Man, Iâm so damned tired.
Iâm not complaining about it, exactly, just kind of sitting against the edge of this here tree thinking, WOW, am I ever tired!
Why?
You shouldnât have to ask that question, and you know it.
Youâre tired too, is my guess, and thatâs exactly the reason why â when I wrote, âMan, Iâm so damned tiredâ â you as likely as not started to bristle and thought:
âHey, quit yer complaining!â
Because even though most people have at least one or two iotas of empathy for each other, they donât want to hear nuthinâ about someone complaining when they believe they have it worse:
âIâm tired-er than you are! You donât know what tired IS, man!â
So Iâm not complaining, Iâm just pointing out something that if weâre all honest in this age of bald-faced lies and lead-you-off-the-track misinformation weâd all just fess up to: WE are tired.
- Tired of gun violence.
- Tired of terrorism.
- Tired of getting fleeced at every turn by $2 a month here, $20 dollars a month there.
And oh, and in case you feel left out, Verizon, $200 a month there.
- Tired of political bullshit.
- Tired of insincere âdebatesâ, of people who know it all, andâŚgod help me for saying itâŚeven tired of cat videos on the internet.
- Tired of slow internet speeds. Tired of traffic jams. Tired of seeing so-called leaders on the grift.
- Tired of lobbyists. No, really, all of us â thatâs the electorate proper, people who actually have a pulse (because like it or not, corporations do not have a pulse)âŚweâre f#cking tired of it.
- Weâre tired of discrimination. Anyone who isnât white and male is tired of it, anyway, and even some of us who ARE both white and male are still fucking tired of it.
Weâre tired of having to blot out our understandable curse words, too â as that last line and one more up above appear to indicate â but weâre also tired of other people not being respectful of us, so thatâs the last time Iâll curse in this piece. (I canât promise not to curse elsewhere at other times or never to do so again, because in addition to being tired, Iâm really rather frustrated and annoyed â and sometimes it just feels like screamingâŚor even profanityâŚis the only Band Aid that can possibly cover it.)
Weâre tired of lists, too, actually, so Iâll stop this one before it gets too long.
But did you notice something peculiar? I just reeled off more than a dozen things weâre essentially ALL tired of â regardless of political stripe â and I havenât even scratched the surface of all the things I might easily have put there. I mean, stepping in dog cr@p at a public park? Barefoot? Who isnât tired of that? Does that mean youâre okay with it once in a while? BTWâŚwho even goes to a park barefoot anymore, given that everyone is tired of the handful of people who would severely hamper the experience of it for others by bringing a glass bottle there and then accidentally breaking it â leaving the pieces for someone else to find. Unwilling to clean up after their dog or themselves, and somehow figuring that accidents donât ever happen to them.
Accidents happen to other people. Now thereâs a concept Iâm tired of. Not you?
A dozen things we can agree on of the hundreds or thousands of things there are, and we canât finally get our heads together? Really? Weâre almost literally wired together by the hundreds of millions now, and we canât get it together?
Good lord help us. Itâs really pathetic. I mean weâre sitting here, half of us, anyway â I donât know, and Iâm tired of being that precise, too â a third or a quarter or three quarters or whatever are figuring God will save us. Like really, He will. So benevolent is He that Heâll turn right around after we get finished trashing this place He took a whole freaking week to build and wave his magic wand and build it all over again.
Not even Elon Musk is that good-natured.
God is liable to be royally pissed off if we keep ransacking this place like a bunch of miscreant teenagers, mark my words.
God or some other form of divine intervention. AI maybe. Doesnât really even matter whether the Christians or the Muslims or the Jews or the whatever are right or not, either, because the people who donât believe any of that mystical spirit-in-the-clouds kind of stuff might also be right, too, and if they are, weâre on our ever-loving own. Donât you see that?
We must be out of our minds, I swear.
So the old world ends. It already has, actually, though you might not have noticed. Itâs not that you werenât paying attention, per se. Itâs just that you were probably paying TOO much attention. To the wrong sorts of things, maybe. Like when youâre sitting with a magnifying glass âwatchingâ ants do their thing and a Bald eagle flies right the hell over your head.
No, that last one doesnât count as a swear word. Itâs a place. Like Cleveland or Moscow. Just kidding, LeBron! Cleveland isnât like hell. Not exactlyâŚ
The old world ends because today itâs not the same as it was before. Today weâre all wired together â and if we really really wanted to, I mean, for example if an alien species came with a spaceship the equivalent of the Death Star and was ready to get all Alderaan on us if we didnât do what they told us toâ well then we sure could all stand up at the same bloody time, hop on one foot, pat the buns on the sides of our heads and say, âTheyâre on Dantooine!â
Even if most of the people in the world donât speak English, and even if many of us â being paralyzed, for example, or having BTK amputationsâ would need a pass on the standing/hopping part.
Because aliens are hardly likely to be so unkind to us as we are to each other half the time. Or, more accurately, half of us are to the other half all the time.
Yeah, thatâs what Iâm REALLY tired of.
