SemiConscious Dot Org

I’m sure you’ve probably heard about this by now, but we’ve lost another good one: the philosopher Carlin has died.

Man, this is not good. First Hunter, then Robert Anton Wilson, then Vonnegut, now Carlin. At a time when we as a nation and a race are getting dumber and dumber at geometric rates, the list of people who could find witty ways to tell us how dumb we’re getting and implore us to stop is shrinking quickly.

In a bizarre coincidence that Alanis Morrisette would no doubt mislabel as “ironic,” I recently posted a poll inspired by none other than Carlin. It’s as fitting a tribute as any:

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UPDATE: Here’s some words of wisdom from the master. And some more. And more. And how about more? Ok, and one last one. Anyone have any other favorites?

First, it was Hunter Thompson.

Then, Robert Anton Wilson.

And now, I find out that Kurt Vonnegut has died.

The authors in my book collection are dropping like flies.

Pynchon had better not be next.

The most thoroughly and relentlessly Damned, banned, excluded, condemned, forbidden, ostracized, ignored, suppressed, repressed, robbed, brutalized and defamed of all Damned Things is the individual human being. The social engineers, statisticians, psychologists, sociologists, market researchers, landlords, bureaucrats, captains of industry, bankers, governors, commissars, kings and presidents are perpetually forcing this Damned Thing into carefully prepared blueprints and perpetually irritated that the Damned Thing will not fit into the slot assigned to it. The theologians call it a sinner and try to reform it. The governor calls it a criminal and tries to punish it. The psychotherapist calls it a neurotic and tries to cure it. Still, the Damned Thing will not fit into their slots.

—Never Whistle While You’re Pissing, by Hagbard Celine

Great art is cathartic. Have you ever stumbled across a book, album, movie, poem, painting, etc., that changed your life permanently? That scrambled your mental circuits, pulled all the wires out of the cerebral switchboard and plugged them into different sockets? That changed the very way you perceive the universe around you – forever?

For most people, such profound, life-changing works of art seem to revolve around the concept of belief – ie, they read or see or hear something that introduces them to a belief system of which they had hitherto been entirely or partially ignorant, and suggests an explanation or reason for their existence that makes sense to them. This work of art – whether it’s a Beethoven symphony, On the Road, a Picasso painting, the songs of Dylan or Lennon, the Bible, or It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back – imbues their life with a sense of purpose. In short, it makes them a Believer.

For me, it was the exact opposite. The work of art that changed my life forever caused me to doubt everything.

One day, I was rooting through a box of old books in my mother’s house, looking for something interesting to read, and happened upon a novel (actually, three novels in one cover) called The Illuminatus! Trilogy. It had been written by two guys named Robert Anton Wilson and Robert Shea, whom I had never heard of before. The jacket and blurbs seemed to suggest that it was your garden variety conspiracy novel. I love a good conspiracy as much as anyone, so I dove in.

I quickly became lost, however. The plot seemed to be going in one direction, only to suddenly veer off in another, often within a few pages (and sometimes within the same page, or even the same paragraph.) Narrative point of view switched, seemingly randomly, between a bewilderingly large number of characters, and often between first and third person. Every time it appeared that the authors were building towards a coherent explanation of who or what was really behind all the myriad plots within plots within plots taking place, they would turn around and deftly destroy their own theory. I was confused as hell, and more than a little annoyed. “If they want me to believe any of this crap,” I thought, “why are they doing this?” Nevertheless, the character dialogue and the events taking place were interesting and often quite funny, so I stuck with it through all 800 pages, resolving to start over as soon as I finished, to see if it made any more sense the second time around.

And then, on the second reading, it clicked. I figured out what they were doing, and it blew my mind.

And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave…

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark—the place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.

Those words were written in 1971, the year I was born. I came into this world too late to see The Wave, and throughout my entire life, there has never been a single moment when the forces of Old and Evil weren’t winning.

And tonight, I find out that one of the few people left who actually seemed to care that this country is fast becoming a pathetic mockery of everything it once stood for is gone. And to make matters worse, it wasn’t the Bastards who took him out; nope, he took himself out. He let us all down.

George W. Bush and Dick Cheney and Karl Rove and the rest of their poisonous ilk must be laughing their asses off tonight. Their job just got a little easier.

(Update: 7:57 pm) The blogosphere has, not surprisingly, been rife with HST tributes and memorials today. Even less surprisingly, the one that comes the closest to echoing the savageness of Herr Doktor’s own prose is offered by The Rude Pundit.