A MOMENT OF VENTING

The Cynic in me thinks it won't matter, but the Optimist in me holds out hope that this is what will finally open some eyes.

Oh, sorry.

The Airhead in me forgot to mention the theme of this post.

McCain is a selfish, heartless asshole. As is every other Republican who has been eagerly waiting to eliminate affordable health care for millions of needy Americans. A sizable number of whom are represented by the very politicians who will be ruining their lives. Yet, these charlatans continue to win elections by manipulating, (and often times fueling), the hates and fears of their base. And that base, for the most part, believes every word they are told. By pretending to be Christians and patriots, while actively exhibiting neither behavior, these predatory scumbags have made rich, comfortable lives for themselves and their friends at the expense of everyone else. When their constituents complain, the blame for their troubles is redirected elsewhere: to liberals, gays, people of color, foreigners, "urban elites", atheists, abortionists, etc. They manage to get away with these lies because that base never really bothers to check the facts. And unfortunately, when they do try to check, the lies are supported by the inescapable pervasiveness of fake news. Ironically, if they do happen to stumble upon the truth, they process that as fake news, because it doesn't conform to their preexisting bias, and listen to the propaganda.

But I'm preaching to the choir. You already know this. Which brings me back to the beginning of this post ~ Republicans have not been shy as of late about publicly exposing their true agendas in public. Much like the inflated arrogance of a comic book villain who never gets caught, and eventually decides it's not worth the bother to put on the mask that disguises his real identity, they too, have convinced themselves they are invulnerable. It's that brazen level of contempt for others that may finally do them in. When those in need finally reach the apex of anger and desperation after losing their health care, those who cast the deciding votes will have no more wedge issues to hide behind. They will not be able to talk themselves out of it using the old bromide of blaming it on the Democrats either, since they are on record as the ones working feverishly to kill it, yet not passing a suitable replacement. This could be what turns all that red to purple. Or even, (dare we suggest?), true blue.

At least, that's what I hope. But then that cynical voice keeps insisting that these voters will never, ever, gain the awareness to see how they are being deceived. Such an about-face would be a concession to their own gullibility, and I don't see that happening on a large scale. Modern day Republicans could rob their constituents at gunpoint in broad daylight, then blame it on the Democrats, and the victim would believe it.

It's a shame how many of these folks fall in line at the sight of a bible, but never bother to open it and read the warnings about false prophets and self-righteousness.

EXISTENTIAL BREAKDOWN

I had an existential breakdown at a restaurant the other day. No, that’s not the name of a dish I ordered. Although, if that were an item served at restaurants, it wouldn’t be on the menu. It would delivered to your table unexpectedly like an amuse-bouche, if, say, the chef was a sadist who knew your most profound psychological vulnerabilities. But I digress.

An existential breakdown is really the worst of all the major breakdowns, because it affects you at your deepest level. Why am I here?  Not specifically “here”, (although maybe. Who knows?), but more in the grander sense of “Here”. Life itself. What is your purpose? You think you know, but far too often, you spend the bulk of your life developing skills for a particular goal that for one reason or another never comes to fruition, all because reality and aspiration never coalesce. For example, let's say you play basketball in high school. You’re six three and score 30 points a game. You dream of playing in the NBA, but you don’t get scouted for a scholarship. So you go to a junior college as a walk-on. But you start shrinking. Literally. Five inches a year. By your senior year, you’re four foot eight. Now you’re too short to even play video game basketball. There is a height requirement if you read the fine print. What do you do? That was you’re life’s dream. All your focus went into that dream. And now it’s gone. That, and twenty inches. After years and years of dreaming for a happy ending, you instead are the butt of a cruel joke. Even though you may not relate to that example, it is a all-too-common of an occurrence. And the reason why so many people seem lost.

