bLogical Levity

Idaho Wall-Mart Blues

2008-12-15T16:05:00.000-06:00

“HEY BUBBA, YOU wanna tell this psycho to get this fucking gun out of my face?”
“It’s Barry, kindly, and I do apologize to ya sir, but Hank don’t much listen to anybody.” Barry smiles warmly, “But I don’t figure he’s lookin to harm you, anyway.”
Hank cocks the gun. The movement is so smooth and brief, it almost seems imagined. Barry abashedly averts his gaze towards the forested hills. Max, who hadn’t flinched at the elevated threat, thinks to try a different approach.
“So, Barry, you got any kids?”
The pudgy, sweating, anxious man perks momentarily at the question, and just as quickly seems exasperated by it.
“No, well, yes, but,” he stammers, “They’re um, back at home with my wife.”
“I thought so. See Barry, my wife and kids are back at home too, probably waiting to see me. And I’ll bet your wife and kids are waiting for you too.”
“Ha!”
Both men’s heads swing towards the pretty young thing sitting up against the heating vent. Five minutes ago she was enjoying a staring contest with an iridescent, blue dragonfly that happened upon her knee. They hadn’t heard from her since.
“I’m sorry, as the only set of ovaries up here, I can tell you with certainty that no woman in her right mind is sitting at home waiting for him.” She smiles at a weakened Barry, “I’m sorry, you seem like a nice guy, but if you were a Greek god, you’d be Patheticus, God of Under-arm perspiration and all things Awkward.”
Max shoots her a look that reads, “You. Dumb. Bitch.” She smiles back, then returns to Barry, “When do you think we’ll be done with all this?”
Barry gathers himself and says in the sternest voice he can muster, “All questions will be answered when Roscoe gets here. Now sit tight and be quite, he should be here any minute.”
“Thrilling,” says Christine.
“The thrill is gone, the thrill is go-o-one away. You know you’ve done me wrong baby, and you’ll be so-o-orry some day.” Quizzical glances bound towards the frail specter of a man nursing a cigarette on the far wall - even from Hank, though no one noticed. He had yet to mutter a peep, making his soulful B.B. King rendition all the more odd, but no less pleasant.
In the span of three breaths, the doorway to the stairwell flies open, ejecting a thirty-something man in camos and an American flag beret atop his salt-and-pepper crew cut.
“Barry. Why is your van parked in the handicap space?” he demands.
“Well, cus it was the closest one. Besides, won’t nobody be here for at least another six or seven hours,” says Barry.
“Well that was dumb.” He clears his throat and inhales, “Ladies and Gentlemen, you may be wondering…Barry, where are all the hostages?”
“This is them, boss. Only ones we could find about town, right Hank?”
Hank lowers his gaze a few degrees.
“Pathectic. Ahem, as I was saying,” the man continues, “You may be wondering why you’re here. My name is Roscoe Kourp, and you…” Roscoe stops to glare at a snickering Christine, “Something funny?”
“Everything is funny.” Christine says, catching her breath, “It’s just…be honest, did you steal your name off a cracker box? I mean, come on, Rosco Corp.?”
Roscoe marches toward her. “Listen missy, first off, it’s spelled differently, and second, this isn’t your turn to talk.”
“You asked,” she says.
“I asked rhetorically.” His head juts back, his expression sours in a double-chinned display of surprise, “Barry? Why is she tied up? I got the tazers because they’re more effective and efficient, didn’t you get my email?”
“I know boss,” Barry explains, “but she asked to be tied up.”
“It’s more kinky that way, adds to the menace.” Christine says winking at Roscoe.
He shakes his head and continues, “Whatever. Anyway, where was I? (murmuring) ladies and gentlemen you may be… right. My name is Roscoe, and you are now part of the New Revolution. For too long, the great people of Idaho have reluctantly been a part of the United Sins of America. Our airwaves, our Internet, our schools and our streets have been forced to deteriorate right along with the rest of this Heathen country. Well, we say no more!” His index finger rises as quickly as his voice, and he turns and marches towards Max.
“The men and women, excuse me, the men and woman here today have the distinct honor of helping the Idaho National Separatists movement make a bold statement to those folks in D.C., letting them know we’re serious. If you choose to cooperate, we will spare your lives today, and in the bloody civil war to come.” Roscoe looks around excitedly to the hostages -- eager to gauge the effect his rant has made, and is disappointed to find none.
Christine gives a raised-brow smile to Roscoe for the effort, and looks past him at the old man, “Hey blues man, got another one of those smokes?”
The old man stares blankly ahead for a moment, then bellows, “I’m a man. I spell ‘M’. ‘A’ child. ‘N’. That represent man.” He flips a smoke to the sky, and, beaming at it mid-air, Christine adjusts her head left, right, then throws it back and catches the filter end in her mouth.
“How about that,” Max marvels.
“Ha ha! That was so cool,” says a bubbly Barry.
“Lets see you light it.” Roscoe remarks, and throws a lighter full-force at her face.
“Excuse me, Roscoe – you don’t mind if call you Roscoe, right? – well Roscoe, my name is Max Wellden. I own a dealership, biggest one in Pocatello. And I can see that you’re very serious about your, um, cause -”
“Revolution,” Roscoe snaps.
Max recovers, “Yes, of course, revolution. Well I have friends in some pretty high places. I know people. If you let me leave now, I can help you. The sooner I can contact them, the better, you know?”
“You can’t be serious.” Max is surprised to hear this, not from his captor, but from Christine, who had somehow untied herself and lit the cigarette.
Roscoe spins towards her, just as surprised, “Huh?”
“Ok. First off, what’s the deal with the confederate flag lighter? The Idaho you so cherish was first made a territory by Abe Lincoln, and it was part of the union.” Christine pulls off the plastic confederate wrapping, and tosses it at Roscoe, “Second, what made you think the best way to show ‘those folks in D.C.’ you’re serious would be to hold hostages on the roof of a Wal-Mart? Were you watching the movie Airheads and surfing Google maps when you devised this plot of evil genius?”
“Who the fuck are you?” The militant reaches into his jacket and draws a pistol, “Give me one good reason not to blow your pretty little head to pretty little pieces.”
“Um, boss?” Barry interjects.
“What Barry?” yells Roscoe.
“I thought it says in the manifesto that one of the things we’s against is cuss words,” says Barry
“Not now, Barry,” Roscoe’s temper is rising in a manner quite appropriate of his madness. He turns his attention back towards Christine and rests the barrel on her temple, “Yup, you’re just like every other bitch on this planet, always trying to belittle me and get in my way. Not this time.” He cocks the gun.

***

The gunshot shocks everyone. The deafening blast has echoed off the hillsides by the time they source it to the hand of the old man. Hank swings his firearm up, but is quickly met with a slug in the chest.
Stunned, the remaining three glare at the man. He lowers his gun.
“He got a 38 special, but I believe it’s much to light. He got a 38 special, but I believe it’s much to light. I got a 32-20, got to make the camps alright.”

How To Write Instructions

2008-12-15T16:01:00.001-06:00

1. Obviously,
you’ll need a pen.
Any pen will do,
but the best instructions ever written were those of
Reginald Q. Reginald
on
“How to Churn Butter at High Altitudes” (c. 1714)
Mr. Reginald insisted
that the best implement
to impart instructions
is the tail feather of a
Dodo.

The Dodo,
of course,
is extinct,
but a stuffed Dodo
resides in basement of
the London Museum of Natural History.

The guard,
a mild mannered half-wit
named Henry, will
let you pick a feather in exchange
for a box of
Nabisco Animal Crackers.

2. Next, you’ll
want to find a piece
of paper. You could use this one,
but don’t
because someone has
written
all
over it.
Also, try not to use
papyrus.

3. Try your very best
to remember what,
exactly,
you are trying to write instructions
for.
Keep in mind that you can always
write it down.

