After several more minutes, Dr. Eppie Blight tapped Dr. Jeremy Wraxtiorre on the elbow and cleared his throat while staring intently at the Escaped Lunatic. "Yes?" He cautiously prodded. "Maybe you have something to say to us?"
The Escaped Lunatic looked up at Dr. Eppie Blight fearfully, shaking his head nervously as he grasped his stomach. He stepped backward a few steps, then he pushed past the Doctors and ran down the hall. The Cameraman followed hesitantly, keeping the camera pointed in the direction he was walking. We all ceased our private conversations and followed him down the hall after the Escaped Lunatic. We all followed him, as though we all had nothing better else to do, if only for the contemptuous joy of seeing somebody else's plight causing their eventual ruin and the emotional trauma which would follow it. Well, at least we were already in a hospital.
Dr. Blight stepped forward in concern. "What are you talking about? What is this?"
The Escaped Lunatic backed into the corner, tightening his grip on the blanket as he twisted it around his arm, winding it in spirals like braids of hair tugging at his scalp. "W-WW-W-Why do you think so much information started leaking out? You think it was whistleblowers or whoever, b-b-b-but in reality it was purposely put out there! PURPOSELY." He repeated the word with an odd inflection, as though he was unsure how the word should be pronounced and was rehearsing it on his tongue, trying to see how the actuality of speaking it was different from his imagined speakings of it. "Purposely. Or let out." He stumbled towards the window, unraveling the blanket from his arm and shaking his hand wildly as though the pinching of his nerves had caused his fingers to go numb. "There have been people speaking out against the system for a really long time. All of a sudden after nine-eleven, all this stuff--some of which had been suppressed for many years--starts coming out?" He wrapped the blanket around his arm again, intently, as a laborer who is tying down a loose board to hold it in place. His voice muttered repetitions of rehearsals again, testing the validity of the phrases against his assertions. "Or let out."
I stepped up mockingly, waving my hands and fingers in the air mysteriously. "Oooh, look at all the pretty colors."
Dr. Wraxtiorre grabbed my arm and pulled down at it. "No, don't! He may actually be hallucinating!"
Dr. Blight slapped the clipboard with his hand dismissively and announced, "He's a conspiracy theorist who has been over-medicated. I had thought that it was an over-dosage of caffeine, so I gave him sedatives. Then, when he started singing lullabies, I gave him stimulants to pick him up out of the funk I had put him in."
The Unknown Man stood behind us, furiously writing notes. After finishing a rather long sentence, he looked up and hastily ordered, "Hey, Doc! Make a sound like a duck."
Dr. Blight looked over his shoulder and muttered "Quack," in a perplexed voice.
The Unknown Man watched for a second, and then looked down at his notepad again, mumbling, "Yep, I thought so." Then he continued jotting furiously again.
The Escaped Lunatic fanned his hands in front of him, trying to clear the air as he struggled to breath in the cacophony of fumes in the vicinity of his ears. "As conspiracy theorists, most of us fail to realize or to look into certain things. One of the things we tend to overlook is how much control the powers-that-be really have. And it's right in front of our faces!" He spread out his fingers dramatically. "How many times have we heard that all major...er, mainstream media is owned by the same small group of individuals? Yet you see information slowly making its way into CNN, ABC, FOX and the like, and websites owned by major media companies and you think they don't want this information to get out?" He looked around, expecting nods of agreement, shrugs of confusion, or even face-palms of dismay, but nobody was reacting--at least not outwardly. "Do you know how controlled all that stuff is? If they don't want it out, it's not getting out. At least not at that scale . . ." He trailed off, allowing his gaze to follow a vaporous trail of light across the floor to the wall, up the wall, and out the ventilation duct for the stove-tops. He turned on his heels slightly and mumbled to himself, "Or let out." He fell silent, staring dissonantly at the wall and fumbling at his nose with his fingers.
Dr. Wraxtiorre and I turned suddenly to face Dr. Blight, with scornful glares in our eyes. "What the Hell is he talking about?" I demanded, nearly shouting.
Dr. Blight lowered the clipboard and scratched at his chin authoritatively. "So, basically what's happening is this whole conspiracy thing has been engineered to function in our society somewhat like a religion."
The TV Host grimaced and repeated the word, "Engineered?" Then he held the microphone towards himself and asked, "Social Engineering? Conspiracy theorists have been engaged in social engineering? Religion, too? Are they all in on it? Aaagh, it's a conspiracy!"
The Cameraman leaned out from behind the camera with his hat in his hand and slapped the TV Host over the head. "Get ahold of yourself! You're a newsman."
Dr. Blight leaned forward, explaining cautiously. This thing, like a culture, has been engineered to function like a religion in this way. You are fed certain facts--things that are true--but they twist the story around. Or they just tell you half the story, like Moses and Aaron, or Noah's Ark, or the Clinton administration..." He trailed off, realizing that his last example was ill-suited to his argument. "Or they twist the facts."
The Cameraman repeated, "Like the Clinton Administration?"
Dr. Blight shrugged. "Um, no. I mean, a lot of the information they say is actually true."
The Cameraman blinked. "You mean, that story about the cigar was true?"
