Ambiguous Amphibian

An aquarium is perhaps one of the most wondrous venues for marijuana consumption ever conceived. That's where we found ourselves after dinner last night, Cleopatra and I. We walked, she like an Egyptian, and I, like an alcoholic amphibian in need of another drink, to the Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park. It was there, in the subterranean bowels of the building, that I thought it prudent to inhale a prodigious chestful of vaporized liquid hash. After the initial wave of coughing had lifted, a team of sea horses stole our attention. They floated and flapped their thin fins, moving their glued-on googley eyes in gentle little jerks. Then there were the starfish. Their skin, if it can even be called skin, was hard and bony to the touch and could be compared to coarse sandpaper. Soon we stood in front of a tube of jellyfish. As we watched, the tank slowly changing colors, then taking on a shade of deep crimson, I couldn't help but realize how much they resembled red blood cells. All day long they just float in perfect tranquility. Not once have I ever seen a jellyfish eat. If the Buddha were reincarnated, surely he would return as a jellyfish.

Mesmerized, the whole world seemed to melt away. In other rooms there were eels and manta rays and colorful clownfish, but presently we found ourselves walking through a massive dancefloor. Music beat out from the speakers and ricocheted off the giant curved glass at the left of the room, enveloping us in a distorted, shimmering bubble of sound. Once we passed through the ocean of people, we arrived at an enormous glass arch. Well, to be more precise, it was less of an arch and more of a low-hanging ceiling, which, when one stood under it, in the middle of this sort of glass tunnel, gave the observer an impression of being underwater. Above us, fish big and small swam. Some moved slowly while others darted and slipped expertly out of sight. Perhaps it was the pot, but looking up I was able to see, for the first time, the branches of a great and swampy evolutionary tree; little fish that had over time grown and grown, seasnakes that would eventually make their way out of the water, creatures that were clearly the result of fish and frogs fucking, an alligator that was still much more fish than gator. A marvelous sea of evolutionary beauty had quite literally surrounded us. Ambient light from the party above, in wavy streams of purple and neon green made their way through the water and glass and danced softly on Cleopatra's lap.

Soon, giddy on our newfound Darwinian discoveries, we exited the Academy and made our way through the thick darkness of the park at night. Before we knew it we found ourselves celebrating the summer of love on psychedelics in front of a glowing Conservatory of Flowers. Floral patterns and blooms of variegated light danced across the white face of the building, dressing it in electric swatches of texture and shape. Dozens of people took photos and laughed and laid in the grass as the colors crawled. I sighed and smiled and everything felt right.

Belling Man 2017

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Our weekend was spent lounging poolside just north of San Francisco, at the first ever Belling Man gathering. It’s a place where people can go if they can’t make it to Burning Man but want to cram a week’s worth of drinking and partying into two days with a motley, international crew of burner friends; there was a man who looked like Pablo Escobar’s mustache had a lovechild with Frank Zappa; another man, with a semi-gangrenous leg, a keen eye for swimming pools, and a relentless hatred for the mechanical robots that clean them; a blue-eyed, bald bard from County Clare; and a towering chimney of a man - an Arizonian - who professed to possess a small-batch scrotum, just to name a few. We were there, at a house that looked like the set of a 1970’s, LSD-infused pool party; it was even decorated that way. Before long someone was bound to declare themselves, by divine right, a golden god and leap from the roof into the pool below. Having arranged for us all to stay at the house, it quickly became clear to me that this may have been the wrong choice, that certainly things would spin out of control, and I, the one solely responsible for the safety of the guests and the house itself, would invariably be brought up on criminal charges. To secure the house took much negotiation with the owner, who, having made it clear that there were to be no parties, no pets, no large groups, and no music or noise outside by the pool after 10PM, had finally conceded to waive the 3-night minimum and let us stay for two. In writing, and verbally, over the phone, I had promised her this. 

