A blog by Dan Brooks
Combat! blog hurtles down the iron rails of politeness today on its way to Montreal, there to see noted crazy person Jeff Mangum. There will be no post today so that I have time to argue with various Amtrak officials. While I frantically try to learn French, how about you read about Dock Ellis, the major-league pitcher who claims to have been on LSD when he threw his no-hitter? You will not be disappointed. Or you will, but I will have had time to flee the country while you were finding out.
Greetings from Minneapolis-St. Paul airport, which is as spacious and weirdly humid as it always is in my dreams. I have to spend the day with babies and security hires who have been given federal authority, so the blog sucks. Or does it? If you click on this link right here, you can watch a video of a brawl at the dolphin show in a Russian aquarium. It’s a real saga, and like any video of the social order breaking down in Russia, it contains several important themes—not the least of which is everyone’s inability to throw even one punch without falling into the pool. There are also several shots of the videographer’s girlfriend calmly explaining complex ideas in Russian, and it appears that the two sides have dressed in black and white, respectively, for our convenience. Enjoy, and remember that when a guy shoots a double on you without dropping to his knees, you’re not going to be able to pick him up by wrapping your arms around his waist, no matter how strong you are. I cannot emphasize that enough.
As I write this, my neighbor Greg is watching me from his front stoop, which he does for pretty much the entirety of my workday. Greg is not employed; he receives Social Security disability payments and lives in a state-subsidized apartment, leaving him and his girlfriend free to drink beer on the stoop from 11am to sundown—which, in Missoula this time of year, happens around 9:30. Because my desk is in my window, Greg is under the impression that I spend all my waking hours on the computer. That’s only kind of true; Greg just sees me whenever I’m on the computer because he is always looking, and I am on the computer a lot because that’s my job. As a self-employed person, I pay double Social Security,* 
so I sometimes imagine that I am covering myself and Greg, too. I try not to, though, because he is super nice. Last night, when he drunkenly greeted me upon my arrival home, he noticed that I was sick and joked that I had caught a computer virus. It was pretty funny, especially for a guy who had been drinking for 10 consecutive hours. It was also infuriating, since I am not just a nerdy shut-in the same age as Greg but also one of the large number of people who work to ensure that he does not die. This is what we call the Problem of Others.
No time to establish an expansive tone, you guys: someone has produced a new “intermediate”-level edition of The Great Gatsby for use in high schools. The Macmillan Reader Gatsby uses a manageable 1,600 words—although it repeats some of them—and it does not include Fitzgerald’s original ending, which goes:
And as I sat there, brooding on the old unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night. Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter–tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning—-So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
Pretty good, right? But not nearly as appropriate for a high school student as Margaret Tarner’s version:
Gatsby had believed in his dream. He had followed it and nearly made it come true. Everybody has a dream. And, like Gatsby, we must all follow our dream wherever it takes us. Some unpleasant people became part of Gatsby’s dream. But he cannot be blamed for that. Gatsby was a success, in the end, wasn’t he?
Don’t put it into words. Focus your hate through the nearest lens available: your eyes. Look at the picture of Chuck Grassley (R–IA) above until your whole life aligns itself behind a single point: it’s Friday. And this country has got to stop retarding itself.
Scientists* estimate that approximately one out of every three people is crazy, yet we go about our daily business as if our governmental officials, beloved celebrities and attractive dinner dates were entirely sensible and calm. It’s not until they send us all pictures of their genitals that we begin
to suspect the truth: pretty much everyone is a ticking time bomb, just waiting for the right traffic event or interview question to explode into ratfuck insanity. As we prepare to celebrate our nation’s independence this weekend, I thought we might celebrate those Americans who spontaneously shoot up in the air and make a terrible thunder/flash of light before falling to the ground a burnt stick. It’s Friday, several people previously believed to be reliable have gone all hoopy on us, and I am three deadlines away from a psychotic break with reality myself. Won’t you join me?