The Annals

by Petronius Jablonski

  The circular argument can be a magnificent edifice (not invariably, of course: one must assess them on a case by case basis). The only argument more unjustly maligned is the ad hominem, where one attacks the man making the assertion. It is the salt, pepper, and garlic of discourse. Remove it and the stew becomes inedibly bland. More importantly, if the vitriol is sufficiently exultant, one can altogether dispense with the middle man, the position.

  How can we explain generations of thinkers shunning these forms of argument? If their validity were granted most philosophic problems would evaporate in puffs of smoke. Just as Einstein allegedly upended conceptions of Time entrenched for millennia, another great maverick will now overturn conceptions of what constitutes a valid argument. My demonstration is remarkably succinct, overlooked by pedants like Quine and cranks like Heidegger alike. To begin with, it is not the case that —

  Losing the thread? Straying off course? My little Candide your naiveté is charming. In this age of internets, laptips, blueberries, and every other infernal impediment to Quietude, it is tempting to liken Objectivity to a snapshot taken of a certain place at a certain time. Your innocence has spared you the torments of Oedipus. As if my task were that of a baby photographer enthusing his subject to coo and snapping pictures! Reality is not akin to a cuddly infant. It is a measureless lattice that can only be safely traversed via a network of tangents. The philosopher cannot, on pain of becoming hopelessly enmeshed in a dense web of ontological goo, plunge headfirst. He must meticulously navigate the catwalks of reality spider-like, stepping from one tangent to the next.

  Take heart, dear Reader, most philosophers throughout history shared your childlike faith in the straightforward, simplistic nature of reality. Lacking the fortitude to discover and probe the lattice-like structure, they became embittered and denied its Objective status altogether, blathering on about perspectives, subjectivity, and utility. Petronius’ Lattice is the last bastion of Objectivity. Fortunately, it is the only one needed.

  When to disengage one tangent and traverse a new one? Which of an infinite number to take? A demonstration is worth a thousand descriptions. Heretofore I began with the strand of memory atrophy and went to the strand of unjustly maligned arguments. Just as I was about to demonstrate the validity of circular and ad hominem arguments, I raced over the strand of introducing my Lattice. Now, I shall double back along a strand to quell yet another of the Reader’s hobgoblins: his suspicion that my political convictions are unorthodox, which swelled to dangerous proportions when he read the portion of Part VII where I critiqued a monument and expounded upon the perfect government. I fear that unless this boogeyman is dispersed, our progress will grind to a trickle.

  (Given the prior sentence, I could have opted for the strand of mixed metaphors, but seeing as I traversed it posterior to Part III, I shall instead proceed along the strand of comforting the Reader.)

  Now, in the political climate of our time there exists one axiom known to every schoolboy and beast in the field: a man’s political opinions are not merely viruses spread by ideologues on campus and media rabble rousers. And they are tangibly more than a tribal tendency to bifurcate all things into Us vs. Them. They constitute the essence of a man’s soul. When his body and mind pass away, his political convictions will shine on like the spectacular remnants of brilliant stars. How can the Reader trust what he reads in my annals unless he is fully assured that unclean spirits do not possess the writer? To alleviate his trepidation I shall demonstrate the smooth orbit of our ideological satellites. Then he may proceed free of the nauseating suspicion that he is in the presence of one of Them.

  Like any astute man with eyes warily fixed on the events of the day, the Reader holds his maxims and theories close to heart. And even if those wary eyes rarely move beyond the television and two internet sites for news of the world, these convictions are no less vital, no less cherished. Unquestionably he agrees that our nation is experiencing minor disturbances. The perpetual motion machine of democracy (or “constitutional republic” or whatever we’re calling it this week) requires perpetual tuning. Little wonder the engine knocks and grinds and belches greens clouds of noxious vapors. Assuredly the Reader entertains a theory explaining its disrepair. With the unfaltering conviction that we think with one mind on this matter, I will leave it to him to transcribe our brilliant diagnosis.

