A collective sigh of relief. Obama wins re-election and in the eyes of the world the USA redeems itself. There is still a glimmer of hope. Tea Party efforts for a constitutional amendment to ban intelligence and imagination have failed miserably. Dour-faced Republican strategists must accept blame for their inability to anesthetize enough of the electorate with mindless propaganda to ensure a Romney victory. Privately, they curse the evil east and west coasts, fantasizing the possibility of somehow physically separating these areas from the heartland, turning the country into the bright red blob that God originally intended.
Speaking of which, even Evangelicals are taking heat for not making enough of an impact at the polls. No big surprise, considering the choice was between a shallow, flip-flopping, closet-moderate Mormon and a smart, black, gay rights-supporting closet-Socialist. One Christian "think" tank (emphasis here on the blatant use of euphemism) has been floating the notion that roving bands of atheists breaking into Born Again households on election eve and shackling occupants to 100 pound Bibles at least partially explains the low voter turn out.
But poor, deluded Mitt. One has the sense that he actually believed he would win, that blathering vaguely and exclusively about the economy was enough, that the American people would simply forget about all the other equally important issues, that a man willing to abandon whatever real principles he might have once had in order to pander to the lowest common denominator of strident conservative imbecility could actually become President.
Election highlights: One certainly has to be having the opportunity to watch those two pasty-white, jowl-jiggling, ego-bloated, right-wing ideologue dough boys - of course, I refer to Newt Gingrich and Karl Rove - gagging on their own bombast. Newt on CNN pontificating that not only would Romney get the electoral victory, but a 'significant' electoral victory. Karl - fondly remembered as the man who cobbled together George Bush from used parts in his weekend hobby shop - in total denial at the election's outcome, muttering on air that obviously the entire population of Ohio had somehow been secretly replaced by demonic democratic operatives.
Karl: Who the hell leaked it that minorities can actually participate in the democratic process?
Newt: What are you complaining about? I actually have to walk around in this body. My wife insists on wearing a blindfold before she'll even consider ... well, you know.
Karl: Yeah, women. The ultimate betrayers, if you ask me. Giving them the vote was a Big Mistake.
Newt: Couldn't agree more. The last woman I trusted was my mother, and only because she never left the kitchen.
Karl: Remember when the only world that mattered was male and white, when the ability to lie well still counted for something, when whatever wacky, right-wing nonsense we dreamed up was taken as holy gospel?
Newt: Don't be too down, Karl. We'll just hide out under our rocks for another four years and try it again.
Karl: Damn straight, Newt.
One sad note: Michelle Bachmann, Tea Party pin-up girl, a woman who in unguarded moments, usually during one of her delusional rants, resembles nothing so much as a whinnying horse, was narrowly re-elected.
Can't win em all, I guess.
Friday, November 9, 2012
Monday, October 15, 2012
As the baseball season winds down, baby season kicks in with a vengeance
What is it that guys talk about? Assuming guys actually talk to each other and not just mumble incoherently, attempting, for reasons cultural anthropologists are at a loss to explain, to imitate their hominid ancestors, grunts over beers in a bar somewhere, Patti Smith on the sound system reminding guys why they're so often hopeless dicks, some girl sitting in the corner savoring a mostly incomprehensible novel by Kathy Acker, in which men are brutally deconstructed at near the speed of light, their true natures as callous, unfeeling, grunting morons revealed.
Typical Guy A: "So, like, how's it going?"
Typical Guy B: Grunts, gulps beer noisily, assumes deadpanned expression.
T. G. A: "How's, uh, you know, what's her name?"
T. G. B: Sucks in air, rolls eyes. "She stopped talking to me about a week ago."
T. G. A: "Bummer. Hey, what do you think that chick over in the corner is giggling about?"
T. G. B: "Who the fuck knows? Maybe she just metaphorically offed her boyfriend."
T. G. A: No clue what that means, but grunts and nods head, because in the usually deluded haze of male discourse some sense of mutual understanding appears to matter. "Anyway, did you see the game last night?"
And there it is, the way through the wilderness, the one topic to successfully navigate the maze of damaged male ego, elevating the conversation to a level where something at least simulating rational dialogue can occur. The game. Baseball.
You don't even have to be interested baseball, or know anything about it to have the conversation. Baseball is mostly intuitive; it neutralizes typical male obstinacy, facilitates an easy suspension of disbelief, while promoting a vaguely satisfying sense of camaraderie.
So the revised conversation goes something like this:
"Anyway, did you see the game last night?"
"Need you even ask?"
"How about that ninth inning?"
"Amazing! Cabrera does it again, huh?"
"I'm telling you, the guy is incredible."
(Note: Even if you haven't watched the game, invoking the name Cabrera is a safe bet, owing to the fact that there are like 47 guys named Cabrera currently playing in the Majors. Chances are there's at least one of them playing in every game on any given day. There are also 28 guys named Josh, making it not only a good second choice, but also lending an air of first name familiarity that will no doubt impress your friends.)
And this is how it should be, smooth, precise, emotionally non-threatening. In a perfect world all male conversations would be about baseball. But then most of know through bitter experience what buying into the 'perfect world' scenario generally leads to.
Occasionally guys go off the reservation, a tiny, seahorse-shaped wrench is tossed into the works, baseball fades into mere background noise and all of a sudden all they can talk about is babies. You think maybe it's a virus, or something they ate, that it'll pass, but it doesn't. They've boarded the baby boat and there's no turning back. You want to talk playoffs, they want to talk sonograms; you've got tickets to a game, they'd love to go but they're flying to somewhere in the former Soviet Union to buy diapers in bulk (hey, it could happen); you grunt, growl primordially, they goo-goo, gaga; in desperation, you start reading Kathy Acker, they're busy studying the New Father's Survival Guide.
