The Stupidity Test

Nooses? Nooses? Really?

What the fuck is wrong with you kids?

The latest episodes:

At Ole Miss in Oxford, Mississippi a few pumped up, over privileged freshmen at the honored Southern university draped a noose around the neck of the statue of James Meredith. He’s an American hero for Christ’s sake. And up in New Jersey, rapidly becoming the stupidest of the Northeastern states, a bunch of wannabe wise asses on the wrestling team at Phillipsburg High School thought it would be funny to post a picture of themselves posing with a black practice dummy that they had lynched to show their school spirit. No thought process whatsoever.

There are no words.

Wait. Yes there are.

Immoral, narcissistic, dickless, redneck, racist, ignorant inbred shitbags.

I get that the families are totally screwed up and there must be plenty of bad behavior and drinking and incest and enabling and indulgence at home to create these dogbrains, but how can these fools get through 8, 12, 14 years of school and not have learned that this kind of bigoted dumbass behavior is really, really fucking stupid and wrong? Not a great advertisement for education in the USA. Plus, my god, these punks have been using the Internet their entire lives and still haven’t figured out that it’s public and is going to catch them some major shit?

I hope these birdbrains aren’t Christians and go to church with the family and pray before the big game and big tests and big events. I’ll bet they’re praying their asses off now that they’ve been busted.

Such assholes. If you are over the age of 10 and think for an instant that hanging a noose around a tree limb or a statue for giggles and attention is funny or if that this is a freedom of expression issue, then bite me; you need to be hit in the face twice, with a hammer, and sterilized. Fuck you. There are an infinite number of ways to express backwoods thinking and hatred and an undeveloped, infantile sense of humor. The noose is a dead giveaway to your true feelings and apologies, and regret and remorse when you get caught will not cut it, ever.

The good news is that these senseless failures will never be competitive for a decent job. Thanks, losers.

I always look for the silver lining.

Happy Sex Day

Valentine’s day.

It’s full of drama and demand, disappointment, discrimination and guilt. All this coy bullshit with flowers and chocolates and cards.

Can’t we just call it “Sex Day”?

Love was restrictively formalized in medieval times, exalted in purple prose by the Romantic Poets, and completely misunderstood, capitalized and denatured by the ‘60s. Love is an abstract feeling and it’s hard to define. It should probably include respect and excitement and adrenalin and kindness, but on Valentines Day it seems to come down to:

We got married.

We’re committed.

You give me stuff so I love you.

He looks like a movie star.

She’s hot.

He’s thoughtful.

She’s funny.

You can say you love your wife, husband, kids, grandparents, car, dog, music, fountain pen, underwear, implants, orthotics and pudding.

Let’s simplify it all and eliminate the abstraction of  “Love” and call it Sex Day.

“Happy Sex Day! Are you getting any?”

“Hey, have a great Sex Day. Hope you get laid.”

“Are you doing anything for Sex Day (nudge, nudge)?”

No flowers, unless it will help you to have sex. Flowers look nice next to the bed. Colorful. Nice smell. Candy’s OK, too. Small amounts of chocolate before and after a sexual interlude may enhance the experience and get the dopamine flowing.

Hell, you can even send a card:

“Thank you for the wonderful sex. Let’s do it again soon. I love your (body part).” Nothing wrong with that.

But on Sex Day the focus should be on sex; intercourse, congress, play, orgasm, enjoyment and expression. If you don’t want to have sex or can’t, that’s cool; just don’t wreck it for other people and take some time to recognize the beauty of physical fun that doesn’t require a subscription or membership card, uniforms or gear. Unless you like uniforms and gear, then feel free to choose your own wardrobe and equipment. Dress up, saddle up, wind up and plug in. It’s a personal, international, eternal and, if you’re discreet, unregulated experience.