There are some people who never breakdown. Everything comes easy to them. They know exactly what they want, and they get it. I hate those people. I do. I want to kill them. Metaphorically. Don’t worry, I’m incapable of committing such an act ~ even as a fantasy. In the darkest moments of my past, when the thought of murder may have tip-toed into my mind as a possible solution to a crisis, some innate sense of morality always prevented me from even imagining the scenario. I can’t count the amount of times I’ve closed my eyes and mentally placed myself, weapon in hand, in front of an adversary, only to toss it aside and instead take the person to court. If you’re wondering, I’ve never lost a case. Retribution is meted out by the legal system, and my conscious is clear.

Besides, do you know how difficult it is to metaphorically kidnap and torture someone? Indirectly, or course, because even within the context of a literary device, it’s advised to stay as far removed from your subject as possible. The last thing you want to do is have an existential breakdown based on the way you’re handling your original existential breakdown. Making that mistake could suck you into the Vortex of Existential Crisis, and once you’re trapped in that, forget it. There's no escape. You start questioning EVERYTHING, probing for esoteric meaning to the most innocuous events.

“Why did I order coffee?” (This is when I was in that restaurant). “Do I really need coffee? I’m not sleepy. Am I a caffeine addict? Was I compelled by a chemical urge to order it? Should I seek help? If there are twelve-step groups for caffeine addicts, what refreshments would they put out for the members? Speaking of refreshments, why did I say I was interested in the special? Blue cheese soup and a gyro? That doesn’t go with coffee at all. In fact, in doesn’t even go with each other. It’s actually quite disgusting. Am I disgusting? Is my soul disgusting? Is that why I’m alone in this restaurant? Could this be the best life has to offer me? A disgusting man eating disgusting food? How did I get here? Is there a possible pathway out?”

At that very moment, your server approaches your table with your plate of disgust. “Would you like anything else?”

It feels like the first time you've truly contemplated that question. “Yes”, you shout. "I do! My god, have I been suppressing my actual desires all my life?”

Your waitress’ silence leads to a new, and extremely deep subcategory of questions. Rather than privately speculating, you cut to the chase and ask her directly, addressing her by name, hoping that this simple touch of personalization will reveal a greater truth. 

“Are you truly capable of enhancing the lives of others, Madison? Or were you just being rhetorical? Because if you are so capable, I don’t want this! I want something else!”

She quickly glances down to her chest. “Madison is the name of the restaurant. I’m Penelope. My nameplate fell off. Anyway, I was only asking you if you wanted more…”

“More! Yes! I DO want more! Oh, it feels good to say that out loud! Thank you!”

Penelope smiles awkwardly, refills your coffee and walks away. Which makes you wonder, “Why did she leave? I didn’t tell her what I wanted more of in life. I have a list I carry with me, it’s just a matter of digging through my wallet and finding it. I just updated my Top Ten last week, so I know it’s there.” You absently reach out for your coffee, and a small wave generated by the movement of the cup splashes out on your hand. Just enough to cause a small verbal reaction, but not enough to leave lasting pain.

“Is that what she’s trying to tell me?” you think. “That no matter what my choice, I’m going to get burned? Who wants to live in a world as dismal as that? Or perhaps, the coffee symbolic of what she can provide for me? She did fill it all the way to the rim. There’s not even room for cream and sugar. Wait… is that the message? The cup is an extension of myself, and the coffee is life. So, fill it to the top! And don’t worry about needing room for cream and sugar, because they aren’t essential to the mix. Is she telling me there is no need to dilute and over-sweeten my life? Stop looking to alter what I have in front of me, and experience it pure, and at full strength? To take life as it comes, and enjoy every sip for as long as it lasts?”

“Oh, Penelope! My darling Penelope! You’ve given me the answer that’s eluded me for my entire life, even though it’s always been right there, in my grasp, but unrecognizable! I cannot wait to savor every moment that presents itself to me in life!”

In the midst of your jubilation, she walks back and hands you the check.

“No!” you shout. “It’s not my time to go! I want to stay! You promised me more!”

"Right."

Without saying another word, she takes back the check, rips it up, and hands you a menu. A second chance. All of the choices are right in front of you. All you have to do is pick what you want. But, what if you pick the wrong thing? Should you ask her for suggestions? In your peripheral vision, you see Penelope lead a man to the booth next to you. She offers him a menu, but he declines, saying he knows exactly what he wants. God, I hate people like that.

