Bespeaking Rungs

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Better Simulate Than Never

In the modernistic manifestation of warfare, gaming consumers have taken over the world. Paramount to the gamesmanship is the notion that a person can conquer entire empires in one evening if everything goes right and still be in bed by 1:00 a.m. with nary a scratch to show for the struggle. It’s the stuff dreams are made of. And perhaps it’s just that we’re so fond of dreaming.

People Wii Wii Wii all the way home, and sometimes to enact a representation they may have to bring themselves to sit up in bed when they wake up (raising eyelids optional), but it’s still worth all the extra effort. They pretend they’re walking out to the car. Then they pretend they’re driving to work. Then they pretend they’re doing their job. Then they pretend to get groceries at the store. Then they pretend to eat them for dinner. It’s the diet of the future… Kind of like gum, but we’ll continue acting like it’s a novel thought.

Modern man appears to be over-enjoying his simulated life, beings that regular life plods along agonizingly at a snail’s pace, and he doesn’t have ample time for that. Who would’ve figured that there’s not enough room in your schedule to fit in life. Sorry, too many other things to do. I’ll live when I’m dead. Or I’ll live vicariously. One of those.

Unable to help but ask why humans have such a predilection for simulating. We role-play to the nth degree. Space aliens chronicling our recent history would have a hard time deciphering what was real and what wasn’t. Is that them, or are they just playing one on TV? It’s the perfect cover-up in case of interstellar invasion. We’re nothing if not prescient beings.

Following the humanistic bent, we engage in games that simulate life — board games, video games, even self-admitted role playing games — as well as sports themselves that simulate battles, conquests, attacks, etc. One team must defeat another. In order for one to triumph, there must be another to be triumphed over. We even simulate the simulation with fantasy sports leagues. And somewhere along the way cheerleading became a competition, throwing a wrench into the whole makeup of the cosmos from which we may never recover.

We participate in and watch plays, movies, and television shows. We read stories and fictional novels that transform us into a microcosm of life apart from our real life. We follow celebrities who are said to represent the idyllic life, and often revere them as something otherworldly because of their fictional portrayals, relating more to their characters than their actual selves.

Even our food simulates things — alphabet soup noodles, various breakfast cereals in the shape of a fruit, or a star, or an interballistic missile (it could happen). Any synthetic artificial flavoring or smell meant to remind you of the real thing. And don’t forget that they’re tropical. That little pinch of benzene in your shampoo is surely a true slice of exotic paradise captured in a bottle. It’s from the mountains, the jungles, the islands. It says so right on the label. Candies are often shaped like little animals or cartoon characters. Animal crackers in my soup… And so something tends to symbolize something else. Or in other words, almost nothing is what it really is.

This infernal glut of activities can all take up possibly a third of our leisure time. For teens and those who have been able to matriculate on into their more nocturnal college years, it might even be more than two-thirds. This isn’t much cause for concern, however, as we’re assured people still have to eat and sleep to stay alive, giving them at least some incentive so that they can still be in a breathing state when the time to meet Napoleon’s army at the Alamo with their squadron of F-15’s rolls around again. And the salient point is it could alter the course of someone’s history.

Why don't we just enjoy life itself, but rather many of us feel the need to constantly simulate the real thing? Do we need simulation with a ‘t’ in it for our stimulation? Is simulation the easy and less costly way to do the things that you wish you could do in real life? Are we trying to somehow escape reality because it's either too painful or too difficult to understand? Do we have to project our lives in order to make them seem interesting to us? Are we having a hard time finding our own identities so we have to invent alter egos?

Freud cited our unconscious wish to end the everyday struggles for happiness and survival in a) our desire for peace, and b) attempts to escape reality through fiction, media, and drugs. We seem to need a certain level of unrealism to fight off the realism. But all things in moderation. Sigmund would be going berserk in retrograde if he’d been born a hundred years later.

A rather pertinent question at hand from the psychiatric realm: When was your last virtual reality check?

Children have the creativity to implement the playing of toys all day long in every event they encounter, so it's a streaming video for them. They continue playing at meals, take Spiderman to the bathroom with them, and sleep with the stuffed animal of the month propped up on their pillow. The older we get, we have a harder time hiding our toys because they’ve become bigger and more conspicuous, so we try to be more discreet about it. We leave teddy on the nightstand and telecommunicate with him through the empty darkness until morning finally arrives. Don’t tell me nobody else does that.

What does this have to do with Legos? There’s an interesting phenomenon wherein we make building blocks to simulate real-life things, and then we transfer that simulated effect to areas where the simulation isn’t necessary but we do it anyway because it adds another level of fascination. Computer animation of Lego figures need not contain round nubbies on top of everything, but somehow in our psyche we like them there because it helps us stay in the regimented pretend world of Legorama. Another manifestation for the willing suspension of disbelief, and maybe a place to dream about because we know it’s not real. The emperor wears so many clothes that he’s practically sweating, and yet is still managing to get a healthy tan. Indeed, the best of both worlds. Live in one as is convenient, checking in whenever sustenance gets low, and then hang out in the other to while away the ticks on the clock.

But then what does this all have to do with smileys? The beloved smileys of yore started out as simple round figured faces with charming grins on them, with only minor modifications. They were darling to our way of thinking because they were simplified caricatures of moods. Over time, they became more complex, to the point that they were no longer simplified and in essence lost their innocent nature, thus no longer being cute. They grew appendages and became transmogrified into something more primal, which defeated the original intent. Picture a complex simplicity, and now you see the bi-polar smiley at wit’s end. Somewhere that threshold of innocence into pretentiousness got crossed. Like any virtue, cuteness can’t be forced, but must be nurtured. Less is more. Piling more on just covers up the core elements of the pile.

Also interesting is that so-called reality TV shows are at best untainted simulation (at worst, they’re an indictment against our collective quotient for reasonableness, but we all digress…). The mere fact that the shows are simulating reality doesn’t make them all that different from any other simulation. They are actually less real because they presume a greater reality which they do not possess, carrying a large presumption tax in the whole process. If you’re gonna say you’re real, you darned well better be somewhere in the vicinity of real or you lose extra reality points. Hypocrisy, after all, is worse than claiming nothing. What these shows end up accomplishing is a self-satire, and why people are fixated on their insensibility may not be uncovered for decades by neurosurgeons.

To add another viable element to the equation, regard Erasmus’ writing 501 years ago from The Praise of Folly:

“If a person were to try stripping the disguises from actors while they play a scene upon the stage, showing to the audience their real looks and the faces they were born with, would not such a one spoil the whole play? And would not the spectators think he deserved to be driven out of the theatre with brickbats, as a drunken disturber? ... Now what else is the whole life of mortals but a sort of comedy, in which the various actors, disguised by various costumes and masks, walk on and each play their part, until the manager waves them off the stage? Moreover, this manager frequently bids the same actor to go back in a different costume, so that he who has but lately played the king in scarlet now acts the flunkey in patched clothes. Thus all things are presented by shadows.”

We could thus venture to say that our ultimate role-playing is when we think we’re being ourselves but we’re instead playing to the crowd. Games themselves can be innocent in balance, yet if we view regular life as a game where we’re playing a part, then it’s all simulated. The games might be our attempts to circumvent having to confront the real stage where true-to-life decisions play out with stark consequences. But we fool ourselves thinking we can evade decisions, because indecision is also a decision. Decisions have to be made one way or another, and either we can make them or they’ll get made for us.

What a good life it is which is embraced in genuine fashion. Only if we choose to use that which identifies us individually are we happily avoiding borrowing our essence without giving, and thus freeing ourselves from our masks. What’s most real is rising from the ashes of virtual obscurity and standing out, being your true self and not the reality show version. We’re all survivors, but if our playground is constrained to painting by the numbers, there’s not much sport in that. First and foremost, absolutely accept no imitations of who you are, for you’re the real deal.

Untold Stories

All I could think of was flipping, over and over in slow motion. There were suddenly a dozen buzzing voices with just one blurry face.

My last normal thought had been of a mysterious-looking woman in my psyche's rearview mirror with long, wavy hair, making her way across the lawn. My eyes must have wandered just long enough to take my focus off where I was riding.

Another female voice seemed to be attached to the face in front of me. "Are you dead or not?" she asked.

I looked at this face containing the soft but purposeful voice, and mustered a few syllables to demonstrate my consciousness, which at the moment was highly overstated. "Send a— to move... and hers," which I think was supposed to mean, "Get a physician... get me up..." followed by now omnipresent thoughts of the wavy woman. I did all I could to hold my hand up to shade the blinding sun, and for some reason this personified voice grabbed my hand and started shaking it back and forth. She mumbled something about my being an imbecile, which I thought was rather odd considering I had absorbed the brunt of the punishment. So I guess no sympathy from that corner.

And then came a masculine voice. I squinted and saw a gentleman bringing me a wheelchair, but then he wouldn't get out of it, and if I had enough energy then I would've said, "What are you doing in my wheelchair? I need it more than you." But instead, I couldn't make my mouth say what I wanted it to. There was a strange sensation that my intentions were not getting across. I tried motioning, but had little mobility and less strength. The man bringing me my wheelchair kept examining me while talking to the others, but he didn't vacate the chair. I was vacillating between being perturbed at him and managing the sharp twinges in my neck.

