MAY 21, 2011. Much talk these days about phony victims seeking freebies and making up stories to qualify for them. It’s all tied in, of course, to political correctness, whose ultimate goal is inventing so many oppressed people that anyone who laughs must be offending somebody—and will be fined and fired from work for it.

But all this pales by comparison with the agenda of the medical cartel.

Now we’re talking about real heavyweights.

Don’t have a disease or disorder? They’ll invent three or four for you. And cash in on the drugs you use.

The ultimate goal is cradle to grave “care” for everyone. Official “patient” status from the womb to the cemetery—and if they could figure out a way to diagnose and treat you after death, they’d have MDs walking on clouds with butterfly nets.

Permanent patient status isn’t just a device emanating from the cartel. People, millions and millions and millions of them, want it. Want it badly.

For the perks, but also as proud talking points that last a lifetime.

So what do you have?”

Well, ADHD, depression, Restless Leg Syndrome, and Social Anxiety Disorder. I mean, that’s pretty standard stuff. But my doctor recently ran a battery of tests and discovered I’ve got a rare endocrine disease. My thyroid is talking to my ass, and it interferes with sleep.”


Yeah. They say one in ten million people develops it after forty. It can be fatal if it isn’t treated. Early diagnosis is crucial.”

That’s exciting. Is there a vaccine for it?”

They’re working on one. So far, they’ve only tested it in mice. But the mice eat each other. It’s a genetic vaccine. It replaces a DNA sequence in the so-called junk area. I’m on the list when they start doing clinical trials in humans.”

That’s very brave of you.”

Well, I feel I need to give back. You know? For all the care I’ve had. My cousin, who had a preventive double mastectomy when she was four, donated a kidney to me last spring. The California State Public Health Commission awarded her a medal at a ceremony in Beverly Hills. What’s that badge you’re wearing?”

Oh. That? Partial brain transplant patient. There are six of us, so far, in the US.”

Wow. Fantastic.”

Right now, it’s experimental, but hopefully next year by waiting for levers on the buttons taking less carrots in the garden…”

Hey, you okay?”

Sure. I wink in and out once or twice a day. It’s nothing. I have a permanent port in my spine. On Thursdays, I sit in my doctor’s office for six hours and they pump in neurotransmitters…”

Maybe you’d like to have dinner with us this weekend. My wife and I—she’s just recovering from her fourth bypass—usually have a few friends over for barbecue. I’m sure they’d like to hear about your transplant.”

Proud. Strong. Medical.

It’s a social system. A substitute for living.

Bringing everyone on the planet under this umbrella would achieve a level of control dictators can only dream about.

If the drugs don’t kill you, surely the soppy goo of the public relations flacks pushing this share-and-care ideal will drown you.

And the thing is, you’ll be tempted to side with the latest account of some heroic medical procedure that “saved a child’s life.”

Doctors today at the Mayo on Rye Clinic performed a 19-hour operation to attach nine-year-old Jimmy Jones’ eyes to the back of his head, when it was discovered his case of sunstroke had escalated into life-threatening Dry Neuron Syndrome.

The really difficult part of the surgery involved re-routing the optic nerve through Jimmy’s cerebellum,” said Dr. Michael Boodnogger, chief surgeon at the Thomas Edison Memorial Children’s Hospital.

To avoid several more hours under anesthesia, the patient’s eyelids were left in place, on his face. But grafts quickly taken from the boy’s knees, last week, were sculpted into ‘hard awnings’ and fixed above the eyes at the back of the head. A small motorized prosthetic, to automatically raise and lower the awnings, is inserted in Jimmy’s spine.

We’re just happy our son isn’t blind and escaped cognitive impairment,” said his father, a kindergarten teacher in the Indianapolis school system. “Now he can pursue his dream of becoming an air traffic controller.”

I’m waiting for elite shrinks to come up with a mental disorder called Freedom Disease (FD). Which of course centers around “the discredited belief that an individual has choice.” It’s a schizoid paranoid hallucination brought on by a genetic mutation, and the treatment is, again, heroic. Doctors blast thousands of random DNA sequences into the body through a sophisticated “shotgun.”

Side effects include “the formation of a weevily hardtack odiferous coating encapsulating both thighs, withering genital paralysis, gradual evaporation of the legs, cruciferous vegetable roots hanging from the ears, the excretion of cow’s milk from skin pores, and with the diminution of IQ to insectoid levels, relentlessly attempting to obtain PhDs right up to the time of death from old age.”

But not to worry, it’s all covered by insurance.


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MAY 20, 2011. Whatever else they do, movies allow people to sit in the dark and experience, from just enough safe distance, the lives of characters they would never inhabit on that other screen called Reality.

