Trust Never Sleeps

Who do you trust?

One of the best pieces of advice my dad ever supplied me with was: If you want someone to trust you, don’t ask for their trust. I am paraphrasing here, as I believe the original tidbit had something to do with getting girls, but as always with my dad, the logic is sound.

Trust is quite a commodity. Trust is in fact such a rare form of currency today that people tend to be disbelieving when it’s offered as trade. Imagine asking someone who isn’t related to you through blood, legal union, or years of familiarity to ‘trust you’. Asking for someone’s trust in a personal or in a, heaven-forbid, business transaction, and receiving a positive response is about as likely as getting a Grande-vanilla-no fat-extra hot-soy latte-with half non-dairy foam, chocolate syrup and a twist of cinnamon-in a Venti cup, holding the disgruntled loogie, and paying for the morning concoction in the US with Canadian money.

Trust me, it’s a hard one to negotiate. I still have a choco-soy blotch on my jacket and a stain on my permanent Starbucks record. Soy stains are forever.

We’ve long ago replaced trust. It’s gone the way of the dodo, of sympathy and accountability, of good TV and clever Hallmark Cards. It’s been replaced by contracts, prenuptial agreements, locks for our locks, security systems for our homes, cars, computers, phones, bikes, internal organs, and intellectual property.

I don’t even trust you… and I happen to like you.

The trust of our day is an internal principle, like honor. You don’t expect anyone to abide by an outdated code of ethics that seems about as relevant as an honest politician, and frankly, you’d be freaked out if they did. Why should you spend your hard earn trust-dollars on faith when you can invest yourself in a safe low-yield mutual mistrust fund? As a default, we have all learned to expect a knife held behind back of a new acquaintance in the hand that isn’t shaking ours, which is intended for our own backs when our guard is dropped. We no longer ask: who do you trust? The more appropriate question is: who not to trust first?

For your pleasure and enlightenment, I’ve listed a few examples below of those you’re best not to turn your back on. I’ll make this plain; these wolves in fluffy white clothing are just waiting for their chance to pounce. You’re in the crosshairs; don’t let them out of your sight.

JELL-O
I have always had a suspicious eye on this stuff.

From the very moment this quasi-food was first placed in front of me as a child, I knew it was not to be trusted. I can remember that undulating mound of unnatural green, in the shape of the bowl mom used for salad, being placed on the table in front of me. The eyes of my family members were mesmerized as its gelatinous form danced about without really moving. It was frightening, they wanted to ingest this substance, they looked me like pod people waiting for me to match their hypnotic enthusiasm. This was the thing that people ran away from in horror movies! Within its dome-like shape I could see morsels of apple and grape frozen in time like little fruit hostages, like Han Solo at the end of Empire Strikes Back. I nearly lost control as it seemed to avoid my spoon, moving a little in defense as I probed its surface. At that point, I knew it was the Jell-O or me.

Before I even understood the notion of trust, I think knew that ‘enigmatic’ was not an attribute we should attach to our food. Food should fall apart, consist of a vegetable or grain at some level… and be something more than a hostage taker. Food should not be translucent, or be able to evade capture.

I’m not suggesting some kind of a boycott here, the last thing we need to do is let this stuff know we’re on to it. Just be cool, rescue a piece of fruit every now and then, let it coyly wriggle about in front of you, but don’t let it know you’re on to it. This ‘dessert’ could turn on us at any time, after all, it already got Bill Cosby.

ADVOCATES OF POLITICAL CORRECTNESS
There is a potential list, as long as the naughty side of Santa’s own list, of theories that make great sense on paper but suck the fun out of a clown’s butt when put into practice. I dare not get started on that list here, in the middle of another list, but a definite nominee would have to be the practice of Political Correctness. The only thing worse: the close-minded, misguided fops that champion it.

This is not to say that I am against the message. We must be sensitive to the ethnicities of others, the genders, the nationalities, the orientations, the feelings, the origins, the brands, and the mid-level management administrational-not secretarial- appointment… I hope we can all see where this censored labeling takes us. I think we need a world with less walls and far less ‘correctness’ around us.

Do we really think Martin Luther King cared, aside from obvious atrocious examples, what he was called? Was his or his compatriots’ message merely about a label? Respect and equality is about far more than words, it’s about voices. I truly believe he would be against something that strives to keep labels attached and categories in place. I think labels are the very things he fought.

What we have in a Politically Correct Culture is more fear and more division. From a fear of words we naturally spread to a fear of actions and scenarios, and “oh, will this non-specific, gender-oriented… be offensive to non-traditional, Afro-, I mean African… what are we calling that now… I’ve forgotten who we’re offending.”

I have no problem with any one at any time, for any dumbass or perfectly logical reason, expressing a personal issue of offense with something they’re seeing or hearing or tasting or being touched by, so long as they understand that they must then take steps to accommodate THEMSELVES. The moment you raise the issue of political correctness, and you’re not answering a trivia question in the category of international diplomacy, you are attempting to censor someone and take something from someone else. Pre-emptive offense defends no one, and therefore you cannot be trusted.

Personally, you weren’t fooling me for a minute.