Would I ever see the wavy woman again? Was she getting away while I lie motionless baking in the afternoon sun? What cruel twist of fate would dance a dream in front of me one moment to but yank it away and taunt me the next? The dichotomies of life are the killers, I thought to myself. Nobody disagreed with me, locked in my cocoon. Then everyone went away. They had to go somewhere, but I couldn't go. I knew they'd be back, because the park would be closing before long.

In one version, I flip over the handle bars and the earth comes up to greet me. This is replayed often. In another version, a hairy beast grabs my bike and throws me to the ground, leaving me for dead. I can't stop the scene from unwinding. My mind races, but it can't get away. The repetition lends itself to full memorization of every detail, from every angle. I soon become a figment of my own imagination.

"You OK?" Now everybody has robes and gowns on. They must've gone away to change their clothes. "Huh?" What do they mean, am I OK? When are they gonna move me — oh, wait, I'm not at the park any more. This is a rather strange dream.

A woman with long, wavy hair is covered by a mask, and I have a mask too, but it's a bigger mask. This isn't right. I have to leave. But I'm not going anywhere. I've been strapped down and gagged. Meanwhile, a bear cub rides around the table on my bike. It looks in good shape. At least all is not lost.

“Sir, you've fallen and sustained significant injuries,” the woman relays. “Get some rest.” And then it was hazy again.

When I awoke, more people were standing around me. They looked at me like they knew me, half-smiling and half-pensive. A woman who looked sad approached me. “It's Gaston, right?” she asked.

“Uhh... I don't know what you mean...” was all I could think of.

The woman came a little closer and leaned over. “You said your name was Gaston after you fell off the bike. I’m Marcelle,” and she winked. And she waited for some validation of her suspicions.

I just stared. I looked around for anyone who was offering clues. However, it was a cadre of empty faces. They were all in this together. It was then I figured that it was me against them. I had nothing to offer them, and they had even less to offer me.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I can't tell you what my name is.” And that was all I said. Minutes passed, but one by one they filed out, in a sorrowful march for the destitute. Heads hung low, casting long, dark shadows. I wondered where they were going. I wondered where they had just been. Everything still had a mysterious odor. Over the intercom, a soft but purposeful voice called out, “Doctor Jekyll to the critical ward.” Only later was I to realize that there was no intercom.

* * * * * * * *

“The gig is up. You heard me, the gig is most assuredly up.” No one moved for what seemed like eight seconds. Gunther, who had been staring at the ground trying to stay inconspicuous, looked up and asked sheepishly, “Just out of curiosity, what exactly can I infer from your declaration of the gig being up? And then later if there’s still time for some idle chit-chat, you could perchance enlighten us as to what all comprises a gig, in your humble lexicon, of course.” Olaf was not impressed. His eyes illuminated like a stoplight that had had one too many, and thick plumes of purple smoke began emanating from his flaring nostrils. “I absolutely hate when I get these sinus infections,” he bellowed. “OK, you — the one who thinks he’s on vaudeville — put down your walking stick and get over here.”

“The name’s P.J., sir,” he intoned.

“Is that capitalized or not?” Olaf inquired.

“No capitalization required, sir.”

“You’re lucky, because I’m a firm believer in capital punishment. It would appear that this is your lucky day.” He motioned for P.J. to stand over by the rest of them.

Meanwhile, Igor was remembering his previous breath like it was just yesterday. “Oh yeah, I forgot about you,” Olaf sarcastically confessed. And he eased up on Igor’s throat enough to let through tiny wisps of oxygen, about one molecule at a time.

“You don’t think I know the match was fixed? Gunther, you were duped.” Gunther, thereby having been duped, dropped his jaw melodramatically for effect. “No way.” “Yep. Tell ‘em, Igor. Oh, you can’t talk, can you? Hmm. That could be a problem...”

Olaf towered over the rest of them. His aura of supreme dominance resonated like a radio station on steroids. “You see, P.J. here was being fed messages via a highly integrated signal containing various Old and New Testament scripture. We at first became suspicious when his knight captured three successive pawns in classic Tiberian strategy. But the clincher when we finally intercepted the messages six moves prior to checkmate came with the striking blow of 1 Peter 2:25: ‘For ye were as sheep going astray, but are now returned unto the shepherd and bishop of your souls,’ which was curiously followed by a bishop’s advance to the left flank, limiting the king to only two possible moves. Yes, it’s true, and—”

A shot rang out from the stolid air, catching Olaf in his only Achilles heel — his Achilles heel. This sent him spinning to the floor, and Igor was released from his grasp.

Ursula sprang down from the rafters with technotronic highbeam maple-powered phaser — complete with gamma ray photon equalizer — in hand, and stood in front of Olaf, who was lying in the fetal position and chanting passages from the Apocrypha.

“So… we’re not so smart any more, are we?” She pointed her weapon at his forehead. “I’ll give you eleven seconds to reveal to me the location of your hideout,” she said.

“Only eleven seconds? I can’t possibly—”

“OK, we’ll make it fourteen seconds, but only because I’m in a good mood. You’re on the clock.” And all eyes were on Olaf.

“Ah— OK, you win. Our operation… is at a concealed location that you can only get to by—”

Bang! And in an instant, Olaf was dead.

“Who did that?” Ursula asked. “Who shot him? That was only twelve seconds by my watch. What did the rest of you have?”

“I had thirteen seconds,” said Gunther.

“I had twelve seconds,” said P.J..

“Me too,” said Igor.

“Well then,” said Ursula, “it appears someone around here has got a bad watch.” And she looked around the room. Everyone was empty-handed.

Ursula crouched down next to Olaf. “Do you have any last words, my friend?”

“He’s dead, Ursula,” reminded Igor.

“Oh, right.” Ursula examined the wound carefully. “It appears that the shot was fired from that direction,” and she pointed toward the doorway. “It came at a 28° angle at a velocity of approximately 1100 feet per second. Based on those factors and the barometric reading on the wall, I’d say there are only two people who could have fired that shot…”

* * * * * * * *

Two years later

Gaston lived out his days in the Rockies, communing with nature and trying desperately to ditch P.J., who in his spare time had started a cult of nomadic paleontologists. One day, P.J. (which stands for "P.J.") set an entire mountainside aflame with a lighter and some aerosol cans. He claimed it was an accident, however 384 aerosol cans were found strewn about within a 5-mile radius. He was to be sentenced to three years in prison, except that there were no police and no legal system, which got him off on a technicality. Gaston eventually decided to change his own name to Charlie Chaplin (no relation to Scott Joplin), citing the cane he was given by P.J. at his 80th birthday party as his inspiration.

Marcelle became a legend that was told throughout generations. Eventually, she reached the stratus of possessing magical qualities. Her modus operandi was to shrink herself so she could fit through keyholes. She was also said throughout the land to have been given wings by the gods, she was so highly regarded.

Ursula started the Church of Rigmarole, revolving around an ancient ritual of sacrifice. Ursula became prophetess and prime henchwoman. This religion splintered out into the Church of Albatross, the Church of the Righteousness in a Bottle, and the wholly unrecognized Wax Museum of Churches. The one common thread in each was the invitation of materialism into their lives in order to fully appreciate its intricacies. The church proper's objectives included the conversion of every monk in the land, and they were quite successful. This also served to deplete the membership of competing religions, thus vaulting the Rigmarole faith to Biblical proportions. Baptisms were prevalent throughout the land, with shrines erected everywhere in honor of the revered Rigmarolio.

Igor went back to his home planet of Cobol, from where he found it safer to observe his creations. Since hardly anyone believed in him, he figured there was no sense hanging planet Earth much longer. His favorite pastime became the smite, which he carried out with reckless abandon, and often with great satisfaction.

Gunther started a ring of organized crime, which he successfully combined with youth soccer leagues — that is, until the Church of Rigmarole infiltrated it and had converted all the soccer moms. But Gunther persevered, personally bussing the children to their games while simultaneously masterminding racketeering schemes.

Ursula and a certain Mr. Hesselman had gotten married years ago, and had sailed eastward never to be heard from again. Rumor had it that they had started a new colony in Antarctica. Ursula called it the new world, though Hesselman had been dubious, leery of their true navigational abilities.

Civilization’s last great hope, Lenny, was one of the few remaining believers, and he grew weary of the ills of society. He wanted to join a monastery, but even those weren't immune anymore. He spent the rest of his days in virtual exile. On his deathbed, as a final protest against the decadence of the world, he shot Gunther and then quickly repented just before taking his last breath. Igor then brought Lenny into his kingdom, where all was glorious to behold. Lenny experienced a peace he had only felt glimpses of before. Igor looked him in the eye and said, "Well, bud, looks like you and I are going to get to know each other pretty well, beings that no one else has bothered to show up, and it doesn't look like we'll have any more good candidates for a while…"

The Vacuous Knowledge Gap Between Us and Us

Mankind flatters itself that it knows a lot. By assumption, you can comfort yourself in an egocentric way that our understanding is the template for the universe. We compare ourselves to dolphins, the second-smartest living being, and we figure as smart as they are, if that’s our biggest competition then we must be pretty darn smart. By default, we crown ourselves kings of the known universe, and just cross out that nagging ‘known’ part because we should be able to round off, in the absence of other participants who failed to show up when we called roll. We’ll just say whatever we can see is all there is and call it good. It makes for a much tidier equation, and it doesn’t confuse the computer simulations.

