Benjamen Walker's Theory of Everything - Man Without A Country (2020 remix)

Episode Date: July 8, 2020

Curse the USA and America will strike you up. That’s what happened to the Man Without a Country. They stuffed him in a hot air balloon and sentenced him to ride sea to shining sea for  the rest of his days.  I made my own version of Edward Everett Hale’s classic tale back in the early aughts. It was one of the first long form audio fiction pieces I ever wrote. Sadly, like many items in the ToE vaults the relevance is increasing with age. Here is a condensed remix for your summer 2020 travels, whether it's a trip across the country or a back and forth from the kitchen to the bedroom. You can find the original 3 part series in the ToE archive

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Episodes every other week at neverpo.st and wherever you find pods. I'm heading northeast on Highway 101. The sun has already gone down. I passed over the town of Ware, New Hampshire, in total darkness. Tomorrow morning, when the sun comes up, I'll be over Maine. Earlier this evening, a carload of drunken yokels kept pace below me. They honked and screamed for almost 40 miles. They hung out the windows of their vehicle and gave me the finger. One of them kept gesturing to the American flag on his t-shirt.

Obviously, they knew who I was, and I found this touching. Hardly anyone remembers who I am anymore. If I had known how quickly I would be forgotten, I'm not so sure I would have been so stubborn. When I was on trial with all the cameras and the reporters, I thought that I'd become somebody important. I thought that I'd become a political celebrity. There were so many TV crews at the launch. It went to my head. I fell prey to delusions.

I assumed that the whole world was not only watching, but that it was paying attention as well. I assumed that my plight was the topic of every conversation, every newspaper editorial. I assumed that I would be the impetus for a mass insurrection, a national revolution. I was certain that I would be brought back down with an even greater fanfare. I imagined ticker tape parades, military salutes, and a fireworks display like nothing the world has ever seen. But I know now that I'm never coming down, for you all have forgotten me. I realize now that I was just another news item,

just another front-page picture. And now, 11 years later, I float above you all, unheralded and unrecognized. At best, I'm a civics lesson taught to the children of patriotic rednecks. So allow me to reintroduce myself. I'm the balloon guy. That doesn't mean anything to you, does it? It was the 4th of July, and I didn't have any firecrackers.

Of course, I knew that firecrackers were illegal, but I still wanted some. You can't really celebrate the 4th of July without firecrackers. You can't celebrate the birth of freedom and independence without setting off a few explosions. When I was a young boy, my father would take my sister and I to Chinatown, and we'd purchase Roman candles, box tops, and sparklers. And as the sun would set, we'd fire our Roman candles at each other like gunfighters at high noon, while our mother shouted the Declaration of Independence through a cardboard megaphone. But that was a different age.

That was before they took over and made everything illegal. For a while, there used to be this guy on 37th who was selling firecrackers out of his basement. He was my connection for years until the police shut him down. One day, he was tear-gassed out of his apartment and they took him away in chains. So, it was the 4th of July and I didn't have a connection

and I didn't have any firecrackers. It was extremely quiet. I was sitting on my back porch drinking a beer and there was this loud, ominous quiet. I could hear the fabric of my jeans. I could hear my wicker chair. I could even hear my irregular heartbeat. It was a deafening quiet. I sat on the back porch like this for about an hour. The quiet made me think about how wrong things had become in this country, and it made me think about how bleak the future was going to be. I got really depressed, and so I decided to go out and get some more beer. As I cut through the alley to Western Ave, a guy in a hooded sweatshirt called out to me. Hey, buddy, you want to buy some firecrackers?

You have to understand, I was extremely agitated. I was engrossed in all these dark ruminations. So when I said sure, when I followed this guy over to the dumpster, I wasn't really all there. Even when I took out my $40 and tried to purchase some Roman candles, it wasn't really me. I wasn't really present in the moment. But then the man whipped out a badge, and suddenly I was surrounded by 20 police officers. Someone picked me up and threw me into the side of the dumpster.

Then it was a blur of black leather and blue steel. I was kicked and beaten to unconsciousness. But during all this, during all of this, I assure you, I was most certainly present in the moment. I come to in a small concrete cell. A man with no teeth is stroking my face. There are tears running down his cheeks. I can't understand a word that he's saying, but somehow I know that I am the reason he's crying.

