More pandemic humor

Pearls Before Swine is probably my favorite comic strip at this point in time. Stephan Pastis has had so many good commentaries on the pandemic in which we find ourselves trapped. Here are some recent strips that are pretty funny. 

 

Pandemic humor

My friend Stef has been sending me coronavirus-inspired cartoons and memes since shortly after the pandemic started. These two made me laugh out loud......

Exit and the quest for more and more money

It strikes me, after having seen seasons 1 and 2 of Exit, the Norwegian series about four investment brokers--Henrik, Jeppe, William, and Adam--in the Norwegian financial world and their (mostly miserable) personal lives, that we have been handed a morality tale, yet again, on the evils of greed. Much like Wall Street and The Wolf of Wall Street, where ‘greed is good’, except that it isn’t. We the viewers know it, the creators and producers of the series know it, and the actors know it. There’s a price to pay for being greedy, and it’s huge, even though payment might not come due immediately. But because Exit is a series and not a movie, it’s possible to delve into the lives of each of these men, and you come to learn quite a lot about them and what made them the way they are. None of them are nice men, none of them are men you root for, and none of them are men you’d like your daughters to marry. They are actually evil men, except that their brand of evil is banal—they are unfaithful husbands, whore chasers, alcoholics, and drug users—by choice. Some of them are bullying and aggressive (violent) toward other men (Jeppe and Henrik) while one of them (Adam) is a bona fide wife abuser. There are several scenes with William, where the camera focuses on his face and his eyes, which hold a contempt for others that is positively chilling. Overall, these men are dinosaurs when it comes to their views on women and careers. Their dinosaur stance is that they are the providers, they want to marry trophy wives who don’t work and who bear them children who are mostly raised by au pairs, and they end up resenting their trophy wives for loving the life and the money that they provide for them. Part of the deal between marital partners is that the trophy wives don't complain when their husbands work long hours, are out late, don't account for their absences, and have little or nothing to do with raising the children. 

Exit is not for everyone, definitely not for the prudish, because of the amount of sex and no-holds barred presentation of prostitution and sexual activity. It’s all staged, that I know. But nevertheless, it pushes the boundaries for what could be considered decent behavior in most circles. Perhaps there is a point to it, or perhaps not. Perhaps the series’ creators and producers are cynical enough to know that sex sells. It does, because Exit has been a ratings hit here in Norway (both seasons 1 and 2). When the series is sold to other countries, it will probably do well there also. The acting is very good, the storylines likewise. It’s a soap opera for adults with lots of sex, about the financial world, the highs, the lows, the drug abuse, the alcohol abuse, the cynicism, the hubris (that comes before a fall), and the daily abuse by these four men of people who would be seen as normal people under most circumstances. These four men have zero concept of what happiness is; the strange thing is that they know it, and still they carry on doing all the things that most of us would never do. They are on a quest for more and more money and greater and greater kicks, and that can only lead to one end—the deaths of others or the deaths of themselves, or both. At heart, they are miserable human beings who ruin the lives of most people with whom they come into contact.

The character William tried to commit suicide in season 1 after many bouts with cocaine abuse and alcoholism. He enters rehab, only to return to the same environment that he left—an empty soulless environment that really does not permit or encourage sobriety, monogamy, fidelity, kindness, or empathy. So he falls again and again, and by the time season 2 ends, it’s not clear whether he will survive. The story does not really create much compassion for him; rather, it seemed that the inevitable outcome of the storyline will be his death, and it seemed almost natural that it should end up that way. That actually seemed fine with me since he doesn’t really want to continue living and since no one can get through to him. He wants to die. The others lead pointless lives with wives and children for whom they have little or no feelings or connection. They would rather party, screw hookers, and dull their consciences with booze and cocaine. They would do that 24/7, except that they cannot because they always have to wake up, sober, and start a new workday, until they can dull their consciences again later on in the day.

One of the best scenes in season 2 is when Jeppe manages to get his divorced elderly parents together in the same restaurant. His mother and father (who now has a terminal illness) divorced due to his father’s predilection for whores, his infidelity, and his mistreatment of his wife. When you see the father who once was like Jeppe, but who is now lonely and decrepit, you see Jeppe as an old man, and he is aware of that on some level. His mother has no use for his father, and only agreed to the restaurant meeting to please Jeppe. When they all sit down at the table and begin to look at the menu, his mother suggests to his father that perhaps he should order some ‘ung due’ (young pigeon) or ‘små rype’ (small birds). The insinuation is clear, and it is an excellent scene showing his mother’s visceral hatred of her ex-husband. Jeppe’s father gets the not-so-subtle message, some unkind words are exchanged, and he leaves the restaurant. There is no reconciliation as Jeppe had hoped for before his father dies. Again on some level, it registers inside of him that this could well be his future as an old man.   

