I feel like I should be out occupying something.
I mean, seriously. Look at me. Sitting here in front of this glowing box, sipping coffee and listening to the Velvet Underground while I tap-tap-tap out a blog post in relative comfort. I think I may be part of the problem. Does not sleeping in a park and being forced to spend an afternoon sitting next to a dirty guy named Frodo or Bong Water, who smells like patchouli and burnt falafel, make me a part of the 1%?
It’s ok, Occupy Wall Street- don’t get your shorts in a twist. I’m just having a bit of fun at your expense. I really do believe in you, you know. I get what you’re saying, and I’m totally with you, man. Seriously. Frodo and I are behind you 100%.
All wise-assery aside, I really do understand and fully support the Occupy Wall Street movement. It’s high time that Americans wake up and question a system that they help fund that isn’t designed to benefit them in the least. It was really only a matter of time. How long can the income gap widen and corporate losses get bailed out by the taxpayers while the profits remain privatized? How long can American jobs get shipped overseas in the name of profits before someone asks some questions? How long can average, working class Americans take a corporate fist where the sun doesn’t shine before they break?
So the disaffected have taken to the streets. Teeming mobs of angry people that represent the diversity of society, united by the knowledge that the game is rigged. The old and the young. The dark-skinned and the light. Veterans. Retirees. The unemployed. A diverse stew of humanity that defies categorization.
Of course, like any movement, there are the detractors. Unsurprisingly, some have already screeched their disapproval of the OWS movement. Chief amongst them seems to be the tea party. Why, I can’t quite grasp. You’d think that they too would oppose the unholy marriage between government and big business just as much as the lefties. Sadly, that doesn’t appear to be the case. Apparently it’s only government that can oppress us, while corporations are viewed as benevolent behemoths that, if only left to their own devices, would lumber across this great land belching freedom and shitting jobs. Never mind that government, in the not too distant past, had to crank big business’ arms behind their backs and force these same corporations to end child labor practices and actually pay their workers a fair wage. Funny how the tea party way-back machine, in its endless quest for lessons from the past, apparently goes straight back to 1776, and misses quite a few pivotal stops in the 1800’s and early 1900’s.
So I listen to the screeching sturm und drang surrounding OWS, and I scratch my head. I wonder why so many people in America celebrate greed and selfishness. Oh, they wrap it in a flag and call it freedom and liberty. They invoke the invisible hand of almighty capitalism with religious fervor, but make no mistake – at the end of the day it’s straight-up selfishness that sits at the core of many of these movements. Why is it that some Americans will gnash their teeth at the idea of providing their fellow human beings with affordable healthcare, yet they won’t bat an eye at their tax dollars being spent on bloated defense contracts? Why is it patriotic to give subsidies to oil companies – while they churn out billions in profits – yet it’s “Socialist” to use our tax dollars to help a hungry family? Why do so many Americans act like, well, spoiled children?
Here’s my opinion, or the point of this post wherein I make an unusual analogy.
Look at America as a human being. I know, I know - stay with me.
The good ole’ U.S.A. hasn’t been around long. We’re a young nation, and in a lot of ways we’re still trying to find our way. For shits and giggles, let’s contrast the U.S. with Europe. They’ve been around a long time - much longer than we have here across the pond. They’ve had time to hone and perfect and tinker and learn from a pretty vast pool of experiences. Europe, viewed as a human being, is in the throes of middle age. They seem calmer. More content. They possess a wisdom borne of experience and maturity. They’re the person who has emerged into adulthood with the hard-earned knowledge that what matters most is family and friends and love and caring for your fellow man, and that the selfishness of their youth was something to mature beyond, rather than celebrate.
America? We’re a young nation. America is a teenager. We’re petulant, angry and we’re certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that we know every fucking thing there is to know. Sound familiar? We all heard the speech growing up. “You think you know everything right now, but one day you’ll grow up and realize you didn’t know jack-shit.” What happened? We grew up, and we realize that we really didn’t know jack-shit. At the time, though? At the time, we were convinced that we had the whole works figured out, and nobody could tell us otherwise. We were young, cocky and indignant and we were the smartest people on the goddamn block, and fuck you if you insinuated otherwise. If our parents said the sky was blue, we said it wasn’t, for no other reason than to thumb our noses at authority. So if the rest of the world loves soccer, America says it sucks. The rest of the world uses the metric system? Screw that. We’re going in a different direction. Why? Because our way is different and it’s the best, that’s why. No other explanation needed. Extend middle finger into the air and swagger away while you whistle a Toby Keith song.
Do you remember being a teenager? Do you remember what your priorities were, for the most part? That’s right – you. Teenagers are the most self-absorbed and single-minded lot of human beings that walk planet Earth. It’s really not their fault, mind you. I’m not judging or casting aspersions, because we’ve all been there. It’s all biology and chemistry at work on a brain that really hasn’t fully developed yet. When you’re young all that matters is what you want and instant gratification, and everybody and everything else needs to kindly step aside. You want to go to the party at Joe-Blow’s house, but your Mother insists you stay home because you failed chemistry and your bedroom has been declared a Superfund site. Instead of looking at the situation objectively and saying, “Hey, you know what? Maybe she’s right. It is disrespectful to leave such a mess in a house that I live in free of charge, and I really could use some study time to get those grades up”, you instead decide to alternately scream and cry and throw a few things around your room while angrily bemoaning how unfair life is, and continue on to compare your living arrangements to Nazi Germany. (You know, like certain segments of American society compare living under a Democratic president to living in Nazi Germany.) Why do teenagers behave this way? Because they’re immature, and they’re selfish, and they haven’t developed enough yet to start thinking beyond their own immediate needs.