So, naturally, when we arrived I was stricken with anxiety over the rate at which alcohol was being consumed. Cases of beer started to vanish and empty beer cans were cropping up in all corners of the estate like dead insects after a fumigation. Slowly my heart began to palpitate when the number of guests multiplied and swelled beyond count or control. Entire families of people had appeared. Kids were laughing and launching themselves like cannonballs into the pool, splashing water out and flooding the perimeter. A 4-wheeled, electronic pool cleaner lay sideways on the deck, spraying out streams of chlorine water into a lush garden of tomatoes and basil. In horror I watched as three different people, one after the other, walked at full speed into the screen door, nearly tearing right through it. The other door, which was to remain shut, was constantly left open, allowing a swarm of bees and enormous, biting flies to take up residence inside the home. Suddenly, two giant dogs, owned by a woman named after a child’s pacifier, darted into the house through the open door and sought to attack the property owner’s cat. Then, for a reason I could not comprehend, a giant, expensive-looking wooden dining table was being carried outside. Orange paper plates and bright yellow napkins which had been ransacked from a closet were being thrown haphazardly onto the table as placemats and blowing away into the pool and the neighboring yards. Music was blasting from a speaker while people talked loudly and laughed, chain-smoking and flicking cigarette butts into glasses and cups, beer cans and open bags of potato chips. 

“Are you okay,” a female friend had asked me. I wasn’t. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that when someone is asking you if you’re okay, you can generally assume you’re not. I was single-handedly waging a war against entropy, and I was losing. Don’t panic. It will be okay. This is fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. These are your friends, they have your back. Wait, these are my friends. They’re savages! Holy fuck, I’m doomed! The clock said it was 9:59, so, sheepishly, I went outside to ask that the party be moved inside. “Hey, everyone, I umm, just want to let you know that it’s 10:00 and, so, umm, it’s time to go inside now.” Just as soon as I stopped speaking, someone had pelted me in the neck with an egg. Someone else screamed, shut the fuck up, faggot! A small child waddled up to me and shot me, at point blank range, in the testicles with a Nerf gun. And while I lay on the floor, with a yellow-colored, half-wet napkin stuck to my face while a group of men pissed like fountain angels into the pool, I heard the man with the semi-gangrenous shin coughing and laughing maniacally from inside the house. Looking over my shoulder through the tattered screen door, I saw that he was microwaving an aluminum pan of oven-top popcorn which had now grown malignant, metastasizing inside the microwave and sparking dangerously, shooting off flames and noxious black smoke that engulfed him in a demonic, sulfurous haze. Smiling a wry kind of smile, and not breaking eye contact, he extracted a cigarette from his pack and lit it against the now flaming microwave. He took a long pull before saying, “I’m running this show now.”

Luckily the sprinklers started going off inside the house. The cat came tearing out through the door to avoid the water and leapt over a cliff, falling cartoonishly to its death. “That’s it!” I yelled, “Everyone get the fuck out!” I grabbed the portable stereo off the wall and threw it into the pool, extinguishing the music. This guy’s a fucking dick, I heard someone mumble, gathering their belongings, let’s get out of here. Before long all of the extra guests had exited, and it was just the few of us. Around me was the aftermath of a needless calamity. In the distance I could hear the firetrucks. I realized I hadn’t even had a beer yet, that all of my wildest fears had come true and it literally couldn’t get any worse. I took off my clothes, grabbed a cold one and climbed into the pool, onto one of those giant inflatable flamingoes. Even though the pool was full of soggy hotdog buns and cigarettes, dead insects and dirty paper plates, I couldn’t help but smile as I floated there and sipped my beer. I finally felt free. 

None of that happened, of course. Well, some of it may have. We did go to Belling Man. Except, Belling Man isn’t a place, it’s a state of mind, man. When all was said and done, we had a lovely weekend. We drank and talked and laughed and ate good food and took good drugs. We even got souvenir T-shirts. If there’s a better way to say I love you, I don’t know what it is. 

Don't Speak!

Yesterday at work I watched an Asian colleague innocently ask a Hispanic colleague if he spoke Spanish. Our Hispanic colleague immediately cried, "yo, that's racist!" I thought surely he must be joking, and so did the Asian guy. So the Asian guy says, “no, really, do you?” Then, summoning greater rage and indignation, the Hispanic guy says, "what, just because I'm Hispanic means I speak Spanish? Just stop bro, you're digging yourself deeper into a hole." The Asian guy, confused and probably feeling somewhat hurt by how he was being publicly scolded and wrongly accused says, "I was just," and the Hispanic guy, raising his voice and interrupting, says "really?! You really want to keep going with this?!" Defeated, the Asian guy replies, "ok sorry, I'll stop."

I almost intervened to say, hey, maybe you should assume positive intent here and not lynch the guy for your oversensitivity; he asked a totally reasonable question that you allowed yourself to get offended by. But I knew if I did that, I'd be transformed into the archetype of the privileged white male racist that is so universally despised today, so I didn't say shit. I still feel guilty that I stood idly by as he belittled my Asian coworker and openly accused him of racism. The Asian guy is literally one of the nicest people I've ever met and meant it innocently.

