I've taken to exercising along with fitness programs on television in an effort to find ways to stay in shape while avoiding paying half my salary to a gym where I have to wait in line ten minutes to tone those hard to reach lats. After watching a bunch, I realized something was off, and it wasn't just my right hip. It was THEM.
I have nothing against the TV exercise instructors, because their crunching their abs to make sure I don't turn into a tubby ball of goo. I respect 'em. But what burns my buns more than Ellen Barrett after an hour long workout is this: they can't stop smiling. It's relentless. It's as if they've been hypnotized by Ms. America, it's like they're auditioning for Valley of the Dolls, it's as if their brains have been sucked out through a straw and replaced by vanilla milkshakes. What's with all the smiling, kids? You're sweating! Just once I'd like to see Ellen lean over her knee, wipe her forehead and exclaim, "fuck, this workout is kicking my ass!"
Wouldn't that make you feel better (and by you, I mean "me")? Because you're not even bending over, wiping your forehead and exclaiming anything, because you stopped about halfway through the workout, walked outside, kicked the neighbor's cat and bought yourself an ice cream Sundae. You're a human being, after all, and wouldn't it be easier to finish one of those workouts if the person you were following was human as well? No, it wouldn't, who are you trying to kid? You're lazy, stop blaming Ellen Barrett.
Wait, I've gotten off track again. Okay, I would marry Ellen. She's perky, in shape and she says things like, "You're doing great," which, lets face it, is something most guys want to hear in as many contexts as possible. But I'd love to see her after the show, clutching her side: "Damn, I've got a cramp, I've got a cramp." That would make her endearing, lovable and more like you, me and everyone else. So what's with all the phony smiling?
I think it's because we're living in a culture where nothing is supposed to be difficult. If it's hard to do, it's not worth doing. My Uncle Abe was over my house the other day to watch football and eat me out of nachos when he said, in between bouts of terrible gas, "There has never yet been a man in our history who led a life of ease whose name is worth remembering." It sounded like something Theodore Roosevelt would say, but my Uncle has a way of exceeding the intelligence of our collective human history. His point is that no one gets anything done unless he applies himself, but marketing people know they can convince you that it's not true. They put a shine, a gloss on everything -- they want you to waste your life, to sit in front of the television and get excited by the Dustbuster, they want you to go to your computer and order a thighmaster, they want you to eat McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken and put enough pressure on your poor heart to turn a coal into a diamond. They want you to pin a numb smile on your face, go through life like a dummy, smiling meaninglessly all the way into the dirt. They want you -- us -- to believe life is SUPPOSED to be easy. Life, lets face it, isn't easy, and in our culture there are too many reasons for giving up, for addicting yourself to Ally McBeal, cocaine or self-love blogging.
The fitness experts know what's going on, they're on the front lines, because that body they have took a shitload of work. Someone, I suspect, is forcing them to do all that smiling. The producers are convinced it's the only way audiences will stick with it: "Make it seem easy, Ellen." The experts need to get their own channel, run by fitness gurus, owned by fitness gurus, where they can whisper to us honestly: "Look, this is going to take a lot of work, you slob. But after a few months, if you stick with me, you might be able to climb down a flight of stairs without losing your breath. You and I are just alike except for one thing. I do 500 crunches a day and you can't lay off those Twinkies. You disgust me!"
Ellen, don't hesitate to say hi!
9/18/2006
8/18/2006
Damn machines
I was in the post-office picking up my hate mail (one from my mom), when I happened to pass by an average young man depositing quarters into a stamp machine. One of the quarters fell all the way through for no apparent reason and the man let out a hissing, exasperated moan and if I hadn't been right there I'm fairly certain he would have whipped out his manhood and peed on the contraption. By the way, I don't typically use the word "manhood" in any context, but Happy Stan says his kids have been reading my blog for tips on how to avoid a miserable adulthood, so I'm occasionally censoring my lingo.
Where was I? Oh yes, the post-office. I was right there with that poor guy, remembering the many times I've deposited change into the snack machine at work, my mouth watering, my eyes growing large at the site of the peanut butter cups just behind the plastic. And I remembered the many times the machine wouldn't take my quarters (and the one time I slammed my fist against the plastic sheild and swore revenge). I remembered all the times my computer crashed just as I was about to send a brilliant email to my girlfriend explaining why I was right and she was wrong about everything we'd ever discussed, including my tendency to ignore what she was saying after several sentences. I remembered the times my computer had a small glitch and all I had to do to fix it was to clean up a few things, but cleaning up a few things caused 7 new problems to arise, and then when I tried to clean up those 7 things, 49 new problems arose until finally I tossed my computer in front of a Sprite truck that happened to be speeding by the dumpster where I sleep. I remembered the time my Grandpa Schlomo got parking tickets for parking in a space when the parking meter was broken. Does that really make sense?
