America 51

by Corey Taylor

  Now, if I’d been a normal asinine American traveler, these people might have left me to rot. As it stood, even at twenty-three and miles from home, I knew enough to keep my shit together and remain calm. I didn’t go ape shit Kong style and freak out on these poor people who had nothing to do with the actual fuck-up in the first place. And I’d like to think that because I was calm and gracious, they really went above and beyond to help this crazy-looking kid get out to Peter Gabriel’s studio. I’ve never forgotten that kindness, and I hope all the people who helped me went on to get knighted or damed or whatever they do for damn fine people over there. I’m a full-on Anglophile—you’d think I’d know this sort of thing. Nevertheless, I still think it was because of my demeanor that I could get such wonderful help.

  Let me wrap this up like this: stop treating the rest of the world like a fucking Mardi Gras kegger or a wet T-shirt contest on South Padre Island. If you want to do that shit, do it here—it’s very accepted here. Better yet, if you feel the need to do it abroad, do it in places like Spain or France where they have all-night dances or at the summer festivals in Germany where the rave tents will give even the most hardened partier a run for their money. Do what you want—I’m not gonna judge you too harshly. You’re American after all, which means you come with a certain set of disadvantages anyway. But do yourself—and every weary traveling tourist after you—a solid favor. No, don’t start bitching yet—just fucking listen. You want people to get back to thinking that America is the greatest country in the world? Then start acting like it. Good winners don’t rub that shit in other people’s faces. They’re solid on the inside; they don’t need that self-aggrandizing hullabaloo. Real winners demonstrate the culture they represent and encourage others to emulate it by making it attractive and appealing. Winners don’t bark orders at tired wait staff; winners offer assurances that any help they can provide will be fully appreciated. Winners don’t shit on cultures or places that fill their citizens with national pride; winners add their own praise and spread the word about the wonders of these locales. Winners don’t act like fucking cunts on a day pass; they’re too busy trying to make sure the people around them are as fulfilled as they are. That’s what winners do. They don’t try to take the piss out of a foreign community by insulting it. They raise a glass in a happy toast of appreciation.

  I’d like to think we used to be a society that did that for our neighbors, domestic and abroad. I’d like to. There’s a part of me that wonders whether we’ve always had a little too much “angry oppressor” in us to truly enjoy another’s cultures. That’s why we try to be better hosts than visitors. We all try to be more at home—well, at home, really. But only someone at peace with him or herself can truly see their surroundings as more than a backdrop for their own theatrical tragedy. The second we forget we’re all connected to this planet, cut from the same cosmic cloth, is when the very molecules become the bars of our metaphysical prison. No matter where we go, how loud we try to get, or how selfish we treat our fellow brothers and sisters on this fruited plain, in the end it all comes clean for better or for worse. Dirty laundry can be a burden if you let it build up too long, and if you don’t take a second to listen to and, ultimately, understand the various voices all around us, you’ll never realize that some of those voices could be offering you that help you so desperately crave in life. So if you go on “walkabout” or holiday or just plain-old vacation, treat that country the same way your parents should have taught you to treat a stranger’s house: with respect and kindness. Wipe your feet, take off your shoes, and for god’s sake, don’t clog up the fucking toilets.

  CHAPTER 8

  RULE AMERICANA

  I HAVE LONG BEEN A FAN OF HISTORY—NOT A STUDENT, but a fan. I’ve read so many books that I might have carcinogens from library dust. I’ve watched documentaries until my eyes have turned Technicolor. I have dragged my family to so many battlefields and historic “points of interest” that they now check around potential vacation spots to make sure I can’t take them anywhere that is—and this is quoting my niece, by the way—“boring as whale shit and smells like an old church.” So yes, I am a fan of history because I am a fan of stories in general, and what is history really except the stories from the past, ready and willing to help us shape our future? I mean ye gads (I never get to say that), it’s in the damn name itself! HI-STORY! Where are we without it? What do we do without it? What happens when we forget the lessons it has tried to show us? Even as a fan of history, I have always tried to temper my enthusiasm for our past with a respect for the tragedies it has beheld as well, realizing that death and loss have always gone hand-in-hand with life and victory. They say, “to the victor, the spoils”; I say, “to the savvy, the subtleties.”

