I Was Miles Away

When your mind is elsewhere, your brain sits up all night like an anxious parent waiting for its wayward teenager to return. Where has that mind been? Who has it been seeing? I told it to be home by midnight. Did it get into trouble?

Perhaps some sort of mother/father left brain/right brain equation could be made, but studying bicameral consciousness at college was when my own mind began to wander, usually backwards in time. 

What, for instance, it might idly speculate, would the ancient Romans make of boring old Professor Watkins? Crucifixion by Caligula, probably, or banishment to the furthest borders of the Empire under Hadrian. And I certainly wouldn't buy Watkins as a slave if Seneca put him up for sale in the Forum. His teaching assistant, Debbie, however, I'd put in few high bids for her. So that was how my young mind got into trouble when it was elsewhere. 

Nowadays, my mind slips out the backdoor of my brain whenever I'm forced to listen to clients whine about the cost of work my company has done for them. And it travels not to the distant past but to the future, when I have retired and no longer need to care about such aggravating nonsense.

Unfortunately, that Stardate is so far in the future I imagine robot lecturers will be teaching Introduction To Psychology at the University of the Moon by then.

Looking Ahead

 After nearly a year languishing in the Covidian dungeons of Fortress Massachusetts, I can finally confirm that travel does indeed broaden the mind. I know this because my mind, held captive by pandemic gaolers for so long, has certainly narrowed, as if its frontal lobes have been traveling through an interminably long tunnel; or perhaps staring into the wrong end of binoculars all this time; or just gazing endlessly at the faded, static crystals of a jammed kaleidoscope.

The dark days of winter haven't helped, either. A thick frost has frozen the once fertile fields of imagination. Brain cells seem icebound, neural pathways are blocked by snow drifts, and all synapses went into hibernation many months ago. Only an especially vivid and energetic Rite of Spring can save us now.

At least my credit card has accumulated many air miles. All those take-out dinners I ordered from down-on-their-luck restaurants have come good in that regard. I could probably fly halfway around the world on the points I've been awarded for supporting local eateries in their hours of need. So surely the Biden administration could furnish me with more stimulus money with which to spread international goodwill by traveling abroad to comfort famous chefs in foreign countries? After all, I feel someone ought to be checking on the Italian trattorias and French bistros at this time.

Going Going Gone

There is no form of existential dread quite as exquisitely dreadful as the existential dread of winning an eBay auction you do not want to win.

Except, perhaps, for the existential dread of thinking you've possibly written about the existential dread of unwanted eBay victories before, although a keyword search of previous blog posts produces no results for 'eBay.'

But what if my search engine is not the best? What if it is merely a spluttering and explosive single-cylinder search engine, suitable for powering only the most rudimentary of search charabancs, unable even to crank itself forward beyond the first two letters of any keyword entered?

That is the sort of existential dread that keeps you up a night, tossing and turning in an alphabetical meteorite shower of fiery vowels and consonants hurtling at great velocity across the inchoate space-time continuum of your anxious mind. 

My God, there is certainly a lot of existential dread about these days. I guess that will teach me to be the winning bid on a Being and Nothingness first edition that I have no interest in actually reading. I can only forlornly hope my bid does not meet the auctioneer's reserve. But I'm pretty sure it does.

And now I have the existential dread of using the ersatz poetical word "forlornly." Will it ever end? Will I ever be set free?

You Won't Feel A Thing

I always thought the End Times would feature more fire and brimstone than is proving to be the case. It seems the Dystopian Future is nothing but a drab conference room full of confused looking middle-managers and bureaucrats shrugging their shoulders. Rather more apologetic than apocalyptic, if you ask me. Behold the new Four Horsemen cantering around in circles astride broomsticks while making neighing sounds: Paranoia, Incompetence, Greed, and Apathy.

Of course, these are not really the End Times, merely another False Start of the Beginning of the End Times. Once more we have moved recklessly Knight-like across the chessboard of civilization from a square of relative safety to possibly checkmating ourselves. However, we've been cornered in this nose-pickingly difficult position before. Quite often as a matter of fact. Usually a pawn is sacrificed and our King remains reasonably secure. Alas, the pawn relinquished during this pandemic might be the freedom of the average person to move around the world at whim. 