So what is the point of their lives, of living in this way? These men have it all—great material success and a lot of money--and yet they have nothing. They are morally bankrupt. It’s been said many times before--the quest for more and more money is nothing but greed. I look at the television portrayal of these men and their ‘successful’ lives--beautiful large houses, expensive sports cars, extensive wine cellars, built-in pools, yachts, private planes, being able to afford expensive restaurants and to travel, and I think to myself—so what? Absolutely none of it appeals to me—not the materialism, not the unbridled ambition and aggression, not the greed, not the cynicism attached to the greed, not the cynicism attached to the abuse and exploitation of women, not the ennui. It’s a bore, all of it. To paraphrase the bible—what does it profit a man if he gains the whole world but loses his soul? Indeed. Is it worth it? What is the meaning of life between birth and death? What should one do with all those years in-between, if one is so lucky to have been given a long life? Should one waste it on activities that produce nothing, like working as an investment broker, partying, contributing nothing of value to society and the lives around you? It seems to me that a life spent on intellectual, vocational, and/or creative pursuits is a much better life, not necessarily always happier, but much better spent, with something concrete to be proud of at life’s end.

There are also people who don’t work as investment professionals for whom money is paramount. They live their lives in an endless quest for more money, and the more money they go after, the more they fail at one scheme or another that is going to make them rich. They want money too much. They make stupid and irrational mistakes trying to attain it. They don’t use their heads. They trust the wrong people. They exploit their families and friends. They are rude to other people, behave like narcissists, and think that the world owes them a living. They are ‘high maintenance’ individuals, often live (or have lived) lives of privilege, generally lack gratitude for most of the good things in their lives, and have no idea of what it means to be happy. Some grew up without money, some grew up with plenty of it; thus there is no meaning to be derived from their upbringings. Some of them have fallen on hard times. I observe such people from a distance. Like the scientist I am, I study them and have for years. If they ever do become rich, it will have less to do with brains and intellect and more to do with pure luck, just statistics. Perhaps it was ‘just their time’. Or perhaps not. It is strange, this thing called greed. It makes people behave in strange ways, it makes them rude to others, it makes them proud, it makes them abusive, and it makes them miserable people to be around. There are wealthy people who have learned to live with their wealth, who live their lives wisely, who do not abuse others, who have humility, and who do not feel the need to flaunt their material possessions. So it is possible to behave decently and have a lot of wealth. It's just that we rarely hear about such people. 

Social media and unhappiness

I still use Facebook, but less and less these days. Since I live abroad, it remains a good way to stay in touch with my friends and colleagues in the USA. But after the political circus that was the 2020 election and Facebook's huge (and unforgivable) failure to block fake news, I lost a lot of respect for them and for social media generally. 

There is research that shows that social media makes people feel unhappy, but much of it that unhappiness has to do with your popularity on whatever medium you use most, according to this article: Social media makes people feel unhappy, less popular: Study | Business Standard News (business-standard.com). Perhaps the bigger problems in terms of creating unhappiness are how much time one wastes on social media when one could be using that time more productively, and how unhappy one can become if one sees that friends or colleagues seem to be having a better life than you have. One can be assuaged by the fact that most people using social media are probably in the same boat--happy at times, frustrated at others. No one's life is perfect, no matter how perfect it may seem on social media. So my guess is that the more time you waste on Facebook, the more your brain will believe that others are happier and better off than you are. Just remember that this is not true; in fact, it's nonsense. There is no perfect world. 

I'm generally not hugely affected one way or another by what people post--if it's happy news I'm happy for the poster, if it's sad news, I'm sad for them. I usually remain on an even keel. Recently I found out, via Facebook, that one of my three bosses from my workplace at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center passed away; he was 84. His son posted a nice tribute to him on Facebook; that is one of the good things about Facebook, being able to find out such things and being able to leave a tribute of one's own. It makes paying your respects and sending condolences much easier, as I found out when my brother died in 2015. It was nice to hear from the people we grew up with, fellow Tarrytowners. 

But still, I found this Pearls Before Swine comic strip from yesterday, quite funny, and probably true for a good many people. Stephan Pastis seems to be focusing on the perils of social media these days, and he's come up with quite a lot of humorous strips.  

Just one more

 Today's Non Sequitur by Wiley comic strip (another one of my favorites) was pretty apt as well 😀:

'If real life was like social media'--Pearls Before Swine for today

I love the comic strip Pearls Before Swine; I've been following it for years. It has the type of irony and zaniness that appeal to my sense of humor. This was today's strip--pretty apt: 

Elena Ferrante's The Lying Life of Adults

I begin Elena Ferrante's novels with a mixture of fascination and dread. Fascination, because everything I've read by her has gripped me. Her novels are riveting and her words flow on the pages, moving me along and immersing me in her Italy, her Naples, and her family dramas that she has carefully constructed. Dread, because I know that this immersion will stir up the mud in my own life and memory; it will murky the waters that I think are so clear, and yet when I dive deeper, I know they aren't.