Your parents had it and I hope they still do. Your kids are having it, or will, and you’d probably be surprised at how much they already know. Grandparents, strangers, best friends, famous people, fat, thin, old, young, short and tall may all be carnally engaged at this moment. Rejoice.

You don’t need a partner, either. If you’re alone, separated, divorced, solitary, unaccompanied, isolated, you can still take a few minutes and celebrate. Buy yourself something nice and take a half hour out of the day with a warm bath, a memory, a moist towelette.

Enjoy or abstain, but it’s a pretty terrific reality and we should celebrate it, formally and publicly, one day a year. Of course it will piss off religious fruitcakes who are terrified of their bodies, and men who fear women, and Pat Robertson and Kirk Cameron and Orson Scott Card. So what? Fuck those losers. They get Christmas, Easter, President’s Day, Super Bowl and Halloween to be drunk and angry.

Dress up or strip down; today is Sex Day.

Hope you get some.

Our Friend Satan

Listening in on another conversation at the coffee shop. It’s what I do. Fuzzy new age seekers happy that there is an all-loving entity watching over everyone and our only job as his spoiled children is to pray and seek and trust and have faith and know that there is great abundance awaiting when we arrive in the moist, oozing, spiritual hereafter.

Sounds too easy. Trivial.

Can you have a reward without the option of punishment?

If you believe in God, how can you not believe in the Devil? Satan. Moloch. Mammon. Lucifer. Beelzebub. There are more names for the Devil than for God, which indicates that we’ve been thinking about this for a long time.

If you are certain that there is a benign heavenly entity looking down on you with love, forgiveness, guidance, if He (cause it’s always a fucking “He”) listens to your prayers and grants wishes and cures disease and performs miracles and has a giant open door policy for people and dogs that die and get to ascend to rewards unimagined, all Love, all caring, all easy well-fed calm reunification with every family member and friend who has gone before, there has to be a contrasting phenomenon.

Otherwise everything would be terrific; low cholesterol, cancer free, high self esteem. If He’s in charge and is all good where the hell does all the shitty stuff come from? Bad hair and infections?

Is your deity a total dick, offering great sex and good vibes and cool movies and at the same time overdosing actors, blowing up restaurants, sexually abusing children, causing car accidents and tooth decay and AIDS?

He is one screwy bastard and avoiding Him would be in all our best interests. Right? I mean, Jesus, a schizoid, nasty, disrespectful, vindictive, punishing, whimsically cruel divinity? Nope, no thank you very much.

Satan on the other hand, makes a lot of sense. Read the news. Add up the happy stories, and then add up the horrors and stupidity and terror. Subtract the small number from the big number. It comes out to about 6 to 1 in favor of Evil.

The evidence indicates that the world is a complicated, dysfunctional place; overpopulated, dirty and terribly dangerous in many places. The randomness of birth drops some people in lethal situations permanently and forever. Lucky you if your god didn’t force you to be born in fucking North Korea.

We should be grateful for the supposed existence of Satan. The Father of Lies. Old Scratch. As long as he’s looking up at us, ready to catch us when we fall, we don’t have to question why things happen; we don’t have to debate the nature of evil and afterlife and where uncle Billy is living since he died. If the ongoing battle between decency and wickedness is tipping a little towards the Pit it just means that the other guys are winning for the present.

If Uncle Billy was an abusive asshole, he’s in hell. Unless you don’t believe in the hell, and the Devil and evil and everyone is beautiful and gets forgiven.

Then uncle Billy, the old prick, is kicked back in heaven.

Drunk.

Naked.

And waiting for you.

Bible Study

     This morning I was shopping on the Internet. Christmas is over for another year and it’s time to buy stuff for myself.

     A knock on the front door. Who the hell would knock on my door? I live in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t a loud cop-knock or a neighbor with the tentative lost-dog tap. This was a staccato rhythm, a series of authoritative single strokes.

     Immediately I thought, “Salesman.”

     As I marched to the door I glanced at my ax, which is propped nearby against the wall. Probably won’t need that.