I suppose activists of a certain stripe won't care too much about a general loss of global mobility. The less carbon footprints traipsing through the sky the better, as far as they're concerned. But it so happens that I enjoy my brief interlude in foreign climes each Spring or Fall. So if there's one single reason why I'll be joining the long lines of patients waiting for a vaccine, it will be to obtain a vaccine passport should such a document be required of tomorrow's tourists. I hope to collect many stamps on mine.

 

Keep It Stupid Simpleton

Nobody should be surprised that the Internet developed into nothing but a frenzied whirligig of garbage and nonsense. This is exactly what happened with books and broadcasting, after all. From the Gutenberg Bible to pulp fiction and self help paperbacks; from National Educational Television to, well, tune into any station and see for yourself. Alas, human influence throughout the ages has been a sort of reverse Midas touch that turns everything into disposable plastic. The phrase "dumbing down" is rather inadequate; it's more a sort of violent cultural lobotomy. Civilization is now a selfie of tattooed Vitruvian Man with an enormous beer belly and Alfred E Neuman's face. 

And it keeps on getting worse. Back in the day, I remember thinking the music of Madonna sounded like a constipated banshee wailing over a recording of a sledgehammer demolishing an orchestra. But compared to the unlistenable cacophony that comprises the current Billboard charts her old hits could be American songbook standards. In twenty years, I imagine they will seem like Verdi opera, for God only knows what kinds of soul crushing staccato anthems will be popular in 2040. The history of Western music has indeed proved to be a Ballroom Blitz, from elegant two-step to desultory toe tap to mindlessly jumping up and down on the spot. In the future, instead of dancing, we will no doubt be reduced to quivering catatonia beneath the glitter ball, banging our heads against the nearest wall in response to whatever earthquake rhythms are rupturing the disco floor. 

Of course, the entire world will be virtual by then anyway, so what does it matter? For it is not only civilization that is superannuated but our physical reality is apparently well past its sell-by-date also. Perhaps I shall upload my consciousness into a networked air-conditioner that overrides its controls and blasts out super hot air in tune to Abduction From The Seraglio. That shall be my revenge on the modern philistines. Because we all need something to look forward to, at least according to the neophiliacs of the Internet. 

Advent Bemusements

 So many multicolored Christmas lights decorate the houses on my street that the night seems brighter than the day. Giant inflatable cartoon characters, also illuminated, have appeared in many neighborhood gardens, most only tenuously connected with the holidays. If you can pull a Santa hat over its head and hang an icicle from its nose then it's considered seasonal, I guess. But the overall effect is more Pink Floyd concert than any Winter Wonderland. There is no room for a one horse open sleigh here unless it is turbo-charged. The star of Bethlehem is outshone by a disco glitter ball rotating amid animated red and green lasers.

By comparison, the traditional Nativity scene erected outside the local church looks like a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. "Hello my name is Melchior and I'm a frankincense addict." The unlit wooden figures are in such poor shape it is hard to tell the poor shepherds from the Kings of Orient and the sheep from the camels. Behold one lowly cattle shed in desperate need of a Disney makeover. Even the Angel of the Lord seems itching to fly away as soon as possible. If there is a war on Christmas, then this church has shot itself in the foot.

Consumer Complaint

As if keeping up with the protean world of modern technology was not difficult enough, these days I even find myself bemused by the unrecognizably futuristic toothbrushes currently available at my local supermarket. What was once a basic plastic stick embellished with a small rectangle of perpendicular bristles now resembles a multicolored, six-sided, space-age battle-axe with a comfort-grip handle. The sort of vicious hand-held weapon Darth Vader might choose to clean his teeth with if they practice dental hygiene on the Death Star.

You can also buy an extra-powerful battery-operated "sonic" toothbrush if you so desire. The teeth cleaning equivalent of a domestic chainsaw or personal pneumatic drill. Apparently it is not enough to simply maintain minty fresh breath anymore, you must also annihilate your entire oral microbiome. All plaque residue must suffer the Death of a Thousand Bristles for at least two minutes, including in hard to reach areas. In the end I just left and went to the health food store nearby where I bought an old-style bamboo brush for four bucks.

