Ever since Iran started making headlines in the aftermath of its controversial June 12 presidential elections, hearing to what leaders and most citizens there say about the West has reminded me of something long filed away in a dusty corner of my brain.
When I was a kid I was not afraid of monsters or ghosts hiding in the closet. As a matter of fact, I used to "talk to" a couple of somewhat friendly ghosts I imagined hung around me--one was "the joker" and the other was "the frightener." He tried, but he couldn't scare me.
Instead, I feared natural disasters--tornadoes, volcanoes and tidal waves in particular. I also feared the Russians.
The Russians were big, dark, strong, often long-haired men, dressed in strange uniforms or furs, who held torches and swords high above their heads as they rode horses through villages destroying everything in sight. They were the bad guys. Everybody knew that. I had never met any because they lived very far from where I was, but I had seen enough of them on TV and heard enough about the terrible things they did to know that they were pure evil.
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (author unknown)
I used to ponder what the Russians wanted with us. The Spaniards had taken the last grain of gold from the island's rivers over a hundred years earlier, so we didn't have much to offer. Then I heard that the threat had something to do with Cuba, though years later I found out that it had more to do with the United States. Cuba was in the neighborhood and was supposed to be the worst place on Earth, even worse than Russia. At some point I found out that the Russians had stolen Cuba from the Cubans and imprisoned them in their own land. And that's the last thing I and many others wanted--to end up like the Cubans.
Stories of Cubans escaping on boats with nothing but the shirts on their backs were common, especially every four years during election time, when the words communism and socialism were used as weapons and when the outcome of the elections would allegedly determine whether or not the Russians would come. Fortunately, if they came, the Americans would come too--or so I heard.
Back then there was no cable TV, no CNN, no email, no faxes, no cellphones, no Internet. We knew what we knew because of what we heard at home and school and what the local media reported. I learned a lot about the world from movies and books, too. They were my only link to the outside.
I don't recall exactly why I thought the pyromaniac psycho horsemen were the Russians, but I suspect my older sister, who early in life demonstrated an extraordinary talent for lying, had something to do with it. As I got older, I lived through many moments of shock upon discovering that something I had thought as true my entire life was but a fantasy sparked by impressive images and fabricated explanations from my sister or oversimplified assumptions on my part.
I also don't recall exactly when I found out that the Russians were not Russian at all. They were warriors and soldiers from everywhere and nowhere, and they were acting. I still thought that whatever they did on screen had to be something that someone had done somewhere at some point.
By the time I got through high school I understood that the Russians and the Americans were in a political power struggle called The Cold War, a term I didn't quite understand but that apparently meant that the two were always fighting and that a nuclear war--World War III--was just around the corner. The new fear in vogue was the bomb. And this time I chose not to be afraid: "If we blow up, we blow up," I used to say. "We're all going to die anyway."
These days, when I see Iranians burning U.S. flags and chanting "death to the U.S." or "death to America" at demonstrations and Friday prayers, I stare in amazement because chanting "death to" anyone is inconceivable to me, not because I'm incapable of hate--given adequate inspiration or provocation, I can tap into it--but because wishing death on anyone isn't part of my reality. Even when I had my thing with the Russians, I didn't wish them dead. There was no hatred, just fear.
So when I see thousands of people shouting menacing chants, mechanically repeating what their leaders tell them to say, wishing death and calamity upon others while their president calls them "humanity-loving" people...well, I can't help but wonder if they do it because they have to or think they have to, or because they want to, or maybe because it has become a mindless habit by now.
And then the question becomes, could and would they outgrow such strongly reinforced anti-American, anti-West sentiments if given the chance and choices I had?
After the deaths of celebrities Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson in June, I had a strong feeling that we were just getting started.
I said and posted somewhere that we would see more great ones die this year, including yet another American icon leaving us before the end of this month. Walter Cronkite died last night. I see a legendary actress (and the most beautiful woman that ever lived, in my opinion) not making it to the end of the year, a BIG personality dying in a terrible accident (no drugs this time...) and one more from illness.
Morbid thinking? Maybe, but I've learned to not ignore these "feelings" because more often than not they turn out to be more than that. So I won't be surprised, though I will still grieve the death of people who in some magnificent way influenced my life.
I think of what's happening just like I think of the weather phenomenon "El Niño," which shows up every few years throwing the environment off a bit but having a domino effect that starts with the weather and ends with the inability of some animal species to survive.
In a similar way, I think at least half a dozen stars will fade this year. Some will explode; others will implode, leaving behind gaping black holes that will suck the life out of others nearby.
But if we live, we have to die--right? That's the one certainty in life--death.
I, for one, look at it as the natural progression of things--intellectually speaking, that is. Emotionally, aging and death kinda freak me out, to be honest.
I find aging depressing, especially if there are regrets (and there almost always are...), and death just plain confusing.
Religions provide us with theories about life after death. But despite the fervor with which these are believed, that's all they can be: theories, ideas, conjectures, presumptions, hypotheses--wishful thinking. Nobody really knows.
And in a way, therein lies the answer: if there was something there, wouldn't we have indisputable proof of it by now?
The possibility then arises that indeed there's absolutely nothing beyond death, and that unless we go through a process during which we're aware that we're dying, we don't even know we're dead because we cease to exist and, therefore, we cannot be aware of anything.
This line of thinking reminds me of what is like to be under anesthesia during surgery. We're injected with something and told to start counting back from 10 to one. By eight we're gone. And when we wake up and hour or 10 hours later, we feel as though we were just about to say "seven." There's no sense of time having passed and no inner awareness of it. That's because unconsciousness is unlike sleeping, during which we dream and sometimes toss and turn. When we're totally unconscious, we're mindfully dead.
And so I wonder: what if that's all there is when we die? What if it's about the organic death of the body and the cessation of consciousness, and end of story? Then we're truly dead, not just our bodies, but the "I" is dead. That would mean we and our awareness that "we came, we lived, we die" stop existing altogether. Nothingness.
Although that outcome would ensure the conclusion of any pain or suffering, we wouldn't be there to know we're no longer in pain or suffering.
How could that not be, you know, freaky?
And how can stars that shined so bright in the sky just drop out of sight? How can person who so many knew in life, who changed so many things for so many people just die?
I don't know. Assertions that such and such is now with the lord ... always with us ... watching us from above ... an angel in heaven ... and so forth give me no comfort because chances are they're untrue. Some believe it all; others don't even question it because they wouldn't want to risk losing the consolation these affirmations and explanations provide.
In any case, regardless of what we believe, at least in this plane of existence the person is gone, and for most of us that leads to grief.
I foresee more grief stemming from the death of BIG personalities coming up, and I'm not looking forward to it not only because of how these people will be missed, but also because with each death I'm reminded that sooner or later my time will be up.
I've been expecting its impending extinction for years and wouldn't be surprised if I lived to see the day when privacy will be a thing of the past--outdated and obsolete.
Who needs a peeping hole when we have globally interconnected computers offering glass windows and open doors to countless stories, characters and places? Peeping Toms beware: your digital prints are collected and shared.
Computers keep track of every step you take in cyberspace-- every door you knock, everywhere you go, everything you say, everything you do; websites and advertisers stalk you and spam you; employers monitor you from afar; cameras on traffic lights watch you drive; cameras inside and outside stores watch you shop; cellphone towers can reveal your whereabouts; utilities, financial and government agencies keep records on you that just about anyone can access on the Internet; anyone with a cellphone can provide news coverage on CNN; your once private Social Security number is now required for basic services at home, to rent a property, see a doctor; satellite cameras can zoom down when you go out of the house to get your mail.
What's next?
The iGeneration
It's alarming to me to observe the younger generation give away it's right to privacy so willingly, without a second thought.
Ask any of them what privacy is, and you're likely to hear crickets. They don't know. They really don't know. How could they?They're growing up spellbound by a magic that allows them to be in contact with a universe of individuals anytime, anywhere, whether near or far. Cellphones and the Internet offers them a frontierless world with no audience limits, no beginning and no end. It's their Alpha and their Omega.
