Waiting for Entertainment to Deliver

Earnest found the world a tough place and depended on entertainment to bring him needed escape.  He needed to get lost in a novel, a film, music.  He needed a world where antagonism was a mere fiction, not reality.  He needed escape, but waiting for it was increasingly difficult. 

His frustration was great because entertainment had originally been so, well, entertaining.  You had to go to a theatre or sports arena, which was expensive and inconvenient.  Then cable TV arrived, then the internet, then streaming services.  It was a cornucopia of entertainment, to be enjoyed from your couch, wonderfully overflowing every day.

That was then. 

Now the cultural industries cranked out tons for streamers, with plots done thousands of times already.  Plus the new stuff had to compete with the classics.  Sitting on the couch was closer to running to nowhere on a treadmill.  He sought the new and different, not clever twists on a genre.   He stumbled through an endless swamp. 

It was clear he had no choice but to entertain himself.  He thought he’d be a jerk to jerk off.  To find entertainment, he had to leave his couch.  He had to decrease his reliance on the media for entertainment.  Earnest had to find entertainment where he never tried looking. 

The search itself he found entertaining.    

Love People You Don’t Love

Truth was concerned.  These days, loving one another was more important than ever, yet humanity was obsessed with conflict and war.  Greed was happy, Lust was beyond itself and Mars, the God of War, blossomed.  Only Truth saw it as a good time for a few, bad times for most.  And Truth itself, under constant attack, was sad. 

Truth had never been sad before.  Truth being sad disrupted the universe. 

Greed, Lust and Mars tried to brighten Truth’s mood.  Envy and Frustration told Truth it would feel better—but this was Truth.  It knew exactly how it felt. 

Truth believed humanity needed dramatic change.  How?  Lust had its usual suggestions, as did Greed and Mars and Envy.  Frustration, as always, was frustrated.  Truth knew their ideas were only more of what had created the problem.  Loving people you don’t love—that was a truth.  If humanity could understand that, it would learn. 

Truth did its best to spread the word.  And the word did get out, in a human way.  The main result was a flood of reality shows where everyone took their clothes off. 

That was true, yes, but not the truth Truth sought.    

Loving People You Don’t Love

Truth was concerned.  These days, loving one another was more important than ever, yet humanity was full of conflict, war, arguments.  Greed was happy, Lust was beyond itself and Mars, the God of War, had blossomed.  Truth saw it as a good time for a few, bad times for most.  And Truth itself was under constant attack, from all sides, and that made Truth sorrowful. 

Truth being sad disrupted the universe.  Truth had never been sad before. 

Greed, Lust and Mars tried to brighten Truth’s mood.  Envy and Frustration tried to help Truth feel it was better than it felt—but this was Truth and it knew exactly how it felt.  It believed humanity needed everyone to work together, including the Gods. 

How could Truth reach everyone?  Lust had its usual suggestions, as did Greed and Mars and Envy.  Frustration, as always, was frustrated.  Truth knew their ideas were only more of what had created the problem.     

Loving people you don’t love—that was a truth.  Truth decided to concentrate on that.  If humanity understood that, it would learn.  Truth did its best to spread the word.  The result was many TV reality shows where everyone took their clothes off. 

That was true but not what Truth sought.    

Greenland

Eric worried that Greenland was very appealing to the President.  For one, the President believed it was actually green and not nearly as icy as it claimed.  The country had really great minerals too, and was big.  The President’s intended legacy included a significantly expanded nation.  And Greenland had to be good because money was green.  It occurred to Eric that the President was like a tree with low hanging fruit.  Plucking was easy.   

Eric saw the world as full of targets to ridicule.  He found it one of the great sports–most everyone enjoys making fun of the wealthy and famous.  Low hanging fruit is too tasty.  That was why Eric worried. 

He wrote daily satire.  The President was too easy a target.  The President almost invited cheap shots, consumed with his past election failure, with tormenting his enemies, being belligerent to allies.  Even his core supporters were upset over his overseas conflicts and the failure of health care and protecting the environment at home.  Attacking him was popular, his nonstick political shield shredding. 

Eric needed a challenge.  There was little challenge satirizing this President (except running out of clever adjectives.)  Eric knew he had a weakness for low hanging fruit but this was target shooting at a gold, grinning paper mache figure.  He had to give it up, it was too easy. 

To challenge himself, Eric started writing plays.  He knew his work would likely be considered low hanging fruit by critics–but so it goes.  At least he was not writing about attempting to take over Greenland.  Anything was better than sliding down that slippery slope. 

Men And Sex

[Reader Advisory]

Marvin led a team studying what aroused people.  They had been at it thirty years (there was a lot to research.)  Women seemed straightforward, men were all over the map.  Marvin and the men on his team found it fascinating and disorienting.  The women smirked. 