One constantly hears in every discipline of study that “we’re just beginning to understand blah-blah-blah…” Oh really? How would we know we’re just beginning to understand a particular thing if we don’t understand it yet? We don’t know how much of it is out there to understand. For all we know, we may be understanding only one one-thousandth of it, but we wouldn’t know how close we really are until there are signs that we’re close, which we might only recognize in retrospect, since we might not know that they’re signs. So to say that we’re just starting to understand a specific thing gives us no context to work with.

I could just be starting to walk over to my neighbor’s house. Or I could be starting to walk from Los Angeles to New York. The fact that a walk is being started tells us nothing about the length or content of the journey. Saying we’re starting to understand something may turn out to mean that we’re still several centuries away from understanding it, or it may mean that we’ll get to the point where we understand about one-tenth of it and then hit a dead end, so it’s a meaningless phrase strangely reminiscent of a sales pitch. And yet it’s so common, because it’s a feel-good phrase. We have this psychological need to desire progress. Whenever we recognize an achievement, it represents progress. Even if we’re moving on a treadmill, at least it feels good to be moving.

It’s curious how mankind always seems to be just on the cusp of these things. How long can you continually be on the cusp before the cusp becomes an illusion?

If we don’t recognize what our current limitations might be as a people, we may think we’ve done more than we actually have and thereby become complacent, settling for something less than we can do. So ironically we have to think less of ourselves so that we can notice that more needs to be done, otherwise we might do less after thinking we’ve done more. Capiche?

We’ve shown a lot of ingenuity, and we continue to amaze ourselves (though if we were smarter we might not be as apt to be amazed?), so it’s evident that people are trying, going in the direction of advancement. But we don’t often take thoughtful looks at the flipside. So I give you…

Things mankind has demonstrated it is lousy at:

Economics
Either we don’t understand global and national economics, or we’re too enticed to ignore what we know in order to apply it honestly. If life were the game of Monopoly, then we’ve lost every time we’ve played it. We ended up mortgaging all the railroads, even though on paper it was a decent strategy, but then where are the hotels? Way to go, people with stratospheric IQs. Economics is tied in to sociology, which is tied in with human psychology, which is where we come in, and there are no signs we’re anywhere near understanding any of these to an appreciable extent enough to where we can say with a straight face and no fingers crossed we have a handle on it.

Government
Why is it that power corrupts? Whatever the reason, we feed the machine by letting money dictate who is in power. We bemoan the lack of rationality in politicians, but most everyone that gets into the more important positions turns into that type of puppet, so it would appear to be the process that is faulty. It seems to be the monster mankind has created. I don’t know if there’s a way to get out of it short of catastrophic occurrences forcing us to, because we don’t seem to be able to change it to any noticeable degree.

Government is a mechanism that grows in a self-serving manner. Rights and property typically aren’t given back to the people once they’re taken away. Once they have a grab, what incentive do they have to give it back if they don’t have to? Altruism? Are you kidding? Government is run like a business and politicians tend to act to keep themselves in office. To stay in business you have to look out for number 1 first and foremost.

So we’re still failing in many respects at having a representative government. Maybe a C- which was saved by the Constitution being handed in as the term paper in the nick of time.

Parking
Before you feel too high and mighty about the intellect of humans, consider how parking has continued to perplex us. Ruminate on that for a moment. Maybe we just got lucky on going to the moon. We invented cars a hundred years ago, and yet we still have nowhere to put them. Wouldn’t solving the mysteries of the universe be at least a few levels above figuring out how to allow enough room for 6x12 hunks of metal?

Of course they say we put a man on the moon and so we should apparently be able to do other things, but it could be that putting a man on the moon was an anomalous accomplishment which makes it appear like we can do most anything. For every great feat such as that, there are hundreds of deficiencies on a lesser scale. Just because you hit a home run doesn’t mean you’re capable of doing it every time you’re up to bat. Just because you had a #1 song doesn’t mean you can do that whenever you go to the recording studio. We reach peaks in all sorts of endeavors. They shouldn’t fool us into thinking that a high level applies across the board.

Social Behavior
While most people behave respectfully and in a non-criminal way, there is enough of a criminal element which is allowed by the law-abiding to greatly impact how society operates.

There’s enough dishonesty to require locks, passwords, barriers, firewalls, computer virus protection, security cameras, barbed wire fences, surveillance operators, security guards, security tags, more highly technical currency bills, receipts, contracts, signatures, attorneys, and his orchestra. We have these things to protect ourselves from ourselves! We’ve gotten to the point that we need more and more to protect us from those of us who can’t be honest. And theft also raises the cost of every item you buy. You’re paying for thieves, because they don’t pay anything for their merchandise.

In my view, the nice people are letting the mean people take advantage of them. The bullies recognize that they can get away with bullying, and so they keep it up. I don’t think punishments for crimes are severe enough, dissuading enough. People who commit major felonies or violent crimes should lose more of their rights. If they can’t be responsible enough to use their rights, then some of them should be taken away. If they can’t live in a free society without willfully sapping its energy, then they should be sent somewhere where such freedoms aren’t available, a la a prison colony, where they can reap the consequences of their acts. As it is, we’re subsidizing them. And they’re using us.

Whatever disincentives are currently in place aren’t dissuading criminals from rampant criminal behavior. As sad as it is, we have to protect ourselves from our own species, because in our existence, it isn’t safe to be out at night in many places, or to go into many neighborhoods. It’s so commonplace that we don’t think much about it. We just accept it as the way it is. We live in two worlds, and we try to forget that one of them wants to eat away at the other.

And while we can’t make people behave well, we can give them consequences to remove their influence from our free society. It’s idealistic to think we should all be able to get along. The reality is there are enough bad influences to make this impossible. Some people have no desire to get along. If we can deal with those influences first, then maybe we can talk about the rest of us getting along.

Time
We’re using a timing system that is impractical. It might have been cutting edge when it was first created, but it’s way behind the advances of the last few centuries. The industrial and technological ages have a lot to be impressed with, but we’ve failed to integrate key elements into them. If we want technology to be successful, then it needs to effect the improvement of other areas as well.

The system of seconds, minutes and hours is cumbersome and impractical. Yet we can’t seem to improve on something that is millennia old. It’s not because we think it’s a great system, but that we don’t have the intelligence yet to improve upon it. All our machines are calibrated to 60, 60, 24, a.m., p.m., so maybe it is the that machines are ruling us already. And only a machine would keep us in the pattern of five weekdays and two weekend days.

Driving
Get in the car for 20 minutes and see how many people have no clue what they’re doing, or many of them who do just don’t have any concept of anyone else on the road. We’re the most advanced species on the planet, and yet we continue to have difficulties negotiating our transportation modules. Chalk it up to impatience and over-emoting. Regardless of the causes, there is a plethora of rotten drivers out there. If Henry Ford had foreseen this day, he might have chosen to invent something a little less self-destructive.

Sitcoms
We’ve tanked. Desperate Housewives notwithstanding.

Health
About 25% of all adults in the U.S. smoke cigarettes. This is an indication that their health is not of utmost concern. About 40% of all traffic fatalities are due to drunk driving, and yet we’re more keyed on whether someone is wearing a seatbelt or not. 15,000 people die a year in the U.S. in auto accidents involving alcohol. That’s about 5,000 more than the number of people who are shot by guns in homicides. We’re gung-ho about regulating weapons because they are so immediate. However, our priorities are clearly not with the health aspect.

Junk food is easier and often cheaper to prepare than nutritious food, so nutrition many times is losing out to convenience. The U.S. in recent generations has become more overweight. Maybe video games, computers and cell phones will reverse this trend. Or not.

Natural Sciences
Not to ignore the achievements of science, but if we’re to be realistically objective about it instead of clouded in a self-congratulatory view, we would also acknowledge the vastness of its deficiencies. It’s true that we know more factually than the people who went before us, but we’re still tomorrow’s fools. It’s hard to acknowledge that, because it’s more comforting to think that we’re at or near the pinnacle, that we’re on that cusp.

Science can’t even accurately forecast tomorrow’s weather. Medicine has made leaps and bounds, although doctors still have to guess a lot and conduct numerous tests.

Religion
We’re not real good at religion either, though religion seems to be the only discipline that doesn’t regard mankind as having superior and authoritative intellect, the only one that doesn’t wield a human arrogance. So in this sense, religion makes fewer presumptions in admitting the deficiencies of humans. This makes it in practice the most realistic and honest approach. Unfortunately, the social aspects of religion have left much to be desired, but doctrinally, religion takes a rather pragmatic outlook.

It’s quite refreshing to have a view which takes a step back and asks more questions without making too many presumptions.

Critics say that religion incorporates all sorts of magical scenarios in its lore, citing claims of miracles being performed, and that such things are outlandish. And yet is the planetary structure of the universe or that of systems within organisms any less ludicrous or far-fetched? Which miracle is more incredible than our immune system, or the digestive system, or the circulatory system, or eyesight?

Conclusion
With increased knowledge should come the recognition of the lack of knowledge present. The funny thing about knowing is that you can only know what you know, but not what you don’t know. So for whatever’s remaining, you can only guess. And we don’t know how much that is. We can paint various scenarios that in theory put us very close to solving the unknown, but there’s nothing that says those scenarios would be any more accurate than the rest.