"So, an actual, real-life baby, huh?"
"Yeah."
"As in miniscule quasi-human who miraculously appears one day and then runs roughshod over your life for the next twenty years."
"I can hardly wait."
"A baby, lest we forget, who can't even pick up a bat, let alone hit for a decent average."
"Great, isn't it?"
"Wait a minute. If you're going to be a Daddy, that means I'm ..."
"Ah, the penny drops."
"But ..."
"Welcome to the brave new world, Grandpa."
"Shit, I've got to sit down, get my breathing under control."
"What about the game?"
"The what now..?
Typical Guy A: "So, like, how's it going?"
Typical Guy B: Grunts, gulps beer noisily, assumes deadpanned expression.
T. G. A: "How's, uh, you know, what's her name?"
T. G. B: Sucks in air, rolls eyes. "She stopped talking to me about a week ago."
T. G. A: "Bummer. Hey, what do you think that chick over in the corner is giggling about?"
T. G. B: "Who the fuck knows? Maybe she just metaphorically offed her boyfriend."
T. G. A: No clue what that means, but grunts and nods head, because in the usually deluded haze of male discourse some sense of mutual understanding appears to matter. "Anyway, did you see the game last night?"
And there it is, the way through the wilderness, the one topic to successfully navigate the maze of damaged male ego, elevating the conversation to a level where something at least simulating rational dialogue can occur. The game. Baseball.
You don't even have to be interested baseball, or know anything about it to have the conversation. Baseball is mostly intuitive; it neutralizes typical male obstinacy, facilitates an easy suspension of disbelief, while promoting a vaguely satisfying sense of camaraderie.
So the revised conversation goes something like this:
"Anyway, did you see the game last night?"
"Need you even ask?"
"How about that ninth inning?"
"Amazing! Cabrera does it again, huh?"
"I'm telling you, the guy is incredible."
(Note: Even if you haven't watched the game, invoking the name Cabrera is a safe bet, owing to the fact that there are like 47 guys named Cabrera currently playing in the Majors. Chances are there's at least one of them playing in every game on any given day. There are also 28 guys named Josh, making it not only a good second choice, but also lending an air of first name familiarity that will no doubt impress your friends.)
And this is how it should be, smooth, precise, emotionally non-threatening. In a perfect world all male conversations would be about baseball. But then most of know through bitter experience what buying into the 'perfect world' scenario generally leads to.
Occasionally guys go off the reservation, a tiny, seahorse-shaped wrench is tossed into the works, baseball fades into mere background noise and all of a sudden all they can talk about is babies. You think maybe it's a virus, or something they ate, that it'll pass, but it doesn't. They've boarded the baby boat and there's no turning back. You want to talk playoffs, they want to talk sonograms; you've got tickets to a game, they'd love to go but they're flying to somewhere in the former Soviet Union to buy diapers in bulk (hey, it could happen); you grunt, growl primordially, they goo-goo, gaga; in desperation, you start reading Kathy Acker, they're busy studying the New Father's Survival Guide.
"So, an actual, real-life baby, huh?"
"Yeah."
"As in miniscule quasi-human who miraculously appears one day and then runs roughshod over your life for the next twenty years."
"I can hardly wait."
"A baby, lest we forget, who can't even pick up a bat, let alone hit for a decent average."
"Great, isn't it?"
"Wait a minute. If you're going to be a Daddy, that means I'm ..."
"Ah, the penny drops."
"But ..."
"Welcome to the brave new world, Grandpa."
"Shit, I've got to sit down, get my breathing under control."
"What about the game?"
"The what now..?
Friday, October 5, 2012
Disconcertingly Random Bits of Questionable Data
The fear of hearing disembodied voices in his head is one of the reasons he never answers the phone.
"She said she was thinking about going back to the planet from which she came, but she changed the subject whenever alien abduction came up."
Turns out the presumed barrier between the mind and the so-called external world is actually a porous membrane. Impossible to tell if something is simply being observed or imaginatively conjured, or if it even makes a difference. UFO encounters are a good example of this.
Say there's this guy and his girlfriend and they're camping one early summer on a very large lake in northern Canada and not particularly satisfied with the standard definition of reality at the moment they decide to take some LSD 25 (aka Orange Sunshine, the connoisseur's psychotropic of choice) and then some unknown time later they have a very 'real', exquisitely palpable, terrifyingly close up and personal run in with multiple, apparently alien spacecraft.
Are they hallucinating? Manifesting irrational forces from a temporarily shared unconscious? Projecting unresolved emotional issues towards their parents, from whom they feel alienated? And then suppose it turns out there are two other people camping nearby who, while not actually having visually witnessed the event, confirm that the 'terrible noise' of it woke them and, they frankly admit, scared the bloody hell out of them. How do we explain that?
"The past is a schizophrenic ghost who refuses to move on."
Another guy, at random, heading into the shower, ostensibly to do the things people normally do in the shower, except he suddenly slips out of the showering moment and starts having crazy flashbacks, stray memories of things that may or may not have happened, becoming intensely focused on seemingly insignificant events from a remote past which can no longer be verified, standing there under the water for twenty minutes and suddenly realizing he has no idea what he's washed, if he's washed, what it even means to wash.
Have you washed?
Have I what?
And then it's like, wait a minute, washed or not, who am I?
