Wednesday, December 28, 2016

5 Toxic Byproducts of Civilization (and a Parable)


This post is going to take some imagination. It's going to take some pondering. But that's okay because I know you're both imaginative and ponderous. Oops, scratch that last one. You're not ponderous, but rather have the ability to ponder. And away we go.

Let me make a prediction: You're miserable. It isn't really a prediction, though, so much as it is a glaring reality. I know because I'm miserable too. Everyone is. Sure, we can pancake over our inherent agony with all manner of sticky sweetness. Sports. Sex. Cinema. Booze. Drugs. Video games. Religion. Hell, a good spy novel takes the edge off.

But it's always temporary. It always wears off and that ugly misery resurfaces.

You ever see some fool in the comments section of a Yahoo article begin a rant with "The problem with this world is . . . " before going of on some half-cocked and wholly inane argument about gas prices or schools quashing the Pledge of Allegiance?

I'm here to tell you what the real problem with this world is. The singular root of all evil. (Spoiler Alert! It's not money.) Ready? Here goes.

We live in a society deliberately designed to make us as miserable as possible for as long as possible. Ah, I can almost hear the sound of all the keyboard warriors heading straight for the comments to dispute what they know, in the darkest and most secret chamber of their essence, to be certainty. But as I am the one making the claim, I bear the burden of providing evidence to support it. Here are five terrible byproducts of civilization:

1) Labor. How many of you love your day job? Truly, unabashedly, full-on love it? Like, if you won $564 gazillion dollars in the Gonzo Megabux Lottery, you'd keep your job because that's how much you can't get enough of the place you spend 40+ hours every week? None of you. Good. How many of you lament (often loudly and with generous profanity) about the horrible conditions under which you toil and still insist everyone must work? Homeless people simply need to "get a job" and "pull themselves up by their bootstraps," right? If you can't see the sheer contradictory madness in this, I fear you are beyond saving.


2) Wealth. Money. Moolah. Bread. Greenbacks. Strips of germ-ridden fibrous papers are what we've collectively determined hold value in our sick society. Let that sink in. Take as long as you need. The thing we've assigned the most value to is literally one of the filthiest. You can cut the irony with a butter knife. A suitcase full of these bills is worth more than your life to some people (I first wrote "most people," but revised because I haven't quite lost that much hope in humanity yet). There are people walking around right now, probably in your city, maybe even in your neighborhood, who would happily take your life for a suitcase full of paper rectangles bearing the faces of our forefathers and, no doubt, traces of Colombian cocaine. The idea of grimy paper worth more than human life is utterly alien to a healthy mind. Or at least it ought to be.

3) Power. A civilization--especially one with a capitalist base, such as we've inherited--is constructed as a hierarchy. Those with the greatest wealth have the ability to attain the greatest power, or at least have greater control over how much power they wield. That's why some folks wouldn't blink twice at gunning a fellow human being down for a suitcase full of cash: They seek power. Easiest way path to power is, say it with me, wealth. I often wonder, though, what happens after someone GETS ALL THE POWER. Then what? Look for more power, of course. When does seeking power just get boring? I can only answer for me: It already has. Power is boring. It's imprisoning. It's false and it's damning. I pity those who resort to extremes in order to attain it or who even go looking for it in the first place.

4) Demeanor. Observe human interactions. Watch the way films and television bitterly imitate life. What do you see? You see people berating others. Shaming them. Laughing at someone else's expense. Gordon Ramsay bellowing into some sorry sous chef's face rather than sweetly coaxing confidence out of her. Know why? Because when you're miserable, you feel better when you can make someone else feel worse. It's so intrinsic to the nature of civilization that most of us fail to see it. Nine out of ten TV ads feature such behavior; everyone is always so angry at someone else, or degrading them, or laughing at them. That's what you do, though, when you live in constant wretchedness: You hurt others to feel better. It's why kids bully--to feel better about their shitty little lives. You could even make the argument that it's some sick perversion of empathy. YOU SHALL FEEL MY AGONY, WORM! YOU SHALL KNOW MY PAIN.

