Two “interesting” things happened to me over break.

First of all, a duck – yet unnamed – now has appeared in my pool at home, much to the chagrin of the family dog. Second, I discovered Jennifer Love Hewitt’s new dating “advice” book. She has declared herself a “loveaholic” (it’s like a chocaholic but for amor!) And you’ll have to look into it yourself to see why I scare quote “advice” in describing it.

Jennifer Love Hewitt, you see, is a duck, albeit not the same duck as the one living in my pool. In fact, she’s even a Stanford Duck because, although she doesn’t look like a duck or quack like a duck, she’s suffering from the syndrome of the Stanford Duck. Why does the Stanford Duck paddle? He paddles to get good grades, and he paddles to get the best internships and he paddles for about a thousand other reasons, give or take. But ultimately he’s paddling for happiness.

Shelley points out this week just how many opportunities we have – and she’s absolutely right. I’d like to point out, in turn, how the fertile fields of opportunity can breed not just success but also anguish. There’s a reason the Stanford Duck Syndrome isn’t a disease you hope to catch. In fact, I think the precise dirty underside is the fear that we are all involved in a sort of “mutually reinforcing hypocrisy” (I borrow the phrase from Zizek) wherein no one is really happy. And that, in a sense, is the perfect nightmare scenario: an ongoing Sisyphean chore that, rather than commanded down and forced upon us by God on high, is an entirely human creation.

But it’s not just about ducks; it’s about Stanford too. There are, by my lights, at least two parts of Stanford that lead to a certain proclivity towards developing the Syndrome. The first, I’ve already suggested, is that Stanford presents any given student with a number of unique opportunities. The second, I think, is related to our location.

In a fervent effort to promote country music lyrics as a legitimate source, I’ll introduce how the West figures in the imagination of “The Truth,” a current hit by Jason Aldean. He defines the West Coast, using the unorthodox grammar country artists are wont to use, as “where it don’t ever rain.” I think it would be a mistake to think his aversion to standard conjugations prevents him from making a shrewd insight, or at least giving us a compelling image. Of course, it’s not exactly true that it never rains here; in fact, I used my rain boots at least twice last term. But the Syndrome turns the meteorological half truth into a full-fledged moral injunction; that is, no longer is it enough that “it don’t ever rain,” but moreover we should not ever let it rain in our own lives. Or, more curtly: sad is bad. We should prohibit it. This is, of course, absurd.

Mr. Aldean, as you might have guessed, contrasts this with “the truth” (Belated Spoiler Alert). Heidi Montag-types deny reality relentlessly, and rather than becoming “really” happy, they become happily fake, trapped in an illusion. After her latest spat of plastic surgeries, she appeared on Jay Leno’s show, and perhaps the most remarkable part was that she was not the butt of his jokes, but the object of his most profound pity. The illusion would not give, even when he drew it to the brink of absurdity: he asked if she’d continue with her self-improvement efforts, and she replied that she would be “Robo-Heidi” by the time she was fifty. I think I’d prefer the all-too-obvious alternative: to redefine happiness as what is real.

Emily is currently accepting suggestions for duck names. Please send your best to [email protected].