What's going on here besides my own slippery descent into madness? It's machines. Computers. Automated answering services. Televisions. Blackberrys. Cell phones. Parking Meters. They're everywhere and they're making life even less personal than it already is. We're turning into anti-social, isolated creatures, on par with sharks and TV talk show hosts. Whenever I'm at the airport, I always try to get into the line that will allow me to talk to a human being, even though checking in electronically might be a tad faster and less likely to lead to a conversation that would include the word "carry-on." I do this because I work with computers and I know computers fuck up all the time. And they're inflexible. You can't push an incorrect button on a machine and expect it to say, "hey, that's okay, you're just a squishy, idiotic human being, like me, I'll just switch your seat so you get to sit next to that hot tomato after all!" I like to be able to say to a human being, "I'd like the burger medium rare, but hold the fries and can I get a salad?" Even the least intelligent human being understands nuance. Machines understand 1 and 0.
Here's a quote from a New York Times article that I read on line: "A study by sociologists at Duke and the University of Arizona that gained wide attention this summer found that too much computer use can isolate one further from a shrinking circle of confidants." No, really? Cleary, those who funded this study either don't get out much or they're wild surfer dudes wondering why fewer and fewer folks are hitting the shore every week to catch a few tasty waves.
So when I slam my hand against the plastic casing of the snack machine, I'm really expressing the frustration of all humanity. I'm desperate for human interaction, for someone to say, "sorry sir, here's your peanutbutter cups, now why don't you go sit down in the kitchen and think happy thoughts about streams and squirrels."
All of this is our own fault. We thought machines were making our lives easier, but instead we're turning existence into one isolated, numbing experience after another. There are too many so-called humans, now, that are more automated than any machine you'll ever meet. That's not life. That's more like war, just with slower deaths. Which reminds me: a friend of mine produced a TV show (speaking of isolating electronic devices) recently about ways the world might end. One of them was: "machines take over." Maybe that's already happened...
Where was I? Oh yes, the post-office. I was right there with that poor guy, remembering the many times I've deposited change into the snack machine at work, my mouth watering, my eyes growing large at the site of the peanut butter cups just behind the plastic. And I remembered the many times the machine wouldn't take my quarters (and the one time I slammed my fist against the plastic sheild and swore revenge). I remembered all the times my computer crashed just as I was about to send a brilliant email to my girlfriend explaining why I was right and she was wrong about everything we'd ever discussed, including my tendency to ignore what she was saying after several sentences. I remembered the times my computer had a small glitch and all I had to do to fix it was to clean up a few things, but cleaning up a few things caused 7 new problems to arise, and then when I tried to clean up those 7 things, 49 new problems arose until finally I tossed my computer in front of a Sprite truck that happened to be speeding by the dumpster where I sleep. I remembered the time my Grandpa Schlomo got parking tickets for parking in a space when the parking meter was broken. Does that really make sense?
What's going on here besides my own slippery descent into madness? It's machines. Computers. Automated answering services. Televisions. Blackberrys. Cell phones. Parking Meters. They're everywhere and they're making life even less personal than it already is. We're turning into anti-social, isolated creatures, on par with sharks and TV talk show hosts. Whenever I'm at the airport, I always try to get into the line that will allow me to talk to a human being, even though checking in electronically might be a tad faster and less likely to lead to a conversation that would include the word "carry-on." I do this because I work with computers and I know computers fuck up all the time. And they're inflexible. You can't push an incorrect button on a machine and expect it to say, "hey, that's okay, you're just a squishy, idiotic human being, like me, I'll just switch your seat so you get to sit next to that hot tomato after all!" I like to be able to say to a human being, "I'd like the burger medium rare, but hold the fries and can I get a salad?" Even the least intelligent human being understands nuance. Machines understand 1 and 0.
Here's a quote from a New York Times article that I read on line: "A study by sociologists at Duke and the University of Arizona that gained wide attention this summer found that too much computer use can isolate one further from a shrinking circle of confidants." No, really? Cleary, those who funded this study either don't get out much or they're wild surfer dudes wondering why fewer and fewer folks are hitting the shore every week to catch a few tasty waves.
So when I slam my hand against the plastic casing of the snack machine, I'm really expressing the frustration of all humanity. I'm desperate for human interaction, for someone to say, "sorry sir, here's your peanutbutter cups, now why don't you go sit down in the kitchen and think happy thoughts about streams and squirrels."
