ADAM MICHAEL LUBEKE
(originally posted at Dear Dirty America)
I really thought the day before Thanksgiving I was going to witness my first headline-worthy act of Southern California road rage, and not even twenty feet away from me. A front row seat, I thought, to more madness.
A man had stopped his racing-style motorcycle in the center median and hopped off. Abnormal movements on the freeways and streets of California’s major cities is reasonable cause for any nearby motorist’s stomach to tighten. You’re stuck, after all. Boxed in on all sides by cars. It’s not a desirable place to be if the man in front of you pulls a gun.
The man, wearing a helmet with a reflective face shield and a white and red riding suit, fiddled with his bike for a moment. He appeared to be securing it by turning a key and locking the bars.
When I glanced the signal was green. I was in my car, behind a black pickup truck. Why weren’t we moving? What was going on? You could feel the collective tension of the drivers.
The biker ran to the crosswalk. I lost sight of him from behind the truck.
Then I saw the problem.
A middle-aged man in a wheelchair. His skin permanently wrinkled and brown from the sun. Long greasy hair hung down his neck from under his cap. His bony hand gripped the wheels on his chair, and his thin arms pushed as fast as they could, but still he struggled.
It wasn’t his fault, really. Not like those miserable people who cross the street when there are only a couple of seconds left before the light turns red. They saunter in front of traffic like it don’t matter how many people or how much traffic they be holdin’ up. Well, screw those people.
But this man, possibly a war veteran, tried his damnedest to cross in time. The street was wide and at an incline, both of which worked against an already tired set of arms.
Until the biker’s outstretched hands latched onto the wheelchair’s handles and he scooted the ailing man to the other side in two seconds. The man in the chair did not turn his head. He lifted his legs, relieved. Once they were safely off the street, the man in the chair pointed right, and the biker turned the chair.
The lines of traffic roared, and we sprung forward again. Me with misty eyes. Which seems to happen more easily the older I get.
–<>–It’s my Barbie doll, you bitch!–<>–
Two days later, I read in the newspaper about two women from Norwalk who started shoving each other and throwing punches over a discounted Barbie doll in a Walmart store. Then I saw a photo out of the UK showing a man dragging a huge flat screen HD TV with a woman latched onto it, dragging her fluffy black boots on the slippery tiles in an attempt to stop him. Somebody sent me an email of a video taken by a man in a Walmart store where police officers had to break up a brawl over limited clearance-priced electronics.
And you wonder why elite people like David Rockefeller call for depopulation of the planet. Get rid of the humans. They’re sick. They’re out of control. The only higher purpose they have is to eat, screw, and indulge in simple entertainment. Cockroaches with the cognitive ability to follow a football game. They are products of a toxic environment. And they seem to love it.
And you might wonder why there is a growing popularity in the United States for the leader of the Hermit Kingdom, Kim Jong Un, who can make such accurate, but slightly awkward statements about America, like, “The US is bursting seams with pettiness and malfeasance. They think we have society problem here in Paradise? They do civil war over toaster ovens and televisions.”
As far as the exiled cultural philosopher, Hubert Humdinger [pronounced 'hum-din-jer'] is concerned, “All the good people have disappeared. They stay home. They retreat as far as they can from this mess. It would be easier to carve an X into your forehead, throw up your bloody hands, and say, ‘I’m done with the whole catastrophe’, and then post the photo on Facebook. But society cannot afford that we do this.”
–<>–You love humanity, then go hug a homeless person–<>–
As the Indian guru OSHO said more than once, It is easy to love humanity, but it is very difficult to love humans. Meaning, you can read a book about how to be a better person, you can feel fuzzy inside about an idea, and you can say, “Gee whiz, each human being is precious.” But then go try to hug a homeless man. Go feed a hundred down and out people in the park. See the difference?
And not all homeless men want to be hugged, so ask first. If you tried to wrap your arms around my friend, Lyle Shove-It, who sits on a bench near the intersection of two prominent streets in Hollywood, you will find you would have more luck squeezing a black bear’s genitals.
So, for the love of God, or for the love of each other, let us each expend a few of the superfluous calories we intake by doing something positive for someone else this holiday season. Big or small, we need a million kind acts every day to counteract the foul energy the Black Friday crowd puts into the collective consciousness day by day. You can begin with family and friends.
Pass around your goodwill.
photo attribution: "'Tis the Season" by Benson Kua
"Homless man in los angeles" by Terabass (via Wikimedia Commons)
"Produce Goodwill" (Rake the Light)
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