It's not just the re-experiencing of past events, but multiple variations of these events; a single word, perhaps, which either was or was not said at precisely the right or wrong moment, that shifted the event, the experience and subsequent memory of it, from outcome A to outcome B. And we're somehow convinced that both occurred. Furthermore, we suspect that outcomes C, D, E, F, etc., as unimaginable as they may be, also occurred.
This, of course, corresponds to the 'Multiple Worlds' hypothesis in physics, by which the quirky, out of time, multiple reality of the quantum world is extrapolated onto the macro-world of people, planets, trees, cats, dogs, etc. The thinking being that if electrons can do it, why can't we?
So anytime a choice is made and A occurs, all possible variations of A simultaneously occur.
Example: There's this girl (or guy) you're attracted to, but you never talk to her and regret it for the rest of your life; you do talk to her and she sneers contemptuously at you and walks away; you talk to her and fall instantly in love; you talk to her, go back to her place and she tries to kill you; you don't talk to her, but begin stalking her and eventually try to kill her; you don't talk to her and she ends up marrying your best friend; you talk to her, end up in bed with her and discover she's actually a guy, or, worse case scenario, an alien guy pretending to be a human girl.
Talk about things you might later dwell upon in the shower.
At the very least, it certainly renders irrelevant the concept of 'making the right choice.'
"Anything is theoretically possible, so be careful. The next time you walk through a door you could find yourself standing on the moon."
Somewhat more likely, there's a one in a million chance of being struck by lightning (in any given year) In the same time frame, there's a one in seven billion chance of being struck by a meteor.
With approximately 7 billion people on the planet, we can logically infer that within the next year one of us is going to have a spectacularly unusual and, considering the average meteor whistles in through the atmosphere at 30 kilometers per second, extremely bad day.
I thought losing my job, wife, house and dog all in the same week was as bad as it could possibly get. Then the poor bastard next door gets hit by a fucking meteor. Really helped put things in perspective.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
A candid conversation with the Buddha, or at least some guy claiming to be ...
I recently ran into the "Buddha" in a downtown subway station, proving once again, I suppose, that anything can happen anywhere and at anytime, which probably makes a strong case for never leaving the house. The following are excerpts from our conversation, a good deal of which unfortunately was incomprehensible, owing to the "Buddha's" apparently tenuous mental state.
* I'm not quite sure how to address you. Mister Buddha, just Buddha, Your Holiness ..?
* My friends usually call me Bud.
* Uh, okay. So Bud, are you sure about this, you being the Buddha, I mean, because you look like a homeless person and you are pushing a shopping cart, although, admittedly, it is empty.
* A fairly succinct statement on the illusory desire for material possessions, don't you think? Also I'm out of work and pretty much broke.
* Though I can't help noticing that you do have a smartphone.
* My one material concession. To tell the truth, I'm addicted to twitter. Do you tweet?
* I can't bring myself to engage in an activity that is described by such an inanely ridiculous word.
* Hung up on language, are we?
* Isn't language important? How else can we employ new metaphors to creatively reinvent the world?
* Does the phrase 'sounding like a pretentious dickhead' do anything for you?
* Uh ...
* 'Language is a virus from outer space.' Bill Burroughs said that.
* Well he would have known, I suppose.
* No doubt you're familiar with the all too often quoted empty cliche ...
* Life begins at sixty? All you need is love? It takes one to know one?
* All good, but I was referring to the one that says, 'If while on the path, or in this case within a dingy underground tunnel, you happen to meet the Buddha, kill him.'
* Implying the fallacy of an external deity, God is within us, we are all the God we need, blah blah, blah.
* So what are you waiting for?
* You know, I would, except I'm not sure how readily the cops who discover me standing over your lifeless body are going to buy into the whole 'I symbolically killed the Buddha' thing. Besides, if I kill you I'll be standing here talking to myself.
* I do it all the time.
* Why am I not surprised?
* Fine. So what do you want to talk about?
* How about politics?
* (The Buddha yawns, possibly farts)
* What's your take on the Republicans?
* (The Buddha's expression suggests disgust) It's like watching TV between seasons. Nothing but reruns. You've seen it all before but you're so bored you sit there and watch it anyway. You recall Einstein's definition of an insane person?
* Anyone who believes that E could possibly equal MC squared? I mean, come on!
* No. Doing the same old thing over and over, each time expecting a different result. Hey, did you hear the one about the Zen hen?
* Sorry, what?
* Zen hen.
* Uh, it crossed the road in order not to get to the other side?
* Nice try. Actually, it did and it didn't, cross the road, that is. A bit like Schrodinger's cat.
* Could we possibly stay on track?
* Your mind is deplorably linear.
* Mitt Romney.
* Stunningly vacuous. So lacking in substance it's a miracle he just doesn't float away. But there's always hope, I guess.
* Paul Ryan.
* Never trust a man with a concave face and no lips. He recently told a fairly rabid crowd in Ohio that he was proud to be a deer hunting Catholic. Why, I wonder, do these politicians feel they have to pander to the morons who continue to feel justified in murdering animals for sport? Of course the Catholics have always had a weird fascination with blood, haven't they?
* Mitt Romney claims to be a Mormon.
* I always get the Mormons confused with the Jehovah's Witnesses.
* The Jehovah's just show up at your front door, the Mormons generally call first.
* Not that having several wives would necessarily be a bad thing.
* Obviously you've never been married.
* (The Buddha grunts) What really bothers me is the constant God drivel spewing from the mouths of these politicos. Any politician who claims to believe in God is either lying or just plain stupid.
* So basically Newt Gingrich or Rick Santorum.