All of this is our own fault. We thought machines were making our lives easier, but instead we're turning existence into one isolated, numbing experience after another. There are too many so-called humans, now, that are more automated than any machine you'll ever meet. That's not life. That's more like war, just with slower deaths. Which reminds me: a friend of mine produced a TV show (speaking of isolating electronic devices) recently about ways the world might end. One of them was: "machines take over." Maybe that's already happened...
8/03/2006
Spam
Some days I have profound thoughts, like the day I realized that Mel Gibson is not my real father, as my mother insists, because he couldn't possibly be Jewish -- what Jew ever had an Australian accent, come on! But today is not a day I'm having any profound thoughts, which has led me to write about something that anyone who has ever had email finds annoying: spam. And not the kind that's tasty to eat with eggs, jam and toast, but the kind that pours into my email inbox at every hour of the day. Spam for Vioxx, for Viagra for estranged generals looking to use my bank account to make me a multi-bazillionaire. I hate spam like tall men hate airplane seats, like construction workers hate powerful winds, like my skin hates the rest of my skin when I'm watching Oprah Winfrey on television.
First off, who the hell likes spam? I have trouble conjuring an image of someone pathetic enough to happily open any email that hits his Inbox: I picture a large, shaggy man with no pants and grizzlybear back-hair sitting in a ragged trailer set down in the middle of the desert with a cable running from his computer to the nearest city (probably Nevada). I believe it was The Beatles who wondered where all the lonely people come from. I don't know that they ever got an answer to that question, but I do know this: those folks aren't lonely anymore, they have THOUSANDS of new friends who write them every day.
It might be presumptious of me to assume that anyone likes spam, but I'm giving the spammers the benefit of several doubts. Why would they keep spamming if it didn't work? Either they're crazy (well, they are crazy), or they're drumming up business this way. So lets assume there is a segment of the population of the earth who like nothing more than receiving email ads for things that they absolutely must have. And how would they know they needed those things if they didn't get emails announcing their existence? How stupid am I? Or, as Grandpa Schlomo would say, "You're a schmuck, now pass the pork chops and the magic markers."
I read somewhere, probably in the New York Times during a dream, that the number of spam emails is greater than the number of real emails sent by real people. Which begs at least one metaphysical question: which are the "real" real emails? Huh? Ponder that! No, don't. Spam is not real email and quantity is only better than quality when it comes to champagne, ice cream and Zsa Zsa Gabor. But it does make me wonder about the quality of email in the first place. Remember a time way, way back, when people wrote carefully crafted letters? Those days are gone -- suggest writing a letter to someone and you'll be crushed by their manic laugh and soul-crushing punch to your solar plexus. Folks don't have time to write anything of substance anymore. In fact, most folks (especially lazy bloggers) don't even have the time to even think anything of substance anymore. They're too busy watching shows with words like "ghost," "spirit," "telepathy," and "Jay Leno" on the television. And lord knows we have to be fed constant stimulation: in my office building they recently put up ridiculous TV screens in all the elevators that shout out useless statistics and news all day. Who cares what Brad and Angelina are doing, besides their press agent and 2.4 billion people?!
Oh wait, I was talking about spam. Err, spam. So what to do about it. I have several suggestions. First, make it illegal. I know, that probably treads on at least one amendment to the Constitution, but I wonder if the founding fathers or the various amenders ever envisioned their lofty ideals being used principally to sell erectile dysfunction medication (though Happy Stan points out that those guys NEVER smile in paintings, so who knows...). Do democratic principles necessarily even go with capitlist ones? An unoriginal thought to be sure, but worth pondering next time some spam hits your Inbox. Like now. And now. Now. Another thought to stop spammers: track 'em all down, put them in a city that no one is using anyway (Phoenix?), build really high fences and then force feed them all the medication they've been selling. Then film it. Now that's some television that'd be worth seeing. Now I'm getting hungry -- yup, for spam and eggs.
First off, who the hell likes spam? I have trouble conjuring an image of someone pathetic enough to happily open any email that hits his Inbox: I picture a large, shaggy man with no pants and grizzlybear back-hair sitting in a ragged trailer set down in the middle of the desert with a cable running from his computer to the nearest city (probably Nevada). I believe it was The Beatles who wondered where all the lonely people come from. I don't know that they ever got an answer to that question, but I do know this: those folks aren't lonely anymore, they have THOUSANDS of new friends who write them every day.
It might be presumptious of me to assume that anyone likes spam, but I'm giving the spammers the benefit of several doubts. Why would they keep spamming if it didn't work? Either they're crazy (well, they are crazy), or they're drumming up business this way. So lets assume there is a segment of the population of the earth who like nothing more than receiving email ads for things that they absolutely must have. And how would they know they needed those things if they didn't get emails announcing their existence? How stupid am I? Or, as Grandpa Schlomo would say, "You're a schmuck, now pass the pork chops and the magic markers."
