Vanity: A Paperweight

Below is Chapter 1 from my first draft at my novel, Vanity: A Paperweight. Thanks for reading.

Chapter 1-The End Will Be Televised


The Monk and I watched the world end like the rest of the human race, live on satellite television, on February 14, 2054. It made sense. Television had nursed me. It dreamt dreams of fame and fortune for me. It taught me to love people who had never lived. Television told me secrets I was never brave enough to make my own. Television told me what to say to women who shared my bed It took me places I would never see—rainforests, deserts, the deepest trenches of the oceans, the highest peaks in the world. Television renewed my will to live whenever hope dried up. For all television had done for me, I felt I owed the thirteen-inch screen in my kitchen my last hours on Earth. There was nothing else on.

The commercials were outstanding. I thought they were better than the ad spots during the Super Bowl. The Monk disagreed and I turned to a station where the Pope addressed the world on a sixty-second ad spot. A toll-free eight hundred number flashed at the bottom of the screen. He said there were legions of priests, nuns, and monks manning phone lines beneath the Vatican, waiting for my call. They were waiting to give viewers worldwide absolution, waiting to give each and every caller the Last Rites, just pick up the phone and you, too, would live on in the hereafter. I turned the channel. Click.

A car salesman in New Hampshire begged viewers to call him. He had a large inventory of the last year’s models he needed them to go-go-go. It was the End of the World Sale. No money down. Just pick up the phone and call now, before, they’re all gone. You don’t pay a cent unless we make it through this. And then, only with an unbeatable financing plan. “Remember,” the salesman said, “I can’t take it with me, but maybe you can.” Click.

A Baptist preacher broadcasting from Arkansas extolled his followers to brace for the Rapture. It was coming any minute now so baptize yourself, “with toilet water if you got to.” Before the missiles launched. Before the automated drones carrying all manner of virulent airborne pathogens took wing. The preacher, wearing his finest double-breasted suit and gold rings, suggested we all put on our Sunday best and cracked a smile. Everybody’s a comedian. Click, click.

A cigarette company aired a commercial it had produced just for the occasion, disregarding a century-long prohibition on televised advertising. A man stood on a hill covered with daisies as he watched a city in the distance vaporize beneath a mushroom cloud. He turned to a gorgeous brunette with livid green eyes. “Smoke ‘em if you get ‘em,” he said, rippling his jaw muscles in stoic distress. The brunette took his hand. There would have been hell to pay from the Federal Communications Commission, American Cancer Society, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, and various Congressional committees if we would have made it to tomorrow.

On a different station, the Monk and I watched a short spot for an age-defying wrinkle cream. They were giving out free samples of the concoction, made from embryonic stem cells and aloe vera, nationwide. No woman wants to leave an ugly corpse. Disgusted at this fear mongering, I changed the channel.

We watched another short spot, this one from the American Ad Council, showing a continuous collage of pretty children while a seductive British woman begged via voice-over: “Whoever has set the Doomsday Device in motion, please, consider these faces. These are our children. Whatever is wrong, whatever has led you to call in and activate the Device, let the world try and fix it. If you won’t do it for us, do it for them. Please.” Click.

A television actor, famous for his starring role in a boilerplate courtroom drama, sold life insurance policies for just dollars a day. Representatives were standing by to take my Visa or MasterCard information. I didn’t watch the rest. I had seen this commercial often enough before.

A longer spot, a plea from the Dalai Lama, live from London, urging viewers to be completely aware in these final hours. It’s your only hope, he said, of breaking free from the circle of death and rebirth. He implied that if viewers failed to do this, we might be reborn as rats or cockroaches or ugly deep-sea fish because they were the only creatures likely to survive. I got the impression the fifteenth incarnation of the Bodhisattva of Compassion, after generations of choosing to come back to help the human race attain enlightenment, was finally ready to get the hell out of Dodge.

The commercials kept coming. Thank God it wasn’t an election year.

The news coverage was less thrilling. A young man reported live from the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. He gushed on about the bravery of the dozen stock brokers, “these Christs of commerce,” still yelling out trades, just in case the world didn’t end.

A woman reported from a bridge over the New Jersey Turnpike. Her cameraman panned over the freeway below. Thousands of cars moved at a crawl, west out of the Megalopolis.

“What a way to go,” the Monk said, “stuck in traffic, listening to Top 40 stations.”

