August 26th, 2009
The last malady I chose to cover in my investigations is the one that has caused me the utmost personal grief. I speak finally of the chronically erroneous, the ineradicably fallacious, the terminally wrong: those who forever insist upon things that you know just ain’t so. I am sure that you are acquainted with at least a few cases; had you the disease you would think you knew a great many more.
These bastards are always in contention, always seeding arguments – always except mysteriously with people they admire or find attractive. Moreover, this insidious disease will recognize itself in others and recruit wherever possible to make that incontrovertible argument: ‘two against one’ – two insane people in accord; now we can be certain of the truth.
The contrarian, after a lifetime of contending, is a rhetorical acrobat, almost impossible to pin down. Imagine they have made some outlandish statement that has driven you to the brink of madness; after exhaustive research you find incontestable evidence and return to hurl it in their face (anyone who has done this knows what happens next): “I can’t believe you went to all that trouble. Jesus. I was only trying to get your goat.”
If you think this an innocuous condition you are wrong; you may be symptomatic. Make no mistake, this timeless scourge is the bane of civilization. There is no known cure save the fires of Hell.
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August 19th, 2009
Some maladies exact a far greater toll on those in the vicinity of the afflicted than on the afflicted themselves. No better example than the vile disorder I choose to discuss here. It is the very nature of this disease that the afflicted pitch their rot upon any who cross their path. I speak of the signally grating personality, the type to put a bug in your ear that will live there until the property is condemned. You are statistically certain to know at least one of these wretches and forgive me for reminding you.
It is an easy thing to recall our countless run ins with these lepers. I once met a fellow who had just returned from Columbia. I mentioned among other things that one of my favorite authors was Colombian. He told me that my favorite author was distasteful to Colombians and that there are countless superior authors there who don’t get the recognition they deserve.
My most traumatic exposure followed from this innocuous question: “Do you like the White Stripes?” “Sure,” I said, “Not enough to buy their albums I guess, but I like when they come on the radio.” I supposed that I had given a fair and honest answer, and for what came next I was wholly unprepared. The asker said, “Oh, if you knew anything about ‘old blues’ you’d be really into them,” – a rainbow of indefensible suppositions and a torment that will follow me into eternity.
It is important not to take the paroxysms of these madmen personally. Had I taken that last insidious comment to heart who knows to what depths I could descend. One is tempted to separate the person from the disease, but in the case of this treacherous affliction there would be little left. Sadly, the only known treatment for this mental illness is the experience of close combat in war.
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August 12th, 2009
The next condition that I would like to examine is the politics obsession. Politics is a carcinogen: though most people can tolerate trace amounts, exposure brings nausea, dizziness, and headache. Prolonged exposure for someone with the right genetic markers leads to a cruel addiction – a disease that preys disproportionately on disordered minds, paranoiacs and manic-depressives.
The slightest event in the news can trigger an episode. The subject will go into a fit, espousing opinions before even preliminary facts are known – then obsess over the details as they are made available. They will rail against this latest outrage instead of taking any kind of decisive or even coherent action. Every week is the last straw until they are buried in so many straws only Rumpelstiltskin could spin them out of it.
The disease adversely affects critical portions of the brain, particularly self-awareness, and the part of the hippocampus that deals with the predictability of human nature. The politico must always be strongly partisan as the disease also prevents any kind of measured or nuanced perspective. They will delight in their opponents’ scandals and find them typical, yet privately grimace at the misdeeds of their own representatives – even while leaping like Don Quixote to the defense of their imagined virtue.
Politics is a dangerous game to be sure. A thousand lives or more can hang on a single issue, and some degree of commitment is justified. What a shame that the bulk of the players: politicians, pundits, celebrities, Jimbo at the water cooler et al. are driven by a disease of the mind. There is no known cure for the politico – though some early success has been found by having the patient chased by a bloodthirsty mob.
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August 5th, 2009
In the next few entries I would like to examine several conditions that go undiagnosed in our society and therefore untreated. These terrible afflictions while not always causing physical harm are sure to bring acute mental anguish – both for the afflicted and those around them. The treatments for these disorders are very involved and often counter-intuitive.
The first condition that I would like to address is the chronic compulsion toward the telling of fish tales. This insidious compulsion affects a broad swath of society, touches every family. I myself can think of several hundred cases without much effort. I speak not of the pathological liar who must lie about all sorts of things to no discernible end. No, the teller of fish tales might be as guileless as an Amish boy in jail – in all things except their own biography.
They are bursting with stories of their own extravagance and derring do, yet they seem to miss the fact that the implausibility of these adventures is fairly apparent to anyone over the age of seven. More curious is their notion that these anecdotes would be impressive if they were true.
The way to handle these social invalids is not to cut them down; when they tell you that one wild summer they took five-thousand hits of acid do not reply, “Are you sure you know what that is?” This will only cause them to defend their claim to the death, and muster a little more invention on their next foray. Instead feign amazement, “Wow, that’s probably more than Timothy Leary took in his entire life.” Hopefully, they will cotton to the deceit (it is their stock in trade) and be properly embarrassed.
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