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Adam Sandler molested me

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A lot of people are doing a lot of talking recently. They’re talking about something that is long overdue. Non-consensual and inappropriate treatment of females (and sometimes also males) by men with privilege and power.

Adam Sandler didn’t molest me. What Adam Sandler did do, is put his hand on an actress’ knee. Sandler did it without asking. An innocuous and possibly harmless action. It doesn’t rise to the level of many of the other bad behaviors being discussed recently. Why am even talking about Adam Sandler at all? Why am I bringing up this minor incident? I bring it up because of how technology works and how quick people are to notice inappropriate behavior and call it out. Go on Twitter and type in Adam Sandler. Take note of how many people called him out for putting his hand on a woman’s knee.

Conversations about culture are changing. Sandler may have been oblivious to the way his hand made Claire Foy uncomfortable, but the Twitterverse was not. The uproar was immediate. Nearly ubiquitous connectedness is changing the way all of us think and act, to one degree or another. Sometimes it’s for the worse but I think more often it’s for the better. What’s undeniably changed permanently is the speed at which community cultures change. As long as everyone’s connected together this way, there are always going to be new voices emerging out of the crowd chaos, helping the collective grow and improve as a community, sometimes, like now, seemingly overnight. The crowd doesn’t always get it exactly right, but crowds never have. That doesn’t mean that we aren’t collectively changing for the better.

Community outrage and constant connectedness are messy, but I’m all for them if the end result is bringing down powerful, privileged consent abusers, and preventing possible future abusers from spending decades getting away with criminal behavior. I don’t care how rich and powerful you are, it’s never okay to touch someone without asking first, and it’s definitely not okay to pressure them because of your position in life into giving you something they don’t want to give.

The era of non-consensual patriarchy dominating the political and spiritual realms of our lives is dying on the vine. It is dying messily, but that’s generally how entrenched cultural memes go out. Being defended by morons who say they represent the will of various gods, that the old ways are good enough, that they’ve done nothing wrong. Bullshit to all of that, and good riddance to each and every abuser who loses power, prestige, or privilege because of their past behavior.

Ask before you touch. Don’t be a bully. Stop abusing people just because you think you can get away with it. You won’t anymore. That era is coming to a close. We all have a voice now.

Dinner in Kabul

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I spent some time in Afghanistan working for NATO. There are many places in the world that have a high quotient of misery, and I have lived in a few of them. Where we happen to be born, and also when, largely determines the kind of opportunities that will or will not present themselves during our individual lifetime.

He had no legs below the knees. I do not know how he learned the words of English that he said to me.

“Mister, mister, please help me.”

I had seen him coming. Our whole group had seen him coming. He pulled himself towards us on a piece of wood with wheels bolted to the underside. His ragged jeans were rolled up and pinned where his legs ended abruptly. We were on our way to a dinner hosted by our military bosses. It was inside a heavily fortified area we had no parking clearance for. He picked me, out of our group of more than a dozen.

I was in a bad mood. My back hurt, and we had spent several hours fighting Kabul’s insane traffic, moving across the city from our hotel to this base for a dinner I didn’t really want to be a part of.

“I need medicine. I need doctor.” His outstretched hands grasped up at me. He tried to hold onto my pants. Black eyes pleading for something, anything better than his current existence.

I pushed him away with my own functional legs.

He tried again. “Mister, mister.”

“Yawazi mee pregda! Leave me alone.”

He didn’t leave me alone. He visits me often when I sleep, rolling towards me, saying, “Mister, mister, please help me.”

My quotient of misery, on his rolling board, always pulling on my pant legs. Reminding me to be a little better than I am next time.

I don’t remember what dinner tasted like.

default state of hate

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I often don’t sleep well. This morning I woke up at zero dark thirty because nightmares. They vary, and they are unimportant. Often I cannot return to slumber, as was the case this morning. I find myself surfing, or thinking through a plot twist, or trying to write. This morning it was surfing.

The electronic crumbs people leave often take me to places I would rather not go. This morning, I found myself reading a rant that began, “Shut up cuckold” and continued, “We want our country to be white.” Let’s explore that idea, as reprehensible as it is, for a moment.

What would change for this particular person in a country that was racially homogeneous? Would his personal problems go away? Of course not. The psychology of racism is pretty simple: blame all your life’s problems on a group that you aren’t part of. Racism gives small-minded, often perceptually disenfranchised people an excuse for why they aren’t doing anything great with their own existence. Some people inherit racism from their family, but a lot of them pick up the banner later in life.