* Right, but Newt, being married to an aging Barbie Doll, has the edge.
* Clearly you'll be voting for Obama in November.
* Assuming I'm not disenfranchised by some devious last minute election law manipulation. At the very least, with the Affordable Health Care law I'm able to buy my medication.
* Anti-psychotics?
* High blood pressure and an enlarged prostate, if you must know.
* Well, I should probably be going, not to mention that it smells really bad down here.
* Yeah, that's most likely me.
* Any final thoughts, Bud?
* How about a joke? How would you describe a schizophrenic Zen Buddhist? Someone who is at two with the universe.
* Not funny.
* Okay, how about this one? Why don't Buddhists vacuum in the corners? Because they have no attachments.
* That's it, I'm out of here.
* Hey, don't hold your breath waiting for enlightenment............
* I'm not quite sure how to address you. Mister Buddha, just Buddha, Your Holiness ..?
* My friends usually call me Bud.
* Uh, okay. So Bud, are you sure about this, you being the Buddha, I mean, because you look like a homeless person and you are pushing a shopping cart, although, admittedly, it is empty.
* A fairly succinct statement on the illusory desire for material possessions, don't you think? Also I'm out of work and pretty much broke.
* Though I can't help noticing that you do have a smartphone.
* My one material concession. To tell the truth, I'm addicted to twitter. Do you tweet?
* I can't bring myself to engage in an activity that is described by such an inanely ridiculous word.
* Hung up on language, are we?
* Isn't language important? How else can we employ new metaphors to creatively reinvent the world?
* Does the phrase 'sounding like a pretentious dickhead' do anything for you?
* Uh ...
* 'Language is a virus from outer space.' Bill Burroughs said that.
* Well he would have known, I suppose.
* No doubt you're familiar with the all too often quoted empty cliche ...
* Life begins at sixty? All you need is love? It takes one to know one?
* All good, but I was referring to the one that says, 'If while on the path, or in this case within a dingy underground tunnel, you happen to meet the Buddha, kill him.'
* Implying the fallacy of an external deity, God is within us, we are all the God we need, blah blah, blah.
* So what are you waiting for?
* You know, I would, except I'm not sure how readily the cops who discover me standing over your lifeless body are going to buy into the whole 'I symbolically killed the Buddha' thing. Besides, if I kill you I'll be standing here talking to myself.
* I do it all the time.
* Why am I not surprised?
* Fine. So what do you want to talk about?
* How about politics?
* (The Buddha yawns, possibly farts)
* What's your take on the Republicans?
* (The Buddha's expression suggests disgust) It's like watching TV between seasons. Nothing but reruns. You've seen it all before but you're so bored you sit there and watch it anyway. You recall Einstein's definition of an insane person?
* Anyone who believes that E could possibly equal MC squared? I mean, come on!
* No. Doing the same old thing over and over, each time expecting a different result. Hey, did you hear the one about the Zen hen?
* Sorry, what?
* Zen hen.
* Uh, it crossed the road in order not to get to the other side?
* Nice try. Actually, it did and it didn't, cross the road, that is. A bit like Schrodinger's cat.
* Could we possibly stay on track?
* Your mind is deplorably linear.
* Mitt Romney.
* Stunningly vacuous. So lacking in substance it's a miracle he just doesn't float away. But there's always hope, I guess.
* Paul Ryan.
* Never trust a man with a concave face and no lips. He recently told a fairly rabid crowd in Ohio that he was proud to be a deer hunting Catholic. Why, I wonder, do these politicians feel they have to pander to the morons who continue to feel justified in murdering animals for sport? Of course the Catholics have always had a weird fascination with blood, haven't they?
* Mitt Romney claims to be a Mormon.
* I always get the Mormons confused with the Jehovah's Witnesses.
* The Jehovah's just show up at your front door, the Mormons generally call first.
* Not that having several wives would necessarily be a bad thing.
* Obviously you've never been married.
* (The Buddha grunts) What really bothers me is the constant God drivel spewing from the mouths of these politicos. Any politician who claims to believe in God is either lying or just plain stupid.
* So basically Newt Gingrich or Rick Santorum.
* Right, but Newt, being married to an aging Barbie Doll, has the edge.
* Clearly you'll be voting for Obama in November.
* Assuming I'm not disenfranchised by some devious last minute election law manipulation. At the very least, with the Affordable Health Care law I'm able to buy my medication.
* Anti-psychotics?
* High blood pressure and an enlarged prostate, if you must know.
* Well, I should probably be going, not to mention that it smells really bad down here.
* Yeah, that's most likely me.
* Any final thoughts, Bud?
* How about a joke? How would you describe a schizophrenic Zen Buddhist? Someone who is at two with the universe.
* Not funny.
* Okay, how about this one? Why don't Buddhists vacuum in the corners? Because they have no attachments.
* That's it, I'm out of here.
* Hey, don't hold your breath waiting for enlightenment............
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
The mentally ill respond ... well, sort of
According to statistical evidence meticulously accumulated by serious, professional people, presumably in their right minds, upwards of 70% of the world's population suffers from some form of mental illness. If so - and I for one would have guessed a higher number on this - doesn't it suggest that 'sanity' should now be considered a type of psychopathology requiring the immediate attention of the mental health community?
"Bring to me a man who is sane and I will attempt to cure him." (C Jung)
"Some people never go crazy, What truly horrible lives they must live." (C Bukowski)
Of course, the distinction must be made between crazy and crazy. A guy who quits his fabulously corrupt and high-paying job on Wall Street, moves to Rome and spends all his time creating pornographic graffiti on the walls of the Vatican is probably crazy; the woman in Texas (for some reason this sort of thing always seems to happen in Texas) who drowns her three kids in the bathtub because God told her to do it is the other kind of crazy; i.e. psychotic, dangerously deranged and a lot more than just a little stupid. These, by the way, are the people who generally vote.