Dr. Blight waved him off, shaking his head diffidently. "Only the facts, though, not so much the story behind them, or what is really going on with those facts, or the real reasons behind them." He stopped shaking his head and looked around at each of us inquisitively, waiting. After a moment, he continued. "And if you notice, most conspiracy theorists have pretty much the same beliefs and the same mentality--"
The Escaped Lunatic interrupted, "You're being programmed, just like everyone else!"
Dr. Blight raised a finger at the Escaped Lunatic and continued looking at me and Dr. Wraxtiorre. "Pay attention to that." He stepped around behind us and turned around, figuratively.
The Escaped Lunatic look up, continuing. "I started realizing this when I ran across a couple of friends of mine who had gotten into all this. I realized we were pretty much going down the same track, learned about the same things, and ended up with the same views. You learn about HAARP, underground bases, aliens, chemtrails, the intervention theory, international bankers, the feds, AIDS, vaccines, shit they put in our food and water, the list goes on and on and on and on..." He looked at the floor again, searching for that vaporous trail of light that he had lost sight of earlier. "Another thing you notice is, just like religious people, we tend to start thinking we're better than other people, and even if not so much better, we tend to look down upon or feel somewhat hostile towards people because they won't "open their eyes" or they'll refuse to listen or to look into things. Nobody ever looks into things, not with the right kind of eyes. You need proper lighting to look into things the right way."
Dr. Wraxtiorre grimaced and looked over at Dr. Blight. "Maybe if you put him in a soundproof and airtight bubble, you could roll him down a hill and forget about the therapy sessions?"
Catch-22 and the Rosenhan Experiment
Not paying any attention to the Escaped Lunatic, Dr. Blight stared nervously at Dr. Jeremy Wraxtiorre. Referring to Dr. Wraxtiorre's comment that he should stuff the Escaped Lunatic into an airtight and soundproof ball and roll him down a hill, he stammered, "I can't believe you just said that to a fellow scientist! After all, you are a practitioner of the most hallowed of all sciences, Physics! You should be more respectful of my job, the sacred profession of psychiatry."
Dr. Wraxtiorre jumped backward like a horseshoe kitty, and turned on Dr. Blight. "Nonsense!" He shouted. "It's a pseudo-science, full of pseudo-doctors and pseudo-patients."
Trying not to lose control of the conversation, the Escaped Lunatic continued his tirade heedlessly. "What I'm trying to get at is the way they planted the evidence--and/or left the evidence behind, purposely--they knew that only the people close to it would pick up on it. And how--with their assistance--the information would then be filtered out to the general public. Or let out." He paused, looking off as he pondered the oddness of the sound of those three words. After a moment, he continued. "And they knew that only a small percentage of the people would pick up on it and run with it. Most people wouldn't. Little by little that starts growing and eventually--at least this was the plan--people would start a revolution." He looked around at all their faces, waiting for the sudden gasps of shock at his last assertion, but instead he heard laughter. "No, no, listen!" He quickly interjected. "They scare people into thinking that things are gonna get really bad--like people are gonna be shot in front of our homes and dragged into concentration camps, and all our privacy is being stripped away so that we react and want to do something about it--" He chuckled briefly, but hastily added, almost in a sly whisper, "Another thing is they know full well that not all people are going to revolt." He laughed again, a bit louder this time. Then, holding his hands out apologetically, he added, "It wouldn't work that way. I mean, they have their hardcore TV-addicted zombies that are never gonna change--" He froze, averting his eyes to every corner of the room, holding his breath for a second. "Wait, where was I?"
Dr. Blight had been ignoring the Escaped Lunatic, barely able to contain his rage at Dr. Wraxtiorre's unprofessional behavior. In a highly restrained voice, he ordered, "I will ask you to retract such unceremonious commentary about my chosen field of medicine."
Dr. Wraxtiorre clenched his fists and stared directly into Dr. Blight's eyes. "I will not!" He retorted. "The whole field of psychiatry is a BS science. They've never cured anyone, and what they use for diagnosis is all so--" He fumed, waving his hands about his head in exasperation. "Ridiculous!"
The Escaped Lunatic fumbled for words. "B-b-b-b-but...." The Unknown Man continued to jot down notes, scribbling faster and faster to get down all the details of the two conversations. The Escaped Lunatic looked upward, trying to interpolate the content of the doctor's arguments. He pointed a finger to one side of the room, and then wafted it across to the other side. "Many of the patients in mental hospitals are actually victims of government mind control experiments. Look up MKUltra if you've never heard of it. The program never stopped, they do it all the time. It's just more well-hidden." But nobody was listening to him anymore. They were all watching Dr. Wraxtiorre and Dr. Blight, as though expecting that a fist-fight might soon break out between them.
The Cameraman gasped in confusion that the Escaped Lunatic's sideshow tirade had been interrupted and it actually proved to be more captivating than his digression was. The TV Host encouraged the Cameraman to point the Steady-cam at the two of them instead of the Escaped Lunatic, so he turned slightly and stepped backwards so that he could point the lens at the two bickering doctors.
