I hate when people say "back in the good ol' days" as though society was better fifty years ago than it is today. And to be completely fair, I must admit that I wasn't alive fifty years ago to speak from experience, though I'm sure the obvious advancements made since then can speak for themselves. But I'm not going to compare the intellectual state of the average citizen today to how things were "back before bicycle helmets, car seats and that damned Internet" but I can say, without fear of being nostalgically biased, that people are stupid.

Yep. I said it. The average, middle class, blue-collar, hard working, plumber Joe American is a flipping idiot that doesn't know what the hell they're talking about unless it's football or Oprah. They're too busy feeding their faces with smutty magazines, tacky sit-coms, vampire books, chicken soups for the soul and video games to actually learn something about the world around them every so often.

A 2005 article in The New York Times states that one in five adult Americans thinks the sun revolves around the Earth.

Wait. Let me reiterate that one with the proper accents to really drive this home.

A 2005 article in the New York Times states that ONE IN FIVE adult Americans THINKS THE SUN REVOLVES AROUND THE EARTH.

There are really only two excuses one could give in defense of this scientific misunderstanding. They are as follows:

Excuse 1- "Of course I think the sun revolves around the earth, for I am a time traveler from the 14th century who has never heard of heliocentrism. What? Copernicus? Who's that?"

Excuse 2- "From the time I was born to this very moment, I have been kept under a very dark, heavy rock. My parents fed me earthworms and laffytaffy and prevented me from learning anything from anybody. I couldn't read any books, except for the Bible, of course."

If neither of these applies to you, and you are just learning of this late breaking, cosmic development, unfortunately you fall into the Plumber Joe category defined above. Go read a book. (not the Bible)

But why are Americans so dumb? Why do the majority of people in the US think Africa is a country? Why do so many Americans, after years of political discussion and analysis on the topic, think Saddam Hussein was the one who ordered planes flown into the WTC on September 11th? And why do 24% of our uber-patriotic citizens not know what country we fought in the revolutionary war? At first, I chalked it up to simple, genetic inability to process information. I felt sorry for these people because they were born stupid. But I soon realized this couldn't be the case when I heard several 'good ole boys' at work argue about the differential in the new Ford pickups, complete with in-depth descriptions of complex mechanical processes. The cognitive capacity is there. The interest is not.

Obviously, somewhere along the line, someone conveyed to all these people that this political, philosophical, scientific and mathematical knowledge wasn't as important as, say, the names and statistics of every athlete on the Chicago Bears or why Brad and Jennifer broke up again.

"So who cares?" you say. "If they want to be ignorant, let them." you sass. But here's the thing. I don't want to hear someone talk about shit they know nothing about but think they are an expert on. It makes me angry that these people get to vote and use taxpayer money when they couldn't care less who their senators or representatives are, or what they do for that matter. I don't like to discuss politics with someone who thinks Glenn Beck would make a great president and I don't like reading texts from people who don't know how to spell 'Merry Christmas!' (Marry Christmas).

If you choose to be uninformed, it's none of my business. If you have no desire to learn about life or seek answers to your questions or observe the planet and the cosmos bustling around you everywhere you look, it's fine by me. But if you don't know what you are talking about, please don't talk. You aren't that important. Because regardless of what one in five Americans think, the universe does not revolve around you.

