The Anarchist and the Waiter

Sometimes I just want to throw a fucking tantrum. I want to ignore all my scruples and ideals and just start flailing around, embarrassing myself fully in the meantime. I think that sometimes people see me as passive or naive or withdrawn. A good tantrum would really nail those perceptions straight to the cross.

Why a tantrum, you might ask? To answer, we must go to a certain restaurant on a certain Saturday night. My party (who will remain unnamed, for their own good) entered, and our host, the callous fucktard that he is, immediately says to me "Cambridge? Really?" (in reference to my shirt). One of my party, who studied in Cambridge over the summer, gave me this particular shirt. I tell this to our fucktard host. I am a little shaken, but okay, whatever, this hostess, he has proven himself to be a planter wart before, so I sort of accept it. But another incident occurs when ordering. I order the Masaman Curry. I suppose I pronounce it wrong, as he repeats it back to me "Masaman, huh" in a sort of "you are an idiot and I am your intellectual superior" kind of way. I decide here that if he gets smart again, I am going to do something crazy. Like maybe throw my food in the floor when he brings it. Or verbally berate him in front of other tables.

Luckily, nothing else happened. We sort of shorted him on tip, only going about 10% or so. But that was the extent of our revenge. And wouldn't you know it, after the passion had died down, I felt guilty. I mean, this guy is a waiter. A thankless profession, and one that, when insulted, is usually insulted in a manner that suggests master/slave relationships. That is to say, an insult based on degradation and dehumanization. I feel very uncomfortable with that kind of insult! I do not want to wear a monocle and express my superiority through my choice of fine tobacco and willingness to insult those who puncture my fragile, enlarged ego.

Although this might read as over the top, it's these kinds of petty divisions that keep so many obnoxious, hateful power structures in place. Let's face it, the waiter and I are essentially on the same side! We're hustling about, trying to keep it all together. That's not to say that he hasn't consistently pulled dick moves. He has. It's just that I see no reason as to why we can't just respect each other and not play the whole "let's punch each other in the arm" game. Can we do that? Can we do that, asshole-waiter? I sure hope so.

Typhaon

Those who die in myths experience satisfying and full deaths. They luck upon an acceptance and sense of wonder that many of us will not ever possess.

To illustrate, let's say a civilian happens to find that his home has suddenly become a warzone. We will assume that he is shot by a stray bullet during a minor skirmish. This bullet was manufactured by some winding branch of Lockheed Martin. It was created for profit and sold the world over. It will fund thousands of small skirmishes. This civilian's death is nothing more than a justification for the arms-maker to continue producing arms. There is nothing even close to beauty here. No freedom secured, or ideals battled for.

Now let's say you live around Mount Etna thousands of years ago, and you are witnessing Zeus and Typhaon's final battle. Zeus is remarkable, certainly, scarred from his own lightning and clothed in light. But he pales to Typhaon's horrific majesty. His bottom half is composed of the coils of hundreds of snakes, all hissing and writhing but without mouths. His top half extends to the heavens, dragon heads bolster each of his shoulders; his form is baffling, maddening, and yet not cruel. Suppose, in your rubberneckery, that an errant coil of Typhaon smashes into you, killing you flat while also slinging your body across the sparse mountain. Your death was by a remarkable creature; Typhaon was not manufactured, designed, or drafted. He was born, ignorant of his form or his potential. He had no idea that he would father the Sphinx, the Hydra, or the Chimera. No idea that his Titan siblings would shun him for simply being too monstrous. With a bit of perspective, you were killed by something remarkably beautiful and singular.

We have hidden death away in cupboards, transforming the monstrous into the mundane and the war into the "situation." It is a detestable state of affairs, and undoubtedly a state worth struggling against.