4. Keep it short.
And simple.

5. Know your audience.
Know that the average IQ
is 100.
Know how dumb that is.

6. With that in mind,
write your instructions.
Remember, not on
this paper!

7. Read them out loud
and see if they make
a pig’s penis worth
of sense.
Once you’re satisfied,
get yourself a lobotomy.

8. Re-read your instructions.
If they still make sense,
you’ve done well.

If not, repeat steps 7&8
as many times
as necessary,
Being careful not to drool on the page.

Scholarly Discource: CLC Edition

2008-12-15T15:47:00.002-06:00

“They try to be very diverse, but really they’re all stuck up and judge other people for not being religious enough,” says Corduroy Jacket Chick.
“Where’s the church?” asks Guy Too Young To Be Balding That Much.
“Grayslake?”
“Aren’t we in Grayslake?” He smiles warmly to indicate that his question was intended to sound less mocking than his tone implied.
“Um, yeah, I guess I’m not sure where it is.”
“Okay.” Baldy pauses for a moment to separate them from that last awkward exchange, “Don’t you think your reaction was a bit extreme? I mean, you dropped your religion because you were mad at your church.”
“No, I just saw it for what it was, you know? Like, really judgmental.” She seems flustered again. I have the feeling she is easily flustered.
He smiles at her in that eerie cult-smile the devout get when talking their religion; it’s their way of showing how god makes them a monk on demand. “Oh, I don’t think that’s the church’s message at all. I mean, haven’t you read the bible?”
I wonder, what snippets has he read to come to that conclusion. After all, the paradise he awaits begins with “The Judgment”.
“Have you ever read ‘The Secret’?” she asks.
“No”
“Oh, well, that’s what I’m into now. It’s all about positive thinking and stuff.” Damn it, now she’s lost me. I’d sided with her up until that last exchange, being an adamant atheist. But I hate “The Secret”. It’s one of those self-help books that takes a scientific principle – usually from quantum physics – and corrupts it by drawing far-reaching spiritual conclusions that have nothing to do with the original fact.
“Oh, cool. I’ll have to check that out.” He’s pretending to care, but he sees her loading her purse and realizes he’s lost the sale.
“You should totally do that,” she says, and walks toward the door.
“I will.”
He won’t, and some part of that pleases me.

Black Friday

2008-12-15T15:47:00.001-06:00

When I awoke this morning
I told my cat
That I was to man
The gates of the holy city

At 4, I passed the Marauders –
The bellicose beasts of this black day.
Untold salutations lay ahead,
And I would extend none prematurely.

At 4:30, I heard the angry chants
And belligerent bullying of the chains
As I studied the offerings of
The big yellow Face.

At 5, I tried the lock.
They became impatient.
It’s funny how random
Those last thoughts can be.

“Cleats, Aisle 12”
“First Aid Kit, End Cap of Aisle 10”
“Flowers, Back Wall, Garden Section”

http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/nationworld/2008448574_shop290.html

Vision from the Invisible

2008-12-01T18:54:00.000-06:00

I have never considered myself a racist, nor, in any way, a bigot. In fact, I’ve always felt an innate revulsion to prejudice. Although I grew up in the North Shore suburbs of Chicago – a place where “rich and white” is not as much the norm as it is the rule – I’ve always immersed myself in the history of the civil rights movement. As a child I had black friends (which is statistically more impressive than it sounds). Were you to ask an eight-year-old Dave Balson about his favorite movie, he would earnestly inform you (what a cute kid he was) about “Panther”, which chronicles the rise and fall Huey Newton and The Black Panther Party. For our 5th grade biography project, my choice of Malcolm X was the only Black non-athlete presented.
Luckily, I’ve matured a bit as I’ve grown – at this age, sentiments like, “Some of my best friends are black,” or “Power to the people, brother!” seem shallow and placating. As I look at all the loud, stupid assholes out there, I always think, “There is so very, very much to dislike about people, and you’re going with skin color? You're not even trying.”
There is a tendency common among liberal-minded folk like myself to want to give too much or too little credit to our humanism. The latter I’ve best seen exemplified by a former teacher of mine. Sheila, a woman who came of age as an activist in the turbulent late-sixties, is a woman I admire greatly. But in her Peace Studies class, she was committed to a view I found rather imprudent: To be white – and to therefore benefit from “White Privilege” – was to inherit an intrinsic form of racism. Although I appreciate the sentiment, I felt this idea worked against itself on both ends of the spectrum. On the one hand, it disregards the efforts of those who have worked all their lives to overcome prejudice and battle for equality; on the other, it allows those who harbor racists ideals to justify them as, “just a part of being white.”
Sheila’s philosophy is the expected reaction to the former tendency. Given the effort and commitment required in keeping one’s opinions exposed and amendable, it’s hardly surprising that most people go as far as “tolerance”, but fail to arrive at acceptance. Most often, just feeling sympathetic to an oppressed people is enough to proclaim one’s self a card carrying liberal. In fact, I have been quite happy, if not proud, to put myself in that category. That is, until I began reading Invisible Man.
I have come to expect from great literature that it demand me to ask far more questions than it itself answers. In this expectation, Invisible Man has not let me down. Reading the sermon delivered by Reverend Barbee left me wondering of myself, “Am I not as blind as this man? Is my ideology as simple, self-serving, and ultimately unrealistic?” But by the time I had asked myself this, I already knew the answer: Yes, Dave, it is.
See, I began asking this question on page one, trying to decipher this metaphor of invisibility. We all know people who say proudly that they are “color blind”, those who, if pointing out the only black person in a crowd of whites, will go through great descriptions of their clothing, hair style, and height before you finally say, “Oh, you mean the black guy?”
“Um,” they say, “yeah, I guess so.”
These same people would not think twice to point out a white person by skin color in a crowd of blacks, so it can be hard to believe that they simply don’t notice skin color. What’s worse about that ideal is that it is degrading to people of color – “Don’t worry, boy, I’ve learned to look past your little skin predicament” – and to humanity as a whole, in suggesting that we can’t all get along and look at each other at the same time.
Evolution has given us the mixed blessing of noticing patterns and making connections, often erroneously, in an effort to protect ourselves. Still, we’ve reasoned our way past primitive instincts far less absurd than racism. I know intellectually that no one race is superior to any other, but all things considered, I’m probably slightly more comfortable around whites than blacks. In what way is that not racist?
When I first started going over the invisibility metaphor, I had trouble reconciling racism as blacks being both more and less visible in the eyes of whites. After hours of mulling it over however, I see it now in my life. In situations where I have less control, blacks become more visible to me. Walking around in parts of the city at night, I note a group of black men with more anxiety and skepticism than I would a group of white men. Other factors weigh in more than skin color, clothing and disposition for example, but it’s still there, my prejudice staring back at me.
In situations where I feel more in control, at school, or a bar maybe, blacks become less visible. I’m less likely to engage them in conversation, or to assume they’d even want to talk to me. None of that is a conscious thought occurring at the time. But looking back, really thinking about it, I have to admit that at some level, I fail to see them in the same light as their white peers.
Of the two, the invisibility scares me more. I can justify my fear of a group of young black men with prior experiences - I’ve been mugged twice at gunpoint, both times by groups of young black guys. Also, I am aware of my prejudice in real time. My failure to see blacks where I’ll otherwise see whites is not conscious, it is not to protect myself, and it doesn’t have a basis I can grab onto and examine. I’m not sure I know how to overcome that and, realizing that, I can’t help but feel disappointed with myself.
Maybe Ellison intends something else with his metaphor, and I’m sure that it will reveal itself as I read on. Invisible Man is already a masterwork in my eyes. It is too rare a gem to find a book that reaches into your brain, slaps it with a decisive “Think again!” blow, and makes you grateful all the while.

What We, Dusk Did

2008-12-01T18:44:00.000-06:00

At dusk
We broke the seal.
Sun of Burn, Son of Abraham,
Brother of Abel, Brain of Caligula.
The smoke is for the ashes,
The Fire
Is for Us.

