working people divide their mental lives between weekdays and weekends. Weekdays are boring, stressful and unsatisfying. Weekends are exciting, free and fun-filled. The human brain does not like stress, obligation and constraint. Yet it loves freedom and fun. If it came between weekdays and weekends—and if money were not an issue—everyone would choose the weekend: Who would willingly face stress and obligation if there were no compensation for the pain? That is just the way our minds work. It is easier to be happy when you do not face stress, ridicule and failure. Even if you do not face extreme pressure at work, you still have to show up and sit in one place for over eight hours a day. Your brain would much rather be doing other things during that time, like drinking, sunbathing, shopping or surfing. That’s just the way we are, no matter how much guilt-ridden social programming we’ve absorbed to the contrary. We are trained to say “we love to work at traditional jobs.” But this is self-delusion.

Ironically, traditional jobs tend strongly to induce unhappiness. They consume time, leaving only limited opportunities for personal satisfactions. The fact that so many people—even wildly successful people—yearn to drink on Friday night is compelling evidence that people would “rather not be working” if they had the choice. More to the point, the persistent mental distinction between “workday drab” and “weekend fun” vibrantly illustrates that employment makes people unhappy. Workdays are “unhappy time” and weekends are “happy time.” It is childishly simple, yet accurate. “Weekend fun” makes us “happy.” “Weekday drab” runs us down, then thirst for “fun.” Without sufficient “fun” in our lives, we are not “happy.” We may not be truly “unhappy,” but we set ourselves up for unhappiness.

All this makes me wonder whether our entire social program even cares whether people achieve happiness. We learn to work at traditional jobs. We hear rhetoric about it all the time. It is “good” to have a stable job. It is “good” to know your place in the workplace hierarchy. It is “good” to spend your best years serving some company’s economic interests. And it is “good” to make money in the process. We hear that it is important to “be happy.” But how can we be happy if we spend 72% of our lives (ie, 5 days from every 7) wishing it were the weekend? Is it “good” to be happy only 28% of the time? Against this background, it almost seems revolutionary to want happiness 100% of the time. No offense to office workers, but if you say you are “100% happy” at your job copying papers, answering phones, staring at spreadsheets, delivering coffee and cataloging documents, I don’t believe you. I know that every Wednesday morning you secretly say to yourself: “Only two more days to go….only two more days to go.”

Happiness should not be a revolutionary sentiment. I made it my goal in life. I have experienced unhappiness. It is deeply unsettling. It makes you doubt life altogether. It makes you just want to give up. Still, avoiding unhappiness is more difficult than it seems. In our society, we learn to serve. We learn to spend our time to benefit others in order to win some monetary reward. Only a few have the freedom to spend their time as they please. But happiness lies in the power to say: “I will do what I want to do.” On weekends, working people say: “I will do what I want to do,” and they do what they want. On weekdays, they say: “I must” and they do not do what they want to do.

This is not a good recipe for happiness. Yet this is the program we’ve received from day one. When we sit in an office dreaming about the weekend, we understand just how little time we have to be happy in this world. Freud put it best when he said: “Our chances for happiness are already limited by our constitution as living organisms. But it is much less difficult to experience unhappiness.” Civilization and its Discontents, S. 43 (my translation) (Fischer Verlag, 10th ed. 2007).

When we divide our time between “work days” and “drinking days,” we obviously don’t like the work days as much as the drinking days. Yet we work much more often than we drink. Where does that leave us? Or do we drink because we work? If we do, what does that say about work? Should we defend it so proudly?

OFF FOR TWO DAYS

I finally had to surrender some prime writing time to make some money. For the last year, I have managed to stay afloat without having to seek "traditional employment." Over that time, I had free rein to indulge my creative interests. Yet my cash supply has been running dangerously low for a while now, and today I am off to do a little consulting job to pay the rent this month. Thankfully it pays pretty well and it only lasts two days. I apologize for not posting during this time. Until I get a steady patron--or some wealthy financier buys my catalogue--I will periodically have to suspend the blog to make a few extra dollars here and there. Believe me, this is not my will. This is cruel commercial necessity.