  So you’ll understand the conflict within me when, many moons ago, I found myself walking slowly and reverentially through the quiet of the monuments and the museum at Dachau, just outside Munich, a fairly intense experience whether or not you know its full history. The sprawl covers lots of ground. Most of the structures have been razed to the ground, but pictorials and video show how it was laid out, including a re-creation of one of the “bunkhouses,” which was really just a glorified trailer where, sadly, they kept too many people in such a space. Out of respect for the dead I won’t go into too much detail. But I will tell you that it was a haunting and enlightening moment for me. The only thing that kept me from truly crumbling under the sheer emotional weight of it all was that in our way, America helped stop the human evil responsible for this historical trauma. I don’t normally get all patriotic or “Lee Greenwood” or any of that corny shit, but knowing that my country helped stop an overwhelming wave of fascism made me proud, if even for a second. The meaning of this place was clear: NEVER FORGET THE PAST, OR YOU WILL BE DOOMED TO RELIVE IT. DON’T IGNORE HISTORY, OR YOU WILL BE DOOMED TO REPEAT IT. What happened to the Jewish people in this place and others like it is one of the most vile atrocities to happen in the history of humanity. Even with the mistakes we’ve made in the United States, we’ve managed to stand for something while also standing against that type of barbaric hate.

  If only we’d held on to that righteous feeling…

  This country has a crazy up-and-down love affair with taking massive shits in other people’s backyards. The fucked-up thing is that we were never supposed to be this way. We were the global isolationists, really only joining conflicts at the very last minute and only then really because our own country was being threatened or attacked. We would stay away and stay away, holding on until we just couldn’t hold back anymore. We just loved to mind our own business. Now, however, we can’t really keep our snouts out of the trough. We strapped ourselves to a fucking Roman candle and tried to become the latest in a long line of that candle’s namesake’s conquerors. Under the guise of being the “world police” or the “sheriffs of Earth,” we instead fell headfirst down a rabbit hole full of oil, money, and nefarious self-interest. Invasion became the name of the game, all while stuffing fistfuls of bullshit into the propaganda meat grinder: “fighting communism,” “fighting drug trafficking,” “fighting guerrilla fighters,” “fighting terrorism,” “fighting zealots”… the infinite loop closes behind us as we find ourselves devoted to an ideal that isn’t true, which does wonders for our international appeal, to be honest.

  Now, before I go any further, let’s get something straight: this is not about our military. I am not making this point because I have anything against our current servicemen and -women, nor do I have anything against former veterans. As a matter of fact, members of my family have served our military going back before my grandfather, who served in Korea. I support every man and woman who has fought and died or stood with our military, no matter where they are. No, what I’m going to talk about is policy. These people join our various armed forces to be a part of something that has honor and takes courage. They can’t help what these chicken-shit politicians stir up, nor can they help what they are forced to defend from time to
time. Soldiers care about country and family—two things the government lets get lost in the shuffle all too often because of ego or conflict of interest. So when I talk about the certain invasions and subsequent evasions that have happened and inevitably will happen again, I’m not talking about my family and friends following orders and their hearts; I’m talking about the dicks behind the desks who, with one loss of temper, can flare up, rise up, and fuck up everyone’s holidays, leading to loss of perspective and, more importantly, life.

  Maybe it’s because we caught empire fever. That could be the reason we hold our hands over our hearts for the pledge of allegiance and “The Star-Spangled Banner”: because that’s what the Romans did as well when they did their salute. That could be why we’ve tried to hold onto all these US territories like Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands: because that’s what our “ex-benefactors,” the British, did right up until the end of World War II. That could be a subconscious reason we were so against the Germans and why we still have issues with the Russians: because we’ve bullshitted ourselves into thinking that because we’re “good” and “righteous” and “fight for freedom,” we’re the only ones allowed to pursue international land holdings (aka, to just bully in and declare some random place is “American-held land”). That last example is what we’ve done with our “word of mouth,” and we’ll talk about that a little more later. I’ll be honest: that word of mouth hasn’t held well. That only works now inside our own country. The rest of the world is on to us—as the movies love to say, “The jig is up, Sharky!” We can’t play that conquest-disguised-as-liberation card anymore. We used to be the journeymen; now we’re the bogeymen.