The grubs surface
From the log’s bowels –
Like fetid gnocchi, like Us –
And burst.
They are fireworks.
They herald Our coming.
They curse the butterfly,
Whose wing flapped this storm
Into existence.

We do too.
All too
Well. But not yet.

At dusk
We broke the seal.
Son of Aesop, Sugarcane Stars,
Daughter of Moon, Brother of Scars.

Don’t be shy.
We invented the wheel,
Y’all forced it into a halo.

We made the G-spot.
We made Pluto, and
Y’all killed her.
We made Mars.

The smoke is for the ashes.
The Fire
Is for Us.

Blank. Canvass

2008-09-24T21:51:00.000-05:00

My first time was immensely embarrassing. I just couldn’t get it going, and it didn’t help that the waiting woman was a dominating and impatient one. I gathered my thoughts and tried to concentrate, to no avail; she slammed the door in my face. “That will take some getting used to,” I thought.
In my combined two years working intermittently as a canvasser, I’m not sure I ever did get used to people slamming doors on me. But to keep my morale high enough to push on through the nights, I got very used to brushing it off. I learned and honed many a precious skill working that job – sales, negotiation, guerrilla sub-division bathroom location – but none am I more grateful of than learning to brush things off.
Literally fresh off the farm, I graduated hippie-organic-farm-Quaker-boarding-school in no mood to pursue college or a job working for the Man. That there was even a section in the Tribune classifieds for jobs in “activism” further affirmed my conviction that there was a life in the outside world where people didn’t need to be trained in their passions. Because it sounds like such an odious occupation, you’re nearly knocking on your first door by the time they tell you what your job is.
But, masochistic as it may sound, the idea doing door-to-door fundraising for a not-for-profit environmental organization seemed ideal to me. I’d be working for a good cause, talking to people and raising awareness; plus, I’d get to be outside all day. I liked to brag, in those early days, that the righteousness of my job helped me sleep at night; upon reflection, the twelve-hour days were the more likely sedative,
It is a hard job. The repetition is brutal, both when people aren’t home – write address, ring doorbell, force friendly smile, wait twelve seconds (sing Pointer Sisters' "Pinball Number Count" à la Sesame Street [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-YcBVEnLT8]), next house, repeat – and when they are. Of the people who were home and would answer their doors, there were basically three groups: nice liberals, nasty liberals, and conservatives. Figuring out which group the person standing in front of you belonged in was of primary importance; the pay is 100% commission, so it’s best not to waste time on the curmudgeonly old guy who says “Far as I can tell, jury is still out on global warming”, other than being glad the that opinions of Fox News pundits don’t actually preside over legal matters. Bitterness and anger flowed freely from the foyers of the conservative homes. If they weren’t immediately irritated that someone -- particularly, one donning the deviant dreadlocks I did at the time -- would come to their door for money, they were bound to be enraged at my liberal, hippie agenda. Our campaign to save the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge from oil drilling was the first time I heard the phrase, “Fuck the Caribou, go back to France!”
The nice liberals were the best. They offered up hefty checks, and, often, healthy snacks. For them, the only real job was bumping up their contributions as much as possible without offending them. Most of the job’s success lied in finagling money from the nasty liberals. They weren’t all nasty; in fact most of them were quite nice, but quite unwilling to part with money. I couldn’t fault them for this; I was showing up at their house asking for money with no tangible return beyond some marginal assuagement of guilt. I call them nasty because the hard fought battles often went their way, leaving me to further train the short-term memory loss of refreshing for the next house.
The method of burning off the lard of frustration formed by the failures at a former door depended on its consistency. A light grease was easy to shake off by whistling Cat Stevens on my stroll/dance to the next door. When I came across someone genuinely vile, and vindictive of my presence, I might mutter some insult on my way to the next house and make vast speculations on their personal lives to snootily judge the hell out of. But that approach was ineffective for the same reason the Cat-dance approach was effective. The individual asshole wasn’t really all that frustrating, it was the abundance of assholes that was truly troubling, and it was best not to dwell on that for long. There were times when the lard congealed and the load became so oppressive, only a cigarette could cleanse my mental palate.
Eventually it takes its toll. I stopped believing the words of anyone who wouldn’t give me money. I had completely burnt out, and the resentment I felt towards those who didn’t give me money piled onto my back exponentially. I refused to lash out at anyone, to give them any excuse to castigate either cause or canvasser; but forcing it all inside found me rotting from a once optimistic core.
In my first month canvassing, I was greeted by a woman in Glenview who seemed nice enough, but responded less frequently and emphatically as our conversation went on. This was typical; a lot of people would blank out when they realized you wanted money, and felt it respectful to let you finish your point before shutting the door. But this one was different.
“And that’s why it’s really important that everyone who’s with us on the issue get involved at some level tonight,” I said brightly, with an attitude wholly uncharacteristic of all who knew me.
“Oh…well, I don’t think I can…my husband…see,” her gaze veered downward and became waterlogged, as if her thoughts were melting through her eyes, “…he just passed, and…” Then she began to cry, and, crumbling inward, nearly fell when I caught her. She wrapped her arms around me, and through sobs buried against my chest said things like, “It all happened so fast,” and, “I’ll never really know what to do next.”
I hugged her back and stayed with her like that for a few minutes. She gathered herself, apologized, and closed the door with the same hand she'd wiped her tears with. I walked away from that night so happy with my job.
The last day I canvassed, I met a woman who was entirely sympathetic and supportive of the issue (as I recall, we were fighting the BP plant being built in Indiana and promising to pollute our beloved Great Lake) but when I asked for cash, she said – and I believed her – that her husband had just died, and that the funeral costs alone might put her in debt. I offered my forged condolences, said thanks and walked off, fully despising the avaricious...widow? I couldn’t believe I could be angry with this woman in any way.
I saw clearly that day that my heart was becoming callused, and that I was about one month of canvassing shy of becoming desiring a fascist dictatorship – a far cry from save-the-planet fundraiser. I came back to the office that night and said my goodbyes; they asked me to stay, but they were never surprised.

Yes, Me Worry

2008-09-04T01:00:00.000-05:00

There was always at least some comfort in the fact that things would be better. Much as I despise the man, John McAged had a single redeeming attribute which assured me that, were he elected, I would at least consider other options before carving my eyes out with grapefruit spoons. Perhaps, I once warmly dreamed, said spoons would find warmer welcome in my ears, for example.
Once, but no more.

Life-long liberal, I laud Obama with a sincerity I never thought possible in political discourse. And for any who find fault in genuine enthusiasm and outright optimistic conviction of his historic candidacy, I say you were neither hugged enough as a child, nor kissed enough as an adult. But history provides prodigious proof that ignorance and bigotry too often hold its reigns. So, being an objective individual, I understood the horrific possibility that the old, ornery, white war hawk could, tragically, win. At least - my most psychiatric of sentiments would assure me - he might be better than Bush.

Today, Sarah Palin gave that marginally hopeful, mentally disabled thought a late-term abortion.
Were you dodging bullets in Iraq, or a disenfranchised survivor of Katrina dodging hurricanes, you may be asking "Who?"
So are the rest of us.

Well, ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce to you, in the red corner....Sarah Palin!
This former mayor of the cultural fulcrum that is Wasilla, Alaska; this female frenzy that took to govern a state long held as the most accurate reflection America in a nutshell, Sarah Palin has been a crusader! And how fruitful to her the Crusade has been. She has had the gall to refuse to force her daughter to abort her own child. And, even after learning that her water broke before a speech for the GOP in Houston, found the fortitude to push through the speech, and fly the whole 10 hours home to have her high-risk pregnancy in the TRULY American state of Alaska! And it was in Alaska that she stood up against the special interests of polar bear unions, suing the Bush administration for putting them on the endangered species list, forcefully telling their swimming asses that global warming was just as much their fault and, besides, they could probably lose some weight anyway. I'm sure I need not even expand on the bravery of such hard-lined frankness in a state where the commie polar bears outnumber the people. Well, not for long, suckers!