The fact that we as humans are still collectively incompetent in several key areas would seem to offer a clue that we likely aren’t all that competent in any key area, even the ones where we pour billions of hours of human research. There’s no reason why any discipline should be magically exempt simply due to volume or extra effort. And that’s what religion is doing is making a recognition of this.

For those who would ask regarding the advancements of mankind, “Are we there yet?”, for all we know, we haven’t even gotten out of the garage. But be sure you’re strapped in for when we go over that cusp.

Same Old Similar New

What at first seemed to be the norm would later turn into the radical abnorm. But then it was time to stop putting off the inevitable, lumber out of bed, and go track down once and for all whoever invented mornings. It was a cruel joke, us being the punchline. They probably thought it a novel idea at the time of its inception, but the sorry morning was destined for failure from the start. Weighing the perks against the drawbacks, it seemed obvious. The time of the day they picked to have it was sorely doomed. And trying to follow the act of sleep is inviting trouble all around. Not to mention that sleep can be narcissistic to the point of asking for multiple encores. Whatever comes after would have to be anticlimactic. Add to that the fact that sleep comes with pillows — anybody just strive to top that, and go down in quicksand trying.

On this day of days, I would take on the role of covert operative, so secret that even I was unsure of my own title, but glad to be doing it. I always got up for those sort of gigs. As a child, I loved being clandestine even though I couldn’t spell the word, and now all that training of sneaking through the cupboards and hiding under beds was paying off. Even years later, it was still difficult to refrain from infiltrating the cupboards in whatever abode I might find myself in. Zorro had his mark, and me, I had to raid the cupboards before I would leave a place. People knew their Nilla Wafers were in jeopardy, and they’d lock them up if they thought I was on their trail. This eventually got me on the outdoor beat, where Nilla Wafers were nearly extinct, if not for picnics, from which I had my pick. Not quite cupboards, but beggars can’t tell people their sob stories when they’re dealing in espionage, and I was wallowing in it.

I was to frequent the midtown park and track down a supposed agent from stealth forces before he could identify his target, promising to be an apt challenge for my acumen. More details than this would complicate the issue past its relevant parts.

All I had or needed to go by was that he/she/it spoke an unusual Pidgin dialect, although since being fluent in four other languages and doing a mean impersonation of Jackie Gleason, it would be difficult to get him/her/it to show the aforementioned shortcoming.

Upon entering the park from the east side, I bumped into a fellow in a Gaelic trenchcoat and immediately asked him what he thought of the local transit system in general, as well as how he would summarize the concept of onomatopoeia. His response, though brusque and uncharacteristically non-committal, suggested a genuine unfamiliarity not replicable by most stealth agents. We exchanged business cards, tipped our caps, and went on our way.

I chose a strategic spot near the playground, since playgrounds are typically frenetic, replete with distractions, thus ripe for producing illusory effects. In short, it would be the ideal environment for my desired cover.

After polishing off three chapters of The Communist Manifesto without incident, I turned my attention to my picnic surroundings, trying to ascertain what, if anything, was out of place. One entity would carry with it unique traits that would differentiate it from the rest of those present. The cumulative flow of the crowd, the billowing leaves on the trees, the rhythm of the playground swings, the yapping of dogs of various and sundry breeds… these all came together into one whole. But one thing would be out of step, if I could just key into it. All that is natural flows, but that which is not natural is intermittent, haphazard, non-random, and thereby artificial, thus giving itself away despite its best efforts, by its very nature.

The best way to “see” is to block out whatever you don’t need to see. There was much around me I didn’t need to see. It was just noise, and I placed it into the backdrop. This left me four points of reference that were competing for most unlike themselves. Now reduced to a simple multiple choice question, the answer would soon become apparent.

A clown juggling on a unicycle thought he had me fooled, but I knew he was a plant. I didn’t know how I knew, but I did. Instinct doesn’t come with explanations, and if you wait for them to come, you’re gonna miss a lot of buses.

I anticipated the patterns to unfold as they always did. To the well-trained observer, these processes can be timed with the precision of a meticulously orchestrated sonata, where each instrument comes in on cue. Life plays in various rhythms, though few notice.

A conspicuously inconspicuous man at 6 o’clock had caught my peripheral attention. His blank stare betrayed his thought processes. He was looking nowhere and looking everywhere. Unlike everyone else, he appeared to be concocting his thoughts rather than merely living them.

I became further suspicious of him when I noticed he was talking intermittently into his umbrella. I thought it a peculiar conversation tool. I thought that, because I would’ve opted for a croquet mallet or an opera ticket. Perhaps it was all a matter of style, but nonetheless I thought it prudent to make a note of it. I regarded him closely from that point on. I made it a point to blink only when he did so that he wouldn’t see my eyes closed. I was in his grill and he didn’t even know it. Or if he did, he didn’t give any indication. He continued his pattern of glancing around at nothing in particular.

I turned slightly in his direction to point my cuff link camera his way. This was going to be my moment in the sun, where all the planets would converge on my behalf, the elements at my behest, the setting to become my stage, where I direct the cast to the finale.

In an instant, he turned into pixie dust, and I thought that was rather inconvenient for him. Only the umbrella remained. But I dare not touch it. After an awkward pause of about 18 minutes, which was followed up by another awkward pause of about 6 hours, and then a comfortable pause of 29 seconds, I walked over to the dust, which had already started forming very tiny dunes reminiscent of a miniature beach possibly frequented by really small people. I regarded him further. Once having been convinced he was no longer staring at me, I scrawled in his aftereffects the words “Lyle Was Here.” I didn’t know his name, but I took him for a Lyle. I thought if he wasn’t, the dunes would have to make the correction, because I wasn’t to be responsible.

Sure enough, the next day when I returned to that same spot, it now said, “Lyle Wasn’t Here.” The dunes had spoken, garnering from me a newfound respect. And the umbrella? It was long gone, possibly opened by a vagrant and caught up into the wind where it would be tossed like an ill-fated Caesar salad and then sold at an auction for a fraction of the original cost. But it was inconsequential. It was so inconsequential that nobody thought about it anymore. They thought instead about the absence of umbrellas. And the fact that anything but umbrellas could be seen. This was all that occupied anyone’s minds. It was as if brainwashing was going on just prior to the rinse cycle.

I wiped away the message, and then carved out, “Then what is his name?” From that point, I could think of little else to do to while away the time for that day, so I called it a day even though it had already been called one on the calendar. Not wishing to be redundant, I deferred to the calendar and thought of other things I could call it instead. Upon further reflection, it seemed rather pointless to be naming it something else, and I had no idea how I had gotten backed into that corner. I called for a recount and pleaded the fifth. And then I punted. To say I was desperate would have been like saying a monk was on fire, because it didn’t adequately describe the situation.

When I came back that next morning, the message had only been updated to say, “What’s whose name?” This was a rather quaint predicament we had here. I wiped it clean again, and scrawled, “Lyle’s. Duh…” I seemed to be dealing with amateurs here, but I stayed patient and focused on the task at hand. This would require perseverance of the most extreme kind.

As fate would have it but par for the course, I wasn’t able to return the next day because of my poorly planned double hernia operation. They were having a two-for-one offer and I couldn’t very well pass it up. So I sent a courier to the park to take a picture of the dirt. While I was reclining in the recovery room, the courier brought me an assortment of color prints to display across the table. Finding the picture I needed, I misread the caption the first time, but then I realized after clearing my eyes that it said, “jk, it actually was Lyle.”

I was growing a tad irritated, so I wrote to whoever it may have concerned, “This is getting somewhat tedious. Can I text you?” And of course, I had to wait until the next day to find out. The suspense was nearly unbearable. Nothing I did for the remainder of the day could compare to my anticipation for what might transpire on the next. Breathing was about all I could handle. I forced myself to breathe just out of curiosity.

So on Thursday, I sojourned down to the park once more, eager for the next revelation, only to find inscribed “Excuse me? You want to text a pile of dirt?” I could tell this was going to be challenging. I checked with my cell phone company, and they didn’t have any plans that seemed to fit my current needs.

I mused at the sudden lack of options I now had. The sands sifted through my fingers and became part of the destiny of the progressing wind. I was a sail being directed by its wiles. I gave it a little time to see if it wanted to change course. It didn’t. So I didn’t ask it to.

With nothing left to do and nowhere to do it in, and having looked around for missing as well as found clues, I decided it would be prudent to pack it all in. My mission had now completed in a most incomplete way, though I had accomplished the primary objective, which was to rid the world of arch enemies while still retaining all the other kinds of enemies.

My report would contain a synopsis of my encounters and the accompanying lessons learned. I would tell of the near fatal mistake of confusing my earpiece with a clam shell. Of the symbolism of the dunes as a horizontal passage through the hourglass, oddly making it more linear than its inherited chronology. Of the pastiche of obligatory dunes-as-life scenarios, of the will of the human spirit to carry on in the face of all obstacle, of the notion that nothing is cut-and-dried with the possible exception of beef jerky, of the simplistic nature of art which parrots an undersimplified lifestock, of how obfuscation keeps a lot of people in business and a lot of other people wondering what they overlooked, of umbrella as metaphor only to the extent that it isn’t already the center of all we attempt and capture within our few decades roaming around the planet like a horde of banshees late for a dinner appointment with the establishment, as if dining somehow had to be rushed into as well as being ubiquitous in the social arena (would you like parsley with that, madam?). Of mice and other minutiae. I would contain my report within those bounds, a soliloquy for half history. And then I would wriggle back into the woodwork, to not be seen, heard, or rumored until the delicate equilibrium of the universe was once again disturbed, for a call to have my services rendered, rescuing the elements back to stasis for a time, while ever-approaching the ideal. Which is why we can never return to a norm that doesn’t exist, the lesson now learned.

