One of the first books that I honestly fell in love with was Into The Wild, and this weekend I finally got around to watching the film adaptation directed by Sean Penn. Pretty good, I must say; certainly captured the spirit in which Christopher McCandless lived his intriguing life, and perhaps did an even better job than the book of (at the end of the film) portraying just the right amount of regret he probably had during his final breaths.
Of course, it made me think of the things I want to do; not necessarily the "things I want to do before I die" (generally a meaningless list) but the "things I need to do to find my own truth" (somewhat airy-fairy but still holds perceived meaning). Per usual, once I drifted off into thought I got distracted by the first shiny object and never completed the task. Now that I sit in front of the computer, I'm looking back at the important things I have done, and one particular event, a two and a half week odyssey in fact, seems to have provided me with most lasting value to this day.
"The Trip"
Four dudes, one shitty van, and the entire country of Canada in front of us...well, from Montreal westward, that is. Sorry, maritime provinces.
While some of the details I care not to explain, in part because of length required would take me all night to divulge, but also because, well, some of the experience I wish to keep my own, it still ranks as the best time of my life.
Many long to backpack through Europe, or trek through SE Asia (I certainly wouldn't mind doing either), yet this cheaper alternative provided four college students who couldn't legally drink in their own country a chance to explore a land not very different from their own, but at the same time still exciting and enchanting for the simple fact there were no rules, no itineraries, and no expectations...just driving, stopping when we so desired, and exploring. I have traveled abroad (like, over a fucking ocean and/or not in another largely English-speaking country) but it was different. For that, I had a schedule, and having a schedule means having a leash. For this...nothing. Just us, and whatever the fuck we felt like.
There was plenty of boozing, sexual encounters (some regrettable), and the like, but honestly all of that took a backseat to the wonders of the open road and the idea of being completely unchained to anything at the given time. Hell, two of those guys I'm no longer in contact with and the other I think is a raging douchebag these days, but it doesn't matter; we'll always be brothers for those 17 or so days, for the sheer amount of trouble we at times dance around, and for the immeasurable quantities of fun we had together.
For one, after getting back home once the trip was done for, I began to realize what I was capable of, and also what humanity in of itself can be. I can't even count the number of total strangers we encountered willing to buy us a beer and have a laugh with us (sometimes at our expense). In a dingy cowboy bar just outside of Calgary for instance, grown men who would make Sam Elliott and John Wayne look like Nancy boys regaled us with tales of love lost and other hardships of life, as if our mere presence automatically made us regulars at their watering hole. I really could go on all night, but you get the drift.
I would do a similar trip in a heartbeat, but it wouldn't be the same. While still a young guy, the weary roads we travel in every day life out in the real world can't help but make you grow cynical in some ways. My eyes aren't as open, and at times my mind seems to be padlocked. What made "the trip" so great was our youthful innocence and eagerness to trust anything and anyone that came in our path. Now, it's different; not necessarily worse, just different.
But I wouldn't mind trying.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
Matzo and Flotilla Soup
In the aftermath of the siege, any level-headed observer is left with the feeling that Israel seems quite content to cut off its nose to spite its face. While I certainly have no problem with the nation of Israel itself, or its very right to exist, the fact they can time and time again act and react with belligerence with our aid, essentially our weaponry (we certainly helped pay for them), and our de facto backing is highly disconcerting.
We've helped to prop up Israel largely on two fronts; one, the "realist" approach, for the sake of having a democratic ally in a generally not-so-democratic Middle East, and the other the "wacko Christian"; the babble from Christian Conservatives about the rapture and how Jesus ain't coming back unless the Jews have their homeland (of course, no politician with the second mindset ever says so publicly, but, we know). While spending any time delving into the latter approach makes my head hurt and lowers my IQ, the former becomes troubling if they routinely fuck up relations at a faster pace than we can try to save. The route taken to deliver humanitarian aid directly through the Gaza blockade was a direct provocation, no doubt, but one that a military as modern and well trained as the Israelis should stop with no problem whatsoever. Yet magically, 9 people ended up dead, and now perhaps the only Muslim ally the Israelis had, Turkey, is rightfully pissed. Well done. And, of course, is there a shred of remorse from our own Middle Eastern, non-Muslim ally? Nein.
Is Israel bad? No; the country is a bastion of economic activity and scientific development in a region that otherwise lacks both, and generally promotes liberal social customs in a region that, surprise, generally lacks that as well. Outside of probably only Turkey, try being an openly gay atheist, for instance, elsewhere in the region and see how long you can last before being burned at the stake. Hell, several parts of America are backwards compared to Israel and their general tolerance and acceptance towards different lifestyles. Throw in the fact that both Hamas and Hezbollah are retards, and you can see why it's easy for the pro-capitalist, democratic American to throw their weight behind the Israeli cause and support them dutifully.
