Something In The Water

We spent most of the day doing our rat killin’ (running errands, to you Yankees ) and returned home to sit in our chairs on the back porch, fans humming away, watching the thermometer climb to near 90F. Good times. The joints appreciate the lack of refrigerated pain.

When we got down to the bottom of the mountain this morning, we detoured over to Pal’s drive-thru and we each got a sausage biscuit, an order of cheddar rounds (sort of like a large tater tot embedded with real cheddar cheese and smushed flat) and a sweet tea. While sitting in the line, I looked over and saw a familiar sight. A house near the restaurant has a large catalpa tree which shades a dog run of about 12 square feet. Inside the dog run is a beautiful German shepherd. Whenever we go through the drive-thru at Pal’s, we see this noble dog pacing around and around his tiny prison cell. We’ve never seen anyone emerge from the house and go in to pet or play with the dog. What a lonely and anxious life he must lead. Why would anyone buy or obtain such a lovely dog and then impound it in a backyard chain link gulag?

Some things are beyond my understanding.

The steep decline in masculine behavior among biological males has been discussed and dissected and beaten into fine powder. But it still shocks and angers me. The psych guru Jordan Peterson seems to be a fragile, damaged individual, and he is one of those males who cries anytime someone puts a camera or a microphone near him. He’s one of the more egregious examples, but he’s certainly not alone. Watch any local newscast and you’ll see males choking up and breaking down in tears as they discuss any number of things.

Before we cut the satellite dish cord, we used to occasionally watch programs on a Mormon channel, BYU TV, out of Salt Lake City, Utah. One of the programs we enjoyed was called “The Story Trek,” and it featured an affable blonde fellow named Todd Hansen. Hansen’s modus operandi was to pick a town in the continental US – at random – arrive there, pick a stranger on the street, get said stranger to select an area of the town (usually by dropping a Sharpie onto a map of the town with eyes closed), and then take his camera crew to the area in which the ink dot appeared. Hansen would then go door to door and ask people to tell him their story. Some folks resisted, but many agreed to talk to him after initially protesting, “I really don’t have a story.” Hansen’s talent was in drawing people out, getting them to describe their lives and their situations. It was not at all smarmy or melodramatic. It was charming and sometimes riveting, like the old-fashioned “man on the street” interviews back in the 60s and 70s.

One episode of “The Story Trek” stands out, though. I can’t remember for sure, but I think the program’s crew was in either Kentucky or West Virginia. They were walking through a neighborhood, looking for potential interview subjects, when they walked past a house where a lean, tough older woman was standing at the storm door, watching the camera crew with a revolver in her hand, dangling at her hip. Hansen freaked out, and he and the show’s crew beat a hasty retreat. Later, he filmed himself in the hotel room, trembling and talking in a quavering voice about how scared he’d been and how threatened they had all felt. And I lost all respect for him at that moment. An elderly woman, thin as a broom, was standing in her own doorway in her own home while a bunch of strangers paraded up and down her street with cameras and sound equipment, and she was merely holding a revolver at her side, not pointing it at anyone, not shouting, not threatening, not making a big display…and the intrepid host almost wet his panties. He couldn’t continue filming that day, and made a big production about his opposition to guns and violence and the violent gun-toting meanies who roam the countryside, being violent with the guns they tote..

It reminded me of the spergy little German, Eckart Tolle, who, when the scamdemic began, videoed himself huddled in his bedroom with the blinds drawn, wearing a mask (while alone) and whispering as if he were afraid the monsters from “A Quiet Place” were lurking outside. And I thought, “So you wanna be my guru, eh?”

Is it something in the water? I’m not being cutesy. Something seems to have castrated most of the males in this place that used to be a nation. What can it be?

On the way home, we heard a song of the radio that neither Mrs. Orr nor I had ever heard before. The title caught our attention. I thought I would post it here. Just because.

~ S.K. Orr