     I swung the door open to some fifty-ish guy who looked like a piece of underdone toast; bland, conservative gray suit, topcoat, glasses. He starts babbling aggressively, immediately, while holding out a book and thumbing through it.

     “We’ve been talking to some of your neighbors about the bible and I would like to….”

     I said, “Oh shit,” and slammed the door.

     I have a bible on the living room table. I could see it from where I was standing. I’m reading the John Woods translation of Thomas Mann’s German epic novel “Joseph and His Brothers.” It’s a reality-based re-telling of the biblical story of Joseph, Jacob, Isaac, Rachael, Zebulon, Dinah, Levi, the whole unwashed, superstitious, inbred poorly-groomed cast in a 1500 page package. I am not a bible expert, so I keep the good book next to me as I’m reading so I can refer to the original tales and compare them with Mann’s version. Mann’s book is a fascinating read that will occupy a large chunk of winter.

     It was ironic, though, that for the first time in decades, I had a bible in plain view while some moron was standing at the door a few days after Christmas with a desire to rag on me about the mysteries and secrets of Christianity. There were so many things I wanted to say to my dim redeemer.

     “I read the bible, it’s bullshit, go away.”

     “If you believe in god I can’t take anything you say seriously.”

     “I’m an atheist and I have an ax.”

     This same thing happened thirty years ago with two guys, Witnesses or Mormons, and I invited them in, poured myself a big drink of brandy, offered them the bottle, put on some loud music, Zeppelin or Black Sabbath, and told the bible-boys to sit down while I spewed obscenity laced hatred and told them that as long as they were in my house I could kill them if I wanted to.

     Alas, I no longer drink, so that specific avenue of fun has been pretty much closed off for me.

     Instead, this morning, I glanced at my ax, barked, “No thanks,” and slammed the door in the prophet’s face.

     I did not give a shit if the guy had traveled a jillion furlongs or cubits, if he had the secret to long life or if his camel was thirsty.

     I’m tired of believers; crazy religious people wear me the fuck out.

     I am not spiritual but I’m really devoted to my ax. It’s real. It’s not an imaginary disappointment invented 4,000 years ago by some goat herders who had gotten themselves in deep shit and needed a magical entity to rescue them. I can hold the ax in my hands and swing it. It has weight and I can touch it.

     How about if I went door to door preaching my beliefs and offering to show people how they could be saved?

     “This is my ax. I believe in my ax and you should, too. Can I take a few minutes of your time to show you my ax and talk about your salvation?”

An Act of Commerce

I’ve been chopping firewood; first time in my life. I’m pretty much a suburban guy and I’ve worked as a writer, systems analyst, journalist, teamster, drinker, smoker, liar, and my leisure activities have consisted of browsing bookstores, watching videos, fucking off, driving around and bar hopping. Muscles I’ve neglected are sore from chopping wood, but I’m also more relaxed and I’m sleeping well. I had a therapist years ago (Number 4) that said if I found an activity which employed the body’s long muscles, quadriceps, biceps, back, it could help to reduce stress and anxiety. As if. I told him he was an idiot and a fraud, paid him $100 dollars and left to get drunk. Don’t try to tell me about stress relief.

I have a friend here in the mountains of New Mexico who lives in a teepee. He grows and sells beans. Special beans: Zuni, Anasazi, Heirloom. They don’t look like the kind you’d find in the supermarket and I can’t imagine that he makes a living, but his overhead is low and he has few needs.

We were talking this morning about the weather and the Christmas holidays and I told him how much I enjoyed chopping wood. He’s a tough guy, physical, dresses in Carhartt canvas, his hands are rough as sandpaper, and I realized that telling him about my recent love-affair with manual labor must sound pretty fucking lame to this dude who’s spent most of his adult life outdoors.

He said, “Hey, if you have any extra firewood I’ll trade you some beans for it.”

Blown away.