The problem is that, while perhaps on a more "dignified, Western-like" level, the Israelis are just as unwilling to accept the terms of peace that we try to set for the region. I'm bothered by this because, well, my tax dollars aren't arming the 12-year old Palestinian boy who might chuck a rock at frustration towards an IDF soldier, but instead helps pay for the IDF tank that may very well just run over said 12-year old boy and say "oops" after. My tax dollars helped pay for the use of white phosphorous that was used against ("accidentally", of course) Gaza civilians. And, my tax dollars helped arm the IDF soldiers that shot up those aboard the flotilla. Ignore the obvious moral issues for a second; we provide direct monetary assistance for this. Who gives a shit if we reprimand them after, we've given them a blank check. What does that mean? Every disenfranchised Palestinian is seeing little American flags on everything Israel does to them. If that doesn't bother you, I'm not sure what will.
Forget the Gaza blockade, as stupid and useless as it has been (all it does is cause further hatred to develop since many supplies can still be funneled through Egypt anyway). Forget the illegal settlements, further proof that there is a legitimate hardline Israeli contingent that really doesn't give a flying fuck about a two-state future. Forget everything else...and just let this sink in:
We. Are. Allowing. This.
We've allowed the Israelis to develop a nuclear program without putting an ounce of pressure on them to sign the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty, and somehow think we have a leg to stand on to demand Iran and other bad boys in the region to comply. I can state other glaring problems, but my head is starting to spin. If, heaven forbid, the Middle East becomes the smoldering pile it very well could, we can largely thank ourselves for doing a shitty job of keeping our non-Muslim ally in check. At this point, I don't even blame Israel for anything anymore. We're a bad parent who has raised a spoiled, entitled kid and it's too far gone to reign him in.
I can't state it enough; most Israelis are great people, and the nation itself stands for many good things...but Palestinians are largely good people too, and because of our insistence on being pro-Israel first and foremost on everything, I don't know what future that region has that would allow for anything resulting in "peace" if the country with the best and most aggressive military thinks it can do no wrong, and we're too blind to ask them, just once, to chill the fuck out.
We've helped to prop up Israel largely on two fronts; one, the "realist" approach, for the sake of having a democratic ally in a generally not-so-democratic Middle East, and the other the "wacko Christian"; the babble from Christian Conservatives about the rapture and how Jesus ain't coming back unless the Jews have their homeland (of course, no politician with the second mindset ever says so publicly, but, we know). While spending any time delving into the latter approach makes my head hurt and lowers my IQ, the former becomes troubling if they routinely fuck up relations at a faster pace than we can try to save. The route taken to deliver humanitarian aid directly through the Gaza blockade was a direct provocation, no doubt, but one that a military as modern and well trained as the Israelis should stop with no problem whatsoever. Yet magically, 9 people ended up dead, and now perhaps the only Muslim ally the Israelis had, Turkey, is rightfully pissed. Well done. And, of course, is there a shred of remorse from our own Middle Eastern, non-Muslim ally? Nein.
Is Israel bad? No; the country is a bastion of economic activity and scientific development in a region that otherwise lacks both, and generally promotes liberal social customs in a region that, surprise, generally lacks that as well. Outside of probably only Turkey, try being an openly gay atheist, for instance, elsewhere in the region and see how long you can last before being burned at the stake. Hell, several parts of America are backwards compared to Israel and their general tolerance and acceptance towards different lifestyles. Throw in the fact that both Hamas and Hezbollah are retards, and you can see why it's easy for the pro-capitalist, democratic American to throw their weight behind the Israeli cause and support them dutifully.
The problem is that, while perhaps on a more "dignified, Western-like" level, the Israelis are just as unwilling to accept the terms of peace that we try to set for the region. I'm bothered by this because, well, my tax dollars aren't arming the 12-year old Palestinian boy who might chuck a rock at frustration towards an IDF soldier, but instead helps pay for the IDF tank that may very well just run over said 12-year old boy and say "oops" after. My tax dollars helped pay for the use of white phosphorous that was used against ("accidentally", of course) Gaza civilians. And, my tax dollars helped arm the IDF soldiers that shot up those aboard the flotilla. Ignore the obvious moral issues for a second; we provide direct monetary assistance for this. Who gives a shit if we reprimand them after, we've given them a blank check. What does that mean? Every disenfranchised Palestinian is seeing little American flags on everything Israel does to them. If that doesn't bother you, I'm not sure what will.
Forget the Gaza blockade, as stupid and useless as it has been (all it does is cause further hatred to develop since many supplies can still be funneled through Egypt anyway). Forget the illegal settlements, further proof that there is a legitimate hardline Israeli contingent that really doesn't give a flying fuck about a two-state future. Forget everything else...and just let this sink in:
We. Are. Allowing. This.
