Thursday, January 06, 2005

The Sordid Details

I Hate the News

I guess I’m not a compassionate person…or I just don’t like to play favorites. Or maybe I just don’t see the point in gluing my ass to the newscasts, calling talk radio and concocting theories about shit that does not affect me in the least.

I have hobbies. I highly recommend them, as they’re far more enriching than a natural disaster or pontificating on the alleged guilt of a murderer of people you don’t know.

That I am simply an asshole is a distinct possibility, insofar as I have a PhD in minding my own business. Does that make sense? I think so.

Countless people are killed every day. I know this because that’s all that is ever on the news around here. Somebody got killed and others were brutally shot to death. In other news, somebody got killed. The Bay Bridge is backed up to the maze and 880 exploded and somebody got killed.

You're all going to die.
But what in hell makes one dead person more interesting than the next? Why do we have to hear about any one of them in particular and especially for three or four years straight? Why at all? There are obituaries in the paper, if this is your thing, you morbid freak.

And I hear some bitch just wrote a book.

You can call me inhumane, heartless and cold, but I’m not the one rubbernecking at the fatal car accident and just would rather not hear it. So who’s who? Not only is it uninteresting, but I don’t see what’s to be gained by explicit knowledge of a tragedy. I already know that people die (see paragraph 4). And I already value those I love beyond capacity, so how about some good tidings, instead?

I’m afraid death is the norm. See…we’re mortals. It’s what we do. As such, I consider it a sort of reward—not to say that it’s something I look forward to, for me or anybody else—it’s just what you get for living. You’ve come full circle baby, and for that, you don’t have to worry about shit anymore. You get to chill with the deities, now. No more sharing this dangerously limited space with the other retarded humans.

You've been wondering what this is all about and now you get to find out.

Fucking right on. Good to be here, Big G. Thanks for having me. Where’s the privy?

Other than out of pure selfishness (typically the reason we mourn, I’ll warrant—except in the case of a brutal axe-murdering which is certainly unjust), it’s just not something that saddens me. A few people close to me have died, and I just couldn’t get real bummed about it. I’m no vinyl death mascara moon junkie by any stretch of the imagination, but I almost envied my great grandfather. He looked so relaxed (well, yeah…).

All the news is going to teach you is to stay out of the ghetto and never get married. Well, you should already know that, so take a break from the fucking fear mongering for a while, why don’t you?

How about just watch CSI? You can still get your doom and gloom, but maybe learn something along the way. Plus, Marg Helgenberger is hot.

Or, you can just stay in your house, subdued by the threat of unfortunate possibilities…suffering vicariously. Suit yourself.

Me? I want to laugh. And it's not about ignoring the bad things. It's about having enough of them of my own without being accosted by every media outlet who can't think of anything better to do than bombard me with the entire world's misery, and I'm afraid drastic comparison is not as comforting as some might think.

Selfish and ignorant? Maybe.

Can I save the world, armed to the teeth with sympathy? No.

Is that the same as empathy? I'm afraid not.

So will I leave it to the Big G to worry about because it knows more about necessity than I do? Yes.

Is that comforting in the face of devastation? Absolutely.

Is that a cop out? I don't believe it for a second.


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