Professional Kvetching

Fishing for pity while resenting pity.

I am very happy that my Substack is not dedicated to my personal life. My personal life is very boring. I like writing about interesting topics. I am not an interesting person. I sleep, eat, and respirate like everyone else. I am not an award-winning actor, best-selling novelist, secret agent, extreme athlete, successful polygamist, self-made millionaire, start-up guru, crypto wizard, necromancer, private pilot, A10 model, bank robber, gang leader, race car driver, sharp shooter, or underground cave dweller. Although, come to think of it, if you know any caves with cheap rent, you could describe me as an aspiring cave dweller.

Society would be better off if we started ignoring “average people” like me and focused on the best among us. My writing is directed toward the best, not toward myself. This is the essence of “paganism,” which is worshipping men and women who are exceptional and godlike. The Dionysian Saturnalian cult which has emerged is a worship of meagerness, humility, “salt of the earth.”

It is important that the average person learns to be humble. But to truly humble yourself is to recognize that you are a side-character, and your duty is to worship main characters. The obsession with the street sweeper, the welfare recipient, the homeless man, the vagrant, and other unfortunate types is a projection of mediocre narcissism onto the working class. “The best stories are about gritty, RELATABLE characters! I prefer photographs of normal people over models!” Game of Thrones typifies this slop.

Boring people love reading about boring people because it makes them feel better about their own mediocrity. One of the worst purveyors of this kind of filth is Charles Dickens, the beloved 19th century author. He wallows in the squalor of the poor, raising them up to sainthood. He invented our modern conception of Christmas, not as a worship of God above, but of the “God below.” Christmas transformed from an awe-inspired recognition of mysterious and paradoxical divinity to a parochial celebration of “family values,” the hearth, the comfort of chestnuts by an open fire.

The Winter Solstice is meant to be a time of explosion, of re-birth, of eruption out of silence. But this original intention of the solstice bonfire has been subsumed by Santa, who snuffs out the fire, dirties himself in the chimney. His obesity symbolizes his sanguine and oafish demeanor. This is contrasted with the image of Baldr, who is pseudomorphically re-incarnated in the image of the Christ child: youthful, healthy, a light in the darkness. Santa, on the other hand, comes in the dark, leaves in the dark, and is surrounded by little gremlins known as “elves” rather than the glory of the Magi. There is a clear progression from the story of Christ to the worship of the low-born.

There is also a Jewish cultural tradition known as “kvetching.” This must be an in-born genetic trait, because I compulsively and shamelessly complain to anyone within earshot. Thankfully for my Substack audience, the medium of writing involves a higher level of self-awareness, and stems the tide of navel-gazing.

In general, my goal with this Substack has been to make all of my best insights public, so they spread far and wide, and to paywall the kvetching. To my surprise, people have been asking for free “comp” subscriptions… For what purpose? To hear me kvetch?

I have a sick sadism, or Schadenfreude, when asked such things… Then the moral part of me takes over, and I leave these articles in the drafts, where they belong! But there is a voice which lurks in the darkness… “Give the people what they want. They want to learn about your personality? Go ahead! Get an earful!”

Let the Kvetch Begin
(unleash the Kvetch)

With all of that kvetch-splaining out of the way, let’s begin. All details are fictional for legal purposes.