Dr. Wraxtiorre continued to argue. "Look at Nineteenth-Century statistics--only a third of the patients in mental hospitals improved, a third of them stayed the same, and a third got worse. Nellie Bly did a ferocious expose in the industry during her lifetime. The results were the same for those in asylums as it was for those who remained untreated."
Dr. Blight slapped his forehead loudly. "But a whole Century has passed since then!" He had inhaled to continue, but the Unknown Man interrupted him.
The Unknown Man raised a hand into the air, as though trying to call attention to the fact that he was no longer taking notes. "Hey, wait a second. There was this guy in the seventies who sent a bunch of colleagues to a few psychiatric hospitals pretending to be crazy in order to be admitted as patients and then pretending to be sane in order to get released. But no matter how sanely they acted, nobody thought of them as sane until they admitted to being crazy.
 |
| Alan Arkin as Captain Yossarian |
I blinked and shook my head, confused. "So. What? This guy from the seventies proved that you have to be crazy in order to be sane?"
The Unknown Man explained calmly. "His name was Rosenhan. David Rosenhan."
Dr. Wraxtiorre stammered. "I thought it was Giuseppe."
Dr. Wraxtiorre scratched his head. "What? How?"
Dr. Wraxtiorre continued to scratch his head. "Why?"
"For one thing," the Escaped Lunatic began, "You only need to be told something three times before you start believing it. But in the story, they kept forgetting, and Yossarian kept getting offended at being called Giuseppe--or Harvey." The Escaped Lunatic paused, looking around expectantly. Nobody seemed to get it. "Giuseppe's parents didn't seem to get self-conscious about misremembering their own son's name, but Yossarian was unimaginably mortified that he could pass himself off as a dead pilot whose parents didn't even know which proper noun to use in referring to him and yet couldn't pretend to be insane to save his life!" He paused again, holding out his hands, palms up to catch the dropped jaws of those who might suddenly get it.I advanced on the Escaped Lunatic angrily. "Okay, waittaminute!" I almost shouted. "We're getting off the subject here. What happened with that guy from the seventies? That Rosenhan guy?"
The Unknown Man clasped his pencil against his notepad and began strolling towards the others. "Rosenhan's colleagues were not recognized as sane by any of these hospital's doctors or staff. The patients recognized them as sane, though, and thought they were journalists because they were constantly taking notes--not even secretly. They even told the doctors and nurses they were sane, but their arguments and behaviors were defined in terms of the pathology of the conditions they were diagnosed with during admission. They had to act crazy and then act like their prescribed treatments were working in order to be released. His report, called Being Sane in Insane Places, detailed the whole thing."
I jerked and blurted, "Whoa! That's pretty serious. What did the psychiatric industry do when he released his results?"
Holding his notepad and pencil out as a warning, the Unknown Man answered, "There was a big uproar. Some people began to doubt the validity of the methods of psychiatric diagnosis, while those who defended the industry compared the study to the questioning of diagnostic methods for conditions like bleeding peptic ulcers. In order to save the reputation of the psychiatric industry, another hospital invited Rosenhan to send more of these so-called pseudo-patients to their hospital so that they could identify the sane persons who were only posing as lunatics. A few months later, that hospital reported that it had admitted 195 new patients, and identified 41 of them as pseudo-patients."
I fidgeted nervously, unsure that I would appreciate the answer that my next question might receive. "How many colleagues had Rosenhan sent as pseudo-patients to that hospital during that time?"
The Unknown Man smiled a wicked smile and responded quietly, with a despairing voice, "None."
Tree-kicking Lectures
Dr. Eppie Blight scowled at Dr. Jeremy Wraxtiorre, still angered by his suggestion of throwing the Escaped Lunatic into an airtight and soundproof bag and rolling it down a hill. "I can't believe that you think it's okay to say make such snarky comments about a fellow practitioner of the sciences! I have the full education of a physician, with all the medical training of a surgeon, along with all the pharmaceutical training to understand brain chemistry and chemical interactions in the functions of the human metabolism!"
Dr. Wraxtiorre waved him off, then looked over at the Cameraman and shrugged at the lens of the camera. Still not speaking, he looked over at the Escaped Lunatic, waiting expectantly for him to continue his lecture.
Looking at Dr. Blight, the Escaped Lunatic sneered dismissively. "Are you still on about that?" He began to resume his lecture with "If you're smart enough, you know that fighting the system will never work. The system will fall apart when everyone wakes up and does absolutely nothing, and they need resistance to bring about change. If they can't get people to revolt it's gonna be really hard to transition us into a new 'World Order' or a 'Police State.' Note how more and more instances of police brutality are being deliberately shown to the public. They want to enrage people. Note also how many movies have been put out throughout time where there's an underground society, in many films it's actually called The Resistance, who fights the system and wins.
I brightened up, eager to take an opportunity to promote my book. "It's just like that line from that poem Schizophrenic Diatribe II, in my book, Mangled Doves, where it says, 'They make movies and sing songs, but nobody listens.' It was a commentary on the pathological indifference to activism that pervades our society."
The CEO appeared in the hallway dragging his wife by her hand, impatient to leave. He drooped his head towards the floor and muttered, "No wonder your book isn't selling." He shook his head sadly, but then looked up with a sense of urgency in his eyes. "But, look. We've got to go! I've only got this helicopter scheduled for two hours, and I only gassed it up for five minutes longer than that!"
