Coming Undone

The meeting progresses like a surreal version of the telephone game. Following Jon’s lead, each person picks up the baton twirling it their own particular way, spinning stories about frustration, despair and clownish behavior. Two women were brought to tears yesterday, one by a stressful work situation the other because of melancholy. In a fit of rage, another person wrote a flaming email that he instantly regretted. Someone else was not invited to a company function. Hurt by the slight, she questioned her self-worth, wondering why certain others made the cut and not her. Painful anecdotes, none remotely as dire as Jon’s, but all capable, if left unchecked, of creating chaos, of driving each one to the bottle. The members weren’t being insensitive, not intentionally. Mitch’s tantrum at home and Beth’s tears at work were big deals, to them. Different circumstances but the feelings are the same: anger, frustration, sadness and above all, powerlessness. Once traumatized by alcohol, now it was people, places and things that create the inner turmoil. The more sober one becomes the more he or she realizes how powerless they really are. Paradoxically, this is supposed to make you feel good.

As the shares continued, you reflect on events the last couple days that almost drove you to the brink. The ride home from SFO: You wanted to save your new company money and figured an old-fashioned taxi would cost less than an Uber. You were wrong. The ride had cost nearly twice as much. And on top of that the grungy vehicle stunk of body odor and god-forsaken foodstuffs. It was like sitting in a sewer and paying out the ass to do so. The coup de gras the driver’s digital payer was broken, forcing you to go into the house and find a personal check. While you didn’t make a scene in the taxi, you ranted and raved in your (thankfully) empty house. You’d spared the driver, but your anger had been so ugly and real. Wrath-like. Not just at the pathetic cabby at your company too, for wasn’t it their fault you had to pinch pennies in the first place?

The letter.

There was still the matter of the letter. The blackmail had come three weeks ago and counting, well past the 10-day time limit the extortionist had given you. Each day was laden with anxiety dipped in shame and sprinkled with fear. Even if nothing ever came of it, as you prayed, the letter had opened up a portal, revealing your defect like a cancer.  The gutless lie. Chaos.

To be continued…

Knuckles, knives and baseball bats: The real reality TV is on You Tube.

Fury Road!

Believe it or not, I rarely go to You Tube for the truly gnarly stuff that gets so many views: fail videos, assaults on buses, gang fights, that sort of thing. I mostly stay away. Not necessarily for moral reasons (though I’d like to think so) but rather because it just doesn’t interest me. Sure, occasionally I was drawn to some big event that everyone was talking about. Arab Spring. Earthquake footage. But mostly I go to You Tube to learn how to do something, fix a machine, load a printer, tie a fishing knot. Oh, and movie trailers. I love me some movie trailers.

But then.

The other night I clicked on a lurid video depicting a street fight outside a bar in St. Augustine, Florida. I’d been watching movie trailers for a few obscure horror movies and I guess the content matched up. So I went there. A melee featuring a bunch of shirtless drunks beating the shit out of each other. Real blood! Real screaming! Everything was jittery just like in a found footage horror movie. But the horror was real!

I was riveted. Then I clicked on another video. This time a fight outside of nightclub in Manhattan. This intoxicated douchebag in a rumpled suit was standing up to a huge-ass bouncer. After some jawing back and forth the bouncer did what angry bouncers do. Pound that young urban professional, brother! That’s what I’m talking about! I clicked on another video. And another. Before I knew it it was 1 o’clock in the morning.

I turned off my computer. I felt unclean. There was sweat under my arms. Gross, I know. My two goldfish stared at me from their cube, bug eyed. They have huge eyes because that’s what kind of goldfish they are. But still. It was as if they were judging me. Unblinking bastards.

Yet, perhaps I deserved it.

I had discovered the real reality TV. Not the choreographed drama Real Housewives create to get more camera time. But real idiots being real assholes. With baseball bats made of wood. Knives and knuckles. Gore!

Half a century ago, Newton Minow famously called TV a “vast wasteland.” I believe he’s still alive. Dude needs to check out You Tube. It’s freaking Fury Road.