The first type generally develops a huge following on Facebook, YouTube and Twitter, followed by a lucrative book deal.
The second type is acquitted by a jury of her peers because, well, if God said so, He must have had his God almighty and who are we to question them reasons.
No doubt you're thinking this would be the ideal time to raise the - to my mind at least - obvious point that religious belief (any genre) is a clear cut form of mental illness, the greatest threat, in fact, to continued human evolution since the Biblical flood. But I'll resist the temptation, at least temporarily.
"That Noah's Ark must have been one big motherfucking boat, pardon my French, to be able to hold two of each kind of Dinosaur." (Tour guide at the Creationist Museum somewhere in rural Kentucky)
I can recall a time when mental illness still had a sort of exotic, mysterious appeal. Like being crazy was not only cool, but it could also get you out of having to go to school. Growing up there was a gigantic mental hospital right in our neighborhood. Creedmore State, it was called. Even the name sent chills. I remember my mother saying to me, "Go ahead, keep acting crazy to get out of school and we'll be forced to send you over to Creedmore." I almost wanted to go.
Back then a person could claim to suffer from Multiple Personality Disorder and be proud of it, be proud of it, be proud of it. Now the most we can hope for is a diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Syndrome. Whose identity isn't dissociated? Trying to get through life without occasionally dissociating will definitely drive you nuts.
Likewise, there used to be Manic/Depressives. Not only were these people really interesting about 50% of the time, they were great fun to date. Manics tended to be wild in bed; Depressives didn't really care if you never called.
Nowadays we're saddled with the dubious distinction of being Bipolar (yawn!), which, let's face it, sounds more like a global weather situation than a legitimate mental problem.
"Of all the things I've lost in my life, I miss my mind the most." (Anonymous)
What's really scary - I mean aside from people believing in a God who would sanction the murder of children - is that recent advances in medical science and technology now make it possible to pinpoint aberrant areas of the brain which, it is claimed, cause people to do the sick, disgusting, psychopathic things they all too frequently do. In essence this is the "My brain made me do it" legal defense, and lawyers are salivating over it like a pack of famished coyotes honing in on a cattle carcass.
My brain made me do it. Uh ..?
"If only there was something in your head to control the things you say and do." (Chandler Bing)
The implication here is that pedophiles, rapists, serial killers, animal abusers, litterbugs, Republicans
(sorry, that just slipped out, possibly through a dissociated crack) etc. can no longer be held entirely responsible for their actions because, you know, their crazy brains made them do it.
'Their crazy brains, right?'
'Exactly!'
'How about the sheer stupidity you're displaying in buying into this pile of crap?'
'Hey, here's a printout of my latest functional MRI. Read it and weep, pal.'
'If this isn't a blatant and disturbing example of the current cultural paradigm of personal non-responsibility in all things, I don't know what is.'
'Okay, that's just your brain talking now.'
"People know what they do; frequently they know why they do what they do; but what they don't know is what what they do does." (M Foucault)
"Once structuralism went the way of the giant sea turtle we decided to deconstruct what was left, ended up turning the world into a vast debris field of meaning-less signs and symbols, about which we tried to wax self-reflexive and mostly ironic, asserting that once language was allowed to fully reinvent itself the tyrannical era of objective reality would come crashing down, except no one was paying attention and who the fuck were we kidding anyway? Strictly speaking we had all gone insane, but we insisted on continuing to refer to it as philosophy." (Anonymous)
"Sometimes you just have to pee in the sink." (C Bukowski)
"Bring to me a man who is sane and I will attempt to cure him." (C Jung)
"Some people never go crazy, What truly horrible lives they must live." (C Bukowski)
Of course, the distinction must be made between crazy and crazy. A guy who quits his fabulously corrupt and high-paying job on Wall Street, moves to Rome and spends all his time creating pornographic graffiti on the walls of the Vatican is probably crazy; the woman in Texas (for some reason this sort of thing always seems to happen in Texas) who drowns her three kids in the bathtub because God told her to do it is the other kind of crazy; i.e. psychotic, dangerously deranged and a lot more than just a little stupid. These, by the way, are the people who generally vote.
The first type generally develops a huge following on Facebook, YouTube and Twitter, followed by a lucrative book deal.
The second type is acquitted by a jury of her peers because, well, if God said so, He must have had his God almighty and who are we to question them reasons.
No doubt you're thinking this would be the ideal time to raise the - to my mind at least - obvious point that religious belief (any genre) is a clear cut form of mental illness, the greatest threat, in fact, to continued human evolution since the Biblical flood. But I'll resist the temptation, at least temporarily.
"That Noah's Ark must have been one big motherfucking boat, pardon my French, to be able to hold two of each kind of Dinosaur." (Tour guide at the Creationist Museum somewhere in rural Kentucky)
I can recall a time when mental illness still had a sort of exotic, mysterious appeal. Like being crazy was not only cool, but it could also get you out of having to go to school. Growing up there was a gigantic mental hospital right in our neighborhood. Creedmore State, it was called. Even the name sent chills. I remember my mother saying to me, "Go ahead, keep acting crazy to get out of school and we'll be forced to send you over to Creedmore." I almost wanted to go.