"Cheapskate!"
As they hurried down the hall, the Escaped Lunatic continued in his lecture. "So, picture a huge riot, a hypothetical one. And, if you have researched what happened to President Chavez you know that more than likely it would be instigated by the CIA. CIA personnel are strategically placed, posing as civilians, in certain spots to do certain things--Maybe they accidentally shoot an old lady during the riot or something. What happens after that? No more guns for the general public. Just like that!"
The Escaped Lunatic continued his lecture. "Of course, the plan is much bigger than that. Another huge tool they've been using is the FED. The monetary system as it exists can't hold up much longer--we're not the only country who has a central bank." He chuckled under his breath, but coughed a couple of times to clear his throat.
Walking alongside the Escaped Lunatic, Dr. Wraxtiorre had been scratching his head as he listened, and pondered aloud, "How to do that?"
The Escaped Lunatic brightened up and blurted, "Make it seem like the people did it! Give the people a politician who speaks against this--instead of having the system collapse by itself--have people WAKE UP and actually take matters into their own hands and do something about it, and support him and see what solutions he has to offer and back all his decisions up, just because you think he's a good guy." He pounded his fist on his open palm rhythmically three times as he chanted. "Problem, reaction, solution!"
When they got outside and stepped out to the parking lot, they found the helicopter hovering over the helipad. The CEO motioned to the pilot that he wanted him to bring it over to the parking lot's edge and settle on the ground so that they could get on board and fly it back to the Corporate office building where it would be refueled for its next assignment. As the pilot began to carefully maneuver it across the tops of trees toward the edge of the parking lot, the helicopter suddenly fell out of the sky and crashed on the hybrid car, smashing it as well. Everybody jumped and stepped backward onto the sidewalk, moving closer to the building. The CEO looked over at his wife and asked, "Aren't you glad I didn't make you wait in the car?"
The hospital doors suddenly flew open as several interns rushed out to the scene of the crash to help get the pilot out of the twisted metal of the wreckage. While the hospital staff and some emergency crews worked to extricate the pilot from the helicopter, Dr. Wraxtiorre compared Dr. Blight's argument to consumer complaints against the power of the oil industry. "You sound just like all those people who complain about Big Oil's arrogance and then get in their cars to drive away. Did you really think that you could free yourself from dependence on the oil-industry's products by liberating yourself from your devotion to your gas-burning cars? After all, the production of gasoline represents such a small portion of the oil industries' business, and all these consumer boycotts of the fossil-fuel-burning vehicles are no longer effective. All polymerized products require the use of petroleum products in their manufacture, and so any purchase of tupperware or any other product packaged in plastic will contribute to the revenues of the oil industry.
I stared quizzically at Dr. Wraxtiorre. "So, by extension, what you are saying is that the psychiatry industry will flourish whether or not I am a customer of it, whether I speak against it or in its defense, or even whether I benefit from it or not?"
Dr. Blight interjected. "No, he is not saying that! He is saying that he has no right to criticize my specialized branch of medicine because his expertise is in a totally different discipline. He should go back to Appearing to Study Particle Physics because it's what he's good at."
A Homeless Man wandering down the sidewalk stepped up and chastised one of the trees in the hospital's grassy medians. The Cameraman noticed that Dr. Wraxtiorre had looked over and was watching him. He turned the Steady-Cam towards the Homeless Man and studied him.
The Homeless Man advanced on the tree angrily, looking past it as though he were addressing somebody who was standing beside it. He began to yell, belligerently, "As if you'll listen." He raised his hand against the tree threateningly, but turned away, as if he had decided not to back-hand the trunk. "But what the Hell, you asked for it. Consider the oil spill and boycott. How many people actually changed their driving habits as a result? Did you?" He spun around looking directly at the tree again. "I didn't. I changed what gas station I stop at, but I didn't change my driving habits. Because 'you have to drive in this country!' Because 'I need my car!' Because 'I'm already driving an efficient vehicle, I'm already doing my part. It's those damned oil companies, they've rigged the game. I'm just a victim of circumstances. I don't want to be part of it, but I have to because they give me no choice.'"
He calmed down a bit, and shuffled his feet slightly, looking down at the grass he was standing on. "Funny thing, though. A few months ago, my car started going belly-up, and my driving habits did change, because I didn't have the resources or knowledge to fix it. So I stopped driving. Sure enough, I survived. I still managed to make it to the grocery store and to classes. I still managed to get all the things done that I needed to get done, except I don't drive to do them--I walk, or ride my bike, or use public transportation for long distances. You know, it feels really good to be able to say that I have not personally spent a dime on gasoline in the last couple of months. If my car hadn't died, I wouldn't have realized I could do that because I had allowed my thinking to become trapped--I gave big oil companies power over my life by allowing myself to be lulled into self-pity: 'It's not my fault, I don't want to do these things, but they've rigged the game!' You can't survive without driving! 'I have no choice! I'm forced to play along, because those evil bastards have set the game up that way, so instead I'll just make smart-ass comments, tear people down who point out things I don't like, pretend I'm the white elephant, the guy who really reads Playboy for the articles and never looks at porn on the internet, and I'll just blame everybody else. Maybe when a few strangers tell me how clever and witty I am with my remarks, it will help offset the guilt I feel for not getting off my ass and trying a little harder to stop being part of the problem.'"