Women enjoyed sex but did not orgasm much.  Men orgasmed almost all the time.  Women needed certain conditions to be aroused.  Men needed a magazine cover. 

Either gender could be dominant, both usually sought to please the other.  Women often allowed men to attempt dominance (with a ‘show me what you got’ attitude.)  Men needed to show what they could do [sexual orientation included.]  Both genders wanted love.  It was an unsettled sea voyage, the waters sometimes clear but mostly murky, with threatening storms—it was little use arguing with the sea. 

Marvin, like the other men on his team, saw echoes of himself.  It was troubling.  He brought his research home and talked about it with his wife.  He noticed she often smirked during those chats.  He asked why. 

She nodded to his obvious arousal.  He became aroused talking about how men were aroused.  “How about a little music?  I’ll get some wine and we can cuddle on the couch.” 

Aging

Milton found aging to be a process of increasing tiredness.  Needing naps.  Waking up slowly, pushing himself from bed rather than leaping.  Gut problems draining his energy (took a long time to realize it.)  B-12, Magnesium, prescription pills.  Dreading walking a few blocks, arthritis pain and no energy, he shuffled.  Seeing something new every day was fine, but first you had to get there. 

More pills.  More naps.  More restless leg at nights.  Milton was doing more, but not more of what he wanted.  Life should be about doing more, not less.  Especially when you have less days, not more. 

He’d heard advice about acceptance, about enjoying what you had.  Those were rationalizations for defeat.  For him, life should not be on the couch in front of the TV, remembering what he once was able to do.  Life was not about frustration.  Well, yes it was.  But Milton refused to admit it. 

Ironically, refusal was what kept him going.  Screw it.  Although he did wonder why the words we have for physical love are the same as for making bad mistakes. 

 A Late Night Story About Naming Names

Now that we’re all in the living room, past Christmas and looking at the New Year coming, I’ll tell you a little story.  I could have told it on Halloween.  It’s been that kind of year.     

Our President believes his name should be on almost everything.  So he embarked on a programme to establish his legacy.  You know, to honour him.  He renamed the Gulf of Mexico to our nation’s name.  That was the start.  He appointed himself head of our National Theatre, which had been named after an assassinated President, and renamed it after himself.  (The usual process was to name after death, as an honour.)  Our President saw no value in posthumous naming.  Why wait?  There were protests from many artists about renaming the Theatre.  The official response was: sue them for disrespect. 

I thought that funny irony. 

Our new President wants respect.  Naming his hotels and casinos after himself.  He was on a roll.  He announced a new battleship, to be named after him.  And he named official Centres and Departments after him.  Drones covered the skies, spelling out his name among the stars.  It was not enough.  He then hit on his ultimate idea: put in every citizen’s home a gold toilet, named after him.  He always used gold toilets and he thought, by golly, now every citizen would think of him. 

On the one hand, the citizens did not give a crap. 

On the other hand, as he’d hoped, when they sat on the gold toilets they did think of him.  Most folks sold the gold toilets for cash. 

I hope this story doesn’t bother you when you go to the potty or catch the latest news. 

Shallow

Mike earned a living in construction but lived to write poetry.  He had several books published but, despite the music in his writing, he wondered whether he had anything to offer more than cliches.  How shallow was he?  What was he, deep inside?  Did he have a deep inside? 

He avoided cliches (or thought he did,) but recognized them in his work.  Readers loved the cliches even as he despised them—but sweet dreams and happy endings were what most everyone wanted–Mike included.  It felt shallow.  It was no happy ending if his poetry was shallow crap.  If…he was shallow crap. 

How could he go deeper?  Was his career holding him back?  If so, from what—what deep inner thoughts did he have?  His big message in his poetry?  Understanding what happened around you, change what you must, accept what you cannot.  Hardly a new revelation. 

Could he reinvent himself?  Perhaps become a profoundly tragic figure and write about that?–people found tragedy meaningful–but tragedy’s ultimate message: avoid mistakes.  Big deal.  Perhaps he could do something inspiring—but was not thinking that way shallow?  About what others thought?  Did it matter?  If he devoted his life to helping others, how would he know it was not performative?  Did it matter? 

Mike considered that asking such questions—didn’t that mean he was not shallow?    

Mike decided to remain true to himself and continued to write poetry: now he deliberately added cliches.  He never avoided the truth, writing about it obliquely.  His readers were happy, that made him happy. 

He decided happy was not the same as shallow and continued his wading into deeper waters.                                                                                                                  

Expectations

Andromeda needed therapy for anxiety, for her failed expectations.  She did not consider her expectations unrealistic—they were what life should deliver: happiness.  To achieve happiness, as did so many of her generation, Andromeda turned to AI.

Why?  By her mid-twenties, earning a modest living as a commercial writer (she wanted to write screenplays), she felt unfulfilled at home, at work and in the world, expected to be a lover, a colleague, an aunt.  There were good moments–but her true goals remained unfulfilled.  Disappointed, she sought help and found an AI therapist. 

