© Pierre Maré,
2004 - 2007
Offbeat 02
Nick Cave’s 1994 song ‘Do you love me?’ is a gothic masterpiece. His brooding description of his lover will remain with me forever: “My lady of the various sorrows, some begged, some borrowed, some stolen, some kept safe for tomorrow.”
That was ‘way cool’ at the time, which was usually late at night in a bar with a couple of Jacks and the bruising from a day at work for company. There were even other intense people, dressed in black, who drank from the same dark bottle labeled ‘Old No. 7’. Knowing there were kindred souls who understood suffering and torment made life so much happier. All that was missing was Uncle Fester and the rest of the Addams Family.
But after a while, life changed. My girlfriend convinced me not to wear black shirts, I changed my drink and late night stories of unhappiness became predictable.
I heard the song again recently. It’s still hugely enjoyable but now it’s all giggles. Where did she get her sorrows in the first place? Some people endure deep, intense sadness; others buy their sorrows in convenience stores. She was probably one of the latter.
The next time you go to the store, look at the misery in the magazine rack. ‘Pain’, ‘heartbreak’ and ‘trauma’ are hot news. It’s not intellectual, or something one admits to in polite company, but it holds my attention longer than fluff in my navel and it comes in two handy categories.
The first category is celebrity suffering, guaranteed to give all but the most pious a sense of satisfaction.
I like my celebrity suffering in doses proportionate to the amount of ‘entertainment’ I have to swallow. If I have to listen to two different songs by the latest R&B diva, twice a day, I’ll be happy with a headline that reads ‘So-and-so’s acne sorrow’. If it’s the same song four times a day, I could easily go with a well-placed photographer before the morning make-up. Perhaps the discomfort might also add emotional depth to the next single and prove that people really do need to suffer for their art.
Of course I am unusual in this regard. Most people are satisfied with the fact that someone rich is getting a dose of reality, along with the rest of us.
The second category is the average Joe or Jane feature. As a parent, I skip the ugly bits with kids in, but I am not above the occasional housewife with a flesh-eating bacteria or traumatic flashbacks to packs of savage Dachshunds. I have my reasons…
Most religions and some of the more grouchy philosophers teach that suffering ennobles us – it makes us better people. As we usually don’t grasp that it’s not nice to hurt someone until they hit back, this lesson may well have merit.
Add to this that those of us who buy tabloids and magazines in supermarkets can generally afford to avoid suffering, and we begin to reach a thesis that the sensational stories of suffering and sorrow are actually self-improvement, especially if you aren’t poor and don’t have real experience of hardship.
There is a biological basis for this argument. Humans get active when they want something or are nervous. This is governed by two almond-shaped, fear-inducing glands in the brain, the amygdala. For instance, if you are chilling with a beer and the sport, but you need to mow the lawn because you are in danger of losing the kids forever out there, your amygdala makes you nervous. As a result, you get active and hire someone to mow the lawn, plus you also get to catch the sports. With the help of the amygdala you can settle your nerves and still get what you want.
By the same token, if you pick up a strange rash, you will want to see a doctor in case it really is flesh-eating bacteria. You will also avoid packs of rabid Dachshunds. And you will do all this, just because you tickled your amygdala and raised your awareness with a cheap magazine.
The moral of the story? The best-selling tabloid rag that most people swear they never read is actually self-improvement and could save your life. Buy one and read it today. You’ll be a better person altogether.
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