“Poor bastards,” I grunted.

On another channel, a reporter wandered the bustling floor of a manufacturing plant in China. Hundreds of men and women kept working for the day’s wage of five dollars to make plastic toys for American children. This reporter expressed amazement at the “selflessness of these men and women, here in China” doggedly assembling plastic ponies that neighed and pranced on robotic legs for children who would be dead in a matter of hours, if all went according to plan.

A news anchor in New York informed viewers that his staff had been trying to reach me to ask how I felt about the impending demise of the human race, but had been unsuccessful. He promised to keep trying. “Ha!” I laughed at the television screen. “Good luck. I disconnected the damn telephone.” I felt better after saying it, though the Monk looked displeased. I’d be damned if I was going to apologize on air.

Some intrepid producer thought to arrange an interview with the woman astronaut on the International Space Station, all alone in the lifeless heavens, conducting an isolation experiment. “How do we look from up there?” the reporter asked.

“Beautiful,” the astronaut replied seconds later. “Blue and green like a virgin prom queen.”

The Monk and I caught a quick glimpse of a thousand people huddled together in Times Square, braving the February cold to watch the world end on the largest television screen in New York. Click.

A reporter, eager for a different angle, broadcasted live from a maternity ward in Cincinnati. She held a new born baby in her arms. “This young baby boy was born just hours ago,” the reporter said as she cooed softly at him, the camera zooming in on her face. “It’s difficult to think about this,” she said, “but this little boy won’t make it to see his second day on earth.”

On another station, we watched footage of myself accepting the Nobel Peace Prize three years earlier. I looked like hell. The news anchor narrated over the clip as viewers watched me shake hands with Norwegian royalty. “This, folks, is the man who brought us to this. Hailed as the greatest peacemaker to ever live for his creation and implementation of the Universal Democratic Doomsday Device, for quote, ‘forcing the entire world to care about the suffering of each and every human being, or else.’ He has now doomed us all. I’m generally above begging, but not in circumstances like this. Please, whoever called in to activate the Doomsday Device, please whoever you are, whatever injustice you have suffered, please let us help you. Please, let the world help you and save us all. And Mr. Hove, if you’re out there watching this, know that you’ll meet your end with the rest of us. If you are able to stop this madness, please do so.” I turned the channel.

“Can you even stop it?” the Monk asked.

“No,” I replied. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

The Baptist preacher was in another ad spot. He reminded the viewing public that the Rapture was close at hand, just keep faith, and keep baptizing. “And don’t you all worry about whoever caused this and that man who made it possible. Pray for their souls.” The preacher smiled wryly. “They’re gonna need it.”

With five minutes left until certain apocalypse, the television networks held a moment of silence in a preemptive memorial for the human race. I used the lull to unplug the television from the kitchen counter.

“Are you happy?” the Monk asked.

I smiled. “Like a kid on Christmas morning.” The Monk turned away. I flipped up the rug in the hallway and opened the trapdoor hidden underneath.

“Wait,” the Monk said. “Where are you going?”

“My bunker,” I said with a wink. “You coming?”

“But—” the Monk sputtered.

“Look, I don’t want to end like this. Do you?”

The Monk looked shamefaced at the floor.

“I didn’t think so,” I said. “Now grab the T.V. from the counter and follow me.”

The Best Sentence I've Read Today

"We will not solve social problems if we pretend that they are caused only - or even mostly - by the mad, the stupid, and the morally degenerate."

--From Tim Hartford's The Logic of Life, as quoted by Bryan Caplan.

Alternative Spring Break: "Stop the Border Wall"

The Secure Fence Act of 2006 allows the government to build a wall along our Southern border. As someone who lives in the Rio Grande Valley, I think this is a silly and damaging idea. Along with my two roommates and a group of local activists, I'm organizing a walk along the border from Roma, TX to Brownsville, TX (120 miles give or take). We'll be walking the proposed route of the border wall as it applies to the Rio Grande Valley. The walk will take place on March 8th through the 16th. We'll be going door-to-door distributing information to landowners about how they can resist the federal government.

We are promoting it as an "alternative spring break" so hopefully people will come down from the North to show their solidarity. I don't know if any of you guys are interested in this, but I posted a link below to a blog with more information on the event.

http://nonviolentmigration.wordpress.com/2008/01/14/alternative-spring-break-in-the-rio-grande-valley/

Sorry to be all political...