How is it that one person, one writer, can speak to me and to so many people at the same time? She has an uncanny way of getting right to the core of what drives families apart and what keeps them together. She describes the behaviors, utterances and dramas that comprise the push and pull of family life, mostly without judging them, and that is where the fear comes in. Because you know that the behaviors she writes about are real and often violent to the spirit and body. Sometimes she judges them, but only within the contexts of her characters, the ones who want to escape the oppression, claustrophobia, and violence of family life. She allows them to judge, and we follow their attempts to escape, which are seemingly successful, but we know that somewhere down the line, the past will knock on their door and demand its due. At some point, they will face the same situations that they ran from, and come face to face with their early selves—the ones who said that they would never tolerate this or that behavior, the ones who said that they would never behave like their parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents. They experience the human frailties, deceptions, betrayals, frustrations, rage, and even violence (psychological and physical) that can be part of family life. The characters in her books are flawed human beings, like we all are. Perhaps that is part of her appeal. She explains some parts of our lives for us; I know she does that for me. I finish her novels thinking, yes, that helps to explain this or that family member’s behavior, or utterances, or bizarre points of view.

Everyone lies in Ferrante’s novels. Adults lie, but so do children and teenagers. The Lying Life of Adults is really the story of how teenagers become adults who lie to themselves and to others. It is the story of how we become the adults we profess to hate. Giovanna, the main character who is a teenager, is acutely aware of the hypocritical behavior of the adults in her life. She has two friends she confides in, Angela and Ida, the daughters of her parents’ friends Mariano and Costanza. Her attempt to develop a relationship with her hated aunt Vittoria, her father’s sister, has far-reaching repercussions for her parents, her parents’ friends, involved children, and her own life. Vittoria is a destructive force of nature. She is (presumably) the opposite of Giovanna’s educated, intellectual and refined father, Andrea, who hates his coarse uneducated sister (the feeling is mutual), and yet, that is what Ferrante wants to show us, that at their core, both Vittoria and Andrea are the same. They are egotists and liars, they think nothing of destroying others’ lives by wanting what they want (Vittoria wanted Enzo--the husband of her friend Margherita, and Andrea wanted Costanza—the wife of his friend Mariano). They justify their betrayals of spouses and families and lie to themselves about how ‘noble’ their intentions are. Nella, Andrea’s wife, is crushed by his betrayal and their eventual divorce, but tries to live her life following the divorce as best she can. Mariano, who has cheated on Costanza often, is also lost; eventually Nella and Mariano find each other despite Nella’s protests to the contrary. Giovanna is witness to all of these happenings. At the same time, she becomes friends with Vittoria (who worshipped Enzo), Margherita, and Margherita’s children (Corrado, Tonino, and Giuliana). Vittoria dominates Margherita and her children’s lives; she tells them how to live and what to do and not to do. The relationship between Vittoria and Margherita is strange and one I found hard to understand, but for the purposes of the book, I accepted it. But I know very few people in real life who would have become friends with their husbands’ mistresses.

Vittoria brought to the surface memories of my father’s eldest sister Carmela, who was also not much-liked in my family. Unlike Vittoria, she was considered to be good-looking; she was a refined woman with many intellectual and cultural interests. But she was a drama queen, and no family gathering ever ended pleasantly when she was present. She was unhappily married to one of my father’s childhood friends, which didn’t help matters. My father probably felt pressured to take sides, and he took his sister’s side against his friend. My mother and my aunt did not get along at all; my mother found her domineering, controlling, and nosy. Carmela and her husband eventually divorced; she lived alone afterward until she died, but did have a lover whom she could have married but chose not to. After one too many unpleasant family gatherings when we were children, my father and mother decided not to see her anymore, and by extension, we were not to see her either. After my father died, my sister and I made an effort to re-establish contact with her. We found her to be a decent person, but of course by that time she was old and in a different frame of mind. I think she was happy to see us again, but our lives were busy and we didn’t see her often. She died eight years after my father.

I could relate to those feelings that Ferrante describes—remaining loyal to parents while wondering why we all couldn’t just get along, and feeling guilty for wanting to have some kind of relationship with my aunt. My aunt made an effort to remember our birthdays with gifts and cards, but they were never well-received, and eventually she ceased to make the effort. I remember when my grandmother died, I was around twelve or so. Frustrations and anger came to the surface, people said things they probably regretted, and the war only intensified. It was difficult to deal with all those feelings as a child. But I knew even then that this kind of family life was oppressive and claustrophobic, and I wanted no part of it. And for the most part, I have managed to escape it, but not without many mistakes and poor decisions of my own before I got to a place in life with which I could be comfortable. Reading Ferrante reminds me of my early family life, and it’s a mixed blessing, as I wrote at the beginning of this post—I am fascinated by what she manages to stir up in me, and fearful of it at the same time. Like a moth to the flame, as the old saying goes. I know I will get burned. Unlike the moth, I survive being burned, but it is a strange experience nonetheless.