Thus America, at heart a lumbering man-child with nuclear weaponry and a superiority complex, strokes its own ego while lashing out at anything that doesn’t immediately serve its teenage id. Sure the bankers are gaming our political system so that their elite cadre of CEOs can earn obscene amounts of money while simultaneously destroying jobs, the American economy and our own middle class. Sure they are. But they have the right to do it, because CAPITALISM AND EAGLES AND 1776 AND FUCK YOU, THAT’S WHY! Ok, so it isn’t really that simple. But it’s pretty goddamn close. Americans let a lot of evil and heinous shit slide by in this country, because they’ve been convinced that freedom comes without responsibility, and freedom without responsibility is a recipe for selfish, criminal and horribly corrupt behavior. You know, like we’re seeing today. Put another way, if someone told me I had the freedom to walk into an elementary school and shoot plates off children’s heads, I think I’d pass. Why? Because I’d also have the responsibility to ensure that those children weren’t injured, and that’s not a risk I’d be willing to take. I’d bet my bottom dollar, however, that a handful of people would gather outside the school, side arms on display, prattling on about how they should be able to shoot the plates off the heads of as many kids as they want, because CAPITALISM AND EAGLES AND 1776 AND FUCK YOU, THAT’S WHY!
Look, I know this analogy isn’t perfect. I know that not all of Europe has their shit together, and I know that not every American is a selfish prick. I admit that I’m generalizing to make a point. But hey, I call them as I see them, and I’ve seen enough to know that the stereotypes that I’ve laid out here have deep roots in the way things are. I know that America loves guns and war and runs cold on helping the less fortunate and ensuring that their citizenry has access to affordable health care. I also know that in Europe – Hell, in every industrialized nation except our own – you don’t have to worry about dying because you can’t afford a doctor. It comes down to priorities, and the way I see it our priorities favor everyone’s right to make a quick buck over the desire to pool our resources to ensure that the least amongst us are cared for. I won’t apologize for my desire to see my money actually help people, instead of being used to drop bombs in Afghanistan to ensure we have an uninterrupted supply of cell phone batteries for years to come. I envision a better world where unfettered Capitalism isn’t used as a blunt weapon to batter us into hamburger so that a handful of old, white men can keep amassing more wealth than most of us can comprehend. I envision a better world where we care more about our fellow man than we do about the Dow Jones. I envision a world where the people who scream the loudest about the Bible actually read it, and see what it was Jesus had to say about caring for the least of us. I envision a world where our humanity transcends our selfishness and greed. I guess I’m just waiting patiently for America to grow up.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Baseball Is Magic.
Baseball is magic.
You don’t have to agree with me. You can laugh. Scoff. Roll your eyes. You can extoll the virtues of the gridiron and prattle on about how boring and slow baseball is. You can complain about steroids and overpaid, spoiled ballplayers and how a shitty beer at the ballpark costs north of $8.
None of those complaints or arguments will ever change my mind on this one simple fact: baseball is magic.
February inevitably yields to March. The bitter, cold winds slowly abate, and soon amount to nothing more than Old Man Winter’s death-rattle. Thoughts wander to the sweet promise of spring lurking around the corner. The boys of summer pack up their gear and head to Florida and Arizona. Before too long the crack of a bat serenades us, filling our heads with visions of lazy, sunny days. March then yields to April, and for many of us the real start of spring isn’t the solstice or a designated day on the calendar, but rather opening day - the start of six glorious months that begin in the chilly, sun-dappled days of early spring and end in the crisp, cool nights of autumn. Everything in between is nothing short of bliss.
When I was a kid, the sun rose and set around baseball season. Hours were spent in front of the television, watching game after game. Trips to Veterans Stadium were a much-anticipated treat. (I think growing up with The Vet makes me appreciate just how beautiful today’s “retro” ballparks are. The Vet was truly a dump among dumps.) Baseball cards were collected and organized and traded with neurotic vigor. Summer days were spent playing hour after hour of Wiffle Ball. Each neighborhood backyard was its own stadium, complete with its own unique, individual quirks. There was the yard where a well-hit foul ball down the first base line ended up smack-dab on Rt. 15. There was the yard where towering bushes made a home run to right field a near impossibility. There were moments of undeniable glory and moments of soul-crushing defeat. Entire summer vacations were played out in those backyards, and if you think there wasn’t magic in the hot, summer air then you clearly weren’t there. You’ll never understand. Unless, that is, you felt the magic yourself. Maybe you felt the magic in your own backyard. Maybe you helped to spin that magic, like a dusty, sweaty shaman of the Wiffle Ball diamond. Hell, maybe – like me – you still feel that magic in the air when opening day rolls around.
This year marks the first summer in ages that I haven’t played fantasy baseball. (Or, as I like to call it, Dungeons & Dragons for the guys who made fun of people who played Dungeons & Dragons.) I bowed out due to time constraints, but I’ve already, only three days into the season, found a nice added bonus to my decision. I find myself not giving a tin shit about statistics. I’ll be frank – even when I played fantasy ball I didn’t care about stats all that much. Now? Now I feel free. Liberated. No longer a slave to ERAs and WHIPs and BAs. The classic thinking goes that, among baseball fans, there are numbers people and there are people who view the game through a prism of pure, unbridled emotion. I’m definitely the latter, and it feels good to not worry about the stats of some guy on a team I don’t give two shits about.
As I began to write this piece last night, I had the Red Sox game on. (An MLB.tv account and a Roku box - Best investment ever.) I already felt moments of elation and moments of head-shaking frustration and disbelief. I was back on that emotional rollercoaster that is a Major League Baseball season, and I couldn’t be happier. I’m finishing this up on a Sunday morning, and as I write the Red Sox are a disappointing 0-2. They also play today at 2 PM, and I can’t wait to tune in and cheer for them to notch that first win of a long, sure-to-be-exciting season. From disappointment springs optimism, and I can’t help but feel pity for those people whose experience as fans of the game is nothing but negativity and frustration. The key for me is that, no matter how deep my love for the game, I still remember that it is just a game. It’s just a game. It’s supposed to be fun, and it’s supposed to be infused with magic and it’s supposed to transport us above the petty, ulcer-inducing realities of our daily lives.