I read somewhere, probably in the New York Times during a dream, that the number of spam emails is greater than the number of real emails sent by real people. Which begs at least one metaphysical question: which are the "real" real emails? Huh? Ponder that! No, don't. Spam is not real email and quantity is only better than quality when it comes to champagne, ice cream and Zsa Zsa Gabor. But it does make me wonder about the quality of email in the first place. Remember a time way, way back, when people wrote carefully crafted letters? Those days are gone -- suggest writing a letter to someone and you'll be crushed by their manic laugh and soul-crushing punch to your solar plexus. Folks don't have time to write anything of substance anymore. In fact, most folks (especially lazy bloggers) don't even have the time to even think anything of substance anymore. They're too busy watching shows with words like "ghost," "spirit," "telepathy," and "Jay Leno" on the television. And lord knows we have to be fed constant stimulation: in my office building they recently put up ridiculous TV screens in all the elevators that shout out useless statistics and news all day. Who cares what Brad and Angelina are doing, besides their press agent and 2.4 billion people?!
Oh wait, I was talking about spam. Err, spam. So what to do about it. I have several suggestions. First, make it illegal. I know, that probably treads on at least one amendment to the Constitution, but I wonder if the founding fathers or the various amenders ever envisioned their lofty ideals being used principally to sell erectile dysfunction medication (though Happy Stan points out that those guys NEVER smile in paintings, so who knows...). Do democratic principles necessarily even go with capitlist ones? An unoriginal thought to be sure, but worth pondering next time some spam hits your Inbox. Like now. And now. Now. Another thought to stop spammers: track 'em all down, put them in a city that no one is using anyway (Phoenix?), build really high fences and then force feed them all the medication they've been selling. Then film it. Now that's some television that'd be worth seeing. Now I'm getting hungry -- yup, for spam and eggs.
7/05/2006
Elevator Buttons
I was recently visiting the home of my arch-nemesis Dr. H -- there to plant destructive ideas -- and as I was leaving I noticed the elevator in his building had a display telling me exactly what floor each elevator was on. So while it was still moderately annoying having to wait for the elevator, I found my blood pressure remained fixed and dilated because I at least knew when the next elevator would be stopping on my floor. Yes, if this suggests to you that I'm a controlling freak, I'd say you're right about at least one thing: you do hate yourself.
Which brings me to the point at hand: why can't all public modes of transportation deliver information that will keep my blood pressure from shooting through my eyelids? The monorail at Newark Airport tells me down to the second when the next train will arrive! If you miss a bus or train in New York City, you have several choices: 1) patiently wait for the next to arrive; 2) write a screenplay; 3) pace back and forth until you can't take it any more and punch the nearest wall as an expression of your rage; 4) invent a time machine, build it and then transport yourself forward in time to the moment the next train arrives; 5) leap on to the train tracks and await your demise (but bring a novel and something to eat); 6) perfect the cello.
I remember reading in a New Yorker article a year or so ago that the man who "saved" the New York City subways in the 80s was going to London to help them with their mess. I can't believe that man got another job! Saved? The tracks are perpetually under construction, there is little rhyme or reason to the work (the G line tracks have been under construction for the entire 16 years I've lived in Greenpoint) and clearly no one cares about the passengers. There are many, many other problems with the subway and bus systems, but a neon sign declaring the innumerable delays would at least allow passengers to attempt to make productive plans during delays, like walking to work or having a picnic.
Uncle Abe was visiting my apartment last week to use the toilet and when I mentioned all this to him he said, "Patience and perseverance have a magical effect before which difficulties disappear and obstacles vanish." And even though it appears John Quincy Adams stole this notion from my Uncle I have to admit: they're both right. But who cares about being right. I want to live in a world as pristine as the one inside my head, where I never have to wait for anything, except pop culture references. I like it when elevators and trains talk to me, and I have too much time on my hands for my own obsessions anyway -- I have a tendency to carry on conversations with my imaginary selves, and most of them have ill tempers, bad manners and terrible posture. So I could really, really use someone else to talk to while I wait. If nothing is done, I'm afraid my own tenuous psyche will split into several irreparable pieces. And we don't want that, do we?
