Stupid Arguments for $1,000: The Social Issues Riot vs. The Sporting Event Riot

Could we please stop comparing riots involving people who are upset about social issues to riots involving people who are upset/happy about sporting events? The only thing those scenarios have in common is that in each case the people who are rioting are idiots. I have no problems with a protest. I don't care if people have a parade or a party. Only a fool wreaks havoc and destroys things or hurts innocent people out of anger or joy.
I will also point out that when I've seen coverage of people rioting after a sporting event, the general vibe of the report was something akin to "look at these dumbasses" and not "check out these merry people showing their enthusiasm for sports. Hooray for them!"

Protest is Good, Riots Pretty Much Suck

I try to stay away from social issues (as well as politics and religion) because those are things that I'm passionate about that DO NOT sell books.  Yet sometimes I feel the need to speak out, and the recent events in Baltimore and much of the social commentary I've seen regarding such events makes this one of those times.  Keep in mind, I'm just some guy who writes books and makes movies, so I could be wrong about any or all of this.  Regardless, for those who are interested, these are a few things kicking around in my brain as I watch Baltimore burn:

I think that there is a need for protest.  I do believe that America has a serious issue in regards to how the police is treating civilians in 2015, and no group is more at risk than members of the black community. 

I also think that officers of the law have one of the hardest jobs on the planet and for every three scumbags in blue, there's at least one worthy soul.  Maybe the scales are balanced, maybe the lousy cops are even outnumbered by the good guys, but I'm not sure.

I think that a dignified protest sends a powerful message--particularly when the amount of people participating is a massive figure.  A multitude of wronged people respectfully expressing their frustration is a driving force for reflection and change.

I also think that it doesn't take many idiots who prefer a good old-fashioned riot to totally change the narrative.  Willful destruction and violence, as well as theft and brutality, serve no real purpose in such a scenario, unless that purpose is to degrade the efforts of those engaged in a peaceful protest.  While a peaceful protest can change minds, I believe that riots and rampant mayhem only reinforce the various prejudices that cause some members of our society to feel that the mistreatment of other members of our society (be they black, poor, or anyone who isn't wearing a badge) is warranted.

I think that many of those fools who are turning to violence and petty crime think they are cranking up the volume on the message being delivered when in fact they are simply drowning it out.

I believe the media sucks.  I hate the media.  I blame the media for many of our problems.  Yet I don't necessarily blame the media for focusing on rioters as opposed to protesters.  Generally speaking, no matter how large a group is, and no matter what the group has gathered for, if a small contingent of that group engages in bad behavior, that will always be the story.  It makes the actions of those selfish souls that much more disappointing.  I can't believe I'm going to bat for the media here, but a dignified display of unity will never generate more headlines than some asshole setting something on fire or smashing something.  That's not the world we live in--and maybe the media deserves a lot of the blame for that, but I digress.

I don't believe in taking shit.  As a society, I believe that we should stand up to bullies.  Yet I don't think that it makes much sense to bully someone else if we are bullied.  Punch the bully in the eye and I applaud you.  Punch some random soul in the eye and you just became another bully. 

I believe that this shit is very complex and there are no easy answers to many of the problems we currently face as a society.  I don't believe that destruction is going to provide any meaningful answers at all.

I believe that I would rather be blogging about a horror movie, yet I don't believe that ignoring situations such as the chaos unfolding in Baltimore is worthwhile.  We need more people trying to have rational discussions about the issues that led to this dismay and looking for legitimate solutions.

To sum this up, I believe that police reform is necessary and I applaud anyone engaging in a respectful demonstration toward that end.  I do respect many officers of the law (who are already doing a fantastic job) as much as I am disgusted by those cowardly public servants who would tarnish their office.  I am also every bit as proud of those peaceful protesters as I am disgusted by those selfish individuals who would use an occasion like this to wreak havoc and distract from their peers who are going about this the right way.

Say "So Long" to Solos

Disclaimer:  The following story was birthed from an informal interview with an unknown source reputed to be an actual representative from an alleged band that wished to remain anonymous.  No real names, dates, or places are mentioned, and the author cannot be considered financially responsible for any insult or injury that may occur to any individuals, fictional or non-fictional, resembling those represented in this depiction of a band reported to be quite famous.  No one was harmed in the writing of this story and rest assured, reading it will not harm you. 

Proceed with caution.

Montana found himself in the final stages of what had surely been an awful performance.  His sweat stank of cheap liquor and his heart was threatening to burst.  The crowd was giving him the benefit of the doubt, but that had never mattered for him.  It was shit, absolute shit, and he knew it.

He looked to Bernie and saw disgust registering on the lanky guitarist’s typically stoic face.  Bernie was a good chap and you could always count on him for a truthful response.  

Mickey was another story altogether.  Montana was hung over, and he had smoked at least six joints and snorted half as many lines of coke in the four hours he had been awake prior to the rise of the curtain, but he was good, really good to be honest, feeling just damn great actually.  His drummer was wasted.  Montana would bet every dollar in his bank account that Mickey had no idea where they were playing tonight—not even so much as the state.  Nothing mattered to Mick the Hick but his next ride, and he was never coming down.

Montana turned back to face the hungry crowd, uncertain of how to proceed.  Should they stick to the script and continue to fuck it up, or try something else completely and take the risk of fucking that up far worse?  It was his call, . . . his and his alone.

“Excuse me,” he spoke into the microphone, trying to find his stride.  “I’m looking for some people who want to tear this fucking place down.  I'm serious.  I want this fucking place to burn.”

A ripple seemed to spread throughout the crowd, which was suddenly gaining energy and enthusiasm.  The head security guard gave Montana a stern glare, but the vocalist ignored it.  He needed some magic and he was going to take a stab at shooting the moon.  Singers always bluff when there’s money on the table.

“That's right, motherfuckers.  I mean you people understand that we only live once, right?  At least in this incarnation, that is if you believe in such things, but the point remains the same.”

Bernie was looking at him like he had flipped his lid.  Maybe he had. 

But maybe, just maybe, he was primed to explode one last time.

“Once.  That’s a hefty fucking word as far as I’m concerned.”

The people were getting into it.  They were moving.  They were getting loud.  Next they would get rowdy.

The security chief was still looking at Montana, but he seemed uncertain now.  Maybe he was thinking about splitting.

“So why don’t we join together, . . . right here, . . . right now, . . . tonight, and make this fucking moment burn.”

What followed was the finest moment in the band’s infamous history.  Only the bizarre notion of telepathy can account for the incident that forever defined them as rock icons and tragic heroes.  

Montana and Bernie exchanged a prolonged stare, their minds melding into one.  As the crowd writhed and chanted, their frenzied intensity blossoming into full-blown mayhem, the singer and the guitarist turned to regard the trashed drummer.  Mickey met their gaze and nodded his head, vowing to go the distance.  “Fuckin’ A,” he slurred, raising his sticks high overhead before screaming and simultaneously striking his cymbals.  

Magic was the word of the day as the band launched into one of their heaviest songs, an unheralded gem from their second album that wasn’t on the setlist.  Truth be told, prior to that glorious night of debauchery, the band hadn’t played “Sewer Bitch” in so much as a practice session within months of the show.  Maybe years.  It was an awful song, but awful times call for awful measures.

As the musicians gave way to the primal power that controlled them, the music brought out all of the passion and angst of those in attendance.  There was chaos, bouncing bodies churning in a sea of violent emotion.

There was rock, there was love, and there was glory.  Oh sweet glory.

And then some asshole accidentally burned the whole place down.