...I can be jovial for only so long. The truth is, she is fucking nuts. To wit:
-She thinks this country would be better served were we all well armed. I say anyone who employs that level of careful reasoning best not be trusted with more than a butter knife.
-She believes creationism - the idea that the world, and all in it, was created 6,000 years ago, well after the agricultural revolution - should be taught alongside evolution - one of science's most observable and testable assertions. I wonder, would she also have us teach astrology alongside astronomy, alchemy alongside chemistry, and magic alongside physics?
-She is fanatically religious; of the belief that her god's love does not see fit to extend to beliefs, sexual orientation, or morals different from her own.

Her speech tonight proved undeniably to thinking people that she is so hardwired to the wrongheaded ideals of her pastor and party, true reason and compassion will have no room in her oval office, in our oval office. And to rest the fate of the world's first free and democratic society on the heartbeat of a war-torn septuagenarian must surely terrify us all.

Should the American Experiment inherit this bastard daughter of Its backward and bigoted superstitions It thought long dispelled, I imagine my children more dispassionate of Its care-taking than I'm able to conceive.

Harold & Maude

2008-09-03T21:45:00.000-05:00

-For your consideration
To its great detriment, the world of film too often confines itsself to genres much more than it would like to admit. As with any art form, film is best when it reflects the human condition, in all its glory and folly, with honesty. Humanity is, no doubt, in its highest form when it can reflect and ruminate on its deepest philosophical questions with the levity of mindfully employed wit and absurdity. Yet, for whatever reason, films usually fail to attain all three aspects simultaneously and sincerely; films tend to be absurd and profound (e.g. Clockwork Orange), witty and profound (e.g. Juno, The Graduate), or witty and absurd (e.g. Monty Python and the Holy Grail). Granted the aforementioned movies are classics in their own right, movies the world is lucky to have, but one might wonder what it would take to include all three without offsetting any part of their individual presence. One might, that is, until one saw Harold and Maude.
It is the love story of a death obsessed young man, whose main hobbies include staging elaborate suicide scenes in order to traumatize his mother, and going to funerals, and Maude, a free wheeling, car stealing septuagenarian. For those who don’t find that absurd, perhaps their time might be better spent in the company of doctors. But for the rest of us, we will need convincing.
It is at one of these random funerals that Harold meets Maude. He is intrigued by her impulsive lust for life and beauty, and the two quickly become unlikely friends. In the time they share together, Harold and Maude become deeply invested in one another. Harold reveals the sources of his death-centered perception of the world, and Maude opines, rather simply and eloquently, for a life of levity and wonder. With his shallow, aristocratic mother as his only real reference point, Harold embraces death as the only meaningful thing about his otherwise meaningless existence. But through Maude he sees an alternative perspective, one that finds fulfillment in fully experiencing and communicating with a life enriched by awareness.
Cat Stevens got me into the movie. While riding around the springtime New Hampshire hills listening to Cat, my companion asked if I had seen the movie, told me a bit about it, then lost my interest when he started pointing out what kind of cows we were passing. A few months later, half-heartedly flipping through channels, I came across Harold and Maude just as it started. I hadn’t high expectations, or really any at all. Ninety minutes later found me somehow immensely engaged and just as dazed, sure it was the best movie I’d had the pleasure to see. Four years later I hold that assertion just as firmly.
Never has a movie so impeccably matched my own philosophy on life; a philosophy centered on knowledge enriching experience, and rooted in levity informing perspective. How precarious and unrelenting is life. How easily that comes to seem bleak and desperate, and how quickly it does reinforce the thought. If one finds ones self there, in the apathy or rage of self-pity, it is undoubtedly one’s right to remain. But, come on, that’s no fun.
Through Maude, Harold truly comes of age much in the same way I consider myself to have. We both learned that all we should ever want, have or need in our lives is always abundant and usually right in front of us, or as Maude would put it, “After all, we’re given life to find it out.”
Strangely, this lesson in levity is not to be taken lightly. Were wanderers and wonderers the world over to heed this idea in its entirety, I hold no doubt the world would be better off. It may sound idyllic or almost sycophantically grandiose to claim a strange film no one has heard of could lighten and heighten the human condition, but I don’t believe I go too far.
The seemingly simple idea of “lightening up and enjoying life more” has provided a bounty of excuses for the lazy among us. The ideal corrupts quickly when a person allows the embracing of life to mean “only see the positive” or “only sanction my version of pretty”. The fullness of life - its glory, its beauty – lies in its faults and complexity at least as much as its more redeeming qualities. The same can be said of humanity, with the all-important caveat that we can better ourselves. Truly understanding and appreciating that fact requires us to do four important things. Firstly, we must recognize the things in our lives that arrive through luck, and, be they good or bad, deal with them without a sense of entitlement or resentment. Secondly, we must understand the people who share, directly or indirectly, this world we claim to cherish, as well as why or whether they cherish it themselves. In one scene Harold tells Maude that she is “good with people,” to which she responds, “Well, they’re my species.” Thirdly, it inspires us to lust for knowledge, as to better understand and further be enriched by each experience. But, most importantly, at the end of the day it makes us smile that were a part of it.
In all its absurdity, in all its fun and silliness, Harold and Maude never takes the shortcut. It is simultaneously one of the funniest movies you will see, and deeply insightful, without one ever betraying the other. Whether you find it as profound a picture as I, or merely a curiously heart-warming and inspired love story is obviously a matter of taste. But I can report with utmost honesty, of every individual whom I endear a thinking person, each has come to love it and hold it as a personal favorite. Please, for your sake, don’t let that end with you.
-Dave Balson

I Know How The Cage Bird Smokes (a lost dr. Seuss poem)

2008-09-03T21:27:00.000-05:00

Tucked in horrid alleys
Forced to keep sordid company
Under gutter drops
Between dumpster & junkie
Catching looks of disdain & pity
Like a monkey

“We don’t hate you, smokers,
We just think you’re ugly.
You’re just too dumb to get it.
We know you’re a victim,
So to protect you and us
We’ve set up a system:
Second hand smoke may
Be bad in closed spaces
So no lighting up
In our business
Not just work or our churches
Our trains & our courts,
But at stores & nice restaurants
Coffee with cohorts”

“Mam, surely you’re right,
Couldn’t agree more,
I’m happy to wait
Till I get you the door”

“Actually, in this town
that simply wont do.
Go 200 feet from this door.
That one too!
Don’t you care of the air
That the doors have to breath?
There’s a fine spot to smoke
In the middle of the street.”

“I’m not sure you’re right, mamm,
I don’t think the doors mind
I think smoke dissipates
If I’m smoking outside.
And it’s 20 degrees,
No one’s even out here!
No worries, I’m sure there’s a
Bar somewhere near.”

“A Bar!? So it’s true,
Smoker’s really are mean.
You jerk! A bar is a place
To be healthy & clean.
Don’t you get it?
We don’t want you folks on the planet.
We don’t use the moon
You smokers can have it.”

The Impotence Of Omnipotence

2008-09-03T21:20:00.000-05:00

There is an inherent problem in reconciling omnipotence and omniscience that the faithful seem to walk right past. Omniscience means god has complete knowledge, that god sees all things past, present and future. Both the definition of omniscience and any belief in prophecy require his knowledge of the future. There are three serious dilemmas in mating this with omnipotence.
1. He already knows how he is going to intervene to change the course of history through his omnipotence. All beliefs in any miracles, large or small, require this to be the case. But then god can’t change his mind, he is powerless to anything but his planned intervention. That means god is not omnipotent. Omniscience binds omnipotence, likewise omnipotence blinds omniscience.
2. The obvious conflict with fate and free will
3. Then there is the problem of evil. I’ll leave this final point to my dear friend Epicurus:
Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able?
Then he is not omnipotent.
Is he able, but not willing?
Then he is malevolent.
Is God both able and willing?
Then whence cometh evil?
Is he neither able nor willing?
Then why call him God?

