On the surface, and way deep down, I am Serenity incarnate. I am at peace. I love all people earnestly and reach out to them with arms of fraternal kinship. I am confident that this world, such as it is, represents the best of all possible realities, and I take the vicissitudes thereof as they come, with calm and wonder.
But somewhere between the still surface of the water and the serene depths, there are brief little churning whirlpools of acid. They come and go and are erased with a moment's reflection, or a wry accepting smile. Perhaps you have them, too. They cannot define us. But to deny them would be to let them fester until an illness of real proportion crippled the mind.
Hence, allow me to admit, however perfunctorily: I'm so very sickened. I am so sickened now . . .
I am sick of smoking hot beautiful women. They are real. Not airbrushed or photoshopped or animated or dependent on fabulous lighting. They're just damn hot, and there are lots of them. And I'm sick of them. Just because I can't have them you say? What other reason is there? I'm sick of the way these women put me instantly, painfully in touch with the just plain sickening part of myself that wants them all, all the time, and the just plain sickeningly stupid part that insanely concedes some infinitely minute and distant basis for thinking that there is even the slightest infinitely minute and distant possibility that any one of them and any part of me, (even the decent, cogent, serene part), could ever enjoy any kind of mutual anything.
I'm sick of movies that are based on the premise that a whole bunch of what is essentially shit has to happen happen happen all the time. So, so sick of movies that are so predictable at every turn that I have made my poor wife sick of me ruining the movie whispering derisively in her ear the next three plot points before they happen. Even the twists--SCREW the FAKE STUPID twists. I'm choking on useless sequels and remakes. Like swallowing vomit. I'm sick of wandering around the video store wondering if there will ever be another good movie that isn't a documentary.
Surprisingly, I'm not sick of huge fat slob people. (They make me a little sick, but that's actually different when you really think about it.) More than ever I respect their hearts of gold. Several of them I number among my friends, so I was happy to hear that the Canadian Supreme court ruled in Fatty's favor and said that if you achieve an admirable enough girth, you are ENTITLED to two seats on a plane, but you only have to pay for one. It took the generously proportioned of the Great White North (and there are A LOT of them) to prove once and for all that Canada is indeed a silly place, doomed to eventual implosion from which only the black hole of a gargantuan self esteem complex will remain.
I was about to be sick of Oprah Winfrey, until 30 Rock reminded me that Oprah and the Universe are one. Seriously, have you ever seen them in a picture together?
I'm sick of fashion. What am I supposed to do with these boot cut jeans? They came and went faster than The Secret. I'm too poor to keep up and I am a hopeless metrofashionista.
I'm sick of being a hopeless metrofashionista.
I'm sick of hair. Really just my own. Long hair is for the young, so I keep it short. But wanting a change, keep trying to grow it out. After a few weeks it enters this undefinable middle phase, not long, not short, just an unmanageable mini-fro from hell. I wish I'd just go bald. Maybe I'll wear a hat for a year. Or a wig. It worked for our first president.
Speaking of which, I'm really sick of people who have never read the Constitution, or the Declaration of Independence, or the Federalist Papers, or any of the thousands of documents written by the founders, who have the gall to think they have any idea what America is. Shut up all of you, turn off the Daily Show (OK, you can tivo it), read a little, and then talk. To be fair, the problem isn't you, per se. It's the bile that rises in my throat every time you talk that makes me queasy.
Other than that, I'm like a cool morning in Spring. A smile on my lips and a song in my heart.
lundi, décembre 08, 2008
lundi, novembre 24, 2008
All Apologies
As the act of blogging begins to feel pointless (which, I suspect, might just be the very point at which it begins to have a point) I feel to abuse the medium by perpetrating the lowest common denominator: the cyberconfessional.
Forgive me, blogosphere, for I have sinned. (confessions in purple)
I'm impeccably clean. I really am. But I don't wash my hands as obsessively as people might assume. I have nothing resembling germ phobia. Furthermore, most of my housecleaning (outside the bathroom!) is purely cosmetic. My obsessively clean house floats on a massive wave of total disorganization. The truth is, I just want things to look nice.
I hate my hair.
People with pants sagging well below their underwear line really make me kind of sick with anger and disapproval. I don't care if judging them thus makes me sound old, or intolerant, or judgemental. Go to hell all you butt-dragging ass wipes. All of you.