5) Speaking of pain, what about depression and anxiety? Okay, technically, these are separate byproducts, but they seem to go together like buggy whips and buggies, so they're addressed here simultaneously. What causes them? People just love to use the classic "chemical imbalance" as a fallback. Of course, some cases of anxiety and depression are undoubtedly caused by chemical imbalances, but give it a longer look. People who live in a state of constant stress are bound to be anxious and depressed. Cause and effect.

I want you to try something. This is where I want you to use your imagination. Close your eyes, if it helps (but only after you've finished reading!). Ready? Okay, imagine this:

_________________________________________________________________________________

You awaken in a foreign land. You are surrounded by waving grasses, tall trees (oak, you think, or maybe ash), the rocky face of a mountain range, a stream burbling nearby, and maybe a species of yellow bird twittering from above. You don't know where you are, but at least you know its not on an extraterrestrial craterscape or hell's hottest furnace and so you journey in search of answers. (You take your time, though, because once you find your way home, the mortgage needs paying, the boss wants a 12-page report you haven't started yet submitted first thing Monday morning, and both cars could use a wax, so what's the rush, right?)

After hours of hiking you happen upon a village. You are hot, hungry, and exhausted. The villagers greet you with smiles, though they don't speak your language. They offer you strange but delectable fruit and a thoroughly thirst-quenching beverage. They provide you lodging in the grandest chambers of their inn. You try to offset their overhead by doling out bills from your wallet as payment, but these folks don't understand why you're trying to force on them odd, grubby, funny-smelling portraits of old men.

Okay, you think, they're generous. It's kind of them to help a poor, lost stranger in a strange land. But hospitality doesn't solve the larger problem of getting home. I mean, it's not as if they offered you Dorothy's ruby slippers. So what's the next logical step?

You want to speak to their leader, right? Someone in control, someone in command. Someone with connections, who can point you toward the nearest airport and send you back to the land of plenty. After much frustration on your part (your hosts are ever-patient in your constant stumbling over the language barrier--after all, you bear the burden of learning their language), you at last convey the concept of "leader." Or think you did. As it turns out, they have no term for "leader" in their vocabulary. It's a concept utterly foreign to them, just as the absence of a singular leader or a committee of leaders is foreign to you.

How do you govern, then? you manage to ask them at length. Who has the most power?

The power is shared, they tell you (and look at you go! You're starting to pick up the lingo already!) There is no one person or group of people who control everything. Everyone works together for the good of the whole. Every person is vital. No one hordes possessions. Everyone is crucial.

And then it dawns on you. Every person you've met in this village is happy. Not just happy, though. Overjoyed. Thrilled to be alive, to be a part of a greater good. No one scorns anyone else. No one is left languishing in despair because she cannot pay her debts. All are nurtured and loved. Maybe civilization isn't the best, you think. Maybe we aren't as smart or cultured or advanced as we think we are. Maybe there can be something better, where people actually matter more than materialism. It's something you'll have to take time to ponder because you've been conditioned all your life to think otherwise. Yes, time is what it will take.

You ask the villagers if you can stay a few days, which become a few weeks, which become, of course, months and years. You stay forever because you're happy, overjoyed, and thrilled to be alive. You love and are loved. You don't worry any longer about making it home again because, at last, you are home. And, as a cherry on top, you don't have to worry about submitting the damned report to your overbearing boss.

_________________________________________________________________________________


I can practically hear you seething through your screen. Communist! Liberal! Hippie! Tree-hugger! How dare you question the American Dream, the Cradle of Democracy, The Flag of the United States of America and the Republic for Which It Stands? 

Settle down there, chum. Take a deep breath. First, none of those labels apply to me and I'm not questioning America, the flag, or the Republic. I'm simply offering another viewpoint. Because you're miserable and so am I. We all are, everyone. I'm not suggesting we shoot for Utopia because we all know there's no such thing--people are just too different to ever agree on what defines a perfect world. But we can shoot for something better, because it's out there. I know it. You know it, too. It may only take you time and imagination to accept it.

