I came across this article from a literature compilation book, “Popular Writing in America”.  It was written by Dorothy Thompson in 1938 for the New York Herald Tribune.  I wasn’t able to find a full copy of it online, only seeing it referenced in journals and blog posts – really, I believe the article should be posted in its entirety to stand on its own, so I have taken the liberty of transcribing it.

They have demonstrated more potently than any argument, demonstrated beyond question of a doubt, the appalling dangers and enormous effectiveness of popular and theatrical demagoguery.

They have cast a brilliant and cruel light upon the failure of popular education.

They have shown up the incredible stupidity, lack of nerve and ignorance of thousands.

They have proved how easy it is to start a mass delusion.

They have uncovered the primeval fears lying under the thinnest surface of the so-called civilized man.

They have shown that man, when the victim of his own gullibility, turns to the government to protect him against his own errors of judgment.

The newspapers are correct in playing up this story over every other news event in the world.  It is the story of the century.

And far from blaming Mr. Orson Welles, he ought to be given a Congressional medal and a national prize for having made the most amazing and important contribution to the social sciences.  For Mr. Orson Welles and his theater have made a greater contribution to an understanding of Hitlerism, Mussolinism, Stalinism, anti-Semitism and all other terrorisms of our times than all the words about them that have been written by reasonable men.  They have made the reductio ad absurdum of mass manias.  They have thrown more light on recent events in Europe leading to the Munich Pact than everything that has been said on the subject by all the journalists and commentators.

Hitler managed to scare all Europe to its knees a month ago, but he at least had an army and an air force to back up his shrieking words.

But Mr. Welles scared thousands into demoralization with nothing at all.

That historic hour on the air was an act of unconscious genius, performed by the very innocence of intelligence.

Nothing whatever about the dramatization of the “War of the Worlds” was in the least credible, no matter at what point the hearer might have tuned in.  The entire verisimilitude was in the names of a few specific places.  Monsters were depicted of a type that nobody has ever seen, equipped with “rays” entirely fantastic; they were described as “straddling the Pulaski Skyway” and throughout the broadcast they were referred to as Martians, men from another planet.

A twist of the dial would have established for anybody that the national catastrophe was not being noted on any other station.  A second of logic would have dispelled any terror.  A notice that the broadcast came from a non-existent agency would have awakened skepticism.

A reference to the radio program would have established that the “War of the Worlds” was announced in advance.

The time element was obviously lunatic.

Listeners were told that “within two hours three million people have moved out of New York” – an obvious impossibility for the most disciplined army moving exactly as planned, and a double fallacy because only a few minutes before, the news of the arrival of the monster had been announced.

And of course it was not even a planned hoax.  Nobody was more surprised at the result than Mr. Welles.  The public was told at the beginning, at the end and during the course of the drama that it was a drama.

But eyewitnesses presented themselves; the report became second hand, third hand, fourth hand, and became more and more credible, so that nurses and doctors and National Guardsmen rushed to defense.

When the truth became known the reaction was also significant.  The deceived were furious and of course demanded that the state protect them, demonstrating that they were incapable of relying on their own judgment.

Again there was a complete failure of logic.  For if the deceived had thought about it they would realize that the greatest organizers of mass hysterias and the mass delusions today are states using the radio to excite terrors, incite hatreds, inflame masses, win mass support for policies, create idolatries, abolish reason and maintain themselves in power.

The immediate moral is apparent if the whole incident is viewed in reason: no political body must ever, under any circumstances, obtain a monopoly of radio.

The second moral is that our popular and universal education is failing to train reason and logic, even in the educated.

The third is that the popularization of science has led to gullibility and new superstitions, rather than to skepticism and the really scientific attitude of mind.

The fourth is that the power of mass suggestion is the most potent force today and that the political demagogue is more powerful than all the economic forces.

For, mind you, Mr. Welles was managing an obscure program, competing with one of the most popular entertainments on the air!

The conclusion is that radio must not be used to create mass prejudices and mass divisions and schisms, either by private individuals or by government or its agencies, or its officials, or its opponents.

If people can be frightened out of their wits by mythical men from Mars, they can be frightened into fanaticism by the fear of Reds, or convinced that America is in the hands of sixty families, or aroused to revenge against any minority, or terrorized into subservience to leadership because of any imaginable menace.