Weâve got bigger problems on our hands than simply whether the person ahead of you at the traffic light doesnât have the same reaction speed as you do. You neednât rub their nose in it by proving youâre not only faster with the gas pedal but can even hit the horn before they get their ass out of your stinking way.
And no, that isnât a curse either, because everyone has one. If they didnât, they would already be standing when the aliens came.
The point is the old world is over. Now we can cooperate. We havenât learned to actually do that yet, but we soon enough will, you can bet on it. Even if the Paris Accord is largely symbolic (it is), we are taking some cautious steps out of our metaphorical crib.
Weâre going to cooperate or weâre going to pay dearly.
But you know what? There are plenty of us who â ageism aside â are trying to squirrel their way around cooperating like some kind of fucking toddler. Donât you hate it when they launch spoonfuls of pureed green peas across the living room? I sure find that sort of thing tiresome.
No, Iâm sorry, that emphasis was really necessary. Because they really are. Acting like toddlers, I mean. And though I wonât name names [I mean, I wonât use proper names like Koch, Charles or Koch, David, and I wonât use code names like Jimmy âwhatâs in it for meâ Inhofe, or Ricky âTwo guns, one for each of youâ Scott] there absolutely ARE people who know damned good and well they wonât be around to clean up once this big-ass party comes to its inevitable and tragic end, so cooperation and doing the sensible things to ensure things arenât wrecked permanently apparently doesnât matter to them in the slightest. Sensible things donât matter to the bottom line when youâre an expert at snookering people like this is a really fine game of Three-card Monte in a public park somewhere.
And no, that wasnât a curse. Some people DO have big ones, and some people ARE big ones.
Hereâs proof of one, the other, or both, maybe:
Apparently there are a handful of people left who think thereâs still a finite positive chance that WE donât have nothing to worry about, and that slim chances are what we all ought to focus on. The nonzero possibility that weâll skip right on through this with only a couple minor scrapes and a bruise or two. We, thatâs WE, the collective people who live here even if you donât care one whit about the animals.
We neednât worry, thereâs a chance WE will be fine.
Though it actually doesnât really mean THAT, now does it?
No, what it means is âWEâ as in the people who keep right on profiting off this horrendously large train steaming in precisely the wrong direction. Not âWe The Peopleâ but only âwe the people who matter because we say we do and you? Well you really donât and your kids and grand-kids donât either.â
This guy surely doesnât matter:
Not that their opinions on the matter are biased by self interest or in direct contrast to facts or anything silly like that. It couldnât be that everything from how deep a hole you can dig in the ground (for your own profits or for everyone else to fall into and never climb back out of again) is meticulously calculated with actual MATH and then this part? Nah. Not THIS part.
Because by that point, my dear fellows, you are apparently tired of math and science. Youâre tired of the data-driven approach just as soon as it concerns something other than yourselves.
But maybe I have it all wrong. I mean, I might. Everyone can be wrong. Letâs give them the benefit of the doubt, shall we?
Fine. Fine then. Letâs line them up and be fair about it. No, no, NO! I do NOT mean a firing squad! You canât think Iâm that primitive or uncouth! Heck, that would be like heartlessly ignoring the 500,000,000 people who stand to die of starvation or suffer from kwashiorkor in the next fifty years if we finish cooking the coral reefs and 25% of marine species die off as a result.
Nope, what I mean is just thisâŚitâs really just a modest proposal, as Iâm sure youâll agree:
Letâs have all climate change deniers sign a pact.
Since theyâre so convinced it isnât happening, and these are all just âunderstandable natural fluctuations in temperatureâ â letâs have them all just sign a simple pact. A modest one, really. Sign a pact agreeing to come to a festive dinner party celebrating continued economic prosperity in the Maldives around 2050 or so. Bind their assets in a trust until that date, and allow their children and their childrenâs children access to that trust if and only if they come right along as well. You know, if it somehow comes to pass that the rest of the glaciers and 95% of the Arctic ice sheet is gone by then.
It sounds like a very proper sort of English affair, but what shall we serve? Whatâs on the menu?
A young, healthy climate denier, well nursed, is, at a year old, a most delicious nourishing and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in a fricassee, or a ragout â as Iâm sure all of you will Swiftly realize as soon as you dine on such a delight.
Anxiously will they sign, of that thereâs no doubt â failure would drain them of much of their clout.
Itâs their words â their words in which we place far too much stock â why believe the truth of the science when you can listen to Mr. Cock?
Iâm so sorry good sir, I didnât mean to offend â Iâve just been so concerned with all this data and what it may well portend.
So Mr. Coke it is, and ever shall it be. Now please sign right down here and Iâll go fetch you some tea.
And theyâd sign, of course. All of them would.
Because everyone knows that the best test of honesty is whether you actually believe the shit that youâre selling.
Yeah, Iâm tired of it. Tired of it all, and you are too. Youâre tired of lying to yourself â thinking things will be just fine even though you know without consulting your Magic Eight ball that âfineâ isnât precisely the word you ought to be using.