So here’s to another hot, long and wonderful summer. Here’s to sunny days spent listening to the game while I sit in the yard sipping on a cold beer and hanging on every pitch. Here’s to warm nights with west coast games to clear my mind and unclutter my head after a long day. Here’s to baseball. Here’s to that particular brand of magic that not even adulthood can drive away.
You don’t have to agree with me. You can laugh. Scoff. Roll your eyes. You can extoll the virtues of the gridiron and prattle on about how boring and slow baseball is. You can complain about steroids and overpaid, spoiled ballplayers and how a shitty beer at the ballpark costs north of $8.
None of those complaints or arguments will ever change my mind on this one simple fact: baseball is magic.
February inevitably yields to March. The bitter, cold winds slowly abate, and soon amount to nothing more than Old Man Winter’s death-rattle. Thoughts wander to the sweet promise of spring lurking around the corner. The boys of summer pack up their gear and head to Florida and Arizona. Before too long the crack of a bat serenades us, filling our heads with visions of lazy, sunny days. March then yields to April, and for many of us the real start of spring isn’t the solstice or a designated day on the calendar, but rather opening day - the start of six glorious months that begin in the chilly, sun-dappled days of early spring and end in the crisp, cool nights of autumn. Everything in between is nothing short of bliss.
When I was a kid, the sun rose and set around baseball season. Hours were spent in front of the television, watching game after game. Trips to Veterans Stadium were a much-anticipated treat. (I think growing up with The Vet makes me appreciate just how beautiful today’s “retro” ballparks are. The Vet was truly a dump among dumps.) Baseball cards were collected and organized and traded with neurotic vigor. Summer days were spent playing hour after hour of Wiffle Ball. Each neighborhood backyard was its own stadium, complete with its own unique, individual quirks. There was the yard where a well-hit foul ball down the first base line ended up smack-dab on Rt. 15. There was the yard where towering bushes made a home run to right field a near impossibility. There were moments of undeniable glory and moments of soul-crushing defeat. Entire summer vacations were played out in those backyards, and if you think there wasn’t magic in the hot, summer air then you clearly weren’t there. You’ll never understand. Unless, that is, you felt the magic yourself. Maybe you felt the magic in your own backyard. Maybe you helped to spin that magic, like a dusty, sweaty shaman of the Wiffle Ball diamond. Hell, maybe – like me – you still feel that magic in the air when opening day rolls around.
This year marks the first summer in ages that I haven’t played fantasy baseball. (Or, as I like to call it, Dungeons & Dragons for the guys who made fun of people who played Dungeons & Dragons.) I bowed out due to time constraints, but I’ve already, only three days into the season, found a nice added bonus to my decision. I find myself not giving a tin shit about statistics. I’ll be frank – even when I played fantasy ball I didn’t care about stats all that much. Now? Now I feel free. Liberated. No longer a slave to ERAs and WHIPs and BAs. The classic thinking goes that, among baseball fans, there are numbers people and there are people who view the game through a prism of pure, unbridled emotion. I’m definitely the latter, and it feels good to not worry about the stats of some guy on a team I don’t give two shits about.
As I began to write this piece last night, I had the Red Sox game on. (An MLB.tv account and a Roku box - Best investment ever.) I already felt moments of elation and moments of head-shaking frustration and disbelief. I was back on that emotional rollercoaster that is a Major League Baseball season, and I couldn’t be happier. I’m finishing this up on a Sunday morning, and as I write the Red Sox are a disappointing 0-2. They also play today at 2 PM, and I can’t wait to tune in and cheer for them to notch that first win of a long, sure-to-be-exciting season. From disappointment springs optimism, and I can’t help but feel pity for those people whose experience as fans of the game is nothing but negativity and frustration. The key for me is that, no matter how deep my love for the game, I still remember that it is just a game. It’s just a game. It’s supposed to be fun, and it’s supposed to be infused with magic and it’s supposed to transport us above the petty, ulcer-inducing realities of our daily lives.
So here’s to another hot, long and wonderful summer. Here’s to sunny days spent listening to the game while I sit in the yard sipping on a cold beer and hanging on every pitch. Here’s to warm nights with west coast games to clear my mind and unclutter my head after a long day. Here’s to baseball. Here’s to that particular brand of magic that not even adulthood can drive away.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Dusk
Dusk.
The sky streaked with purples and reds so bright and vivid that it looks like the heavens were doused and set ablaze.
The whole world burning with a holy fire.
Burning in a holy fire.
Our father is not in heaven, but in the dirt and the trees and the hot Santa Ana winds and the arctic cold that burrows into your bones.
Our father dwells not in a kingdom of many mansions, but rather in the deep fissures of the earth and the space between the atoms and the unseen barely-theres that make up totality.
Mescalito wrapped in rags, thundering out of the desert on a steed of pure light and energy and heat.
From Texas to the United Kingdom people hear unexplained noises and feel strange vibrations emanating from deep in the earth. Mysterious thuds and hammering sounds from the bowels of the planet. A deep thrumming that rattles window panes and sets nerves skittering.
Maybe it’s just the God of the earth and the mud and the skies, tapping out a message through the bedrock.
“Don’t be afraid,” She says in a cosmic Morse Code that we can’t begin to understand. “Don’t be afraid, and please – stop fucking around.”
The sky streaked with purples and reds so bright and vivid that it looks like the heavens were doused and set ablaze.
The whole world burning with a holy fire.
Burning in a holy fire.
Our father is not in heaven, but in the dirt and the trees and the hot Santa Ana winds and the arctic cold that burrows into your bones.
Our father dwells not in a kingdom of many mansions, but rather in the deep fissures of the earth and the space between the atoms and the unseen barely-theres that make up totality.
Mescalito wrapped in rags, thundering out of the desert on a steed of pure light and energy and heat.
From Texas to the United Kingdom people hear unexplained noises and feel strange vibrations emanating from deep in the earth. Mysterious thuds and hammering sounds from the bowels of the planet. A deep thrumming that rattles window panes and sets nerves skittering.