I sometimes exaggerate my level of disapproval of a given something, just for effect. I don't know what I get out of it. [Ed. Note: we were ABSOLUTELY NOT kidding or exaggerating about punching Bill Maher in the face.]
Once, when morbid curiosity got the best of me, I clicked on a link that was supposed to take me to a free viewing of a Paris Hilton home movie. I was relieved when the link was a joke. But I still clicked it. And I have to live with that for the rest of my days.
I know it means that 50% of the population will seethe with hatred toward me, and the other half will misunderstand, but I can't wait for that blessed day when we can joke about or question Obama. At the moment, every time I do so, someone cries, or hates me quietly, or worse, assumes I voted for McCain or Bush.
I ate meat the other day. On purpose. A piece of roast beef from a plate of cold cuts and it was delicious. I still have no desire to participate in the truly repulsive meat industry. And I still went home and made a tofurky sandwich. But there it is, hypocrisy on rye.
I just realized I could go on almost forever. There are so many things wrong, or at least questionable, in my conduct and/or character, that there might be no hope at all for me. No matter who is president. Damn.
Forgive me, blogosphere, for I have sinned. (confessions in purple)
I'm impeccably clean. I really am. But I don't wash my hands as obsessively as people might assume. I have nothing resembling germ phobia. Furthermore, most of my housecleaning (outside the bathroom!) is purely cosmetic. My obsessively clean house floats on a massive wave of total disorganization. The truth is, I just want things to look nice.
I hate my hair.
People with pants sagging well below their underwear line really make me kind of sick with anger and disapproval. I don't care if judging them thus makes me sound old, or intolerant, or judgemental. Go to hell all you butt-dragging ass wipes. All of you.
I sometimes exaggerate my level of disapproval of a given something, just for effect. I don't know what I get out of it. [Ed. Note: we were ABSOLUTELY NOT kidding or exaggerating about punching Bill Maher in the face.]
Once, when morbid curiosity got the best of me, I clicked on a link that was supposed to take me to a free viewing of a Paris Hilton home movie. I was relieved when the link was a joke. But I still clicked it. And I have to live with that for the rest of my days.
I know it means that 50% of the population will seethe with hatred toward me, and the other half will misunderstand, but I can't wait for that blessed day when we can joke about or question Obama. At the moment, every time I do so, someone cries, or hates me quietly, or worse, assumes I voted for McCain or Bush.
I ate meat the other day. On purpose. A piece of roast beef from a plate of cold cuts and it was delicious. I still have no desire to participate in the truly repulsive meat industry. And I still went home and made a tofurky sandwich. But there it is, hypocrisy on rye.
I just realized I could go on almost forever. There are so many things wrong, or at least questionable, in my conduct and/or character, that there might be no hope at all for me. No matter who is president. Damn.
mardi, novembre 18, 2008
Think Positive
You're short.
But this literally means that a smaller percentage of the population can see up your nose. And a large percentage of those who can regularly pick theirs, and some of them eat it.
That said, the technology exists for you to keep the nasal passages clean, and keep hair from protruding. In the absence of such technology, the act of forcibly removing nasal hair is a great way to manufacture tears, or stay awake on the night shift.
That said, working nights is a bitch, but what a great opportunity to keep the nasal passages clean without recrimination. I mean, you're short, so it isn't likely that anyone is going to be able to see up there anyway--and hey, why not congratulate yourself for being Zen about it? You're not one of those tall people who keep it clean just because so many people are forced by the inequities of Nature to look up there.
Which may not be the best motivation, but they should keep it clean anyway--for whatever reason they can find. Don't they realize that shorter individuals are granted a rather unfortunate perspective on the nasal cavities of others? Come on, people! If we, the short graveyard shifters of the world can keep it clean just because, they have all the more reason! They might take longer to achieve an enlightened perspective on the matter, but that's part of the misfortune of standing a head taller and looking down on people who, if there was such a thing as justice, would be able to look down on THEM, with their booger filled noses riddled with protruding hair, and say "Look in here! It is clean and the hair is carefully cropped, and not for your benefit, but simply because it IS."
Of course, if that were the case, I suppose the time currently spent lording over short people might be spent pondering the intrinsic beauty of a clean nostril, which they might never experience. So you can take a moment and rejoice, even in shortness. There's a positive side to everything.
But this literally means that a smaller percentage of the population can see up your nose. And a large percentage of those who can regularly pick theirs, and some of them eat it.
