And so we turn to fairytales. I don’t mean the softened modern children’s story versions, but the hard-core, often brutal originals. They usually don’t have any moral: they’re not fables. Instead, they are fanciful stories that occasionally go in the direction of fable, often in the direction of religion, sometimes taking us nowhere but a place of fear and bleak despair. They are more sophisticated versions of campfire ghost stories.
The moment of infestation is as clear as if it were this morning. It was a gorgeous day in the spring of 1986 and I was walking on the south side of East 86th Street in New York City, toward its intersection with Third Avenue. The weather was sunny and warm, but not hot. As was common, street vendors had blankets spread on the sidewalk and from there they (probably illegally) sold their goods.
The nightmare is here, and it is real.
Some people I like and respect speak of the great hope of “artificial intelligence.” History suggests they are wrong. They would be right if we were a benevolent species, but we are not, never have been, and this side of Heaven never will be.
One of my favorite streaming channels is Japan’s NHK World, broadcast in English. It isn’t very pleasing when it has programs about other countries — I go there to learn about Japan — but it often has satisfying, even soothing shows about that country’s tremendous beauty and rich culture.
The conclusion that the United States is in its bread-and-circuses phase is just about impossible to escape, and our response to it proves the point.
It was warmish here, certainly warm by seasonal standards, last Friday, which happened to be Groundhog Day, the day we celebrate the pulverized pork product usually called “sausage.” Okay, I’ve been waiting to make that joke for years, and the fact that I do now reflects a mood that I think others share.
Here we are again. Each time it is worse than the time before. We’re speeding toward the point when, come November, we will have a choice between two men whom we know are unqualified to be president of the United States. The only positive thing that can be said for either is that he is not the other.
It was 45 years ago that a band called “The Buggles” had a hit record, “Video Killed the Radio Star.” The song was big, as you’d expect, on MTV, which at the time played music videos. The song was wrong. Video didn’t kill the radio star, the internet did. (It also pretty well killed MTV, too.)
Last week in a closed hearing of a congressional committee looking at the pandemic and governments’ handling of it, the former head of the National Institutes of Health, Dr. Francis Collins, admitted that much of what his agency and others told the country was just pulled out of thin air (literally), and that his agency and others under his control tried to quash any talk of the likely origin of the SARS-CoV-2 virus.
So I’m thinking we should change the date of the new year. It’s not as ridiculous as it seems at first, so please hear me out. But first, a recap of how 2024 seems like an extension of 2023, only worse, though to be fair I have to note that things have been heading downhill for a while now; the decline is simply picking up speed.