The two stoners hashed some things out tonight (see what I did there?).
Somewhere in the path of America's rise to global dominance - probably in the mid-1890's - some maniacal genius considered the implications of the burden of an American empire, and concluded that though military dominance was a strong factor in imperialism, it was doomed to fail if its means of control was merely the physical occupation of large amounts of territory. As recently as 1945, we witnessed firsthand how an extraordinarily strong military ultimately failed in keeping an empire for even just six years. Going further back we see a prototype of our empire in the British colonies, but this still relied too much on the subjugation of native populations.
Rome, of course, is the only comparison to the current global situation, and we all know how that ended.
But before the fall, what is so genius - and ultimately so devious - about America's rise is that we have systematically gained control of some of the world's most valuable property without firing so much as one shot. Our strongest presence in the Middle East and Africa isn't staked out by military garrisons, but rather by Chevron, BP, Texaco, etc., and the local economies that spring up around them. The American dollar gets tossed around bigtime - almost entirely to the pro-West government - annihilating local currency and goods, enslaving native male populations to work the dangerous and destructive rigs or refineries, and giving the rest of the people "good" jobs supporting the behemoth operations with American fast food restaurants, hotels, chain retail or department outlets, grocery stores. We wipe out the people's ability to compete with our economic culture, and expect that they will march right along with the American Dream glowing neon over their decimated way of life.
Whoever that evil genius was, he (or she, although I don't think any woman would argue strongly for their sex's equal ability to spray their piss all over the world) would also probably have predicted the cultural backlash that we are now living in (read: terrorism), which doesn't necessarily mean he just couldn't come up with a way to avoid that, but rather he knew the consequences to the American people and fucking did it anyway.
I say "he" - a single human being of monstrous import - but I realize such a scenario only plays out in superhero movies. Of course this "he" is a revolving-door cabal of powerful white men, fully visible and usually elected or appointed to the tacit approval of a legion of dipshits. There is nothing mysterious and there is no conspiracy; these guys sit in front of cameras and have the gall to act surprised by how things are going, despite how they line their brains daily with blueprints for an homogenous universe, and actively provoke nations and organizations into becoming antagonists. Then like a nuclear-powered flyswatter, the military sweeps the hopelessly overmatched nationalists aside to the roar of the fans back home, then reward that honor and valor by assigning the underwhelmed troops to guard oil wells and construction equipment.
Really, even in saying these things I understand I'm basically stating the obvious. I believe my point is that if I can fundamentally sort out the disgusting truth of America's current worldview while fucking blazed and watching cartoons - how come 50% of the voting public cannot?
Sometimes I think marijuana is illegal because it clears a lot of sophisticated rationale - also know as bullshit - out of the way and allows for some simple, unfettered reason to peek through.
In which case, keep it illegal. I'd rather not cause a panic.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Monday, May 7, 2007
Cleansed
I recently embarked on a mission to test my willpower against one of my most cunning demons: Food. Against everything I've ever practiced in my life, I decided to put myself through the Master Cleanse.
For those of you who don't live in California, or who do and live in some bastion of biggie fries like Temecula, let me fill you in on this thingy. For ten days you eat nothing at all other than a ten-ounce mixture of water, lemon juice, organic grabe-B maple syrup, and cayenne pepper, six to twelve times a day. For added delight, every morning you get to drink 32 oz. of water mixed with two teaspoons of sea salt, the (immediate) result of which is ipecac for your ass. You can drink all the plain water you want, and it's recommended to drink Smooth Move laxative tea before you mercifully drop off to sleep, perchance to dream of not waking up again for the remainder of the ten days. After the ten days you should be lighter, thinner, devoid of poison, and elated. During the tens days you will look ravenously at leather shoes and local foliage.
Let me express how difficult a challenge this was to someone like me. I grew up in a household where parental cooking meant one of five truly cultural gourmet choices:
1) Tacos (the white trash version - store-bought hardshells, ground beef, shredded Kraft cheddar, and Pace picante sauce...and lettuce if you felt adventurous)
2) Goulash (macaroni and ground beef)
3) Spaghetti (with Hunt's tomato sauce and ground beef)
4) Chicken breast with scalloped potatoes (store-bought)
5) Meatloaf (ground beef, ketchup, and...I don't know, onions maybe?)
On Fridays we always had pizza, and on most Sundays Gramps and Grandma brought over Kentucky Fried Chicken (when you could still call it that), which to us was like a king's feast, despite the fact that there was NEVER ENOUGH GODDAMN POTATOES. All other meals were from Mickey D's, Burger King, Taco John's, Hardee's, or - if we were bad - Subway.
(Sometimes when my mother really had it out for us she would make roast beef. Some other day I'll relate the various methods I used for faking that I had cleaned my plate. I think my little sister is still sitting at the table, staring at a frigid plate of sliced football, waiting for my parents to release her, or for a starving child from Africa to suddenly show up and trade out his milk-jug shoes for some sturdy roast beef sandals.)
I lived on fast food and government-funded sludge in school for eighteen years, until in college I realized no one could stop me from eating Domino's pizza three square. Luckily I had the metabolism and calorie out-put of a Kenyan track star all during those years, or I'd be writing this from the tongs of a forklift. But sadly, those blissful days of Pepsi and Pop Tarts have gone, and like the earth itself, I'm slightly bigger around the middle.
I survived the cleanse for five days and then decided I'd had enough. Not really because I was having difficulty; physically I was fine, had plenty of energy, and was content and actually somewhat elated. But I work in a restaurant, and seeing the food nightly was making me kind of insane. So I jumped off, only partially heeding the advice to come off slowly, drinking orange juice and sipping vegetable soup. By the next day I was back eating full-fledged endorphin-rewardin' meals.
