Considerations: The Old World and You

"Progress" is a loaded term. Its Latin roots suggest movement forward, that is, movement which follows the path laid out by the eyes, not that of the arse. A contrast: eyeward movement is good, assward movement bad. When we speak of ourselves and of our society, we often do so in reference to progress, as though moving forward, away from our collective ass-history, is a good thing; if only we could get over the horizon, we say to ourselves, if only we could be in that spot placed by our eyes some fifteen to twenty kilometers distant, depending on weather conditions. There lies happiness. Here, we think, is misery; to go backwards, tantamount to death by strangulation with one's own intestines. Thus our disdain for history, for the old, the ancient, the antiquarian, the antediluvian, the mediaeval, for the arthritic elderly, and so our love for the modern, the contemporary, the chic, the what-have-you. But I think there is much to be said for the occasional sojourn-by-ass. The history of the human race, after all, is not necessarily a tale of uninterrupted "progress," rather it is one of fits and starts, of spastic lunges for material satisfaction and spiritual fulfillment, convulsions of ecstasy, amputations of disaster, and, above all, sinus headaches of human-wrought suffering; if we recognize this fact, then we come to understand that what lies before our the eyes in our head is not necessarily better than that which our asshole's eye beholds. As evidence, I give you five excellent developments of the past that we have abandoned, possibly to our own detriment.

1. Slavery
"Radical opinion, Blogmaster," I hear you sneering to yourself, as you adjust your plastic-rimmed glasses and consider returning to surfing deviantart to look for new anime tattoo inspirations. "Go for the obviously racist idea, that's the height of comedy. Ugh," you say, twittering your disgust to an uncaring and mostly illiterate world. But this is no Michael Richards-esque piece of shock-schlock. I'm not suggesting a return to the racist slavery of America's past, a eugenically-justified bit of social terror totally divorced from political reality. No, I'm proposing a return to the slavery of the ancient world, that which resulted from military defeat. Now that would up the stakes of war. No longer would the world feel but mild indifference to Russia's rolling into Georgia unbidden and unannounced, to its seeking only political points and its wreaking a bit of ineffectual havoc. No; in my world, one of power unbridled and tyranny unshackled, their conquest of Georgia's Russian enclaves accomplished, the Reds would be saddled with some 20,000 slaves from the fatherland of Josef Stalin, which they could dispose of at their whim. Kill all the males, keep the children and women for breeding? You've got it, Putin. Put the males to work toiling in your vast underground vodka reservoirs, prostitute the women remorselessly, assemble the children into some kind of giant hideous flesh golem? Say the word, Dmitry. Either way, the consequences would be very real for both countries, and the rest of the Western world might have cause to react. The Ukraine, fearful of the ravishing Reds snatching their flowering maidens, might blockade Sevastapol and call up a few hundred thousand of their mostly toothless and permanently inebriated troops. The Poles might stop bidding up corrupt construction jobs for just a minute to consider the virtues of a well-guarded border. A return to slavery, then, would keep us all honest, at least from the point of view of realist international relations.

2. Cast-Iron Cookware
Have you ever said to yourself "I'm tired of convenient, carcinogenic, easy-to-clean teflon-coated carbon steel. I want something that's heavy, labour-intensive, that saturates my food with base metals, and which smells bad when maintained." Well, look no further, my friend, for the ancient technology of cast-iron is making a comeback in kitchens everywhere. More than a few hoity-toity establishments offer you steaks seared in cast-iron, breaded-pickerel cooked in butter to tongue-waxing perfection in the heavy black, lemon-dill potato wedges, the flavour locked in thanks to the even heat of Connecticut-forged ferrum fusum. Your food, of course, tastes great, but they don't show you the work involved in using that lovely bit of old world iron. In order to make perfect meals daily, buy a cast-iron pan and do the following: first, one must scrub the shellac or wax from a new pan with steel wool and scalding hot water. Then, the pan must be dried (immediately, or the pan will rust solid and give you tetanus) and coated with oil; as to what kind of oil, opinions differ - the prospective cook must consider the age of the pan, casting technique, pore density, altitude, disposition of the planets, and so forth, in order to decide on the right oil to use. Or they can just slap some Crisco on. Once coated, the pan must be put in the oven for about an hour, at anywhere from 300 to 500 degrees Farenheit. At this stage there will be a lot of smoke, and all of your clothing will begin to smell like your granddad's fishing boots. Repeat this stage several times, in order to build up the "seasoning," or non-stick coating of the pan. When all this is done, you're ready to cook; just make sure you coat the pan in oil before you put it away or the pan will rust instantly (and give you tetanus).