If Statements as Experiment

Well, now that you’ve started reading, I might as well humor you. Isn’t it funny that to humor someone has nothing to do with what’s funny, and to say it’s funny how something is has very little to do with humor. This language was really patched together like forming a castle out of a mudslinging contest. And this is what happens when you have a language by committee. So the fact that these ruminations come in English is a big strike against them. If only this were en Francais… If only.

The other day, I was trying to think of something. Talk about unlofty goals. A person can always think of something, unless your mind is a blank, in which case you’ve just filled your mind with the thought that it’s blank. Oh... the other day. That’s kind of a non-committal reference to a day that is specifically “the other day,” as if there were only one such day. No, not that other day, the other other day. Yeah, that one.

Also, in the interest of full disclosure so that you know where my devotions lie, I’m representing one side in a bitter discrimination suit. In Rodentia vs. Professional Sports Teams, I’m defending those sad little animals who never get used as mascots. Nobody ever calls their team the Rats, the Hamsters, the Varmints, or the Critters, etc. It has caused irreparable emotional harm to my clients. Their friends make fun of them, they can’t get high-profile jobs, and they’re discriminated all the way down to the very bottom of the food chain. If you thought getting picked last for kickball was bad, wait till you get picked last to eat. Slim pickins there at the end of the food chain line. You get morsels, and that’s about it. “But I don’t like morsels, Mommy.” “Tough! You eat your morsels and be grateful, Theodore. Those are delicious morsels.”

I wouldn’t bring this up, but enough people have asked about it to behoove me to comply. For the record, I would actually write on my blog more often, but opposable thumbs are nothing to be flaunting at the rest of the animal kingdom, so I want to be sensitive to that.

We take a lot of things for granted, simply assuming that things had to be a certain way, but not realizing that there could have been many various scenarios. Life doesn’t really have to be as simple and accommodating as it is. For instance, what if we had to relieve our bladder every five minutes? Think how inconvenient that would make living. Don McLean would’ve had to sing part of American Pie from the restroom. All sorts of logistical problems would arise. The next time you feel inconvenienced by something in life, just think how it could be worse. For one, our elbows could be attached to our knees. Think of all the great dance moves that would generate... And it would make it rather problematic to put on a sweater. Picture trying to dress a pretzel without upsetting its ecosystem. No fair pulling limbs off and then putting them back on.

Or what if gravity went away from the Earth instead of toward it? That would make things fun, wouldn’t it? If you dropped something, you’d be in a world of hurt without a paddle. With reverse gravity, things would be cleaner on average, but then if you lost something, it wouldn’t mysteriously pop up again later. I suppose unless you were looking in Aurora Borealis.

Type the word “hyphen” (without the quotes). (And don’t type in parentheses either) Wait a minute, they just used the quotes to tell us what we’re supposed to type, but we’re not allowed to? How exactly is that fair? In other words, do what I do, but just not literally. Only somewhat literally... That’s a direct translation, by the way. And you can quote me on those hyphens.

Or what if all the letters of the alphabet rhymed? Literacy rates in English-speaking countries would plummet. Become very suspicious if there’s a shift in pronunciation toward Farsi, I’m just sayin’. Do I need to wink to get the point across?

The funniest news story of last year was when the media kept pointing out that the people on a certain boat were pirates. They keyed on that word over and over as if it were aired up and being used in a volleyball match. Their fixation on the word was both telling and laughable. They had found a legitimate usage for a dramatic term from lore, and then they drilled it into the ground until it had become a fine dust. It underscores the apoplectic desperation of the media and their lack of shame in glorifying whatever they can find to plaster to the wall. They’re less interested in reporting the conditions than they are in packaging them to sound incredible, amazing, fantastic, wondrous, (insert superlative of choice here and deposit 25 cents).

People will say they’re having problems thinking straight, yet it’s much more interesting to have it meander. I figure why not take the scenic route? After all, the road less travelled has fewer potholes. Ponder that one at your next lemming convention.

Perspective can give you a lot to consider. Dr. Seuss taught us a lot of what-ifs, causing us to think what it might be like to have a stain that somehow transferred to everything throughout the house, and then out into the snow. Nothing could get that stain out. (This was before Tide came out with the new-improved whitening crystals) Frankly, I was a little stunned that Thing V and Thing W had difficulty with it, knowing their background in disaster recovery.

Or what if it took 14 months for the Earth to revolve around the Sun? Calendars would be heavier. That would surely alter everything. Not to mention the calendar industry would be more profitable. Cosmologists take note: there’s a great marketing opportunity here for a little fudging of the numbers after a surprise increase in sunspot activity. And we’d get older slower, so people would welcome the change. How would you like to be 48 instead of 56?

I wonder why is it exactly that people often dislike hypocrites more than those who are brazenly bad? (I ask you that in expectation that you’ll have the solution, even though it may have appeared to be an obvious rhetorical device. But now that I’ve had to explain my intent, it kind of ruins the mood. Next time, you’re on your own.) We don’t seem to like phonies, yet if someone doesn’t pretend to be good, then there’s some level of genuineness which receives acceptance. Hardened criminally defiant mobster? Well, at least you admit it. But claim to have done some magnanimous gesture like visited kids in hospitals, when it turns out you were glamorizing it for a photo op, you should be hanged at the stake and left for dead.

Or what if there was no green? For one thing, golfers would be in a quandary, with nothing to shoot for. But that would be the least of our worries. Vegetables would be any even tougher sell. Rainbows would have an empty spot on them. The flags of Nigeria and Saudi Arabia would be indistinguishable. There’d be little point to Green Tea, now wouldn’t there? All things we shouldn’t take for granted.

As such, I feel bad for the bird called the kite. They can’t be understood except within context. If I didn’t clarify the genus, you wouldn’t know to what I was referring. They have the complex of the bird formerly known as paper on a string. That’s good for two visits a week to a shrink. Although, it’s still probably not as bad as the swallow. Or the gulp. Now, those are birds in identity crisis. We think it’s bad being named Grenelda or Thaddeus, but it’s nothing compared to those inheriting fowl linguas.

Or what if Alex Trebek weren’t the host of Jeopardy! for 53 years running? I wonder what they’re gonna do if/when he retires. They better get somebody else named Alex, otherwise it’s going to sound very weird when a contestant says, “I’ll take Forensic Subterranean Albatross Migration Patterns for 500, Alex.”

Ultimately, as a child I was relieved that pink snow is only pretend, and later learned that green eggs only happen in college dorms, but it’s always fun to mull over how else it might be… with Thing Y and Thing Z.

Things What I Might Be Good at Or Not

Within the world of employment, there’s a wide array of available occupations to keep a person busy. The options can be dizzying, so narrowing it down seems to be the trick to finding one’s niche.

I’ve taken proficiency tests before, and the tests have strongly indicated that I’m very good at taking proficiency tests. In those, they say you would do well as a stamp collector, the host of Family Feud, lifting semi-heavy boxes without dropping them on your toes, a fedora expert, a welterweight boxing champion, a contestant on Family Feud, a ferris wheel operator, a coconut grower, the guy who waves the checkered flag in stock car races, and a situational ethics committee chairman. Afterward, you’re scratching your head wondering where you should focus your energies. You’re more confused than before you started.

Rather than fog up your mind with things that may or may not pertain to your special abilities, I prefer relying on my intuition to point me to areas I could consider. I’d probably test poorly on some of these things, but the test can’t see the intangibles of a person, or in other words know what rotten work habits and personality quirks you have. “Hey, it says I can be an effective plant manager for a distribution center despite the fact that all my communication is through whistling. Who knew?”

With that in mind, I’ve considered the types of things where I could at least potentially be proficient. If you have any connections in any of these areas, e-mail me with the specifics and I’ll take a look into it.

Consulting
I actually like the idea that people would need to come to another person to consult about something, all because that person knows more about it than they do. They would ask this person, “Am I doing it right?” “How would YOU do it differently?” and “What is your undeniably expert opinion on the subject?” A consultant is in a good position. By the very nature of their situation, people are admitting that they are inferior and the consultant knows more than they do. If there are disagreements, the consultant can say, “Hey, remember you had to come to me to consult about this. That means I’m more important.” If I had to do that, I think I could manage.

Employment Agency
My job would be to help people get jobs. It would be justified if only for the condition that other people didn’t have jobs. If everybody were adept enough at finding their own jobs, then I wouldn’t have this job, and then I’d need to find another job, and possibly have to go to the employment agency. So I guess that means we’ll always need one, thus it’s good job security. But yet I feel like an employment agent is seen as flaunting what they’ve got, i.e. - “So… let’s see if we can find for you what I already have. I don’t need me like you do.”