A Perfect Purple

2008-09-03T21:18:00.000-05:00

It takes true, inspired, outlandish genius to feel purple

To truly understand Red,
one must fully disassociate oneself from the horrors of politics & religion & absorb it with an unadulterated hedonistic pleasure.
Upon close examination, the average, often fear-laden man may feel a
vivid, uncomfortable comfortableness with the word “bloodlust”.
But we must graciously note Red’s prominence among all things instinctual.

“F” is a rarely employed letter and seems a vagrant for this reason.
Yet this all too human consonant provides
the genesis for our genetic genialities and grievances.
All brained beings,
from bards & babies to beetles & belugas,
act in accordance with 3 basic instincts:
Fight, Feed, and Fuck (or “fornicate”, for the less eloquent among us),
and view me an optimist or cynic,
I would contend that the two former are really branches of the latter;
Means to an end, if you will.
Ah, but they are kin as well in that they both,
at least among carnivorous beasts (beats and feast?),
result in bloodshed. Would one not then conclude that
fulfillment of lust is instinctually blood’s reward?

Red is
pure passion & dreaded desire; adamant anger & listless love;
brimming, blind bravery & ever-encompassing emotion:
those that cannot exist without the other.

Red is
ravenous rage, is steaming sensuality, amorous alacrity,
erogenous ecstasy, and most notably,
sex;
sweet sweaty sex, satiating sultry sex,
slow soft Sunday sex,
stalwart sticky summer starlight sex,
silly secret sofa her-parents-are-in-the-other-room seemingly still sex,
screaming stark-raving scary-to-anyone-who-might-be-listening sutra sex…
Alright red, that’s enough now, you’re making me blush!

Let us cool off, calm down, sit back, relax, and kick off our Bluets.

It doesn’t get any slicker that Blue. Blue is slicker than dish oil on ice.
Blue fucks with you. Blue walks into the room
and you are so amazed by his slickness that you feel downright giddy,
and then immediately reprimand yourself for being
bubbly like a catholic school girl at Jesus’ Revelation Tour.
And in the presence of Blue, no less!

But why is Blue so slick, you may ask?
Well let me show you how that question’s very existence is a statement to Blue’s power.

Blue has taken over Sky & Sea and even steals its way into the bedrooms of
defenseless, sleeping baby boys all across this country and no one is alarmed!
Blue has usurped the throne in the land of paradox too.
It’s mighty hard to look at Blue skies and feel awfully Blue.
Blue is passive & distant & reasoned, but is worn by angry, violent, power-drunk cops.
It’s somehow both tropical and arctic.
Blue, with all its rationality, its wisdom, its serenity,
was employed as sole name of a whole genre of music,
music based purely on emotion,
on sexuality & spite & scorn that should truly be called the “Reds”.
(This smooth duping may account for some of Red’s anger issues)

We love Blue, even though we know Blue doesn’t love us.
I think mostly because it’s just nice to be around so slick a bastard.

Purple must have been warned.
Self-absorbed Yellow & Self-righteous Green
surely tried to talk Purple out of the plan.
But Proud Purple knows greatness, perhaps more than anything else.

So Purple set up the meeting.
Preparations and precautions were perhaps postulated.
But Purple’s sagacity provided that so momentous a pairing of pigments
wants not a hand from subtlety.
There was no beating around the bush with these two.

When you throw so volatile a color as Red into a room with a bad motherfucker like Blue
…well, I couldn’t come close to representing the reaction with words
as Purple does just by making an
appearance

We may never know what happened in that room.
Did they Feed? Fight? Fuck? Play Clue?
Gossip about that slut Pink? Sing Hannah Montana Songs?
In the end it matters not. Only that they walked out as one, ideal in all ways.
Equal parts thinking & feeling, rash & calculated,
boiling & freezing, confident & confused.
Always smiling, always winking,
always sexy & flirtatious, but never creepy & perverted.

Not an apple or an orange.
No, you don’t give these to class, or youth soccer teams,
these plums, these eggplant, these passion fruit,
these givers of wine and succulence.
No it takes a refined tongue to taste purple,
and a refined soul to feel it.

Ah but for those who can…Life is a perfect Purple.

Have Not A Prayer

2008-09-03T21:17:00.000-05:00

She was cold when they found her. The blood that once ran through her tiny body when she frolicked with friends in the forest and had bum rushed her blushing cheeks when she bumped into her crush at school, was still, never to move again, save the beckoning of gravity. The police had arrived at the request of concerned relatives, and when I try to imagine having to be the person to break this horrible news to them, my mind stops me within seconds with a chemical signal I interpret to mean “Road Closed – Threat of Landslide.”
She was eleven. Ten years of consciousness, nine years of language, seven years of literacy. She had not even a fair taste of life, but a faint aroma of it.
She was murdered, not by some psychopath in a park at night, not even by the mild diabetes, which eventually took her life. She was murdered by her parents; her wealthy, white, suburban parents in her bed in a wealthy, white suburban home. For one month she lay dying in that bed. For one month the sounds of her tiny feet slapping across the hardwood floors were replaced by a morose cacophony of moans and cries, and, in her last few days, into a silent coma.
Mom and dad witnessed this all unfold; they weren’t strung out or too busy to notice. But even though they had they means and opportunity to, they chose not to take her to a doctor. If they had, a small amount of insulin could have provided her the probability of a normal and full life. No, they opted to wager the life of their young daughter on the power of prayer. Every day, as they watched her symptoms worsen, they neglected to ask a local health professional for help and opted to continue to petition an invisible guy in the sky.
I’m glad I live in a country where people are free to believe what they wish and practice it publicly and privately. I am glad to live in a country where, when people violate that trust by using those beliefs to endanger others, they can be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. But truly I lament living in a land where most people don’t know this simple truth: One million thoughtful prayers do far, far less than one helpful action.

The Day The Station Smelled Of Regret

2008-09-03T21:16:00.000-05:00

He caught the faint smell while in line for the ticket counter, and thought to himself how unfair it was of life to deal him such a blow. Just when he was sure the pain had settled into a numbness, neither to be alleviated nor exacerbated, luck sends a passerby wearing her same perfume to reach into him and cut elevator cables. He found himself once again cursing his olfactory prowess that others often ignorantly assured him was a gift, not a curse.
Love inspires two kinds of pain. The first is a very curious thing in that it is the best pain one can have, and its allure makes masochists of us all. It is born as the fruit of infatuation when it is the agony of adoration, and matures if the love is realized and affirmed, into the tenderness of tenderness; the consciously, incautious vulnerability that comes with having what you want. Some couples don’t know or don’t bother to touch the fruit, and let it mold into monotony, rot into resentment, or decompose into divorce. Some couples know to have a picnic, cut the fruit up, feed it to each other with wine and cheese, and plant the seeds. But the fare-seeking Fredric didn’t allow for either option. With a one-night-stand, he essentially threw the fruit to the ground, squashed it, pissed on it, drenched it with gasoline, lit it on fire, and roasted a marshmallow over it (to stretch the metaphor).
This, of course, leads to the second kind of pain love presents; the pain of realizing that after years of being a loving and cherished Dr. Jekyll, you’ve thrown it all away for a chance to be Mr. Hyde. This revelation precipitates some of the deepest despair life has to offer, and is what led to the dread plaguing Fred’s heavy head the day the station smelled of regret. But, after much debate within himself, he mustered the strength to lift his gaze in the direction of an aroma he may never engage again.
And when he saw her, he swiftly crumbled. He dropped to his knees in tears so quickly it was as if every third atom in his body went on strike. His begs for forgiveness, his wails of apology and remorse, and his pleadings for anything remotely like a second chance went unanswered, save a stern stare. Those eyes that had for so long endured him amorously now held firm, doing their best to guard the emptiness and pain, the love and anger and sadness stirring tumultuously inside her. He saw her effort in supporting the soldiering stare and could barely hear over his own anger with himself when she said, “You forgot your shaving kit,” and extended the small leather bag. As she turned and walked out he said nothing, and it is doubtful any politician or poet among us could muster the right words, if indeed there are any.
Fred rose to his feet and bought a ticket to Vermont, where, after growing a beard out of apathy and depression, he found facial hair was fashionable. And in all the rest of his days as a writer, he never once had a shave, never once opened that small leather bag to reveal the quaint note inside that read:
“I need some time,
but please come back in about a month.
I’m furious, but I miss you already.
I love you.”