There are four other men in the cell as well. They all stand over by the bars. Their heads hang low. They won't even look at me. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. And everyone in my cell knows about it. But the only person who will talk to me is the man with no teeth.

And like I said, I can't really understand what he's saying. The next morning, I'm taken from the cell and brought before a judge. The courtroom is packed. I see Dan Rather and Ted Koppel. There are hundreds of cameras. The judge explains to me that I am the first Class A1 felon who will be put away under the new administration's three-strikes-you're-out-forever crime bill.

I ask the judge if I have an attorney, and he laughs. Yes, you do, son. You're looking at him. The crowd laughs and bursts into applause. The judge stands up and takes a bow, and then he bangs his gavel, and we all sit down. The judge holds up a crushed can of Pabst Blue Ribbon over his head. First of all, he bellows, you were drinking in public.

A screen drops down from the ceiling. A red bowling pin lights up. Strike one, the court officer yells out. The crowd bursts into applause again. Secondly, he screams, banging his gavel, you had on your person obscene material. At first, I think I'm being framed, but then he holds up my copy of Big Ass Magazine. I forgot that I had that rolled up in my back pocket when I went out to get beer. I turn bright red. The judge holds up the magazine for the audience. He shakes his head in disgust. I'm mortified. I put my hands over my face. The cameras zoom in as he flips through the magazine.

Pages and pages of big asses. I slink down in my seat. The courtroom boos and hisses. Strike two, the court officer yells out. Another bowling pin lights up on the screen. Then, the undercover police officer in the sweatsuit takes the witness stand. He points me out and says that I had tried to purchase $40 worth of Roman candles from him. He explains that in all his years as an undercover agent, he's never met such a depraved and vicious criminal.

The judge thanks him, and a third bowling pin goes up. The screen starts flashing and ringing. Strike three, you're out! The cameras go nuts, and the judge pounds at the bench with his gavel while the audience shouts and stomps its feet. Then the lights dim, and a video starts up. It's an informational video about a new super supermax prison. I learn all about the guard towers and the attack dogs

and the electrified barbed wire. Then I'm personally greeted by the warden. He sits at his desk and explains to me that I'll be his charge for the next 50 years. The camera follows the warden around while he shows me the 4 foot by 6 foot cell, which will be my new home. He demonstrates the straitjacket that I'll be wearing 23 hours a day. Then he shows me the 10 by 10 metal pin, in which I'll be allowed to run for an hour every morning. He holds out an assortment of rubber balls and explains that good behavior earns me the privilege of playing ball once a

week. The camera zooms in on another inmate who's furiously bouncing a yellow rubber ball against the wall of the metal 10 by 10 pen. Beads of sweat roll down his face while the guards cheer him on. He bounces the ball faster and faster and faster. Then the lights go up. The courtroom is quiet. The judge tells me that in 50 years, my freedom will be restored to me, and I will have another chance to prove myself worthy of being an American citizen. The room is silent. The judge asks if I have anything to say for myself. I rise to my feet, and I tell him that there is nothing in the world that disgusts me more than being a citizen of the United States of America.

I explain to him how difficult it is to sleep at night, knowing that I am a citizen of the country that is responsible for most of the international terrorism that kills and tortures thousands of innocent people every year. I tell him how infuriating it is to be unable to do anything about the greed and hypocrisy that runs rampant through every body of government. I tell him how I attach a Canadian flag to all of my luggage when I travel abroad.

I tell him how sometimes I beg God to wipe this disgusting canker sore of a country off the face of the earth. I tell the judge that if I had known that prison would strip me of my citizenship, then I would have volunteered a long time ago. I tell him that I'm looking forward to the next 50 years because I will no longer have to swallow the lies and the propaganda of corporate media. I will no longer have to stomach the iron jackboot of the police state. My conscious will

be free of moral indignation. And if perchance I do suffer some physical ailment for the first time in my life, I will have health care. I hold my handcuffed wrist out to the judge, and I implore him to change my sentence to life in prison, as it will guarantee me the peace of mind that my freedom will never be taken away from me. The judge just stares at me. His eyes are bugging out from his fat, fleshy face. The entire courtroom is silent. I clear my throat and say, Okay then, how much money would it take to bribe you?

