Riddled me

So here I am.

(looks around)

Believe it or not, I’m back. And I even apologize for the delay. Chances are, if you read me, you’re a close acquaintance of mine, and if that’s the case, you probably understand my extenuating circumstances during March, April and now May. Thank you for that.

Not that it’s an excuse, nor am I ready to discuss. But supposedly, writing and blogging and tweeting, and even ripping on lamebrained facebook updates should have kept me sustained, at least a little. After all, those outlets are supposed to be my joie-de-vivre. Lately, however, I’m more grumpy than ever.

Why is this? Well, I don’t have a pithy answer that uniquely somes up the cantankerous me. My life, for the most part, is pretty good. My wife rocks and yes, dweebs, she is hot. My cats rival only the Dynamic Duo as superhero crimefighters. I’ve moved closer to two (or by flight, all) of my favorite cities with favorite people. I live in Jayhawk territory instead of Wildcat (I think it’s a trade-up, though each fan base is uniquely grating.) I’ll cross the summer of 2010 off my list having seen both Pearl Jam and Tool for the third time, which is proof that god exists. (Or proof that he doesn’t, I suppose.)

But I’m grumpy anyway – somehow, I’m a bona fide curmudgeon. I don’t have time to talk on the phone to you. Nor do I even care to write a nice message. I have no energy to be polite to the people who require it, or even who deserve it. I’m not sure the reason for my snark. Or the bitterness. Or the hate.

So what is this? What is this anger simmering beneath my surface, and where the hell did it come from? By now, tens of my readers are saying: Wait a minute, JJH, don’t get rid of the anger. That’s why we’re here. You’re always angry!

But that’s not even true. I’m not always angry. In fact, I’m hardly ever angry. Despite my annoying quirks (Night Court), my pathetic values (STOP USING THE PHRASE ‘HERE’S A GUY, ’ YOU DOUCHEY SPORTS ANNOUNCER), or my desperate need to be funnier than you, I’m typically a pretty happy-go-lucky guy. So much so that I’m irritated only by my own use of the phrase, happy-go-lucky.

And if I am always aggravated, it’s not been like this. The hollow hasn’t been this tangible. To me, this is scary stuff. I don’t want to be moody and down all the time. Even grumpy, I know this isn’t really depression, I’m still pretty much awesome. Instead, I wallow in churning frustration, probably just a myopic set of idiosyncrasies typical to white guys. (Who are pussies.)  But I don’t want to be angry. I don’t want a self-imposed attitude to bottleneck my own life.

If it even is bottlenecking my life. Maybe the disdain is necessary to combat a nagging feeling of impending doom. Maybe it’s valuable in a changing worldwhere stupid baseball writers believe “no clutch hitting exists” and parents think it’s OK to talk about their children’s poop in a news feed. But maybe it’s not.

And maybe the only way to break out of this funk is to explore it deeper. I mean, I’ve got this blog. (Yes, still.), and it’s not like no one’s used to me complaining, or obsessing over and over about the insignificant cultural landmarks that really aren’t important. Besides, maybe we’ve got a bond. Maybe you’re a little bit angry, too. Or maybe you’re frustrated. And maybe somehow my journey of self-imposed dementia will help you develop a sunnier disposition as well. God knows you fucking need it.

Maybe, then, it’s settled. Maybe you’ll come back to Mister Faded Glory, and trust that I have more perspective than before, and don’t assume my derision of Crash or Keurig coffeemakers or Moms on Facebook highlights an actual festering hatred. (Bad example, because I do fucking hate Crash. I don’t hate insipid mothers on facebook. I enjoy making fun.) And maybe Mister Faded Glory is a cultural stop for you to think about the insignificance, right along with me.

Onward and upward, then, and you and I begin the return by tackling minor aggravation in everything. (Mister Faded Glory: The writer’s self-congratulatory therapy!)

At the end of this exercise, hopefully we’ll all be more well-adjusted. We will, however, reserve the right to make fun of people on foursquare out of love, not out of deep-seated spite.

(By the way, the word Deep-Seated infuriates me. Shouldn’t it be deep-seeded? Like, long-sown? Instead, it refers to “sitting in a hole” or something like that. Ergo, the opposite of Phil Jackson’s coaching chair. I DIGRESS, JERKFACE.)