  The Primary Cause of our Nation’s Difficulties

  (Not to Include the Possibility that the Original Design is Hideously Amiss)

  A List of Culprits, Scapegoats, and Malign Forces Responsible for the Divine Breath of Freedom Reeking of Halitosis

  I would wager my very life that the Reader, like any aspiring mechanic, knows how to tune the grand engine of government and declaims his expertise as often as the subject arises (or after he has enjoyed the requisite number of thought-provoking beverages, whichever comes first). Certain of our coterminous ideas, I shall take Zeus for a walk while he commits our grand vision to paper. If only the clever but misguided Tocqueville could have enjoyed the fellowship of a coauthor.

  The Secret Recipe for New & Improved Liberty and Justice

  (Now with Equality, Fraternity, and Nine Essential Nutrients and Minerals)

  His heart unburdened by fears of impure doctrines, my little Robespierre may now safely turn the page in the tender presence of one of his own.

  VIII:

  We are Joined by Hitchhikers, I Expound Upon the Significance of the Bubblegum Slayer, We Join the Rainbow Gardeners, Sandy Dissolves my Prodigious Hang-Up, I Debunk a Puerile Legend, Introduce My Unnumbered Sensation, and Dream the Worst Dream of All Time

  Hands of dread choked me at the sight of the gaudy bohemians. “The Brethren of the Free Spirit marches on.”

  “I swear to God if you don’t give them a ride you’ll get carpel tunnel syndrome from jerking off,” said Sandy.

  They scurried to the car. Like mustard gas wafting over trenches, the stench of patchouli seeped from the backseat.

  Sandy kneeled on her seat to face them. “Where you guys going?”

  “The two shows in Colorado,” said Steve, introducing himself and his friend Kelly. “We’re doin’ the tour.”

  “Phish fans,” I said. “O sweet release of death.”

  “Quit it,” said Sandy.

  “Phish? Dude, where’ve you been?” said Steve, as though I had been keeping track of the various musical circuses enticing juveniles.

  “This is an awesome car,” said Kelly.

  I adjusted my mirror and discovered that the garish rags and paisley bandana could not completely hide the fact that she was rather fetching. “Do you like it? It is a Fleetwood.”

  “I love the voodoo doll.”

  “After we stop for gas, you and Sandy will have to switch places. You probably can’t tell from there, but it has a tag around its leg. If it is ever removed the icon will come alive and run amok.”

  “Please watch the road,” said Sandy.

  “Do you have any other tunes?” said Steve.

  “I have a vast selection,” I said, turning the Missa Solemnis up a notch. Condemned to give him a ride, I’d be damned if I’d miss the violin solo at the end of the Sanctus. “Please, regale me with tales of your travels.”

  As they chronicled “set lists” and compared the acoustics of various amphitheatres, Reason reminded me that the poor girl’s dissolute lifestyle was not entirely her fault. Just as Goethe’s wretched Sorrows of Young Werther once inspired droves of youngsters to shoot themselves, Jack Kerouac’s insipid and shameful glorification of hitchhiking possessed this sweet thing to wander the countryside in search of thrills or highs or what-have-yous. The two of them represented a living testament to the importance of literary influences. Books are our peers. If formative years are squandered with delinquent thugs, the outcome is all too predictable. Once Sandy joined Steve to rhapsodize about the latest jam bands, I planned on introducing Kelly to the towering peer of John Cleland.

  “You guy
s ever hitchhike?” said Steve, lighting the first of several hundred pipes of marijuana.

  “I suspect the sight of my shotgun, .44, and machete would deter most cars from stopping. And I would not dream of entering a stranger’s car without them.”

  “Aw c’mon. It’s as safe as any other type of transportation.”

  “You are whistling in the graveyard,” I told him. “The problem with hitchhiking is its presupposition of a hilariously optimistic assessment of human nature. You put yourself and little Kelly at the mercy of strangers, ignoring or denying the inherent savagery of the human spirit.”

  “I think most folks are pretty decent. We haven’t had too many problems.”