That said, the technology exists for you to keep the nasal passages clean, and keep hair from protruding. In the absence of such technology, the act of forcibly removing nasal hair is a great way to manufacture tears, or stay awake on the night shift.
That said, working nights is a bitch, but what a great opportunity to keep the nasal passages clean without recrimination. I mean, you're short, so it isn't likely that anyone is going to be able to see up there anyway--and hey, why not congratulate yourself for being Zen about it? You're not one of those tall people who keep it clean just because so many people are forced by the inequities of Nature to look up there.
Which may not be the best motivation, but they should keep it clean anyway--for whatever reason they can find. Don't they realize that shorter individuals are granted a rather unfortunate perspective on the nasal cavities of others? Come on, people! If we, the short graveyard shifters of the world can keep it clean just because, they have all the more reason! They might take longer to achieve an enlightened perspective on the matter, but that's part of the misfortune of standing a head taller and looking down on people who, if there was such a thing as justice, would be able to look down on THEM, with their booger filled noses riddled with protruding hair, and say "Look in here! It is clean and the hair is carefully cropped, and not for your benefit, but simply because it IS."
Of course, if that were the case, I suppose the time currently spent lording over short people might be spent pondering the intrinsic beauty of a clean nostril, which they might never experience. So you can take a moment and rejoice, even in shortness. There's a positive side to everything.
lundi, novembre 03, 2008
Don't Fall (in Love)
Reasons why I wanted, earnestly, for pull for Obama:
1) He is, or seems, intelligent. His books are well written and have inspired millions. Then again, compared to Bush, who wouldn't look smart?
2) He taught constitutional law at a prestigious white bread university
3) He is black. (yes, racist as it is, I think it would be totally cool to have a black president)
4) As long as there is no real difference between the way the two parties govern, and until a viable third party rears its head, why not vote for the guy who reads a tele-prompter better?
5) He is a smoker, and I want to be able to say, "Hey, I might not be president, but at least I'm not stupid enough to fall for that damn fool habit."
6) He is from the mid-west, which seems like a very grounded, sensible place for a president to come from.
7) He is good looking, and I honestly feel it is just and right to favor better looking people.
8) I have friends, with opinions I respect, who are in love with him
HOWEVER, when I'm honest with myself which is as rare as it is dangerous, there are reasons why I cannot, under any circumstances, support Obama:
1) The Hollywood Elite support him. Actually, they not only support him, they vociferously, emphatically support him. This cannot be good. These are the rich, out of touch people for whom the phrase "tabloid fodder" was invented.
2) His tax increases started with those making 300K, then dropped to 250K, then down to 175K. Meanwhile he and his running mate both voted to increase taxes on people making more than 40K. Whatever your opinion about tax increases or punishing the rich might be, you have to admit that this is either incoherent or dishonest. These are your only choices and they are not good ones.
3) The News Media have their heads so far up his ass, they can't think straight. Actually, they're lucky the sun shines out of there, otherwise our entire press corps would be lost in the dark. If you think this is false, feel free to stop reading. If Triumph the Insult Comic Dog sees it, call it a fact. And you know it would bother you if they were swinging for the guy or gal you hate.
4) Hypocrisy. Never mind that he PROMISED to accept public funding until he tasted the millions pouring into his private coffers. And I know they're ALL guilty of it. But from the man who gave us the truly noble "I am my brother's keeper" speech, who makes millions on book deals and probably hasn't paid for a meal or a suit in ten years, I would expect his aunt (living under the poverty level in public housing), and his brother (a hut in Kenya) to have gotten on the gravy train. As far as I can tell, he hasn't done much for them, except ask you and me to open our wallets and buy them something. On the rare occasions they are approached by the press, what do they say? "Check this car he bought me?" No. "He invited us to stay in his mansion in Chicago?" Not even close. Not even, "This suit was Barry's. He sent it over when he got some new ones." No. All they say is "We've been told not to talk until after the election." He could have really had me here. I love a person who, like Oprah, quietly, personally shares their bounty, first with their family, then with other's in need. Which brings us to the deal breaker.