So to those denouncing, denigrating, and/or degrading me right now, it's all right. It's what you've been taught to do. It's not your fault. Say it with me Good Will Hunting style: It's not your fault. It's. Not. Your. Fault.

It only becomes your fault if you are too shortsighted or hardheaded to imagine something else, something better. We can be better. We have to be or we won't be around long enough to have to worry about it. Civilization's lone virtue is that it has produced a creative, intelligent, and imaginative population. Let's use those gifts, not squander them. How can we be prosperous if our default setting is misery?

Love to all and Happy New Year. Let's try to make it the best one yet, shall we?


Wednesday, July 27, 2016

Not Delilah

                                                   
Hiya, friends. It's been over a year since I've posted anything here and . . . I know. It's bad. It's real bad. I've been busy, but I have no excuse for letting my blog lapse for a damned year. It's reprehensible. Please enjoy an essay I wrote in college about the end of the world. 


Look, I'm no mystic. I don't buy into portents and potions or psychics and spirits. Nostradamus was a primitive John Edward, delivering to his audience a bunch of hokey hocus and cold-reading rhetoric, having no more "vision" than a sun-blinded bat. I'm pretty open-minded on most issues, and I certainly subscribe to the preternatural world (you'd have to be a jerk not to), but let's be realistic about it. There are things that exist outside the human realm of experience – a new species, for example, is discovered on our planet virtually every day – but you have to draw the line somewhere.
             My motto is this: if it's tangible, it's possible. Faith?  Faith is like rhythm – you either have it or you don't. It can be learned, but then it takes on a certain awkwardness and the learner never quite dances just right. It's simply not natural.
But something happened one night that stirred my tenuous faith.

May, 1997. It rained that morning. I woke to it pattering against the window above my bed. Nice way to wake up. I showered, washed my grunge-rocker hair, dressed, and went about my day. But something was growing. A feeling. A premonition, maybe, as I came to believe. Something was wrong. But isn't that the understatement of the century?  Something was horribly, hideously, fatally off beam. As that spring day in 1998 wore on, a nameless, sickening dread blossomed in my mind like some poisonous flower. I tried uselessly to ignore it.
At work, I smiled at  customers and bid them come again. I half-expected one to morph into a disfigured creature and begin pillaging the store and its patrons. But none did. That nameless dread just continued to unfurl until its noxious pollination threatened to suffocate me.
That evening, after band practice, I retired to my room and strummed my acoustic guitar in hopes of clearing my head. I listened through the wall to Rob, my friend and bandmate, negotiate a date for Friday with a nice young woman he'd met at a show. Jared, the singer, was uncharacteristically quiet, staring at the evening news without so much as blinking. I decided to take a walk to clear my head. Jared called for me to wait up and asked if he could tag along.
It was not my intention to tell him anything about the feeling I'd been wrestling all day for fear he'd think me senseless. Or perhaps I was worried that he may think me a new subscriber to the world of the occult and thus would label me "new age-y."  But he remained reticent and reflective on that long-ago night walk. We mumbled a few banalities. We watched the sidewalk slip beneath our feet. The stars revolved and the trees shook and the smell of rain rinsed the wind. Eventually, the conversation broke when I stopped and said, "Hey, man. Do you feel that?"
And he said, "Yeah." Because the dread had infected him as well.
Someone died. Or perhaps an Antichrist was born. I didn't have the barest hint of what it could have been, only that something large and terrible had happened. Was happening. A tipping point had been reached. I sensed it the way a stallion senses the approaching tempest and stomps a helpless hoof in reply. Somewhere, something had tipped and Jared and I both felt it.

April, 1996. It really began with the dreams, I suppose. Nightmares pulsing with the vividness of summer dawn were nightly born behind my eyes. These monstrous displays could not be tethered to mere invention on my behalf – I did not sire them. They were sent. I know this as I know my middle name replicates my father's first.
These were warnings. Must have been. Never before or since have my dreams crackled with such surging energy. They were living things. I can recall each sliver of detail down to the final agonized scream. I could not bear to relate them here outside of a few brief glimpses; nor would I expect you, reader, to shoulder their weight (though one day you may have no choice). Suffice to know that they were apocalyptic in nature. Global ruination. Our demise will not come about by the wreckage of war or the demolition ball of a marauding meteor; it comes about through . . . 