Back then a person could claim to suffer from Multiple Personality Disorder and be proud of it, be proud of it, be proud of it. Now the most we can hope for is a diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Syndrome. Whose identity isn't dissociated? Trying to get through life without occasionally dissociating will definitely drive you nuts.
Likewise, there used to be Manic/Depressives. Not only were these people really interesting about 50% of the time, they were great fun to date. Manics tended to be wild in bed; Depressives didn't really care if you never called.
Nowadays we're saddled with the dubious distinction of being Bipolar (yawn!), which, let's face it, sounds more like a global weather situation than a legitimate mental problem.
"Of all the things I've lost in my life, I miss my mind the most." (Anonymous)
What's really scary - I mean aside from people believing in a God who would sanction the murder of children - is that recent advances in medical science and technology now make it possible to pinpoint aberrant areas of the brain which, it is claimed, cause people to do the sick, disgusting, psychopathic things they all too frequently do. In essence this is the "My brain made me do it" legal defense, and lawyers are salivating over it like a pack of famished coyotes honing in on a cattle carcass.
My brain made me do it. Uh ..?
"If only there was something in your head to control the things you say and do." (Chandler Bing)
The implication here is that pedophiles, rapists, serial killers, animal abusers, litterbugs, Republicans
(sorry, that just slipped out, possibly through a dissociated crack) etc. can no longer be held entirely responsible for their actions because, you know, their crazy brains made them do it.
'Their crazy brains, right?'
'Exactly!'
'How about the sheer stupidity you're displaying in buying into this pile of crap?'
'Hey, here's a printout of my latest functional MRI. Read it and weep, pal.'
'If this isn't a blatant and disturbing example of the current cultural paradigm of personal non-responsibility in all things, I don't know what is.'
'Okay, that's just your brain talking now.'
"People know what they do; frequently they know why they do what they do; but what they don't know is what what they do does." (M Foucault)
"Once structuralism went the way of the giant sea turtle we decided to deconstruct what was left, ended up turning the world into a vast debris field of meaning-less signs and symbols, about which we tried to wax self-reflexive and mostly ironic, asserting that once language was allowed to fully reinvent itself the tyrannical era of objective reality would come crashing down, except no one was paying attention and who the fuck were we kidding anyway? Strictly speaking we had all gone insane, but we insisted on continuing to refer to it as philosophy." (Anonymous)
"Sometimes you just have to pee in the sink." (C Bukowski)
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
You don't have to be a lunatic to love baseball ...
... although neither does it particularly hurt.
As a kid I was effectively brainwashed (aka culturally conditioned) into loving baseball.
The basic message was: "Hey, you're an American kid. Either you play baseball or you end up robbing convenience stores. Any questions?"
"Yeah, what's a convenience store?"
"Okay, do you want to ask stupid questions and possibly spend your formative years behind bars, or do you want to play ball?"
So we played ball and, as advertised, it was a fairly effective way of sublimating and refocusing our naturally aggressive tendencies, mediating them into a socially approved form of adolescent energy expenditure. Perhaps more importantly, it began the process of teaching us how to cope with boredom.
Because, let's be honest, baseball is boring. Or is it? (more on this later)
Little League was the next logical step, wearing actual uniforms, playing on actual ball fields. I excelled at every aspect of the game ... except one. Couldn't hit. Couldn't even buy one, and this was back in the days when bribing an opposing pitcher or even an umpire was still relatively affordable. Somewhere along the way I developed what turned out to be the highly unproductive habit of turning my head sharply to right just as the pitcher released the ball. Not sure why exactly, but I may have been laboring under the ludicrously false assumption that by not seeing the ball, there was less of a chance of being hit by it.
Note: There is an extant law on New York's books making it illegal to throw a ball at someone's head for fun. Intent, apparently, is everything. Remove the concept of fun from the equation and you can throw fastballs at somebody's noggin with complete impunity.
High school baseball came next, at least for a day, just long enough to step into the batting cage and demonstrate my ability to put wood to cowhide covered sphere. Afterwards the coach took me aside and rather tactfully suggested baseball might not be my optimal choice for a school sport.
"But coach, I don't want to end up in jail!"
He uttered something about my swing being criminal enough to qualify, then recommended track and field.
Which reminds me of a guy I knew in college who, believing he was an impeccable speller, applied for a part-time job as a proofreader in a law firm. Part of the interview was a spelling test, 30 words, read out loud by this female interviewer, who it was pretty clear really didn't give a shit one way or the other. Spelled 27 of the words incorrectly (or, on the upside, got 3 right), prompting said interviewer to intimate that a career in legal proofreading was pretty much out of the question.
"But how are your math skills?" she inquired.
"Sure, go ahead, rub it in."
Okay, that wasn't some guy I knew, it was me. One more example of a deluded past of which, on balance, I'm fairly proud.
So anyway, baseball. What's the appeal? People watching a major league game for the first time - and by people I mostly mean foreigner types, who generally don't have a clue to begin with - are likely to comment that it doesn't look all that difficult. A group of men dressed in costumes stand around on a field, for the most part barely moving, while some guy with a stick tries to hit a smallish white ball, and then run in a highly predictable pattern, making sure to touch as many white cushions as possible.
Okay, first of all weird, what-planet-are-you-from-anyway guy, they're not called cushions!
Consider the average major league player standing in the batter's box attempting to get a hit off an average major league pitcher. Assume the pitcher has an average speed fastball of, say, 90 mph.
Such a pitch is traveling at 130 feet per second. The distance from pitcher to batter is approximately 66 feet. Hence the batter has approximately half a second to evaluate the pitch and decide whether or not to swing.
Just writing that forced my head to turn sharply to the right.