Maybe it’s just the God of the earth and the mud and the skies, tapping out a message through the bedrock.
“Don’t be afraid,” She says in a cosmic Morse Code that we can’t begin to understand. “Don’t be afraid, and please – stop fucking around.”
Sunday, February 13, 2011
I Have a Secret Addiction
I have a secret addiction.
Don’t get all frothy and excited. It isn’t anything dangerous like heroin or running with the bulls on peyote. It isn’t anything freaky or weird like compulsively dressing up like Olivia Newton-John and signing Xanadu into the bathroom mirror, either.
No, my addiction is conspiracy theory websites. I love them. I. Fucking. Love. Them.
Look, I used to be just like you. I used to wander through my life focused on things like work and family and when the new season of Dexter was being released on DVD. Notice I said “used to”. Not any longer. I don’t have that luxury anymore. Not with the knowledge that a secret cabal of businessmen are plotting to overthrow the United States and create world government. Not with the knowledge that a race of reptilian aliens are already living amongst us, all the while plotting our demise. (I feel I must note for the record that many politicians and celebrities are actually reptilian aliens. It’s true. Included among their numbers are Bush & Cheney (Yawn. How obvious is THAT?), Henry Kissinger, Kris Kristofferson (yes, THAT Kris Kristofferson) and Boxcar Willie (yes, THAT Boxcar Willie.) Not with the knowledge that the contrails left by high-flying planes aren’t contrails at all, but rather chemicals being dispersed by the government to control our minds. Not with the knowledge that the United States government and a race of grey aliens operate secret underground bases throughout the southwestern United States.
These delightful slices of lunacy are but just a few of the whack-a-doodle ramblings I’ve stumbled across on the good ole’ internet.
Taken alone, paranoid and delusional ramblings like these could be viewed as, well, the realm of the paranoid and the delusional. These scenarios could be the very real fears of someone suffering in the grip of mental illness. At the very least you can almost imagine these rants echoing off the walls of some imagined Hollywood insane asylum. That’s precisely what makes these conspiracy websites so completely and utterly fascinating. The people that are subscribing to these theories - that are writing the articles and hosting the sites and posting the videos? They’re people just like you and me. They’re people with jobs and families, and there are thousands upon thousands of them.
So what makes apparently rational human beings suddenly start accepting lunatic theories like these? It’s this question that fascinates me the most about all of this. I wonder what it would take for me to wake up one morning and say, “Shape-shifting reptilian aliens that live amongst us and have taken the form of various celebrities? Sure, why not?” What would it take for me to start scrambling across rocks under the desert sun looking for hidden entrances to secret, underground alien bases? How thin is the string that tethers us to reality? What is reality, when you come right down to it?
I’m not implying that all the people who subscribe to this stuff are insane, delusional or otherwise crazy as a shithouse rat. Are some of them? Undoubtedly. But the bulk of them? That just seems highly improbable. Improbable and disturbing. Disturbing because it means that my neighbor, the friendly guy who drives the Jeep and plays with his kids, could be sitting in house right now tracking the movements of purported reptilian aliens using a GPS and TMZ.com. (I know he’s not posting YouTube videos on it, though - if he was I would have seen them.)
Look, I’m not being overly judgmental here. One man’s crazy is another man’s reality, right? I know people who live their lives according to the teachings of Christianity, and I find that just as ridiculous as those same Christians find Scientology. It’s all relative. A good example is my unflinching belief in UFOs. Yes, THOSE UFOs. Unidentified flying objects. Vehicles from outer space or another dimension or wherever it is they come from. One summer night many years ago I saw something that cemented my belief that something is out there. I know a lot of people who think my belief in UFOs is nuts. Just like I think the New World Order/world government/Alex Jones crowd is nuts. See? It’s all relative.
(Seriously, though – my belief in UFOs isn’t nearly as crazy as the belief that the United States government is intentionally acting in consort with the Federal Reserve and the Bilderberg Group to collapse our economy, dissolve American sovereignty and install world government. Not. Even. Close. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.)
Whatever the underlying reasons why people choose to believe the things that they believe, the fact remains that some people believe things that some other people think are crazy. That’s the way it is, and that’s the way it has probably always been. I’m reasonably sure that back in the days of the cavemen, Thorg thought that Korg was crazy because he thought the world was created by a flaming bird from the bowels of the earth rather than a turtle from beyond the Milky Way. Sure, at the time a turtle from beyond the Milky Way was the accepted theory for the origins of the universe. However, centuries of scientific advances and the invention of the telescope eventually made the space turtle theory pretty damned unlikely. Some might even say crazy. But that’s the thing about the subjectivity of it all. Who knows? A century from now maybe people will look back on those of us who didn’t believe in UFOs as crackpots. (If their alien overlords allow them the liberty of looking back, that is.)
I guess the point of this whole thing is a big, fat “who the fuck knows?” Maybe Kris Kristofferson is a shape-shifting reptilian. Maybe Alex jones is right about the 8,435,000 conspiracy theories he touts at any given time. Maybe all those birds dropped out of the sky last month because they were testing a secret government weapon called HAARP that’s tucked away in the wilds of Alaska. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe the people who believe in that crackpot horseshit are crazy. Maybe. Then again, maybe we all are.
(All of the conspiracy theories I reference in this post are authentic. By “authentic” I mean that I didn’t make them up. I read them on the internet. I watched the videos. I bathed in the sweet, sweet crazy. If you’re interested in crossing the conspiracy rubicon, here are a few sites to kick off your journey into mind-boggling batshittery. Happy surfing!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Icke
http://www.prisonplanet.com/
http://www.reptilianagenda.com/menu.shtml
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_World_Order_(conspiracy_theory)
Don’t get all frothy and excited. It isn’t anything dangerous like heroin or running with the bulls on peyote. It isn’t anything freaky or weird like compulsively dressing up like Olivia Newton-John and signing Xanadu into the bathroom mirror, either.
