The coastal, urban corridor along which I live now is horribly changed from its condition a century ago. Those of us who live along it spend the vast majority of our time indoors and only rarely glimpse anything that could honestly be called nature. The food we eat is highly processed and often unidentifiable as one plant or animal versus another. Many of us rarely see many of our close friends and family, and communicate with them only through the tinny interfaces of our electronic devices.
As for being indoors a lot, that isn’t exactly new. I could sit outside in Dupont Circle all day if I wanted to, enjoying “nature,” but, baby, it’s cold outside. And if it isn’t, well, it’s hot. As for not being able to tell whether I’m eating a plant or an animal, Ryan, that’s total bullshit. And, by the way, I eat a hell of a lot better than practically anyone did back in the day. As for rarely seeing close friends and family, dude, it’s a hell of a lot easier now than then.
What’s truly laughable about this banal tirade is the tone of stratospherically elevated moral dudgeon with which it’s delivered. Ryan clearly thinks of himself as a saint, speaking from the very depths of his soul, delivering not a message that can save the world, but the message, the one and only message, if only we fools—we blocks, we stones, we worse than senseless things—had the saving scrap of moral worthiness to comprehend his truth. And yet to me the saint he resembles most is Saint Ollie, Ollie North running around the White House bellowing “people will die!” unless everyone drops everything and does exactly what he says. Someday, Ryan, the sheer and complete stupidity of your beliefs will be obvious, because the Apocalypse you so earnestly predict will not occur. But you, alas, will be too thick to notice. And, in all likelihood, you will be too busy to talking about another Apocalypse—Apocalypse II—even to care.
