Howls From the Wasteland: Prophetic Analysis from 1998

What follows is the introduction that I wrote to my creative writing student's magazine, Howls From the Wasteland, in 1998. It now seems more prescient than it did then, 18 years ago, pre-9/11. We only published the hard copy one more year before the magazine was published exclusively online; this was also six years before Facebook and its progeny changed social media forever..................

In 1920, T.S. Eliot published his poem,"The Wasteland," chronicling the nihilism, despair, and confusion of his "Lost Generation." In 1950, Allen Ginsberg published his poem, "Howl," chronicling a similar malaise of the "Beat Generation." 

Now, with the millennium fast approaching, we are experiencing a new cacophony of fear and loathing—dark and disturbing evidence of disintegration—disgruntled employees, anguished children, disenfranchised loners—a generation whose hopelessness soars in the face of scientific advance, whose loneliness grows in the face of a burgeoning "communication" technology, whose spiritual emptiness deepens in direct correlation to its economic success. 

This is the generation whose perceptions of the world have been shaped by an ever-spiraling cynicism. Every administration of the last two decades has been accused of involvement in high level malfeasance. Political discourse has been replaced by unmitigated vitriol in the hands of masters like Rush Limbaugh, James Carville, Newt Gingrich, and Bill Clinton. Mischievous Dennis, “The Menace,” became impertinent and ill-mannered Bart Simpson, who, in turn, became the nihilistic, antisocial, cruelly malevolent Bevis and Butthead.

And what of the two Jerry's, perhaps the two most influential TV shows of the decade: Jerry Seinfeld and Jerry Springer? The former show's ensemble spent nearly ten years introducing ever more graphic discussions of bodily functions while competing as to who could be more cruel and disdainful to each other, to their loved ones, and to total strangers. Jerry Springer upped the ante. He brings us the absolute dregs of society and allows us to wallow in and relish their aberrant behavior and mindless violence while, with a few show-ending homilies, he encourages us to pretend that our slack-jawed awe and our taunting guffaw is simply spirited, audience participation and not the self-degrading, culturally-damaging, mind-numbing voyeurism that it actually is. 

Pop stars have become paparazzi fodder, creating a feeding-frenzy mentality that has killed public icons and altered our perceptions of ourselves. The ever-present video camera has made its contribution. It has captured racist cops beating a black man and going free; a black star found guilty in the press of killing his wife, then acquitted in a media circus trial; religious fanatics challenging the government to a game of chicken and getting blown up in Waco and gunned down in Ruby Ridge; other fanatics blowing up clinics and killing doctors and nurses to “save lives” in God's name; the government and the United States being retaliated against in the New York Trade Center, the Atlanta Olympics, and the Oklahoma City Bombings; and the now almost daily litany of lonely, loony losers who grab a gun (Thank you, NRA) and kill their parents, children, spouses, bosses, co-workers, teachers, classmates, fellow commuters, and absolute strangers. 

This is the milieu from which the following pieces arose. Many of them are dark; some are violent; most are harsh. Some smack of self-indulgence and self-absorption, but isn't that the source of a great deal of timeless art? Ultimately, they are honest. They offer the artist's struggle to understand and communicate. Some even offer a glimmer of hope and a ray of sunshine. Still, they are all, in one way or another, “Howls From the Wasteland.” 

Tim McMullen, Creative Writing Advisor 

©1998 Tim McMullen

All Rights Reserved

Intolerance Does NOT Breed Tolerance: We need to talk

I and a vast majority of people in this country would choose to defend ourselves and our loved ones by making it impossible for individuals to buy or possess weapons designed for military use. Unfortunately, the absurd misreading of the 2nd Amendment by a 5-4 majority of the Scalia court and the irrational shilling for arms manufacturers by the once reputable National Rifle Association (read their history—they only went crazy a few decades ago when greed, marketing, and outrageous right wing ideologies took hold of their national leadership) has caused the dangerous proliferation of weapons in this country.

I am approaching 70 years of age, and I guarantee that this horrific proliferation of gun deaths and mass murder is a very recent phenomenon that is spiraling exponentially. Rational, civic dialogue and reasonable restraints on access to firearms must occur. Play out in your own mind the actual scenario as espoused by the NRA, congressional Republicans, and Donald Trump. Guns in the hands of every teacher, every administrator, and every student in every school from kindergarten to college; guns in the hands of every employee and every employer on every job; guns in the hands of every driver on the road; guns in the hands of every passenger on every bus, train, or plane; ad infinitum. This will make us SAFER?