. . . an explosion. Somewhere, far to the south, something blows sky high. My hair is cropped close to the skull, and saturated with sweat. I am stalking through the remains of a building, gutted by some long-gone fire. The walls are scorched and smell of cordite. The ceiling has caved in and the sky outside is purple-tinged. I am carrying an assault rifle. Though I've never touched one before in the waking world, I know how to use it here. I breathe soot. Somewhere behind me issue the calls of men in pursuit. I am hunted.
Weaving through the labyrinthine corridors, I find myself at a dead end. No exit, except the way I came – which is, of course, blocked. In the center of the room sits a young girl on a folding chair. She is crying. When she sees me, she gains her feet and, sobbing, wobbles forward. She stretches out her arms, seeking comfort I cannot offer.
"I want my mommy," she whispers, sniffling.
I tell her I can't help her.
"I want my mommy!" 
I tell her to hush and shoot a glance toward the dimming corridor where the hunters draw near.
"I want my MOMMY!" the child shrieks and before I know what I'm doing, I shoulder the rifle and trigger off a volley. Fire spits from the muzzle. Shell casings bounce at my feet. The girl is lifted from the force and tossed against the wall before crumpling to a pile of rags.
Sickened, I peer wildly around. There are only shadows, and shadows upon shadows. There is only the lingering ghost of damnation. I start back the way I came, seeking an exit, but knowing it is useless. 
And then I hear it.
"I want my mommy," the voice chokes. It is calmer now, but drowned. I turn, and the gun drops from nerveless fingers. The girl is renegotiating her feet. She is not dead, though her hair is now a straw mat of blood and her face is gone. "I want my mommy," she says again and takes a tentative step toward me, stretching her arms in embrace.
 

According to the latest reports, America's population has now topped 318 million. China and India already have us beat, each exceeding 1 billion souls. Global pop increases by about 75 million annually, by conservative estimates. What the dreams were showing me was simply the consequences of expanding unchecked. An explosion.
What happens, according to these visions, is this: humanity's growth accelerates so rapidly that resources are soon exhausted. We need more food to support more people, but we now have require so much housing that habitable structures are built on the only land left available – the rich soil needed to raise our foodstock. Essentially, we choke off our food supply with housing. And then it happens: total collapse. People outnumber usable resources, equaling mass famine, disease, rioting. It's ugly. And I already see its precursors. They're everywhere. Two hundred acres of cornfield near my in-laws were paved over last year to put up a subdivision. A local forest was leveled in favor of a shopping mall. We're burning ourselves out and, for some reason, I was allowed a sampling of the end result.

There is a lake with a car sinking into it. The car is red, compact. It belongs to my friend Jared, and he is still inside. He does not move. He is not singing now; he is smiling. The captain, going down with the ship. He remains oblivious to my frantic screams to save himself. He doesn't care, because everyone is going down with the ship. The big cabin cruiser S.S. Earth is capsizing and no amount of bailing will save its passengers now.
As the radio aerial slips beneath the surface, I watch the concentric rings of water ripple out and away, a fading bulls-eye. For a time, I watch the surface where that target floated, willing my friend to rise. Willing him to change his mind and rejoin me in what is left of this world. But he does not, and I flee this tortured gravesite scrubbing a hand through my devastated hair.



            After the dreams, I vowed never to cut my hair. Since all these visions displayed me sans ponytail, I figured that if I kept my hair long indefinitely, none of these terrors would befall the world. What psychiatrists would, I suppose, label rationalization. But maybe I was like Samson. Just maybe I carried not only my strength, but the strength of the world in the winding strands of hair. If I preserved it, I could preserve the world; save it from the suffering I knew was coming.
            Like Samson, though, I lost the hair because of a girl. Her name was not Delilah and she did not wield the shears. After an arduous breakup, she began dating a rival. Out of a desperate need for change, I cut the hair off (pathetic, I know, but I was but a young lad then). In my defense, the fate of the world was the farthest thing from my mind that winter; I didn't give it a single passing thought as I trooped into the barbershop. So, if these portents ever emerge, you may blame the destruction of the world on a woman whose name is not Delilah.