Note: The average life expectancy of a baseball during a game is 6. 3 pitches.
What attracts me to baseball is that, unlike the other major American sports, it's not time-constrained; it is off the clock, under no pressure to adhere to a schedule, to accomplish some goal within a specified time frame. You can have a game on in the background, glance at it occasionally, perhaps take the dog for a walk, have a nap, discuss TV viewing options with your partner (i.e. Oh God, not baseball again!), without having to worry about what may or may not be happening. The length of any particular baseball game is indeterminate, the eventual outcome secondary to the out-of-time experience of just being in the game, either as spectator or player.
From a modernist perspective, espousing the point of view that the absence of constant, high-speed distraction within predetermined, preferably brief, pockets of time is existentially intolerable, baseball can certainly be construed as boring. The paradoxical insight that baseball - baseball as anti-modernist or, dare I say it, postmodernist sport - provides is that only when nothing appears to be happening does the story begin to get interesting.
So there it is. Baseball is the great, atypical, postmodern American pastime. Reason enough, I'd say, for a lunatic to love the game. Batter up ...
As a kid I was effectively brainwashed (aka culturally conditioned) into loving baseball.
The basic message was: "Hey, you're an American kid. Either you play baseball or you end up robbing convenience stores. Any questions?"
"Yeah, what's a convenience store?"
"Okay, do you want to ask stupid questions and possibly spend your formative years behind bars, or do you want to play ball?"
So we played ball and, as advertised, it was a fairly effective way of sublimating and refocusing our naturally aggressive tendencies, mediating them into a socially approved form of adolescent energy expenditure. Perhaps more importantly, it began the process of teaching us how to cope with boredom.
Because, let's be honest, baseball is boring. Or is it? (more on this later)
Little League was the next logical step, wearing actual uniforms, playing on actual ball fields. I excelled at every aspect of the game ... except one. Couldn't hit. Couldn't even buy one, and this was back in the days when bribing an opposing pitcher or even an umpire was still relatively affordable. Somewhere along the way I developed what turned out to be the highly unproductive habit of turning my head sharply to right just as the pitcher released the ball. Not sure why exactly, but I may have been laboring under the ludicrously false assumption that by not seeing the ball, there was less of a chance of being hit by it.
Note: There is an extant law on New York's books making it illegal to throw a ball at someone's head for fun. Intent, apparently, is everything. Remove the concept of fun from the equation and you can throw fastballs at somebody's noggin with complete impunity.
High school baseball came next, at least for a day, just long enough to step into the batting cage and demonstrate my ability to put wood to cowhide covered sphere. Afterwards the coach took me aside and rather tactfully suggested baseball might not be my optimal choice for a school sport.
"But coach, I don't want to end up in jail!"
He uttered something about my swing being criminal enough to qualify, then recommended track and field.
Which reminds me of a guy I knew in college who, believing he was an impeccable speller, applied for a part-time job as a proofreader in a law firm. Part of the interview was a spelling test, 30 words, read out loud by this female interviewer, who it was pretty clear really didn't give a shit one way or the other. Spelled 27 of the words incorrectly (or, on the upside, got 3 right), prompting said interviewer to intimate that a career in legal proofreading was pretty much out of the question.
"But how are your math skills?" she inquired.
"Sure, go ahead, rub it in."
Okay, that wasn't some guy I knew, it was me. One more example of a deluded past of which, on balance, I'm fairly proud.
So anyway, baseball. What's the appeal? People watching a major league game for the first time - and by people I mostly mean foreigner types, who generally don't have a clue to begin with - are likely to comment that it doesn't look all that difficult. A group of men dressed in costumes stand around on a field, for the most part barely moving, while some guy with a stick tries to hit a smallish white ball, and then run in a highly predictable pattern, making sure to touch as many white cushions as possible.
Okay, first of all weird, what-planet-are-you-from-anyway guy, they're not called cushions!
Consider the average major league player standing in the batter's box attempting to get a hit off an average major league pitcher. Assume the pitcher has an average speed fastball of, say, 90 mph.
Such a pitch is traveling at 130 feet per second. The distance from pitcher to batter is approximately 66 feet. Hence the batter has approximately half a second to evaluate the pitch and decide whether or not to swing.
Just writing that forced my head to turn sharply to the right.
Note: The average life expectancy of a baseball during a game is 6. 3 pitches.
What attracts me to baseball is that, unlike the other major American sports, it's not time-constrained; it is off the clock, under no pressure to adhere to a schedule, to accomplish some goal within a specified time frame. You can have a game on in the background, glance at it occasionally, perhaps take the dog for a walk, have a nap, discuss TV viewing options with your partner (i.e. Oh God, not baseball again!), without having to worry about what may or may not be happening. The length of any particular baseball game is indeterminate, the eventual outcome secondary to the out-of-time experience of just being in the game, either as spectator or player.
From a modernist perspective, espousing the point of view that the absence of constant, high-speed distraction within predetermined, preferably brief, pockets of time is existentially intolerable, baseball can certainly be construed as boring. The paradoxical insight that baseball - baseball as anti-modernist or, dare I say it, postmodernist sport - provides is that only when nothing appears to be happening does the story begin to get interesting.
So there it is. Baseball is the great, atypical, postmodern American pastime. Reason enough, I'd say, for a lunatic to love the game. Batter up ...
Friday, August 10, 2012
To the point of madness driven by like a billion cicadas right outside the window
Dial any number at random:
Right about twilight it's like living next door to an insane asylum for insects.