It fascinates me when people blame the problems in their life on anyone but themself. The kind of weak-minded thinking that believes life would be utopia if only (insert external factors) is the kind of weak-minded thinking that makes a place worse, not better. There is no science to support racial superiority of any kind. Thankfully, we are all individuals. Special snowflakes, if you will.

Scientists tell us that diversity makes us smarter. We become better at problem-solving the more diverse we become. Being exposed to, and being open to considering, people who aren’t like you, offers many opportunities to grow and changes the way you think, often in positive ways. The most successful organizations are also the most diverse, which is why a default state of hate is a stupid way to live. It’s also why racists have increasingly been pushed to the fringes of society (where they belong).

When you encounter someone who thinks that a particular group doesn’t contribute as much as their own, remind them that:

  • All of us originated in the same place, Africa
  • The ancient Egyptians first came up with surgery and concrete, which was then refined by an Englishman and again by a Frenchman
  • The Arabs invented mathematics
  • The wheel comes from Mesopotamia
  • The compass comes from China
  • The Germans came up with the concept of the automobile
  • An Italian invented the telescope
  • Two American brothers came up with the airplane

If you know someone who lives in a default state of hate, remind them of that. Tell them they belong on the fringes unless they are willing to see the world through a wider-angle lens.

All of us are stronger than some of us. Exceptional tribalism is exceptionally stupid.

Photo by marksdk

One cigarette

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I wake up in hell. My back hurts. My back always hurts since I came here. Something happened in Kuwait when I was dragging equipment through the sand in a windstorm. A ripping in the muscles I think. Now the endless hurt. Groaning, I rise from the bed, pull on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I grab the pack off the night stand. Cheap Iraqi cigarettes. I find it ironic that I am pulling little streams of smoky death into my lungs daily that are marked with the brand name Miami.

This trailer park I live in is a very different world from Miami. Nothing I’ve seen in Iraq resembles Miami. Here I sit, pulling on my cigarette named Miami. All I can think about is the nature of death. In the months I’ve been here, I’ve seen it fall from the sky at random. The realization that there is no god becomes stronger with every moment I spend in this place.

I take a drag and ponder it. The idea of a just and loving god is ridiculous to me. The idea of any intercessory supernatural force is asinine. Here I am, in the middle of a war, trying to make sense of the universe. Fatalistically pondering the blue sky above and the waves of heat radiating off the paving blocks under my feet. The world around me is peaceful for the moment. I am keenly aware of how deceptive the moment is.

We are fragile. I am surrounded by chaos and a city in which slow, murderous retribution is playing out on a daily basis. Murder squads roam the streets at night. Men in trucks position themselves as close as they can to where I live and lob mortars into the neighborhood, hoping to kill.
They don’t know I exist, but they hate me nonetheless. If they could take a drill to my head and make me suffer, they would. Every day I am exposed to the savage effects of the worst behavior that humanity can dream up. Rape. Torture. Outright murder. Most of it is being done in the name of god.
The cigarette’s vapors fill my lungs. I relish the calm, this sanctuary of reflection under a sun we all share, and upon whose light we depend for continued survival. I think about how humans used to worship that sun and call it a god. There have been many gods in the history of this species. As far as I can tell, every one was invented to fulfill a desire to be more important than the inventor actually is or was.

This planet is a backwater in the universe. The universe is a cold, uncaring place.

All the good and bad things that happen on Sol are either cause by natural phenomena or humans. There is no supernatural force manipulating anything. Miami is only a fleeting state of mind, and I am not important.

They taught me about Jesus, who came to die for my sins, and in whom I have no faith. Legends say Jesus was hung on a cross at 33. My cross is this place, a cigarette named Miami, and the uncertainty I feel about this war that surrounds me. I can never come back from here.
I will never be the same. It is already harder to laugh. Harder to talk. Harder to care about what happens next. I am numb, but the cigarette that is my cross reminds me I am still human. It is making the fingers I hold it with warm. The cigarette is almost done serving the purpose it was made for while I am still pondering whether I was made for any purpose at all.

I stub it out on the paving blocks, blow out the last cloud of smoke, and suck in another breath of Baghdad. I wonder if there is any growth I can find in existing today. Surely, there must be.
My back hurts. It always hurts now. One cigarette is never enough. Life is a series of addictions.

I think about how, at some point, somewhere nearby, someone else must have been caught up in a narrative opposite mine. One that felt like heaven. I hope to myself they can hold on.

A memory for Raya.

Density propensity

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I was taking the subway home. Like I do every day after work.

I work for an organization that uses technology in ways. Well, let’s just say what I do isn’t considered legal or ethical. In a world where 100 multi-billionaires control 62% of the earth’s wealth, I could give a fuck about what’s considered legal or ethical.