We've allowed the Israelis to develop a nuclear program without putting an ounce of pressure on them to sign the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty, and somehow think we have a leg to stand on to demand Iran and other bad boys in the region to comply. I can state other glaring problems, but my head is starting to spin. If, heaven forbid, the Middle East becomes the smoldering pile it very well could, we can largely thank ourselves for doing a shitty job of keeping our non-Muslim ally in check. At this point, I don't even blame Israel for anything anymore. We're a bad parent who has raised a spoiled, entitled kid and it's too far gone to reign him in.
I can't state it enough; most Israelis are great people, and the nation itself stands for many good things...but Palestinians are largely good people too, and because of our insistence on being pro-Israel first and foremost on everything, I don't know what future that region has that would allow for anything resulting in "peace" if the country with the best and most aggressive military thinks it can do no wrong, and we're too blind to ask them, just once, to chill the fuck out.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Closure
There is something indefinitely fulfilling in reaching inside yourself and finding something broken, and being able to mend it back together in a way that years ago you assumed to be impossible. There is also something about this which almost strikes you as embarrassing, as if you had waited for so long for nothing, simply out of fear. Regret is a powerful thing, made moreso when you realize what kept you from coming to terms with "it" was being afraid of your own shadow.
I made a giant step in the right direction last weekend, taking advantage of the Memorial Day weekend to plug an old leaky hole that had been letting a drip go on for way too long, and the fact it only took a few hours out of my day to come to an understanding, and to find peace, told me more about myself than most of the experiences I've had in the 20-some odd years of my existence. What I'm afraid of most, perhaps of all, is letting go of things that no matter how awful they might be, largely made me who I am today. The caring, thoughtful person I strive to be today (and to an extent I certainly am) stems in large part from my adolescence as a selfish prick, longing for a quick fix at every turn and displaying a general lack of empathy for everything and everyone around me. I wasn't a bad kid; I almost always obeyed orders, was polite and at times even outright demure, but at the end of the day my own well-being came so far out in front of others in terms of importance that I made a continual habit of missing the forest for the trees.
And then, things changed. Cemeteries began filling up with gravestones of those I knew, and I managed to find ways to let down other loved ones in my life. While these events would prove to be traumatic for anyone, the cross I carried from then on was mostly self-designed. I took these tragedies personal (some deserved, most however not so), made them a part of my being, and essentially lived my life as an act of pity. I was at fault for everything, and a complete change in who I was, and how I viewed the world around me, was in order.
To be fair, NONE of this is as nearly dark as it sounds. I still had fun, still drank, still fucked, and otherwise from the surface lived the life of a normal young adult with hormones and a penchant for deriving pleasure. Yet, inside there was something burning that told me to be a certain someone; be someone who loved unconditionally, and be someone who would never betray. Not out of an honest appreciation for my fellow man, but because of sheer guilt.
What I'm learning now is I don't need an excuse or some inner driving force to command my emotions. I can love simply for the sake of loving. Perhaps I've been doing such all along, I just convinced myself there must have been some other power. There is none. Only me.
And I like that.
I made a giant step in the right direction last weekend, taking advantage of the Memorial Day weekend to plug an old leaky hole that had been letting a drip go on for way too long, and the fact it only took a few hours out of my day to come to an understanding, and to find peace, told me more about myself than most of the experiences I've had in the 20-some odd years of my existence. What I'm afraid of most, perhaps of all, is letting go of things that no matter how awful they might be, largely made me who I am today. The caring, thoughtful person I strive to be today (and to an extent I certainly am) stems in large part from my adolescence as a selfish prick, longing for a quick fix at every turn and displaying a general lack of empathy for everything and everyone around me. I wasn't a bad kid; I almost always obeyed orders, was polite and at times even outright demure, but at the end of the day my own well-being came so far out in front of others in terms of importance that I made a continual habit of missing the forest for the trees.
And then, things changed. Cemeteries began filling up with gravestones of those I knew, and I managed to find ways to let down other loved ones in my life. While these events would prove to be traumatic for anyone, the cross I carried from then on was mostly self-designed. I took these tragedies personal (some deserved, most however not so), made them a part of my being, and essentially lived my life as an act of pity. I was at fault for everything, and a complete change in who I was, and how I viewed the world around me, was in order.
To be fair, NONE of this is as nearly dark as it sounds. I still had fun, still drank, still fucked, and otherwise from the surface lived the life of a normal young adult with hormones and a penchant for deriving pleasure. Yet, inside there was something burning that told me to be a certain someone; be someone who loved unconditionally, and be someone who would never betray. Not out of an honest appreciation for my fellow man, but because of sheer guilt.
