Commentary: FDA Approved Suicide

Not to beat a dead horse, but Michael Jackson didn't die by smoking a fat and juicy blunt. Actually, no one dies by doing that. People die (and by "people" I mean approximately 200,000 Americans annually) by abusing prescription drugs. If there is anything to learn from MJ's death--besides the traumatic effects of child abuse, the perils of plastic surgery, and that calling a theme park "home" isn't exactly financially prudent, it's this: we are addicts.

Taking a cue from Jackson himself, it is most assuredly time to look at ourselves in the mirror. We are a nation of over-medicated and overly indulgent individuals. No, you don't have a headache because you're dehydrated, it's because you have a migraine--maybe something worse. Let's get you some Advil, sweetie. You have a bad day, so you hit the Prozac, not the park. Children who don't focus in class aren't just eating too much sugary shit in the morning, they have ADD. Or maybe they're stuck in the genital stage of development--they need to see a shrink. Immediately. Before they turn into some kind of serial killer, or something.

But oh no, what are you going to give your little Johnny on that fateful day when he comes home smelling like weed? Isn't there some pill for that, to, you know, make him stop doing that, Doctor? Does he smoke it because he has some kind of oral fixation, sir? Should I up his visits to his psychotherapist?


Personally, I don't generally condone drug use at all. A drug is a drug. Granted, I will take an aspirin if my headache doesn't go away, but only after I've had water, after I've taken a nap, and after I've stretched and breathed deeply. Please, spare me the scientology and/or homeopathic associations (I think both are bona fide quacks), but I find that the mind itself can act as a better remedy than acetaminophen. As for marijuana, I don't care one way or the other about the drug itself; it's not the most efficacious way for me to alleviate stress, and generally speaking, I don't enjoy the feeling of internal burning. But facts are facts. It's not habit forming, and a whopping zero people have died from complications whilst smoking it. I understand that it is generally recognized as a "gateway drug," however one hit is most assuredly not going to kill you, let alone leave you passed out on the tiles of the bathroom floor with crusty puke remnants on the collar of your shirt. If at all, that would occur soon after eating the umpteenth White Castle slider that generally follows the act of getting high.

So, yes, I know several people who have expanded their midsections due to smoking weed, but none who have died, none who have wasted away to nothingness, both financially and physically, thanks to an expensive and deadly habit. Why is something that invariably expands waistbands illegal, but something that kills and destroys lives legal and highly attainable?

Drug Lobbyists. Pharmaceutical companies spend over $20 billion promoting their drugs to hundreds of thousands of physicians each year, in hopes of having their product happily placed in the medicine cabinets of pill popping proletarians across the nation. And it works. Unfortunately, the marijuana industry in the United States is not nearly as highfalutin, their equivalent of a lobbyist is generally a twentysomething male looking to make some money on the side. There are no special interests, and it goes without saying that there is no political leverage with weed.

Historically speaking, the act of placing weed in a veritable Pandora's Box began long ago to cease the influx and influence of, you guessed it: immigrants and minorities. When coming to the grand ole US of A, many Mexicans brought cannibis with them. And many black jazz musicians, upon moving to the cities in the mass urban movement that occured early in the 20th century, used marijuana regularly as well. And, in hopes of slowing the spinning of America's proverbial melting pot (no pun intended), Harry Anslinger, head of the Bureau of Narcotics, capitalized on the motif of race and fear by releasing the following statements about weed:

"There are 100,000 total marijuana smokers in the US, and most are Negroes, Hispanics, Filipinos, and entertainers. Their Satanic music, jazz, and swing, result from marijuana use. This marijuana causes white women to seek sexual relations with Negroes, entertainers, and any others."

"Reefer makes darkies think they're as good as white men."

"Marijuana leads to pacifism and communist brainwashing."