At this, the courtroom goes nuts. The judge hammers at his desk with such fury that he breaks his gavel. I was supposed to beg and grovel, and then they were going to commute my sentence from 50 years in prison to 40 years in prison, and everyone would go home happy. Compassionate fascism. But I had ruined everything. And I had done it on TV. So they changed my sentence.

They had to in order to save face. Instead of prison, I got banishment. Since you hate America so much, the judge screamed at me, you will never again be allowed to touch her soil. For the rest of your life, you will float above this country that you've disowned, and you will never, ever hear her name again. You really don't remember any of this, do you? It's a black balloon and it's outfitted with all kinds of fancy gadgetry

There's a built-in navigation system that takes me back and forth across the amber waves of grain and over the Purple Mountain's majesty from sea to shining sea I also have a bread machine An army plane pulls up once every three months, and they refuel the hot air tanks, and I get a variety pack of bread mixes. Whole wheat,

country white, Cajun dill, and chocolate chip. I have a built-in water system which works off of condensation and I have a pair of binoculars at first I thought they'd made a mistake for it seemed strange that they would provide me with a link to the land from which they had banished me but I know now that the binoculars were part of the plan for the binoculars make it painfully clear that I have been completely and totally forgotten. Thank you. Everything in my craft is bolted down. The bread machine, my pallet bed, the navigation system.

They knew that I would be of the mind to hurl whatever was at hand, and they designed my craft accordingly. So I'm limited to bodily invectives. I'm limited to communication through virulent urinary tracts and truculent blasts of defecation. Occasionally, I'm able to connect with a woman walking down the street, chattering on her cell phone, and every now and then I make contact

with a man showing off his sports utility vehicle. But most of the time, my vituperative commentary on the stupidity and vulgarity that parades beneath me goes unheard. I've been stuck over Boston for weeks now. There's something wrong with my navigation system.

I'm afraid I'll be stuck until the supply plane shows up. I'm stuck in a pattern which takes me over the suburbs and the strip malls and back through downtown. It's an apocalyptic loop-de-loop, for it's clear that this city is in its final days. The roads have linked up to form one snake-like strip mall. At night, it glows with the colors of Pizza Hut and Taco Bell. Tractors and wrecking balls tear down everything that doesn't bear the markings of this beast. Soon, there will be nothing but Starbucks, Gaps, McDonald's, Burger Kings, Toys R Us, Walmarts, Home Depots, Staples, and gigantic behemoth super stop and shops. The other night, I awoke from a nightmare, and I thought that I was over Vegas.

Downtown is getting at the worst. There are new luxury high-rises everywhere, and the wealthy suburbanites are taking back the elegant brownstones. The squatters and the street poets and the junkies are awakening to the fact that their world has changed hands. They're no longer welcome in their neighborhood bars. They're no longer left alone by the police. They no longer even exist.

They stare through their hands in horror as they melt away in the hot afternoon sunlight. Their passing is marked only by the rush for the empty street corners Angry suburban teenagers and frustrated music school dropouts Battle it out while anything but PhDs fight over the empty bar stools I spend most of the day now curled up on the floor of my gondola With my hands clamped over my ears. But I can't block out the buzz. I think I'm going mad. There's a girl who lives at the corner of 12th and Broadway. She has a cat and she plays the banjo. She rides a bicycle with a basket on

the front. She is undaunted by the franchises or the wrecking balls. She frequents Boston's few remaining used record stores and secondhand bookshops. She stays up late. She reads Russian literature and listens to 45 records with the window open. She isn't even daunted by the giant super stop and shop sign, which buzzes obnoxiously down the block. Every Sunday, she takes her cat out on a leash and rides down to the river. She puts the cat in the front basket and it stares out wide-eyed as the girl maneuvers through traffic, dodging the monster trucks and the monster cars. When she gets to the Charles River, the girl loops the leash around her ankle. The cat chases after the river geese while she reads large, tattered paperbacks. Today, a boy sat down next to her. He asked her if she was enjoying the book.

