Depression is the natural state of all New Yorkers. Being miserable and treating others like dirt is every New Yorker’s God-given right.
Thus it should come as no surprise that after a year-and-a-half in this city, I was morose a couple of weeks ago, after I had what can be rightfully be described as a rotten, no good, low down, very stinking, bad day. It had rained. I left my umbrella on the subway. I couldn’t find a cab. My air-conditioning broke. My toilet stopped up. And Alabama football season was months away.
But a well-meaning Yankee friend of mine decided that I might have a pattern of depression and decided to get me a book or two on it. She said, “You know, Mark Twain said that ‘the root of all humor is sorrow.’ Perhaps you’re clinically depressed and that’s why you write humor columns.”
Boy, this was deep stuff. These self-help guys really know how to hit you where it hurts. I began to think about it some. Telling someone that they look depressed is like saying, “Hey, is that mustard on your shirt?” They have to look and check to see it’s not there and more often than not, some wiseguy hits ’em on the nose when they look down.
Nonetheless, I decided to read the books my friends gave me. Whereas in the past I treated depression with a Coke float and re-runs of Gilligan’s Island, now I was waste deep in self-help survival guides. Ah well.
The Handbook to Feeling Swell, by David D. Rurns, MD seemed a good place to start. Dr. Rurns is a best-seller. Over two million copies. He’s got a video, a home cassette special, and a show on cable. There’s a picture of good old Dr. Rurns on the front of the book and he is sporting a cable-knit sweater. He looks like a rich Mr. Rogers. Behind his head, which is undoubtedly the largest in the tri-county region, there is a backdrop of clouds and serene ducks.
Dr. Rurns is a motivational speaker, a therapist, and a good golfer. He has no problems. How? Why, Dr. Rurns is an emotional genius, that’s how. And if I learn to say, “I’m feeling angry” rather than “I left my stinking umbrella in the dadgummed train station,” I can be an emotional genius, too. But to really get in touch with my emotions, I’ve got to meditate, only eat vegetables, learn to move “serenely and quietly,” exercise, fill out a few simple questionnaires, send $435 to the Dr. Rurn’s Feeling Swell Center in Utah, and of course, blame everything the Handbook to Feeling Swell doesn’t fix on my mother.
If I sound a little hostile towards Dr. Rurns, it’s because I hate his pansy-MD guts. No, it’s not because I’m about to go postal and take a high-powered assault weapon up on the roof. I loathe Dr. Rurns because he thought to write his stupid best seller before I did. Hatred apparently isn’t a healthy emotion but it can be a lot funnier than pretending to love a dufus in a cable-knit sweater.
I’ve decided that I’m going to quite writing this humor column and start an advice column. Dr. Rurns has sold two million copies of his books. No wonder the man isn’t depressed. So here it is, the inaugural launch of Dear Dr. Murphy.
Dear Dr. Murphy: I am depressed. Do you have a book or a tape that I can send you $435 for? Signed, Lonely in Red Level.
Dear Lonely in Red Level: No books on tapes here, sweety. Feel free to send in the $435 bucks, though. Signed, Dr. Murphy
Okay, perhaps I shouldn’t be a therapist. But you know, I sure could make a start at helping someone overcome depression with $435. Forget the self-help guide. With that kinda dough, I’d simply order them a big cake, some flowers, a brick in the Town Square, dinner on the town, and finally, a big box of Goo-Goo Clusters.
What could be better than that at relieving depression Andalusia? Only whacking Dr. Rurns with a blunt instrument, I think.