THE DOWNSIDE OF GOOGLE

Have you ever, seemingly out of nowhere, thought of a person you knew 10, 20, 30, years ago, and Googled their name? And find out they’re dead? Then open the link and see there’s still an open investigation? They’re calling it a possible homicide ~ vehicular manslaughter ~ and the police are looking to question you? You think, “How is this possible? It must be some kind of joke.” Then you scroll down and see an ad for a site called, “This Is No Joke.” You open that link and see it’s an ad for a company called “Got Them”, which is a service that creates elaborate online hoaxes to pull on your friends. So now you’re convinced it’s a joke. Then you realize, “I have Ad Blocker. Plus! I shouldn’t be seeing ads.”

Just then, someone starts knocking on the front door. You peek outside. It’s the police. A LOT of police. Now slowly, like a heavy morning fog lifting from the street, a series of events begins to unfold in your mind. It hasn’t been decades since I last saw him. I ran into him a few weeks ago, didn’t I? Is that possible? Something about all of this doesn’t feel right, but you can’t quite put all the pieces together just yet.

Now the police are pounding on the door, calling your name and shouting that they have your picture. Which sends you in a panic. Why? Who knows? Something about names today has been slightly unnerving. You run out the back door, because for whatever reason, the police in your town never seem to cover the back exits. You hop fences, running frantically between buildings and down alleys, trying not to be seen. Finally, you reach a busy street. There’s a cab sitting right there at the curb. You’ve mostly been using Uber the past year, and have been seriously thinking of switching to Lyft, because you haven’t been pleased with Uber’s business practices lately. Not only that, Douglas in his brown Nissan Sentra is six minutes away, and you don’t have time, so you cave, and jump in the taxi.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks.

“Anywhere,” you answer.

“Anywhere it is… Mister Egan.”

How does he know my name? And that voice. It sounds so familiar. You look in the rear view mirror to have a peek. That’s his face! The person you just Googled! He’s not dead!

“The police think I killed you! We need to tell them you’re alive!”

“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” he sneers.

“Yeah,” you tell him. “I kinda would.”

“You don’t remember, do you?”

“What in particular?” you ask. Because you literally have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Three weeks ago. You were out bar hopping with your friends. I picked you up in this very cab and drove you five miles, and you ignored me the entire trip.”

“I probably didn’t recognize you.”

“I introduced myself!”

“I must not have heard you.”

“You laughed! Just like high school. We were in every class together for four years, and you never said hello to me.”

“Come on! I was drunk!”

“In high school?”

“That night!” you exclaim. “And yeah, in high school, too.”

“I’ve been waiting thirty years for this moment,” he mumbles to himself.

“Were we really in every class together?”

He steps on the gas and weaves through traffic, as your limp body bounces like a rag doll in the backseat. You finally manage to take hold of the door handle, but you can’t open it.

“Only I can unlock the doors,” he laughs.

Luckily, there’s no Plexiglas partition separating driver and passenger, so you put your hands on the top of the front seat and vault yourself over. He tries fighting you off, but you manage to reach across him to the door lock switch, and open the passenger door. You know it’s stupid, but you jump out anyway. There’s no oncoming traffic, so you tuck and roll until you slam to a painful stop at the curb. He kicks the brakes and makes a wild U-turn. The thought pops into your head: he’s going to run you over, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’ve seen this moment countless times in movies and TV shows, and always wondered what would be your final thought when you knew the end was seconds away. Would it be a memory of a woman you loved? Would you think back to a particularly happy time as a child? Or instead, would regrets overwhelm your senses, and run a list of maybes and what-ifs through your mind? In all of those instances, you never once considered those last seconds would be used trying to remember the full roster of every class you had in high school.

The world is moving in slow motion. You can see his maniacal grin as he directs the cab toward you. You won’t even have time to get all the way through the third row of junior Spanish. But before he can reach you, a bus rams into him on the passenger side. He’s ejected from the taxi and thrown to the street.