.... Cut to the streets of Pyongyang, where the remaining one million North Korean kids not in the advanced stages of starvation are singing in unison at the top of their little lungs - their little brainwashed brains vibrating along in perfect party pitch - an apparently endless song about the Great, Pure, Dear, Demented (oops!), Dashing, Darling, Deformed (again, oops!), Divine Leader. He's actually a small rather plump boy who still likes playing with his collection of Barbie Dolls, but who, to his credit, is not completely oblivious to the fact that the hats worn by the contingent of centenarian military commanders who follow him around like a pack of living mummies are ridiculously too big for their little old man heads.
Kim Jung Un had one of those microphone mishaps recently, following a truly inspirational, albeit extremely brief, speech on North Korean freedom and prosperity, thought the mic was turned off, was overhead saying, "Really man, what the fuck is up with those stupid hats?"
Hey, these things happen. Mitt Romney, campaigning in the deep dark south, was overhead quizzing one of his aids if the quasi-humanoid mask that he wears (apparently, when he takes the mask off his head disappears, and there just isn't any way that a headless Mormon is going to get elected President) was showing signs of melting under the scorching Mississippi sun. The aid reassured him by pointing out that the 37 people in the audience, all bussed in from a nearby mental hospital, believed they were listening to a speech by Newt Gingrich.
(Lest we forget, Newt was the man who promised to build state of the art mental health facilities on the moon. As far as campaign slogans go, "Send all the loonies to the moonie!" is not bad at all.)
.... Cut to Invasion of the Body Snatchers (remake # 2) in which all the alien-possessed humans get together and emit a loud, high-pitched screech whenever they sniff out a person who has not yet been ideologically podded.
Note: Body Snatchers #4 will be filmed almost entirely in North Korea, as a documentary, no less. (additional footage courtesy of the upcoming Republican National Convention)
Note: Living mummies are an actual thing, although not mummies that are still living, rather people (presumably) who make a conscious decision to become a mummy, and then die and do so. This was popular in Japan for awhile, old men, fed up with being old, apparently, would head off to a cave somewhere, eat tree bark while meditating on the horrific yen/dollar exchange rate and slowly mummify. One can still run across these mummified remains in remote areas, although nowadays the majority of living mummies are members of the Japanese Parliament.
I read recently that North Korean athletes who win Olympic medals are rewarded with refrigerators.
Which, let's face it, is the perfect gift to give someone living in a country with no food and an iffy at best electrical power grid.
One possible solution for the N.K. problem: Turn the country over to the Disney people. If anyone has a knack for making money out of mindless misery, they do. When you think about it, the whole crazy place is already a defacto theme park. Investment and overhead would be minimal.
Call it 'Disney Dark.' Because, kids, even in the magical land of make believe, things ain't always a fun-filled barrel of monkeys.
Right about twilight it's like living next door to an insane asylum for insects.
.... Cut to the streets of Pyongyang, where the remaining one million North Korean kids not in the advanced stages of starvation are singing in unison at the top of their little lungs - their little brainwashed brains vibrating along in perfect party pitch - an apparently endless song about the Great, Pure, Dear, Demented (oops!), Dashing, Darling, Deformed (again, oops!), Divine Leader. He's actually a small rather plump boy who still likes playing with his collection of Barbie Dolls, but who, to his credit, is not completely oblivious to the fact that the hats worn by the contingent of centenarian military commanders who follow him around like a pack of living mummies are ridiculously too big for their little old man heads.
Kim Jung Un had one of those microphone mishaps recently, following a truly inspirational, albeit extremely brief, speech on North Korean freedom and prosperity, thought the mic was turned off, was overhead saying, "Really man, what the fuck is up with those stupid hats?"
Hey, these things happen. Mitt Romney, campaigning in the deep dark south, was overhead quizzing one of his aids if the quasi-humanoid mask that he wears (apparently, when he takes the mask off his head disappears, and there just isn't any way that a headless Mormon is going to get elected President) was showing signs of melting under the scorching Mississippi sun. The aid reassured him by pointing out that the 37 people in the audience, all bussed in from a nearby mental hospital, believed they were listening to a speech by Newt Gingrich.
(Lest we forget, Newt was the man who promised to build state of the art mental health facilities on the moon. As far as campaign slogans go, "Send all the loonies to the moonie!" is not bad at all.)
.... Cut to Invasion of the Body Snatchers (remake # 2) in which all the alien-possessed humans get together and emit a loud, high-pitched screech whenever they sniff out a person who has not yet been ideologically podded.
Note: Body Snatchers #4 will be filmed almost entirely in North Korea, as a documentary, no less. (additional footage courtesy of the upcoming Republican National Convention)
Note: Living mummies are an actual thing, although not mummies that are still living, rather people (presumably) who make a conscious decision to become a mummy, and then die and do so. This was popular in Japan for awhile, old men, fed up with being old, apparently, would head off to a cave somewhere, eat tree bark while meditating on the horrific yen/dollar exchange rate and slowly mummify. One can still run across these mummified remains in remote areas, although nowadays the majority of living mummies are members of the Japanese Parliament.
I read recently that North Korean athletes who win Olympic medals are rewarded with refrigerators.
Which, let's face it, is the perfect gift to give someone living in a country with no food and an iffy at best electrical power grid.
One possible solution for the N.K. problem: Turn the country over to the Disney people. If anyone has a knack for making money out of mindless misery, they do. When you think about it, the whole crazy place is already a defacto theme park. Investment and overhead would be minimal.
Call it 'Disney Dark.' Because, kids, even in the magical land of make believe, things ain't always a fun-filled barrel of monkeys.
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