It is nice to have money. It lets you spend time the way you want and elude the legal vengeance of spurned creditors. Working provides some cash. But you sacrifice so much to get it, leaving virtually no time to enjoy the freedom it can offer. For the last few years, I have learned that balance is everything. I need money just as much as the next guy, yet I refuse to unbalance my mind in order to get it. I only want as much as I need. If I thirsted for more, I would find myself at a law firm or some other God awful place from morning to night. This I refuse to do. This is not laziness; it is conscience. I always "work." I just avoid "employment." There is an enormous difference.

I hope this message finds you all well. As always, I am grateful for everyone who stops in to read my posts. Even after writing without pause for a year, I still feel inspired. I still have a long list of issues I want to discuss. In that light, how can I surrender my time to mundane commercial pursuits when there is so much Reason, Commerce, Justice & Free Beer to be had?

Here's to financial independence, spiritual independence, self-definition and a life of purer motivations.

Oesterhoudt

A SHORT BREAK, AND A WORD ON WRITING

I don't like it when "real life" interrupts my writing. But that's exactly what it does from time to time. Today, I have so many nagging administrative tasks that I won't be able to sit down and really generate a good post this morning. With luck, I will have some time this evening, but please forgive me if fatigue compromises my writing muse.

Tracey Ullman recently satirized J.K. Rowling in her State of the Union comedy show. Essentially, she mocked Rowling for obsessively controlling the "Harry Potter" franchise by depicting her suing the most insignificant transgressors against her "intellectual property." During one exchange, Ullman qua Rowling says to a U.S. Customs official who has aspirations to be a writer: "You're really not going to take time off from your job to write, are you? You're not going anywhere with this, are you?"

There was brutal truth in Ullman's satire here. Not only did she excoriate Rowling--who only had time to write because she was unemployed and received government benefits to help her avoid homelessness--but she also hit upon the sad reality that "employment" and "real life" tend to snuff out artistic expression altogether. Rainer Maria Rilke said that you should not even bother writing unless "you must do it." In other words, you "must" write, even if your obligations and commitments pose virtually insuperable roadblocks. That sounds great, and I even agree with it to a point. But Rilke never had to worry about his rent, nor did he have sick relatives to care for, nor did he suffer mental illness, nor did he have crushing debt that required him to seek energy-draining "employment" to pay it off. More importantly, Rilke never spent his hours attending to menial tasks and boring (but depressingly necessary) labors to fulfill commitments to creditors and family members. Because he did not have such commitments, he never arrived home exhausted, uninspired, torpid and incapable of imagination. Yet this is how we feel when we get home after a day of compulsory "service" fulfilling obligations.

In short, we have to slog out a living to avoid homelessness and bankruptcy. Rilke could sit musing in Paris salons and get handouts from scintillated bourgeois women. We cannot all be so lucky.

And it is not our fault. Our circumstances in life dictate whether we have time to write. When I have to take a day off from writing, I do not despair. I do not consider myself "defeated." I wish I could be like Rilke and all the "professional, successful" writers who do not have to worry about creditors, rent, administrative obligations and the myriad annoyances that plague me every day. If I were, I would have bottomless energy and creativity from the moment I wake up in the morning until the evening. But all too often I have to contend with some nonsense, or even work for someone else; and that sucks the very life out of me. By the time I get home, I can do little more than stare, let alone be creative. This is "real life."

Having said all this, I do my best to write despite all the personal and financial challenges that hound me. I try not to describe them in detail; this is not a psychiatry blog, nor do I expect anyone to really care about my issues. This is just the way life goes. Some have it easier than others. Still, I am relatively content with my lot. It could be much worse: I am healthy; I am just broke, in debt and romantically committed. I just resent the suggestion that it is somehow "anti-artistic" to refrain from writing one day because "real writers write" no matter what else they face in life. That is simply unrealistic. For debtors like me with relationships, bills and sick relatives, I have no choice but to be "anti-artistic" every now and then. If I weren't, I would be homeless or emotionally wrecked. And if that happened, my "artistic production" would fall to nothing. Thus, I take a break when I must, Rilke be damned.