Woodworking
Hammers are trained to hit nails, and when they see them on a finger or a thumb, they say, “Cool!” If I were a carpenter, I’d have a plethora of bruises on my thumbnails. It’s not that my aim isn’t good with tools, but if I try to talk and think at the same time, for some odd reason my attention gets shifted about 5 degrees one direction or the other, and that’s all it takes. But take note that I don’t cuss when that happens. I go right past cussing and into existential wanderings about the necessity of my existence. After all, as we know, the truly great emotions have no sufficient words to accompany them.

Delivery
I wouldn’t mind being a UPS or FedEx driver. They take people’s autographs all day, engage in smalltalk about the same thing 62 times until they’ve perfected the obligatory snicker, and get to see people react like it’s Christmas again. I wonder how many consecutive times I could stomach “Oh, my package is here!”, but that just comes with the territory. The main reason I’d want to be a delivery driver is that they get to park right in the middle of the street. I wish I could do that whenever I felt like it. “No parking spaces available… No worries, I’ll just stop my truck right where I am. All you people behind me… adapt, okay? We’ve got packages to deliver here.” That is the true definition of power.

Window Washing
Are you kidding me? If all the windows were on the first floor, then fine. But when those guys get out there dangling from a skyscraper like a cheap wind chime, that’s a little post-apocalyptic for me. My heart just wouldn’t be in it to the degree it would need to. Besides, is it really that important to have clean windows anyway, that we need to have people doing high-wire acts with a squeegee to achieve this? I don’t think historians will look back on this period and conclude, “The post-modern homo sapien really kept its buildings looking shiny, a sign of a highly advanced civilization.” I’m just not on board with that. I would certainly be one of those undedicated window washers. I could see me up there, bringing along with me every possible suction cup I could find, and my whole body would resemble the lower left quartile tentacle of an octopus. They’d have to pry me off of that building with a crowbar. But I’d rather be stuck to it than hanging from a line that’s nothing more than a cadre of measly little wires rolled up together.

Dunking
In my prime, I had the qualifications for a top-notch dunker in pools. If not for the knee injury, I could’ve gone pro. It’s probably not something you can teach, because either you’ve got the technique or you don’t. I remember one time we were at a big pool at a youth conference in Monterey, and two of my cousins (who shall remain Ryan and Keith) were trying to dunk me two-on-one, and even together despite all their efforts, they couldn’t get me under. I even dunked them a few times for good measure. You know, it can get a little tedious just standing there loitering in a pool. Then they got the idea to go find a bigger, older teenager to come do it for them, and so they get this guy and he comes over and wrangles me, but he couldn’t get me under, so I dunked him too. They got a big kick out of that.

But my crowning achievement at the discipline was going toe-to-toe with Henry High. (Henry, if you’re still around, I’ll put you on my Christmas list) One day in the pool at P.E., Henry and I somehow got into the pre-dunk grip. Henry was a pretty big kid. It was said he weighed around 300 pounds. Myself, I was tipping the scales at 145 if I had brought enough quarters for lunch money that day, so tipping is a relative term. I could feel Henry’s strength as if it were a solid brick wall. Henry could sense that he had me where he wanted me. But as Henry tried to dunk me, I held my ground, and in one of the most spectacular displays of athleticism and grit, by some stroke of fate I ended up playing Henry to a draw. For weeks to come, I heard kids saying, “He’s the guy that Henry High couldn’t dunk.” And then they’d ‘ooo’ and ‘ahh’ as I sauntered past them in what must’ve seemed like slow motion. That was the period when I grew three inches taller within just a month. So now I’m anticipating eventual induction into the Dunkers Hall of Fame once my steroid scandal clears, but it’s really too bad I never made a career of it.

Beekeeping
I believe it would be enthralling to keep bees. To be the keeper of the bees. Keepers carry with them a lot of authority. Eventually I could work my way up to the keeper of a gate, though in the meantime I could possibly start with a stationary fence until I got more comfortable. Keepers of the fence don’t get a whole lot of credit, but it’s a noble line of work. If it weren’t for keepers of the fence, the gate wouldn’t serve much purpose. At any rate, history is likely going to show that a great deal of the influential people were catapulted to immortality through the prism of beekeeping, so I’m leaving this option open.

Auto Sales
Were I a car salesman, I’d most likely talk people out of buying cars instead of getting them to buy them. I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to talking up something I didn’t really believe in, and cars aren’t something I believe in. It’s just this thing I have about having a conscience. I’d say to the customer, “What do you want a new car for? They depreciate like cement blocks. What’s wrong with your other car anyway?” And on top of that, I’d be bringing seller’s remorse into the psychological spectrum, opening up a whole new field, causing chaos everywhere.

I wouldn’t be comfortable in general being associated with the whole auto salesman shtick. The car dealership hires someone to sell their cars for them. Fine. But then they don’t give them any authority to make the deal. “Let me go ask my mommy. She’ll tell us if it’s OK.” Then they come back and say, “After I told the oracle your offer and he inquired as to what level of gullibility you are, he said we can only go down this far. Remember, I’m only the messenger, and my boss had half his face burned and can’t talk to you face to face. They pay me $70,000 a year (i.e.-you pay me) to tell you which cars you want, and to convey hallowed information coming from on high. It’s a very complex set of skills I went to Harvard Auto School for. But be assured that we value your business, and we thank you for playing our game with us.” Sure, I could say those words, but I wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face, and that would kind of ruin the whole mood thing.

I like to go into car dealerships as the prospective buyer, and when they come back from their little powwow with the powwows that be and present their counter-offer, I tell them that I now need to go consult with my special mentor behind the curtain, who they’re not allowed to see. Then I get out my puppet stage, and have a few conversations between my hands, which are covered with different colored socks. When I’m done, I reveal to them what the other sock advised me to say. “Sock doesn’t like offer. No, no… He says you trying to bamboozle us. We can offer $14,500, but sock go no higher.” After we go back and forth with the whole process, eventually I hand them the sock and say, “Here… can you let my people talk to your people, and get this settled once and for all? Let your boss and the sock work it out. Besides, I’m missing Desperate Housewives as we speak, and it’s really cramping my style.”

Teaching
Being a teacher in grade school would surely be interesting. For a day or so. After that, how do teachers stay motivated? I’d be waiting for the field trips more eagerly than the students. I’d even base 95% of their grade on the field trip.

One thing I’d do to correct a hundred years of improper teaching is to not have a part of the grade based on attendance. As a student, if you know the material, you know the material. Showing up doesn’t really take any special skill related to the subject. Now you have to know it with style? Sure, you aced all the tests, but did you keep your seat warm in the process? That’s what we want to know.

Now, they could have a class just called Attendance 101. And they would see how well each of the students could show up. They’d have class every day, and the object would be to be there. Once they were all there, they would chant the mantra from Horton Hears a Who: “We’re here, we’re here!” As such, 100% of the grade would be based on attendance. They would actually celebrate as each child walked into the classroom, giving each other high fives. “You made it today! You didn’t get lost or abducted by aliens! You’re going places, I tell you.” They would have a big final at the end of the semester, where they would hold the class in some obscure undisclosed location, and the students would have to find it. For the student well-versed in attendance, it would be a piece of cake.

Pilot
I wouldn’t mind being a commercial airline pilot as long as they let me get off the plane before it took off. Other than the flying part, I really do like planes. I especially enjoy the whole integrated instrument panel layout, which is quite impressive. There’s nowhere to even hang an air freshener, because they don’t have rear-view mirrors, plus the cockpit is lined with wall-to-wall gadgets anyway. I wish I had a car that took ten minutes to turn on all the levers needed to start it up. It seems so much more important to commence driving than to simply put it in gear and go. While riding with me, if you hear me say “flaps down,” don’t be alarmed as I monkey a little with the visors. They’re precision instruments that must be accurately calibrated. Rear-view mirror checked, side mirrors checked, defrost on (always start on defrost so as not to upset the cabin pressure), flaps down, brake off, radio set to the proper station for the occasion (94.5 for driving over the Alps, for example), windows up, seatbelts securely buckled (there’s nothing worse than a partially-buckled seatbelt), doors locked, ashtrays in their upright position, and finally ready to leave the driveway. As a side note, I’m late for appointments quite a bit.

Lifeguard
A little too intimidating for me. If they instead called it something like Danger Guard, or Mishap Guard, I think I could handle that. But otherwise, that’s putting a tad too much pressure on someone sitting in his boxers with a whistle getting a tan. Oh, and you are the Saver of Lives, if you don’t mind. Try not to let that get to you. Want some lotion?

Prime Minister of Kyrgyzstan
I would serve the people of Kyrgyzstan well. Following on the policies outlined in my campaign, I’d be able to maintain the aristocracy inherent within the system. I would become beloved throughout the land, and go down in the history books as the impetus for restoring civility to that region. If only I could get the proper financing. Won’t you consider donating $5, $10, even $11,000 to my campaign? Send in unmarked bills to the address at the bottom of the screen. (No, don’t look under your monitor, you dunderhead)

Law Enforcement
I think I could be a police officer. I went on a ride-along a few years back, and you get to zoom 80 miles an hour through the middle of town. I’ve driven through the city of Salem on my own, and normally it takes about 15 minutes from one side to another if you catch the lights right, but on this night we traversed most of it in under 3 minutes. Of course, we had to slow down to 40 at the major intersections. As the police, you can make cars pull over for you just by flashing a light and siren. Still, the biggest draw, of course, is that policemen can park their car in the middle of the street if they want. They’ll even block both lanes if they feel like it. Few things are cooler than that.