A witness runs up to you. “I think that guy’s dead.”

“I hope so,” you say.

“I saw the whole thing,” the witness says. “What you did? That’s vehicular homicide.” Then he takes your picture and calls the police.

Just before passing out, you quietly wonder if any of this would be an appropriate story to tell at his wake.

LIFE IS SO BORING

     Life is so boring sometimes. The same damn thing, day in and day out. Mind numbingly dull. Tedious. Mundane. Nothing interesting ever happens ~ it’s always the same dreary slog. Which is very depressing. Boring and depressing. 

     So what do you do? You go to the doctor. She asks what’s wrong, and you’re like, “Thanks for listening to the setup, doc.” You tell her directly, you’re bored and depressed. She asks if any of your friends or family have noticed any change in you. You tell her you have no friends and hate your family. So she gives you pills. You take them every day, and after a few weeks you feel slightly better. You still don't have friends, or a likable family, but neither seem to matter so much anymore. However, you’re still bored. And now, you’re putting on weight.

     So, you go to your doctor. Doctor tells you to go on a diet. Now, you’re eating salads. But you’re still bored because there’s nothing exciting about lettuce. Lettuce is little more than green, chewy water. Not even the cool kind, like the green, chewy water in Olympic swimming pools. Just pieces. Stupid little pieces. The lettuce not only bores the hell out of you, it makes you feel tired. Listless. You’re finding out that green, chewy water doesn’t deliver that needed much of an energy boost.

     

     So, you tell your doctor. Doctor says she knows just the thing for you ~ external stimulation. You think about it for a moment. Sure, she might be a little older than you, but why not give it a try? You ask her if it’s covered by your insurance. She says she doesn’t understand. But you do. That’s not really her field of expertise. Who really understands how insurance works? Not even the president. You figure, the hell with it. She can send a bill, and you’ll file for a reimbursement later. So, you start to undress. She calmly asks you what you’re doing. 

     You tell her. “Preparing for your external stimulation.”

     She says, “I think you may have misunderstood me.”

     Not the first time a woman’s ever told you that while you’re unzipping. She clarifies. “I meant, you should go out. Try new things. Go to a museum. Or the zoo.”

     “The zoo?”

     “Yes. Bring a friend.”

     “I don’t have friends.”

     “Make some.”

     So, the next morning, you take your pills. Squeeze into your newly tight clothes. Put some green, chewy water in a Zip-lock bag for lunch, and go to the zoo. You get there, and what do you see? Animals in cages. Looking as bored as you. Walking around and eating grass ~ which is just another type of green, chewy water. The zoo, it turns out, is even more depressing. Then you remember the doctor told you to make friends, so you talk to a couple people as they walk past. Ask them if they’d like to hang out later. Maybe have a couple drinks. But after a while, their teachers get freaked out by your overtures, and rush all the kids back to the school buses.

     So, now you’re banned from the zoo for life. Then the realization hits you ~ life. What’s that, another 50 years, give or take? At this very moment, there are animals in the zoo that will outlive your lifetime ban. Which means, decades and decades of tortoises telling the same story about you getting kicked out. Over and over again. And laughing. You wonder if it’s worth the risk to sneak back inside and confront the tortoises. If not now, maybe in fifteen years, or so, when things have cooled down. You decide against it. Why do you care what these particular tortoises think about you? It’s not like their information is going to get very far. So, you step back and reflect on it all. You wonder if anyone is really having fun, or if they’re all lying about it. Just to screw with you. What if everyone in the entire world is just like you ~ trying anything, but hopelessly failing, all in desperate attempts to keep them from being bored out of their frigging minds? And if that’s true, how many other stories do the tortoises have?

     So, you go to the doctor. You did what she said, but nothing worked. Except now, you know the tortoises are laughing at you, and you’re fairly certain the world is conspiring to keep you from ever being happy. She smiles and gives you more pills. The cycle continues. Wake up. Pills. Tight clothes. Lettuce. More pills. More sleep. 

     Nothing interesting ever happens.