The Right Side of History

A collection of writings that attempt to connect the meaning of the major and minor events and distractions of today to a broader philosophy of life that tries to strip away the non-sense, spin and lies to reveal something that is closer to truth.

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We need to realize that we are all prisoners and the prison guards are ourselves. I am trying as hard as I can to divorce myself from my ego and this materialistic nightmare we have created and in the process awaken my spiritual self.

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Friday, April 14, 2006

I Need To Drop A Deuce



4/14/2006


We return to the Malibu offices of Happy Madison which is Adam Sandler’s production company:

Schneider: So, did you read it?

Sandler: Yeah, I did.

Schneider: Well, what do you think?

Sandler: Uh…yeah...I was meaning to talk to you about that. I don’t know about this one.

Schneider: Why not?

Sandler: Well...you know...I think I want to stay away from remakes.

Schneider: Yeah, like The Longest Yard? Mr Deeds? C'mon man, This is Rob you're talking to, not some hack at Entertainment Weekly. And, besides, this ain't no remake. This is my completely original idea.

Sandler: Yeah...I know. But I tell ya...it just sounds so familiar. I don’t think I should...

Schneider: FAMILIAR? HOW?

Sandler: Well...

Schneider: HEY! I got three nerds who feel like they are getting pushed around by the fucking cool guys in town so they make up a baseball team with other nerds and, after sucking for awhile...they get better and then at the end they play the cool guys for the championship. When the fuck was that ever done before?

Sandler: Um...

Schneider: And how about that montage of scenes where the team make all kinds of stupid mistakes and the rest of the town makes fun of them?

Sandler: Yeah, that was funny.

Schneider: And the shit and fart jokes?

Sandler: I know. Had me rolling. But...

Schneider: Look man, it’s got commercial appeal. The kids eat this shit up. Wasn't I right about the last one? How much did you pull in from Bigalow?

Sandler: Not as much as I...

Schneider: Yeah. By the way, I like that new pool you put in.

Sandler: Now wait a minute. That was...

Schneider: Save it for the taxman. C'mon brother. I’m not asking for nothing, man. Nothing. Just some lousy "front money" for my project and, man, this property is hot, like smoking cinder baby. You know. You’ve read it.

Sandler: Yeah...good shit. Who is going to be in it?

Schneider: Well...I'm the star of course.

Sandler: You got to be.

Schneider: For the other two guys, I got David Spade...

Sandler: I like it.

Schneider: ...and that guy from Napoleon Dynamite.

Sandler: Oh shit!!! The guy who does that dance???

Schneider: You know it!!! C’mon man. You know we are going to make a mint. What do you say? For old time’s sake? For “SNL”?

Sandler: Well...I don't know...

Schneider: OK...maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this because it’s not 100% but I heard this morning that Nealon said he would sign on!

Sandler: All right...I’m in!

Schneider: Fucking A!!!!



They jump up and high five each other after which they both slump back in their swivel chairs. After SANDLER takes a deep breath, he picks up the blue folder that is right on top of his desk. He sighs and reads what is printed on the cover out loud.

Benchwarmers
By Rob Schneider

3 older dudes should be able to beat
9 young jocks...

Right?



Schneider: Great tag, huh? Came up with that shit myself.

Sandler: I don’t know, Rob. I don't know.

Schneider: What is it, man?

Sandler: It's just that...well...I mean...I just thought by now I would be doing...I don't know...more serious, higher quality work.

Schneider: When the hell did you start caring about that?



Benchwarmers
Oh my Sweet Jesus...




From the Eric Bogosian/Oliver Stone film Talk Radio (1988) :


I may not be the most popular guy in the world. That's not the point. I really don't care what you think about me...I'm just a voice. A voice in the wilderness...And you, like a pack of wolves descend on me, 'cause you can't stand facing what it is you are and what you've made...Yes, the world is a terrible place! Yes, cancer and garbage disposals will get you! Yes, a war is coming. Yes, the world is shot to hell and you're all goners. Everything's screwed up and you like it that way, don't you? You're fascinated by the gory details. You're mesmerized by your own fear! You revel in floods and car accidents and unstoppable diseases...You're happiest when others are in pain!