People want to feel what it’s like to be all sorts of strange creatures.

Ghosts, monsters, demons, vampires, aliens, trolls, androids, wizards, lizards, space gods, tyrants, machines…

People want to feel that.

Objections are made about the effect on the culture. I’m not here, in this article, to argue about that.

I’m focusing on the brilliance of virtual experience.

The audience as actor, living out on the edge, investing tonnage of emotion, stepping into the shoes of weird desires that can’t be played out on the street.

This is theater.

Why do they have to get their juice from movies?

They want to be active and passive at the same time.

You could call this fear, but the fact remains: people want it both ways, simultaneously. There is a kick to it.

I am and I’m not.” In the same moment.

This is not an aspect of human behavior that has been co-opted and classified by the pseudo-science of psychology. Not yet.

I am, and I’m not.”

This is actually a state of being.

I’m sucking the blood from the neck of some naïve idiot, and I’m also sitting in front of my flat-screen chewing a Snickers.”

O joy. O paradise.

How about this as a translation of that dual passive-active state?




The jolt of a car that bounces off three walls and then plunges out over a cliff into a ravine—I’m in the car screaming and dying, I’m the car itself, waiting for the first big crash on the way down, I’m the guy who was originally chasing the car shooting at it—what could be better?

Eventually, for a veteran fan of horror films, the inflicting of neck wounds and the drinking of blood and the burning of suburban homes is what he believes is the best thing he could imagine on his own, if the movies didn’t exist. When ten or 20 average annoying people are crushed under the foot of a giant toaster oven with the face of a medieval gargoyle, it’s a religious moment.

I’m buried in the movie, I’m killing idiots, and I’m eating Milk Duds, honey-clustered peanuts, and naturally, I’m taking my Ritalin. It’s heaven.

As I’m sure you’ve noticed, movies have to keep upping the ante, to drag people into the theater. The killings have to be more grisly and sudden, the explosions have to be more intense, and now the glasses have to be 3-D. We’ve got IMAX 3-D. I guess in-the-round holograms are next.

In the 1930s, in a movie, if you had an actress in a wheelchair and pushed her down a flight of stairs, people thought it was funny. Now it has to be a real woman really falling down stairs.”

Groucho Marx

I’ll take it a stepfurther. Horror movies are a rebellion against reality itself. Social, political, cultural, economic, and physical reality. And being able to play that out, even in virtual terms, is very satisfying to some people. Lots of people.

Taken to the full extreme…if millions of monsters and gargoyles and werewolves and vampires actually roamed the Earth, and if a hundred-year war ensued between them and population of the planet, and if the humans lost, what would be the upshot?

The monsters wold attack one another.

Why? For what?

What are they looking for?

They’re looking for whatever would remain after all reality was destroyed.

That’s their payday.

Not really control, not mastery over slaves, not manipulation.

They believe reality is a basic affront, and they want to wipe it out.

And they’re motivated.

What they couldn’t possibly realize in a million years is the creative version of what they’re feeling: reality is a ultimately product of mind, one work of art among an infinite possible number of works of art. This is the true spiritual tradition of planet Earth, the one that has been twisted and buried and concealed.

It’s not an accident that the most highly controlled large society on Earth, China, has sought to eradicate Tibet, the place where this tradition flourished for a brief time. The bottom-line reason for waging war against Tibet is subconsciously held, of course.

Why do humans find so many ways to refuse the power of their own imagination, which can make new worlds and supersede all rules and regulations that underpin this universe?

Because LOSING has its own attractions. It’s a mode of perception and feeling, and it’s another kind of art.

When people become profoundly sick and tired of that art, but are still addicted to it, they side with the monster. They want to smash every apparatus and system and marker of reality they can find.

Put that on the screen and they’ll love you for it. Set down a gorgeous white blank canvas in front of them, and they’ll do nothing. They’ll think about taking a blowtorch to it.

The world is a suspension bridge held up by the two ends: creation and destruction. All the people are milling around in the middle of the concrete road. They’re telling and listening to stories. Occasionally, a small number of people feel drawn to one end of the bridge or the other. Mostly, though, they tell and listen to stories. The ends of the bridge are covered in vines, which are religion’s attempt to obscure the naked forces.

Occasionally, someone in the middle of the bridge sets off a bomb. But it hasn’t disturbed the structure. Then stories about the bomber proliferate and morph. Large numbers of people sit entranced and listen to those stories. They feel there is something fundamentally wrong about the bridge, and so the prospect of blowing it up is appealing. And they’re right. Something about the bridge is a lie.

The two ends are actually attached, by giant cables, to something that floats in the sky.


One of its minor inventions was the pylons of creation and destruction. A whim on a summer afternoon.


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