She was reading Anna Karenina. She turned to him and said yes, she was enjoying her book. And then she continued to read. This boy should have gotten up and walked away, but he didn't. He chewed on a blade of grass and made faces at the cat who was cautiously watching him. Then he asked her whether she thought Anna's attraction to Vronsky stemmed from his brash behavior on the train or was it rather just a case of intense physical attraction. The girl lowered her book and thought about it for a moment. The boy took the cat into his lap and stroked its fur.

I'm not sure what her reply was. While I am quite good at reading lips, I missed her reply entirely. The two discussed Tolstoy and Russian literature for a few hours, and then the girl put the cat into the basket and got onto her bike. The boy had a bike as well, and the two rode to a small Italian restaurant in the Fenway. They tied their bikes up outside and sat at a table in the window. The boy told the girl about how much he hated his PhD program and about how life didn't really begin for him until he dropped out and moved to the city. She told him about her banjo and her desire to one day write as many good songs as Lou Reed.

The two drank a bottle of wine, and when they emerged from the restaurant, her face was flushed. The boy kept running his hands through his brown, curly hair. They rode to her apartment at 12th and Broadway. She invited the boy up. Her apartment is very small, two rooms. She put on some music. They sat down next to each other on the bed.

Soon their mouths were intertwined. His hand slid around her waist. She rolled up on top of him. When the record was over, she got up and put on another one. Then she came to the window. She looked up at me for a few moments. The night was clear. There was nothing in the sky except for me and the moon. Then she pulled down the window, but superior, morally superior. We're not just technologically superior, geographically superior, militarily superior, we're morally superior. We're not just technologically superior, geographically superior,

militarily superior, we're morally superior. And in that sense, we're exceptional. This is a notion that goes way back in American history from the very beginning. The United States is simply better than other places in the world. Howard Zinn was one of America's most important historians and social activists.

His most famous book, A People's History of the United States, is a radical retelling of American history. It begins with Christopher Columbus gloating in his diary about how easy it is to kill and subjugate the natives of the world. Howard Zinn was one of America's most important public intellectuals. In 2005, we spoke about the myth of American exceptionalism. John Sullivan, who coined the phrase manifest destiny on the eve of the Mexican War, said that it was Providence that had ordained that the United States should expand as far as it can.

And so this myth of manifest destiny, that somehow the Lord had singled out the United States, given it the exclusive right to go where it wanted in order to expand in the universe. It takes very specific form and enters the language when we go to war with Mexico and end up taking half of Mexico. As the 19th century came to a close, it was clear to many that America's manifest destiny would require more military campaigns. And the justification for these campaigns began to change. Not every American leader claimed divine sanction. But the idea persisted that the United States was uniquely justified in using its power to expand throughout the world.

American exceptionalism was never more clearly expressed than by Secretary of War Laiu Root. Quote, The American soldier is different from all other soldiers of all other countries since the world began. He is the advanced guard of liberty and justice, of law and order, and of peace and happiness. Unquote. Well, at the time Laiu Root was saying this, American soldiers in the Philippines were starting a bloodbath which would take the lives of 600,000 Filipinos. For Howard Zinn, the only way out of this quagmire that is American exceptionalism is a national coming to terms with history.

The arguments of the United States that its intentions are moral, that it cares about democracy, when those arguments are subjected to the test of history, that is the history of American foreign policy, then one must become exceedingly suspicious. Because when you look at the history of American foreign policy and you ask, oh, has American foreign policy been consistently in favor of democracy and of establishing democratic countries, democratic regimes around the world? You find rather the opposite. policy of the history of overthrowing democratic governments at various times, instituting right-wing governments, supporting death squads in other countries. So history is one of the most powerful weapons. Up until his death in 2010, Zinn did his best to combat what he called mythical history. But he also came to realize that the main force sustaining American exceptionalism

is the belief that America is the greatest country in the world. Most Americans, regardless of their political persuasion, hold this as a self-evident truth, even if facts say otherwise. I mean, this is a very important part of the myth of American exceptionalism, that the United States is simply the best place in the world. It isn't, from many, many points of view. Simply from the sort of normal criteria of what is a decent society, the United States, despite all the television sets we have

and all the automobiles we have and all of the cell phones we have, all of the superficial appurten cell phones we have, all of the superficial appurtenances. We are not the best. We certainly don't treat our older people and our kids as well as many, many other countries in the world. We are doing more harm to other people in the world with our weaponry than any other nation in the world. We are the most aggressive nation in the world. We are an exceptionally aggressive and arrogant power. There's truth there. Thank you. I'm heading north over Glacier National Park. Directly below me is the Hungry Horse Reservoir.