  Is that our legacy, our lot in this life? Were we doomed to become the very thing we claimed to be fighting against? Sometimes I wonder if the United States from the 1900s had a better idea of what needed to be done. Even Woodrow Wilson couldn’t keep us out of the Great War, but at least at first we were adamant about staying out of foreign conflict. Isolationism doesn’t solve all the problems; we are, in fact, a large part of a huge global community, and we do need to have a presence in it. People look to us for answers, so getting involved is only natural. We can’t stay out of everything. However, we do need to pay a little more attention to what’s on our side of the fence. By doing that, I do not mean “building a fucking wall” or deporting immigrants from countries that present no threat whatsoever. I mean setting up programs specifically designed to decelerate drug use and unemployment in lower-income cities, counties, and states. I mean using funds for good, not bad. I can already hear the conservatives out there bitching that “tax money can’t go to pay for that.” Well, guess what, bitches: Would you rather your tax money go to help our fellow Americans or to build a pointless wall that isn’t going to keep anyone out? Not one fucking person is going to be kept out of the United States of America because of that fucking wall. If you’re dumb enough to believe that border is the only way to get into this country, you may want to look at a fucking map. We have oceans on both sides—are you going to build a wall all the way down the coasts? We also have a giant country above us—are you going to build some shit up there? All of that “build a wall” horseshit is fine and dandy when you’re getting morons and racists worked up to vote for you, but when it comes to practical application, that shit just isn’t fucking cricket. It’s a lot like that show Finding Bigfoot: they haven’t found shit. It should be called Looking for Bigfoot, but no one wants to watch someone who’s just looking for that critter. The trick is in the promise, not the delivery.

  Sorry if I pissed anyone off with that little blast at the end there. I’m probably one of the few people in this country who enjoys being able to go abroad. It’s a little too tense (two tents) for my comfort anymore, but I honestly don’t have a choice—I have to tour to make money. I also really fucking like playing for people all over the world. So I have to balance the coolness of the show with the obvious high levels of snark that accompany my arrival anywhere outside the shows. After all these years I’m used to it—it just means I don’t go out as much when I’m on the road. It’s fine. It saves me from being judged all the damn time for some shit I’m so clearly against. But it’s also one of the reasons why, unless you need to show your passport, the aforementioned “Canadian camouflage” works so well to defuse any animosity or disdain that may fly your way once they pin the vanilla accent. I’m sure my northern brothers and sisters will find that either funny or offensive, but hell, how do you think I feel? If I have to say “aboot” and “eh” a couple of times to keep my food from getting soaked in foreign spit, that’s what I’m going to talk aboot, eh? I won’t be sorry for doing whatever is necessary to keep myself from contracting international Hepatitis A, B, and C. That’s one fucking test I never want to ace, ever.

  When I talk foreign policy, I do always forget about our northern and southern neighbors, but I can’t really do that anymore these days, with the Cheeto threatening anyone slightly or completely brown with annihilation or, worse yet, throwing veiled shade their way so his shitty base takes the hint and does the threatening for him. Cunty moves like that make me really fucking stabby. In fact, I can hardly wait until I’m done with this fucking book so I can keep from driving myself crazy with all the nightmare scenarios he’s thrust upon us because of his ego and cluelessness. People gave him great marks for his first address to Congress just because he didn’t say anything too inflammatory. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Adults would have laughed this fucking mook out into the goddamn hallway years ago. But because the Right is so ravenous and the Left is so flaky and lame, we’re stuck with a man who thinks we can outmuscle foreign opposition by piling up nuclear weapons like he’s sending dick picks to employees, with the clear insinuation that if he doesn’t get what he wants, all his penises are going to shoot at once. Death by cock envy—god, isn’t it a great time to be alive…