As yet, I haven't found a wealthy patron to finance my scribblings. Until I do, I regret to say that I will occasionally need to take days off from writing once in a while in order to stave off bankruptcy and to maintain crucial relationships with important people in my life.

Does this make me a cop-out? Maybe in J.K. Rowling's eyes it does. But please forgive me; I haven't yet published 45 novels with 17 film adaptations. I actually fret over unexpected bills because every single dollar I earn has already been spoken for. To some extent, that stays my artistic hand. If I don't sometimes grit my teeth and handle administrative crap, my creditors would do me in. So I give up the writing some days.

But rest assured. Administrative nonsense only restrains me once in a while. At all other times, you can count on Reason, Commerce, Justice & Free Beer. And thanks again to all those who take the time to read what I write.

SUCCESSFUL PEOPLES' PRACTICAL ALLIANCE FOR THE REDUCTION OF ALL LIFE QUESTIONS TO A MULTIPLE CHOICE TEST

CONSIDERED OPINION

By : Dr. Chuang Ho Fung, Esq. (bar licensed in all 50 States, plus the District of Columbia), M.D., D.D.S., C.P.A., D.V.M., P.E., D.P.M., Certified Race Horse Rider & Jockey, Certified 500-Meter Springboard Diver, N.A.P.T.-Certified Personal Trainer, State-Authorized Dietary Technician (New Jersey); Chairperson, The American Board of Standardized Test Takers (Multiple Choice Division); CEO and Founder, Ho Fung’s Test Wizzes, Inc., a Delaware Corporation with subsidiaries.

In America, success depends on taking tests. From school to work and professional life, Americans must repeatedly prove their merit by answering substantive questions under supervised time pressure. Third-graders must take tests to prove they can spell. Eleventh-graders must take tests to prove they can handle college work. Doctors must take tests to prove they know the aorta is not the colon. And lawyers must take the Bar Exam to prove that they know what contracts are. Tests define and mark our lives. If we do not do well on the test, we fail. If we do well on the test, we succeed. Our tests determine whether we go to college, get a job or make money in life. In short, tests are everything. Without solid test-taking skills, success is impossible.

We are successful because know how to take standardized tests. Test-taking is an art and a science. It involves iron nerves, time management, cunning, skill and aggressiveness. In that sense, taking tests mirrors American life. Just as a successful person must have iron nerves, solid time management skills, cunning and aggressiveness, so too must a master test-taker. Great test-takers manage their time to the minute. They do not spend 61 seconds on a question that only deserves 45. They know how to answer questions. And they are cunning; they can ignore distractions and focus solely on the important information in a problem.

We did not become master test-takers overnight. We spent our entire lives learning how to take tests. We endured failures before learning how to decipher standardized questions. We did not always know how to answer questions such as: “It is raining on Sunday, but not Thursday; Jones goes to the park on Wednesdays, unless it is Friday; Marge cooks in the parlor every day but Sunday, unless Jones goes to the park; When does Jones not go to the park? (A) On Tuesday if it is raining; (B) On Fridays, except Good Friday; (C) Unless Marge cooks in the parlor, on Saturday night; (D) (A) and (C), but not (B); (E) None of the above; but all of the above if Marge cooks a steak.” But now we can fish out the correct answer simply by looking at the sentence structure. We know how testers think. We can read their minds and give them the answer they want. We know how to use the words “but,” “unless,” “except,” “not,” “all,” “if” and “none.” Armed with those skills, we passed tests that made us doctors, lawyers, accountants, professors and veterinarians. All Americans can learn test-taking. They need not actually know the material; they just have to know how to take tests. In America, results matter. Tests measure results. In that light, testing is everything. Knowledge is unnecessary. Even the most knowledgeable man will fail a test if he does not know how to take it. And if he cannot subconsciously interpret the word “unless,” he will stand no chance at all.

