Tuesday, June 24, 2008
More George
honor dead people strikes me as meaningless. And arbitrary. Because, if
you'll notice, only certain people get this special treatment. It's highly
selective. Therefore I've decided that someday, when the time comes that
every single person in the world who dies receives a moment of silence, I
will begin paying attention. Until then, count me out. It's ridiculous.
Here's what I mean.
Let's say you live in Cleveland, and you decide to go to the Browns game.
There you are in the football stadium, with a hot dog and a beer, ready to
enjoy action, and a somber-sounding public-address announcer interrupts the
festivities, intoning darkly:
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, we ask that you remove your hats and join
us in observing a moment of silence for the forty-three unattractive,
mentally retarded, overweight Bolivian dance instructors who lost their lives
this morning in a roller coaster accident at an amusement park near La Paz.
Apparently, they all stood up on a sharp turn and went flying off,
willy-nilly, into the cool, crisp, morning La Paz air. And, being heavier
than air, crashed through the roof of the funhouse, landing on several
clowns, killing them all and crushing their red noses beyond recognition."
Snickering is heard in the crowd. The American announcer continues:
"And, ladies and gentlemen, lest you think this amusing, lest you think
this a time for laughter, I ask you please-please- to put yourself in the
place of the bereaved Bolivian who may be seated near you this afternoon. Try
reversing places. Imagine yourself visiting Bolivia and taking in a soccer
game. Imagine yourself seated in the stadium with a burrito and a cerveza,
ready to enjoy the action, and a somber-sounding, Spanish public-address
announcer interrupts the festivities, intoning darkly:
" 'Senors y senoritas, we ask that you remove your sombreros and join us
in observing un momento de silencio for the forty-three mentally retarded,
overweigh, unattractive American meat inspectors who lost their lives this
morning in a Ferris Wheel accident at at carnival near Ashtabula, Ohio.'
The Spanish announcer continues:
" 'Apparently, the huge wheel flew out of control, spinning madly,
flinging the poor meat inspectors off, willy-nilly, into the hot, humid,
Midwester air. And, being heavier than air, they crashed through the roof of
the carnival freak show, crushing the dog-faced boy, and destroying many of
his chew-toys.'
"And let's say, as you sit there in La Paz listening to this, you find
yourself seated next to some Bolivian smart-ass who's giggling and poking his
friend in the ribs. May I suggest you'd be highly pissed at this lack of
respect for Americans? And, might I add, rightly so."
The American announcer continues his plea:
"And so, ladies and gentlemen, considering the many grieving Bolivians who
may be seated among you today, and trying to keep in check that normal human
impulse to laugh heartily when another person dies, let us try again-really
hard this time- to observe a moment of silence for the forty-three
unattractive, mentally retarded, overweight Bolivian dance instructors who
went flying, willy-nilly, off the roller coaster in La Paz. Not to mention
the poor, unsuspecting clowns who at the time were innocently filling their
water pistols."
You can see the problem either announcer would face; the fans would simply
not be able to get into it. But I understand that; I can empathize with the
fans. Because, frankly, I don't know what to do during a moment of silence,
either. Do you? What are you supposed to do? What do they expect? Do they
want us to pray? They don't say that. If you want me to pray, they should
ask. I'll pray, but at least have the courtesy to make the formal request.
But no. They offer no guidance, no instruction at all. I honestly don't
know what to do. Sometimes I resort to evil thoughts: I wish my seatmates ill
fortune in days to come; I fantasize about standing naked in front of the
Lincoln Memorial and becoming sexually aroused; I picture thousands of
penguins being hacked to death by boatloads of graduate students. More often
though, I wind up bored silly, searching for something to occupy my thoughts.
One time I inventoried the pimples on the neck of the man in front of me,
hoping to find one with a hair growing through it, so I could quietly pluck
it out during the confusion of halftime. On a happier occasion, I once found
myself staring at the huge but perfectly formed breasts of the woman to my
left, her fleshy mounds rising and falling softly in the late October sun.
And my thoughts turned tenderly romantic:
"Holy shit! Look at the fuckin' knobs on her! Great fuckin' knobs! I think
I'm gonna go to the refreshment stand, buy myself a weenie and hide it in my
pants. Then during halftime, I'm gonna whip out the weenie and force her to
watch while I eat the bun and stuff the weenie up my.... naaah! She's
probably one of those uptight chicks who'd think I'm weird. She doesn't know
the problem is I'm shy."
Those are my thoughts, and I can't help it. During a moment of silence my
imagination runs away with me. I don't know what to do. And why is it silence
they're looking for? What good is silence? The ones being remembered are
already dead, they're not going to wake up now. Why not a moment of
screaming? Wouldn't that be more appropriate for dead people? Wouldn't you
like to hear 60,000 fans screaming, "Aaaaaiiiiiieeeeeaaagghh!!" It sure would
put me in the mood for football.
And one more criticism. Why honor only the dead? Why this favoritism? Why
not the injured, as well? There are always more injured than there are dead
in any decent tragedy. What about them? And what about those who aren't dead
or injured, but are simply "treated and released"? How about, if not silence,
at least a moment of muffled conversation for those who were treated and
released? It's an honorable condition. Personally, I've always wanted to be
treated and released. Usually, I'm treated and detained. Perhaps it's for the
best.*