What I'm learning now is I don't need an excuse or some inner driving force to command my emotions. I can love simply for the sake of loving. Perhaps I've been doing such all along, I just convinced myself there must have been some other power. There is none. Only me.
And I like that.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
The Break-up Dance
Years ago, in a non-descript diner having lunch with a girl in a boring suburb of Boston, I play with my clam chowder. It tastes good; after all if you're going to order a cup of clam chowder you best do it in New England (fuck Manhattan), yet I'm not really hungry. I mean, I kind of am, I hadn't eaten all day, but I just don't feel like eating. I make these cute little maneuvers with my spoon, twirling pieces of clam up against the oyster crackers I unceremoniously dumped into the bowl minutes prior, and I'm sure a couple times I've accidently toppled a little clam nugget over the edge of the cup and either onto the table or the floor. I really don't care, it's a diner. I don't even remember, nor care, what she ordered. I'm too fixated on pretending I'm that interested in the ingredients in my clam chowder that I must twirl my spoon endlessly to identify each morsel..."oh look, a piece of potato"...
We're about to break up. That much is inevitable and hanging over our table like a storm cloud. Why the hell could we not have done this over the phone, or at least in person without having to enter a dining establishment and placing orders which means we owe money afterward? Eventually, I fuck up my graceful spoon-twirling and said spoon careens out the cup and slides over the table, shattering the awkward yet predictable silence.
"We have to talk..." she starts.
I know.
The act of "breaking up" can incite many different emotions, but by this point it's happened enough in my life that it's become yet another predictable song-and-dance that I consider among many of life's other monotonous activities; the brushing of teeth, the wiping of your ass after a shit...yet the one potentially awkward variable is that while I know how I'll manage, you're never quite sure how the other party will. Even when it's largely their idea to end the relationship and move on with their life, sometimes they actually seem to take it the hardest. Some people just don't respond well to cutting ties with not necessarily the former romantic partner, but the actual entity of a romantic relationship. The emotional investment in something is now kaput, and all that time can be viewed as a total waste and utterly regrettable. Or, while they've grown sick of their former partner or just feel they've "grown apart", the idea of no longer having that romantic figure (again, not the actual individual) in their lives for the short term makes them feel lonely or incomplete.
Personally? For the most part, meh. Sure, some girls have gotten away that I wish I made more of an effort to please or at least not have been such a dumbass towards, but ultimately I'm not a "chaser". If you don't want to be with me, I don't feel angry or defeated, and I certainly don't want to continue something that you're already looking beyond. I have many faults, but I have plenty of strengths as well, and if said strengths aren't what you want or the faults just outweigh them in your mind, hey, that's cool. No hard feelings. Best of luck.
The problem is, that attitude can look rather cavalier and, well, uncaring to some, which is why I tag along to the diner in a boring suburb and play with my clam chowder as if I'm "avoiding some calamitous and trying emotional event about to ensue." It's probably not even convincing by this point, but I pretend to myself it is. I never want the girl to think I can get over her so quickly, as if I never loved her in the first place...I did (or still do). I also don't want to come off like some bitter douche who's first move after our "break up lunch" is to call one of her best friends for a hook up. Most of the time, it seems, it's best to play it off like I usually do; cautious, pensive, remorseful yet strong.
Is it a total act? Not really, many of those feelings are real yet my natural mannerisms don't always translate them well. Again, I'm more afraid/worried/flat out unsure of just how SHE will react, and the cautious-pensive-remorseful-yet strong routine generally conveys the safest array of feelings to ensure the least volatile or awkward reaction to the break-up talk. She can walk away feeling "I do think he really loved me, but I think we'll all be okay".
Perhaps all of this largely stems from the fact that I generally don't care if I "win" in most tense or dramatic situations. Arguments happen, but as long as I state my case I don't need to have the last word. Break-ups certainly happen, and again, I don't feel it's important to slay the victim with a jab about any perceived faults in the bedroom or other shit, real or imagined, that I "put up with" during our relationship. It's over, who cares.
I could go for some clam chowder, though.
We're about to break up. That much is inevitable and hanging over our table like a storm cloud. Why the hell could we not have done this over the phone, or at least in person without having to enter a dining establishment and placing orders which means we owe money afterward? Eventually, I fuck up my graceful spoon-twirling and said spoon careens out the cup and slides over the table, shattering the awkward yet predictable silence.
"We have to talk..." she starts.
I know.