It is an absolutely absurd and unworkable vision, foolish in the extreme, yet just this kind of argument is trotted out whenever some horrendous tragedy occurs.

I actually encourage complex analysis, nuanced positions, and civil discourse. Put simply, we shouldn't tar whole cultures, religions, races, or nationalities with the brush of a violent few, yet we have to find ways of limiting or eliminating that violence as best we can.

Of course, we will never completely or permanently eliminate violence from any society; still, it seems clear that we have actually done a worse job than many. The proliferation of personal weapons and the increasing deadliness of those arms has certainly not made us safer. Our interventions in the affairs of other countries since WWII have had little to do with "protecting freedom"; in general, they have had much more to do with maintaining or increasing political domination of a region for private profit.

I do find that an alarming number of violent incidents (especially mass murder outside of war), are performed by those who I would characterize as having a fundamentalist point of view—the particular religion is irrelevant. They justify their actions on the grounds of a religious or political view that both encourages and justifies deadly behavior, whether attacking a black church, burning a clinic, killing a doctor, attacking a gay gathering, blowing oneself up in the middle of a crowd, or flying a plane into a building.

Intolerance is at the heart of most of these inhumane acts; a few are simply the work of some tragically unhappy or disgruntled person whose rage at "the other" has overcome his own self-pity, humiliation, loneliness, and emptiness. The problem with intolerance—whether factions, sects, or other “us vs them” groupings—is that intolerance does not breed tolerance. On the other hand, tolerance, in the long run, may actually confront, confound, and convert intolerance. The problem, of course, is that it can take decades, even centuries, to accomplish. Still, although so many of our compatriots do everything that they can to discourage tolerance and encourage intolerance because of their identification with their "team," this country, despite all its historical flaws and contradictions, really has moved slowly toward wider acceptance of others, from Roger William's "Bloody Tenent of Persecution" in the 1600's to our current battle for women's rights, LGBT rights, immigrant rights, et al.

As to the NRA’s advocacy of gun proliferation and Trump’s cheerleading for violence and discrimination, do I think that “good” civilians armed with AR-type rifles or most other weaponry will make us safer? Not on your life or mine. I feel quite certain, both intuitively and intellectually, that more and deadlier guns will make us much less safe; neither do I consider those who purchase these weapons on the pretense of defending or protecting this country to be heroes by any definition.

A Short Story from the Past for the Present

CHRISTMAS PRESENT
by Tim McMullen 

It had been a cold Christmas Eve, and the white, crystalline rooftops glistened in the morning sun like snow-capped peaks above suburban, multi-colored mountains. As I walked across the lawn to get the Christmas morning newspaper, the brisk rubbing of my bare hands and the snail-shell crackle of the brittle grass were the only sounds. I winced at the thought of snail shells, glanced across the street at Ron Logan's lawn, and remembered.

"Look, Jimmy," he'd cried. Then, holding the large, brown garden snail at eye level, he'd crushed it loudly between his forefinger and his thumb. "Here, eat it!" he had sneered and flicked it at my face.

That was over twenty years ago, but he hasn't changed much. It is ironic that of all the kids and all the families that have grown up on this block, Ron Logan and I are the only ones who have remained. As kids we never really got along; he was the bully of the block, and I was "the Big Brain"—at least that was the derisive epithet he delighted in hurling after me. Naturally, I took it as a compliment. As adults, we simply don't have many occasions for contact. Once in a while, he and his two boys will be out front washing their Bronco after some off-road excursion, and we'll exchange a word or two; for the most part, though, we have very little to do with each other.

I smiled as I looked at his place. The house was nearly covered in Christmas lights—red, white, and blue only—which poked up through the swiftly melting frost like a giant, abstract connect-the-dots picture. On one corner of his lawn was a large wooden scene of Santa and his reindeer; on the other, a life-size nativity scene. That’s Ron for you. Nothing halfway about him. Just like his annual Fourth of July extravaganzas: Nobody has a bigger or brighter display than Ron Logan and his boys. Two years ago they nearly burned the roof off the Mejia's patio, but we finally put the fire out with garden hoses.