No, my addiction is conspiracy theory websites. I love them. I. Fucking. Love. Them.
Look, I used to be just like you. I used to wander through my life focused on things like work and family and when the new season of Dexter was being released on DVD. Notice I said “used to”. Not any longer. I don’t have that luxury anymore. Not with the knowledge that a secret cabal of businessmen are plotting to overthrow the United States and create world government. Not with the knowledge that a race of reptilian aliens are already living amongst us, all the while plotting our demise. (I feel I must note for the record that many politicians and celebrities are actually reptilian aliens. It’s true. Included among their numbers are Bush & Cheney (Yawn. How obvious is THAT?), Henry Kissinger, Kris Kristofferson (yes, THAT Kris Kristofferson) and Boxcar Willie (yes, THAT Boxcar Willie.) Not with the knowledge that the contrails left by high-flying planes aren’t contrails at all, but rather chemicals being dispersed by the government to control our minds. Not with the knowledge that the United States government and a race of grey aliens operate secret underground bases throughout the southwestern United States.
These delightful slices of lunacy are but just a few of the whack-a-doodle ramblings I’ve stumbled across on the good ole’ internet.
Taken alone, paranoid and delusional ramblings like these could be viewed as, well, the realm of the paranoid and the delusional. These scenarios could be the very real fears of someone suffering in the grip of mental illness. At the very least you can almost imagine these rants echoing off the walls of some imagined Hollywood insane asylum. That’s precisely what makes these conspiracy websites so completely and utterly fascinating. The people that are subscribing to these theories - that are writing the articles and hosting the sites and posting the videos? They’re people just like you and me. They’re people with jobs and families, and there are thousands upon thousands of them.
So what makes apparently rational human beings suddenly start accepting lunatic theories like these? It’s this question that fascinates me the most about all of this. I wonder what it would take for me to wake up one morning and say, “Shape-shifting reptilian aliens that live amongst us and have taken the form of various celebrities? Sure, why not?” What would it take for me to start scrambling across rocks under the desert sun looking for hidden entrances to secret, underground alien bases? How thin is the string that tethers us to reality? What is reality, when you come right down to it?
I’m not implying that all the people who subscribe to this stuff are insane, delusional or otherwise crazy as a shithouse rat. Are some of them? Undoubtedly. But the bulk of them? That just seems highly improbable. Improbable and disturbing. Disturbing because it means that my neighbor, the friendly guy who drives the Jeep and plays with his kids, could be sitting in house right now tracking the movements of purported reptilian aliens using a GPS and TMZ.com. (I know he’s not posting YouTube videos on it, though - if he was I would have seen them.)
Look, I’m not being overly judgmental here. One man’s crazy is another man’s reality, right? I know people who live their lives according to the teachings of Christianity, and I find that just as ridiculous as those same Christians find Scientology. It’s all relative. A good example is my unflinching belief in UFOs. Yes, THOSE UFOs. Unidentified flying objects. Vehicles from outer space or another dimension or wherever it is they come from. One summer night many years ago I saw something that cemented my belief that something is out there. I know a lot of people who think my belief in UFOs is nuts. Just like I think the New World Order/world government/Alex Jones crowd is nuts. See? It’s all relative.
(Seriously, though – my belief in UFOs isn’t nearly as crazy as the belief that the United States government is intentionally acting in consort with the Federal Reserve and the Bilderberg Group to collapse our economy, dissolve American sovereignty and install world government. Not. Even. Close. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.)
Whatever the underlying reasons why people choose to believe the things that they believe, the fact remains that some people believe things that some other people think are crazy. That’s the way it is, and that’s the way it has probably always been. I’m reasonably sure that back in the days of the cavemen, Thorg thought that Korg was crazy because he thought the world was created by a flaming bird from the bowels of the earth rather than a turtle from beyond the Milky Way. Sure, at the time a turtle from beyond the Milky Way was the accepted theory for the origins of the universe. However, centuries of scientific advances and the invention of the telescope eventually made the space turtle theory pretty damned unlikely. Some might even say crazy. But that’s the thing about the subjectivity of it all. Who knows? A century from now maybe people will look back on those of us who didn’t believe in UFOs as crackpots. (If their alien overlords allow them the liberty of looking back, that is.)
I guess the point of this whole thing is a big, fat “who the fuck knows?” Maybe Kris Kristofferson is a shape-shifting reptilian. Maybe Alex jones is right about the 8,435,000 conspiracy theories he touts at any given time. Maybe all those birds dropped out of the sky last month because they were testing a secret government weapon called HAARP that’s tucked away in the wilds of Alaska. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe the people who believe in that crackpot horseshit are crazy. Maybe. Then again, maybe we all are.
(All of the conspiracy theories I reference in this post are authentic. By “authentic” I mean that I didn’t make them up. I read them on the internet. I watched the videos. I bathed in the sweet, sweet crazy. If you’re interested in crossing the conspiracy rubicon, here are a few sites to kick off your journey into mind-boggling batshittery. Happy surfing!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Icke
http://www.prisonplanet.com/
http://www.reptilianagenda.com/menu.shtml
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_World_Order_(conspiracy_theory)
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Many moons ago there were no cars.
Many moons ago there were no cars.
There were no cars or planes or smart phones or wires crisscrossing the landscape like high voltage shackles.
Back then there was the land, and the land belonged to everyone and no one and from it sprang life. All life. Back then interconnectedness – the link between all living things – didn’t need to be thought about and analyzed and romanticized. That everything depended on everything else was just reality and existence and it required no more thought than drawing a breath.
Amidst the scrub and canyons of the southwest, coyotes will kill cats and small dogs that are left outside unattended. For this – for trying to eat – the coyotes are demonized. Poisoned, trapped and killed with nary a thought.