5) Socialism. My noble, big hearted brother has been heard to say "Damn right I'm a socialist. I want to help and take care of people." To the degree that his desire to help others is honest, I can only commend him and everyone who believes as he does. But this is not what socialism is. If you want to go out and help and take care of people, nobody's stopping you. Go ahead. No, a socialist is NOT someone who wants to help others. A socialist is someone who wants to force other people to help. Since the whole Joe the (pretend) Plumber imbroglio, I have made the same proposition to every Obama supporter willing to discuss it: "Not sharing from one's wealth is selfish and wrong. Obviously. But the only thing worse is someone who thinks it is OK to FORCE people to share. Discuss." They cannot disagree. They change the subject every time. I want them to explain it to me in a way that makes sense to me. They never can. Let me state it more clearly: I believe with every gummy bear lodged in my heart that not sharing is wrong. That said, with those same gummy bears I know that forcing people to share is Satanic. It is evil. It degrades every culture that has tried it. It never elevates poor people. It results results in class warfare (as George Bernard Shaw observed, the government that robs Peter to pay Paul, can always count on the support of Paul"). It goes against the founding documents and philosophy of our country. And to the degree that you think it is OK, you are either ignorant or evil--or you know something I don't. The government forced redistribution of wealth is at least as sickening as greed and selfishness. If I could believe otherwise I would. But I cannot find a philosophical or historical leg for socialism to stand on. And finally . . .
1) He is, or seems, intelligent. His books are well written and have inspired millions. Then again, compared to Bush, who wouldn't look smart?
2) He taught constitutional law at a prestigious white bread university
3) He is black. (yes, racist as it is, I think it would be totally cool to have a black president)
4) As long as there is no real difference between the way the two parties govern, and until a viable third party rears its head, why not vote for the guy who reads a tele-prompter better?
5) He is a smoker, and I want to be able to say, "Hey, I might not be president, but at least I'm not stupid enough to fall for that damn fool habit."
6) He is from the mid-west, which seems like a very grounded, sensible place for a president to come from.
7) He is good looking, and I honestly feel it is just and right to favor better looking people.
8) I have friends, with opinions I respect, who are in love with him
HOWEVER, when I'm honest with myself which is as rare as it is dangerous, there are reasons why I cannot, under any circumstances, support Obama:
1) The Hollywood Elite support him. Actually, they not only support him, they vociferously, emphatically support him. This cannot be good. These are the rich, out of touch people for whom the phrase "tabloid fodder" was invented.
2) His tax increases started with those making 300K, then dropped to 250K, then down to 175K. Meanwhile he and his running mate both voted to increase taxes on people making more than 40K. Whatever your opinion about tax increases or punishing the rich might be, you have to admit that this is either incoherent or dishonest. These are your only choices and they are not good ones.
3) The News Media have their heads so far up his ass, they can't think straight. Actually, they're lucky the sun shines out of there, otherwise our entire press corps would be lost in the dark. If you think this is false, feel free to stop reading. If Triumph the Insult Comic Dog sees it, call it a fact. And you know it would bother you if they were swinging for the guy or gal you hate.
4) Hypocrisy. Never mind that he PROMISED to accept public funding until he tasted the millions pouring into his private coffers. And I know they're ALL guilty of it. But from the man who gave us the truly noble "I am my brother's keeper" speech, who makes millions on book deals and probably hasn't paid for a meal or a suit in ten years, I would expect his aunt (living under the poverty level in public housing), and his brother (a hut in Kenya) to have gotten on the gravy train. As far as I can tell, he hasn't done much for them, except ask you and me to open our wallets and buy them something. On the rare occasions they are approached by the press, what do they say? "Check this car he bought me?" No. "He invited us to stay in his mansion in Chicago?" Not even close. Not even, "This suit was Barry's. He sent it over when he got some new ones." No. All they say is "We've been told not to talk until after the election." He could have really had me here. I love a person who, like Oprah, quietly, personally shares their bounty, first with their family, then with other's in need. Which brings us to the deal breaker.
5) Socialism. My noble, big hearted brother has been heard to say "Damn right I'm a socialist. I want to help and take care of people." To the degree that his desire to help others is honest, I can only commend him and everyone who believes as he does. But this is not what socialism is. If you want to go out and help and take care of people, nobody's stopping you. Go ahead. No, a socialist is NOT someone who wants to help others. A socialist is someone who wants to force other people to help. Since the whole Joe the (pretend) Plumber imbroglio, I have made the same proposition to every Obama supporter willing to discuss it: "Not sharing from one's wealth is selfish and wrong. Obviously. But the only thing worse is someone who thinks it is OK to FORCE people to share. Discuss." They cannot disagree. They change the subject every time. I want them to explain it to me in a way that makes sense to me. They never can. Let me state it more clearly: I believe with every gummy bear lodged in my heart that not sharing is wrong. That said, with those same gummy bears I know that forcing people to share is Satanic. It is evil. It degrades every culture that has tried it. It never elevates poor people. It results results in class warfare (as George Bernard Shaw observed, the government that robs Peter to pay Paul, can always count on the support of Paul"). It goes against the founding documents and philosophy of our country. And to the degree that you think it is OK, you are either ignorant or evil--or you know something I don't. The government forced redistribution of wealth is at least as sickening as greed and selfishness. If I could believe otherwise I would. But I cannot find a philosophical or historical leg for socialism to stand on. And finally . . .