To my right, the Flathead Forest. And to my left, Kalispell Bay. And rising up in front of me, but going to the Sun Mountain. I am surrounded by lakes and trees and mountains and sky. Montana truly deserves the name Big Sky Country. I never feel more infinitesimal than when I am traversing the Montana firmament. This vastness of sky overpowers the majesty of all that lies before me and reminds me

just how insignificant, just how invisible I have become. The loneliness lasts for only a moment, though, because as my craft approaches Canada, the atmosphere darkens, and the sky fills with thousands of tiny, remote-controlled killer drones patrolling the border in search of illegal immigrants to track and kill. Then my navigation system kicks in. My balloon makes a lazy turn, and I begin a new journey. South.

When I was in high school, I had a friend who was obsessed with Montana. His name was Ike. Ike and I were both bad at sports, and thus we were often assigned to afternoon groundskeeping duties together. While our buffer and brawnier classmates would batter and bash themselves on the playing courts, Ike and I would mow lawns, rake leaves, and shovel snow. Lawn mowing duty was the best, because that's when we got to huff gas. One afternoon, though, Ike huffed a bit too much gas.

He could barely keep his head up. I got worried that he might topple over the front of his riding lawnmower and get chewed up by the blades, so I convinced him to lay down in the shade for a rest. This is when he told me about his obsession with Montana. He said it all started when he was eight years old, when he was in the second grade. This was before they made cartoons illegal, so there were

still comic strips in the newspapers. In fact, on Sundays, there were these full-color comic supplements, complete with puzzles and games. Sometimes there were even contests. One Sunday morning, young Ike opened up the comic supplement and discovered a large map of the United States. It was drawn to look like a treasure map. It was a treasure hunting contest. Somewhere on this map was a buried treasure, and the boy or girl who figured out where the treasure was would win $1,000.

Above the map were clues, American history and geography questions, and there were promises of more clues to come. This contest would last three weeks. The contest totally consumed young Ike. He spent every waking moment at the local library poring over American history and geography books, searching for the answers to the clues.

By the third week, he became convinced that the treasure was buried in Helena, Montana. He was so sure of this, he didn't even bother with the final clues. He just mailed in his entry and made plans for the accolades and ticker tape parades that were soon to come. A few weeks later, the Comic Supplement announced that 642 boys and girls had correctly located

the treasure, and that they would all be sharing the $1,000 prize. The treasure, it turned out to be in Lincoln, Nebraska. But Ike wasn't bothered by this, because he knew this was absolutely untrue. Those 642 boys and girls were all fools. The treasure, it was in Helena, Montana. Of this, Ike was certain, and he knew the treasure would wait for him. As Ike grew older, the treasure grew as well. On the afternoon I'm telling you about, Ike told me that he was having dreams about a girl with long golden hair.

A girl who lived in Helena, Montana. Ike was convinced that this girl was not only real, but that she was his soulmate. Now, I had never heard someone use the word soulmate before, so I snickered. Ike shut his mouth real fast at this, but still, fumes drifted out of his nose and his ears for the rest of the afternoon. We never spoke about it again. Not even when he wrote a song called Montana for our punk band. When we were 17, we started a punk band. Rock and roll was still legal at this point.

We only played one concert, though, our high school battle of the bands. And even though we'd agreed earlier that afternoon that we were going to play a song I wrote, once we were on stage, Ike launched into his Montana song. It wasn't even a real song. It was just Ike howling this one line over and over while he shredded on his guitar. Montana's calling out to me. Montana's calling out to me. It was really bad, but I wanted us to win the battle of the bands. So I just strummed along on my bass and pretended that this was exactly what we meant to be doing. But we didn't win.

The next morning, Ike disappeared. Nobody could find him. Not even the police. Weeks went by until eventually he was officially declared to be a runaway. I never heard from him again. Sometimes when I come this way, I see him. Swimming in the Flathead Lake, hiking the Horsehead Reservoir,

and huffing gas on the road to the sun. I can't tell you how great it is to be moving again. For a while, I thought I was going to be stuck over Boston forever. But eventually, the supply plane showed up. And along with my usual packages of bread machine mixes, vitamin tablets, and tubes of industrial strength sunscreen, they sent down a repairman. I could tell that he was a soldier as soon as he started to rappel down from the plane. He wore the traditional brown Kevlar uniform, and his white cape was adorned with the insignia of our armed forces. Jesus holding an American flag in one hand and a shotgun in the other. Now you have to understand,

it's been almost 10 years since I've had a conversation with someone. So when this soldier lands in my gondola, I'm overcome with emotion. I just stare at him. I can't believe he's real. He seems to have similar thoughts about me. When they told me about this mission, he says, I didn't believe it. I thought someone was pulling my leg. No way did we sentence some guy to travel back and forth over the country forever in a hot air balloon, all because he cursed America. I don't know what to say. I'm so nervous I stick out my hand thinking, you know, we can shake hands or something.

He pretends not to notice. But then, he continues, I went on YouTube and there you were. You are totally real. YouTube, I say. It's incredible. My vocal cords, they still work. Then he tells me all about this thing called YouTube, where people share videos about funny cats and natural disasters and clips from old TV shows and movies on the internet. When I got arrested and put in this balloon, the internet was just starting to get popular, but there was no such thing as YouTube.

That sounds amazing. He slaps his forehead. Darn it! That's the one thing I'm not supposed to do. Tell you stuff about what's going on down below. They said, it's part of your sentence. Don't worry, I say. I promise I won't tell. This puts him at ease,

and he opens up his toolbox and starts to examine the navigation system. I am allowed to ask you stuff, he says. He's interested. He's interested in me and my story. I want to bury my face in his chest and sob. What do you want to know, I say. If you could go back and do it all over again, he asks, what would you do differently? That's easy, I blurt out.

I got convicted by the three strikes you're out forever law, but one of those three strikes should have been thrown out of court. Now, obviously, I've gone over this thousands and thousands of times, but this is my first opportunity to perform the script for a real person. So I try to sound like Perry Mason. They threw the book at me for three offenses. Buying firecrackers from an undercover police officer, drinking in public,

and possession of obscene material. But where did they get off declaring Big Ass Magazine obscene? I should have contested that one. I was just embarrassed because none of my friends knew I read Big Ass Magazine. But it was just a girly mag from the 1940s,

a historical curiosity. It wasn't obscene. I should have fought them on this. And I can't help but think that if I had, then perhaps things wouldn't have gotten so out of hand, and perhaps it all would have turned out differently. But pictures of naked people are totally illegal, even if it's the person you're married to, soldier boy says. Really? Things have gotten that bad? He smacks his forehead again.

Then he takes a hammer out of his toolbox and starts banging on the navigation system. Were you ever married, he asks. No, I reply. My girlfriend wants to get married, he says, but I'm not sure. She's from a wealthy family. She grew up with a swimming pool and fancy vacations. I grew up poor.

The only choice I had was the army. She says she loves me and that it doesn't matter that I don't make a lot of money, but I can't help but think that one day she will wake up and notice that I don't make a lot of money. But I can't help but think that one day she will wake up and notice that we don't have a swimming pool and that we can't afford to go anywhere. And then she'll start to compare her life to her friends. Her friend Lisa is married to a preacher and they have a giant house. And her friend Anne got an inheritance from her grandfather. Don't you think she'll start to resent me? Won't she think she threw her life away for something stupid like love?

And what if we have children? Won't her maternal instincts kick in and rule out any other feelings for me except scorn and regret? I'm dumbfounded. As you know, I've spent the last 10 years in total isolation. I'm having my first face-to-face human interaction in a decade, and all he wants to do is talk about his relationship. For the first time, I actually considered throwing myself over the edge of my gondola. But he's serious. He's looking to me for counsel. He's looking to me for guidance.

I choke back some more sobs and mumble something about how love always wins the day, even though I know it's not true. This is exactly what he wants to hear. And as he puts away his tools, he's all smiles. Hey, I know I'm not supposed to do this, he whispers. But you can ask me one thing about the world below. Whatever you want. And if I know the answer, I'll tell you.

I don't even have to think twice about it. As soon as he told me about YouTube, I knew exactly what I wanted to ask. Have you ever heard of a movie called Tarzan and His Mate? No, he says. Well, it was made in 1934. This was way before they made everything illegal. And when

the script called for Tarzan and Jane to swim in the jungle river, they filmed them in the nude. As a safety precaution, the filmmakers shot multiple versions with the beautiful actress who played Jane, Maureen O'Sullivan, in various states of undress. They did one with her fully clothed, one topless, and one in the nude. Now, very few people have ever seen the nude version. The footage has been locked away in a safety deposit box ever since the 1950s. I know this might sound stupid, but I've always wanted to watch this.

It would mean so much to me to see this, or even meet someone who's seen it. Perhaps it's on YouTube. He doesn't say anything. He just attaches the rope to his belt and gives it three quick tugs. As he rises from the gondola, the wind catches his cape and it unfurls. It's strange. I've never seen anything but judgment and menace in the face of our American Jesus. After all, he is holding a shotgun. But as my new friend floats away from me,

I swear that Jesus embroidered on his cape seems to smile upon me with a look of compassion and understanding. Soon Soon Soon Soon Soon Jesus once said that man cannot live on bread alone. Or maybe it was Karl Marx who said it. Or Groucho. I don't remember anymore. But whoever said it lacked the imagination and foresight

to envision the bread machine. With a bread machine and a variety of prepackaged bread mixes, a man can live forever. I will admit I could do without the Cajun dill, but as someone definitely other than Jesus once said, variety is the spice of life. So I count myself lucky that the supply plane brings me regular shipments of not just Cajun dill, but whole wheat, country white, and chocolate chip. Every night before I bed down, I load the bread machine with one of the mixes, and then I lay down on my pallet. And then I fall asleep as the sound of the machine mixes over the Great Bas basin of Nevada,

I enjoyed a fresh, piping hot loaf of whole wheat. I spent the entire morning looking at ghost towns and nuclear test craters. From my vantage point, the craters almost look like footprints. I can pretend that I am a great hunter, tracking a strange and giant beast. And with my binoculars and my strange craft, I surely look the part. But it's a stupid game. Obviously, everyone knows where the footprints are heading. There's a sign over City Hall that says Las Vegas is the fastest growing city in America.

And I assure you, this is no empty brag. Through boom and bust, Las Vegas continues to grow. I pass by about every four months, and every four months there's new casinos, new strip malls, new housing tracks. In a few years, the city will reach the California border, and it will stretch east all the way to the Hoover Dam. Las Vegas never ceases to amaze me. For even though everything is now illegal, Las Vegas remains a den of iniquity.

They rebranded sin. Here in Las Vegas, the girls are all showgirls. The drugs and liquor, they're party enhancers. And the gambling, they call it gaming. In Las Vegas, vice itself has been repackaged as choice. And Las Vegas has not only succeeded in doing away with the government moralists, there seems to be no government whatsoever. There are virtually no taxes to speak of, no public agencies, no regulatory bodies. The mayor, he likes to say that the only responsibility of government

is to make sure that the odds are posted in plain sight. The mayor also likes to call Las Vegas the capital city of the information age. And he's right, because the odds are truly the only piece of information worth anything anymore. And in Las Vegas, the odds are always posted in plain sight. Every time I pass over Vegas, the mayor is out somewhere giving a speech.

Today, at a casino luncheon, he was once again praising the new arrivals. The numbers are staggering. Over 5,000 people a month moving to Las Vegas. The mayor is always quick to point out that there's no better showpiece of American democracy than Las Vegas. For in Vegas, everybody is treated the same.

It doesn't matter what color you are. It doesn't matter what your profession is. You can be a history professor from Harvard or a donut maker from Des Moines. In Las Vegas, everyone is equal. Of course, the history professor will have less of a problem losing his shirt. It's the donut makers who hang themselves from the air conditioning vents and blow their brains out with handguns. That's one thing the mayor doesn't like to talk about. Las Vegas is also the suicide capital of America.

