Jerusalem Syndrome - Marc Maron [23]
Facts play only a minor role in any conspiracy theory. The proximity of one series of facts to an event that might connect those facts to another series of facts is what it’s really about. The object of the game is to connect the disparate facts in any way possible to get the outcome of “We’re fucked.” Events can be broad, shady, real, unreal, preferably convoluted, and hard to deconstruct in any one way. This leaves them open to endless possible interpretations. An event can be broken down in many ways—as long as it serves as a doorway to the facts that you want to connect. An event can revolve around a person involved, a color, a time, a government, a number, a date, a code, a logo, a distant relative, a passing moment at a point in time other than the time of the event, a bullet, an institution, forces of nature that are suspect in their timing, a sexual encounter, a coworker, or basically anything that will enable you to construct your own arcane projectile riff that you can ride to your version of the truth. That’s really a matter of style.
Within a few weeks my room looked like the Son of Sam’s apartment. There were holes in the walls, writing on the ceiling; books were strewn about and charts were pinned up. I was diagramming something. I was connecting the dots of the grand puzzle. One incident that I recall occurred over morning coffee. I had bought the Boston Globe and on the front page was a picture of then President George Bush. I cut it out and pinned it on the wall.
Bush, of course, was the vice president under Reagan and the ex–head of the National Republican Committee, the CIA, and Eli Lilly and Co. He was a member of the Skull and Bones club at Yale and probably performed their secret mock-death ritual during which the participants lie in a coffin, blindfolded, and share their sexual history with the other members. He belonged to the Freemasons and the Trilateral Commission. He was involved with the Bay of Pigs and the Iran-Contra affair. The image in the paper was of Bush attending a Texas Longhorns game. Both his hands were up in the air, his thumbs holding down his two middle fingers, thus forming a two-fisted Satan sign popular with heavy metal fans. So, of course, I thought, How clear does it have to be? He’s the Devil. The illuminated one. The bringer of light. A thousand points of light!
I dismissed the fact that it was also the hand sign of the Texas Longhorns. Does it really matter? A cow, Satan; signs are signs. They are open to interpretation.
I called the Boston Globe and asked them what it would take to get a copy of the picture. The woman on the phone told me it would be $250 and asked me what I’d be using the photograph for and I said, “Evidence.”
She said, “What does that mean?”
That was the end of the conversation. I hung up. I wasn’t ready to get into it with the press.
I was ready to go to Washington, D.C. Jim, my Beatnik brother from college, was there. The Vietnam War obsession usually leads to some sort of engagement with the political charade. He had worked on the advance team for the Dukakis campaign and was freelancing in Washington. I thought Jim might’ve gotten himself in over his head. I was worried about what he didn’t know. I had to go see if he was okay. I needed to explain to him what was really going on in the nation’s capital.
I got on the road to Washington and tried to plan what I would say. When I got there, I immediately called Jim.
“Jim, it’s Marc. What’s up, man? You okay?”
“Marc!” He was excited. “What’s up? Where have you been? What are you up to, man?”
“Jim, I need to talk to you about some stuff.”
“What? What’s going on? Are you alright?” He was concerned.
“I’m fine. Are you alright?” I probed.
“Yeah, I’m great, really great. I love doing advance.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.” I was saddened by the idea that I might be too late.
“What?”
“Well, I don’t think we should talk about