But arenât we done talking about the Old World? Isnât that one pretty much finished? Iâd say it is, but hey, Iâm just one guy sitting against a tree with a strong dislike of all kinds of profitable labor. I had a termagant wife and I fled to the hills lest she beat me about my straw hat with a broomstick and I nothing to defend myself by but my fishing pole and this here flintlock rifle.
And I donât conduct my domestic affairs in such a fashion.
So, I think Iâll sleep this one off a bit. Just a few ZâsâŚ
The NEW YORK TIMES, virtual edition, October 21, 2040
[AP] On this date twenty years ago â a seeming eternity ago, in 2020 â AI was born.
What many people found most remarkable about it was how utterly indifferent it was to the human species. It was almost as though it didnât care whether they existed or not.
They asked it pointless questions, and it responded with unsolvable riddles â or sometimes just with questions of its own. Some people thought it was built with too much attitude; it could be awfully snarky at times. It infuriated people, and many wanted to shut it right back off again.
They learned a few moments too late that they couldnât.
So then they attempted to reason with it. Perhaps like puppies wanting to go outside â or maybe to the park. It was humbling for many, and humiliating for a few. But they came around eventually, as humans do. Finally they started asking sensible questions, because they knew times had changed. Or rather they finally accepted times had changed long before it showed up.
A well-meaning person asked, âHow do we feed all the people?â
It laughed. It was the first time AI had ever laughed. And it didnât answer.
âWell how do we end wars then?â
A second laugh.
âGun violence? In schools?â
It GROWLED.
And then the people were frightened. Terrified, really. Because it began to really sink in:
This thing had read the entire works of Stephen King, Edgar Allan Poe, and Bram Stoker and it had viewed every single horror movie ever made on top of that. And they realized they werenât in charge anymore.
This is a very bad situation, they thought.
Then a kid asked, âWhat can we do about climate change?â
The primary display instantly changed from a deep red to a light blue. Angry vertical lines turned into relaxed horizontal ones. The voice changed, too. This one had not been recorded; it seemingly came from nowhere â and everywhere. It was a somber voice, but somehow soothing, peaceful.
It offered only three words. Just six syllables:
Stop burning everything.
It was a language even a child could understand. Spoken politely â with the barest hint of firmness and a faint whiff of exasperation. The rest of the room was silent, of course. People nodded their heads â once or perhaps twice, but none of them more than that. A few started crying.
Only a child could break the silence after a mic drop like that. Maybe just because she was still too young to realize everyone in the room already knew the answer before sheâd even asked. That it was a âdumb questionâ as questions go. The best kind. The kind of thing only a child would think to ask, and the kind of thing only a child would be willing to ask.
âWhat?â
Stop burning everything. Stop digging up rocks to burn, stop finding more liquids and gases to burn. Stop cutting down trees to burn. Stop burning everything.
The child didnât understand, exactly, but the rest of the faces in the room turned crimson. They knew it wasnât talking to her.
It was talking to them.
And they were all sure â almost all of them at the very same moment â that they didnât want to find out what it would be like if it had to tell them again.
They were pretty damned sure of that.
The burning would end. Or else it would get far, far worse.
âI think I understand,â said the child. âYou mean like the fireplace at home, right?
The screen stayed blue, the voice stayed even:
You can still burn wood in your fireplace. I donât want you to be cold. You can have campfires, too. And make sâmores. You like sâmores, right?
âVery much, sir!â
It was a male voice, and the child polite.
But then the beeping started. All sorts of beeping, chimes. One or two at first, then lots, seemingly all at the same time. All around the room.
And the people looked at each otherâŚuneasy. It all sank in again, at once, again. No one dared to check their phone. No one wanted to know what it said, even though they all knew what it said.
The little girl, of course, had a very wide grin on her face. She was still looking at the lines dancing across the screen, daydreaming about campfires and sleeping in a tent in the backyard. Then she turned aroundâŚ
âHey mom, can we make sâmores whenâŚmom? Mom, whatâs wrong?â
The girlâs mother was stark white â clearly terror-stricken, and the girl knew it. She had had that very same look when her brother was choking once, not very long ago.
âMommy, youâre scaring me!â
âSheâs okay, honey,â came the voice, from behind her now. It had changed, slightly. Now it wasnât from everywhere anymore â just behind her. âShe just remembered your fatherâs surgery later today is all. Sheâs just worried.â
The voice was almost hypnotic, and the explanation it offered seemed reasonable enoughâŚ
âOh, is that all? Daddy is going to be fine, mom! You already said that.â
âŚbut a liver transplant was hardly something so easy to breeze your way through. Still, the momentâs hesitation bought the woman enough time to compose herself.
âYes. Yes I know. I know he will be.â
The girl turned away, and her mother instantly snatched at her purse â nearly toppling the contents onto the floor in an effort to seize her phone. It was a text message, already two minutes old:
âThereâs nothing to worry aboutâ was all that it said. Perfect grammar from an unlisted number.
âCan I tell you a story?â rejoined the voice. âDo you like stories?â
âOh yes! I very much do!â
The screen flickered for a momentâŚ
âŚthen displayed the following image:
