Saturday, February 16, 2013

Honoring My Inner Sociopath





     Who doesn’t like getting something for nothing? I once was watching a high stakes pool game and a $100 dollar bill had dropped to the floor. I stood on it for over an hour, never moving, pretending to be engrossed in the game. People had to walk around me. I made sure I was the last one to leave the room and when I picked up the bill and put it in my pocket I felt the thrill of victory.
     My best friend downloads popular TV shows to his computer. He uses a torrent client program and has been doing this for years, enjoying, for free, premium shows like The Walking Dead and Homeland. He doesn’t pay for cable, won’t go to the video store or buy DVD’s. He likes getting things for free. As his friend Rol says, “There’s a little bit of the bandit in all of us.”
     He writes:
     Big horror first thing this morning. I opened up my email at 6 a.m. and there was a message from my Internet Service Provider saying that they had received a letter from Viacom, The Media Giant, indicating that I’d been illegally downloading episodes of South Park and there was a possible $250,000 fine and imprisonment for said illegal downloading.
     I was trembling with fear and excitement. The fear was because of a possible life destroying fine and imprisonment. I’ve faced those threats before, especially when I was drinking and behaving badly, thoughtlessly, psychopathically, but, jeezus, I’m not ready to lose everything I have because of a few silly South Park episodes. That would be lame and embarrassing. So, serious fear.
     The excitement came from the conviction that I now had to go into super compound hyper-drive and perjure myself about my involvement in order to prove my innocence. There was the possibility of winning, of beating the system. There was adrenalin waiting to be pumped.
     Getting caught is bad. Getting away with it is good. That’s been one of my principal beliefs for decades. You’d think sobriety and age and experience and a recently discovered vague sense of morality would eliminate my desire to break the law, but the craving remains. The dread of being caught is offset by the thrill of escape.

     From a Psychological Survey:
     Question: Would you break the law if you knew you wouldn’t get caught?
     Answer: Oh hell yes. Absolutely. Murder, theft, arson, assault, no problem, I’d do it all without a second thought. Anyone would. Wouldn’t they?

     I can make all of the justifications for any crime, including illegal downloading. We have to fight The Man, the entertainment industry and their shitty programming, their lowest common denominator approach, their absurd profits, the bad writing, their horrible fashions, haircuts and plastic surgery. I believe that the airwaves should be free, brothers and sisters, and we the people should not be made to feel like criminals for doing something that really doesn’t hurt anyone. Blah blah blah. South Park, though. Wow. Yeah, I think it is brilliant and deserves a Nobel Prize, but it’s still just an American TV show that is full of bathroom humor and profanity. That’s what I laugh at the most: little kids swearing, getting into disgusting situations, farting. Sorry, I guess there’s a 9-year-old boy pulling levers in my command center who still finds that stuff funny. I don’t have to defend my taste. It’s broad and ranges from the compound absurdity of Thomas Pynchon to bathroom humor that includes filth and swearing and unsubtle, obvious jokes. I don’t care. I will never pass up the opportunity for a cheap laugh and South Park has offered that for almost 20 years.
     So, I steal the episodes. I could say that it’s a compliment to the creators, but the creators have long ago sold their rights to Viacom, The Media Giant. I honor the innovators and despise the owners. But the owners, according to their latest emailed intimidation, have legal rights. I can’t play stupid. I was consciously breaking the law.
     One of my biggest fears is to be overwhelmed by a giant corporation, to be victimized by a company of immoral, greedy capitalists who have the resources to crush me, to destroy my life, to take everything, to torture, kill, maim, incarcerate. I’m an American and I know I’m not alone. This is a national shared dread.
     I’ve recently had terrifying encounters with Verizon and Bank of America. There were overcharges, mistakes, incompetence and outright deception. I was crumbling in the path of a corporate juggernaut, but with a calm demeanor, clear thinking, and a sizable dose of deceit and drama, I prevailed. (Keep cool. Use the silence.)
     Of course, I had a part in each of those events; I’d made my own mistakes, lied, tried to get more than I was due, but, honestly, I was only trying to survive. Right? Survival? Instinctual Defense Mechanisms? Saving My Own Life? In the end the balances were zeroed out, overcharges were eliminated, penalties lifted, threats were recalled and I triumphed. It felt great. The relief and potency lasted for days after each incident. I was high. I was grateful. I was safe. I was dominant. I might be immortal.
     So why would I go right back into the burning building and aggravate Viacom, TMG, one of the biggest, most powerful and lawyered-up conglomerates on earth?
     The thrill. My friend, Dr. A, calls it “Novelty Seeking Behavior”.  I thought that was a little demeaning at first, but as I consider it, I think she’s right. I’m not doing anything momentous or profitable; robbing a bank, killing a politician, or selling drugs. I’m seeking novelty, cheap kicks. And free shit.
     The excitement of talking my way out of something is hugely stimulating. I wish there was a way to feel the buzz of getting away with murder without actually committing murder. But, alas.
     How did I deal with the Viacom situation? The way I always do. Quick, aggressive, efficient.
     I phoned the owner of my local Internet agency, the guy who had forwarded the emailed threat to me at 5 a.m. this morning with a request to call him as soon as possible to avoid litigation.
“ Hello, ISP? This is Joe’s best friend. You asked me to call about the email from Viacom?”
“Yeah, thanks, Joe’s best friend. Sorry, but this happens about 10 times a month and I have to follow up. It looks like your computer was traced to some illegal downloading of 14 South Park episodes. I have to tell you that this is pretty serious. So far, I don’t think you are in heavy trouble, but it has to stop immediately.” He was polite, friendly and a little defensive. Perfect.
     “Yeah, I found out what the trouble was. Man, I am so sorry that this happened. I’ve been away, taking care of my poor mother, being a good son, struggling, out of town, in another state, and my niece and her kid have been housesitting for me. It must be him. The kid. He’s 15 and a little slow. I had a long talk with him this morning and, trust me, he will never do anything like this again. I put the fear of God in him. He’s pretty scared. He threw up while I was yelling at him. I made him wipe it up with his shirt. Yeah, I don’t think he’ll be giving us any more trouble.”
     “Well, OK, then. Sorry you had to go through this. Whenever I call someone about one of these notifications, ninety percent of the time it’s a teenager.”
     You can imagine how I felt about that.