  “Wishful thinking will not change our blueprint. We were designed to reproduce and slaughter one another. The rest is window dressing. A wise man, upon reflecting on this simple truth, will arm himself to the teeth and trust no one, certainly no stranger.”

  “Here we go,” said Sandy. “Petronius has this goofy theory that the reason everyone is interested in evil men, like serial killers and dictators, is because they would if they could. They’re pissed that life has cheated them.”

  “Dude, that’s fucked up,” opined Steve.

  “Totally,” said Kelly.

  “And that is not my theory at all. It is more of a free-floating observation regarding our obsession with bloodthirstiness.”

  “Oh, that’s cool,” said Steve.

  “I have not made it yet,” I said, beginning to feel a deep empathy with Dr. Doolittle. “Tell me five things about the Bubblegum Killer.”

  “He put a piece of gum on each of his victims,” said Sandy. “But only the police and him knew what flavor. That’s how they caught him.”

  “He was always chewing gum because he was a tweeker,” said Kelly. “He’s kinda cute.”

  “Gross,” said Sandy.

  “Why else did all those girls let him into their dorms?”

  “He’s the dude who had all the victims who looked like his ex-girlfriend,” said Steve.

  “Was she a busty Asian?” I asked.

  “Like all serial killers he worked as a security guard,” said Sandy.

  “Which does not mean all watchmen are serial killers,” I said.

  “He just got married in prison,” said Steve.

  And for the next fifteen minutes they painted a remarkably clear portrait of a creature with a fifth grade education who spent his cowardly life murdering defenseless women in cold blood, including such minutiae as his unusual relationship with his mother, his favorite baseball team, his bizarre antics in court, his surprising discovery of religion, and the “kinda deep” poetry he had composed in jail. Apprehended four years earlier, he cast a giant’s shadow over popular “culture.” A man could not walk past a bookstore without seeing a new title in the window offering a different angle on this sphinx. Documentaries and even a motion picture had been devoted to him. In a better world, a small group would have turned out to see him broken on a wheel. And no man would ever speak his name again.

  “He’ll probably get another trial because he was on meth when he committed his crimes and the defense never talked about diminished capacity or —”

  “Very good,” I said, unable to stand it any longer. “That was far more than five things. What sweet nostalgia. Tell me five things about Buddha.”

  After an awkward pause, Steve, feigning confidence, said, “He found the path to enlightenment.”

  “The path had five gates?” said Sandy, turning away, appropriately ashamed.

  “It had eight gates,” said Steve.

  “It was an eightfold path,” I said.

  “He’s the savior of the Buddhists,” said poor little Kelly.

  “For shame. You know more about a serial killer than the Buddha? Please explain.”

  “I really don’t know much about that culture,” said Kelly.

  “So much for multiculturalism. Very well, five things about Plato.”

  “He wrote The Republic,” said Sandy.

  “He hung out with Socrates,” said Steve.

  “He was black,” said Kelly.

  “He was Polish,” I said. “Tell me one thing about Holbein.”

  “Classic composer?” said Steve.

  “Poet,” said Kelly.

  “Astonishing. Fishwraps like the Mona Lisa are worshipped while his masterwork is obscure. This little episode speaks volumes about human nature. A clearer window to it does not exist. A psychologist needs to look no further for a frightful glimpse of our blueprint and a hitchhiker should ponder it every time a car slows down.”

  “Your’re pissin’ all over my buzz,” said Steve. “What’s your point with all this?”

  “Even those of you who deny the inherent savagery of man know more about the crimes of monsters than the teachings of sages.”

  “This is one of his annoying head games,” said Sandy. “Just because we know about something doesn’t mean we stew over it. It means we’re interested, that’s all.”

  “That is the whole point of my exposition,” I said in despair. “I want to know why you are interested. I am not insinuating that we are all potential murderers, especially not you, Kelly. I am asking why humans are endlessly fascinated by them as opposed to the oracles and —”

  “What-ever,” said Sandy, indicating that our gaze into this particular abyss had come to an end. “You don’t practice any of the stuff you preach, Buddha boy. What kind of Buddhist owns guns? And all the booze. They aren’t supposed to drink. I don’t think Stoics are either.”