The perfect war - revised

The singeing smell of burning trash and sewage permeated through every sour alley way and filmy window throughout the city. Black, sludgy puddles reflected the setting sun like pools of mercury as our convoy rolled past the market district of Musayyib. Shop owners frantically slung chains through welded loops and studs in order to make it home before the call to prayer. Within minutes, the once bustling streets were occupied only by mangy dogs searching for any remaining bits of falafel or kebab. I couldn't help but wonder if Iraqis had a secret ability to morph into canines, for they never made a simultaneous appearance. As soon as the arm waving, beard scratching men disappeared while your back was turned, the dogs emerged through ravines and gutters to scope out the situation and watch without persecution. The fact that the two mammals smell almost identical only fueled my suspicion.
We rounded the corner and continued down an alley bleeding with anti-American graffiti. All doors were shut and the radiant orange blanket of sunlight was fading into a dingy grey, foreshadowing the ominous coming of night. I stood in the turret and scanned the rooftops, thumbs resting on the split trigger of my .50 caliber machine gun in anticipation for that first snap of a round or reflection from a distant Dragunov scope. Scenes from popular war movies swirled through my head while images of bloody ambushes and fiery explosions coaxed me to stop pondering why I enlisted for this bullshit and pay attention to my surroundings.
We passed a small building with a roof of grass, mere inches off of our right side. The mirror almost scraped and I turned to ensure all of the bulky, unnecessary, (yet government mandated) equipment bolted to each side of the vehicle passed without harm. I had taken my hands off of my weapon.
I never heard the muzzle blast but the gunner in the vehicle behind me said it came from somewhere near the school. It didn't hurt, in fact, I didn't even know I had been shot until I felt the slick liquid soak my sleeve. I stared in disbelief. Florescent pink paint was everywhere. He must have been using extra large balls-the kind the Geneva convention wouldn't let American troops use because of the confusion it creates from not being able to identify the exact point of impact. Insurgents used them in lieu of marksmanship training-if there's paint everywhere, they thought, we would assume it was in a vital area. I didn't assume shit. I stripped my gear and meticulously fingered through the latex sludge, searching for any remnants of crispy shell.
The UN Impact Official scurried to our truck, fumbling with his camera and various clip boards to document and officiate the exact point of impact. The scene was chaotic and marines were scrambling to find the sniper. It was all a blur. I was still coping with the realization that I could be going home. I was careless and I let my guard down, let my Marines down, let my country down. I would be revered as a hero at my homecoming, but my conscience would always tell me otherwise.
I prayed for an arm shot as I climbed out of the turret to assume the Vitruvian position. I could deal with two months of combat disqualification, but going home was not an option, not until my year was up. The UNIO snapped a few quick photos and asked a slew of questions in a sharp Dutch accent, most of which I couldn't answer because it had all happened so quickly.
What were you doing at the time of impact?
Where on your body did you feel the impact?
Are you physically injured in any way?
He scribbled down my answers on his UN clip board and immediately accessed his bag for a small, black wand. With a flip of a switch it hummed into service emitting an eerie blue aura. It was a density light, designed by the UN to make locating the precise impact point easier. He slowly passed it over my paint spattered body, stopping occasionally to jot more notes and berate me for touching the paint before he arrived. Areas of thick paint coverage absorbed more of the light and showed up brighter with spatter and over spray absorbing little to no light at all. The brightest glow came from my flank, just below my arm pit. He sympathetically shook his head and lifted my arm to expose the jagged pieces of a shattered shell. I wanted to spit in his face and demand he do it again. I wanted to tear up his papers and throw his clip board into the shitty sludge flowing from the nearby drain, but I knew I was done. There was nothing I could do.
I handed my weapon over to my team leader and apologized. He lit a cigarette and said a few words about war being a bitch, all the while keeping a hurried lookout to the street lights and desolate alleys of the now darkened city. He was anxious to continue the mission, I knew, so I turned and reluctantly accepted defeat.
I climbed into the back of the UN van thinking of home. What would they think? Should I tell them the truth, or fabricate a heroic story of bullet barrages and valiant devotion? The air conditioner was cold. I reclined the seat and took a deep breath to steady my twitching hands and quivering lip. Outside, the convoy rolled on without me. It was hard to see them go, but at this point, it was beyond my control. The wheels of fate were turning, and now, I was just along for the ride.
I closed my eyes to rest and tried to think optimistically. "Well" I said aloud, while making myself comfortable, "I guess it could be worse."

Revolutionary and Space Age!

Why can I picture this guy as a boys swim instructor at the Y?

Quotes for the Bibliomaniac

There are only a few things in my life that trump the importance of books. Sometimes I am drawn to my bookshelves, as though I am looking for something specific, but I eventually walk away empty handed. An eerie sensation overcomes me while standing in front of my books, yet, for the longest time, I couldn't quite pinpoint it. It's not quite pride. Not quite desire. Then one day I realized what it was. I was drawn to my books to simply stare and admire. The thought of all that knowledge, entertainment, wisdom, character, and wit of my most beloved authors, both dead and alive, staring back at me often brings me to the brink of tears. If you embrace your bibliomaniacal ways as I do, enjoy the following quotes, pulled straight from - you guessed it - my very own books.

" A little library, growing larger every year, is an honorable part of a man's history. It is a man's duty to have books. A library is not a luxury, but one of the necessities of life." - Henry Ward Beecher

"The novel, in its best form, I regard as one of the most powerful engines of civilization ever invented." - Sir John Herschel

"The first time I read an excellent book, it is to me just as if I had gained a new friend; when I read over a book I have perused before, it resembles the meeting with an old one." - Oliver Goldsmith

"But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew, upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think." Lord Byron

"Give us a house furnished with books rather than with furniture. Both if you can, but books at any rate." Henry Ward Beecher

"We are as liable to be corrupted by books as by companions." Henry Fielding

The Books - Smells Like Content

I've always liked The Books, but their loose, audio-clip-injected style doesn't make for good playlist selection or Sunday morning listening. You've got to be in a specific mood for The Books in order to listen to The Books. But this song is one of the more fluid songs of theirs and it has a pretty simple, yet rad music video to compliment it.

I'm not sure what's going on here. A blatant statement of the obvious - as in planes were used to carry out 9-11? A tragic case of misspelling by an apparent six year old conspiracy theorist with a can of spray paint? Or, quite possibly, a witty double entendre, strategically placed under a Fort Madison bridge to spread more conspiracy propaganda against George Bush? I'm going with the latter. Damn you Glenn Beck!