3. Innocence toward Narcotics
As is well-known, Coca-Cola once contained a bit of actual cocaine. Elixirs of alcohol and opium were regularly perscribed for ailments ranging from retardation, water on the brain, lumberjack's rickets, miner's lung, dancer's knee, smoker's choice, and so on, all the way up to womanly hysteria. Cigar tubes containing a mixture of tobacco and marijuana were to be found in the humidors of even the well-heeled; the church bake sale raked in more than a little dough, so to speak, from the sale of ecstasy-laced "GoodTyme" muffins. Alcohol was used to calm infants and to slow their speech - thus the origin of the Southern drawl. It was a different time, before the advent of Prohibition. Now, this blogger dares you to try even to smoke a joint on the steps of your Legislature or state Capitol without getting thrown in the pokey. No, we need a return to the times when our medical establishment looked with cold, dispassionate, sometimes red and somnolent eyes at any potential remedy. Herodotus tells us that the Greeks used marijuana to make rope and to cure ear worms, and that the Scythians would put a little tent over hot rocks and throw in cannabis seeds; crouching down, they would inhale the smoke of the sizzling spermae, and dance a little dance in memory of their ancestors. What is more touching than this? While we heat up heroin on fire-blued diner spoons in the gutted basements of abandoned warehouses, the ancients were laughing it up over a j or two, or else engaging in solemn remembrance of deeds done and battles won while themselves battling a mad case of the munchies. How far we hath fallen.

4. Straight-blade Razors
Death is ever-present. Her cold, skeletal hand never really leaves your shoulder; her fetid, mouldering odour never quite dissipates, as even that of even of the rankest fart does; her sepulchral body, ever crouched over yours, is perpetually ready to ferry your anima, once parted from its earthbound shell, to the torments waiting below. We are too much divorced from the reality of death. We insulate ourselves from death. We rarely actively contemplate our own mortality. Indeed, all reminders of death are removed from our homes: guns are kept locked away, knives are put in the kitchen block, meat comes pre-sliced, the city administration gets mad if you refuse to dispose of your pile of goat carcasses in a timely fashion. What I propose, then, is that we introduce once more into our lives a daily reminder of death. What better way to meditate on our own mortality than by daily putting a lethally sharp instrument against our supple throats for fifteen minutes at a time? Thus the straight-blade razor. Wickedly sharp, it demands consummate skill and devoted care to avoid scarring yourself permanently. Unlike every other object in our overly-padded, safety-belted lives, the straight-razor does not forgive, does not forget. Drop it, and you chip the blade. Store it improperly, it rusts. Forget to sharpen it, enjoy your new pockmarked visage. The work the razor demands in the way of maintenance reminds us of the Sisyphean aspect of life, of the unceasing torment and labour that strangles us all, until our corpses, bereft of breath, are released, free to fall, all limp tumbling, into the Abyss below. Hone for three sessions, strop for two, make a virginal sacrifice on an odd-numbered day with kosher salt. Then your face must be prepared to accept Death's ambassador: pre-shave oil, hot towel for several minutes, lather, lather, apply cream, left hand shave, prayer, right hand shave, prayer, clean face, aftershave, tend to battle wounds. Our forefathers were masters of war and of the straight-razor. We, at least, should endeavour to make ourselves like them in one of these ways.

5. Minding Your Own Goddamn Business
Every gas station employee wants to know how I am these days. Every retail clerk. Every meat-slicer at the deli-counter. Every mid-tier prostitute wants to know how my day has gone. "Good," "Great," we say, or perhaps, "You'll talk when I pay you to talk." Everybody spends their whole day screeching into their cellphone about their latest business transaction, about their new gilded bong, about their boyfriend's sister's wedding and who fucked who in the coat closet there. I say, "Enough." I like to imagine there was a time when the world was full of square-jawed Protestant men who worked eighty hour weeks and who spoke only about their work, or else about their nightly dalliances with "that broad from the typing pool with those gams to die for." It's possible such a world never existed. I might be hearkening back to a Golden Age that never was. Nevertheless, I propose a new rule: "Shut Up For a Minute." Whenever you want to speak, stop and ask yourself, "Is it possible I could not be talking right now?" If so, don't talk. The world will be a happier and more reflective place, and kings and tyrants will have a much easier time of ruling their mute and useless subjects.