A Contagious Right

2008-09-03T21:13:00.000-05:00

The U.S. is currently doing the worst possible job of spreading democracy. I’ve thought about it, and I can’t come up with a worse way without adding some element of totalitarianism. It seems that even though we have the best product on the market, the great bastion of capitalism somehow can’t make the sell.
The way I see it, we have a few options. We could cut ourselves off from world affairs entirely and focus only on the wellbeing of our own country. While this idea has some merit - mostly that we have enough problems of our own that need tending to, and could help us lead by example if improved - it is impractical for our economy, security, and influence in the ever-expanding global community, and seems callous in regards to the billions of suffering people in the rest of the world. Also, it leaves us unable to be a part of the dialog between free societies and those who persist in oppressing their people.
Another option, the one we now pursue most vigorously, is to spread democracy by force. It is absolutely true that we must sometimes intervene when a fascist form is denying people the most fundamental human rights, and help create an opportunity for democracy to take hold. But little good that does if, as we’ve seen in Palestine and are seeing in Iraq, the fascist dictators are voted in democratically. People have to want a free society, and to want it they have to understand it. The warped view of the West, and the U.S. in particular, being propagated in the Arab world is only emboldened when we only show our face behind guns and tanks. Their own leaders portray us through the superstitions and traditions of their culture by demonizing our freedoms of speech and religion, and denouncing the liberation of women. Instead of working to show them the benefits of equal rights and a free society, our only explicit response has been to extend a hand holding a gun, instead of an olive branch, a microphone, or, better yet, a diploma.
And this brings me to the major failure of the U.S. government in dealing with fascist anti-western dictatorships in the Middle East. There is a third option, a way for us to lead by example in a globally active manner, a way for us to cripple the influence and power of those who wish to stunt the moral and practical progression of the world. I truly believe in all my heart that if we appealed to the populations of oppressed societies, if we just gave them a glimpse of the life and possibilities of equal freedom, justice, and liberty for all, the demand towards a system of government of, by and for the people would so incapacitate the anti-western, fanatic zealot’s influence, they would have to change their tune.
There are countless and ever-increasing stories from people, who left their theocratic dictatorships with a heavy resentment towards the west, being astonished again and again at the acceptance provided and fulfillment allowed in a free society. We currently devote a majority of our resources and energy towards forcing democracy in the Middle East. If we were to take just a sliver of that which we still squander and utilize it in the right way, we could inspire democracy over there, attend to our problems at home, and give creed to our call for global equality through peaceful means. All it takes is a reassessment of the world we live in. It is time for us to get with the times.
We now live in the most important era humanity has known. It is a time when people of any status, class, caste or prestige can access incomprehensible amounts of information. We (western cultures) not only produce much of this information, but insist on the freedom to share and express it. Imagine the changes that could take place if every family in the Middle east had access to the internet. They have propaganda and the passion of tradition and superstition. These are strong tools, but they are no match for the offer of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. We have the means, now let us share those means and see some god damned ends.

The Hope Of Audacity

2008-09-03T21:06:00.000-05:00

In previous journals, I have referred to the need for the U.S. to lead by example. This obvious fact seems unclear to some: if you are to suggest/demand a certain way of life and structure to society, you must represent and promote that suggestion in all your actions. Somehow the basic human right of freedom of expression has become of little importance in U.S. foreign policy, particularly in regards to religious fanaticism.
In late 2005 Danish a newspaper published 12 cartoons depicting the Islamic prophet Mohammed. This was in protest of the Muslim world’s demands and intimidation to not depict him, and the violation of the Western tenant of freedom of expression. One can make a case on either side whether these cartoons were in decent taste, or if this was the best way to approach the issue. And, were this the end of the story, this debate could be a useful one to have. But it didn’t end in an intellectual and conducive setting. It was escalated into a fundamental argument about the cornerstones of free speech, one the U.S. squandered an opportunity take an honest stand in.
No matter what your opinion is of the tact or taste of the cartoons, it is the privileged responsibility of democratic societies to take a stand against statements from the IOC (Organization of the Islamic Conference) like this one: “...the governments [of the world] must be pressured to demand that the U.N. adopt a clear resolution or law that categorically prohibits affronts to prophets -- to the prophets of the Lord and his Messengers, to His holy books, and to the religious holy places.”
The many fatwa and murders that have been done, such as the deaths of people like Theo Van Gogh, and threats towards people like Kurt Westergaard, are not just enemies of European freedom of expression, they are enemies of free speech for everyone on the planet. The Danish cartoon ordeal was our opportunity to proudly declare to the oppressed people of the world, “We recognize free speech, free press and free expression as inalienable rights for all humanity. While it is not our place to side with or against a foreign newspaper’s editorial dealings, we do support the premise of freedom of press and freedom of speech and stand with the Danish government and people in their right to exercise these rights.”
But this is not what we did, we instead backed down and chose to mention only our discomfort with the cartoons without any mention to the violence and coercion flaunted by the Islamic theocracies. It seems too precious a thing to be lucky enough to be born in the first country founded on the right to disagree publicly and extravagantly, limited only by the right of others to have whatever thoughts and values they identify with. How did we let this slip?
Exiled author Ibn Warraq sums up our way of life with better authority than I could ever hope: “The great ideas of the West -- rationalism, self-criticism, the disinterested search for truth, the separation of church and state, the rule of law and equality under the law, freedom of thought and expression, human rights, and liberal democracy -- are superior to any others devised by humankind. The West recognizes and defends the rights of the individual: we are free to think what we want, to read what we want, to practice our religion, to live lives of our choosing.”
Are we going to let ourselves be intimidated by fear, convinced that 1st amendment right don’t apply if they offend those who can get very angry but are the least sensitive to the right of any man who disagrees with them? Are we willing to be subservient to a blasphemy law of any kind? The greatest political idea man has worked out is that every man is allowed his own intellectual space to believe what he wishes. Every word not pledged to the ideal of freedom of expression is a ceding and testament to the oppression of countless people, and especially women, based on superstition and traditional inequalities. Yeah, if only our leaders had some small sentiment of the importance of their words…
The Bush crew’s response to all this? They publicly denounced the offensive cartoons. Alongside every call for the end of the violent reaction to the cartoons was a call for the press to censor any suggestion of Islam that did not fluff the pillows or grease the sword’s sheath properly. Our responsibility here was to hold strong to our constitution, and our belief in the profit for all mankind the ability and opportunity allowed in a free society and a free world.
The fear and superstition needs to end here. We must always side with freedom for all people. We must spread our belief in the power of individual freedoms. In that way, in that realm, we cannot lose.