6) I'm not looking forward to 4 years of toothless SNL and Daily Show episodes, as they man they love and support and endorse takes the office they are accustomed to mock and deride. But they're smart people, perhaps this final fear is unfounded.
So there it is. I might have just lost the respect of some people whom I love, who stopped reading this blog a long time ago. All I ask is that you extend this one, all important courtesy-the most important favor people in a democracy can do for each other: When someone goes through the trouble of thinking things through honestly, and applies that thinking to earnestly held convictions they hold because they want to be good, give where they're coming from a chance. When Obama is elected, he will be my president, and I will honor the office and the man in it appropriately, which is much more than people who disagreed with the previous president can say.
So there it is. I might have just lost the respect of some people whom I love, who stopped reading this blog a long time ago. All I ask is that you extend this one, all important courtesy-the most important favor people in a democracy can do for each other: When someone goes through the trouble of thinking things through honestly, and applies that thinking to earnestly held convictions they hold because they want to be good, give where they're coming from a chance. When Obama is elected, he will be my president, and I will honor the office and the man in it appropriately, which is much more than people who disagreed with the previous president can say.
Do I need to repeat that I did not vote for Bush and won't be voting for McCain?
mardi, octobre 28, 2008
Death Wish
Traffic Court is a nightmare. Worse than a nightmare. They tell you to be there at 10AM. At which point the judge is still trying to finish up with the idiots who still believe in the myth that if you go to trial the cops never show up and you get off Scot free. Almost without exception, the guilty parties stand and, after listening to law enforcement's clear, undebatable version, get up and say words to the effect of: "I cannot dispute any of the facts; please admit my opinion that I should be able to break the law as exculpatory evidence." One by one the judge, who has the courage of a lion and the mercy of a legion of angels in the face of ultimate stupidity that often crosses the line and becomes actual rudeness, graciously and patiently adjudicates the cases, does everything he can to ensure the minimum sentence. He is either drunk, or some kind of half man, half god sent from above to ensure that democracy's most annoying side effect is processed and evacuated from the body politic. I don't know how he does it. More than once I wanted to sentence the sundry violators to 10 years cruel and unusual punishment. My teeth were ground to a powder.
At 10:20 the poor man needs a break, and calls a 20 minute recess. Others who were told to be there at 10 were miffed. I imagined the judge going back to his chambers and overturning all his bookcases, punching holes in the drywall, screaming red faced to the heavens until his scarred vocal chords leave him sounding like Clint Eastwood. I'm glad he has the time to get that out of his system before he has to listen to me say: "I know I'm guilty of talking on my cell phone. If my wife wasn't sick I wouldn't have taken the call. I'm also very poor. If you could see your way clear to lower the fine, I promise I'll never darken your doorstep again." At 10:36 I couldn't hold it anymore, but I didn't want to lose my place. "I'll be right back," I said to the hot girl texting behind her bangs next to me, "If someone tries to sit here, kick 'em in the shins."
To describe what comes next would not be fair to the reader. The lower circles of Hell are best left to the imagination. Suffice it to say that, after 3 HOURS of listening to people completely ignore the simplest instructions ever given by an authority figure, I was ready to take off my shirt, put on a black hood, pick up an ax, and behead in the name of the Queen the next person who said something stupid to the judge, who, miraculously, only seemed to get more patient and kind as the morning drew on.
My talk with the judge went as expected. But the lowered fine was cold comfort. As I drove home I was overcome with fear. First of all, the thought of returning to traffic court was unbearable. I swear before God I will go to jail before setting foot in that circus again. So I suppose the experience did its job: you won't find me breaking any laws or codes of the road. But secondly, court had helped me understand, more clearly than ever, that, all around me, in explosive death machines, were the stupidest, rudest spawn of hell ever disguised as humanity. Needless to say, I'm driving extra careful at this point.