  Anyway, thank god, there’s people like Trudeau keeping watch on the crazy downstairs neighbor. Sometimes all you need to do to keep dumb shit in check is have a dude who looks like he could rip your fucking head off in a fight. It doesn’t hurt that Trudeau’s easy on the eyes too. I figure if he comes to a gig and I happen to have my Canadian Teen Beat with him on the cover, he’ll sign it. I might even have a shot, you know? I’d climb that man like a water tower in a city on fire. I feel like the more I write here, the more you’re all getting uncomfortable with the thought of me actually daydreaming about the prime minister of Canada. That’s not my fault; that’s your fault. I’m comfortable enough to imagine myself riding on the back of a jet ski with Justin Trudeau, smiling and happy, water cascading all around us, both slightly oily from the Coppertone we generously applied to each other’s… okay, maybe I am putting a little too much thought into this whole “I Heart Trudeau” scenario, but it’s only because he hasn’t replied to me on Twitter. As soon as he replies to me on Twitter, I’ll be able to move on. I mean, I knit him a sweater and fucking everything! What does a guy have to do to get noticed by the head of a major country’s government these days? Pose nude? Well, I’m not doing that… again…

  Sorry, where was I?

  The first time I can remember hearing about “combative foreign policy” was when I was thirteen or fourteen, and the big news was the Iran-Contra affair, a sort of paramilitary shell game that became the albatross around the necks of the entire Reagan administration. Even though we weren’t technically pushing into a foreign territory, we were trying to obfuscate from obeying the laws and regulations set up by Congress against (1) selling arms to Iran, and (2) continuing to fund the rebels known as the Contras in Nicaragua. Ostensibly under the guise of freeing hostages held by Hezbollah in Lebanon, a triad of payments and favors was devised behind the government’s back, largely put together by those inside Reagan’s inner circle. It’s still not really clear how much ol’ Dutch really knew about the complexities of the operation itself, but he and Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North both fell on the sword,
so to speak, accepting the lion’s share of the blame. I can remember several news stories and a million different songs written by everyone from Don Henley to Dave Mustaine talking about the whole scandal in detail. I was confused, then intrigued, and then finally started studying politics and all the implications that come from that sort of behind-the-scenes shenanigans. Far from the back-channel diplomacy of years gone by, it was a scary time and another knock to the shiny apple used in our American pies.

  But it also showed me that no matter the outrage, no matter the fallout, and no matter the level of controversy, these politicians walked. The last high-level motherfucker to really ever feel the sting of the law was Nixon, and even he was allowed to resign and split, later to be pardoned by Gerald Ford. This would apparently set the precedent: from Clinton and his blowjobs to the Cheeto and whatever the hell is going on with the Russian connection, the threat of prosecution rarely goes any further than just that—threats. Maybe that’s why Trump’s not worried about anything actually happening. So he can piss on foreign relations all the livelong day and never break a sweat while he waves his egomaniacal cluster of nuclear cocks at the entire world. You know… because ’Murica.

  I apologize to anyone masturbating at this moment while screaming ’Murica, by the way.

  Our hypocritical handle on the global arena is summed up, like I said, by the fact that we outwardly abhor that type of empirical attitude and yet we have territories that are subject to our laws but get none of our benefits as a capitalist-pig nation. Take, for example, Puerto Rico. It is technically an “unincorporated territory,” which implies that it is on its way to statehood, and yet nothing has been done for 114 years to change its status, largely because the territorial laws and policies have never been defined, allowing the territory to be taken advantage of and leaving millions of potential US citizens to be marginalized and exploited, along with Puerto Rico itself. The laws here in America do not apply to citizens in places like Puerto Rico, so it’s a lot like the Wild West. Imagine being a native of Puerto Rico, having to abide by US law to an extent, but then having to deal with a bunch of naturalized cocksuckers who just want to get away with murder or at least date rape between barhops. You know why? Because Americans tend to become evil bastards when they cross our outer borders. I won’t get off on that crazy asshole rant—we covered that in the last chapter. You should’ve read it before this one, unless you skipped it, hoping that the nudes were in this chapter. Well, they’re not. I’ll be honest, I’m fairly certain they leaked to the Internet before I could include them in the packaging for the book. There’s not much to talk about, so I’ll sum it up by saying yes, that’s it; no, it’s not huge; thank you, it is quite thick.