We're creating a culture where people can't talk to one another anymore. One in which the mere allegation of racism, or some other perceived impropriety, is somehow seen as equal to its confirmation. It suggests that anyone accused of an indiscretion, should they have the audacity to try to defend themselves against the claim, are almost certainly guilty. This sentiment, esteemed by the far left, is literally ungluing liberal cohesion, causing toxic infighting and continued division as we watch them, hellbent on politically-correct self purification, fracture and break while trying compulsively to out-moralize their peers. The first half of this article does a great job at fleshing this out:

https://thebaffler.com/outbursts/all-worked-up-nowhere-to-go-frost

One of the great strengths of communication, of having a dialogue, is the ability to ask clarifying questions and determine, with greater accuracy, what it is the speaker is trying to express. Those who immediately claim offense and deny the speaker the opportunity to explain themselves are advancing the idea that judgement is superior to conversation, that their interpretation of the speaker's message is more important than what the speaker actually had in mind.

They are effectively using victimhood as a vehicle to victimize.

Scream

Today our brilliant and fearless leader, President Trump, damning the planet and all its inhabitants, withdrew from the Paris climate agreement. The agreement was a pledge, between nearly 200 nations, to reduce emissions and invest in clean, renewable energies in an effort to stave off manmade warming on a global scale. What does the US have in common with Syria and Nicaragua? Well, as of today, we're the only countries opposing the agreement. Some critics of the agreement note that participation was voluntary, claiming that the suggested guidelines weren't generous enough to achieve real, significant change. Conveniently, for them, we'll never know. But this line of thinking is not only myopic, it's dangerously ignorant and misguided. That there was a conversation happening, that promises were being made, that there was at least a willingness and a path to progress was the kind of hopeful encouragement the world needed. America was in position to take the lead and become a forerunner for clean energies such as wind and solar, but now the president has forfeited that advantage. Lost are the jobs that could have been created. Lost are the opportunities to invest in and subsidize technologies that would liberate us from dependencies on foreign oil and fossil fuels. In one fell swoop, we're standing on the wrong side of history. And for what? If the private sector is opposed to Trump's decision, and so are the American people, and so is the rest of the world, then who's interests are even being served?

Paying attention to politics in America right now is like watching a bad horror movie: we, the audience, watch helplessly, screaming invectives at the screen as the president makes idiotic thoughtless blunder after idiotic thoughtless blunder, always choosing stupidity over cunning, like a doomed Drew Barrymore making popcorn and talking on the phone with her secret Russian admirer about her favorite scary movie instead of calling the police. The twist is that Trump doesn't die as a result of his poor decisions, we do. And our kids do. And their kids do. I scream, you scream, we all scream! The craven irresponsibility of his actions, and the smug, self-congratulatory way that he kisses his own ass at the podium while trying to tell us he's doing us a favor, is really something to behold. He is a detestable, loathsome, despicable human being deserving of all the world's collective ire. He is the person at a concert who, after having shoved and elbowed his way through the crowd, stands in everyone's way taking lengthy cellphone videos and talking. He's the one who chews with his mouth open, who pisses in the pool, who doesn't flush after shitting in a public restroom. He's the schoolyard villain who claims to be victim once the teacher is called. He's the dirty old man, the entitled brat, the guy holding up the line, the asshole who won't give up his seat to an old lady. He's the kind of guy who won't help out if he isn't getting anything in return.

Earlier I was absolutely livid at the news of his decision. At work there was the temptation to begin scrawling hateful flurries of sentences to be unleashed here, but there wasn't enough time. Now those feelings of disgust, shame, helplessness and fury have become sadness, disappointment, fatigue. There is a deep emotional burden associated with existential contemplations of planetary extinction. There is barely the energy to write anything. My sentences on the matter are short and they all sound the same.

I'm tired. Tomorrow we're going into the woods to escape any reports of further misfortunes, just for a few days. We're going to sleep under the shade of tall redwood trees while they're still here. And at night we're going to look up at the stars while we can still see them. Hiking over falls we'll look at the white water rushing while it's still cold and clear. We'll breathe in the mountain air and enjoy a breezy, colorful sunset while we still can. Birds will sing and unseen creatures will scurry. Gnats and flies will swarm and tirelessly menace our faces...you know what, if there's one thing I'll be grateful for when the environment is destroyed and the world ends, it'll be that the flies will be gone, too.

Fuck flies.