Originally published in the Men's Health MVP Network, 2015.
My great-grandfather saw the writing on the wall as Hitler rose to power and moved his young family to the U.S. before the slaughter of the Holocaust began. I think it's safe to say that for him to be alive was to be happy. A few years later his son, my grandfather, was a squadron leader of B-17 bombers over the European theater — leading 35 successful missions bombing the factories of war during 1944.
After the war he raised three kids in the suburbs of Long Island and ran a furniture shop on Central Avenue (where he mostly gave things away). He was known for wearing mismatched patterns and playing practical jokes. He was an early adopter of hydroponics, growing, believe it or not, tomatoes in the basement. He built a TV from a kit. I'm pretty sure he invented an fastening system using swatches of interlocking hooks and opposing loops, but gave it to a buddy (Jim Velcro I think was his name). He didn't much talk about the war, but for all intents and purposes he was happy to watch the Mary Tyler Moore show and tinker around in the basement.
His daughter, my mom, finds happiness in family and cutting coupons. She loves the Giants and the Mets and her grandkids.
Happiness has always been a goal and a quest of mine. I vacillate between nihilistic indifference, existential despair and nausea, to a sort of Buddhistic happy-go-luckiness that finds beauty in a well crafted coffee mug or dick joke and for whom the futility of existence is more of a sitcom plot than anything to really get upset about.
That last mode is where I aim to reside more than the others. Despair, disappointment, depression — all seem to me to be well-justified mindsets, but ultimately without any form of benefit or purpose. And I consider myself purpose-built. I exist to do stuff and to get stuff done. Kurt Vonnegut said the purpose of life is to "fart around." His advice to the confused and directionless: "Learn to play an instrument." For him, a trip to the post office was suffused with meaning, offering countless opportunities for small-time, small-town happiness. The kind of happiness that makes one look forward to the next morning's cup of coffee. To appreciate a full deep breath on a sunny day. To not need a bender in Vegas with some buddies, hookers, drugs, high-stakes poker, single-malt scotch, comped hotel suites, and — perhaps without realizing it — the pure oxygen they pump into casinos to keep people alert and spending money.
The poet Blake gave the night people their mantra: "The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom." For him, a trip to the post office was suffused with meaning. Most major religions include at least a chapter on excess as being either a pitstop or a snare on that road toward becoming enlightened. But it's important to not forget the whole "road" thing. It's not a destination, and I'm pretty sure the Palace of Wisdom isn't full of hookers and dudes in Ed Hardy shirts that haven't slept in 72 hours.
Me? Frank Sinatra's voice. The 2nd movement of the Jupiter symphony — wait, no, that's Woody Allen. You know what makes me happy? My wife's laugh, my girls holding hands, my dogs romping through the yard, having cigars and talking with my brother, jamming with my mates, spending time with my folks, thinking about my grandma's blue blue eyes, Caddyshack, Ghostbusters, the music of Journey and Billy Joel, the comedy of George Carlin, and driving up the coast of California with no particular agenda.
These are specifics that can be replaced by a million different things — just check out AA's 10,000 things to be happy about. I think what underlies any of this is what the French call joie de vivre — the joy of being alive. And circumstances notwithstanding, its only prerequisite is not being dead.
As Vonnegut said, "All persons, living and dead, are purely coincidental."