I'll Sure Miss Bananas

"It turns out, by the way, that the world's supply of Cavendish bananas -- the ones we eat -- is endangered by disease and many experts believe the entire strain will vanish. Most other banana strains are much harder to cultivate and transport on a large scale, so enjoy your bananas while you can. The previous and supposedly tastier major strain of banana -- Gros Michel -- is already gone and had disappeared by the 1950s, again due to disease."

--Tyler Cowen at http://www.marginalrevolution.com/

R.I.P. Bobby Fischer

Let's pour one out for chess champion Bobby Fischer who died on Thursday at the age of 64, managing to escape federal prosecution for playing an illegal chess match against Spassky in 1992.

Here's a link to the obituary on CNN.com.

Meth in South Dakota

Here's an interesting selection I came across. It's from the 2008 South Dakota Fishing Handbook (page 44), as issued by the South Dakota Department of Game, Fish & Parks.

If you encounter a Meth 'cook' or user while on your outing, remember they may be hallucinating, paranoid or violent because of the drug. Take precautions to keep yourself and your party safe. Keep in mind these six safety tips for approaching a Meth "tweaker" (user).

• Keep your distance. Coming too close can be perceived as threatening.
• No bright lights. If a tweaker is paranoid, bright lights may cause them to react violently.
• Slow your speech and lower your voice.
• Slow your movements. The tweaker may be paranoid and may misunderstand your actions.
• Keep your hands visible, or they may feel threatened and become unpredictable and violent.
• Keep the tweaker talking. A tweaker who falls silent can be extremely dangerous. Silence often means that his/her paranoid thoughts have taken
  over reality, and anyone present can become part of the tweaker's paranoid
  delusions.

If you are threatened, call law enforcement and tell them that this person may be under the influence of Meth or other drugs.

Justifying the Cost of Space Exploration

Below are two highlights from the Freakonomics Quorum "Is Space Exploration Worth the Cost?"


"It is true that, for every dollar we spend on the space program, the U.S. economy receives about $8 of economic benefit."
--G. Scott Hubbard, professor of Aeronautics and Astronautics at Stanford University and former director of the NASA Ames Research Center

"Still, for those who would moan that this money could be “better spent back on Earth,” I would simply say that all of this money is spent on Earth — it creates jobs and provides business to companies, just as any other government program does. You have to spend all of NASA’s money “on Earth.” There is no way to spend it in space — at least, not yet."
--Keith Cowing, founder and editor of NASAWatch.com and former NASA space biologist.

Hmmmmm...

When trying to uncork a wine bottle and you have no corkscrew, I strongly suggest you avoid trying to use a flip-open knife without a locking blade (i.e. a Swiss Army knife). The end result will just be a deep cut on your forefinger that bleeds for days and an unopenned bottle of merlot.

Instead, I recommend pushing the cork into the wine bottle and dealing with it. You're probably already too drunk to care about the small chunks of cork, anyhow.

Comments Are Open

My apologies for any inconvenience. Everyone should be able to comment on existing posts, now. If anyone would like to post new items for discussion, send me an email at eghove@gmail.com and I will invite you on as an author.

Art That Consumes Life

While drinking with Josh at Sweeney's (that establishment dear to all, even though the service continues its steady decline), we laid the groundwork for an art movement best described by its credo: Art that consumes life.

The aim of this proposed movement is to push the ratio of experience to creation closer to one. In other words, to create art that takes as much time to experience as it does to create. We propose doing this by producing long, uncut art films because film makes the most overt claim on the prolonged attention of an art patron. Below, I list three ideas for such films.

1. Traffic. Film the uncut experience of a trip to a major city during rush-hour using two cameras. One camera would film the "hood ornament" view of traffic while the other would film the face of the driver. When displayed, the two films would run screens set side-by-side.
2. Eye of the Stalker. Using an actress who has volunteered to be the subject for such a film, follow and film the subject for an uncut, 24 hour period without making contact.
3. Decomposition. Film the body of a deceased individual who has donated their body to art as it decays for a month in the wild. The exhibit would consist of a screen displaying the uncut, month-long film scored with the recorded oral history of the subject's life.
   

Consumption Factor

Paul found this article by Jared Diamond (author of Guns, Germs, and Steel) titled "What's Your Consumption Factor?" to be quite interesting. What are your thoughts?