And it's not all about capability, but about desirability.
In this Technological Age, privacy seems to be systematically devalued while publicity appreciates in worth.
Notoriety is the currency of choice in the 21st century regardless social class, wealth, education, race, religion. Fame can buy anything...at least that's what we're told, that's what we see. Success often is measured by who's busier with calls and text messages, who downloads more music, who owns the latest gadgets, who has more followers on Twitter, more friends on MySpace and Facebook... It's about hi-tech popularity.
The tech-savvy ones who know how to use and manipulate information with the gadgets and channels they have at their disposition have the popularity edge and, therefore, the power. Information has always been and will always be power. Informations is a means to exposure; exposure is a means to publicity and fame.
It used to be that you got on TV and magazines for being famous; now you're famous because you found a way to get on TV. And people, particularly the young, want to be famous--desperately.
They want to be seen and heard by as many people as possible. Why settle for relatives, neighbors, co-workers and friends when one can have an infinite audience? Nothing is worth doing unless someone is watching.
Free admission
The following story, published by ABC News about a week ago, is one of many that, in my opinion,illustrate how matters and events that were once unquestionably private are now anybody's business.
A young woman and man are chatting over the Internet using webcams to see each other. They argue. She decides to commit suicide. Does she end the chat, step away from the webcam, turn off the computer, go to another room? No. She proceeds to hang herself while the boyfriend watches.
No, this is not a Law & Order episode but exactly what happened when a 21-year-old woman in Arizona tried to kill herself while her boyfriend watched from Michigan.
The boyfriend acted quickly, calling the house and alerting the father that his daughter was dying. He raced downstairs to find her hanging by a scarf from the ceiling fan. He cut the scarf just in time to save her. By the time paramedics got there, she was breathing and semi-conscious.
Interestingly, although the chat was "private" (nothing is private on the Internet...), the cops took her laptop to check whether or not the suicide attempt had spread on the Internet, hoping to prevent copycats.
Who would've thought 10, 20 years ago that anyone would've felt compelled to copy an incident like this one...that suicide in what's supposed to be the privacy of someone's home would be a public event...that we would have access to images of people killing and dying--for real, not make-believe--anywhere in the world?
The world has never been this loud.I can't help but wonder: Will the offspring of the Hi-Tech iGeneration know how to keep a secret?
In man's quest for meaning, instead of asking "is there anybody out there?" or "is there anybody in here?"--will they be asking: "Is there anybody watching?"
I'm a bit disturbed right now, which ain't helping a headache already in progress.
I just found out about something that happened right here last night.
Someone got hurt, someone I know.
He was beaten, then shot.
All in less than two minutes.
He's alive but in a hospital's intensive care unit with a bullet lodged in his spine. Doctors say taking the bullet out will paralyze him from the chest down. Right now he's paralyzed from the waist down. He's 27 years old.
My intuition tells me he will be OK. Let's hope this is one of the nine times out of 10 that I'm right.
The sickest part of this story is why this happened to him.
This man's life is on the line because of a thug, a sick fuck and his sick fuck friends, who showed up to "get him" because--are you ready?--he's dating the thug's ex-wife.
Yup. That's it. I'm not fucking kidding you.
Even worse is that he had just started dating this girl. A two-week relationship led to an event that will most likely forever be the most terrifying moment of his life and one that might have just derailed his future.
Ironically, I had gone to see him earlier--which I never do because I never have to--to give him something related to his job here. I stood with him outside the room where the violent incident took place an hour or two before hell was unleashed on him.
I should've known better. My dog started barking at the curtain last night, which is not like her. She only barks during the day when the glass windows are wide open and she can see people and other dogs outside. I also heard a strange noise and thought it might be a car speeding, a couple arguing or people getting in and out of cars, which is what was happening, but I just never imagined someone's life was in danger. Later, when I took the dog out before turning in, I saw police cars and yellow crime-scene tape around the area where I had last seen him.
That tape is never a good sign.
I knew they wouldn't tell me, so I didn't ask the cops what happened. I figured I would find out sooner or later.