The technique of modern mass politics calling itself democracy is to create a fear – a fear of economic royalists, or of Reds, or of Jews, or of starvation, or of an outside enemy – and exploit that fear into obtaining subservience in return for protection.  I wrote this column a short time ago that the new warfare was waged by propaganda, the outcome depending on which side could first frighten the other to death.

The British people were frightened into obedience to a policy a few weeks ago by a radio speech and by digging a few trenches in Hyde Park, and afterward led to hysterical jubilation over a catastrophic defeat for their democracy.

But Mr. Welles went all the politicians one better.  He made the scare to end all scares, the menace to end menaces, the unreason to end unreason, the perfect demonstration that the danger is not from Mars by from the theatrical demagogue.

I did a fair amount of Googling for a Trackmania Track that attempted to emulate the Top Gear Test Track, but wasn’t able to find any – so I made my own.  After some refinement, I believe that it’s ready to go public.

It’s a Coast track that only works with TrackMania United (not the free Nations version).  There are no directional arrows or anything, but it flows just like the TG track – think of it like an odd-shaped figure-8.  Also, I added an off-track area for playing around in, sandbox style; you’ll see the area to exit the track.

As far as the subtle, swooping soft curves of the real test track, it was awfully difficult to replicate in the TM editor, where you’re forced to either have 45 or 90 degree angles and turns.  Also, you might notice the lack of a tire wall in the middle – I could build a fence separator, but not on an angle like that, so it really wasn’t an option.  Still, I did the best I could and made sure Gambon corner was as hairy as possible!

Enjoy!

Track Download

I love food – I really, really do.  I especially love rib-sticking comfort food.  It’s made my quest to get lean and healthy a challenge and a half, but though I struggle to maintain an occasional dose of self-discipline, I will never rid myself of this passion.

Honestly, I apply my love of food to most aspects of life – and why not?  It is a necessary component of life, after all.  When I think back to happy childhood memories, I often think of special trips to restaurants my mom took me to on summer weekdays.  When I think of things that make me homesick for San Diego, I can almost taste the carne asada.  Additionally, I honestly believe that the best way to define and identify with other cultures is by their food – the raw ingredients, the marketplaces, the preparation methods, and the meal gathering practices.  Some of my favorite shows on television are Good Eats, Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations, and Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern.  I love to cook, grill, bake, and fry.  I love food.

Going back to the happy childhood memories as well as homesickness, I can’t think of a better example than Troy’s restaurant in the Clairemont Square, smack dab in the middle of single-story-homes, lower-middle-class San Diego, California.  There’s nothing particularly special about Troy’s – it features standard greasy spoon diner fare with a very, very slight Greek twist due to the nationality of the proprieters.  Its busiest time is Sunday morning where you can expect a whopping 3-minute wait for a table while the elderly church goers dine absently in pasty conversation.

So why this place?  Largely, because it was a constant in my life that was uniquely my own.  A somewhat regular patron of Troys, even whilst inside my mom’s womb, I grew up on the comfort food offerings and when I needed a silent refuge to engage in self-reflection over a bottomless cup of coffee for $0.65, it was always there.   The waitstaff were ceaselessly friendly; many of whom watched me grow up from a boy into a man.  I grew taller, they grew grayer, and for over two decades, we were there to banter with each other whenever I walked through the doors.  When my father would get particularly angry or violent, my mother would take me there as a quiet apology for our situation.  When I wanted to show a friend or colleague something about myself – to take them on a more intimate tour of some deeper level of my soul, I would do it over a plate of chicken-fried steak and eggs.  Some of those friends didn’t quite get it – it was just average food, after all – but they indulged me nonetheless.  A select few actually joined me in my feelings of the place and I will always share a very odd bond as a result.

And so, ever since I moved away from San Diego over three years ago, I have made it a point to order a turkey club sandwich in most every restaurant I visit; this was my favorite lunchtime meal at Troy’s, you see.  Much like the diner itself, there was absolutely nothing special about it.  Turkey, bacon, cheese, lettuce, tomato, mayo, all stacked betwixt three slices of bread cut into four diagonal pieces and served with large-cut steak fries.  Still, I have yet to come across a turkey club sandwich in these parts that compares to Troy’s, and I suspect I never will.  Some leave off the cheese.  Some add ham.  Some have skinny fries.  But that’s not it, really… no, the big difference is the location.  The people.  The emotional connection that I have with a place of brick and mortar.  The difference is myself.

My old refuge is still out there somewhere, keeping the old folks of North Clairemont hopped up on mediocre coffee.  As for myself, now, I must move on to find solace within new places, new people, new comforts, and perhaps, even new sandwiches.

I have done something that few people in this world have.  Those that haven’t often wish they had for the same reason I chose to do it: morbid curiosity.  What sets me apart is that I actually had the balls to go through with it.

I got Flowbee’d.

That’s right.  I had my wife use a Flowbee on me.  It started when I was helping my inlaws move some stuff into storage.  We happened upon a Flowbee still in its box (opened) with the accessories inside and it was offered to us.  My first instinct was to chuckle and politely decline.  After that rational thought had time to simmer, I ignored it and decided to take one for the team/blog.

Two things to note:

1.  I wanted a much shorter haircut anyway.  With the running I’ve been doing, long hair is a pain and the gel I use to maintain it gets sticky and weird on my skin after I sweat.
2.  C’mon – it’s a Flowbee!  We’ve all wanted to!

So, we made the preparations.  Applied oil to the cutter, connected it to our vacuum hose using a horribly naughty-looking rubber sleeve, took a shower to get the gel out and get my hair wet (the recommended procedure, according to the manual) and sat down to get to work.

So, it begins.

OK, so now in all honesty, I think I can safely go skydiving at this point.  When you have faced the proposition of having your hair cut by a Flowbee that’s god knows how old and just came out of dank storage housed for god knows how long – there’s not a whole lot else that life can throw at you.  Couple that with the fact I haven’t had a drop to drink and I still manage to start out with that damned goofy grin on my face… I have to say, I’m quite proud of myself.

The experience wasn’t entirely unpleasant.  It wasn’t the quick 6-8 minute haircut that was promised – the whole procedure took well over half an hour.  There were a few tugs and pulls, but on the whole it didn’t feel a lot different than running a comb through my hair while having my scalp sucked on.  Unique, yes; but not painful.

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect in terms of results – I was fairly confident that whatever happened, it wouldn’t look good.  That honestly didn’t bother me a whole lot – I just kept repeating point #1 to myself.  No matter how much I got butchered, I’d only have to go through a day or two of work before I could get myself in to a barber (we were performing this experiment at 10:30 at night).

And so, now we find ourselves in the home stretch.  My scalp is horribly numb from the scraping, the poking, and of course, the sucking.  I really just can’t wait for the ordeal to be over – the only thing I can hope is that despite the noise, despite the time, and despite the effort, that it may actually produce a decent haircut and perhaps turn into our home hygiene solution.  The periodic, stifled laughter from Mickey tested my faith in this outcome.

I believe the word that comes to mind is: butchered.  My hair is shorter, but not as short as I’d like despite using the smallest attachment possible without violating the Flowbee Safety Protocol.  As you can see from my left (your right) side, the hair is still hippy-long around the ears.  What you can’t see in the photo is how horribly uneven everything is – a goddamn drunk farmer ran over my head with a 5-ton corn husker!

I took everything in stride, though.  It was certainly an experience and I’ve always wanted to see how these things worked.  Plus, I really don’t have to suffer through much more than a few days before getting cleaned up, primmed, and prop-

“Did you forget you have a job interview tomorrow?”, my wife asks.

FUCK!

I completely forgot in the heat of the Flowbee moment!  This is absolutely 100% true – I do have an interview for a second job immediately after work tomorrow and yes, we both forgot about it until after the Flowbee ordeal was done.

My wife and I looked at each other sheepishly as we fought to find solutions.  Maybe I can find time to squeeze in a cut right after work.  Maybe.  Luckily, I have the best wife in the world and she trucked down to Wegmans to procure a proper set of electric shears.

Ten minutes and three cutting attachments later, my hair is now clean and ready to go.  It’s a much shorter look than I’m accustomed to (very military-esque), but that was kind of the point when I started.  Now, it’s midnight – I’ve showered the hair remnants from my shoulders and will go to bed safe in the knowledge that I won’t be laughed at on the street.  The only concern at this point is whether the Flowbee will try and attack me whilst I slumber.

I do feel I should leave this on a positive note for the product, though.  Forgetting the shoddy quality, the length of time to achieve said quality, and the noise running this thing alongside a vacuum cleaner, it did a remarkably good job with the cleaning.  Putting aside all aesthetics, it DID cut my hair and there was not a bit of it on the couch, carpet, or on my person.

Thinking about that more closely, though – is that actually more of a compliment to the Flowbee or to my vacuum cleaner?

Yup, Mickey and I bought a couple of bicycles over this last weekend.  Nothing fancy, just something to get us pedaling at a moderate price from Wal*Mart.  Maybe if it turns into a more serious endeavor I may start saving pennies for a true bike in a year or two, but as it is, my new Mongoose Paver is doing me just fine.  We took the chain guard off of hers since it was all unecessary flash and the chain rattled against it, then we adjusted the derailleurs on both of ours for smoother and tighter shifting.  All we need to do now is get a little more grease on the chain, a new seat to replace mine (which is apparently made out of concrete and barbed wire),  a few repair kits and we’ll be all set!

Sunday, we went and took them for a good test drive to Canisteo and back.  It was a good way to put the screws to the bikes over about 8 miles of pavement, dirt, and rocks.  One thing I’m amazed at is how isolated the muscle groups are for pedaling a bike.  I’ve been running quite a lot over the past 4 or 5 months or so now and my calves are more toned than ever before.  Still, after this ride my quadriceps were burning like the dickens.  Even if my muscles weren’t up to the challenge, my overall endurance levels are in good shape, so I was able to plow through and recover quickly.

Can’t wait to hop back on!

A picnic table makes the picnic great.  It provides the surface for our goods, our food, and ourselves.  It cradles the birthday cake, it holds the napkins, and it provides us with a place to rest bodies weary from playing.  The table must be built with care and quality, lest it fail us and ruin the mood of the picnic, sometimes killing it altogether.  Yet, rather than pay homage and respect to the table, we cover it.  We don’t look at the table and thank it for lending a hand – appreciate it for being just the right height to help us.  We only see it as wood; dirty wood, at that.  Bulk-processed, machine made plastic sheets in bright offending colors purchased at discount prices must cloak and suffocate the table.  It wants to enjoy the day with us, but we only serve to hide the table and still utilize it, molesting the table of its purpose while selfishly blaming aesthetics.

We do this under the guise of protecting the table.  Our slippery fingers and young children’s ham-hands can wreak havoc on a table’s surface, we tell ourselves – why should we subject it to the stray drips of ketchup and greasy, ashen spatulas?  What self-respecting table wants to look new at an old age, though?  Shouldn’t an old table look stained?  Weary?  Life-worn and happy?  Can’t we clean the table and care for it without showing our shame for it?

Mickey and I just purchased a couple of Sansa Clip MP3 players specifically to use with a new Napster To Go subscription.  In the end, we got everything working, but we had to jump through numerous hoops to do so.

I’ll save the suspense – most of the problems came from the Windows Media Player DRM.  This wasn’t an easy conclusion to come to, though – the only thing I saw was the fact that none of the MP3s I attempted to download from Napster’s service successfully completed the transfer and whenever I plugged the Clip in, my computer locked up entirely.

Of course, this was after downloading and installing the Napster software, which was a huge pain in the ass.  Why is that?  Try finding it.  Go ahead – try.  Napster appears to be going through a transition which allows the use of their service strictly through the web.  The problem is the fact that their “To Go” subscription service that works with portable MP3 players requires the standalone app – which is no longer available through any page on their site.  The main page, the FAQs, the Account page, even pouring through all the help pages did not yield a downloadable link to their app.

I ended up finding it through a cached Google page – Mickey found it on a 3rd party site (which always skeeves me out a little).  After going through this, I then had the crashes.  The timing was fairly sporadic, sometimes it would happen immediately when plugging the Clip in, sometimes after five minutes; but it always happened.  I managed to get it usable for long enough to flash the firmware (a ballsy move, crashes considered – I could have easily bricked it), but that still didn’t fix the issue.

I found the fix after scouring forums and got a direct link to a Napster WMP DRM repair tool, which did the trick.