I exited at a given exit, came to a stop, and heard a honk. I thought the person next to me was impatient of my caution at the stop sign. I turned left and came to a stop light. He honked again. In my rear view mirror was an older gentleman in a crummy car with a dog on his lap, gesturing violently for me to pull over. I thought maybe I'd left my gas cap open, or had a cat stuck to my bumper or something. I pulled over, but as he did his macho-posturing swagger to my truck, I elected to remain in my vehicle. I rolled my window down halfway.
He stared at me for just a second, obviously for dramatic effect. I asked what was up. He sneered, "Do you have a f*ckin' death wish?" It took me a second to process the question. [ed.note: one Jason Adair, who was listening to the whole affair through the legally mandated blue tooth ear piece, has since advised us that if anyone asks you if you have a death wish, the answer is always, ALWAYS, an unqualified YES.] Maybe I was distracted by the horrific state of the poor man's teeth, chipped and stained beyond any hope of a normal American social life, but all I could muster as a befuddled: "I don't know what you're talking about." I've realized since that one of the principle problems in our society is that a certain class of person always believes they're about to be on television. Deep inside he must have thought cameras might be rolling, for he took of his glasses with no small degree of trashy flare and repeated the question, a little louder and slower. I repeated my response, trying to be honest about having no idea what his problem could be, and trying not to think about his teeth, or what kind of maniac drives around with a dog on his lap.
"Six miles back you cut me off! I called the cops and gave them your plate number, they're on their way."
Maybe it was the fact that I hadn't made a lane change for more than six miles. Or maybe is was my gigantic ego filling me with condescension. Perhaps it was my reasonable assurance that this man could not have called the cops, because he obviously couldn't have operated a cell phone even if he owned one. I'd like to think the love of a higher power filled my heart with sincere love and pity for this lonely, deranged soul. But for whatever reason, what should have been a colossal fear of having to return to traffic court at the behest of this manchild became a bemused sense of novelty. I was interested in resolving the situation amicably. I tried to apologize. I told him that I was sorry if I cut him off, and that I always try to be careful, etc. It didn't help. He looked into my eyes. "Your pupils look dilated! You're on something! Now they're gonna get you for drunk driving, too!" He was still seething. A small part of me wanted to step out of my gutless economy truck, stare the doughy, wispy haired baby boomer down, and offer an alternative. "I tell you what, let's exchange information. I need your name, address and insurance information so my lawyer knows who to sue for harassment and making death threats." There were a thousand options, a plethora of pithy retorts, but at this point, as inexplicably as I had gained it, I lost interest entirely. I said "I'm sorry" one more time and simply drove away, leaving him at the side of the road.
Take from this what you will. This isn't a plea for more civil conduct, or judicial reform. That would be pointless. Stupid people, like cockroaches, are with us for the long haul. They're not capable of processing the idea of improvement or change. And no matter how many cheap motels you trap them in, their kind will be here long after you and I are food for their numberless children.
At 10:20 the poor man needs a break, and calls a 20 minute recess. Others who were told to be there at 10 were miffed. I imagined the judge going back to his chambers and overturning all his bookcases, punching holes in the drywall, screaming red faced to the heavens until his scarred vocal chords leave him sounding like Clint Eastwood. I'm glad he has the time to get that out of his system before he has to listen to me say: "I know I'm guilty of talking on my cell phone. If my wife wasn't sick I wouldn't have taken the call. I'm also very poor. If you could see your way clear to lower the fine, I promise I'll never darken your doorstep again." At 10:36 I couldn't hold it anymore, but I didn't want to lose my place. "I'll be right back," I said to the hot girl texting behind her bangs next to me, "If someone tries to sit here, kick 'em in the shins."
To describe what comes next would not be fair to the reader. The lower circles of Hell are best left to the imagination. Suffice it to say that, after 3 HOURS of listening to people completely ignore the simplest instructions ever given by an authority figure, I was ready to take off my shirt, put on a black hood, pick up an ax, and behead in the name of the Queen the next person who said something stupid to the judge, who, miraculously, only seemed to get more patient and kind as the morning drew on.
My talk with the judge went as expected. But the lowered fine was cold comfort. As I drove home I was overcome with fear. First of all, the thought of returning to traffic court was unbearable. I swear before God I will go to jail before setting foot in that circus again. So I suppose the experience did its job: you won't find me breaking any laws or codes of the road. But secondly, court had helped me understand, more clearly than ever, that, all around me, in explosive death machines, were the stupidest, rudest spawn of hell ever disguised as humanity. Needless to say, I'm driving extra careful at this point.