Mountain lions are being forced out of the hills by gaudy, monstrous tract homes. McMansions for the legions that pollute the canyons with their smooth jazz and their oversized SUVs. When the mountain lions attack a human who is intruding in the only home these cats have ever known, the mountain lion is hunted and shot on sight.
The coyote and the mountain lion - creatures killed for no other reason than trying to ensure their own survival. For following the irresistible instinct to live. Guilty of nothing more than attempting to adapt in the face of a bipedal parasite that lives without regard to the rest of the creatures that depend on this ever dwindling land.
Years ago I stood in a hot, red walled canyon in the desert and heard nothing. I felt a complete silence that seemed to pulse and beat with a primal life whose bounds exceeded time. At that moment it could have been the age before cars. Before the noise of teeming humanity and their endless creations that are seemingly designed to distract and pollute and overwhelm.
It could have been a time long before humanity. It could have been a time when the Earth was ruled by the biggest and strongest and fastest and there was room for every living thing and no creature slept without keeping one wary eye open.
This same trip into the desert I awoke in a hotel overlooking a golf course. Rolling hills carpeted with lush grass that is unsustainable in this dry, arid land. Water wasted in a place where every drop of moisture is precious and is relished by flora and fauna who have adapted to this place over many of our brief and unimportant lifetimes.
I awoke and went outside and the morning was still; the air just beginning to be warmed by the blazing desert sun inching up over the horizon. I watched as several coyotes padded across the grass of the golf course. I imagined their delight at the feel of the soft, wet grass on their paws. I imagined their horror at the relentless, mechanized destruction of all that they know. I admired their determination to survive. I’m quite convinced they will outlast us.
There were no cars or planes or smart phones or wires crisscrossing the landscape like high voltage shackles.
Back then there was the land, and the land belonged to everyone and no one and from it sprang life. All life. Back then interconnectedness – the link between all living things – didn’t need to be thought about and analyzed and romanticized. That everything depended on everything else was just reality and existence and it required no more thought than drawing a breath.
Amidst the scrub and canyons of the southwest, coyotes will kill cats and small dogs that are left outside unattended. For this – for trying to eat – the coyotes are demonized. Poisoned, trapped and killed with nary a thought.
Mountain lions are being forced out of the hills by gaudy, monstrous tract homes. McMansions for the legions that pollute the canyons with their smooth jazz and their oversized SUVs. When the mountain lions attack a human who is intruding in the only home these cats have ever known, the mountain lion is hunted and shot on sight.
The coyote and the mountain lion - creatures killed for no other reason than trying to ensure their own survival. For following the irresistible instinct to live. Guilty of nothing more than attempting to adapt in the face of a bipedal parasite that lives without regard to the rest of the creatures that depend on this ever dwindling land.
Years ago I stood in a hot, red walled canyon in the desert and heard nothing. I felt a complete silence that seemed to pulse and beat with a primal life whose bounds exceeded time. At that moment it could have been the age before cars. Before the noise of teeming humanity and their endless creations that are seemingly designed to distract and pollute and overwhelm.
It could have been a time long before humanity. It could have been a time when the Earth was ruled by the biggest and strongest and fastest and there was room for every living thing and no creature slept without keeping one wary eye open.
This same trip into the desert I awoke in a hotel overlooking a golf course. Rolling hills carpeted with lush grass that is unsustainable in this dry, arid land. Water wasted in a place where every drop of moisture is precious and is relished by flora and fauna who have adapted to this place over many of our brief and unimportant lifetimes.
I awoke and went outside and the morning was still; the air just beginning to be warmed by the blazing desert sun inching up over the horizon. I watched as several coyotes padded across the grass of the golf course. I imagined their delight at the feel of the soft, wet grass on their paws. I imagined their horror at the relentless, mechanized destruction of all that they know. I admired their determination to survive. I’m quite convinced they will outlast us.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Putting Out the Fires
This place is smoky and dark and the girl in front of me exudes an unmistakable, inebriated desperation. Someone has put an old Pixies song on the juke, Black Francis wailing about Alec Eiffel, and I watch this girl totter and struggle for balance. She leans into me. Well, she actually stumbles into me more than anything else. Her arm slides around my neck and she says something I don't understand; her unintelligible words drifting to me in an odorous cloud of booze and cigarette smoke. It sounds something like, “Susie's car smells like sweaty tennis shoes.” I'm pretty sure that's not what she actually said, but at this point I can't be sure and frankly don't really care.
“I test sporting goods equipment for a major, national manufacturer,” I say loudly, competing with the din.
Beside me, Jerry looks over with this big, drunken grin on his face.
“Tell her about that time in Miami,” he says. “You remember - when you were testing tennis rackets.”
I like Jerry because there are no excuses or explanations required. He's played this game many, many times before.
“I'm not very good at tennis,” the girl says.
She looks vaguely confused and starts to giggle. Her tittering laugh grates at me, and I have to end this line of conversation or I'll lose any and all desire to see this quagmire I'm getting myself into through to the end.
“There was this Russian girl, a tennis player,” Jerry says.
The girl's eyes slowly wander to Jerry.
“Russian?” She asks.
“Sure,” Jerry says. “Russia. Eastern Europe. Surely you've heard of it.”
The girl just giggles again, taking a very unnecessary swig from whatever it is she's drinking.
“Anyway,” Jerry continues, “this Russian girl - the tennis player - Morgan here gave her a private demonstration. Long story short, she ended up testing that racket in ways the manufacturer definitely did not intend.”
The girl's face is now a blank. Jerry is smiling broadly, his mouth seemingly taking over his entire head. The girl looks uneasily from Jerry back to me.
“I'm not very good at tennis,” she says again, shaking her head emphatically.
“Just as well,” Jerry says. “Her career was never the same after that.”
I decide to shift gears before this whole scene completely deteriorates. This is how this is done. You take it to the edge, the thin line that can't be crossed, and then you yank it back. Christ, I've danced this dance so many times I could do it in my sleep.
“What is it that you do?” I ask.