Our test-taking abilities brought us untold riches. By learning how to take tests, we got into the best schools, passed all the professional license exams and landed extremely high-paying jobs. We learned how to take each test, aced them and started collecting our money. True, we often forgot everything about the test after we passed it. But that did not matter. We achieved our goals. We got our degrees. We landed our jobs. We did all this because we knew how to take each test along the way. Who can argue with success? Too many Americans complain that they just “cannot get over the hump.” We disagree. As the Successful Peoples’ Practical Alliance for the Reduction of all Life Questions to a Multiple Choice Test, we believe that all Americans can achieve success. They must simply know how to answer questions in a standardized test format. Once they learn this art, no door will close to them. Rather, even Harvard and Yale will bombard them with scholarship offers. After all, it is all about the score in America, in both life and sports. If you get the high score, you get the result you want. Test-taking skill will get you the high score. And that will get you all the love America can give.

Educators in the United States do not understand this. They believe that students should learn for learning’s sake, not merely to pass tests. They think that knowledge is a permanent asset, not merely an expedient instrument necessary to overcome a looming exam. These are fundamentally flawed assumptions. If it came between a well-rounded person who “learns for learning’s sake” with no special test-taking skill and a narrow-minded person who “learns what is necessary for the test” with special test-taking techniques, the trained test-taker will always get the higher score. And in America, high scores trump low scores. It does not matter that the well-rounded person retains his knowledge and thinks profoundly. Nor does it matter that the test-taker immediately forgets everything he learns before moving on to the next exam. Scores are more valuable than knowledge. Harvard does not take “smart people;” Harvard takes people who get the high scores on standardized tests. High scorers do not need to be smart. They simply need to know what’s on the test and how to correctly—and quickly—answer the questions. Intelligence actually hampers test-taking ability, since “intelligent people” see ambiguities in unambiguous test questions. Rather than instinctively answering, they hem and haw, pondering grammatical issues in the text. What good is intelligence when it costs them test success? Nothing. Thus, educators have it all wrong. Intelligence and knowledge are not the goal. Rather, students simply need to pass tests. They do not have to be “smart,” “curious,” “profound” or even “remotely bright.” They just need to know whether (A), (B) or (C) answers the question—within time limits.

Tests gave us all we could ever want in the world. We achieved our status because we learned how to take the tests and aced them. Nonetheless, even master test-takers face quandaries. Despite our superior test-taking abilities, there are some questions in life that we cannot answer. This frustrates us greatly. We feel cheated. We worked long and hard to learn how to take tests, only to discover that there are some questions that do not appear in a standardized format. Worse, no one grades or corrects responses to these questions, making it impossible to achieve a high score for answering them. Put simply, this is unacceptable. Test-takers deserve better. We believe that all questions in life must appear in a standardized, multiple-choice format subject to grading and scoring. We can answer any question by ruling out (A), (C) and (D). Why can’t we apply our skills to answer “unanswerable” questions? What message would it send to hopeful test-takers if they knew that all their hard work will never answer certain questions? As master test-takers, we are accustomed to success. We refuse to allow life to ask any question that we cannot answer in a graded, standardized format.

To reinforce respect for test-taking in America, we must draft a standardized test for “difficult life questions.” It is not enough to test future lawyers by asking them about evidence, contracts and property division rules. It is not enough to test future engineers by asking them about load walls and stresses. Rather, we must test and grade responses to all questions, not just questions necessary to get into universities and obtain professional licenses. To do this we must introduce a Universal Life Standardized Test (ULST). We must appoint a professional board to grade it. This is the only way to bring all life questions under standardized control. We are not accustomed to questions without answers. That is why we resolve ourselves to answering them all now—once and for all. No longer will people say: “There is no answer to this question.” Soon, there will be. And you will fail if you do not answer it correctly.