  “I have pureed the teachings from a multitude of sources.”

  “If you really believe that humans are savages, why did you stop for us?” said Kelly.

  Forgetting Sandy’s role in my decision, I explained the strategic superiority of pessimism. “I may have stopped but I expected the worst. Now that you haven’t slaughtered us, my joy is palpable. This would not have happened with a shallow optimistic outlook on the world, given which I would have taken your benign nature for granted.”

  “Hey, are you guys in a hurry?” said Steve.

  “A hurry? What’s that?” said Sandy. “This thing’s never driven over forty-five. What’d you have in mind?”

  “The Rainbow Gardeners have a campground about twenty miles east of here. We’ve hung out with them before.”

  Sandy clutched my arm. “They’re supposed to be totally cool. Please.”

  “Party with the totally cool Rainbow Gardeners?”

  “They’re nudists,” said Kelly.

  The golden rays of a dream fulfilled perforated the shadows of an interminable night. “I need to be entirely clear on this point,” I said after a long pause. “No one will be wearing any clothing.”

  “Right,” said Steve.

  I buzzed up my window and buried the gas pedal. After years of reading about these hallowed celebrations from ancient sources I was finally going to attend one. “At what time does the Bacchanalia commence? Will the orgia have rites of initiation for newcomers? What is the male to female ratio?”

  “Dude, it’s not like that.”

  “Not like what?”

  “It’s not sexual. It’s natural.”

  “Is that some kind of koan? No one is wearing any clothing, correct?”

  “Right. They like to hang out in the nude.”

  “And this gathering is attended by members of both sexes.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not sexual.”

  “It is natural but not erotic. What is the sound of one hand clapping? Natural but not erotic. What did my face look like before I was born?” The koan withheld its secrets.

  “It just feels really free,” said Kelly. “You’re thinking about Roman orgies.”

  “Correct. That is precisely what I am thinking about.”

  “That’s a stereotype. Society has this hang-up; the Rainbow Gardeners don’t.”

  “It is not a hang-up. As a conservative I am committed to the restoration
and preservation of man’s noblest traditions. Removing the erotic element from an orgy is no less perverse than staging an all-you-can-eat buffet without a vomitorium.”

  “You’re really creepin’ me out today,” said Sandy.

  “It’s not meant to be an orgy,” said Kelly.

  “And therein lies the tragedy. Radicals have destroyed civilization to the extent that when a man attempts to conserve a decent tradition, he is the one considered radical. Who is the host or founding father? Perhaps with a heartfelt oration I can convince him of the correctness, the primordial integrity of —”

  “Dude, there’s no leader. It’s not a cult or nothing,” said Steve.

  “You mean a group, of its own free will, in the absence of a charter or spokesman, has decided to engage in festive acts of non-erotic nudity?”

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  “Did they gather one day and proclaim, ‘Let us all remove our clothing and refrain from erotic undertakings.’ Do they wave a flag with a round triangle?”

  “They’ve risen above society’s narrow-mindedness,” said Kelly.

  “Risen? Perhaps my critique of culture is ignoring a bigger picture. Is our species devolving? What would my great namesake, Gaius Petronius, Nero’s tutor and adviser say? Would he not cover his eyes?”

  “Maybe you should wait until you see it before rippin’ on it,” said Steve.

  • • •

  “If you don’t quit staring at Kelly’s tits I’m gonna smack you,” said Sandy as I paced behind a shrub. All around us naked people of various ages swam, sunbathed, lounged, barbecued, and snoozed. While the non-erotic quality of the gathering defied comprehension like a drawing by Escher, there were notable exceptions: a group of young ladies played volleyball not far from where we parked. The laws of physics governing the undulations, did they not provide evidence that this is, if not the best of all possible worlds, a worthy candidate?