Radio Disc Jockey
“Hey there, kids! Welcome to another hour of non-stop music, where you guess the song, and we don’t tell you what it is.” I could do that. Say into the microphone that here comes a song. And then play the song. And then when it’s over, say that was a song. A disc jockey is another way of saying narrator, but narrator doesn’t sound as enticing. I don’t know what the utility of having a narrator for music is, but I guess it can serve like a pep talk, and it’s fun to think that someone else is listening to the music along with you. Although if they would say what the name of the song was, then I might be a little more convinced they were paying attention to it. Here’s what I think happens: They start a string of six uninterrupted songs (besides, I hate those interrupted ones like Lady GaGa’s pre-eminent “Wax On, Wax Off” which comes with a built-in commercial and separate jingle* from the sponsor) (*-isn’t it just a little odd to have a jingle inside of another song? Yeah, I thought so.), and then they take a catnap, setting their alarm for 20 minutes, and then they wake up just in time to say, “Some great stuff there from The Who.” That’s how The Who got their name, incidentally. The DJ’s didn’t know whose songs they were playing, so when a band came along that played right into that, they were an instant hit. They even called their album at the time “Who’s Next,” thus relieving DJ’s everywhere of any responsibility whatsoever, and that’s how Pete Townshend became a legend.

Bus Driver
Even a school bus driver would be quite a good gig. Primarily because of that stop sign on the side of the bus, which you can invoke on a moment’s notice and halt all the traffic in the world behind you. Not only do you block their right of way, but you can command them to stay where they are. That’s something even a FedEx driver can’t do. As a matter of fact, as a school bus driver I would be able to tell those FedEx drivers that they had to stop behind me! Oh, man… That would be several levels beyond awesome. Where do I sign up?

Modeling
It’s the classic case of, “I know he can get the job, but can he do the job? I’m not arguing that with you… I’m not arguing that with you… If I said that, I would be wrong. I know he can get the job, but can he do the job?” But yes, I can pose. I can be robotronic like a mannequin. It’s one of my fortes, in fact. I was born to not move. What’s the big deal?

Spy
Spies are so good as staying under the radar that you never hear about them. How many spies do you know or have you heard of in the news? It’s like they’re invisible. You could have three of them living in your house with you right now and you wouldn’t know it. They’re very careful to clean up their crumbs after meals, and they use hand signals to talk, so you typically wouldn’t notice them. And they’re cool with whatever it is you’re watching on TV too, so they’re adaptable. I think I could do that.

Exterminator
Take out the ‘ex’ part, and I’m there. It’s so close to being the ultimate job title. Or they could also call it “Warlords of the Termite” and get more response. Wouldn’t that be a hip business to have? You get to use flamethrowers, magic potions, hazardous chemicals… What’s not to like? It’s like you’re going to battle every day, to defend humanity against the evil kingdom of critters. You against the smarmy vermin. They may have the advantage of being a stealth operation, but you have all the secret weapons. They can retreat into the walls and under the house, while you have the ability to infiltrate their communities with toxic substances and render them powerless. It’s a very prestigious position, and one that is probably the main target of the insect world. When ants go to take over the world, they’re not going to flood the general theater as we might suspect, but they’re going to go after the exterminators and break down our power base first. When those guys start falling, we know we’re in trouble.

In Conclusion
People ought to put these kinds of things on their resumes. “I possess the necessary skills to be a great engineer, coal miner, stock broker, anthropologist, bartender, marketing representative, shoeshine boy, argyle sock repairman, car parking attendant, or cockroach trainer. This shows how versatile as well as desperate I am.”

Negotiate You For Lunch

We are philanthropic, humanistic, almost too much altruistic. We nod, shake hands, offer gratitude and bid our fellow citizens the warmest of well-wishes. All is well in urbania when nothing’s at stake, for words are free and we’ve got plenty. Smiles are even on sale while supplies last.

Yet when met with the prospect of transaction, the common man bristles, braces, grimaces, turns into a trace of his former self, a monetized bot ready to pounce on his prey. A veritable cha-ching waiting in the wings.

The rest of the time when out of the grimy clutches of capital gains, we uphold our integrity, look for the overall good, are concerned about otherman’s welfare. Ah, we bring elaborately decorated cookies to mark/mask the festive occasion, bestow cards, hand out compliments, give pats on the back, and tote an array of atta-boys, without a hint of counting the cost.

But lurking under that unassuming persona is another, more disinterested cause. With cold, hard cash on the line, we are no longer the same compassionate soul. We curiously transmogrify into a merchant who can ill afford to show any scintilla of mercy toward what has now become his and/or her inferior opponent. We must give no ground. We must take them for whatever we can, by whatever means necessary, for the greater good of the account de la banke. We must act the bear. We must squeeze out all that is available at our disposal, and wait till the last drop has paid dividends.

For if a bartering is to take place, the much too common man is compelled to make it his own personal triumph. When selling, it is beneficial for the benefactor to get everything it can, even ask a tad higher than comfortable in order to err on the side of swindle, and don’t come down any more than what would turn the sweetest profit for you.

Toy with them, tease them, use psychological warfare against them if necessary. Put on your best emotive suit to utilize those disingenuous aspects of comfort, reassurance, security which will be your allies. Use anything it takes to accomplish your aim of being victorious over your conquest. Morals go out the door whenever one’s treasure is at stake. It changes everything. The rules are now different, and it’s what you get out of it that matters, irrespective of how you got there.

Is it any wonder we put on the guise of magnanimity at gift-giving by removing the price tag? This should tell us something. We instinctively perceive that currency clutters up the social arena, which is kind of where we tend to live. As such, lending to acquaintances is only valuable if you both never expect and never want to see them again. You give a loaner to become one, yet such a strategy works only with enemies but fails with comrades.

Listen closely to the innocuous buzzwords: To achieve an illusory financial success, there must be one you have succeeded over. Money is therefore an achievement. And it denotes the embodiment of success. You have, after all, reached ultimate portfolio. Alas, it sadly tells you what you’ve become.

The brutal economic philosophy does not have to render a particular side in the battle powerless, but only the unsuspecting with a conscience. Indeed, you can parlay the strategy from either vantage point. As buyer, give no ground and provide no reward to the seller, who was once you. Grant no space to your nemesis. Talk them down, then down some more. Don’t be satisfied with anything reasonable to them. The goal, after all, is for you to win. And the bigger you win, all the better. Then later you can boast about how you mercilessly took someone and made a deal that puts others, or even yourself, to shame.

For every “I got a great deal,” there’s a countering inference to “I ripped them off good.” It’s no doubt win-win, because I got what I wanted, and they were tricked into thinking they got what they wanted after realizing, of course, that their wishes were too grandiose in the first place and I generously brought them back to a stark reality and put them in their rightful place. Hey, they didn’t have to agree to it. When you think about it, it’s actually rather incredible how I showed them. And I’d bet if we played Monopoly, I could whup them at that, too. This revenue exchange thing is quite the invigorating game.

The lack of morals from the story is to take no one else’s welfare into account, for as we go about conducting our greetings and salutations, we’re still in a man-eat-man world. The bottom line spells it all out, and defines the true nature of the beast. While everything else in our day merely speaks, it’s only money that so eloquently talks.

The Zen of Zed

Three lines. Two pianos. One oratory. Three gushes. Two pixels. One alibi.

The writing’s on the wall. It’s written in the stars. And there are yet other things to read between the lines. Your job as reader isn’t all that easy, though I’m not about to enable you. Where would the fun be in that?

I miss philosophy being at the forefront of rational thinking. I like the good ole’ days when Aristotle and Plato would direct traffic while chanting existential mantras to the passers-by. They’d hand out bumper stickers that said “Honk if your cerebral cortex is at least semi-functional.” People weren’t impinged upon at the prospect of hypothesis. Not so anymore.

The trouble today could be that we don’t ask enough questions. Our experience is so immediate that we perceive everything to be no further than our fingertips, and get disinterested when we have to extend a thought anywhere past that. Why would I want to bother when I can get seven camera shots on TV within a 3-second span? I’m getting fed machine gun images, sending a rash of stimuli to the hungered neurons. At that rate, who has time to ponder?

So the questions go unasked, let alone unanswered. This starts early. But let me backtrack before I reminisce. But before I do that, let me write whatever it is that I’m going to write. Thank you for not intervening. You scratch my back, and I agree to not write auto repair manuals in this space. The differential is astounding.

Where was I? Oh, it doesn’t matter. I can edit this later. But anyway, as a culture we should be closely examining what causes things to make sense, so that we can make more sense out of more things. A little utopian, I know.

We should be asking questions like “How many is any?” Well, maybe not start there, but work our way up to it by leaving ourselves breadcrumbs. But questions such as “Does logic solve all the important problems, and can that be answered without the use of logic?” or “Are 1- and 2-dimensional existences imaginary?” or “What’s the statute of limitations on clichés?” or “Why does the origin of species place all its focus on transition?” or “Is the bottom of the barrel all that bad?” or “What color do blue and purple make?” or “When they say a product is back, where did it go?” or “What comes after closure?” or “What does free will entail, and can it be legislated?” or “Are all Mexican dishes just a matter of different packaging?”