The act of "breaking up" can incite many different emotions, but by this point it's happened enough in my life that it's become yet another predictable song-and-dance that I consider among many of life's other monotonous activities; the brushing of teeth, the wiping of your ass after a shit...yet the one potentially awkward variable is that while I know how I'll manage, you're never quite sure how the other party will. Even when it's largely their idea to end the relationship and move on with their life, sometimes they actually seem to take it the hardest. Some people just don't respond well to cutting ties with not necessarily the former romantic partner, but the actual entity of a romantic relationship. The emotional investment in something is now kaput, and all that time can be viewed as a total waste and utterly regrettable. Or, while they've grown sick of their former partner or just feel they've "grown apart", the idea of no longer having that romantic figure (again, not the actual individual) in their lives for the short term makes them feel lonely or incomplete.
Personally? For the most part, meh. Sure, some girls have gotten away that I wish I made more of an effort to please or at least not have been such a dumbass towards, but ultimately I'm not a "chaser". If you don't want to be with me, I don't feel angry or defeated, and I certainly don't want to continue something that you're already looking beyond. I have many faults, but I have plenty of strengths as well, and if said strengths aren't what you want or the faults just outweigh them in your mind, hey, that's cool. No hard feelings. Best of luck.
The problem is, that attitude can look rather cavalier and, well, uncaring to some, which is why I tag along to the diner in a boring suburb and play with my clam chowder as if I'm "avoiding some calamitous and trying emotional event about to ensue." It's probably not even convincing by this point, but I pretend to myself it is. I never want the girl to think I can get over her so quickly, as if I never loved her in the first place...I did (or still do). I also don't want to come off like some bitter douche who's first move after our "break up lunch" is to call one of her best friends for a hook up. Most of the time, it seems, it's best to play it off like I usually do; cautious, pensive, remorseful yet strong.
Is it a total act? Not really, many of those feelings are real yet my natural mannerisms don't always translate them well. Again, I'm more afraid/worried/flat out unsure of just how SHE will react, and the cautious-pensive-remorseful-yet strong routine generally conveys the safest array of feelings to ensure the least volatile or awkward reaction to the break-up talk. She can walk away feeling "I do think he really loved me, but I think we'll all be okay".
Perhaps all of this largely stems from the fact that I generally don't care if I "win" in most tense or dramatic situations. Arguments happen, but as long as I state my case I don't need to have the last word. Break-ups certainly happen, and again, I don't feel it's important to slay the victim with a jab about any perceived faults in the bedroom or other shit, real or imagined, that I "put up with" during our relationship. It's over, who cares.
I could go for some clam chowder, though.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Is That It?
Apparently NME magazine feels Is This It, the 2001 debut album from those posh NYC hipsters (yes, "posh hipsters" is the best way to describe them) The Strokes is the "best album of this decade".
I'll be honest; I really don't have the energy to vehemently disagree or at least counter with my own suggestion. There has been a lot of good music in this decade if you've been willing to look, and while I was never a huge fan of these guys, I originally welcomed the wave of adulation they received with the incessantly catchy (albeit musically simple and wildly overplayed) single "Last Night". Terrestrial radio up to that point had become swarmed with the likes of Limp Bizkit and Kid Rock, and I certainly didn't mind these "five rich kids who listened to way too much Velvet Underground growing up" taking some of the former's commercial oxygen.
That said, what "impact" have The Strokes really left? Their albums since commercially have sold well, although I haven't paid much attention to them. The same kids who embraced their style at the beginning of this decade; vintage rock t-shirts and Chuck Taylors, are now in the workforce and are probably too busy with Real Life Shit (™) to spend hours each weekend at thrift stores to don themselves with the appropriate apparel while nodding along to the cheeky lyrics of late-night shenanigans in Hipster Paradise by Julian "even my real name has its own fashion identity" Casablancas. Interpol, another NYC band from a similar cloth (but different sound) is still chugging away, but they too no longer carry the aura they once did back at the dawn of the 2000s.
Worse yet, neither band's music, in of itself, is terribly memorable. Is it good? Sure, but ultimately disposable. I brought it upon myself a couple years ago to obtain and listen to the entire catalogs of both bands as well as from others, such as British imports The Libertines, and others in that same ilk, and as much as I tried...I couldn't find anything meaningful.
So there we go. The "album of the decade" is nothing more than a promising debut from guys who idolized Lou Reed, yet aren't Lou Reed, and even two albums later their most profound lyrical statement is, essentially, "dating in NYC is hard". Sweet.
I'll be honest; I really don't have the energy to vehemently disagree or at least counter with my own suggestion. There has been a lot of good music in this decade if you've been willing to look, and while I was never a huge fan of these guys, I originally welcomed the wave of adulation they received with the incessantly catchy (albeit musically simple and wildly overplayed) single "Last Night". Terrestrial radio up to that point had become swarmed with the likes of Limp Bizkit and Kid Rock, and I certainly didn't mind these "five rich kids who listened to way too much Velvet Underground growing up" taking some of the former's commercial oxygen.