American-Americans

2008-09-03T21:02:00.000-05:00

I’m all for being sensitive towards people’s differences but, like any great idea or intention, these things can become their own worst enemy when fanaticized. The strong push to be ever more politically correct is one area where I sometimes find myself in firm disagreement with some liberals. This is not, as I must always explain to them, because I am insensitive, but rather that I think many of there good intentions have taken bad form. One of the most prevalent examples is the term “African-American” for all black people. This term is not only logically and practically inconsistent, it is divisive. The idea of calling black people African-Americans means that equality lies in labeling ourselves, each one of us, by the continent of our ancestors no matter how far removed, i.e. European-Americans and, I suppose, South American-Americans. But wait, what’s that you say? Not all blacks are from Africa? Well, this changes everything. It would be insensitive of us not to label people’s ancestral ethnicity by country. All well and good, I may spend an extra hour when filling out forms looking for the bubble next to “British-Danish-Russian-Ukrainian-American”, but at least no one is offended.
There is no doubt that there is serious racial inequality and discrimination towards blacks in this country, or that much of it comes from our nation’s roots in the slave trade. But labeling black people African-American does nothing to change that. At best, it distracts us from confronting the more tangible and objective issues of racial injustice. At worst, it serves to perpetuate these inequalities and muddle the struggle for racial justice by placating and further marginalizing those we should be embracing.
I’m not a European-American, I don’t have any connection to the countries my ancestors were once born in. Nor am I a Jewish-American, and if you want to my religious beliefs, ask me, I’m happy to share them, but they have nothing to do with my race or nationality. The last thing I care to know about a person is the ethnicity or religions of their ancestors, I would much rather know about the person. I’m an American, this is the country that luck had me born in, and every other citizen of this country is also an American and is free to self define whatever ethnicity they identify with. The color of my skin is important; I’m white so I receive unequal treatment in our society as compared to other races. And while there is a distinct black culture, it has far, far less to do with the continent of Africa than it does the country of America.
I’ll grant that the term “black” is an inaccurate description of varying shades of brown skin, as is true with the term “white”, but picky pigment arguments do nothing to improve education in segregated minority regions in our society.
How much longer will we chew over how many least offensive angels can dance of a pinhead, and avoid the actual offenses and injustices happening around us all the time? Confronting racism and bigotry takes real work, it takes recognizing different colors of skin and the prejudice we attribute to them. It takes accepting and appreciating our differences and overcoming our prejudices. Black people are black, isn’t it time for us to finally be okay with that and move on?

Holly Call

2008-09-03T20:52:00.000-05:00

(Bringgg! Bringgg!!)

The Devil: Hello?

God: Hey Mephistopheles, it’s Yahweh

D: Hey Pal, what’s good?

G: Not much, bored as all heaven. It’s remarkable how boring clouds are.

D: Wouldn’t know, don’t get much of them down here, lot of smoke, but that’s pretty cool to watch. And You could stare at hellfire for hours, it’s so hypnotic and… sorry, I know I’m not helping.

G: Don’t sweat it guy. (Sighs) It’s just all these damned Christians. I swear to Me, I’ve never met such a congregation of boring, tight-ass losers in all eternity. I don’t get these people, I send the Kid down, maybe He can show them how to be better Jews, and the start a freaking religion after Him.

D: Well, to be fair God, He did get a bit too preachy and - don’t get Me wrong, I know it’s Your style – You were a bit heavy on the theatrics.

G: Yeah, maybe so. Nobody’s perfect, right? Anyway, they show up here and they can’t even relax, they spend most of their time praying and talking about me. It’s like, “guys, You can ease up on that now, You’re already here. And there are no upgrades, so why not lighten up a bit?” You know the Muslims come in here like it’s fucking Vegas, all psyched about big orgies. Sadly, Mohammad was drunk when he made the deal & didn’t hammer out the details, so they find out their reward is seventy-two pimpled teenagers playing Dungeons & Dragons. But You know those Muslims; they have a hearty laugh about it and round up a good game of poker. But these Christians…fuck!

D: Can’t say I know much about them, but they have given Me some great company. In fact, we’ve had to expand like a dozen times because of those guys. We don’t mind, we’re pretty easy going down here. The more the merrier, You know?

G: No Lucifer, I don’t! …Ahh what I’d give to be You right now. You get all the intellectuals. Remember when You told Me about that conversation You had with Nietzsche and Einstein and Nietzsche said “Ah, it all makes sense, we get our electricity from electrons and our morality from morons.”

D: Ha ha, of course! That Friedrich.

G: Yeah, well I got the morons who think an electron is “that blond feller on ‘Merican Gladiators.” It’s like they choose to be dumb. They don’t even believe in evolution, I’ll say that again: they don’t believe in evolution! That’s like believing there is no driveway because You parked in the garage. (Sarcastically) Yeah guys, You’re right, it makes much more sense that I threw this shit together in six days, but took time to bury billions of fossils to test Your faith.

D: That’s a bitch, brother. I’ll tell You, I thought the dinosaurs were some bad ass, out-there creatures. Primo shit my friend, truly inspired.

G: Thanks man. But that’s it, isn’t it? I mean, that’s the worst part. I worked forever on this thing. It’s insanely complex, infinitely dope, beautiful as anything and intriguing as they come. And the more Your guys figure it out, the more my guys say “No, God did it, and he did it by molding us out of ash and clay and ribs,” like I’m some arts and crafts hobby schmuck. It’s really insulting, and being omnipresent, I have to hear it all the time.

D: I’m sorry, but didn’t they get this from You?

G: Dude, that was thousands of years ago, do You know how hard it is to explain this shit in Aramaic? Besides, those folk didn’t understand how birds fly. You read children lullabies, not great literature. But You’d think, in the day of the iPhone…

D: Yeah, I hate to say I told You so, but I did warn You that this religion thing would not play out well. But no, You were hyped, kept saying it was a “good investment”, wouldn’t be dissuaded.

G: Well, we can’t all be as wonderful as Satan. Man, I wish I could just give it all back, You know, get rid of it… Anyway, You want to get some grub at that little Chinese food place in the center of the Sun?

D: Nah, I can’t, I’ve got band practice. We’re doing a huge show on Saturday. Buddha just joined, wants to play the triangle, it’s not really our style, but who can say no to that jolly bastard? Anyway, we’ve got Zeus to do the lighting, Janis singing backup and Vishnu can tear it up on guitar. It’s going to be great, You should come!

G: I wish, but You know I can’t. Even after I get out of the kingdom of heaven I have to go through all of purgatory to get to You guys. Ack, and there are all those babies there, You know how I feel about babies

D: True enough, amigo. Well I bet You’re not doing anything Sunday, we’ll kick it then.

G: Sounds good, bad buddy.

D: Later.

(Click)

What If They Built A Fiasco, And Nobody Came?

2008-09-03T20:47:00.000-05:00

One of the most disturbing aspects of the last two presidential elections has been a trend towards supporting the “guy next door” candidate. It seemed people were more concerned with him being a good guy two gave a beer with than being a good man to do diplomacy with. I was disgusted with my fellow Americans to watch them receive Bush’s ignorance as an endearing quality and distrust the other candidate for his intellect. A widely held and exploited mindset in our land is a resentment towards knowledge and science, much to my chagrin, I assure you.
So when I heard Obama’s “bitter” comments, I knew what would follow, and was dismayed at the thought of it. Sure enough, the media had ten field days and a county fair with it. They pulled the worst possible meaning of it, left behind the well thought sentiment of it, and then took turns seeing who could be most offended by it. I watched them tell us how angry we would be, and that we weren’t mindful enough to think it through past any initial dismay. But then I was given a the perfect gift.
What if they built a fiasco, and nobody came? We didn’t bite, we didn’t buy it, we didn’t choose to gobble up the talking points and not think about it ourselves, and I’m pleased as a bitter peach. Voters haven’t fled the Obama campaign, not even close to it, if anything, it has given him a bit of a bump. I hate to get my hopes up, but could we be witnessing a shift in consciousness? Could the American public be thinking on their feet?
I truly hope so, because things have really become backwards. The word elite comes from the word elect and means “a group of people considered to be the best in a particular category.” For the highest office in the worlds sole super power, who else would you want but the best of the best? Can you imagine voting for someone who wasn’t considered one of the best, and worse yet would brag about it? Me neither. But somehow, people found comfort in having a president who wasn’t any smarter than them. If you’re not elite, you’re not getting my vote, and, I’m happy to say, I’m finding myself to be in ever increasing company.