Which brings me to the point at hand: why can't all public modes of transportation deliver information that will keep my blood pressure from shooting through my eyelids? The monorail at Newark Airport tells me down to the second when the next train will arrive! If you miss a bus or train in New York City, you have several choices: 1) patiently wait for the next to arrive; 2) write a screenplay; 3) pace back and forth until you can't take it any more and punch the nearest wall as an expression of your rage; 4) invent a time machine, build it and then transport yourself forward in time to the moment the next train arrives; 5) leap on to the train tracks and await your demise (but bring a novel and something to eat); 6) perfect the cello.
I remember reading in a New Yorker article a year or so ago that the man who "saved" the New York City subways in the 80s was going to London to help them with their mess. I can't believe that man got another job! Saved? The tracks are perpetually under construction, there is little rhyme or reason to the work (the G line tracks have been under construction for the entire 16 years I've lived in Greenpoint) and clearly no one cares about the passengers. There are many, many other problems with the subway and bus systems, but a neon sign declaring the innumerable delays would at least allow passengers to attempt to make productive plans during delays, like walking to work or having a picnic.
Uncle Abe was visiting my apartment last week to use the toilet and when I mentioned all this to him he said, "Patience and perseverance have a magical effect before which difficulties disappear and obstacles vanish." And even though it appears John Quincy Adams stole this notion from my Uncle I have to admit: they're both right. But who cares about being right. I want to live in a world as pristine as the one inside my head, where I never have to wait for anything, except pop culture references. I like it when elevators and trains talk to me, and I have too much time on my hands for my own obsessions anyway -- I have a tendency to carry on conversations with my imaginary selves, and most of them have ill tempers, bad manners and terrible posture. So I could really, really use someone else to talk to while I wait. If nothing is done, I'm afraid my own tenuous psyche will split into several irreparable pieces. And we don't want that, do we?
6/30/2006
Rain and my brain
I love the rain. Only, I love it when I'm inside, snuggled up with my sweetheart, eating marshmallows out of the bag and exchanging occasional smooches. And since I don't have a sweetheart (though my own heart is scrumptious) this is currently a state of affairs virtually impossible to achieve (I'll leave open the potential for time travel, because humans are really clever at figuring out this kind of stuff). Which makes it even more exasperating that I was caught three times this week in a deluge, and although I had my umbrella with me during all three outbursts I still got soaked -- serious rain. I don't remember it raining this much in June in NYC. Is this being caused by a) Global warming; b) A vengeful god almighty; c) chance; or d) clouds. I'm betting it's some combination of a, c and d. I don't believe in a vengeful god, or of a deity of any sort, alas, though I spend much time damaging my own psyche by blaming him (definitely a guy) for all things that go wrong, proving at least one thing: I hate to take responsibility for my own failures. My favorite thing to blame Him for is losing at computer Hearts. I feel I'm entitled to win every game, so when I don't win, I blame Him. But I blame Him for lots of things. Here's a list of some of those:
1) Failure to achieve a career in writing;
2) Humidity;
3) Pimples;
4) When I trip on the sidewalk and nearly fall, I usually scowl. Damn Him!
5) Mayonaise, but only when it has that funny taste that makes me want to vomit;
6) Lack of girlfriend- ness;
7) Shitty job;
8) NYC subways;
9) That feeling you get when you pass a graveyard;
10) Bad teeth.
11) My negativity;
12) Spilling beets on my pants;
13) Graying and thinning hair (it'll be a race to see which wins);
14) the Yankees;
15) Bureaucracy
Happy Stan says that I should start appreciating the good things in life and stop focusing on the negative, but since HS isn't real I told him to go to hell. When he is out of the room, though, I secretly wonder if he isn't for once making some sense; but when I try to feel happy that my couch is really comfortable and that I have a good apartment, I get a funny feeling in my stomach. Maybe it means I'm happy, I think, but maybe it means I shouldn't have eaten that tuna sandwich with the bad mayo. The point is: my own brain is often my worst enemy, and it's tough to fight a brain because it knows what you're thinking before you do and it's pretty well insulated inside your skull. Like the rain, it oftens pours on my parade. Perhaps I need to find a mental umbrella? Such as, good work and good people? Hmm, meaning I might have to find more than three people I can stand to be around. Oops, I have to run, Happy Stan is calling. He says the Argentina-Germany soccer match is getting good. I hope it doesn't rain...
1) Failure to achieve a career in writing;
2) Humidity;
3) Pimples;
4) When I trip on the sidewalk and nearly fall, I usually scowl. Damn Him!
5) Mayonaise, but only when it has that funny taste that makes me want to vomit;
6) Lack of girlfriend- ness;
7) Shitty job;
8) NYC subways;
9) That feeling you get when you pass a graveyard;
10) Bad teeth.
