Writers on the Run: Paranoia and the General Cheezening of All Things

The luggage security people inform you you’re allowed two packs of matches, not three. Which, of course, is not in any way comprehendable, especially if you can then buy a lighter in the DutyFree. As many as you want. The message: “We want you to think we care about Terrorism, your safety and the General Good. We don’t, however, want to impede you and your smoking habit in any way shape or form." Big Tobacco has its filthy, yellow stained hands all over this aspect of National Insecurity you can bet yer sweet bippy on that, and why not? Money is more important than Security, we all know that and have known about it for a long time.

You don’t know if you’re on any PatriotAct WatchLists. Impossible to tell. Checked with a few buds on the force. That’s the benefit of being in your early thirties: you know people from all walks of Life. Your buds have grown up to become teachers. Lawyers. And cops. All indications, they say, is that yer in the clear. As far as they know. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to get through Security at the airport. You shuffle through the line up and consider the scene, consider everything. Maybe you imagined the whole thing. Maybe the NSA isn’t really monitoring you for blogging against the NeoCons, Dubya and War. But you keep coming back to that quote from ‘Strange Days’. You remember it?

“The question is not whether you’re paranoid, but whether you’re paranoid enough.”

As apropos a statement in the PNAC America as it would have been in Communist Russia, Maoist China and Nazi Germany. Fuck it. You get popped for writing Truths then that’s the situation. Stopping, it turns out, is not an option.

You answer all the questions with Security, even your own, real name. This is the big test. If the NeoCon Nutters are out to get you, here’s where you can expect to visit your first of many darkened rooms, chock full of brutish men convinced they’re doing the work of Jesus, vicious dogs whose motivations can only be guessed at and the rank smell of your own excement. Yeesh. Ah well, he that never takes a risk shalt never taste champagne, Citizens! No balls, no blowjobs!

Besides, maybe they’re just gonna keep an eye on you.

Maybe none of this is even happening. Maybe you’ve finally flipped yer cookies, as that guy said to that chick in that movie and you’re not on anybody’s watchlist, maybe nobody cares at all. Ever think of that? Sure.

See a commercial later that day on the plane, on a television plastered into the seat in front of us. I pause to wonder what the PoorPeople are doing before getting sucked into witnessing the latest and most bizarre herald of RapMusic’s official entry into the ZeitGeist. A bunch of hipsters in funky clothes dancing around, partying, and rapping about the heartbreak of diarreah. That’s how you know you’ve really made it as an artform. When they totally shit on you. Message: “When cool people have the shits, cool people use Pepto Bismol, yo.” Part and parcel of the General Cheesing of Everything. What did you expect? RapMusic was immune?

I make the transition from beer to a nice glass of red wine. This is, after all, FirstClass. OneForce sticks to beer. Only ever drinks beer or coffee, as far as I’ve seen so far. I advise him that a man cannot live on beer alone. “But he certainly may try,” was his response and I had to admit he had a point.

-iSenseChange