PEOPLE WHO WALK THEIR CATS
There are two kinds of people in the world: Dog-lovers and Cat-slaves. We’ve all been foolish to allow the latter, whose allegiances lie with their feline overlords and not with us, to roam free and occasionally bring their cats with them.

In all seriousness, few things are as unnatural looking to me, and I’m sure to most of you, than a cat on a leash. You know those leash/harnesses some parents use with their toddlers who are old enough to walk and young enough to wander? To me, the image of a cat on a rope is like that toddler harness on a bewildered thirteen year old. I tend not to trust the judgment of people who don’t know they’re demeaning themselves.

I don’t know how cats do it, but they manage an inter-species expression of sarcastic disapproval that for some reason these owners can’t decipher. In forgetting their place of servitude, these cat-slaves embarrass themselves, the dog-walkers around them, and most importantly, their owners at the other end of the rope.

The motherships are coming for these people, don’t turn your back on them.

CATS WHO LET THEIR OWNERS WALK THEM
Who is really on the END of that leash?

Need I say more?

BLACKBERRY USERS
I used to save this particular province of mistrust in my big black heart for cellular phone users, these vagabond gypsies that couldn’t commit to a location and boldly crossed over the landline. Since becoming a rather avid cell phone user myself, I have seen the light and thus shifted this distain to these holster wearing, e-mailing, Windows-compatible, fruit-named device-loving desperados.

A few of quick points (for those of you reading this on a little screen, I’m on to you.):

First of all, it’s too much power. Getting e-mail anywhere is like changing gravity.

Have you ever seen the guy in the corner of the coffee shop using one of these things? Tell me he’s not e-mailing the mothership.

What’s with the name, are they tasty? Do they make a pie? It’s clearly one of those cute, unassuming nicknames to lull us into a feeling of security. They were probably almost called Daisy petals or Puppy dogs.

Among the Blackberry inner circle they’re probably called Snakebites, or Operation: Viper.

If you see one of these operatives, try and get a look at the intelligence they’re gathering, and e-mail it to me right away… from a computer!

If you are reading this article on a Blackberry, by the way, you are hereby not trusted… Oh hell, I never trusted you to begin with.

WOMEN
I could go on for hours. If you don’t already carry pepper-spray, just start talking football when they corner you, and run like Jerry Rice when they go into the ‘sports-coma’. Otherwise, I suggest a hearty stop, drop and roll.

Absolutely, under no circumstances are they to be trusted, until they are mothers.

ROCK STARS
Since Elvis was drafted and the Beatles invaded, Rock Stars been the spiritual-political-poetic-fashion-profanity-gurus of their particular generations. Though they will forevermore have their pulpit and their devoted flock, believe me, none of them got into their business to be a leader, to have responsibility or to be trusted.

Rock Stars are the epitome of rebellion, and whether they embody this through their appearance, their actions, their words, or their entire beings, the last thing they should be asking, of the ears and souls tuned in, is trust. A good Rock Star dropped that notion long before, or perhaps the moment before, he or she picked the guitar.

The only time a Rock Star is asking for the trust of their minions these days is when they are asking them to buy something, or more to the point, buy into something. This is when the Rock Star goes from Poet-Minstrel-Entertainer to Shill. You see, in a scam, the Shill is the one that lures you into the con, who makes the game of Three Card Monte look pleasing and enjoyable, while the Swindlers turn over the card you swore you wouldn’t get.

I have a problem just about any time a Rock Star has something to say outside of the lyrics of their verse, because the cases are so few and far between that they’re not using their influence to sell you Snake Oil. I would rather hear Michael Bolton singing while he’s getting a bikini wax then hear Jennifer Lopez tell me how to smell, Nelly’s thoughts on footwear, The Dixie Chicks thoughts on war, or Bruce Springsteen tell me who to vote for. Whatever happened to rebels WITHOUT a cause?

Sing, perform, dance, objectify your body, starve yourself, hate your father, hate your mother, hate your ex, hate me, but don’t ask for my trust. Artists express, they do not campaign.

Okay… you can trust Springsteen.

WRITERS
You can trust me on this, don’t trust writers.

As artists, we are persuaders, we take the language you take for granted and make a sales pitch every time we put pen to paper, finger to keyboard, and prove time after time, that the sword is a pussy.

Other mediums of artistic expression have little room for falsehood. Sculpture, music, craftwork, and canvas are truthful expressions from the truthful parts of the soul, or frankly they don’t work… I’m reminded again of Hallmark Cards.

Writing is best when it’s a layered version of truthful. An unabashedly trustless tapestry, of a bunch of big words that paint a pretty picture.

The best readers are the ones that know not to take any words or carefully crafted statements for granted. We’re all spin-doctors, and I’ve just sold you Snake Oil.


We must be eternally vigilante. If you take anything away from this little bittle, remember to guard your trust and keep those eyes open. In the end, no one is responsible for your personal security other than yourself. So, do not come crying to me if you find yourself frozen in some Jell-O that a cat-walking female rock star sold you through an e-mail sent via a Blackberry from God only knows where.

I’ll hate to say I told you so, but happily remind you to trust me...

Trust me.

Patrick Hughes