11) My negativity;
12) Spilling beets on my pants;
13) Graying and thinning hair (it'll be a race to see which wins);
14) the Yankees;
15) Bureaucracy
Happy Stan says that I should start appreciating the good things in life and stop focusing on the negative, but since HS isn't real I told him to go to hell. When he is out of the room, though, I secretly wonder if he isn't for once making some sense; but when I try to feel happy that my couch is really comfortable and that I have a good apartment, I get a funny feeling in my stomach. Maybe it means I'm happy, I think, but maybe it means I shouldn't have eaten that tuna sandwich with the bad mayo. The point is: my own brain is often my worst enemy, and it's tough to fight a brain because it knows what you're thinking before you do and it's pretty well insulated inside your skull. Like the rain, it oftens pours on my parade. Perhaps I need to find a mental umbrella? Such as, good work and good people? Hmm, meaning I might have to find more than three people I can stand to be around. Oops, I have to run, Happy Stan is calling. He says the Argentina-Germany soccer match is getting good. I hope it doesn't rain...
6/14/2006
Religion and the Da Vinci Code
I was reading over the shoulder of a fellow subway traveler this week when I caught a letter to the editor in one of the local rags. The editorialist was wondering what all the hype was about concerning the Da Vinci code movie -- why are people threatened, he wondered, by something that is clearly fiction. The movie and the book it's based on, after all, are all made up, so why's everyone getting their panties in a sticky bunch? The problem with this argument and others like it, constructed by same-minded children, is that it implies that religious stories are not ALSO fiction, that religion is not, in every instance, a bunch of made-up mythology designed to get folks, for the benefit of civilization (however good or bad), to behave one way or another (mostly another). Want to avoid disease? Tell em: Sex is bad. And so on... So I think it's right that folks have their underwear pinched tighter than a lobster's claw on this one, because isn't it about time human beings let go of this ancient crutch? Isn't the truth, as revealed by science, even more wondrous? I mentioned these thoughts to my Uncle Abe and he said, in between slurps of his Cinammon Raisin oatmeal, "At least two thirds of our miseries spring from human stupidity, human malice and those great motivators and justifiers of malice and stupidity, idealism, dogmatism and proselytizing zeal on behalf of religious or political idols." Once again I looked up U.A.'s thoughts on the web and found that someone else -- in this case Aldous Huxley -- had spoken them first, which only proves that there are really no new ideas.
I haven't seen the Da Vinci Code and I haven't read the book, though I've read through several reviews of both and have discovered that intelligent people (assuming reviewers are intelligent, which is a dangerous presumption on par with the assumption that politicians are honest)... but I digress. Intelligent people seem to think the book and the movie kinda suck ass, and not in a good way. So I could understand those who would simply dismiss it as drivel and move on with their lives spent surfing things, like the web and the Pacific Ocean. But to them, I say: don't you see that's the point? What's the point? they would ask, exasperated by my inarticulateness. The point is: people are actually attracted to this kind of stupidity and it scares me more than hairless cats do. Yes, humans have always leaned rather heavily on superstitious claptrap to explain the universe and our seemingly super-important role in it, but that's because humans have always been scared, frightened, too-smart-for-their-own-good monkeys. So now, in the fabulous 21st Century, haven't we grown up enough to face that? Judging by events around the globe, clearly we haven't, but imagine what we could achieve if we did -- we've already walked on the moon, cured innumerable diseases, invented cool things like Ipods and pencil sharpeners. And we're just getting started, humans have only been around for a very short time -- dinosaurs were around for something like 200 million years and not one of them even invented a stapler!
Are you still imagining? Okay, stop, because you're drooling.
Hey, are the ethics provided by religion really all that great, necessarily? Aren't they kind of repressive? And don't they encourage blind obedience, rather than thought? I was discussing this with the now deceased poet, Anais Nin, during a seance last night and she said, "When we blindly adopt a religion, a political system, a literary dogma, we become automatons. We cease to grow." Yes, Anais, yes! And no, I didn't sleep with her.
I know I'm not exactly cutting any edges by condemning religion and superstition (wasn't that what the Enlightment was all about?), and I know there are probably good arguments on the side of religion and metaphysics generally that point to the disasterously bloody results of peoples abandoning morality (the French Revolution, anyone?). But geez, isn't there a place for a world devoid of god and make-pretend that also includes a well-constructed ethics? I suppose you could argue back and forth like this, with good arguments on both sides, about the question of how much good vs. evil religion does. Is it a force of good or evil, primarily? But the bottom line is: it's a fantasy, it's make-pretend, and ultimately we do harm to ourselves when we believe in such dreams.
