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political representation of our animal nature
Friday, August 15 2003
First thing this morning Gretchen drove down to Silver Spring to visit her folks and hometown friends for the weekend. On the way she stopped in New York City, where she found street traffic unusually light due to the Great Blackout, which was continuing there in many places. Throughout the day, the more I learned about this blackout, the more confused I became. It seemed nobody knew what had caused it, and it turned out that everything I'd heard yesterday had been a stop-gap explanation, the sort that People In Charge give out in Times Of Crisis so that panic-stricken people believe the situation is Under Control. The lack of information has led inevitably to rumor and Byzantine conspiracy theories. Today I was in the Hudson Valley Mall's Radio Shack and I overheard one of the employees talking to one of the customers, and the employee was saying, "If it was terrorism, they'll never tell us." That's the kind of conversation one overhears in fascist countries. I find it interesting that our nation's steady drift towards fascism has left the populace resigned to the idea of never knowing. More troubling, even when the facts are easy to track down, a plurality finds it easier to just believe the propaganda. That's characteristic of a nation that would be happiest under fascism. And why not? Fascism is the political representation of our animal nature: our illogical, emotional, moaning, groaning, laughing, crying, snarling, hairy id. That fucker has been suffering taxation without representation for well over 200 years.
The reason I was in that Radio Shack was that I'd driven into town to make my usual rounds of P & T Surplus and electronics stores to see if I could remind myself of the various things I need, both for my business and for the R & D that takes place in my laboratory. I was in the market for a CB radio antenna, but then I saw this omnidirectional wide-band antenna and considered getting it instead, but then I got to wondering how well tuned it was to the particular FM band I broadcast on. I'd eaten 180 mg of pseudoephedrine in hopes of having that Keanu-Reeves-in-the-Matrix feeling again, but something went wrong. I think it was because the Alternative Baker in the Rondout managed to sell me on a small piece of foccacia when all I really wanted was an Aztec Ice Tea to wash down the pills. The food dulled-down the effect of the stimulant, resulting in an accelerated pulse and a semi-defeated, almost tired attitude. That's the effect Ritalin and Adderall are supposed to have on hyperactive kids, but behaving and accepted the yoke of the Man does not a recreational drug experience make. I didn't feel, for example, that I had the capacity to amaze onlookeers by walking up the walls of Best Buy and then disappearing down a wormhole to Lowes or the Atlantic Avenue subway station in Brooklyn.
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