And that's where I come in, isn't it? I'm here to lead you by the hand through the dark forest of your own hatred and anger and humiliation. I'm providing a public service. You're so scared! You're like the little child under the covers. You're afraid of the bogeyman - but you can't live without him. Your fear, your own lives have become entertainment! Tomorrow night, millions of people are going to be listening to this show, and you have nothing to talk about!!!

Marvelous technology is at our disposal and instead of reaching up for new heights, we try to see how far down we can go...how deep into the muck we can immerse ourselves!

What do you want to talk about? Baseball scores? Your pet? Orgasms?

You're pathetic. I despise each and every one of you. You've got nothing, absolutely nothing. No brains, no power, no future. No hope. No God. I'm not afraid, see? I come up here every night and I make my case, I make my point. I say what I believe in. I have to, I have no choice. You frighten me. I don't need your fear or your stupidity. You don't get it. It's wasted on you.

If one person out there has any idea what I am talking about...



Stop the madness
Larry

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Vox Populi





It's a way we had over here with living with ourselves. We cut 'em in half with a machine gun and give 'em a Band-Aid. It was a lie. And the more I saw them, the more I hated lies.

- Apocalypse Now (1979)




4/12/2006


Here is a reprint of a photograph I recently posted on this Blog:


Bush and Bono




It was the center piece of one of my articles (“Integrity”) which also contained a very mild, rather abstract, critique of the Grammy Award winning U2 front man. I think the picture is self-explanatory but, to my surprise, I have received some resistance to the attitude I expressed in that post.

Several comments I have heard included:


The way I see it, Bono is WORKING THE SYSTEM so he can help people. What’s wrong with that?

Aw, c’mon. You CAN’T be knocking Bono! He is doing so much good for people.

You know when you really think about it, Bono has done a HELL OF A LOT MORE for humanity than John Lennon ever did!

Who are you to talk you fat, cubicle dwelling, drunkard?



Besides from the last line, which I whole heartily agree with, I do have answers for all of these criticisms. But before I explain myself I want to make certain things perfectly clear.

My dislike for Bono has nothing to do with his humanitarian efforts. In fact, I think IT IS EXCELLENT that he is, finally, using the fame and fortune he has amassed over the past two decades to do something…anything…for someone other than himself, his bank account and his huge megalomaniacal ego.

My feelings stem from the fact that he started (and to be fair, the rest of the band) as a “cool” alternative to the shit that the record labels were pushing in the early 1980s. Is anyone out there old enough to remember those truly dark days? When the brain trusts at Columbia, Capital and RCA decided the American public wanted to listen to Journey? The days when grey little men in grey little suits pushed Styx onto young naïve teenagers? When Hall & Oates scored #1 after #1 through sheer repetition perpetrated by men whose idea of a symphony was the clanging of cash registers in their lobbies and the jangling of coins in their pockets?

Well I am.

So out of that Mad Max landscape, came an Irish band that played songs that I would now describe as power-pop but, at the time, I considered edgy, or at least different, especially compared to the tired old feces that was being pumped out by the “music industry.”

Staying above the “Synth-Pop” non-sense that started to catch on around that time, their albums featured catchy romantic feel-good danceable tunes like “A Day Without Me” “I Will Follow” and “Two Hearts Beat as One” as well as harder, more political tracks, like “Sunday, Bloody Sunday” “Seconds” and “Pride” making U2 the group to watch circa 1982-1984.

And then, of course, there was Live-Aid.

At Wembley Stadium in London, during their performance of an obscure song off the Unforgettable Fire LP called “Bad,” Bono, in a stroke of brilliant showmanship, jumped from the stage and into the audience. With the lengthy and moody Edge guitar solo playing on, the large crowd parted so Bono could slow dance with an awe struck female fan. The spontaneity and surprise of this maneuver was extremely dramatic and exciting. Happening live on Television, being broadcast to millions of people around the world, it was truly one of the great moments of the rock era. They absolutely stole the show.