“What? Why?”

“Well, it’s been pretty cold and I haven’t been able to get up into the mountains to gather wood. I have enough in my truck for another night but I’ll need some more.”

Never in my craziest fantasies have I envisioned myself as a supplier of fuel to off-the-grid mountain men. Jesus. And he was going to give me beans. Beans. This was beginning to sound like a warped version of Paul Bunyan and Jack in the Beanstalk with a little Carlos Castaneda thrown in for psychedelic good measure.

The basic model of social commerce is barter. He needs firewood and I have some. I don’t see the great appeal of beans, but they are a primitive and respected food that has sustained populations for millennia. I’d give him the wood for nothing, I can chop more, but I’m going to take the beans in trade. I’ll probably put them in a drawer and forget them for a couple of years until I accidentally come across them and throw them in the garbage, but the historic act of exchanging my services for his goods has a biblical, elemental authenticity and allows me to participate in an honest and ancient system of human collaboration.

And, goddamnit, my old therapist was right. I should send him a letter of apology. When I’m wielding my ax I am composed, strong and invincible. And afterwards I’m calm. I even vaguely understand the appeal of living in a teepee and of learning basic survival skills. I love my ax, perhaps a little too much, and I chop wood. Instead of sizable and expensive quantities of cocaine and alcohol, I can bring myself to a state of equanimity and self-control after a half hour of hard ax-work. If I’d known it was all going to be so fucking easy I could have saved $140,000 on therapy. Now I have to go chop wood to earn my beans.

Sensitive Artists

     Another big article recently about creative people and how sensitive they are. Do you think writers and artists are especially sensitive people? According to many writers and artists they are. They’re extremely intuitive and thoughtful and insightful, complicated and perceptive. Don’t they feel more deeply, aren’t they more caring and shouldn’t we understand that their profound complexity requires that we treat them with extra special respect and admiration?

     Oh, shit no. No, no, no.

     A person I know, who calls himself a writer, does not have cancer, is not living in poverty, doesn’t have disabilities, doesn’t suffer the burden of children, can afford decent food, gas, heat, appears to be tolerant of his current wife, has plenty of time to garden and travel and take cooking classes at the local junior college. He recently posted a message in which he was passionately lamenting the trials and difficulties of The Writer’s Life, the literary torments, the daily production of linked sentences composed of correctly spelled words and how proud and blessed he was to have finished his latest story.

     Fuck you, you toilet. Please. There is no “Writer’s Life”.

     There is Life, short and confusing and you choose to write. Or paint or sculpt or dance. Or not. There are no special gifts or cosmic sensitivities. Hard work and luck. Those are the often-overlooked necessary components of any real artistic enterprise. Not self proclaimed “sensitivity” or praise from friends about how well you express yourself in your retarded Facebook posts. Really, everyone expresses himself or herself fairly well and it doesn’t make them special or unique.

     Sorry, but there is only one species of humans. Homo Sapiens. That’s us and that’s it. Eating, digesting, screwing, dying and some of us do other stuff like painting and writing and juggling and competitive eating. There are not Homo sapiens I and Homo Sapiens II; the first group consisting of everyone else in the world and the other is that special advanced species of writers and artists. Ridiculous bullshit. Bitching about the hardships of an artist’s life makes one a gigantic whining baby, not an artist. No one is more than a normal human being with varying human weaknesses and abilities.

     Of course, the organism closest to Humans is the Chimpanzee. Perhaps artists and writers are more in tune with their inner chimp than the divine muse.

     Gee, you’ve written a nice poem and that’s a beautiful photograph of your grandchildren in the snow. Moving and profound. Your painting is a wonderful representation of the struggles of the artist in an uncaring society. Here’s your banana.

     Now that would make sense.

You Can Also Use an Ax to Chop Wood

     I bought a huge load of wood this year and it is nice and dry, almost perfect, but some of the pieces are a little too big for my fireplace. I needed to buy an ax to cut up the more cumbersome logs, split them down into kindling and make them fit.