Now, maybe someone has to step up and educate the masses, let 'em know that it's okay to let go of their belief in god, and an afterlife and ESP, although I think we're all capable of doing this for ourselves. Did you really need your mom to tell you Santa was a hoax? Didn't you begin to realize on your own? Of course, there was a period in there where you allowed yourself to believe anyway, maybe for one last winter or two, but you finally told yourself it was all just a hoax and you went on to obsessing about other things, like that cute girl in your gym class, was her name Lisa Hernandez (call me!)? People allow themselves to believe in religion for far too long. I'm guessing most people know it's a game, but they choose to play anyway: anything to avoid dealing with reality.
Maybe it's something deeper, a need to belong to something, a need to imagine a power beyond us. Look in the mirror one day and think the world begins and ends with choices, however, and you'll see a different world when you walk out the door. Now excuse me, but I have to catch a nap before the hockey game tonight. Those Oilers are gods, man...
I haven't seen the Da Vinci Code and I haven't read the book, though I've read through several reviews of both and have discovered that intelligent people (assuming reviewers are intelligent, which is a dangerous presumption on par with the assumption that politicians are honest)... but I digress. Intelligent people seem to think the book and the movie kinda suck ass, and not in a good way. So I could understand those who would simply dismiss it as drivel and move on with their lives spent surfing things, like the web and the Pacific Ocean. But to them, I say: don't you see that's the point? What's the point? they would ask, exasperated by my inarticulateness. The point is: people are actually attracted to this kind of stupidity and it scares me more than hairless cats do. Yes, humans have always leaned rather heavily on superstitious claptrap to explain the universe and our seemingly super-important role in it, but that's because humans have always been scared, frightened, too-smart-for-their-own-good monkeys. So now, in the fabulous 21st Century, haven't we grown up enough to face that? Judging by events around the globe, clearly we haven't, but imagine what we could achieve if we did -- we've already walked on the moon, cured innumerable diseases, invented cool things like Ipods and pencil sharpeners. And we're just getting started, humans have only been around for a very short time -- dinosaurs were around for something like 200 million years and not one of them even invented a stapler!
Are you still imagining? Okay, stop, because you're drooling.
Hey, are the ethics provided by religion really all that great, necessarily? Aren't they kind of repressive? And don't they encourage blind obedience, rather than thought? I was discussing this with the now deceased poet, Anais Nin, during a seance last night and she said, "When we blindly adopt a religion, a political system, a literary dogma, we become automatons. We cease to grow." Yes, Anais, yes! And no, I didn't sleep with her.
I know I'm not exactly cutting any edges by condemning religion and superstition (wasn't that what the Enlightment was all about?), and I know there are probably good arguments on the side of religion and metaphysics generally that point to the disasterously bloody results of peoples abandoning morality (the French Revolution, anyone?). But geez, isn't there a place for a world devoid of god and make-pretend that also includes a well-constructed ethics? I suppose you could argue back and forth like this, with good arguments on both sides, about the question of how much good vs. evil religion does. Is it a force of good or evil, primarily? But the bottom line is: it's a fantasy, it's make-pretend, and ultimately we do harm to ourselves when we believe in such dreams.
Now, maybe someone has to step up and educate the masses, let 'em know that it's okay to let go of their belief in god, and an afterlife and ESP, although I think we're all capable of doing this for ourselves. Did you really need your mom to tell you Santa was a hoax? Didn't you begin to realize on your own? Of course, there was a period in there where you allowed yourself to believe anyway, maybe for one last winter or two, but you finally told yourself it was all just a hoax and you went on to obsessing about other things, like that cute girl in your gym class, was her name Lisa Hernandez (call me!)? People allow themselves to believe in religion for far too long. I'm guessing most people know it's a game, but they choose to play anyway: anything to avoid dealing with reality.
Maybe it's something deeper, a need to belong to something, a need to imagine a power beyond us. Look in the mirror one day and think the world begins and ends with choices, however, and you'll see a different world when you walk out the door. Now excuse me, but I have to catch a nap before the hockey game tonight. Those Oilers are gods, man...
