other Modern Fix Scot Log

07/13/06
I think it was in Verden Germany (a small town bristling with bicyclists: 70 year old great grandmothers, grade school boys, drunk men and housewives; the whole damn town peddled from dawn to dark, east to west, circles to squares) where I was up late talking to a bald Norwegian with an unruly blonde beard, arrow-head sharp nose and the expected blue eyes cracked with red. He wanted to tell me what the rest of the world thought about Americans. "People in the rest of the world," he pontificated, "tend to view Americans as arrogant and a little uninformed."
I think "a little uninformed" was polite code for "severely MR."
"Sure, I said, "I agree. A lot of Americans would, but unless you spend some significant time there, getting fed the fucking media bullshit most Americans are subjected to, then you'd have a different opinion. You'd still be right to call them arrogant and uninformed, but at least you'd see why they are."
The conversation went on like this. He didn't like the idea of blaming the media because there are so many sources of information out there, especially with the internet.
"People can get the truth," He said.
"Yes," I said and added, "indeed, but if they're already arrogant and, really now, grossly, a fucking lot uninformed; I mean, these people are ignorant; how are the ignorant and arrogant going to hunt down the truth when they believe what's being pumped into their house through CNN and FOX News? Oh," I quickly interjected to steer the subject my way, "Does your band have a MySpace page?"
"Ja," He said and gave me his MySpace address to promptly forget.
"MySpace is owned by Rupert Murdoch, okay?"
"Okay."
"And Rupert Murdoch owns FOX News, okay?"
"Okay"
"And in survey after survey it shows Americans who watch FOX News are at least three times* as likely to be confused or outright wrong about facts surrounding 911 and the invasion of Iraq. So, by having a MySpace account you're helping to keep Americans ignorant and that ignorance, man, that goes a long way in explaining their arrogance." (*stat pulled out of nether eye)
I thought I'd get him with that, but the fucker was ungettable; he steam-rolled on, uncaring, couldn't give a shit what makes Americans ignorant and arrogant, and when I mentioned the gas prices really getting out of hand, he went at me.
"Nobody cares about your gas prices. We always pay more. Let the car owners pay for it."
"But your high prices at the pump goes to the public. You all benefit from high gas prices."
"Who cares? Let the car owners pay for it."
"No, in America it's a handful of people getting filthy rich, taking all the profit, none of it goes to the people, none of it helps the public."
"The car owners can pay for it. They don't have to drive; let them pay."
It's hard to care about others when you have it so fucking good. That's the truth about Norway as much as it's the truth about America. I wanted to explain the American infrastructure and how cities were designed to force individual car ownership, and how a corporate conspiracy between diesel engine manufacturers and bus companies applied pressure to local governments to dismantle rail systems, trolley lines and cable car systems. I wanted him to know how long the corporate fucking of America has been fucking Americans, but I was too tired and since I wasn't able to score a point off him with corporate brainwashing I didn't expect to bounce him down the court and through the hoop on old corporate conspiracies that have lead to current travel conditions and gas prices. Instead, I wanted to talk about literature.
"You know," I said, "one of my favorite authors is from your country."
"Oh ya? Who?"
"Knut Hamsun. I fucking love Hunger. A beautiful work of a man's mind falling apart as sure as his shoes, declining with every step taken."
"Oh, I hate Knut Hamsun," he said, pronouncing it "Kuh-Newt" and since he did, and he was a fellow-countryman of Knut, I decided I'd also pronounce it his way. I let him score off me too easy. "His writing style is so dull and predictable and just goes on and on nowhere saying nothing," he paused, "but a lot of Norwegians think he's great."
"I guess I agree with them then," I said.
"Ja, no offense. That's just what I think."
"Oh sure," I said, and decided to slippy-slide our talk into music after he rattled off several sociologist writers he liked. I didn't ask about sociology, although it worried me that he didn't seem concerned with factors that shape a society, but evidently that's all he read, or liked to read, at least when he wasn't torturing himself with the turgid and flat-witted prose of Kuh-Newt.
He was into heavy metal so we talked about that. I said I adored German metal, and since we were in Germany it seemed appropriate to emphasize.
"Such as?" he asked.
I told him,"Subway to Sally, Kreator, Coroner, Iron Angel, Deathrow, Destruction, Sodom... even Tankard."
"Those are good," he said. Finally, we could agree on something. Sure we both thought Americans to be un- and/or mis-informed and arrogant, but differed on what it meant and the significance of the causes of their sad condition. I was glad he enjoyed good German metal, then he asked, "But do you know what the best German metal band is?" He answered after I shrugged. "Helloween." He loved Helloween. They were not only the best German metal band, but quite possibly the world's best ever. I was terror-stricken. It jarred me down to my soul and caused it to vibrate at just the right frequency with all other souls in sudden violent terror; it was the hum of humanity, and inspired by it, I said, "Americans can never free themselves or change the conditions of their media and ignorance of the world because they have been deceived by the myth of their freedom. You don't rattle, let alone break your chains if you don't know you're fucking shackled!"
"That's no excuse," he said.
Later, they had all the bands sleeping in a big room upstairs. Various mats, cushions and mattresses of burgundy, beige, gray, white and blue lay tetrised in, interlocked across the floor. It so happened I was laying next to the Viking fucker, and that fucker could snore. It trumpeted through his nose and clawed at the blackboards up his throat to escape like an amplified death-rattle. Nothing like that snore has been heard since the last female T-Rex bellowed in estrus. On and on it went and sometime, hours later, I finally collided with the old sandman. My wife was lying on my other side, sleepless from the Norske Nasal Symphony. I let out a few quiet snorts; nothing really compared to the magnificent roar of the man to my right. One of my minor restful sniffles stopped the Norwegian's snores. He awoke and immediately smacked me across the chest. I didn't wake up, and I don't know what it means but it got me wondering about the validity of the pre-emptive doctrine.