There will be no revolution, due to scheduling conflicts.

Dear diary,

Revolution is on my mind this morning because it popped up in two different, recent conversations. Both people I was talking to ended up mentioning the idea that they hope a revolution will happen soon; and they both expressed the certainty that it was inevitable.

Is revolution desirable? I suppose it depends upon the context:

Say that we’re currently living in a pleasure garden, in harmony with nature. Why would we want a revolution, a forcible overthrow of our government, in favor of a new system? We adore our leaders. (I’m still speaking as a citizen of our imagined paradise.) We love the pantheon of foxes that rule our country with a very gentle paw. I like that we all voted to keep God on the outskirts of town, at a safe distance away — available to pray to for help, but not so close that he sees all the details of our life; because he has the bad habit of judging folks harshly, and throwing fireballs usward; this way, it’s a win-win: God gets to feel like he’s important, and we all get to feel like someone’s protecting us.

But consider what our attitude would be if things were imperfect:

Now let’s say we live in a broken world. Let’s say our leaders are all corrupt; inequality is rampant; friendship is extinct; all the books got burned up; so the only thing left to do is watch sports on TV. Now is it OK to have a revolution?

The answer is still no, because Jane has to work next Wednesday, at exactly the time we were planning our revolt. Plus the Foxes are mock-battling the Muskrats this coming weekend; so we’ll have to wait till after the big game, at least.

And everyone’s always telling me to write my congressperson. Fine, I’ll write him or her. Dear sir or madam, et cetera.

Why do we always plague our representatives with requests and problems: let us instead compose pleasant, personal letters that recount our daily interactions with loved ones, and reveal our inmost dreams — like a postcard from summer camp. Let us stop expecting those who govern us to listen to our concerns. That’s what God’s for. Just pray to God — that’s why he’s over there by the exit ramp. No, but seriously, the reason we have Congress is that the foxes who preside over all our affairs…

I honestly don’t understand why we even have Congress. Or why we keep our justice system. Or why we still want a president.

You’ll note that, in my above insinuation of unneeded entities, I left out the Senate. That’s because I’m a Senator myself, and no man wants to eliminate his own source of livelihood. If I were an owl, I’d never vote to abolish the forest. I might try to bribe the authorities to extinguish the sun, so that I could have more nighttime to hunt mice in; but I’d lobby for preserving the woods — at least keep this tree where I live.

But alas, I’m not an owl. I’m just a Senator of the United States of America. One of an hundred. (Fifty states times two senators per state equals an hundred.) Life sux sometimes.

So now that we’ve established that there is no need of any revolution, what should we do about individual people’s minor unhappiness? Cuz I’ve heard the rumors: I understand that most folks don’t have what they want. Hell, they don’t even have what they NEED. So what should we do about this? My friends who are just regular crooks, not U.S. Senators, tell me that the masses wanna eat cake. So I say “Let them eat cake.” And I mean this sincerely. But then my friends tell me that it’s not the mere saying of the words that is desired by the public, but rather that they expect me to effectuate some actual measure by which they might attain such cake. This is where I draw the line. To beg this of me is like stepping on the toe of my steel-toed boot. It sort of annoys me, because I grasp the intimation.

No, I’m not going to WORK. Not for you, the “American people” (you’re not even American, by the way — you’re all truly Dutch: they just told you that you’re American, to get in your pocketbook); not even for the most outspoken members of the motorcycle lobby. I simply hate work, and I won’t do it, no matter what the incentive. I don’t even understand what my job is supposed to be. Am I a law passer? A regulation lifter? A funds embezzler? All I really wanna do is drink wine with my friends. We have this great cafe that we meet at, every night; and we talk about our romantic conquests, and share new artworks. Actually, I said we meet there nightly, but the truth is that you can often find us there in the noontime as well. It’s a nice place; the staff is friendly, and the air is always imbued with the scent of cocoa butter.

Ah, but yes, the whole problem of the public: Sorry, I wasn’t answering your question. It’s unfortunate, the state of the rabble. I just wish they could be content, without our having to change the current system too much. It’s just that, if we decide to eliminate the official Harm Squad, on account of the fact that this Harm Squad keeps causing us harm, then all those people who are employed at present as official Harmers will be out of a job. So you see how fixing one problem just creates a worser problem. I’m really only interested in pleasure-seeking.

Yesterday I sent this message to my beloved, via mobile phone:

FYI, there are now THREE bunnies grazing in our yard; & one is so fat that I initially assumed it was a baby wolf!!!

But having brainstormed about government, about leadership, about politics, about the machinations of statesmen — all this makes me wonder: What would the world look like if we just threw out all the traditions?

RUNDOWN
of what would occur if we just threw out all the traditions

First, you and I would say to each other, at the exact same time: “I’m hungry; do you wanna go dine somewhere?” And then we could both answer each other in unison: “Heck yeah!”

So we go to Bob’s Steakhouse (I mean Bob from Twin Peaks — the pilot episode, not the subsequent shows), and we order a couple tenderloin filets and eat them. Then you order a ribeye chop, and I order a T-bone, and we eat those as well. Then we both order the porterhouse, and, for dessert, two New York Strips (“succulent and buttery”). So, when all’s said and done, we’ve consumed, between the two of us, enough red meat to make us feel just right.

Now the waiter approaches and asks “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?”

You answer at the same time as I (we’re pretending we’re identical twins, for the nonce) “No, just the check, please — we’ve gotta get going to a very important meeting with three rabbits.” And I add:

“I Bryan have a big backyard that attracts local wildlife.”

So the waiter responds: “Oh, you’d like your check? Well you must have forgotten that this dimension became totally perfect recently, so our government now consists of just 12 foxes, and everything’s free: all the meals that you ate tonight are yours to keep. You don’t have to pay; you don’t need a check. All of us who work here do so from the goodness of our hearts: we choose to labor because we love our calling. It was the chef’s own pleasure to prepare your meals. It was my great pleasure to serve you. (I just do this waiter routine as a lark — I’m actually not even a trained member of the staff; I’m only an actor playing a waiter: don’t tell my boss!) It was the greeter’s pleasure to greet you, when you entered. It was the barmaid’s pleasure to serve you all those pitchers of beer. And it was even the cow’s pleasure to curl up and die, so that you could eat it; because, just as all living creatures feel sad after fornicating, it is every cow’s dream to become human food.”

Hearing this, you & I exchange a glance; then shrug & give thanks. On the way out, we toss a prayer to God, who’s playing pool in the back room. When we exit thru the automatic door, whose glass is immaculate, the bellhop offers a friendly flash of her breast; and, once outside, we’re instantly awestruck by the beauty of the lights: all the street lamps and high-beams of the passing taxis create a dazzling display, with the neon signs of the surrounding shops. This gives the city a festive look.

On our way to your apartment, we encounter many citizens. They’re all either poets, teachers, mothers, or nurses. We stop and shake hands with every passerby. We greet them warmly and we ask them their annual salary. Each person answers promptly, “Seven G’s,” which means 7,000 Caesars (roughly $70,000 USD).

What I’m trying to prove here, by creating this new world, is that if we treat people with compassion, they will stop committing crimes; and if we allow them to perform the physical act of lovemaking with each other, instead of keeping them in cages, they will probably bear more children.

But now some naysayer will bring up this argument: “How are you going to find people who actually WANT to work in a steakhouse for no pay?”

And I answer: “Didn’t you read the story? The guy said that he’s only an actor. He said, ‘Don’t tell my boss.’ So everything’s fine: it’s all under wraps. Unemployment is relatively low this quarter. The cow desired sublimation. The narration said so. Consider that 1st dish we ordered: Filet mignon means ‘dainty filet’ — this is well-known among the bovine communities. Nobody’s being coerced here. Every harlot who allows herself to endure abuse for the sake of earning a role as a chef at a steakhouse is a prospect for angelhood. That’s engraved in the Constitution. For, what transpires down here, in the grottoes and among the bogs of Planet Earth, is sure to appeal to the big man upstairs; I mean the man who lives in the sky: the one who drives the cloud around. I think of reality as tripartite — & I use the Freudian terms without necessarily matching Freud’s intended sense; here, let me explain:

The god in the cloud, that’s my superego. The man on the ground, leaving the steakhouse, walking to your apartment with you, that’s obviously my ego. And the rest of the surroundings is the Id (literally the “it”) — that’s the creation that I’m not responsible for: it’s utterly alien to me. So the reason I’m always such an asshole to you is that my superego is always an asshole to me. It’s like: big brother punches little brother, and then little brother goes and punches the cat. It’s not ideal; but the system works. Can you think of a brighter idea to replace this current one? Then throw away your future and just join the club. There’s a steakhouse over yonder, and a cafe that we frequent during the evenings. Everyone’s welcome, as long as you’re one of the dozen chosen foxes. Does that answer your question?”

And our naysayer inevitably answers: “Thank you, it does.”

P.S.

The only thing I haven’t perfected about my technique of evangelism is the place for YOU in its terminology – I got God playing Superego; I myself play Ego; and the rest of the junk is Id. But who are you? Are you part of the Id, the it-ness, the whatness, the otherness, the alien threat to be tamed and subdued? Or are you me too? I know you’re not God, so you’re not my Superego, cuz you’re not an asshole. (How’d you get so sweet, so tender-natured? Why don’t you ever reach out and rage around in the universe? Break a galaxy, enslave multitudes? Show up on somebody’s doorstep in your silver saucer, draped in a cloud, and announce “The party’s over.” Then card everyone and administer breathalyzers.)

*

God as cop. Critic as cop. Poet as crook. Teacher as fire-thief.

Mother and nurse as…