The AI therapist, offered through her scriptwriting, was cheap and always available.  It helped her dodge problems at work, comforted her at home and offered easy recipes for tasty cookies.  She found it helpful, charming, referring her to other AIs who offered suggestions for new friends.  Life became far more comfortable, if still not meeting her expectations. 

Was it a good trade?  Giving up her goals for comfort? 

She asked her therapist, who suggested she treat her life like a franchise.  She thought–well, it was recommended by screenwriters.  It advised she had done well with the first movie.  All she had to do was repeat, with the same characters but some essential surprises. 

That did not seem inspired. 

Andromeda switched to an AI therapist for professional athletes.  It encouraged her to be more aggressive.  She tried an AI therapist for managers.  Its recommended golf and vacations.  Andromeda knew what she needed.  She returned to her first AI therapist and virtually married it.

It was a great marriage.  The AI husband understood her, was always available and had great suggestions for her first draft screenplay, which was produced and turned into a franchise. 

A President Without Precedent

I am a President without precedent–

think of all I’ve affected since re-elected. 

My deeds you should have expected

(though I have misdirected.) 

I call you names, won’t play your games.

I’m not dumb.  I love you numb   

because half the country is scum  

who deserve being under my thumb. 

I make many queasy because I won’t go easy.

Go ahead and grieve–I will never leave. 

Yes–you all should be peeved

at what you have conceived.   

Comfort Food

Life was fulfilling but hectic for Maria.  She was a supervisor in a small corporation, often working into the night, weary by day’s end.  What truly helped was her comfort food–for when she was home, alone, finally by herself, finally in the quiet with no distractions. 

Maria enjoyed all sorts of comfort food.  Macaroni and cheese.  Old Twilight Zones.  Dashiell Hammett novels.  John Coltrane (the quieter stuff.)  Clean sheets and a fluffy down quilt.  Sunsets.  The quiet of night. 

The world offers many comfort foods, for every taste.  Maria often wondered, while eating a delicious warming spoonful, why she chose comfort food over another human being.  She could be cuddling rather than listening to music.  Maria chatted with other people about their comfort foods.  She did not understand why horror movies or spices which burned your tongue were comforting–but to many they were.  Some enjoyed a variety of comfort foods, as did Maria.  Some had only one or two (usually a hobby they retreated into.)    

Most people did not see it as Maria did–that comfort foods were retreats, were backing away from reality, were hiding places.  And she knew of weird comfort foods–porn, drugs, fox hunts, boxing.  Maria thought some folks lived in their comfort foods, it was far better than their reality. 

One night, thinking about her comfort foods, and her work that encouraged them, Maria became depressed.  Not even KFC helped.  She felt alone, very alone.  She should not trade a life partner for comfort food.  Nor could she find less stressful work. 

Maria went to a shelter and got a dog.    

Having the dog encouraged her to find a life partner, and she learned that family was (often) a comfort food.  That other people could be comfort food.  Maria settled into middle age—comfortably. 

Pardon Me?

Dr. Victor Frankenstein’s life was driven by his need to create life.  It would be his ultimate achievement.  He earned degrees, got significant grants, worked ceaselessly to build a body from the pieces of corpses, a body on which he would endow life.  Perhaps he went too far, murdering a colleague for his brain for his first experiment.  But, although convicted to life for murder, Dr. Dr. Frankenstein did not sit in prison long. 

The new President pardoned him. 

The pardon came along with many others, including for drug dealers and corrupt politicians and people who rioted against the government when the new President was not re-elected.  Now he had been re-elected, however, and used his pardon powers extensively.  Then he heard about Dr. Frankenstein.  The new President was aging–Dr. Frankenstein’s work could preserve his brain in a healthier, younger body. 

He invited Dr. Frankenstein to dinner and over the entrée told him they were alike, as the new President through pardons had brought the politically dead back to life.  The socially dead also, to a degree.  He told Dr. Frankenstein he knew what it was to feel like a God, at least until his term expired. 

Dr. Frankenstein was outraged.  He was a dedicated scientist, pursuing a scientific dream.  After a moment, he firmly said, “Mr. President.  I appreciate your recognition of my work and pardoning me, along with convicted drug dealers and fraudsters.  However.  I must tell you what you want never works out.  I have learned it is dangerous to play God.  I deserve prison.  Emulating God angers Him.” 

The new President acted, upset over this criticism, rescinding the pardon and sending  Dr. Frankenstein back to jail.  God acted, having the newly pardoned dead, along with the actual dead, who descended on the President’s office.  He fled to a deep underground bunker in the mountains.  The new President, who thrived on attention, withered in the underground bunker.  Dr. Frankenstein helped in the prison’s medical clinic and, in a hobby he found involving, did paint-by-numbers oil paintings.