That said, what "impact" have The Strokes really left? Their albums since commercially have sold well, although I haven't paid much attention to them. The same kids who embraced their style at the beginning of this decade; vintage rock t-shirts and Chuck Taylors, are now in the workforce and are probably too busy with Real Life Shit (™) to spend hours each weekend at thrift stores to don themselves with the appropriate apparel while nodding along to the cheeky lyrics of late-night shenanigans in Hipster Paradise by Julian "even my real name has its own fashion identity" Casablancas. Interpol, another NYC band from a similar cloth (but different sound) is still chugging away, but they too no longer carry the aura they once did back at the dawn of the 2000s.
Worse yet, neither band's music, in of itself, is terribly memorable. Is it good? Sure, but ultimately disposable. I brought it upon myself a couple years ago to obtain and listen to the entire catalogs of both bands as well as from others, such as British imports The Libertines, and others in that same ilk, and as much as I tried...I couldn't find anything meaningful.
So there we go. The "album of the decade" is nothing more than a promising debut from guys who idolized Lou Reed, yet aren't Lou Reed, and even two albums later their most profound lyrical statement is, essentially, "dating in NYC is hard". Sweet.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
The "Monsters" Among Us
I caught a piece of some WW2 documentary recently late at night, mere moments before I went off to bed. A former Soviet prisoner, a captured Red Army grunt who had an unpleasant stay at one of the concentration camps barking out something which sounded awful (Russian is not exactly a "sexy" language to being with), which the subtitles translated to something to the effect of "Those Nazis...they were monsters. What they did to us (I assumed "us" meant fellow captured Soviets), and those people...". He was asked a follow question regarding what he thinks of the Holocaust, and basically repeated the same thing.
Any snarky comments aside about the not-so-humane treatment Soviets treated the POWs they got their hands on, I found the comment...odd. I can only imagine the hell he went through, and surely he has every right to make disparaging comments towards his captors, but to sum up the most tragic event in the 20th century as being perpetrated by "monsters" is too easy. It's convenient and narrow-minded.
The same fire-from-the-hip analysis we give when news of a captured serial killer hits the airwaves, and we him or her arraigned in court for the first time and say to ourselves "what a monster" isn't easily translated to a mass murder of the magnitude we saw in during WW2, is it? When so many individuals are complicit in an atrocity of the highest order, and your brain flickers like a bad spark plug trying to rationalize the "why", and you simply utter "monsters", are you satisfied? Probably not, but many still do it. Genocide is ugly and terrible, but it must be carried out by several, so were they all just "monsters?" When does one become a "monster"? Is it at birth? Is there a switch that turns on when a group of "monsters" who have been suppressing their maniacal and perverse view on humanity in the name of morality suddenly get together? We seem just fine brandishing them as "monsters", which really means "not human", so you tell me.
The psychology of groupthink, realities of economic and social disparity, and anything else one can throw out to explain the worst in human behavior has been well documented and explained time and time again, and it's a discussion perhaps best saved for those who want to spend the next several hours all coming to the same conclusion I can wrap up in a sentence; these things happen because we're human. Doesn't mean these behaviors should be excused or condoned, and the sanctity of human life should be protected most of all, but the answer sadly lies in the mirror.
The "monsters" are us.
Any snarky comments aside about the not-so-humane treatment Soviets treated the POWs they got their hands on, I found the comment...odd. I can only imagine the hell he went through, and surely he has every right to make disparaging comments towards his captors, but to sum up the most tragic event in the 20th century as being perpetrated by "monsters" is too easy. It's convenient and narrow-minded.
The same fire-from-the-hip analysis we give when news of a captured serial killer hits the airwaves, and we him or her arraigned in court for the first time and say to ourselves "what a monster" isn't easily translated to a mass murder of the magnitude we saw in during WW2, is it? When so many individuals are complicit in an atrocity of the highest order, and your brain flickers like a bad spark plug trying to rationalize the "why", and you simply utter "monsters", are you satisfied? Probably not, but many still do it. Genocide is ugly and terrible, but it must be carried out by several, so were they all just "monsters?" When does one become a "monster"? Is it at birth? Is there a switch that turns on when a group of "monsters" who have been suppressing their maniacal and perverse view on humanity in the name of morality suddenly get together? We seem just fine brandishing them as "monsters", which really means "not human", so you tell me.
The psychology of groupthink, realities of economic and social disparity, and anything else one can throw out to explain the worst in human behavior has been well documented and explained time and time again, and it's a discussion perhaps best saved for those who want to spend the next several hours all coming to the same conclusion I can wrap up in a sentence; these things happen because we're human. Doesn't mean these behaviors should be excused or condoned, and the sanctity of human life should be protected most of all, but the answer sadly lies in the mirror.