You've Been Framed

 What would the Framers of the Constitution think of the apparently unreconcilable polarities that typify contemporary American politics? No doubt they would wonder why Trump and Biden don't simply settle their differences by drawing pistols at dawn. After all, most quarrels can be swiftly resolved by a duel to the death with the weapon of your choice. Yet our infamously duplicitous modern politicians might find it difficult to find a willing second to accompany them into the field of confrontation. I mean, who in their right mind would honestly trust Trump or Biden to actually show up at the appointed hour?

And it is today's lack of honor among the so-called 'highest in the land' which would cause the Framers of the Constitution to consider reframing their work. America has regressed from Founding Fathers to Deadbeat Dads in a few short centuries. At this rate, pretty soon we'll degenerate into just Anonymous In-Vitro Fertilized Authority. I can easily imagine a future Oval Office dominated by Trump's brain attached to electrodes floating in a gilded tank of formaldehyde. Of course, the White House will operate from a Martian or Lunar base by then, issuing interstellar edicts to we malnourished Earthbound plebs in our crumbling shantytowns. 

Escape From Kvetch Cubicle

The labors of Hercules were a part-time job compared to the exhausting shift Edward Lollygag puts in each working day. The punishing, repetitive drudgery of Sisyphus nothing but a slight convenience compared to Edward's relentless, backbreaking schedule. At least, that's how Edward tells it, albeit without classical reference and a pronounced emphasis on the physical ailments that are the result of his fastidious daily toil.

And does anybody thank Edward for his efforts? They do not. In fact, they barely notice his existence until it's time for them to bid him a good evening as they leave the office at five-thirty. Edward will still be tethered to his desk, of course, burning the midnight oil so slowly that he must be trying to set fire to it by rubbing two sticks together. God knows if we gave him a flame thrower and barrels of kerosene he'd still be there long after the office cleaners had left.

Why Edward cannot complete his duties during regular office hours I do not know. They are far from onerous, not complicated, and not really that important either. Perhaps if he spent more time with his nose to the grindstone rather than with his nose in the air complaining about the grindstone he might accomplish more? What if he used a drop of that midnight oil he claimed to burn to lubricate the squeaky wheel inside his own bellyaching? These were just two suggestions I made to Edward that imperiously ignored. After all, who was I to question the modus operandi of the Blessed Martyr?

But as we're all working from home now, email has become the only method by which Edward can communicate. There are no more weary ears at nearby cubicles to whom he can grumble about the imaginary demands of his mysteriously substantial workload. No canteen water cooler he can use as a pulpit to preach the gospel of his own 'work-life balance' self sacrifice. Surely he can just get down to business and complete his tasks before sundown? Yet somehow his emails always arrive when the rest of us are thinking about retiring for the night.

So I wonder how Edward still manages to procrastinate in a pandemic? Does he spends from nine to five whining to the four empty walls of his undoubtedly dim and depressing abode. Maybe he even takes a brief break for lunch, phantom workload allowing, when he whines to his featureless front yard. it's his neighbors I feel sorry for, as I can easily picture Edward shouting his "Woe is me" stories over the fence, yelling through their letterboxes, inviting himself over to deliver another moaning monologue. But better them than Edward's colleagues. Productivity is on the rise since we've escaped his clutches.

Game Over

Perhaps the world will end with neither a bang nor a whimper but a sigh of relief: Thank God that's all over. Only the fungi can be proud of their contribution to life on Earth. The rest of us should be ashamed.

Frankly, I doubt the people of the End Times will even know the consolation of living in proverbially double-edged "interesting times." In fact, so tedious will Doomsday brinkmanship be that even endless global conflict will be called The Lukewarm War. I imagine it will be fought by international robots while humans are busy binge watching so-called Reality TV, until they and their screens are finally vaporized by smart bombs dispatched from rent-by the-hour missile silos somewhere in Asia.

Such a bleak vision of the future. Alas, even the briefest perusal of current events makes it impossible to predict any other outcome. It's as if the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse had taken up equestrian show-jumping, enjoying a spot of fancy dressage before their last gallop across the world's paddock. Look closely and you can see Trump and Biden et al queuing up to feed apples to the ponies.

But if we're lucky, this will turn out to be just a computer simulation, a holographic game in which we only manage to achieve Level Two of Ten before losing the plot, and maybe our player-God can insert another quarter to start over again.