He calmed down a bit, and shuffled his feet slightly, looking down at the grass he was standing on. "Funny thing, though. A few months ago, my car started going belly-up, and my driving habits did change, because I didn't have the resources or knowledge to fix it. So I stopped driving. Sure enough, I survived. I still managed to make it to the grocery store and to classes. I still managed to get all the things done that I needed to get done, except I don't drive to do them--I walk, or ride my bike, or use public transportation for long distances. You know, it feels really good to be able to say that I have not personally spent a dime on gasoline in the last couple of months. If my car hadn't died, I wouldn't have realized I could do that because I had allowed my thinking to become trapped--I gave big oil companies power over my life by allowing myself to be lulled into self-pity: 'It's not my fault, I don't want to do these things, but they've rigged the game!' You can't survive without driving! 'I have no choice! I'm forced to play along, because those evil bastards have set the game up that way, so instead I'll just make smart-ass comments, tear people down who point out things I don't like, pretend I'm the white elephant, the guy who really reads Playboy for the articles and never looks at porn on the internet, and I'll just blame everybody else. Maybe when a few strangers tell me how clever and witty I am with my remarks, it will help offset the guilt I feel for not getting off my ass and trying a little harder to stop being part of the problem.'"
Suddenly, the Homeless Man turned and looked over his shoulder and looked at us with a shocked look on his face. "What?" He looked back at the tree again, and then turned to stare at us again. "Haven't you ever seen a grown man argue with a tree before?" He paused, waiting for us to answer. Seeing that we were speechless, he snarled, "Tree Huggers!"
He turned around again, renewing his contemptuous stance against the tree. He kicked the tree several times as he continued to berate it. "That is self-pity, and that is precisely your argument regarding media content and news coverage. Oh, it's not you! You never, ever read salacious gossip. You are far too wise and urbane for that! It's all these other people! It's the media! You can't do anything about it. You are just a poor, helpless victim being force-fed fluff and puff by those evil bastards in the news media. Yeah, fine. You want to believe that, you go ahead. But in the mean time, like I said: there are clearly other people caught in this trap, which is largely of their own construction. If you really need the ego points so badly that you've got to jump in with snarky, self-righteous declarations about how terribly victimized you are by the evil media and how you can't do anything about it because you aren't part of the problem, you go right ahead!" He paused, inhaling deeply as he stepped back and planted his feet again.
"As for me, I'll keep pointing out these same things until people start getting it. And I'll keep coming back at those who want to tear me down for it. I'll keep calling out those self-styled white elephants who like to pretend that all the problems in the world belong to someone else, and they are merely victims. I'll continue to challenge those who care more about getting a few random strangers to tell them how funny they are than about actually getting off their asses and doing something about it. I'll continue calling out the media every time I see a distortion, a twist, a distraction, a diversion. Because, you see, I am not going to continue being a victim. I don't believe that I can afford self-pity any longer, and I don't think this country or even this species can afford it any longer. If we all do that-- instead of playing a cool, laid-back hipster douchebag caring more about how many Tweetable LOLs we can get and how cool and detached we can make people think we are and how many different ways we can misuse the word 'ironic'--then maybe things will start to change."
The CEO tossed his wife's hand away sternly, and stomped across the hospital's lawn towards the Homeless Man.
Ignoring the CEO, the Homeless Man stepped around to the back of the tree, continuing his tirade relentlessly. "None of this lets the media--or the oil companies--off the hook for their malfeasance and neglect. But the bottom line is this: They are in business to make money. They make money because we give it to them either directly (say, by buying their gasoline) or indirectly (by watching their TV news shows or visiting their websites so they make money from advertising). If we, each of us, individually, are more conscientious about our behavior, if we make the effort to consider how our actions and choices, every day, punish or reward those companies who do business the way we would prefer it be done, that's when change starts to happen. Because contrary to the laughably naive assertions of laissez-faire capitalists, objectivists, and those who laughably refer to themselves as libertarians, a business or industry will always act in its own best interests, and that means doing things that generate profit. If 'news' channels filled with hyperventilating ideologues suddenly have no viewers, but those which dispassionately present facts without editorializing or pushing gossip, sex, and controversy suddenly rise to the top of the ratings chart, the gossip-mongers and hand-wavers will either change their model, or be out of business."
The CEO stormed right up to the Homeless Man and stood before his with his hands on his hips.
The Homeless Man waved at the tree dismissively, and stepped back, satisfied that he had fully revealed his disdain for the tree's lackadaisical attitude towards big business, whether it be the oil industry or news media corporations. He paused, waiting for a rebuttal, or even a retort. The tree remained silent, unswerving. The Homeless Man folded his arms, and stroked his chin, as though preparing himself for a blistering outburst of rage, but nothing happened. Finally, the Homeless Man spread his arms out in exasperation and harrumphed, "Or we can just keep yapping about how we're above it all, and it's all somebody else's fault, and we're just innocent victims of circumstance. Don't blame me for those bulbous acorns, man. I'm just reading the articles."