The "monsters" are us.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
All Aboard
The roommates and I, inexplicably it seems, had a rousing conversation the other night about "running the train". No idea how it started, or even how it ended (we were drunk) but I do recall laughing my ass off when one of our friends who was also over our place, who had not taken part in the discussion during its initial moments blurted out innocently something along the lines of "hell naw, that shit never happens."
Oh yes, yes it does, my friend.
Without any further ado, here goes my favorite "A party crashed by train-runners" story, witnessed hilariously (and perhaps unfortunately, given the really random circumstances of it) by me.
Rewind to Junior year in college. My then roommates and I throw a bit of a party at our apartment on a rather "meh" Friday night. Around 15 other people show up by 10pm, and nothing crazy or particularly monumental happens over the course of the first hour over the sound of ping pong balls careening helplessly across the kitchen thanks to errant shots at the beirut table. Then, four people just walk in our place (a girl and three dudes), and while it wasn't like a scene from the movies where the record skips and all attention is drawn to them, as the four slowly make their way through our living room, one-by-one heads turn and the occasional "who are they?" whisper floats through the air. I notice them right away myself, but I'm not alarmed...while I have no clue who the fuck they are, and it's obvious no one here invited them, they did bring their own booze and, hey, it's college; perhaps the only four years where brazenly walking into a party uninvited is more or less acceptable.
They plop on our couch and while they made little effort initially to introduce themselves to anyone, they seemed perfectly pleasant when I took it upon myself to say "hi", and at that point the largest of the men, while never even saying his name, just hands me a beer and smiles. Nowadays, you walk uninvited into my place at anytime and I'm going to want a verbal explanation, but again, this is during college; where the mere "gift of alcohol" is something akin to major powers brokering a peace treaty. Further attempts to chat them up a little (or, in other words, find out a goddamn name our two at least) go basically nowhere, so I just leave them be.
I completely forget about them, and seemingly so did everyone else since almost all of us where huddled around the kitchen, and after another hour or so I turn back towards our living room to say hi again to my "new friends...sort of" only to find their 30-rack on the table. "The fuck? They just left their beer and took off? SWEET!" While alcohol was a-plenty otherwise, we all dive in like vultures, or at least I did so more like a hyena since I was giggling maniacally (I'd been pregaming since 8pm and was well on my way towards Plasteredville) and pounded a few down without a second thought. Party continues, a few more people come and go, but at least we know THESE newcomers, and all is well.
Fast-forward to sometime around 2:00am. The party is starting to wind down, partly because of one my roommate's declaration that he had to work in the morning. I'm contemplating spending the night in my own bed or calling up the girl I was kinda/sorta seeing at the time, and doing so standing in the middle of our short hallway, when I feel a blast of air coming from behind me, and upon turning around, guess who I see leaving my roommate's bedroom?
I imagine because of the alcohol I had consumed, I thought nothing weird whatsoever about the four strangers leaving my roommate's bedroom at such a time. I actually apologized, for fuck's sake, about thinking they had left for good and drinking their beer, and was still a good few minutes away from understanding the shit-eating grin on all three of the guy's faces when they each told me "no problem, man". The girl, still without saying a single word to me, or anyone throughout the whole night, ducked into our bathroom for some time before finally meeting her three...whatevers....at our door and leaving...like for real, this time. The actual roommate in question, whose bedroom was "used", was still fucking around in the kitchen and never saw them exit, and briefly blamed me for the fact his bedroom door was wide open and the light was on. He had less to drink than I did that night, so you can imagine his lack of haste and understanding when I tried to explain to him it was "those" four who apparently were in there the whole time.
Just a couple minutes later, while in our bathroom myself, I hear said roommate exclaim "WHAT...THE....FUCK!!!" I run out, and he's standing by his bed with a look of horror, pointing to the floor.
Rubbers. Lots of them. Just scattered.
Used rubbers, by the way, in case I'd failed to set up the scene I was too drunk to interpret at the time. Lots of them. Just scattered.
By now, for me, it had finally come together, and I laughed like hell. My roommate looked like he wanted to punch me, but even he himself began to laugh. The other two roommates who had just gone to bed heard the commotion and were just stumbling out of their rooms, to find us two laughing, one of us pointing to a mass grave of used rubbers at floor of his bed.
I wasn't even disgusted (the fact it wasn't MY bed helped), just, amused and somewhat flabbergasted. Seriously...who just picks a random apartment, then goes into a random bedroom, and then initiates THIS of all things? Really? Is it supposed to add an element of danger or some shit?
I never saw those four again around campus...not that I spent my last three semesters of college actively looking for them or anything, but a part of me wanted to track down one of those guys (I doubt the female would talk about it) and be like, "I'm not mad, but, just, WHY?"