So what do we have now, just shy of 100 years following these statements? No, we're not communists, and we sure aren't pacifists. A white girl can listen to Clive Davis and smoke a blunt, with little to no change in her oxytocin levels. None of Anslinger's predictions came true. But now, we get our kicks and brainwashing from things that are perfectly legal. Oh, and we have a booming and illegal drug industry that is spreading faster than wildfire.

Sure, there were a lot of eerie things about Michael Jackson. The skin, the face, the penchant for prepubescent boys. But perhaps the eeriest facet to his being was that this man, this icon, heralded by many as the king of pop, pained and eventually killed himself in hopes of relieving it. And it was all FDA approved.

Age

You know a scary thought? Ourselves in 50 years.

The other afternoon, I was at work and an older man came in with his equally elderly wife. Time's inevitable hash marks were abundant on both of their faces. I knew something was wrong with him when he stopped for a few moments too long in the automatic doorway, causing the receipts on the counter to flutter about aimlessly like gulls on a beach. I looked to the source of the wind, and saw the man, hunched over, staring at me, and glub-glub-glubbing like a fish. I said hello, he said nothing. Although, he did smile...and I must say, it reminded me of a gondola. Thin, wide, and upturned. Unsure of how to respond, I returned a modest grin and went about my business.

After approximately 20 minutes of meandering, the old couple arrived at the counter, ready to check out. It was relatively unremarkable, until I finished ringing them up. He stayed for a moment too long, and then pushed a basket full of cookies to me. The woman laughed nervously and looked to me for understanding. I played the neanderthal-esque cashier and continued smiling. He pushed the basket closer to me, this time with a more aggravated expression. The corners of his lips began to turn down, no longer resembling his erstwhile grin. Hoping to keep things lighthearted, I laughed nervously, asking if he was going to be able to eat all of those. His wife began to pull at his jacket. Lifting his frail and spotted hand into the air, he shooed her. She pulled again. "You can't have those," she said, "it's time to go." He began to shake his head, and she tugged once more.

Like an earthquake, I could feel it before I actually saw its effects. He slammed his fist onto the steel counter, causing receipts to fly once again. I could see the blood flee from his hands until his once pink fist was completely white. "Goddamnit," he spewed, "I'll go when I please!" The man tore at her paper thin wrists and shoved her aside. And in that moment, I saw Time make five more hash marks on her face.

"I'm so sorry," I muttered. I had no idea what to do.

Like a dog, she slowly followed her master, tail tucked under her floor length skirt. I watched them as the doors shut. She shook her head in shame. "You embarrassed me," she cried. He said nothing, but stood there, stoic and stunted. She pressed her recently bruised hands to her face, and then placed one on the nape of his neck, the other to his forearm, and they began walking.

I would have continued to watch, but was interrupted by a gaggle of girls asking for job applications.

I assumed the man suffered from Alzheimer's or Dementia and was in the throes of a rather violent bout with it. And then I wondered, who would I rather be? The old man who wakes every morning to a sagging and decrepit body, not realizing who he is, or what that sallow skin even represents? Or the haggard woman who is reminded daily of her age? Which is worse: blindness or sight?

But, I suppose it ultimately doesn't matter how we go into the night, for it will always be dark.

Musing: Eskimos, Igloos, & Independence Day

Why, why, why is it that on Independence Day I'm thinking about love? Perhaps it's the dreary weather, reminding me of, oh, I don't know, anything the Bronte sisters would write. Bad weather brings out the romantic in me, what can I say. All I know is that I'm not thinking of how happy I am to be American.

Last night, I dreamed about Eskimos and their homes made of ice. In my dream, I built one, and then in Spring, when I heard the first drop drop drops of the melting ice tap my dark suede boots, I cried. Not necessarily because my boots would soon become completely madefied, but because the walls in which I had lived and loved for so long would soon melt away into a blinding and bloodless snow. There would be no mark of where I had stayed, and no tangible memories. Years later, I would not be able to return to my home, look at a particularly shiny pane of a window and say, "Ah yes, that's from the time when a baseball went through the window." My memories of that home would be about as solid and permanent as its foundation come summertime, slowly being evaporated by the frigid sun.