Suddenly, a bird twittered and then another, and the tree by my chimney came alive with their rustling and chittering. My thoughts snapped back from the recollected scenes, and I paused above the yet un-collected newspaper and listened. Southern California is a mixed metaphor, after all, juxtaposing the frost on its rooftops with the birds in its branches. I had noticed one chirrup pitched higher than the others, and I realized that there must be a fledgling in among the older birds. The image of little John Logan, Ron's six-year old, intruded upon my thoughts.

Johnny is the only one of the Logan lot that I can tolerate, and, in fact, I really like him, even if I do feel a little sorry for him. More than once I've seen the gloating countenance of his older brother, Ron, Jr., suffused with fascination and pleasure at the whimsical torture of some insect or small animal unfortunate enough to have been captured in those merciless, pudgy fingers. It is his father's face as well, the face of the snail crusher. But John is different. His fists clench, and his gentle brow creases in disgust and horror at his brother's callous delights. And the little fellow has paid for such feelings.

"Get over here, you little sissy!" I've heard the father bellow.

"Take it like a man..." or "Boys don't cry!" the pugnacious taunts of his older brother have echoed, emulating the father's sarcastic tone.

Once, about a year ago, as I was carrying the trashcan around the corner of the house, I found little John hunched over on my porch, sobbing. His T-shirt front was nearly saturated, and he caught his breath in lurching hiccoughs as the tears surged down his cheeks and chin. Even the cement porch at his feet showed signs of the torrent.

"What's wrong, Bud," I said, sitting down beside him.

He brushed the butt of his fist back and forth across his eyes and tried to stifle his sobs. As a first grade teacher, I've seen enough unhappy children to know when they're inconsolable. I put my right arm around his heaving shoulders and pushed his wispy, brown hair out of his eyes with my left hand.

"It's alright, little buddy. You just go ahead and cry."

"M-m-y D-d-ad says that only s-siss...” he whimpered, and his shoulders convulsed even harder.

"Well, we both know you're not a sissy, are you?" I said.

"N-n-o!" he answered, as his sobbing began to subside. "But my brother says I am."

"Why don't you tell me what happened," I said.

After successive swipes of his sleeve at his eyes and nose, he began. "R-Ronnie got a p-pellet gun," he said, sniffing hard.

"Well, you're not crying because of that?" I said.

"No...but he...he shot a bird...a little bird..." his voice quivered, and a big tear began to fill the corner of his eye.

I watched it swell and swell like the slow drip of a leaky faucet until it finally spilled out and rolled down his cheek. "He killed it!" he said, and the sobs began again.

I held his shoulder tighter.

"J-Jimmy..." he said, after a long snuffling silence, "I-I'm not a sissy..."

"No," I said quickly, "Of course you're not. Why would you even ask?"

"B-Because Ronnie s-says so.... He says it's just a s-stupid b-bird, and only a sissy would cry...."

"Ronnie is wrong!" I said, and all the old anger and resentment swelled. I looked over at the little boy's house, and I could imagine the moronic glee on the bully's face. "It is a sad thing when someone is cruel. When something small and helpless dies, it's right to cry!" I patted him on the head. He smiled a little and sniffed.

"I think so too, Jimmy," he said.

"Good boy, John," I said, and he began to walk slowly toward home.

As I leaned down to pick up the paper, it occurred to me that since that day on my porch, Johnny and I had not really talked as much as we used to. School had probably gotten more demanding for both of us. It certainly had for me. On the other hand, I wouldn't be surprised if his father had told him not to come around.

Peeling the plastic wrapper off the Christmas edition, I unfolded the paper and wondered whether the news on Christmas morn would be good or bad. The birds abruptly ceased their chirruping at the sound of a door opening across the street. I looked up to see Johnny run gleefully out of the house.

"Look, Jimmy," he cried. "Look what Santa Claus brought me! Look!"

He held his present in his hands, but I couldn't see what it was as he dodged through the maze of Santa and his wooden reindeer.

"What you got, Bud?" I yelled to him as he ran.

"Look!" he cried, then he stopped at the edge of my lawn and raised his present in his arms. There was a soft report, a whoosh of air like the sound someone makes when the wind is knocked out of them. "YAH!" he cried, "Got 'im!"

The boy ran to where the small form had tumbled from my roof, and he stood aiming his Christmas present triumphantly at the bloody ball of fluff. I looked back at the house with its nativity scene and its red, white, and blue bulbs. Then, trying vainly to blink back the burning behind my eyes, I turned to gaze once more at the two pathetic victims on my frost-covered lawn.

©1985 Tim McMullen

All Rights Reserved