6/03/2006
Free Throws
In the very near future I'm sure to write about some topic with grave repercussions, like the escalating war in Iraq, or the escalating price of gas in the U.S of A. or the escalating temperatures of our hapless planet, but today is not the near future, today is today, and so instead I'm writing about professional basketball. More specifically, I'm writing about free throw shooting, and the frequency with which said shots are missed in the National Basketball Association. I watched a game earlier this year and one team made UNDER 50% of their free throws, while the other made just over 50%. In a recent playoff game, the Miami Heat shot just over 25%. I mean, just over 25%! Imagine if baseball players caught only 50% of routine popups or if politicians only took bribes when they really needed the money (they're kids need new helicopters, just like yours, after all). That would be unacceptable, wouldn't it? Happy Stan, who isn't much of a basketball fan, because he's too busy with his knitting club, says that these players are trying their best, so why not give them a break. It's just free throw shooting, right, and you're thinking along with HP, who really cares, it's just a game, why don't I find something more useful to crank about, like pizza and it's tendency to scald the roof of my mouth? Because, I say to you and HP and all your Dominoes consuming constituents, poor free throw shooting is symbolic of the decline in our culture of integrity, hard work and a willingness to learn the fundamental components of a sport or discipline or board game in order to master it. We're a culture of needy, self-entitled jerks, and no one wants to spend the time to learn to do something right in the first freakin' place -- that's why we end up writing blogs instead of well-thought out essays, for example.
Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yes, free throw shooting. Look, couldn't they practice more? Isn't it that simple? So many games in the NBA come down to 2 or 3 points, so it would make a big difference if you're team hit 90% of its free throws. Last year's champs, the Spurs, were eliminated in this year's playoffs, but they'd probably never lose a game if they could make free throws -- they're terrible at it. They're best player, Tim Duncan, is called the "Big Fundamental" and he shoots around 60%. Yipes, I think we've lowered our standards a tad! If it was you, and you were a talented NBA player, meaning you were 8 feet tall and fast and strong and misogynistic, wouldn't you want to make your free throws? They're free, after all! No one guards you, no one tries to elbow you to the ground, no one mugs you while you shoot. You get to stand calmly and take your shot. If you practiced that as much as you practiced dunking, you'd get good at it. The New York Knick's rookie Nate Robinson, who is only something like 3 feet tall, won the slam-dunk contest at this year's All Star game, though it took him about twenty tries. First of all, you should only get one try! In life, you get one try, so why should a slam dunker get 20? Because we're pussies, that's why. Second of all, he's a shitty free throw shooter. No wonder uber coach Larry Brown nearly had a stroke trying to coach the Knicks this year. These guys are more interested in looking good, then playing good (and even though that's bad English, you know what I mean because you've also been watching too much TV recently).
I guess it's the most obvious thing in the world that most people would rather look good or be famous or be rich, than spend time learning about themselves and the world and how they can truly, and finally be both content and useful. Most settle with mere contentment, and by "content" I mean stupid, angry, depressed, suicidal, crazy, bad-free throw shootingly, and illiterate. It's enough to make me want to quit my job and run for president on a platform of integrity and reason and truth. But then, I don't think I could handle becoming a laughing stock, so I'll leave it to some other sucker, maybe an athlete who makes his free throws? Hey, maybe Steve Nash of the Phoenix Suns should take over for Bush. Oh wait, he's Canadian. D'oh! That figures...
Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yes, free throw shooting. Look, couldn't they practice more? Isn't it that simple? So many games in the NBA come down to 2 or 3 points, so it would make a big difference if you're team hit 90% of its free throws. Last year's champs, the Spurs, were eliminated in this year's playoffs, but they'd probably never lose a game if they could make free throws -- they're terrible at it. They're best player, Tim Duncan, is called the "Big Fundamental" and he shoots around 60%. Yipes, I think we've lowered our standards a tad! If it was you, and you were a talented NBA player, meaning you were 8 feet tall and fast and strong and misogynistic, wouldn't you want to make your free throws? They're free, after all! No one guards you, no one tries to elbow you to the ground, no one mugs you while you shoot. You get to stand calmly and take your shot. If you practiced that as much as you practiced dunking, you'd get good at it. The New York Knick's rookie Nate Robinson, who is only something like 3 feet tall, won the slam-dunk contest at this year's All Star game, though it took him about twenty tries. First of all, you should only get one try! In life, you get one try, so why should a slam dunker get 20? Because we're pussies, that's why. Second of all, he's a shitty free throw shooter. No wonder uber coach Larry Brown nearly had a stroke trying to coach the Knicks this year. These guys are more interested in looking good, then playing good (and even though that's bad English, you know what I mean because you've also been watching too much TV recently).
I guess it's the most obvious thing in the world that most people would rather look good or be famous or be rich, than spend time learning about themselves and the world and how they can truly, and finally be both content and useful. Most settle with mere contentment, and by "content" I mean stupid, angry, depressed, suicidal, crazy, bad-free throw shootingly, and illiterate. It's enough to make me want to quit my job and run for president on a platform of integrity and reason and truth. But then, I don't think I could handle becoming a laughing stock, so I'll leave it to some other sucker, maybe an athlete who makes his free throws? Hey, maybe Steve Nash of the Phoenix Suns should take over for Bush. Oh wait, he's Canadian. D'oh! That figures...
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