Evil Clowns, Sad Clown of Life

Say what you will about punks, at least they are not responsible for…Juggalo crime.

Speaking of violence: I was pleased to read that the man here in New York City whose car was crumpled by that lucky would-be suicide (who landed on it and survived after a thirty-nine-story fall) is angry at the would-be suicide for wrecking his car.

Suicides — like depressives generally — are typically very, very self-absorbed people, though everyone’s always afraid to say so and thus kick them while they’re down (sometimes for the count).  I’m reminded of hearing about a woman who opened a door on a passenger jet to throw herself out.  Now, in truth, the odds of other people being sucked out of a plane Goldfinger-style due to decompression are slim — but I’ll bet she didn’t know (or care) about that.  Asshole.

I’m no Objectivist, in part because I can’t help noticing that the utterly self-absorbed tend not to seem very happy (though this is no argument for enslaving individuals to the collective, either, so I’ll get along just fine Tuesday with the Ayn Rand Institute crowd at the St. Regis, I’m sure).  The indifference of the self-absorbed to others (and often to moral rules, since they feel too desperate and pained and weak to worry about their impact on others) is precisely what leaves them feeling so painfully alone, though they likely rationalize their isolation as high standards on their part — or as others’ failure to understand them.

People in this town in particular could perhaps do with a bit of Buddhist-like ego-suppression, if common sense and just plain acting normal won’t do the trick for them.

(I know what you’re thinking: that this has been my most compassionate blog entry ever.)