I have a family to take care of, and bills to pay. I use my talents to get what I can, keep my family fed, and keep our quality of life as high as I can. No one’s getting hurt. I just skim money out of the system using my technical and social abilities. Backdoors, phishing expeditions, social engineering. These are my domains. I have a good crew. The operation that employs me pays good bonuses when I do a good job. My kids don’t wear shoes with holes in the soles. They aren’t malnourished. We’ve got mad bandwidth and they can learn whatever they want about the world.

Meanwhile, I’m taking a little here, and a little there. Rich people don’t need that much. So I shave a little bit off, carve a slice out, make a piece of the pie mine.

This world is crazy. It’s people cutting each other’s throats, just like it always has been, except now we do it in a vast ocean of zeros and ones. People don’t have to get dead in the streets and alleys like they did back in the olden days. You know what? That’s alright with me. People get paid, bank accounts get switched around here and there.

Oh shit. Mother fucker just stabbed me. I was taking the subway home.

Minding my own business. Bam. Dude comes up on me. It doesn’t hurt. Just cold. Spreading cold. That mother fucker.
My monitor flashes a red warning and I hear a voice in my head. “Biological damage detected. Emergency protocol active. Hibernation mode priority one.”

I can’t see right. Can’t hear right. It’s like I’m in a tunnel going down into the dark and that mother fucker is getting smaller and smaller. Did he just kill me? What the fuck for? I wasn’t doing nothing to him. Oh shit. I’m not going to get to say goodbye to Brianne and Jonas and little baby Paco. This really sucks. What the fuck?

“Tomas. Tomas, can you hear me?”

I realize that yes, I can hear someone talking to me.

“That you Jonesy?”

“No shit it’s me. How you feelin?” I feel someone touching me. Holy shit. Either I’m not dead, or Jonesy and I are both dead and made it across to the after.

I think about it. Run a systems check without realizing that I’ve engaged it. The voice says, “Systems no longer critical. Running full diagnostic. Please stand-by.”

“Brianne called us when you were late.” Jonesy. “She was upset. ‘He’s never late. Never.’ That’s what she said when I took the call. ‘Something’s wrong Jonesy. I know you got him chipped. Go get him! If you don’t I’m gonna kill you.’”
They really like each other. She’d never threaten him if she didn’t think something was seriously fucked.

“You know I like her Tomas. You got a good woman. Man, if you wasn’t with her, I’d get with her. You know that shit is true.”

I do know that shit is true. I seen those two looking at each other. If she didn’t love me so much, and we didn’t have them two kids, she’d get with him. I might even be alright with it. If I wasn’t around. Shit, life is short. Too short not to have some love.

I cough. Try to speak. My throat. It’s so dry. Feels like it’s full of sand.

“You found that motherfucker that stabbed me?” I welcome my voice, despite the discomfort it causes me.

“Relax Tomas. Just take it easy. He got you right in the liver. We had to call in a favor with OmegaCorp. They printed you a new liver while you was bleeding out. Hey man! Carlos came down and donated two liters of his blood to keep you from dying man. That Carlos. I know what I said about him last month, but that vato is alright. I take back all that shit I said. You owe him man.”

I think about what I’m hearing. Open my eyes. Look at him through the heads up display. He looks tired.
“Jonesy, man. I’m glad it was you. Hey man. I got questions. Was this about the Princeps Corps job?”
Jonesy shakes his head.

“No man. This shit is payback for that Russian thing we did last year.”

I close my eyes. Think back. Mother fucker. That guy on the subway looked like he was related to Pavel.  I open my eyes.
“You’re talking about the Lisin thing?” Jonesy nods. “I thought so.”

That mother fucker and all those Russian mother fuckers. I have a family to feed. They’re worth more than 15 billion nuEuros. It isn’t enough that we’re on the brink of an environment that won’t sustain human existence. It’s not enough that we fought a world war that extinguished 80% of the planetary population just two decades ago. No, we’re still stabbing each other with metal alloys over fractions of fractions.

“I’m calling in my favors Jonesy. I want all the processing cores I’ve saved. Upload me into the mesh network. There’s hell to pay.”

He hesitates. I can see it in his eyes and I know what’s coming.

“Jonesy. She’s waiting for me to call. She wants to bring them to see you.”

I harden my resolve. Some people just have a density propensity. I’m not one of those. Not me. From now on, I’m a ghost in the machine, and I’m going to ramp up the income redistribution to a whole new level.

Fuck my freshly printed replacement liver. I was just taking the subway home. Mother fucker should have minded his own damn business. Don’t care who he works for. He’s freshly slaughtered meat now.