The CEO stomped forward directly at the Homeless Man and pushed him into the street.
The Escaped Lunatic rushed out into the street the help the Homeless Man back up to his feet. He whispered to him as he brushed off his clothes for him. "Always look at two sides of the coin, and always look further. Take that advice. I went for years without wanting to listen to anything that went against what I thought I was uncovering. Again, most of the actual facts are true. And yes, some things are pretty messed up. And there will be instances where people get arrested--and worse-- for merely speaking out against the government, but this is to hold up the belief that there's something really wrong going on here, and to get people angry. I can tell you that a lot of conspiracy theories have flaws--big ones. And you should look into these flaws."
The Homeless Man furrowed his brow as he watched the Escaped Lunatic, wondering how his whispers could be related to the lecture that he had just finished giving to one of the Oak trees in the hospital's parking lot.
The Escaped Lunatic ignored the Homeless Man's confusion and stood up, looking at the Doctors and TV camera crew standing on the sidewalk, speaking louder so that everyone could hear. "For now, just remember that anyone going around scaring people is just playing into their game. Whether they know it or not. They have their players like Alex Jones, Jesse Ventura, and all the known conspiracy theorists, and they also have their puppets. The ones who are fed information without knowing that they're actually helping the agenda by feeding all these facts to the public. Anyone who advises people to fight are supporting their agenda knowingly or unknowingly. Movies that got a boatload of attention like 911 Truth Movement, Zeitgeist, Loose Change, The Big Fix, et cetera, are all part of the same agenda as well. Dig deep and you'll find many things that will make you think. You'll find flaws left and right. There are a lot of them. I mean, once you start seeing what's going on, you realize how much stuff doesn't make sense and how much of it actually does, so you'll keep having realization after realization."
Dr. Blight clasped his hands triumphantly as he cheered, "That's exactly the problem with Conspiracy Theorists! They develop OCD symptoms and their research gives them the endorphin rush that provides them with the sense of security that obsessive rituals provide for the other patients. They become addicted to the endorphin rush and seek to repeat it with further research into their conspiracy theories, which simply becomes a vicious cycle of addiction-seeking."
Dr. Blight clasped his hands triumphantly as he cheered, "That's exactly the problem with Conspiracy Theorists! They develop OCD symptoms and their research gives them the endorphin rush that provides them with the sense of security that obsessive rituals provide for the other patients. They become addicted to the endorphin rush and seek to repeat it with further research into their conspiracy theories, which simply becomes a vicious cycle of addiction-seeking."
Putting on a Show of Anti-Activism
The Itinerant Philosopher stepped out of the Hospital's door. "Sorry I'm late, I just had to take a burly dump and couldn't leave it until it fully left me, as it were. What happened out here?" He surveyed the messy wreckage of the helicopter laying atop the hybrid car's body. "Say, this reminds me of the Director-of-Accounting's Secretary's mishap earlier. Was anybody hurt?"
The Cameraman, paying undivided attention to the TV Host, blurted out the side of his mouth, "Nope, just the pilot. But they've got him in the ER and they're working him over in there."
The TV Host grabbed the Cameraman's arm, pulling him backward. Smirking at the Itinerant Philosopher, he said, "We were gonna do a Reality-show-like challenge, pitting Dr. Wraxtiorre and Saint Sixedog against each other in an Iron-Chef-like competition, forcing them to try and concoct a dish called Tilapia Fricassee, which doesn't exist because the fishmeat is too flaky to hold up in a broth." His eyes twinkled fiendishly, but he suddenly frowned. "But I can see that such a spectacle won't work for our viewers, and probably would fail to present the desired razzle-dazzle that our audience craves. So, instead, I thought we could do a character-study piece on Dr. Eppie Blight's groundbreaking studies in brain chemistry among Conspiracy Theorists and Religious Fanatics."
Dr. Blight immediately brightened up, clapping his palms together under his chin in excitement. "I knew that somebody would take my research seriously! Those hospital administrators are so caught up in their profit-motives that they wouldn't know real Hippocratic medicine if it bit them on the butt!" He suddenly curled into a protective slouch, and whispered, "You're not filming yet, are you? I wouldn't want my bosses to know that I talk about them like that."
The TV Host smirked, and shook his head.
Dr. Blight twirled on his heels energetically. "Okay, so, here's a quick rundown of my material. I believe that all Conspiracy Theorists and Religious Fanatics suffer from the same chemical-hormonal imbalance, caused by a youthful observation of some horrific tragedy. Conspiracy Theorists, like sufferers of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorders, can only reassure their existence--validate it--by repeating the confirmations that some outside agenda is at work in their world . . . that, somehow, all the actions of people around them are being orchestrated by some undefinable organization, widely known as the Illuminati, which engenders a secret society in which membership will not be acknowledged by its followers, and the pervasive nature of this society's influence causes people to behave akratically."