            The city is all but empty. Winds hush down vacant alleys. Automobiles rust along the curbs. It is dark, except for certain places where the few remaining inhabitants have scrounged generators to light the quiet places of this necropolis. At the top of a skyscraper, I survey what remains. On the wall of the penthouse, someone has scrawled a message in mud or blood or excrement: ALL DEAD HERE.
But not all.
            Boots scrape on the rust-flaked fire escape. Still they pursue me, though now I am unarmed. The breeze stirs their voices away and riffles the hood covering my scalp. I pick my way down the opposing side. When I reach the ground, a cat with a torn ear hisses from an overturned garbage can. I flee into the streets of a city acrawl with silence.

I'm aware this all sounds like an enormous load of bunk. Hell, for all I know it is. I'm no scientist. Humanity's not about to collapse under its own weight. Mother Nature won't retaliate by striking down two-thirds of the world population. Global warming's a myth devised by men in suits to keep us subservient. AIDS has been contained. The Greenhouse Effect is certainly not melting the ice caps and the world is definitely not lorded over by a shadow government. It's all scaremongering, propaganda, new age-y rubbish. Dreams are dreams and mean nothing beyond their surface luster. The exploding population is by no means an issue worthy of attention and strength is not carried in  locks of hair. As long as we're all comfortable in our two-bedroom homes, eating our sushi, raising our 2.5 kids, and taking our puggles out for walks, we'll be okay. Right?  

It's not a prison cell, really. It's a prison suite. A fire snap-crackle-pops on an antique hearth. A queen-sized bed with a down comforter sprawls in the corner. There is a television and a radio (both worthless because there is nothing now to broadcast), and a desk with a candle where I can write.   
I'm not sure why I'm in custody; the days of Miranda are long gone. I'm to be tried sometime in the near future and a guilty verdict will undoubtedly lead to execution. I kneel on the woven rug before the fireplace and peer into its depths as if the flames will hold answers. As if anything holds any answers. The door unlatches and my hood stirs in the breeze from the corridor and I stand to meet my fate.
"Aaron," says a voice, familiar. It is Rob, whom I believed dead, victim to the initial catastrophe which claimed so many lives. He has joined the other side (whatever that side may represent), and has traded in his drums for an assault rifle. Rob and I embrace, then he stands aside to let me pass. He has come not to kill me but to free me. The corridor leads to an exit and I take it, out, into the night.



We all still have an exit, I'm sure, though I don't know if we'll have a friendly steward to open it for us. We'll have to open it ourselves. We needn't blindly fumble for the latch. We need merely open our eyes and see.
Which is what I'm attempting. Since that night those years ago, when I felt the nauseous dread of something nefariously awry, I've come to understand we are doomed unless we do something to initiate a reversal. Our ship is sinking and we are all unwilling captains.
I've gone so far as to try to grow my hair out again, but it doesn't seem to work. It's thinner now, and weaker. Or maybe it's the stuff its rooted in that is not conducive to growth. Perhaps the brain has grown soft and clayey, porous and silty, no longer rich with the topsoil of thought and ambition. Perhaps all it can do now is grow dreams that disguise themselves as visions and visions that disguise themselves as dreams.
And speaking of dreams, I'll leave you now with a final sample. The last of those pseudo-prophetic reveries that plagued me all those years ago:

On the bank of a river, far from any vestige of humanity, I watch the water whirl south in spits and eddies. A reflection appears over my shoulder and I turn, startled, certain my relentless pursuers must have at last caught up with me despite Rob's head start. However, though this newcomer walks upright, he is not a pursuer (or even human). It is a dog. Its legs have evolved to hold its entire form erect, and it seems particularly proud of this achievement. Its center of gravity has shifted. It wears a purple cloak and a leering grin. I get no sense of danger from it. For a long while we watch one another; I swallow and it licks its chops.
At last I manage, "Have you come for me?"
"Mm-hm," it answers, its voice perhaps yet unfit for the full use of human language.
"Are you going to help me?"
"Mm-hm," it replies.
"Can you show me the way?"
"Mm-hm," for the third time.
And I follow this man-dog into the woods, where, at last…
 

…the dreams vanish in a wisp and I am released from their burdening yoke. So where does this leave us?  As I've said, I'm no mystic, I'm no scientist, and I'm surely no interpreter of dreams. Who really knows what the resurrected girl, the sinking car, the pursuit, the release from captivity, the dog speaking in indefinite affirmations truly mean?  How much strength can hair really hold in its slim follicle?  How dangerous is a population that rises unchecked?  How much damage can global warming really do?  Who knows? 
I can really only glean two things from this: a) I experienced a rash of nightmares in the spring of 1996 and b) I experienced a bout of deep malaise a year later. Beyond that, what can I tell you? I'm no prophet.  
 (Originally published in a slightly altered form in Withersin Magazine, Spring 2008. )



Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Mountaineers of the Information Age


Hello, folks! Sometime back, I tossed up a post in response to a hateful (and, naturally, anonymous) comment this blog garnered. Generally, I'm all for free speech but speaking your mind doesn't entitle you a Get out of Jail Free card from consequence. Thus, the troll in question found him- or herself appropriately spanked and later (also anonymously) apologized via an undoubtedly false email account.

I can hear you now: What's your point, Gudmunson? You're rambling! Get on with it already!

The point is, we've come to a sorry spot on the ol' timeline, folks. In eras past if people felt the need to confront someone on an issue they did it face to face or, at worst, over the phone (e.g. in real time with the identities of both parties taking responsibility for their words and actions). Now a big bloody chunk of confrontation--real or contrived, the latter of which seems to be cropping up with greater frequency--is channeled through the wonderful cybersage of the Information Age: the Internet!

Yes, the Internet, that insular filter which ironically serves to remove all filters. Through the 'Net, and specifically social media, individuals are now able to hide behind false faces to lob their insults . . . and the best part for them is they can do it without threat of retribution! They feel safe throwing stones because there are no glass houses online.


But what happens when the identity of a cyberstooge sockpuppet floats to the surface like the stinking carcass of something lying decades at the bottom of a cesspool? 


What does one do when one realizes the person is someone without the benefit of a social life, someone whose upbringing included stark oppression under an inflexible belief system? What happens when you find out the person behind those pitched stones is only pitching them from out of the pit of a pathetic existence?

Well, you kind of feel sorry for them, that's what. You realize you're a target because they've been a target. Because they feel pain. Because, just maybe, they feel jealousy and are seeking some form of vindication for perceived slights.

Then you kind of just want to give that person a hug and tell them everything's going to be okay. Because you're not like them. You don't want to hurt, you want to help. Sometimes life can seem a lot like climbing a mountain--let's call it Mt. Motherfucker. And Mt. Motherfucker is one monstrous son of a bitch whose apex is lost in a fleet of thunderheads veined with white lightning. Climbing to the top is far easier if there's someone beneath you to scurry over, to drop the tread of your Pacific Trail size 9 onto, to leave behind in the grit.

But one thing's for sure. It's far more difficult to climb that fucking mountain alone than it is without full support of fellow climbers. You brave mountaineers of the Information Age, all limping alone into the terrifying stormy future ahead of you, might do well to remember that before dropping your little stones into a sling and flinging them for all you're worth.

Which, let's be honest, isn't much.

Sunday, May 3, 2015

Enter at Your Own Risk: Dreamscapes into Darkness Available Now!




Firbolg Publishing has recently released Enter at Your Own Risk: Dreamscapes into Darkness - a wonderful anthology combining stories from classic genre writers and their contemporary counterparts. With tales from Mary Shelley, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, H.P. Lovecraft, Saki, D.H. Lawrence as well as Jonathan Maberry, B.e. Scully, Gregory Norris, K. Trap Jones, Holly Newstein, Roxanne Dent, and many others. Edited by Dr. Alex Scully. Contains my story "The Morgue."