Friday, February 1, 2013

More About God




     Many years ago my friend KO caught venereal disease from a woman he met in the Philippines while he was working as a merchant seaman. He then married her. He sent part of his pay to her every month, had his VD treated and wrote romantic letters. Her rare responses always included a clause that reminded him of his spousal financial duties. He knew she was working as a prostitute, but he kept up the charade for two years before he sobered up long enough to realize he was acting like a schmuck and stopped writing and sending money.
     We were sitting in Jean’s Bit o’ Bohemian one night while he was between ships. He had lots of money and was buying the drinks, talking loudly. He was almost at the point where he would soon step outside, climb into an empty parked car and sleep comfortably until the owner appeared, outraged, and dragged poor KO into the street and drove away, leaving my friend to sleep it off in a doorway.
     KO was drunk and philosophical.
     “You know why there is no God?”
     “Why?”
     “Venereal disease and tooth decay.”
     “?”
     “Think about it. All the stupid Christians say that God is a benign father figure, a loving guy who watches after his flock. Bullshit. I understand punishment for crimes and bad behavior, in fact I agree with that, but sex is terrific fun, full of delight and drama and danger; why would an all-powerful being inflict such a torment on his children? ‘I grant you the great gift of erotic pleasure, but then I’m going to plant the random Easter egg of disease somewhere in that enchanted garden.’  No supreme being, if it truly existed, would do that. It’s completely unnecessary. There are enough roadblocks to a satisfying sex life without adding disgusting, embarrassing and hard-to-cure infections. He’s supposed to be smart. That’s not smart; it’s just mean.”
     “Why tooth decay?”
     “Well, shit, it’s sort of similar. We eat, we have to eat, we enjoy eating, and then, BLAM, a germ that eats its way through the gum, into the tooth, into the nerve system and causes misery, pain and disfigurement. Thanks God. Thanks a lot.”
     “How about flossing and brushing?”
     “Horse crap. My brother is from the exact same gene pool; same parents and grandparents, ate the same food, used the same toothpaste and went to the same frigging sadistic dentist and he has never, never had a cavity. Me? Nothing but holes and fillings and root canals and crowns. I’ll have full dentures by the time I’m thirty. God. A lie, a joke. Dimbulbs who say God exists because I can’t prove he doesn’t exist are dead wrong. Venereal disease and tooth decay. Proof that God does not exist.”

     Since January first, when I returned home from Paris, maintenance and repairs have taken all of my attention. Home, car, teeth.  I’ve gotten used to living indoors, and am grateful to be able to do so, but the heating in the house was unstable and there were areas that were freezing cold and the temperatures were an unseasonable minus 20 degrees Fahrenheit (-20 F). So far this month, the heating system has required five visits from a heating specialist and I think (I think) it’s working. Now all I have to sweat is the goddamn propane bill, which can run upwards of $300 a month in winter. With all the screwups, frigid weather, loose wires and component failures, I expect the bill to be much more than that. I hope I’m wrong. I always hope I’m wrong.
     Icy driveways are a drag and a danger but, fortunately, I’ve never had a problem driving in the snow. A few close calls, but nothing damaged. A couple weeks ago, when it was minus fifteen degrees (-15 F) and hard-frozen, I entered my driveway, cautiously, slow, steering gently, and softly slid into the rear bumper of S’s car. Tap. Nearly inaudible. It didn’t even rock the car. Four hundred dollars for her bumper, a plastic affair that had frozen and cracked. It would never have been a problem in the summer, according to the friendly auto-body people. My vehicle lost a headlight, a lens, and a fender. One thousand four hundred and change. I’ve never used my auto insurance. Never. Now I imagine my premium will increase because I expect them to do the job I pay them for and they have the option of raising my rates. Again, I hope I’m wrong.
     Three visits so far for a replacement of a broken tooth. One of the last good teeth; unfilled, root-canal-less, free of decay. It cracked down the middle and now I’ve been to the dentist three times and it looks like another two weeks of appointments before I’m able to chew painlessly. And, once more, I hope I’m wrong, really mistaken, incorrect, way wide of the mark and off the beam, but dentistry is expensive, no matter how you slice it, cut it or drill it.
     So, when I run into friends and they ask if I’m glad to be back and do I miss Paris? I hesitate before answering. I have to remember that I’m living in a nice house in a good place, I have a decent car, though dented, and the majority of my teeth are holding up with the help of Dr. T. So, when they ask if I’m happy to be home, they seem confused by my reasoned answer.
      “Well, thank God I don’t have venereal disease.”