I exited at a given exit, came to a stop, and heard a honk. I thought the person next to me was impatient of my caution at the stop sign. I turned left and came to a stop light. He honked again. In my rear view mirror was an older gentleman in a crummy car with a dog on his lap, gesturing violently for me to pull over. I thought maybe I'd left my gas cap open, or had a cat stuck to my bumper or something. I pulled over, but as he did his macho-posturing swagger to my truck, I elected to remain in my vehicle. I rolled my window down halfway.
He stared at me for just a second, obviously for dramatic effect. I asked what was up. He sneered, "Do you have a f*ckin' death wish?" It took me a second to process the question. [ed.note: one Jason Adair, who was listening to the whole affair through the legally mandated blue tooth ear piece, has since advised us that if anyone asks you if you have a death wish, the answer is always, ALWAYS, an unqualified YES.] Maybe I was distracted by the horrific state of the poor man's teeth, chipped and stained beyond any hope of a normal American social life, but all I could muster as a befuddled: "I don't know what you're talking about." I've realized since that one of the principle problems in our society is that a certain class of person always believes they're about to be on television. Deep inside he must have thought cameras might be rolling, for he took of his glasses with no small degree of trashy flare and repeated the question, a little louder and slower. I repeated my response, trying to be honest about having no idea what his problem could be, and trying not to think about his teeth, or what kind of maniac drives around with a dog on his lap.
"Six miles back you cut me off! I called the cops and gave them your plate number, they're on their way."
Maybe it was the fact that I hadn't made a lane change for more than six miles. Or maybe is was my gigantic ego filling me with condescension. Perhaps it was my reasonable assurance that this man could not have called the cops, because he obviously couldn't have operated a cell phone even if he owned one. I'd like to think the love of a higher power filled my heart with sincere love and pity for this lonely, deranged soul. But for whatever reason, what should have been a colossal fear of having to return to traffic court at the behest of this manchild became a bemused sense of novelty. I was interested in resolving the situation amicably. I tried to apologize. I told him that I was sorry if I cut him off, and that I always try to be careful, etc. It didn't help. He looked into my eyes. "Your pupils look dilated! You're on something! Now they're gonna get you for drunk driving, too!" He was still seething. A small part of me wanted to step out of my gutless economy truck, stare the doughy, wispy haired baby boomer down, and offer an alternative. "I tell you what, let's exchange information. I need your name, address and insurance information so my lawyer knows who to sue for harassment and making death threats." There were a thousand options, a plethora of pithy retorts, but at this point, as inexplicably as I had gained it, I lost interest entirely. I said "I'm sorry" one more time and simply drove away, leaving him at the side of the road.
Take from this what you will. This isn't a plea for more civil conduct, or judicial reform. That would be pointless. Stupid people, like cockroaches, are with us for the long haul. They're not capable of processing the idea of improvement or change. And no matter how many cheap motels you trap them in, their kind will be here long after you and I are food for their numberless children.
mardi, octobre 14, 2008
Ear Peace
Sitting in this Internet cafe, surrounded by up and coming go-getters, I came to realize how judgemental I am.
People sitting in a crowded room talking through a blue tooth head set appear to be talking to themselves. Or, if you can see the ear piece, they present, for all intents and purposes, as freelance telemarketers. People who love talking to distant parties so deeply that they can't stop the conversation, even to order a beverage, or enjoy a quiet moment.
And I think they look stupid.
But I have to get used to it. In the Bright and Shiny Future, there just isn't going to be a reason to hold a phone to your ear. I might ask myself a simple question: Did the denizens of the Federation of Planets grouse when the Next Generation replaced their archaic "communicators" with those super slick chest insignia models?
People sitting in a crowded room talking through a blue tooth head set appear to be talking to themselves. Or, if you can see the ear piece, they present, for all intents and purposes, as freelance telemarketers. People who love talking to distant parties so deeply that they can't stop the conversation, even to order a beverage, or enjoy a quiet moment.
And I think they look stupid.
But I have to get used to it. In the Bright and Shiny Future, there just isn't going to be a reason to hold a phone to your ear. I might ask myself a simple question: Did the denizens of the Federation of Planets grouse when the Next Generation replaced their archaic "communicators" with those super slick chest insignia models?
S'abonner à :
Messages (Atom)