"The morgue, my friend informed me, was the place old newspapers went after their publication date. In essence, the place they went to die..."



Order your copy today! Available in paperback and Kindle editions.



Friday, May 1, 2015

The Age of Entitlement




I watched a reality TV program the other day which focused on people who let their parking meter expire. Okay, to be honest it was only the commercial. I couldn't actually bring myself to watch the show. Anyway, cameras were on-hand to film the reactions as violators returned to their vehicle to discover a parking ticket. The violators invariably freaked out. "It was only a minute!" they argued. My response (and the response of the official who issued said citation) was: tough.

Maybe it’s just me, but have you noticed the growing sense of entitlement in America? Sure, we’re the world’s only superpower and the defenders of liberty and all, but does that give us the right to act elitist (especially among ourselves)? Now before you denounce this as simple paranoia, let me cite a few instances based on personal observations and see if you can apply them to your experiences.

The Shoppers. I deal with this every time I go for groceries and the experience inspired me to postpone this errand as late in the day as possible to minimize occurrences. Few people pay attention where they are going, you see. They push their carts obstinately forward, staring off at oblique angles as they browse. Without a few dexterous maneuvers on my part, collision would be inevitable. And while shopping cart crashes do not tend to be fatal, they certainly fall squarely into the nuisance category. I realized many modern Americans subconsciously (or perhaps consciously) remove responsibility from themselves and, in doing so, place it on others. Thank goodness these entitled folks pay greater attention behind the wheel, right? Wrong. Read on:

The Non-signalers. Speaking of driving, I estimate roughly one-third of motorists whom I encounter fail to engage their directional signal when making a turn. Big deal, you say. But this is more than a petty inconvenience – it’s dangerous. It’s not their fault, though; they have their hands full. One hand clasps a cell phone against an ear (despite growing distracted driving laws) and the other tips coffee against the lips. Mother Nature made feet for pedal controls and knees for steering wheels, but neglected to add an appendage for signaling. How unfortunate. And can someone please tell me how it’s possible to speak into a phone and drink coffee at the same time? Entitled yet talented, I admit.

The Pedestrians. Non-signalers aren’t the only road hazards. The Pedestrians feel so entitled they imagine themselves immortal. I’ve stood on my brakes so frequently in the past year to avoid hitting jaywalkers, it’s a wonder they haven’t yet required replacement. (The brakes, that is, not the jaywalkers.)  If I had a dollar for every time someone has traipsed into the street without gaining the right-of-way or a even so much as a flippant backward glance, I’d be writing this post from a luxury resort in the Caribbean. It’s a good thing I bought pedestrian insurance – I have a feeling I’ll need it one day.   

It is not my intention for this discourse to be a rant. It should be read merely as a warning for a few things of which to be wary in our ever-expanding world. No one wants to claim responsibility for anything anymore and, really, who can blame them? Entitlement is so much more glamorous…and easier. I move that we make a conscious effort to resist this temptation and accept accountability for our actions. Who’s with me?


Of course, you may disagree with me completely. No problem. You are, after all, entitled to an opinion. 


Tuesday, April 21, 2015

It's a Mean, Mean, Mean, Mean World


I first noticed it in college. Overt rudeness, that is. Before that time, I was evidently lost in the syrupy oblivion of youth. But when I hit my college years, I was suddenly and rudely shaken awake by the perpetual foul moods greeting me at seemingly every turn.

I thought – hoped, actually – that it was isolated to the fine, stalwart university I attended. Boy, I couldn't have been more off-the-mark. Since recognizing blatant discourtesy running rampant at my alma mater, I have since discovered it everywhere. So when did this happen?  When did the world get mean? 

I tried an experiment. Each day while walking to class, I greeted ten people. Invariably, at least eight failed to respond. In any way. Most appeared utterly unaware of my presence. The rare subject who bothered to reciprocate would do so with a curt nod or a mumbled monosyllable. Then I started to worry. Was I real?  Had I died without realizing it and now haunted the route between my apartment and the Student Center?  Did Bruce Willis and I have far more in common than I suspected?