Jerry hears the question and loses interest, as he has never cared for the dull but necessary groundwork of this game. He turns back to the bar, motioning for another drink.
The girl leans towards me, swaying on her feet. Her balance fails her, and she lurches sideways. I steady her with my hand, and some of her drink slops on my pants. She either doesn't notice or pretends not to notice.
“I work for the government,” she says, her head nodding drunkenly to accentuate this point.
The government. It figures. No wonder we're all on a rocket ship to oblivion, what with girls like this acting as cogs in the big, administrative wheel. Jerry hears this nugget and is suddenly interested again, leaning across me and looking directly at the girl.
“I work for the government, too,” He says.
She looks at him suspiciously, immediately guarded. Maybe she's not as fucked up as I originally thought. This would change the game plan, but truth be told it might make it that much more interesting.
“I can't tell you too many details,” Jerry says. “Let's just say my work involves a lot of travel to exotic destinations. It's all very covert. You know, on the down-low.”
“Like a spy?” The girl asks, her eyes narrowing.
She's suspicious now; her brow furrowed with a determined focus. Shit. Jerry might have taken this a bit too far. Soon, I'll have to slip into damage-control mode to try and reign in this cluster-fuck. God damn him. Sometimes Jerry's lack of respect for this process borders on infuriating.
“Well,” Jerry says, his eyes moving shiftily from side to side, “more like a spook. Black-ops stuff. Look, I've already said too much.”
“A spook?” She asks. "You mean like a ghost?”
Thank Christ. This train may stay on the tracks after all.
“I may as well be a ghost, most days,” Jerry says, dramatically rolling his eyes and slamming back a drink.
Jerry loses interest again, his eyes wandering to a crowd of yuppie wannabes sequestered in a corner; probably comparing iPhone apps and discussing their car's incredible European engineering.
“I'll be right back,” Jerry says, slowly climbing down from his stool and heading in the direction of the yuppie table.
Great. Now I'm going to have to have eyes in the back of my head in order to balance the task at hand with making sure Jerry keeps his drunk ass in check. I hate multi-tasking.
The girl looks up, locking eyes with me. She smiles, and it's clear she's completely, out-of-her-head wasted. Moments like this make what I do worthwhile.
“You're really cute,” She says.
“Thanks,” I say. “So are you.”
The fact is, she's not cute at all. While her appearance is not without appeal, taken as a whole this girl is a train-wreck of epic proportion. Sloppy, public drunkenness does nothing to downplay any flaws of appearance or personality.
She sidles up to me, snaking an arm around my waist. Her face is inches from mine now. I notice that her eyes are glassy, and that she's wearing way too much makeup. She's so drunk it's almost a miracle that she's standing at all. I wonder where her friends are, the people she came with. What kind of friend lets someone alone with somebody like me?
“Take me home,” she says.
There it is. The three words I've been waiting to hear. The reason I've been dancing this dance all night. Those three words uttered millions of times in millions of bars all over the world. The three words that, no matter what language they're spoken in, still add up to the same horrible, misguided desperation. English. Japanese. Swahili. The dialect isn't important. What's important is the loneliness behind it, the lack of restraint. Call it what you will, but in the end it all adds up to regret and a spiral that just doesn't end.
A horrible cliché of a rock song comes on the juke, and it seems fitting. I look past the girl to her friends, and I lock eyes with one of them and conjure up my most lecherous grin. The message I send with that look is, “intervene”. Come on, Mary or Agnes or whatever the fuck your name is. Intervene. Be a hero.
“You seem nice,” I say to the girl. “I can't just take you home. I barely know you.”
The girl's face is a cloud. She pouts, and her grip on my waist tightens. I see her friends making her way across the bar. The cavalry has sprung into action.
In the end, this is what it comes down to. Tomorrow this girl will wake up, stomach roiling and head throbbing, and she'll try to piece together the events of the night before. This game, this thing I do, is about not letting the horrible, leering face of regret enter into that mix. That's how I rationalize it anyway, on those rare nights where guilt creeps in. The real reason I do it is because I can. That's the crux of it. I do it because I can.
The girl's friend walks up, looking at me with what borders on disgust. I let my face go blank, playing the role of lecherous, manipulative suitor. What can I say? I provide the whole package. Everyone plays their part in this. The important thing is to know and embrace your role.
As the girl's friend reaches out to guide her drunk, amorous charge from a horrible fate, I hear a slight commotion from behind me. Jerry's voice rises above the din of the bar.
“Look, all I'm saying is fuck your Volvo,” Jerry yells.
The timing is impeccable, and I slip away from the girl to go put out yet another fire.
“I test sporting goods equipment for a major, national manufacturer,” I say loudly, competing with the din.
Beside me, Jerry looks over with this big, drunken grin on his face.
“Tell her about that time in Miami,” he says. “You remember - when you were testing tennis rackets.”
I like Jerry because there are no excuses or explanations required. He's played this game many, many times before.
“I'm not very good at tennis,” the girl says.
She looks vaguely confused and starts to giggle. Her tittering laugh grates at me, and I have to end this line of conversation or I'll lose any and all desire to see this quagmire I'm getting myself into through to the end.
“There was this Russian girl, a tennis player,” Jerry says.
The girl's eyes slowly wander to Jerry.
“Russian?” She asks.
“Sure,” Jerry says. “Russia. Eastern Europe. Surely you've heard of it.”
The girl just giggles again, taking a very unnecessary swig from whatever it is she's drinking.
“Anyway,” Jerry continues, “this Russian girl - the tennis player - Morgan here gave her a private demonstration. Long story short, she ended up testing that racket in ways the manufacturer definitely did not intend.”
The girl's face is now a blank. Jerry is smiling broadly, his mouth seemingly taking over his entire head. The girl looks uneasily from Jerry back to me.
“I'm not very good at tennis,” she says again, shaking her head emphatically.
“Just as well,” Jerry says. “Her career was never the same after that.”