     I spent an afternoon stacking the wood and it looks impressive, a looming wall of logs up against the fence, neatly arranged. I was sore after the job, but it felt good. I know I’m not the first guy to discover that physical labor can feel great and is healthy and satisfying. That was probably one of the Roman Stoics in the third or fourth century AD, just around the time the Roman Empire was collapsing and they were running out of slaves to do the heavy lifting.

     Stacking wood is weight bearing; the moving of objects from one place to another for an hour or so will help keep a person in good shape, strong and capable. Much better than standing still in a gym full of boneheads lifting barbells and tugging on threatening machines, running nowhere on treadmills.

     Picking up fifty armloads of wood and staggering twenty yards to stack it is gratifying and I don’t feel judged because I’m not dressed in the proper workout attire or I’m not slim enough and young and confident. I’m alone, out of breath, sweaty, covered in sawdust and dirt, my hands are scratched and filthy, but I’m doing something practical. And it’s relatively free. Of course, and this is a legitimate concern, there is no one around to administer CPR if something goes wrong, as it inevitably will. I can’t get a sixty-dollar massage and we don’t have a tanning booth, but I’m also not worried about anyone stealing my wallet or some testo-aggro dude who is looking for trouble.

     This morning I went to the hardware store and purchased an ax so I can chop the wood. I’ve never done that before, it was a unique, once in a lifetime experience. My First Ax. Felt good, let me say. I can never repeat the act of purchasing my first ax; it’s like first sex or first drink, first fight and first divorce. A right of passage.

     At the door of the hardware store I ran into my physical therapist. He’s a nice guy, handsome with good hair, serious, healthy as hell, strong, and he has helped me significantly with my chronic back problem and the tendonitis in my left arm.

     I’ve never felt comfortable with small talk and I don’t do it well. I’m usually accused of being inappropriate or obscene or dismissive. Most people tend to be sincere if they ask a question and they don’t expect a wise crack. I grew up differently and am always prepared for an automatic insult, a nasty response or sarcasm. I wish it wasn’t true. Over the past decade I’ve become much more integrated into the normal conversational deportment of others and I try to restrain myself, but when I’m feeling good and caffeinated I sometimes don’t edit as well as I should.

     The physical therapist is twenty years younger than I am but he cheerfully called out, “Hey, how are you doing, young man? How’s the back?”

     “My back is good today. Thanks for the help.”

     “What are you getting?”

     “An Ax. Some guy just pissed me off. I need an ax.”

     “So, what, are you going to work out your aggression by chopping a bunch of fireplace wood?”

I looked at him, squinted and realized he was completely serious. This is the way some people truly think. Their first word association when they hear the word “Ax” is “Wood”. Incredible.

     I answered, “No. I don’t have a fireplace.”

     He giggled nervously, realized that I was kidding him. Finally, I thought. Jesus, dude. I immediately, instinctively, decided that there was something wrong with him, but in reality, to this healthy young man the concept of working out one’s anger, anxiety, aggression by doing some exercise or hard physical work was as natural as breathing. I am in a prolonged state of recovery, but I'm occasionally reminded that there may still be flaws in my thinking and reactions.

     The ax I bought is a beautiful tool with a smoothly curved and tapered handle; it’s heavy enough to swing overhead and let the momentum do most of the work. It came pre-sharpened and slices through wood like butter, if I hit the log right. I missed a lot of the time, swung at thin air, jerking and jumping out of the way of the deadly blade, but still, it was a good half hour workout and I felt manly and outdoorsy when I was finished. Now I have a big pile of wood in varying sizes that will fit the fireplace. Success and health. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

     I thought about leaving my new ax outside, near the woodpile, but instead I’ve put it right next to the front door in the foyer, leaning against the wall. I can’t imagine using it for anything other than chopping wood, but you never know.