I recall being frightened in my dream, but I realized soon that this was just something I simply had to accept. The notion of "home" and its effect on the individual has been prominent throughout man's existence, therefore its opposite, the lack of a home, has been protuberant as well. Yet, for thousands of years, the Eskimos continued to build their homes made of frozen water only to be left drenched and cold in its wraith like remnants come springtime.

End of the dream. It left me wondering, then, why? Why spend hours upon hours building something so finite? Why risk the hypothermia, the runny noses, the red cheeks and numb fingertips on something that just won't last? It all seemed rather futile to me.

And then it occurred to me, they do it just because. Because that's what their parents have done, that's what their parents before them have done, and so on and so forth. Because that's who they are. The Eskimos are fully aware of the fact that their beloved homes will turn to a transparent puddle, and eventually return to the sky, but they do it anyway.

I feel like that's a lot like love, really. We know that it doesn't last in its most ideal form, obviously, but we get so caught up in its eventual disintegration that we lose sight of it in its most solid state, no matter how transparent it may appear. Some are so weary of seeing their sad reflection in those cold and inevitable pools that they don't bother with love to begin with. No one wants to be left feeling numb.

But for me, I'm more afraid of forgetting, and of having my warm memories snatched into the sky, leaving me shivering without a sign of shelter. I begin to resent time and how it melts away at everything I treasure. And then I realize that it's all elemental and cyclical. Love may melt, condense, and evaporate, becoming indiscernible amongst the world around us, but that's only because it is all around us, and always will be. The Eskimos continue to make their homes made of ice without fear, because they know they can never truly lose them, for water cannot be destroyed. Funny how we view them as silly, even though their homes are made of material that transcends a definite shape and form.

They build, block by block, until they are absolutely numb. They build some more until their diamond is complete. It stands strong for some time, shining brilliantly, but eventually begins to lose its lustre, fading slowly into the snowy earth. But they are not afraid, for the puddle still sparkles as brightly as the house once did. And at night, when the puddle no longer remains, they look to the sky, and see the stars shining like jewels in the inky night, much like the puddle did, and much like their home, though faint, once did. And then the snow begins to trickle down like a string of broken pearls from the starry sky, and they are ready to build a home once more.

Musing: Masks, Speeches, & Math Tests

Looked through the old computer today, found my campaign speech for freshman class vice president. How the hell did I win?

"Hi. My name is Savannah Cox, and I am running to be Vice President of our Freshman class.

I guess I should start out by telling you a bit about myself and what qualities I have that can earn your vote to help to lead our class.

While I may not have the neatest handwriting, or have the best scores on a math test, I can say that I always do my best to help out others and stand up for what I believe is important. What WE believe is important. Of course, I can’t just tell all of you how I will make lunch time last for an hour, or how WE will never have homework, because that can’t happen. However, if you elect me, I can promise you that I will represent you very well and do the best I can to help solve the problems that can come up in the life of a freshman.

I think that it is important for a vice president to be able to lead, but it is also important to listen. I think that I can do just that. You see, I truly think that everyone matters, and has something meaningful to say. If you choose me for your vice president, I can guarantee you that I will listen to all of your problems, requests, whatever! And channel them out to others and find a way to get that problem or request solved or at least be listened to. It may seem impossible, but I have found that I never give up, and I would be honored to serve you well.

Essentially, we are Ballard High School’s future. And if you elect me, I can tell you right now the future will be bright!

Thank you for listening, and I hope you vote for me!"

I remember asking my mom for advice on how to write a winning speech, and she told me to channel Bill Clinton. I don't know who I channeled, but it certainly wasn't my own voice. I wore makeup that day. Maybe that's why I won, or why everyone wins.

I would have hated me in high school.