I totally forgot about it until just now, when I again took the dog outside and bumped into the manager here. I asked, he hesitated, said he's not supposed to tell anyone, I told him I saw the cops, I saw the tape, I heard something...
--"Did something bad happen?" --Yes, he told me with his head. --"Something really bad?" --Yes, he nodded again. --"Did someone get hurt...don't tell me someone got hurt." --Yes.
And I was told the story I just told you, except in more detail, which I can't include here because I'm not supposed to know anything, much less tell anyone about it.
Shock led to deep concern, which led to anger. This motherfuckers showed up here to terrorize this gentle man--because that's what he is, gentle. They came to torture him--three on one, or five if we include the cunts (sorry, I'm too tired to think of another word and too pissed to care) who came along--and to kill him for the stupidest reason imaginable, just one step above shooting someone for not returning a pen.
Anger gave way to vivid fantasies of what I would've done if I had know what was happening five doors down from me and I had a gun--something I've been wanting for a while.
It is true what they say about the overwhelming feeling of helplessness that takes over when something like this happens and you can't do a thing about it. I can't prevent what already happened, I can't cure him, I can't go out with the cops to hunt these thugs, I can't shoot them in the balls, I can't comfort the victim, not at least until he's out of the ICU, I can't do anything.
I can't do anything about something that needs so much to be done about it. Yes, I feel helpless.
There are two kinds of people in the world: those who pick and those who don't.
My entire life I've tried to be among the elite--among those with either the extraordinary discipline or lack of passion necessary to not pick.
But I'm a picker. I pick my skin. I pick and pick and pick until I make my skin much worse than it was and would've been if I just picked at it. But I keep picking. Why?
I used to think I simply couldn't help myself, that I suffered from a compulsion or addiction...perhaps even a control issue--and this could still be the case. But then I discovered that whenever I have little or nothing to pick, I don't pick at all. I don't seek for something to peek. So my problem is not necessarily that I pick; my problem is that I have something to pick to begin with and that I feel compelled to pick it once I spot it.
I've also come to grips with the fact that picking my skin is a source of great pleasure hard to turn down. There is such as thing as a pick-orgasm, I swear! Ironically, the climax is followed by feelings of guilt, emptiness and low self-esteem not unlike those commonly experienced by addicts after giving into their addictions or after alcohol-induced one-night stands.
To remove something out of where it either shouldn't be (a myth, because if it shouldn't be there it wouldn't be there) or out of where we don't want it to be can give a person a deep sense of accomplishment, control and satisfaction, one that, in my opinion, can be topped only by a total loss of consciousness under the effects of anesthesia, a remarkably good night sleep with no tossing or turning, or a smooth, effortless dump.
The problem is...well...the bigger problem is when the skin starts taking longer and longer to heal after a night or day of total abandon to this habit. Not only the skin looks like crap but one feels like crap because of it. What to do?
While not anywhere near as gratifying, nose picking can serve as a substitute during skin-picking withdrawal--you know, kind of what like methadone does for heroin addicts in rehab--as it allows the subject to pick something without causing significant damage to the skin or tissues.
However--and must there always be a however?--nose picking comes with its own risks: viral and bacterial infections, some mild and some severe, that spread from person to person via touch and that gain access to our innards though nose picking or finger licking.
The hands, particularly the nails and fingertips, are said to be loaded with microorganisms that can spread disease. So, when we pick our noses we risk introducing some nasty shit in our bodies hardly worth (and this is debatable) the harmless snots we get to peel out of our nasal cavities. Yet, I must admit I find picking out the thick crusty ones extremely satisfying.
In conclusion: picking of any kind is not rational nor beneficial past the initial high seconds after the picking (therapeutically, picking has a very short half-life) and can be dangerous to our health.
But so is smoking and street drugs and pills and driving fast and eating junk food and eating too much or not enough and drinking and having unprotected sex and making shady deals and giving the finger to a bandanna-wearing dude driving an old Chevy pickup truck in the highway with a riffle hooked on the back windshield and walking alone down a dark alley late a night on a low-cut tight sleeveless shirt, micro miniskirt and fuck-me shoes.
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (author unknown)
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