DB: Freedom From the Machine

Wandering around the sci-fi section of Stadium Video, I stumbled across an old VHS gem entitled “Robot Holocaust”. It was obviously too good to pass up. The premise was pretty a simplistic mix of the Wizard of Oz and the Matrix. An inanimate overlord had set himself up as the tyrant master of post apocalyptic earth and put all the humans to work bringing fuel to the power station where the unseen voice has locked himself away surrounded by robotic minions. If the human slaves refuse to obey him, the tyrant removes the atmosphere and everyone chokes to death. AWESOME. At a crucial point during the plot the “airslaves” decide to fill their bags with sand instead of fuel, when the overlord realizes the deception, it is too late and his power source is depleted just enough to weaken him for the hero’s final blow.

This is how I feel about food. An evil overlord with an unseen voice has taken over our atmosphere. Pollution, poison, weird chemical additives, and slavery to the oil economy are a result of this takeover. And we drag them their fuel, day in and day out we pay them to continue to mistreat animals, overuse gasoline, create unnecessary packaging, and inundate us with pop culture nonsense from the magazines at the checkout counter. If only I could bring them sand….

Yet, an alternative looms on the horizon. A grand hero in overalls and a straw hat, wielding a pitchfork and a scythe. He comes to rescue us from the booming voice of the man behind the curtain. The Farmer returns to downtown this Thursday. Every dollar I spend on a locally grown food item feels like a gallon of sand in some eighteen wheeled gas tank. Now don’t get me wrong, my mother was a trucker, and my daddy was an oil man, their ain’t nothing wrong with drivin’ goods around this fine nation. But we got plenty of food right here in the valley beyond the port, so there ain’t no reason to go and feed that automated power station your hard earned money just so they can continue to feed you partially hydrogenated ectoplasmic robot shit in return.

We are all responsible, for what happens at the end of this story. We can no longer live like it does not matter. Every life, every choice of every life, every ounce of thought about every choice, is all bending this world toward flourish or flounder. We get to decide.

The Farmers market smells like freedom from the machine, it feels like the earth is close to me again, and Happy Mothers Day Earth, thats what I say. And Happy Mothers Day Mom….keep on truckin’, wherever you are.

Farmers Market on Exit133