Filling Up Our Lives

IT IS EXTREMELY DIFFICULT to pay attention to circumstances and events in the united states without at least vaguely sensing that the behavior of americans is a bit, shall we say, "bizarre". Here in the fun house one has a wide variety of inanity from which to select. The same, or much the same can be said of people all over the world, but one must pick and choose, to avoid excess.

Our current diversion is the sudden reappearance of three young women who disappeared ten years ago in Cleveland. For cause we discover the usual suspects; perfectly normal, average middle aged middle class american men, with nothing better to do with their lives than maintain a harum of sex slaves.

All serial killers emerge from mainstream american culture, and why not?

Maybe these guys watched a tad too much television; creative ideas always have origins in imitation. Or maybe they just plain had too much time on their hands; but how can this be, with so many television channels, so much vicarious twisted violence, and such long work hours for anyone gainfully employed?

This is not an aberration, not in the great american fun house, where nothing is at it seems, and our mirrors distort our lives at our complacent behest. Sit back, enjoy the show, and don't bother asking questions; our corporate masters are not in the business of explanation, but only of seduction.

Has anyone produced a television program called "Road Rage" yet? We line up six year old girls in front of an audience and select the cutest one for special treatment, we sit transfixed while famous people, famous for their physical beauty, dance for our privilage of voting on the most attractive of the attractive, and no act of violence stemming from mental illness goes untelevised.

The road age idea has great merit and potential. Get your cell phones out, fellow americans, and point it at the car behind you. Chances are its some thirty year old upper middle class cutie pie, talking or texting on her smart phone, driving forty in a thirty five, less than ten feet away, and becoming increasingly angry with you for neither catering to her momentary desire nor providing her any intoxicating diversion from her life, which she dimly percieves to be less than fulfilling.