The TV Host held up his hand, fanning his fingers expressively. He spoke correctively, as though asking Dr. Blight to confess something he had been proven guilty of but hadn't yet admitted. "Now, remember. We have a captive audience listening to every word you say. It needs to feel like a discrediting of Conspiracy Theorists and Religious Fanaticism so that mainstream followers will watch it thinking that they will have their literal and conventional beliefs defended by its mocking tone." He sidestepped towards the Escaped Lunatic while he continued, not even stopping his sentence to inhale. "But all the while it will be feeding that fear which is usually considered the fuel that drives Conspiracy Theorists along in their passionate drive to convince people to WAKE UP and do something."
The Escaped Lunatic began to wave his hands in front of the TV Host's face in a blocking motion. "But, but, but, most of what we Conspiracy Theorists talk about is actually true. I mean, you know that there's technology to modify the weather, and they can also create earthquakes, storms, hurricanes--the works. They can also destroy hurricanes before they make landfall, by the way--if they wanted to. They can listen in on you through your cell phones even when they are off, and record your keystrokes and mouse movements on wireless keyboards and mice if you set your phone near your computer. There's been a plan called Project Blue Beam to use hologram technology to stage an extraterrestrial invasion for the main purpose of uniting the whole world under one government. So, all the recent UFO sightings are probably holograms." He began wringing his hands again, squeezing his fingers so hard that the knuckles popped loudly. "I don't know, I stopped looking into all of this stuff awhile back, when I was hospitalized."
The TV Host had been listening hesitantly, his eyes growing wider in alarm as he listened. "Yeah, you're really out there, aren't you?" He stepped toward the Escaped Lunatic and began to straighten up his clothes and brush dust off his sleeves. "You just keep up the frenetic rambling speeches and nervous mannerisms so that people will keep their eyes on you. No offense, Doctor, but his disheveled appearance is much more interesting to the viewer's eyes than your anally short haircut. Your patient's rants need to seem a bit wacked-out or the mainstream audience won't find comfort in your contrasting calmness."
The Escaped Lunatic allowed his shoulders to sag as his mouth gaped in despair. "You need to include these arguments that reveal how the Powers-that-be are pushing us all towards a massive reaction, revolt, uprising or even a revolution, and the fact that spreading conspiracy theory reports may seem like a successful effort to indict or incriminate the Powers-that-be, but all it leads you to is the revolt that they are encouraging so that they can install this one-world government and global monetary system which would dissolve regionalism and cultural identity, basically turning people more into sheep than we already are."
The TV Host shrugged and responded, "My job is to promote ratings by presenting an entertaining show that my fans will watch with undivided attention so that they will be afraid to go to the kitchen for drink refills or snacks during the commercial breaks, so that my advertisers will remain convinced that their consumers are actually receiving their advertisements. Content has nothing to do with it--it's all about presentation."
Dr. Blight held up a finger hesitantly. "Okay, but the content has got to be there in order for your viewers to comprehend my research, because content doesn't exist in a vacuum. It needs context in order to be understood. You have to let him present his arguments so that my research will make sense to your viewers."
The Cameraman threw up his hands in exasperation. "Look, guys! We can edit it down for time at the station, and rearrange it for content when we edit it, so that your precious content will be retained, but can we please get on with it!?"
The Escaped Lunatic stepped away and projected his voice as he spoke in an announcer's voice. "Okay, so the system is designed to keep you within a certain frequency range, because that's the frequency range that their systems have been designed to work with. So they can easily control you when you're within that range. Radio waves, television and HAARP--via elf waves--among other things--affect our frequencies. The news media gathers up the worst shit around the world and conveniently places it all in one spot, all in front of your face, and--being that TV was originally designed to keep you in a trance or hypnotic state--this helps keep you at that frequency. Being scared or worried keeps you trapped in a certain frequency range and keeps you trapped in this whole matrix that they have control of. So, yet another purpose of this whole fear-mongering campaign to keep people afraid from the government and the Illuminati, and the ruling families and so on and so forth, is to keep you vibrating at a certain frequency. And if you believe that there was going to be a massive collective conscious awakening or whatever, this would make it harder for that to happen as well. In my opinion, there are things worth looking into, but there are so many lies out there--it's like they've manufactured a story for anything you try to get into, and since you don't know any better and nobody's ever talked to us about any of this stuff, we run with it!"
Dr. Eppie Blight held his arm out expressively, indicating the Escaped Lunatic's triumphant stance. "You see, he needs to be locked up. Clearly he's insane! I mean, look at him--he's a Conspiracy Theorist."
Dr. Wraxtiorre stepped in between them, fuming. "You're just afraid of him. You're not worried about the danger that he might pose to himself or others, you fear him because he endangers the conventional mainstream worldview that you hold. In your world, crimes are perpetrated by criminals who act out of desperation or ignorance. Most laws that citizens are expected to abide by are simple and mutually beneficial. But that's NOT the way things really are, is it? And it terrifies your feeble little mind to accept that the world is far from honest and simple. Some laws are so bafflingly complex or self-contradictory that they allow the restrictions they were written to prohibit. Some of the most horrific atrocities were committed by some of the smartest people under the guise of the 'Greatest Good' or some self-serving agenda which treats the working class like some kind of feed-trough which can be taxed to death and underpaid."