After that exposure, U2 was no longer a hip-kid’s little secret. They became total superstars. Unfortunately, but not unpredictably, the fame and the fortune went straight to their heads. In my opinion, the rest of the band’s musical career can be described as a slow descent into pretentiousness, self importance and cultural irrelevancy.

As I mentioned in an earlier blog entry, I detest the fact that the band, and Bono in particular, are very quick to compare themselves to true Rock Icons, both living and dead.


They ripped off The Beatles with their own version of the “roof top concert” A liquor store in Vegas stood in for the famed Apple Studios in London.

They ripped off The Rolling Stones with their “flat bed concert” drive through Manhattan.

They ripped off Bowie (Who probably ripped somebody else off) doing the “heavy-make-up, cross dressing” glam thing on Achtung Baby.

They made a “trip to Graceland” and stood in front of Elvis’ grave implying that they were channeling the King. Remarkably, that little fiasco was filmed after the hilarious Rob Reiner film Spinal Tap was already popular

God, Part II



But enough about the history of U2. All of these opinions I have stated before both on this Blog and vocally to anyone who would listen to my incoherent ranting and raving. It is also safe to say that I will probably state them again so let me get back to my original point.

Just look at the picture:


Nixon and Elvis




(Oh, no…I accidentally inserted the wrong photo!!! Please ignore it and return to the top of the post and look at the correct image…I apologize for any inconvenience.)



On one side you have a completely self-delusional man who feels that because sometimes he plays a guitar and occasionally meets with world leaders who probably do not take him seriously that he is someone of high importance. A man who has convinced himself that he has substance just because international media outlets cow-tow to his every whim and send photographers to every where he goes for meaningless photo-ops. Just who the hell does he think he is anyway? Does he deserve to be listened to just because Time Magazine named him “Person of the Year”? Does the fact that his picture is in the paper everyday, usually next to some important, influential people of all nationalities make him some kind of Head of State?

And on the other side, you have Bono.

I am not going to mention the ridiculous rose tinted glasses Vox is wearing. Nor will I mention his whole “Man in Black” outfit. I think making fun of his hopelessly cliché attire would be childish, even if he does look like a cross between Johnny Cash and Tinkerbell. No. That would be too easy.

What puts this shot in the “over the top” bin is the whole fist pumping “We made it baby!” pose. After you are done digesting that, take a look at the ultra serious facial he is sporting. Now couple those two things with the absolutely ridiculous Slap-Happy-Local-Yokel look the Leader of the Free World has across his face.

So I reiterate:


Pretentious Cloths + Fist Pump + Ridiculous Facial + Dopey from Snow White = Intellectual Debasement.



It is actually quite good. I want to formally nominate the photographer for a Pulitzer Prize. In what category, do you ask?


Photo that best captures the incredible depths that a free society can fall under six years of Republican Domination.

or


Assholes gone wild.



Heads you win - Tails I lose.

As I guess you all know by now, Time Magazine has picked Bono, Bill and Melinda Gates as the “Persons of the Year” for 2005. A totally meaningless position that was once held by Adolph Hitler, George W Bush and Joseph Stalin (twice).

All three of the current recipients are well known for their philanthropical work. The Gates’ for example give away a whole lot of money every year and Bono goes around to the different western governments begging for third world debt forgiveness which helps a lot of people who are right now in the crapper. It is all together fitting that this kind of work receive some sort of recognition.

What, you may ask yourself, can I possibly find wrong in the selecting of the little leprechaun who sang “In the Name of Love” plus an absurdly wealthy geek and his wife? Not much, really, except that it is a good barometer of where we stand in social evolution and human development.

As I mentioned at the beginning, it was once said to me that Bono did more for humanity than John Lennon. I would like to suggest the exact opposite.

Monetarily speaking there is no argument. Bono has raised large sums of money for less fortunate people. For the last five years, or so, he has applied his pathological need for attention and outrageously oversized ego for good purposes as compared to the shameless self-promotion of his middle career. As a result of him “working the system,” less fortunate people are receiving some aid and their standard of living is being raised. That’s great. I really mean that.

But “The System” is not being changed, is it?

The status quo is the problem and as long as the totally arbitrary situation of winners and losers exists and is supported by THE PEOPLE, then other people are going to be screwed. With shipments of grain, an influx of medicine or even the ultimate goal of forgiveness of debt, I am sure many lives are being dramatically affected immediately…but temporarily. In ten years time they will probably be back in the same shit hole they find themselves in now, starving in pig shit awaiting the next rock star to grow a conscious.

I mean, are these people “less fortunate” because God wants it this way?

Kind of like our own ridiculous “war on drugs” that Ronald Reagan supposedly started in the 1980s. The theory being, if the US government used military means to knock out drug lords in foreign lands, then the substance abuse problem in our country would go away. So we knocked out all of these South American dealers with dramatic flare and zest. Guess what the results were?

That’s right.

Others just took their place and American cities turned into dens of human degradation, gun violence and crack use. You see, the problem was not that Pablo Escobar sold us cocaine by the ton. The problem was that WE wanted to snort it by the ton. THAT part of the equation was barely addressed in the Government’s waging of that first ambiguous, unwinnable war.

Using that analogy, Bono’s good deeds have a positive effect in the short term, but in a larger sense, are actually reinforcing the current status quo, which is the root of the problem in the first place.

John Lennon, when he was “working the system” would have pointed that out.

So, did Bono do more for humanity than John Lennon? It all depends on your point of view. If you believe that the most important thing that will help the truly wretched masses of the many underdeveloped countries around the world is to give them sporadic deliveries of first aid and food, then there is no contest. Bono Vox is the undisputed master.

And for all the people who are directly and indirectly affected by his charity work, I will understand why they would think I am crazy for even questioning his place in the pecking order of great humanitarians.

But, I believe, the first step to human equality and true social justice is the freeing of the human mind from the box it is currently locked in by an inhumane system that favors conformity over spiritual understanding. As long as we are mental prisoners, any amount of money we throw at “the problem” is essentially a band aid over a hemorrhaging wound, that threatens the health of the body entire.

I read somewhere that he is even being considered for a Nobel Peace Prize this year. Good for him.

But, there is a reason why thousands of people show up in New York City’s Central Park on December 8th every year. I think that reason is a hell of a lot more substantial than thinking that “Come Together” was a catchy tune.

After he is dead...
I doubt that Bono will have the same response.
Larry


Wednesday, April 05, 2006

The Running Man



4/5/2006


To show you how far I have fallen (Ecclesiastical) or disintegrated (Clinical) depending on your point of view, when I woke up today I thought it was Friday. No big deal, right? Days of the week are just human concepts in an attempt to keep track of time which, by definition, is infinite and therefore immeasurable. Although I know the rotation of the Earth, the planets and the Sun play a part in these 24 hour quantities, sometimes the whole system feels completely arbitrary to me.

If this delusion of mine ended there it would be a funny little thought. A possible "senior moment" which could be snickered at or dismissed. But unfortunately my belief that today was Friday was so absolute I put on a turtleneck instead of the usual shirt and tie combo. I leisurely strolled out the door and waited for the bus. Having just missed one, the driver actually waved to me as he pulled out, I had some time to debate if I should get the New York Post (25 cents – the paper of record) or not. I usually do but on mornings when I feel particularly groggy, hung-over, angry, dazed – fill in the blank – I don’t because I feel it is more productive to sit on the Number One Train (Where the bus I just missed was going to take me) and space out to whatever is playing on my I-Pod. My theory being that I can learn a lot more about human connection and emotion from guys like Dylan, Lennon and Reed – hell, even Simon and Garfunkel – then assholes like Dunleavy, Peyser and Malkin.


Run


After about five minutes of this waffling, I said what the hell, threw my cigarette to the graying cracked cement and proudly marched into the bodega. After slamming the quarter on the counter, I took my copy of the Post and shoved it under my arm without even looking at it. My plan was to pretty much zone out for most of the train ride and then start reading the paper about half way through when I switch over to the express and lose my seat. In my mind, I was already sure that I was probably going to bypass all the gobly-gook that passes for news in that rag. I was most interested in the entertainment section in the middle because, remember, IT WAS FRIDAY, and that’s the day all the new movie reviews come out which I like to keep up with.

Call me callous, but I would rather be entertained by the likes of George Clooney and Scarlett Johansson then by sensationalistic stories about who was raped, who was murdered or some other urban situation that the Post clearly points out that I should fear in the course of my everyday life.

The bus comes. The train comes. I zone out.

I experience my own personal magical mystery tour of sight and sound. I will not describe the scene in its totality but I will offer some advice. While listening to music through headphones DO NOT try to ignore any ambient sounds coming from the people in the car or the train itself. INCORPORATE them into the music. Believe me, if you follow this rule your aggravation level will go down and your enjoyment will go up.

For example, this morning, the distinctive notes from The Beatles "Ticket to Ride" was enhanced dramatically by a fat women sitting in the middle of the car having a conversation with her friend who was sitting on the opposite side of the train.

I think I’m going to be sad
I think it’s today, yeah


I TOLD HIM IF YOU DON’T MESS WITH MY MOTHER-FUCKING MONEY
THEN WE’RE STRAIGHT, YA KNOW WHAT I’M SAYIN’


The girl that’s driving me wild
Is leaving today


THAT MOTHER-FUCKER IS A PIECE OF SHIT
YA KNOW WHAT I’M SAYIN’


Add the background screech of a particularly sharp bend in the track and you hit the Tri-Fecta!!!

Businessman Running

Anyway this situation continued all the way down to 42nd street. At that time, I felt myself cognitive enough to look through the paper. As I mentioned before, I quickly thumbed through all the silly "news" articles with the bold type saying things like, "Be afraid of everything and everybody… especially the person next to you because he or she is a scumbag who would cut your heart out and dance over your corpse if they had the chance," to get to the entertainment section, arrogantly called "NY Pulse." When I arrived at the pulse, something strange happened. There was a story about celebrity vacations. Then I turned the page and there was some other story about some bull shit I had no interest in. Another page was the theater critic providing some juicy behind the scenes gossip about whatever the latest Broadway Show is I have absolutely no intention of seeing. Then came the classifieds, which signified the end of the section.

I thought it was weird that there were no film reviews on a Friday. A queasy feeling started to fill my already jumbled mind. I knew something was wrong but not quite sure what. In this unsettled atmosphere, the kind of situation that put Rod Serling’s children through college, I turned to the front page of the paper not really expecting to have my mounting questions answered.

After perusing the front page boldface headline, "Right Now You Are Surrounded by Sick Perverted Animals Who Will Do Anything They Can To Screw You…So Keep Your Hand On Your Wallet At All Times," I saw it, plain as day:

Wednesday, April 5, 2006


I stared at this information for a solid ten seconds. I know that doesn't sound like a long time but try it. Use your watch and look at three words for ten continuous seconds.

Do you see what I'm talking about?

This revelation hit me extremely hard for two reasons. The first was metaphysical in nature and the second very practical.

1) When I left my house to do my daily dance for the Man, I didn't think it "felt" like Friday. I honestly believed it was Friday. I showered, dressed and rode public transportation for upwards of 45 minutes not realizing my error. In fact if I did not buy the Post ("All the news that's fit to print") which, as I mentioned, I almost didn't, I still would have thought it was Friday. Through the security checkpoint in the lobby of my building. Up the interminable elevator ride. All the way through the beautiful glass doors and the snakelike path through endless felt boxes which ultimately deposits me into my cube. I might have even said "TGIF" with a stupid grin on my face to a co-worker who, most likely, would have immediately thought I was a complete fool-tool. This situation opened the door to so many questions. Although I, along with billions of other people, follow these artificial calendar guidelines, what, in reality, is the difference between Wednesday and Friday? What is time? It occurred to me that we base many of our decisions and our moods on something that could be as false and artificial as most of the "journalism" that appears in the New York Post. Damn chilling.


2) I was wearing a turtle neck.



Ruh-Roh.

After two minutes of contemplating the meaning of quantum physics, space, time and the essence of being, I turned my attention to the very real predicament I found myself in.

Since it was Wednesday, my company's "Casual Friday" rules obviously would not apply. And since it was already 8:30 AM, there was no way I was going to be able to get back home, change and get to work anywhere near on time so that was not an option. I toyed with the idea of walking into the office dressed completely inappropriately but then I remembered there was a meeting scheduled so that was not an option either. No, I needed to find a collared shirt and a tie in a half-hour. Unfortunately, it appeared nobody on my car was selling. In a nutshell, I was screwed.

I went into problem solving mode. I scanned my over-taxed, breaking-down brain for a solution. I put aside any negative self-pitying thoughts I was having and focused. We passed 34th Street…nothing. 14th Street...nothing. Chambers Street...still nothing. Situation critical.

THINK, DAMN IT, THINK!!!

And then…AHA!!! There is a Syms clothing store in downtown Manhattan. Not only do they have relatively cheap cloths but they also have an extensive fatso section, which would certainly cover my immediate need. I looked at my watch - 8:41 AM - and jumped off the train to get the local, which…lo and behold… pulled right in. I flung myself on a seat and plotted my next move.

The next stop put me right in front of the store. I remembered I kept a tie in one of my drawers at work so that part was covered. All I had to do is run in, grab the first shirt I saw, pay for it and then run to my job. My company is on the "handscan" system, which records your comings and goings exactly on the minute so every second was critical. The past two days I was late so I was really concerned. I would have eighteen minutes to complete my odyssey and I knew I was cutting it absurdly close but it was feasible. Besides, what choice did I have?

Run




The train stops, I briskly move up the stairs. Through the "iron maiden" and into the store. The first shirt I see in my "Omar the tent-maker cut" is a noticeably loud blue basic button down. The kind of clothing you would wear if inconspicuousness was not an issue. Price - 20 clams. Just my style!

As I pay for the merchandise I notice the store's motto:


Syms - An educated consumer is our best customer



I suggest to the cashier that they should change it to…


Syms - Complete buffoons who totally fuck-up keep us in business



I grab my bag and bolt for the office. I rush down Wall Street weaving in and out of the throngs of people who, as far as I could see, actually knew how to dress appropriately for a normal workday.

I go through security and take the escalator by twos. The elevator bay waiting area is crowded but…more luck…one arrives just as I join the crowd. Everyone piles in and I'm resigned to wait for the next one which would effectively end my chances of getting my greasy palm onto the Big Brother gizmo on time. Oh well…I tried.

But wait! A women gets off the overloaded lift car…my guess is out of some sort of sense of etiquette and/or politeness…which gives me the opening I need. I stuff my fat ass right in there much to the chagrin of the underpaid/overworked drones already in place and the dirty looks of Ms Manners. Normally I would have waited as well because it was painfully obvious that I didn't fit.

Fuck'um. Simple human decency means nothing when cash money is on the line.

Elevator stops. I zip through the doors and get to the scanning machine. I type out my security code, slap my dirty digits down…beep beep…8:59AM.

Music to my ears!

Ten minutes later, as I stood in the middle stall of the Men's toilet changing into my brand new Royal Blue Nautica dress shirt, a smile ran across my face. I became overcome with emotion. I was filled with a great sense of accomplishment and pride.

They shoot horses, don't they?
Larry