They could have at least one TV show about these things on network programming, with various perspectives being discussed. And our attention span changes the channel. OK, maybe throw in some exotic dancing competition, and then at the end, the audience gets to boo them off the stage. But it would need to be set on a remote island where civilization barely exists, and it would be done at night so the host could stand between two flaming torches to add credibility, and he'd speak with the distaste of a malcontent queen bee that's been let down by its underlings. Now I'm seeing real possibilities.

At least Steven Wright is trying. He wonders out loud, “What do batteries run on?” I’ve heard attempts at this before, and it typically spirals into a discourse on cellular activity, networking, and calling plans. And then beyond that, if cells are the building blocks of life, what makes cells operate? Show me the sub-cells. And then show me the sub-cells of those sub-cells. And if there are no more levels of sub-cells, what material makes up the lowest sub-cell? I know — porcelain.

We may need to establish some of the things that don’t exist before we can adequately examine things that do exist. Exhibit A as the most obvious example is the rumored number zero. We spend too much time giving it attention, and it hasn’t earned it yet. Essentially, it’s done nothing. I will argue that zero does not exist, and as such should be exiled into the netherworld. It has no value. It has unvalue. It is the anti-value. You can’t divide by it. The biggest red flag should be that your spreadsheet will snarl at you if you attempt such blasphemy.

With that in mind, my hand sanitizer claims to kill 99.99% of germs. This raises a couple questions that need to be addressed. Firstly, what exactly is that 0.01% of germs that it can’t kill? Should I be afraid of them? I want to know what those germs are that are so incredibly strong they can outmuscle a sanitizer whose sole intent is to kill them. It would also be useful to know precisely the identity of those germs so I can try other tactics to combat them, like Lava™ brand patented heavy duty pumice hand cleaner, or possibly other untested thermonuclear cleansing agents.

And then secondly, if they already know how to kill these 99.99% germs with the sanitizer, why don’t they just kill them before they get to my hands? I mean, think about it… Does it take a blogger to come up with these ideas? Shouldn’t we instead be trying to kill germs in advance of when they make contact with our skin? Why wait till the last possible moment to take action, right before they unleash their toxic damage? That’s a little overly dramatic for me. I like suspense in my movies, but not so much in my daily hygiene itinerary. Give no ground here. Be proactive about this. Go to the source and nip that sucker in the proverbial bud. The bottom line is we need pre-sanitizers, and if none of you invent one, I may give it a go at some point.

For a social application of our modern dilemma, I give you excess. Our mailman probably hates us since we only go to our mailbox about once every ten days. But it’s not really our fault, if you think about it. Who allows all that junk mail to be sent? Did we ask for any of it? No, in fact, we asked for less of it. Do you realize what brought down the Roman Empire? It was junk mail. They smothered themselves out of existence. Their papyrus backfired on them big time. Our governments today complain about garbage disposal problems, but yet they’re allowing the problem to fester with the mass production of flyers, envelopes, inserts, cards, what have you. (The what have you will likely be our downfall) Another question sans an answer.

As I was learning to read, I became rather disenchanted with the English language. After all, what business did Wednesday have being spelled that way? How was I expected to know that intuitively? If you had given me fifty chances, I would have spelled it fifty other ways than that. Wensday. Winsday. Windsday. Winzday. Qualadrapathia. (Every once in a while, it pays to throw in a wild card just in case, because you never know) In short, there was no discernable pattern for that spelling.

Here I am in the 1st grade, and they’re telling me that ‘shoulder’ is pronounced predictably enough — so far so good. That was just to get their foot in the door. But then good luck with ‘should’. Or ‘would’… or ‘could’. All of a sudden, the ‘L’ is now silent, and the ‘u’ acts like it wishes it was an ‘o’. By my way of thinking, if a letter is silent, then it ain’t doin’ anything in the word, so just take it out. Kind of like junk mail. Unless… unless they’re trying to fool us.

In Kindergarten, you start out with numbers on the first day. 1-2-3 is easy enough. Everything is peachy and you’re on top of the world with your newfound numbering system that you’re going to use to confiscate all your older brother’s money. They even make fun little songs about counting to make you feel good about it. But that’s how they indoctrinate you. Once they have you hooked on their numbering scheme, then later you find out that ‘2’ is mysteriously spelled ‘t-w-o’. Where the heck did the ‘w’ come from? That’s what I want to know. The ‘w’ has no right being there any more than an ‘x’ or the international symbol for choking, and as a young grade schooler, I’d like to be given an opportunity to challenge the linguistic establishment on a philosophical matter. That’s what would have expanded my academic horizons more.

But do they ever teach you why the ‘w’ is there, or do they just expect you to accept it at face value without questioning? Learning doesn’t really start until ‘why?’ is asked. (and don’t ask about the ‘h’ in why) You’re not allowed to question, only to answer pre-fabricated questions. Which is what led me to mathematics. It was the least threatening and most antiseptic of the disciplines.

To sum up (without the need to use the hapless zero), numbers have values, so zero, at the very most, is still an abstract concept. You can’t have zero of something. Rather, you simply don’t have it. In no way no how can you expect to be saved by zero. Otherwise, in my hand I’m currently holding zero marbles, zero barnacles, zero bubbles, zero dipsticks, zero Werther’s Originals, zero flashlights, zero pictures of Yeti monsters vacationing in Belize while drinking Mai-Tai’s, zero zeros, zero nothings, zero emptinesses, zero vacuums, zero anti-matters, zero Grey Poupons, zero gravity, zero copies of “My Life in the Bush of Ghosts” in Braille, zero gwoycyx’s, and the list could go on ad infinitum. It still hasn’t described the state of what’s in my hand. Zero lends nil to the equation. The most accurate statement is that I’m not holding anything in my hand. It’s a negative affirmation, if that doesn’t swallow itself in logic.

There are zero pink elephants in my living room. Yeah, so what? Leave me alone, zero. Go bug a quantum physicist.

Three fedoras. Two wallabies. One penchant. Three salutations. Two palindromes. One ricochet. Nope, certainly no room for zeroes here… I now hereby invoke my zero intolerance policy. So let it be spoken, so let it be done.

Cud-Chewing Visionaries

From the Hindu ritual of the honorable bovine master, a firm representation of the giving nature of life, and lastly a sign of mammalian nirvana, a salute to all the cows of the world. Despite centuries of foreign occupation and imperialistic attempts in India, the sacred cow remains highly venerated. Our lactating leathermaker ultimately represents the hallowed principle of motherhood. She symbolizes venerable charity and generosity due to the way she distributes her veritable dairy qualities, vital to the nourishment of the young.

Cattle are a symbol of the whole Earth, the providers of sustenance. These udder-endowed friends are ever generous, giving endlessly of milk — much as the liberated soul gives of spiritual knowledge — while taking nothing for themselves other than grass, grain, and water. The crucial beefer is thus the virtual life-sustainer, emblematic of abundance, grace, and fire-starting. The sacredness anointed to these beasts within some eastern realms is not without cause.

On the other critical end of the spectrum, the splotchy black-and-white vermin's biggest energy contribution is its holy dung. Livestock produce over a billion tons of righteous manure per year. Dung from mooers is distinctive from all other forms of compost, in that the pink-nosed Gateway model's, while not contaminating, possesses mystical antiseptic qualities. Not only is it devoid of all bacteria, it also acts to kill them.

Dung is thereby used for fertilizer for the farmer, and is also utilized for fuel, though often quite lethal. Unlike your basic load of muck, however, the heifer’s version is odorless and burns without scorching, giving a slow, even heat. Consequently, the primitive housewife can leave her pots unattended, returning to cook on a preheated griddle. This surely trumps the golden arches in a Calcutta world.

The vaunted frisbee indeed originated from the cow chip, and we symbolically toss it upward to the skies as a way to scale new levels of our existence, precariously flirting with our destiny via unassuming recreational pursuits. A continual theme whispering it’s not to be taken lightly.

The likes of Freud may have alluded that man would aspire for mechanical bull sessions in an attempt to attain the heights known only to these worshiped cheeseburgers-in-waiting, for we have to conquer that which we would aspire for, to prove we are its equal... if only for that fleeting eight seconds of glory. The bovine master’s gyrations are emulated, revealing where it is that we need to adjust in order to maintain congruence.

Essentially a crude yet serpentine way of addressing the oft-cited but rarely explored mystery of what constitutes rusted ruminations, and where such things are headed. And while it can’t rightly be conveyed ipso facto, let alone through any other Latin idiom, a continued attempt can be made to demonstrate contextually, because it avoids the paperwork. As we embark on this new decade because years come in tens, we’ll take with confidence the lessons of these moo-cows with us into the vast great unknown of yet more cryptic years beginning with the number ‘2’, and graze on what it is that we know.

As a consequence of said phenomena, every year devotees will drive their sanctified Taurus to the annual bovine rites at San Francisco’s Cow Palace, paying tribute to those splendid cream makers in the sky. And thus for the uninitiated, it bears repeating the posting found herein follows in the cattle-infested philosophies espoused by Mohandas Gandhi, demonstrating that fertilizer can be surprisingly effective when used properly.