Sour Apes

2008-09-03T20:39:00.000-05:00

We reside in the most remarkable moments in the history of man, with the possible exception of the first Homo sapien birth to mark the transition of a new species around 250,000 years ago. Through science, we have more than doubled our average life span, more than halved our infant mortality rate, live easier lives that allow us to pursue our passions, and have a global community to share our thoughts, ideas and information. But what may be the most marvelous aspect of life in the 21st century is that we now know more about where we came from than anyone could have ever imagined only 200 years ago. Life can now look back on itself all the way to the beginning and revel in its wonder. And yet, our country is teeming with people who want to deny science in favor of a weak fairy tale, and then spread that ignorance to our children. Evolution, not creationism, should be accepted by society and taught as a fact in our public schools.
It is almost impossible for some of us to get in the mindset of creationists, as it is counter-intuitive to delude one’s self to such a degree, but it may be a beneficial exercise in comprehending the utter absurdity of it. Creationists believe that around 6,000 years ago God created the Earth, all if its creatures and mankind in six days. This poses a bit of a problem when contrasted with the evidence. To begin with, the United States Geological Survey (USGS) puts the age of the Earth at around 4.5 billion years old. This conclusion was not guesswork, nor was it handed down to them by their elders around a campfire; it was through a process called radiometric dating. Nobel Prize winning scientists Christian de Duve, among countless others of his peers, puts life showing up on the planet around 3.5 billion years ago, a time arrived at through examining fossil records. Fossil records also show us that Homo sapiens appeared at least 190,000 years ago (Scientific American). And in 1859 a scientist by the name of Charles Darwin published a book called “The Origin of Species”, in which he outlines his theory of evolution through natural selection. It is in talking about evolution where we can finally have some fun with creationists.
Darwin’s theory of evolution simply states that modern, complex life developed slowly over time from basic organisms through adaptation and natural selection. Creationists have several arguments with this, all of which are ill informed, at best. Many of the arguments come from just not understanding science. For example, a common point made is that “evolution is just a theory, not a fact.” In everyday vernacular, the word theory is used to mean “an idea or assumption.” In science that is called a hypothesis, while theory means, “In science, the word theory refers to a comprehensive explanation of an important feature of nature that is supported by many facts gathered over time,” (National Academy of Sciences). Scientists accept the theory of evolution as fact as much as they do the theory that the earth is round. Millions of fossils have been gathered that all support the theory of evolution and millions more will refine the data and our understanding of it, thus is the wonder of science.
With such copious amounts of verified scientific data supporting the theory of evolution, what is the evidence for creationism? An extremely popular 2,000-year-old work of fiction; well-known folk-tales. The fact that a good book is a sufficient source for understanding all of existence for so many people is indeed troubling, but we must allow the freedom of ignorance. But when it comes to our children we must also provide freedom from ignorance, and that means giving them facts in their pure form, unclouded by superstition.
The same people who proudly adhere to a perception of reality I imagine a pet gerbil to have, want to lobotomize our public school’s science classes with the uncharacteristically clever suggestion of “teaching the controversy.” The idea behind this is to include creationism in curriculum as another way in which some people have viewed the development of organic life. Of course, by this same logic, we should also teach alchemy alongside chemistry, astrology alongside astronomy and magic alongside physics. The facts and the scientific community support and accept these other “approaches” just as much as they do creationism. It is wrong to teach the controversy because there is no controversy. Suggesting in any way that the entirety of planet earth was created after the agricultural revolution is supplanting verified truth with religious dogma, and in the case of impressionable children, it is replacing education with indoctrination.
This same trend towards the religious indoctrination of children is true with all religions. We often hear about Jewish children, Christian children, Buddhist children etc. but we never hear democrat children, or libertarian children, because we know that they are too young to have an informed stance on something as complex as politics. Why do we not extend them the same privilege when it comes to the cosmos? Religious indoctrination of children is the one of the great tragedies continuing the hatred and suffering in the Middle East, and though it is certainly not of the same level, systematic teaching of religious dogma is bound to harm our society in a very real way.
But if people insist on teaching their children Bronze Age myths, we live in a society that allows them to submit their children to the rapidly growing under-education of private religious institutions. The public school system here in America has been on the decline while other countries surpass us every year. Surely this will not be improved by exchanging education with superstition.
It is time for us to move beyond these children’s stories. It is hurting science in the same way that believing in Santa Claus would leave everyone without gifts. Turning our backs to science means turning our backs to the truth. There was a time in history when we let this happen; we call it the dark ages, and not because they had mastered the art of mood lighting. It is our distinguished opportunity to deliver to our children a brighter world than the one we were so privileged to inherit. Let us now embrace that honor by grasping the fact of evolution in all of its beauty, wonder and complexity. Each one of us has won the genetic lottery, against incredible odds. That fact makes our lives more glorious and important than any God could ever hope.

Anahita

2008-09-03T19:52:00.000-05:00

I can no longer wake to an alarm. It is torture enough that she comes to me without warning and hands me a new heart bigger than each time before. It is torture enough that I must always depart without closure, or even a goodbye. But when that brutal, shrieking hand of the alarm reaches in and rips me away so quickly and angrily, disorientation steals those first few moments otherwise devoted to reconstructing our meeting. No, alarms are just not a risk I can take.
Those mornings are few and far between though, and not being the kind who is susceptible to seeking such silly superstitions as interpreting subconscious signs, I find it’s best not to dwell on such things. But we don’t always have a choice in the matter. Things tend to dwell on and on, adoring and abhorring themselves in the dressing rooms of our minds, waiting for a synapse to give them their cue. This “show must go on” attitude is the stern creed of the olfactory order. What makes the power of our scent memory so astonishing is that we are rarely noting the smell at the time. We may notice the presence of “a scent” but don’t seem to focus on it or try to define it to ourselves, and yet, long after, the smell will pull up a memory where visual cues may have failed to.
For her, and for me, it is jasmine tea. It steals me mid-thought and brings me back to her. It brings me back to our first meeting. I am here now, in the desert. A long day on horseback has taken me to what seems to be the center of an endless expanse, infinite nothing in every direction. I am grateful for this solitude and calm as I gaze into the hypnotic fire. The thin desert wind gently presents an aroma; I know it to be jasmine; a smell I smile at. And as I lift my nose to catch it, my vision wraps around a faint figure approaching in the flickering light. I can tell by her curves that she is a woman, “Quite so!” they seem to say. White flowing fabrics garment this goddess. And she steps around the fire.
We look at each other, and my world becomes blind. My eyes draw in with a new clarity to see the wind stroke the passive hair that drapes her face, her skin of desert sand, like curtains from an opera about where love began. Her face, I have seen it before, but where? There is no feeling more curious then having deja vu inside of a deja vu. I take it all in, trying to let it flow through me so I don’t miss anything. And then our eyes catch.
We fall into each other, and through our eyes we feel not only everything the other is feeling, but also everything they’ve ever felt. The fire, now attention starved for the first time in its life, snaps, crackles and pops like Rice Krispies on steroids. I hardly hear it over my heart’s own resounding pounding. I’ve never felt this alive before, as if I could feel every cell in my body individually in bliss. As we draw nearer, chills trapeze through every inch of me, and I know that this is love, more of it than I have ever felt in my lucky, wonderful life. Though we’ve spoken not a word, this is so and we consummate it with a kiss.
Whoever gave the passion fruit its name could not have kissed these lips, if so he would know that the title already had a proper and superior owner. I surmise that her lips are packed with dark matter, so soft and luscious you can hardly believe that they exist yet you know they do from the strength of their gravitational pull on you. When her mouth opens for business, a bouquet of esculent excellence nearly overwhelms me. Her sour citrus saliva resides with a sweet nectar that I can only guess is product of her smile. I am fully whole now, and with that she is gone, leaving me in real time, standing over what is by now a cup of lukewarm jasmine tea, looking bewildered.
Had I the opportunity to ask her three questions, I would start with her name, ask when I would see her again, and then ask for a good story to tell people in explaining why I just zoned out for ten minutes when they offered me tea.