I've spent the last two days hoping that the block in my gut can be jackhammered out, or I'm going to have to drink a gallon of prune juice. The elation and happiness that I was surprised to have all during the cleanse has now been replaced by a sort of low guilt, a buzzing in my head and gut that feels like stirred awareness.
All these years I've been poisoning myself. Some of it has been by choice, certainly, as alcohol, cigarettes, and a really good hamburger all represent to me double-middle fingers to the stupid shit other people make me do to kill myself. But the rest is just a conditioned behavior. My body needs nourishment, so - ding - I eat a box of french fries, which have slightly more nutrition than gravel. I'm thirsty so - ding - I go for a soda, which contains chemicals that actually make me more thirsty.
It all goes hand-in-hand with my growing suspicion that - among other things -Americans routinely hand over our ability to make logical choices for ourselves due to the relentless crush of mindless jingles and Pavlovian color schemes.
No, this isn't some remarkable revelation. Probably the more important question is, why do people persist in this when they know the consequences? Is the reward of a five-minute happiness spike worth years of misery?
I don't know if I'll try the cleanse again, but this I do know - though I will certainly find myself in a drive-thru again, probably soon, I think before I make any choice that injects my body with mass-produced biological weaponry, I will stop to make sure I remember a week later why I'm so angry and unfulfilled. Perhaps sooner or later I'll erase the instinct of self-destruction for good, and go forward without the weight of American garbage in my system.
For those of you who don't live in California, or who do and live in some bastion of biggie fries like Temecula, let me fill you in on this thingy. For ten days you eat nothing at all other than a ten-ounce mixture of water, lemon juice, organic grabe-B maple syrup, and cayenne pepper, six to twelve times a day. For added delight, every morning you get to drink 32 oz. of water mixed with two teaspoons of sea salt, the (immediate) result of which is ipecac for your ass. You can drink all the plain water you want, and it's recommended to drink Smooth Move laxative tea before you mercifully drop off to sleep, perchance to dream of not waking up again for the remainder of the ten days. After the ten days you should be lighter, thinner, devoid of poison, and elated. During the tens days you will look ravenously at leather shoes and local foliage.
Let me express how difficult a challenge this was to someone like me. I grew up in a household where parental cooking meant one of five truly cultural gourmet choices:
1) Tacos (the white trash version - store-bought hardshells, ground beef, shredded Kraft cheddar, and Pace picante sauce...and lettuce if you felt adventurous)
2) Goulash (macaroni and ground beef)
3) Spaghetti (with Hunt's tomato sauce and ground beef)
4) Chicken breast with scalloped potatoes (store-bought)
5) Meatloaf (ground beef, ketchup, and...I don't know, onions maybe?)
On Fridays we always had pizza, and on most Sundays Gramps and Grandma brought over Kentucky Fried Chicken (when you could still call it that), which to us was like a king's feast, despite the fact that there was NEVER ENOUGH GODDAMN POTATOES. All other meals were from Mickey D's, Burger King, Taco John's, Hardee's, or - if we were bad - Subway.
(Sometimes when my mother really had it out for us she would make roast beef. Some other day I'll relate the various methods I used for faking that I had cleaned my plate. I think my little sister is still sitting at the table, staring at a frigid plate of sliced football, waiting for my parents to release her, or for a starving child from Africa to suddenly show up and trade out his milk-jug shoes for some sturdy roast beef sandals.)
I lived on fast food and government-funded sludge in school for eighteen years, until in college I realized no one could stop me from eating Domino's pizza three square. Luckily I had the metabolism and calorie out-put of a Kenyan track star all during those years, or I'd be writing this from the tongs of a forklift. But sadly, those blissful days of Pepsi and Pop Tarts have gone, and like the earth itself, I'm slightly bigger around the middle.
I survived the cleanse for five days and then decided I'd had enough. Not really because I was having difficulty; physically I was fine, had plenty of energy, and was content and actually somewhat elated. But I work in a restaurant, and seeing the food nightly was making me kind of insane. So I jumped off, only partially heeding the advice to come off slowly, drinking orange juice and sipping vegetable soup. By the next day I was back eating full-fledged endorphin-rewardin' meals.
I've spent the last two days hoping that the block in my gut can be jackhammered out, or I'm going to have to drink a gallon of prune juice. The elation and happiness that I was surprised to have all during the cleanse has now been replaced by a sort of low guilt, a buzzing in my head and gut that feels like stirred awareness.
All these years I've been poisoning myself. Some of it has been by choice, certainly, as alcohol, cigarettes, and a really good hamburger all represent to me double-middle fingers to the stupid shit other people make me do to kill myself. But the rest is just a conditioned behavior. My body needs nourishment, so - ding - I eat a box of french fries, which have slightly more nutrition than gravel. I'm thirsty so - ding - I go for a soda, which contains chemicals that actually make me more thirsty.
It all goes hand-in-hand with my growing suspicion that - among other things -Americans routinely hand over our ability to make logical choices for ourselves due to the relentless crush of mindless jingles and Pavlovian color schemes.
No, this isn't some remarkable revelation. Probably the more important question is, why do people persist in this when they know the consequences? Is the reward of a five-minute happiness spike worth years of misery?
I don't know if I'll try the cleanse again, but this I do know - though I will certainly find myself in a drive-thru again, probably soon, I think before I make any choice that injects my body with mass-produced biological weaponry, I will stop to make sure I remember a week later why I'm so angry and unfulfilled. Perhaps sooner or later I'll erase the instinct of self-destruction for good, and go forward without the weight of American garbage in my system.
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