Is it legal? I don’t care. Is it ethical? Couldn’t give a shit. I have a family to take care of. I’ve told you what that means to me a million times Jonesy. Now it’s your turn. Cause there’s hell to pay and I’m the devil.

Radio chatter

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You’re not going to believe me, and that’s OK. I really don’t believe it myself. I’m writing it down because I have to. I don’t know how much time I have. There isn’t anywhere to run.

I listen to those app scanners on my phone. Used to listen. The police scanners. You can choose from all over the place. All the big cities and some of the medium ones. I used to like listening to Chicago PD. It’s amazing how calm all of them stay. The professionals who keep society from fraying. I wouldn’t want to face the kind of grind they do. Constantly dealing with people who are on the edge of disaster, or have gone over the waterfall completely.

The situations play out in ways more macabre than any reality show writer could come up with. The questions and conversations baffled and fascinated me all at once.

“Seven children being taken into protective custody. Parents argumentative. Need assistance at 1024 Roberts. 10-4.”

“I have a recovered box of stolen items. Do I need to hold it for fingerprinting?”

“What’s in the box?”

“Clothing.”

“They can’t print clothing.”

“Short hair, hoodie, dark jeans, white shoes.”

“Time for a shift change. Good night everyone, and get home safe.”

Male voices. Female voices. Impassively discussing the fragility of civilization and the bad behavior of the days and nights in the cities where they act as counterweights to every type of bad behavior imaginable. It’s a show, and I’m in the audience nearly every night.

Or was. Until I tuned in last week. I dialed up Chicago PD, except that’s not what I got. Something got snarled up.

“What’s the status of the shipment?” I couldn’t place the accent on the male voice. Perfect English. Like too perfect. Everything enunciated crisply. Like someone who isn’t from anywhere at all. Maybe someone who has lived everywhere and been to some kind of school that teaches you to talk perfectly.

“Shipment due at 2300. Agent is in place to receive.”

“What about the entry team?”

“We’re go. Team is assembled three clicks from insertion. Status yellow. Will go green when shipment has been delivered and QAed. Primary and secondary extraction plans look good. Six approved.”

The feed squelched. Then I heard, “Passing 5100 block of Walcott. Wearing green shirt and blue jeans. Wanted for eluding police. One Amelia Anderson. She is a 27-year-old female, short blonde hair, blue eyes.”

“Two male blacks aggressively panhandling and grabbing people walking by. They have a bottle of whiskey.”

“Rolling northbound.”

“Thank you units.”

“The kill order is confirmed. We are Romeo, Echo, Alpha, Delta, Yankee. Will update when the package is in place.”

“Two black males, shoplifting.”

“He’s in the alley going through garbage.”

“This is the leader of the free world we are talking about. This is the highest profile target in the United States. There will be fallout.”

“Three male Hispanics having a loud argument, West Plains and 30th. Six one eddy. Headed to complainant.”

“Stand by a second. Twenty is going east. How is the victim?”

“She’s fine. We’re rolling to the hospital.”

I hear the static of an open mic and then, “Watch your keys, watch your keys. We’ve got an open key.”

I shake my head, trying to make sense of the secondary conversation. Someone must be playing a practical joke. I wonder who will be getting a visit from the Secret Service in a few hours or maybe days. I wonder how they track down trolls making jokes about stuff like this.

“We’re cleared.”

“Two one Robert we need a welfare check. Four two three Robert, who has the plate reader?”

“Thirty-three is coming in with it.”

“Confirmed with the client that there is an individual bonus. Double the standard rate. Whoever gets the best body cam footage of the terminal moments earns triple. Verification that team will be extracted to non-extradition territory per original discussion.”

I shut it off then. I was scared I could get in trouble just for listening. I’m not dumb enough to shout “bomb” in a crowded airport, and I don’t want to be party to people playing jokes that are also felonies. Christ they sounded serious. People. Never cease to amaze me with their stupidity.

I took some NyQuil and lay down in bed. Next day, I checked Google News. Nothing. Trolls. Just trolls.

Except two weeks ago, the President was assassinated. That was less than 72 hours after the weird radio chatter I heard.

I deleted all those scanner apps. Too late.

There are people following me. I don’t know who they are. I don’t know what they want. I don’t know who to tell. No one is going to believe me.

I didn’t do anything wrong. You need to know that about me. I was just listening.

The TV news people are saying it was probably the Russians, but I know what Russians sound like. They weren’t Russians. They sounded like broadcast news anchors to me. Broadcast news anchors who kill important people for a living.

Shit. I’m fucked. Maybe all of us are.