No. That was almost certainly not the case, though I wish sometimes it was. It would at least illuminate this inexplicable lack of cordiality.

Soon I tested my experiment elsewhere. The movie theater, a rock concert, grocery shopping. Same results. People simply did not wish to return simple salutations. It was easier to look away than it was to smile. The world has soured like a cup of cream in the sun.

I should recognize the small minority of friendly folks who prove the exception to the rule: the loud hailers, the high-fivers, the huggers, the goosers. I'd laud them for keeping me from losing all faith in humanity, but these overly-aggressive individuals are somehow worse, as if they felt invading another's personal space with as much fanfare as possible was their obligation.

Oh, we could start listing reasons we no longer seem capable of fellowship and good will. We could debate the whys and the hows. We could pontificate for hours on the subject, but why bother?  Reasons don't matter; solutions do.

Here, I'll start. I'd like to take this opportunity to extend a warm hello to everyone. If you see me on the street and don't wish to return my simple greeting, I'll not hold it against you. It is a sign of our times. Every man, woman, and child for him- or herself. Forgive me, though, if I long for the days when neighbors borrowed cups of sugar and chatted idly over fences. Human beings have turned a corner somewhere on this twisted road. We've grown up, grown jaded, and grown resentful. We live in bubbles and refuse to step outside their gossamer comforts.

It's time to lighten up, folks. I wish you no harm and I hope that sentiment is mutual. I know there are more of us today than ever before, but it's no reason to let slide our most fundamental manners. Let's make our parents proud. What do you say?




Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Sprung


I saw the first robin of spring a few weeks ago. It touched down in the back yard, pecked twice at the soil wet with snowmelt, and took off again in search of terra firma. It was a happy occasion for me, even if Ms. Robin fluttered away empty-beaked.  

Why? Because the first robin signifies the end of winter. It is as much a symbol of spring as holly is for Christmas or Cupid is for love. A few tattered rags of snow still clung to the ground along the fence line where the sun daren't send its oblique rays, but Ms. Robin appeared undaunted. It picked my yard, of all the yards in town, to try for a meal. And even though it found the pickings slim, I still felt a wave of happiness at the sentiment.
  
I also felt happiness that spring had finally sprung. Because, let me tell you: it has been one cruel crone of a winter.

As a child, I loved snow. What wasn't to love? Snowballs, snow forts, snow angels. There was no worry about how to get from Point A to Point B when the roads were iced over; that was the concern of my parents. All I had to look forward to was no school over winter break, Christmas presents, and three solid months of sledding.

Of course, all that changes when you grow up. Now I am the one who must worry about frozen patches on highways and scraping windshields and shoveling driveways. And, of course, the bitter cold that Old Lady Winter flaunts like a white-frosted frock. It's no wonder many folks suffer from seasonal depression. Something to do with serotonin deficiency due to the remoteness of the sun in relation to the earth.

While I've never been officially diagnosed, I would make an educated guess that such a malady afflicts me to some degree. Winter just isn't the same now as it was twenty-five years ago. Instead of breathless exhilaration at a blizzard warning, I feel only a kind of thick, gelatinous angst . . . how I imagine Charlie Brown must feel each and every day. Instead of graduating from toboggans to snowmobiles, as seems the natural progression from childhood to manhood, I feel only a dull, devouring winter weariness.

The worst part of seasonal depression, though, is an exaggerated sense of cabin fever. That deep, numbing cesspool of the soul that comes from being closed up for weeks indoors, desperately hoping to keep subzero temps at bay. The holidays are an instant remedy to seasonal maladies, but they zoom by so quickly and often present more problems than they cure. They leave behind a nostalgic-steeped hangover before we are forced to face the wicked one-two punch of January and February, with a goodly stretch of March still squeezed in Old Lady Winter's gnarled fist.


But now I can breathe a little easier, thanks to Ms. Robin Redbreast and her brief foray in my back yard. Sorry the provisions here were lacking, ma'am. Wish I could have been more help to you, but I'll tell you what--you sure were a big help to me. Happy spring, little friend. And happy spring to all of you. 

It's about damned time, wouldn't you agree?