(This article was first published in Jordan’s Living Well magazine)
I’ve had it with the deceptions of the media. Perhaps my face doesn’t show it, but I am pissed-off angry. And here, for once, I’m not talking about the political side of things. I’m not talking about how docile news organizations in the West capitulated to their governments and, without a shred of resistance or an atom of intellectual integrity, accepted the barrage of blatant lies that linked Iraq to WMD’s and to Al-Qaida, thus facilitating the most unprovoked and unforgivable invasion in modern history. I’m not discussing how these misinformation organizations let their political leaders literally get away with murder of hundreds of thousands of people so that a few multinational corporations can add billions upon their trillions of ill-gotten wealth.
Let’s leave all that aside for now – along with the uncontainable mayhem coming out of the Pandora’s box that was irresponsibly opened in Iraq. In this episode of my road chronicles, I’m referring to other more mundane, yet equally irritating, aspects of the daily bombardment of lies and half-truths that I am subjected to every single day by an advertising industry gone berserk. Whether it’s when I’m out soaking up one billboard after the other, or sitting peacefully at home reading a magazine or watching TV, I am fed up with being taken for a ride. Read More »
August 16, 2006 – 12:01 pm
(This article was originally published in Jordan’s Living Well magazine)
Vroom… vroom, roared the Harley before its engine was turned off outside the pharmacy on duty in Geneva one quiet Sunday morning a few years ago in September. The six foot ‘quelque chose’ rider dismounted the daunting machine, took off his intimidating German helmet, neatly tucked it under his left arm, and walked slowly inside the drugstore.
Click…clack, he steadily thumped his way across the aisles in his huge boots and leathery attire. Elderly Sunday morning shoppers could not hide their disquiet at the site of this unusual visitor with his menacing looks, but pretended to mind their business. With the dark sunglasses carefully hiding hung-over eyes, but betraying weekend stubble, disheveled hair and an overgrown goatee, he placed his helmet on the counter. Read More »
August 9, 2006 – 12:01 pm
(This article was originally published in Jordan’s Living Well magazine)
Forgive me, Ernesto, for helping myself to this undeserved title of which I am grossly unworthy. I ask permission not only because I’m so unlike you in that I cannot believe in a single earthly dogma for the salvation of mankind so as to dedicate my whole existence to fight and die for it.
This noble, but often blinding, human trait is only part of the abyss that demarcates your fearless soul from mine. What really sets us apart here is that my inconsequential motorcycle expeditions will not leave these pages, whereas your celebrated treks are already grand history. And so are you. From t-shirts to boxer shorts, your portrait is a cult image more recognizable than most Hollywood celebrities. Alas, the only portrait you’re likely to find of this author is a Swiss police mug-shot for some serious traffic violations, but we won’t get into that. So Comandante, you still rock! Read More »
