Today I saw a program on Star Wars, and how it epitomizes what’s known as “The Hero’s Journey.” Sure it does, if you’re a firm believer that mythology is a good descriptor for humanity. If, however, you are more interested in looking at reality based on things that are actually REAL, then mythological constructs Star Wars and Lord of the Rings, and Harry Potter will all fall seriously short of even that loose affiliation between unlike things known as metaphor.
The fact is, in order for something to have an epitome, it has to exist. And heroes, male, female, human, or animal, do not exist. They exist in myth, but so does Intelligent Design, and we all know that’s a load of crap. They do not exist on this plane of existence. I can’t speak for black holes and baby universes (neither can Stephen Hawking, but that doesn’t stop him from “writing” about them, does it?), but I’ve been on this planet 32 years, during which I’ve garnered a pretty good sense of reality. More precisely, I have garnered a pretty good sense of reality in the tiny little slice of this space-time I inhabit, read about, hear about, smell, touch…yeah, those are the 5 senses. I did have to stop and count them. That’s just one teeny little example of how obsessed I am with detail, and why loose definitions of terms such as “the hero’s journey” really chap my ass.
While on the topic of things that really , really chap my ass, let’s take a quick look at a term that’s tossed around the media constantly. Example: “A driver on the freeway pulled over to help the lady with a flat tire. What a Good Samaritan!” No. That is NOT what a Good Samaritan is. The reason the Samaritan was so “good,” was that he stopped to help his enemy. Not that he delayed his trip to the Apple store by 10 minutes by making a call to the Highway patrol. That he stopped to help someone he was raised to hate. In 20th century terms, that would be like a Bergen-Belsen concentration camp survivor digging into Hitler’s bunker and secreting him to safety. It’s THAT kind of complete blind-eye’dness that the story is talking about. Applying the term “Good Samaritan” to someone who helps a fellow driver in distress isn’t just wrong. It’s patting some guy on the shoulder and praising him for doing the only thing a decent person with decent brakes is actually obligated to do.
Someone who calls to report a traffic accident or a stalled vehicle, or another human in distress is not doing something extraordinary. That person is simply doing what’s right. If they need a piece of candy, or some other form of instantaneous praise, that’s their problem, not mine, and I don’t want to hear about it on the 11:00 news. And the only way to avoid that is to not watch or read local news. Ever. Unless it’s someone’s blog, and that someone has an aversion or a lack of interest in highway traffic. If I never hear another shit-for-brains traffic-reporting fuck-tard talk about a “good Samaritan” without knowing what the hell he/she is talking about, I won’t die happy. But I’ll die with one less person to take with me when I die.
Back to heroes. There is no such thing as a hero. There are just men and women. There are men who are mostly just ambling around looking for mother or whores, or just soft, safe places to put their penises, and there are women who are mostly just ambling around looking for a man to impregnate, protect, and fill every last one of their vast emotional empty places. There are people of both sexes so completely surrounded by the shroud of loneliness we’re all born with that they will do just about anything to try to make themselves feel less alone. They will strike up friendships with people they don’t really like, idealize people they don’t know, or suspect people they think they know, and will delude themselves to think that anything they do, say, or think actually matters to anyone other than themselves. Some very sane people even think the government gives a flying fuck what they write in e-mails or say on the phone to their friends, and that giant corporations are surveilling their every move. While the part about corporations may be true, the part about the government is absolutely ridiculous, self-important delusion.
The journey toward happiness, or what the person thinks will bring them happiness (ie. success, fame, infamy, family, a cult, support groups, sobriety), can involve many Star Wars or Biblical themes, such as sins of the father being visited upon the son, mentors, loss of parents and mentors, trying to force romantic love on someone else and being rejected and ultimately fighting for the “bad guys,” or going the other way and deluding themselves into thinking that they are happy. In reality, most people will end up just acting like another douchebag in an SUV, or another stinky hippy who drives a Jetta carrying a sign that says something about how SUVs are or Bush sucks or some other message they think anyone wants to read.
Because the government doesn’t care what stinky hippies have to say. And neither does anyone who is not a stinky hippy. Pass the peace pipe and dance naked by the river. Burn some patchouli and stay home. Nobody cares what ANYONE else has to say. Sure, we all get curious. That’s why there are blogs, and people read them. It’s interesting. But ultimately, nothing anyone says, ANYWHERE is going to change anything.
The point to all the stories seems to be that it’s the journey that’s important, not where you end up.
My question is, why? If the journey is all that matters, aren’t we all just trading on some giant cosmic hamster wheel? Yes. We are. And when we step off for a second and smell the fucking roses or whatever, we all feel entitled to a cookie, don’t we? And when that cookie never comes, we get back on. Have another kid, start a new business, blow up some more infidels, whatever, and we expect those thinsg to make a difference. Well, you know what? It doesn’t make a difference. Not to anyone but you. And if you stop and help someone who needs it, here’s a fucking cookie. You’re a big, fat hero.
And if you think there’s a heaven, certainly that’s where you’re going when you die. If you think there’s a hell, that’s more likely where you’re going when you die. And if, like me, you think think this is all there is, then do something to make life a little more bearable for someone else. See a sleeping hobo? Cover him with your jacket and leave a $20 bill in his pocket. See your mom’s number on call waiting? Answer it instead of letting it go to voice mail.
There’s nothing you can do or say that is going to change who or what you are. The only thing you can change is how you act to people around you. So, as Joss Whedon wrote, “Whatever’s bugging you, get over it. Spank your inner moppet or do whatever you have to do,” [sic] but get over yourself. I have completely accepted the fact that nothing I say or do will ever matter to anyone but me. And if it does, it’s not because what I said was important. It’s that whoever listened or read anything I had to say found a way to make it apply to him or herself, or the way he or she sees the world.
None of this makes me better than anyone else. It just makes me cranky and irritable.
