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Duck, Duck, Cooked Goose

On the East coast, it’s just about time for the second wave of Duck Dynasty posts to start filtering across the Facebooksphere.

Everyone and their momma ‘n them will be talking about how it’s either (1) a tragedy that poor what’s-his-name-bubba done got his rights taken away, or (2) the worst affront to humanity since the perm.

And then there’s a percentage of the public — me included — who’s all like, “What’s a Ducky Dynasty?”  Still, when I hear that some yahoo is spouting off about how I’m going to some little fiery afterlife place because I like dick, it gets me a little riled up — the same way Toby gets when he has a chew toy and can’t figure out where in the hell to bury it in a city apartment.

Duck who? I just want to find a place to bury this thing.

Now, though, I’m at the point where I’m wondering why America is all up in arms over what some bumbling bonobo is yammering on about.

Never mind that we have some slight economic ripples upsetting our national pond.

And don’t pay attention to the crazy-intense weather we’re experiencing on a global scale.

War, disease, famine?  They can all just take a backseat to this high-profile story.

Here’s the thing.  I’m so goddamn tired of the news zeroing in on the most inane bullshit that hits the fan.  The only thing that’ll make headlines is what a Kardashian said about the latest fall trend, or how she lost that baby weight after her fourth fling-husband-daddy figure-person left her and her bratty children.

Why not report on the good things that’re happening?

Why can’t great news be as sensationalized as the cray-cray nonsense of today?

I just don’t understand why I should be equally dismayed by The Huffington Post and CNN and NBC, nor why they seem to be getting just as absurd as Faux News.

Give me some Rachel Maddow or Jon Stewart or Parks and Recreation any old day to all of that Jabberjaw drivel.

Rather than bringing in pundits to dissect some ridiculous, laughably sad commentary by a guy whose beard is probably the final resting place of Jimmy Hoffa, I have the crazy notion that news personalities should take a step back and determine how we got to this point.

Why is television flooded with idiotic people?  Why are we content to have Americans tethered to their sofas, letting this crap soften their minds like a veal steak?

Why not start fresh — have shows with people who actually have some education behind them; who have more to say than incoherent grunts and fart jokes; who stand a chance of reaching some kid out there who’s surfing channels, hoping for a life preserver to keep them afloat in this dark, dank, ducky soup.

Regardless of how it all pans out, I know one thing.  I’ll keep myself as far away from cable as possible.

That is, until I can differentiate that smelly box from where a cat shits.

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This Day

By now, Facebook is flooded with photographs and recollections. Some heartfelt; others, forced. Twitter is aflutter with tweets and twits. And Google + is, well, I don’t know because I never use it.

And plenty of people are critiquing each other’s sentiments, determining who really deserves to feel the crushing weight of the day’s albatross.

Rationales aside, each of us appropriates this disaster. We do so to determine how far we can remove the deeply-set emotional knife from our chest—until a future time when this day passes with only the slightest sense of a phantom pinprick.

It just takes a flip through old journals to recognize my complicity in this unsettling enterprise—the pages devoted to this day fattened with ribbons and miniature flags, and riddled with clichéd lines like these.

But what can never be captured appropriately are the ways that this day jarred our collective consciousness. Because each American’s life was uprooted from seemingly stable, solid ground. Whether blocks, states, or continents away, we each felt the impacts. And something broke inside us all.

I cannot fathom what those who lost someone experienced. And I cannot know how it felt to be there.

All I can imagine is being a high-schooler in Alabama. Being told by a friend, “The World Trade Center and Pentagon just got attacked. And something happened in Pennsylvania.” Hearing the job fair’s buzzing conversations silenced by the principal’s intercomed order back to class. Rushing to AP Government and Economics and watching the planes crash into the towers, and the towers collapsing.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Answering parents’ panicked calls to the office alongside the overwhelmed secretaries. Retrieving friends from classes to return home. Hearing my Pre-calculus teacher’s sobs in the hallway after learning that her daughter’s plane had been rerouted to Canada—that she was safe. Experiencing the after-school stillness.

Returning patrons’ strained expressions, and hearing the occasional proclamation of the apocalypse while asking, “Paper or plastic?” Sitting and watching the news coverage in silence. Reading the headlines.

Feeling the images burn into memory.

Knowing I’ll never forget.