On the whole, I have a decent quality MP3 player for $15 and a huge library of songs for $15 per month.  Luckily, I’m technically savvy enough to go through proper troubleshooting, firmware updating, cached page retrieval, and DRM repair – so the savings is mine.  For those not so fortunate, the price increase to go to an iPod and iTunes is well worth every penny to avoid this kind of hassle.

A note of confession laced with a twinge of disgust and a sprinkle of self-loathing follows:  my running has lapsed.  Oh, not a whole lot and certainly not enough for me to throw in the towel, but it has at the very least sputtered a bit.

During the Couch to 5K program, I was running 3 days a week, steadily; with no real hiccups, I might add.  At this moment, the last time I ran was one week ago today.

I could say I don’t know why it is, but that’d be a lie – I know exactly why:  my diet has also lapsed.  There’s one thing that I’ve found to be certain when it comes to running… what you put into your body has a drastic effect on how easy (or difficult) your runs will be.  My diet has been floundering and my runs have gotten steadily more and more difficult as a result.

I’m down, but I’m definitely not out.  This is a moment in which it’s easy to falter and yield to despair.  Letting my primal, gluttonous, lethargic instincts take over is my traditional emotional fallback, but the strength of character I am attempting to show would require me to stand back up and brush myself off.  The longer I take in this, the harder it will be.  I have not had to go back any notches on my belt and I have not had the scale yell at me… yet.  Nevertheless, I cannot deny the way that I feel, which is certainly not at peak performance.  So, rain or shine, I will run tomorrow.  We have a fridge full of healthy foods and a menu planned for the next week.  Back on the horse I go before I take solice in that which would topple me.

On another note, I can’t promise that my runs will be 5K runs – I will run no less than 2.5 miles three days a week, but I may have to work a while longer to achieve a steady 3×3.  There’s nothing wrong with pushing myself – but pushing so hard that it is no longer fun only serves to strengthen my failure.

I don’t understand people that make a special effort to take a trip to the park with their family, scout out a great picnic table, and then break out the McDonald’s or Subway sandwiches they purchased on the ride over.

I observed this phenomenon today. Mickey and I decided we needed some air and some sun; the day after the 4th seemed like a perfect opportunity to do just that while simultaneously avoiding the crowds of the holiday weekend. We purchased the makings of a BBQ yesterday and set out to have a relaxing Sunday at Stonybrook Park. For the uninitiated, Stonybrook is a beautiful state park area with playgrounds, wide open spaces, beautiful trees, a makeshift swimming pool born from a blocked river, and barbecue pits sprinkled all over the place.

With some charcoal, a baggie of dryer lint, and a minimum of real effort, we were enjoying hot dogs (red and white), cheeseburgers, and grilled corn on the cob. It didn’t cost any more than a family dinner at Subway, but the taste of the char could simply not be beat. The joy of scrubbing and seasoning the grill like a soldier shining his armor before battle, the thrill of waiting for the flames of the coals to slumber into the rocket-hot embers, the hiss and sear of the meat when it first hits the metal… glorious. It boggled me when I saw over half of the other families in the park eating Big Macs. Why bother? Of course, I’ll be the first to knock myself off this pedestal I’m so happy to stand upon, for I imagine those same families are staring at this asshole with his laptop wondering the same thing, “Why bother?”

No, there’s no wifi here, but I can just as easily open up Notepad and jot down my next blog entry to publish when I do find myself with an IP number once more. As far as “Why bother” goes, well… you may (or may not) have noticed that it’s been a little bit since I published a new blog post – certainly since publishing anything of any real merit. Mostly, I haven’t really been able to get my thoughts together. My nights have been consumed with frozen pizza and episodes of Columbo – whenever I make any attempt to write, my mind is clouded and I find myself easily distracted. I figured that some fresh air and a quiet atmosphere might do me some good.

And so, with lunch (and dinner) now behind us, we sit and relax. Mickey reading “A Beautiful Mind”, and myself reading “Einstein’s Dreams” and “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes”. At the very least, I’m now able to get two thoughts together along with the synapses firing well enough to get them down in some coherent format. We’ll see if it yields anything beyond this post.

This has the potential to be the best movie ever made in the history of cinema!