We believe that we can answer any question as long as we know the test. The ULST will provide definitive, objective answers to all life questions, even questions that have eluded explanation since time began. For example, the ULST will pose questions such as: “The purpose of life is which of the following, assuming Herbert is present in the room on Friday: (A) To live well according to James Wilson, except if his wife objects; (B) To obtain $5,000,000 before age 50, but not if it snows in London this March; (C) Meeting James Wilson; (D) Not meeting James Wilson; (E) All of the above except (D).” It will also resolve intractable philosophical issues with questions such as this: “Happiness can best be described as: (A) Joy, but not pain, provided the supervisor consents; (B) Pain without joy, unless the supervisor does not consent; (C) A warm house owned in fee simple absolute and not subject to adverse possession claims; (D) Mental retardation and lifelong dependency in the State of Ohio, but not mental retardation or lifelong dependency in the State of Hawaii, unless it is a leap year; (E) Death, unless it is not quick.” Additionally, the ULST will test an applicant’s ability to ascertain previously-unknown—and apparently insignificant—facts: “Bill Ruggles went for a walk in June 1987 in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. During that walk, Bill DID NOT think which of the following thoughts: (A) I need to get home in order to urinate, but not feed the cows; (B) My wife is a mean and awful woman; (C) I do not need to feed the cows, but I need to get home to urinate; (D) My left middle finger has a cut on it; (E) None of the above except (A).” Lastly, the ULST will test matters of taste and morality: “Good people: (I) Read good books; (II) Eat good food, but not eel grass; (III) Exercise regularly without ingesting more than 500 calories per day; (IV) Tell the truth, unless working; (V) Do not tell the truth, except when not working; and (VI) Visit their parents in Duluth during bad weather, but never in summer, unless the parents are named Carlsbad. Applying these facts, bad people do which of the following: (A) (I) and (V), if they are not named Carlsbad; (B) Tell the truth, (II) and (III), unless they are working; (C) (I), (II) and (III), but not (VI); (D) (V) if not telling the truth at work in Duluth; (E) All of the above, except (III), other than eel grass.”

Test-takers will learn how to answer ULST questions in less than 60 seconds. Good test-taking requires disciplined time management. Applicants will have 180 minutes to answer 180 multiple-choice questions on the ULST. Applicants will have one 15-minute break in between the first and second halves. Applicants will not have access to any outside information during the testing session. They must know how to answer the questions without recourse to data. That is the only way to determine whether an applicant truly understands universal life questions. Proctors will circle the room to ensure fairness. The test will be administered quarterly. Registration will cost $575 per applicant, plus applicable taxes and fees.

We suggest that the National Board begin work on the ULST immediately. If we do not reduce all life questions to a multiple-choice test, we insult all the hard-working test takers who gave their lives to learn how to take exams. As it stands now, even the best test-takers cannot truly answer “what is the purpose of life” or “what makes you happy” because there is no standardized test to ask those questions.

No more. Through the ULST, test-takers will remove all uncertainty from their lives. They will take comfort in the fact that even tough questions can be answered—and graded accordingly. Finally, successful ULST takers will receive “Universal Life Certification,” meaning they have correctly answered every question in life. That, in turn, will allow them to update their resumes and legitimately claim that they “know what they are talking about” on any life issue. Of course, success on the ULST will not replace success on specific subject matter tests. Lawyers must still take the Bar Exam even if they have passed the ULST. Doctors must still take their Boards even if they have Universal Life Certification. Although successful ULST takers should not have a problem with specific subject matter tests, we believe that Americans can never take enough tests. After all, the more high scores one achieves in life, the better.

Life is understandable. Everything can be boiled down and graded under an objective standard. There is no uncertainty in life; rather, we can know everything. As long as we phrase our questions in a standardized format, we can answer them correctly. Tests are the gateways to truth and success. We control our own destinies. We simply must write the test, enroll in a course, learn how to take it—then pass it.

Enroll in a special ULST practice course today. Testing day is coming up. You want to pass, don’t you? You don’t want to fail, do you? You want to be successful in life, don’t you? If so, you had better start studying for the test. You can do it. You just need to know how to answer the questions. After all, life has an answer key, just like the ULST. Just learn it once and you’re on your way. Once you pass, you can tear up your study materials and go to work for the rest of your days, confident in the knowledge that you have “Universal Life Certification.”