And in case any superheroes want to assume the worst about the situation, I can remember clearly the girl being just fine and sober both when entering and upon leaving...so, yeah, it was voluntary alright.
Why they picked our joint, no idea.
Oh yes, yes it does, my friend.
Without any further ado, here goes my favorite "A party crashed by train-runners" story, witnessed hilariously (and perhaps unfortunately, given the really random circumstances of it) by me.
Rewind to Junior year in college. My then roommates and I throw a bit of a party at our apartment on a rather "meh" Friday night. Around 15 other people show up by 10pm, and nothing crazy or particularly monumental happens over the course of the first hour over the sound of ping pong balls careening helplessly across the kitchen thanks to errant shots at the beirut table. Then, four people just walk in our place (a girl and three dudes), and while it wasn't like a scene from the movies where the record skips and all attention is drawn to them, as the four slowly make their way through our living room, one-by-one heads turn and the occasional "who are they?" whisper floats through the air. I notice them right away myself, but I'm not alarmed...while I have no clue who the fuck they are, and it's obvious no one here invited them, they did bring their own booze and, hey, it's college; perhaps the only four years where brazenly walking into a party uninvited is more or less acceptable.
They plop on our couch and while they made little effort initially to introduce themselves to anyone, they seemed perfectly pleasant when I took it upon myself to say "hi", and at that point the largest of the men, while never even saying his name, just hands me a beer and smiles. Nowadays, you walk uninvited into my place at anytime and I'm going to want a verbal explanation, but again, this is during college; where the mere "gift of alcohol" is something akin to major powers brokering a peace treaty. Further attempts to chat them up a little (or, in other words, find out a goddamn name our two at least) go basically nowhere, so I just leave them be.
I completely forget about them, and seemingly so did everyone else since almost all of us where huddled around the kitchen, and after another hour or so I turn back towards our living room to say hi again to my "new friends...sort of" only to find their 30-rack on the table. "The fuck? They just left their beer and took off? SWEET!" While alcohol was a-plenty otherwise, we all dive in like vultures, or at least I did so more like a hyena since I was giggling maniacally (I'd been pregaming since 8pm and was well on my way towards Plasteredville) and pounded a few down without a second thought. Party continues, a few more people come and go, but at least we know THESE newcomers, and all is well.
Fast-forward to sometime around 2:00am. The party is starting to wind down, partly because of one my roommate's declaration that he had to work in the morning. I'm contemplating spending the night in my own bed or calling up the girl I was kinda/sorta seeing at the time, and doing so standing in the middle of our short hallway, when I feel a blast of air coming from behind me, and upon turning around, guess who I see leaving my roommate's bedroom?
I imagine because of the alcohol I had consumed, I thought nothing weird whatsoever about the four strangers leaving my roommate's bedroom at such a time. I actually apologized, for fuck's sake, about thinking they had left for good and drinking their beer, and was still a good few minutes away from understanding the shit-eating grin on all three of the guy's faces when they each told me "no problem, man". The girl, still without saying a single word to me, or anyone throughout the whole night, ducked into our bathroom for some time before finally meeting her three...whatevers....at our door and leaving...like for real, this time. The actual roommate in question, whose bedroom was "used", was still fucking around in the kitchen and never saw them exit, and briefly blamed me for the fact his bedroom door was wide open and the light was on. He had less to drink than I did that night, so you can imagine his lack of haste and understanding when I tried to explain to him it was "those" four who apparently were in there the whole time.
Just a couple minutes later, while in our bathroom myself, I hear said roommate exclaim "WHAT...THE....FUCK!!!" I run out, and he's standing by his bed with a look of horror, pointing to the floor.
Rubbers. Lots of them. Just scattered.
Used rubbers, by the way, in case I'd failed to set up the scene I was too drunk to interpret at the time. Lots of them. Just scattered.
By now, for me, it had finally come together, and I laughed like hell. My roommate looked like he wanted to punch me, but even he himself began to laugh. The other two roommates who had just gone to bed heard the commotion and were just stumbling out of their rooms, to find us two laughing, one of us pointing to a mass grave of used rubbers at floor of his bed.
I wasn't even disgusted (the fact it wasn't MY bed helped), just, amused and somewhat flabbergasted. Seriously...who just picks a random apartment, then goes into a random bedroom, and then initiates THIS of all things? Really? Is it supposed to add an element of danger or some shit?
I never saw those four again around campus...not that I spent my last three semesters of college actively looking for them or anything, but a part of me wanted to track down one of those guys (I doubt the female would talk about it) and be like, "I'm not mad, but, just, WHY?"
And in case any superheroes want to assume the worst about the situation, I can remember clearly the girl being just fine and sober both when entering and upon leaving...so, yeah, it was voluntary alright.
Why they picked our joint, no idea.
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