The Escaped Lunatic broke in, his voice shaking like he was on the verge of tears. "Do you have any idea what it's like to follow this stuff, believe in it, go where it leads you so that you can do what it tells you to do in order to make the world not such a fatally horrific place only to find that the Illuminati member you have identified has an office in a skyscraper in New York and when you finally gain access to the building so that you can break into his office, you find that it is empty?" He inhaled deeply, and gasped as though he had just narrowly escaped drowning, stumbling backward as he grabbed his chest. When he finally caught his breath, he replied to his own question, "Nobody has ever been in it. The chair has never been sat in, the desk drawers have never been opened, the plants have never been watered, the computer has never been booted, the copier has never printed any reports, the coffeemaker has never brewed anything . . . " He stepped forward into the empty space beside the Cameraman with his hands, grasping at the space in front of him.
The Itinerant Philosopher looked upward and bobbled his head as he counted the beats of the Escaped Lunatic's sentential cadence. "Wow, that was pretty impressive. You know, here is something to remember about movements. Movements are furthered by gatherings, which become protests--however peaceful they may be--police presence results in posturing and confrontations, stand-offs result in shoving, riot-gear, rock-throwing, tear-gas, assaults, night-sticks, and eventually mass arrests. It becomes the kind of problem that it intended to prevent. Another difficulty with movements is that they are usually started by a particular person who has one issue, and once that person gets followers, other issues are added to the platform, and pretty soon somebody leader-like takes charge and makes it about his or her own issue instead of the issue that it was originally about, and it becomes something totally other than what it was when it started. The pre-Bolshevik revolutionaries of Russia started out that way. Look at Chernyshevsky's book, What's to be Done, and Dostoevsky's Devils. The first book is piss-poor narration, but it paints a pretty picture--it's the world that the utopian socialists would've wanted to create. But the Stavrogin factor in Dostoevsky's novel really gets scary after reading about the dreamlike notions portrayed in Chernyshevsky's novel."
The Escaped Lunatic grabbed the Itinerant Philosopher's arm and almost shouted, "Look! You're not listening! Okay? So, the basic picture is that they're putting out facts because they want people to fight the system. The people pulling the strings are practically invisible, and they know us better than we know ourselves in certain ways. In other words, they pretty much have everything controlled, and whoever we fight are not going to be the main players. It'll be our governments, our corporations, our own police, our military--we'll even fight ourselves before we fight them! Because we're pretty much operating from a feeling of anger and frustration fed by all the information that's leaked and what happened to the economy--which was crashed on purpose, by the way. I mean, there is a ton of nonsense you can get into, really, but it's pretty much useless and might even be detrimental once you know what's really going on." He looked at the Itinerant Philosopher's face, and then looked at Dr. Blight, and jerkily turned to the TV Host and the Cameraman, then he glanced at the CEO and his wife, still standing on the other side of the parking lot. Seeing blank faces, he continued with renewed fervor. "So, things get bad, people revolt, and then they offer us solutions making it seem like it's us doing it, or a party in complete opposition to them. That's why I advised you to keep from joining any movements and things like that. Because even if the movement itself was not started by them, if it's big enough, they'll infiltrate it and guide it towards a different end. They're better at all this stuff than we give then credit for. I think that's another mistake we make in our Conspiracy Theories. We think, 'Oh, yeah, we've busted them!' or 'We're winning!' when they have us exactly where they want us!"
The Escaped Lunatic looked around for the Homeless Man, but couldn't see him anywhere. After searching everyone's faces again, he stepped around in front of the Cameraman and squared off in front of the Steady-Cam. He concluded, "Basically, the only thing I am personally against is this whole 'Fight the System' mentality. Because that's what they want. They need people to fight the system in order to bring about the changes they need in order to control everyone and everything through one entity, or one government. That's why all these facts are leaking out. It's all being done systematically, to cause a reaction, and they're close! Look at all the peaceful protests going on. Now, peaceful protests aren't bad, but if you notice it seems that they want people to fight. Have you heard all the reports of cops harassing people and spraying them with Pepper Spray and all that? And then the news shows play it while blaming the protesters? Just my opinion, ya know. I'll keep stressing that I stopped looking into it all when I found out they were purposely trying to get people to fight the system. Also, if people refuse to fight no matter what, this could actually turn out good. Just my opinion, ya know, and we all know what those are worth."
I stepped up behind Dr. Blight and tapped him on the shoulder, timidly. After a pause, I asked, "Have you ever considered the possibility that the Conspiracy Theorists in your study might also be suffering from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder?"
Dr. Blight shrugged and looked off at the horizon, thinking. After several moments, he retorted, "But that would mean that--" He paused, a look of alarm in his eyes. Finally, he repeated his statement, and completed it. "But, but, that would mean that Conspiracy Theorists who don't suffer from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder are perfectly sane."
Dr. Wraxtiorre stepped sideways over to the Escaped Lunatic, pointing his finger at him aggressively. "And you!" He stepped forward awkwardly, looking sternly at the Escaped Lunatic. He whispered, "Did you know that a campaign of anti-activism is itself a form of activism? You did realize that, didn't you?"
