Writing on the Stall

The Captain's Toast

      Some of you may have noticed the newer issues of the Stall lack a certain defining characteristic. No, it's not our shotty journalism and hasty dogmatics. We have retained those in full. After all, if we aren't opinionated, we might as well be eunichs. I am, of course, referring to articles of the political sort.
      Do not be troubled. We here at the Stall have not diverged on the path of free-enterprise and Libertarianism. There is no chance of us joining the ranks of Norwegian grass eatin' commies with rich parents. The absence of political articles happened almost unconsciously, as if we had drifted off to sleep.
      I can think of two reasons why this has happened. First, for the same reason most drift off to sleep: pure exhaustion. The principles of freedom are not complicated. They cannot be taken from too many slants. This means that if we write articles about anything political, we usually end up saying the same thing twice and receiving the same response. The second reason is a bit more profound and completely more alarming: the loss of passion.
      We were all idealistic little teenage snots at one time. We're of a similar mentality even now. And we all assumed we would and will be that passionate until we died, disregarding the possibility of getting old and, well, completely changing. My brother calls it "priorities" and I think he's got a point, but that's only half the story.
      I've always thought that the sixteen year old brats with big mouths might actually have a good point; that is, before dispassionate elders quell any possible uprisings and thus end the possibility of any social

improvements. I'm not making any accusations. In fact, I have already become that elder in many respects.
      The point is, we get old and we lose our old ideals. Yes, much of this can be attributed to wisdom, but just as much or more can be credited to that fickle, cowardly beast called a human. We have ideas, but they're not profitable. We have dreams, but they're not practical. The status quo is breathing down my neck and I succumb to it more and more every day.
      There are two options, you can either become your culture's bitch and learn to like it, or you are doomed to a more cynical existence where you know where and what you are and know that you hate it. Presently, I'm headed down this route. Why? Because it's more covenient socially. That, and I've been metaphorically beaten. The resolve of an idealist is strong, but not so strong that it doesn't cower into the fetal position after a few too many blows.
      And so this is my toast, my toast to those who have lost their passions. Forget the Elijahs, the Luthers, the Lydons, the Thoreaus. Here's to the Pharisees, the "counter culture" (what a joke), the guy that sunk his last hope into an ounce of heroine. Here's to the C.E.O.'s, the yuppies. Here's to Richard Gere who knows that if your going to give up and cash in, you might as well go down with a rodent shoved up your asshole. Here's to Jim Baker, the guy at the health club, the ladies who buy "Soap Opera Digest." Here's to you. Here's to me. Here's to throwing out creativity, giving up, and bending over. Here's to discouraging cabins and encouraging personality tests. Drink up. It's gonna take a lot of alcohol to go through life like this.