I decide to shift gears before this whole scene completely deteriorates. This is how this is done. You take it to the edge, the thin line that can't be crossed, and then you yank it back. Christ, I've danced this dance so many times I could do it in my sleep.
“What is it that you do?” I ask.
Jerry hears the question and loses interest, as he has never cared for the dull but necessary groundwork of this game. He turns back to the bar, motioning for another drink.
The girl leans towards me, swaying on her feet. Her balance fails her, and she lurches sideways. I steady her with my hand, and some of her drink slops on my pants. She either doesn't notice or pretends not to notice.
“I work for the government,” she says, her head nodding drunkenly to accentuate this point.
The government. It figures. No wonder we're all on a rocket ship to oblivion, what with girls like this acting as cogs in the big, administrative wheel. Jerry hears this nugget and is suddenly interested again, leaning across me and looking directly at the girl.
“I work for the government, too,” He says.
She looks at him suspiciously, immediately guarded. Maybe she's not as fucked up as I originally thought. This would change the game plan, but truth be told it might make it that much more interesting.
“I can't tell you too many details,” Jerry says. “Let's just say my work involves a lot of travel to exotic destinations. It's all very covert. You know, on the down-low.”
“Like a spy?” The girl asks, her eyes narrowing.
She's suspicious now; her brow furrowed with a determined focus. Shit. Jerry might have taken this a bit too far. Soon, I'll have to slip into damage-control mode to try and reign in this cluster-fuck. God damn him. Sometimes Jerry's lack of respect for this process borders on infuriating.
“Well,” Jerry says, his eyes moving shiftily from side to side, “more like a spook. Black-ops stuff. Look, I've already said too much.”
“A spook?” She asks. "You mean like a ghost?”
Thank Christ. This train may stay on the tracks after all.
“I may as well be a ghost, most days,” Jerry says, dramatically rolling his eyes and slamming back a drink.
Jerry loses interest again, his eyes wandering to a crowd of yuppie wannabes sequestered in a corner; probably comparing iPhone apps and discussing their car's incredible European engineering.
“I'll be right back,” Jerry says, slowly climbing down from his stool and heading in the direction of the yuppie table.
Great. Now I'm going to have to have eyes in the back of my head in order to balance the task at hand with making sure Jerry keeps his drunk ass in check. I hate multi-tasking.
The girl looks up, locking eyes with me. She smiles, and it's clear she's completely, out-of-her-head wasted. Moments like this make what I do worthwhile.
“You're really cute,” She says.
“Thanks,” I say. “So are you.”
The fact is, she's not cute at all. While her appearance is not without appeal, taken as a whole this girl is a train-wreck of epic proportion. Sloppy, public drunkenness does nothing to downplay any flaws of appearance or personality.
She sidles up to me, snaking an arm around my waist. Her face is inches from mine now. I notice that her eyes are glassy, and that she's wearing way too much makeup. She's so drunk it's almost a miracle that she's standing at all. I wonder where her friends are, the people she came with. What kind of friend lets someone alone with somebody like me?
“Take me home,” she says.
There it is. The three words I've been waiting to hear. The reason I've been dancing this dance all night. Those three words uttered millions of times in millions of bars all over the world. The three words that, no matter what language they're spoken in, still add up to the same horrible, misguided desperation. English. Japanese. Swahili. The dialect isn't important. What's important is the loneliness behind it, the lack of restraint. Call it what you will, but in the end it all adds up to regret and a spiral that just doesn't end.
A horrible cliché of a rock song comes on the juke, and it seems fitting. I look past the girl to her friends, and I lock eyes with one of them and conjure up my most lecherous grin. The message I send with that look is, “intervene”. Come on, Mary or Agnes or whatever the fuck your name is. Intervene. Be a hero.
“You seem nice,” I say to the girl. “I can't just take you home. I barely know you.”
The girl's face is a cloud. She pouts, and her grip on my waist tightens. I see her friends making her way across the bar. The cavalry has sprung into action.
In the end, this is what it comes down to. Tomorrow this girl will wake up, stomach roiling and head throbbing, and she'll try to piece together the events of the night before. This game, this thing I do, is about not letting the horrible, leering face of regret enter into that mix. That's how I rationalize it anyway, on those rare nights where guilt creeps in. The real reason I do it is because I can. That's the crux of it. I do it because I can.
The girl's friend walks up, looking at me with what borders on disgust. I let my face go blank, playing the role of lecherous, manipulative suitor. What can I say? I provide the whole package. Everyone plays their part in this. The important thing is to know and embrace your role.
As the girl's friend reaches out to guide her drunk, amorous charge from a horrible fate, I hear a slight commotion from behind me. Jerry's voice rises above the din of the bar.
“Look, all I'm saying is fuck your Volvo,” Jerry yells.
The timing is impeccable, and I slip away from the girl to go put out yet another fire.
Now with more fiction and various other sundry ramblings!
So I use this other website to post my fiction. Why the need to keep my fiction and my non-fiction separate? Don't ask me why. I have no idea.
I've now decided to just consolidate and put everything on here.
Stories. Verse. Ramblings. Manifestos. Venting. Ransom notes. If I write it, I'm tossing it on here.
I'm also considering posting it onto Tumblr as a kinda' simulcast-y thing, but that's a story for another day.
My point is that I'm going to sporadically drag one of my meager collection of fictional offerings from the other site and post it on this here blog. I'm trying to be better about keeping up with this, and it'll make it easier for me to just keep all styles of written spewage consolidated in one place.
You have been warned.
I've now decided to just consolidate and put everything on here.
Stories. Verse. Ramblings. Manifestos. Venting. Ransom notes. If I write it, I'm tossing it on here.
I'm also considering posting it onto Tumblr as a kinda' simulcast-y thing, but that's a story for another day.
My point is that I'm going to sporadically drag one of my meager collection of fictional offerings from the other site and post it on this here blog. I'm trying to be better about keeping up with this, and it'll make it easier for me to just keep all styles of written spewage consolidated in one place.
You have been warned.
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