It's also the crimes with a violent weapon capital of America. And the high school dropout capital of America. And while the odds are always in plain sight, the ashes? They're hauled off the streets in secret by unmarked panel trucks. And these trucks are always driving out into the desert to dump their cargo upon the scorched earth. But the mayor doesn't like to talk about this sort of thing. He'd much rather talk about all the new banks and insurance buildings. He likes to say that they're proof that the country no longer looks down its nose at Las Vegas. Another story he's fond of repeating

is the one about Citibank. In the 1980s, Citibank used to send out all its mailings postmarked from Lakes, Nevada. Citibank was afraid that the rest of the country would balk at dealing with a financial institution that was based in Las Vegas. But these days, Citibank doesn't need to make up a fictional address. It's proud to be a part of Las Vegas. It's got a new building too, an elegant, opulent building that holds its own with the casinos and the hotels. There are so many banks in Las Vegas now, and it's difficult to tell them apart from the casinos, especially from my vantage point, because they all have rooftop swimming pools. It's because of these rooftop swimming pools that I possess such an intimate understanding of Las Vegas. It's where the mayor spends most of his time yammering non-stop

with his mob cronies and showgirls. It's also where most of the city's leading businessmen and clergy can be found. Some of these pools even draw out visiting royalty and heads of state. Even the sheiks from the Middle East will ditch their flowing white robes to doggy paddle in the crystal clear shallow water. Most of the pools on top of the hotels and the casinos are also open to the general public, the fat people.

That's another thing these rooftop swimming pools have taught me about Las Vegas. This city is also the fat person capital of America. Sometimes it's like I'm looking down on a beach school of corpulent white whales. There's a girl who spends almost all of her days on the roof of the Venetian. She's immune to the bad food and undaunted by the unhealthy lifestyle. And even though she's lived in the city for over five years, she's taken care of her figure. She's beautiful. In the daytime, she likes to swim the butterfly stroke and lay out in one of the wicker chairs in her bikini. And at night, she works the marriage booth at Caesar's Palace. Sometimes when a couple comes to Las Vegas seeking the blessed sacrament of

matrimony, they can get carried away with the party enhancers. And when this happens, she provides the bride with makeup, wardrobe, and hair assistance. And sometimes, if it's necessary, she'll even play the part of bridesmaid, so that she can keep the bride upright during the ceremony and the photo documentation. She lives by herself. Her boss and her co-workers are continually trying to set her up, but she just ignores them. I'm waiting for someone, she always says. This afternoon, someone sat down next to her.

He has dark brown hair and his swimsuit looks like it's army issue. He isn't obese, but he could still stand to lose a few pounds, which is why I find it strange that she notices him. He isn't obese, but he could still stand to lose a few pounds, which is why I find it strange that she notices him. He notices her too and says hello. She smiles and says hello. He pulls his chair closer. He says he recognizes her from the casino. Well, I've never seen you before, she replies. That's because it's my job to blend in with the crowd, he says, flashing his white teeth. I'm an undercover security guard, and I'm good at what I do. This makes her laugh, and he moves his chair even closer.

He tells her about his job on the casino floor and how he always has to be on the lookout for guys trying to cheat at cards or the tables. One time, he even caught a guy who had implanted an electromagnetic transmitter in his hand. Supposedly, this device would allow him to manipulate the roulette wheel with his mind. But before he could try it out, his hand caught fire. She tells him about all the couples who come into the marriage booth and how most of them don't know each other very well. Often during the ceremony, she'll have to prompt the bride with the groom's name. Then the man asks her if she hopes to get married. She tells him she's

waiting for someone. He asks her how she'll recognize this person when he shows up. This makes her laugh again, and she starts to tell him that she meant she's waiting for someone she already knows. But then she decides it doesn't matter. And then they launch into this ridiculous conversation about love at first sight. And this goes on and on and on. They seem to find this conversation so engrossing, so entertaining, so titillating,

they don't even notice the chunks of chocolate chip bread soggy with saltwater tears raining down upon their heads. Then he gets up from his chair and stands over her. His back is to me so I can't see what he says. She has her hand shielding her eyes, blocking out the sun and me. And then she takes his hand and together they jump into the pool. Thank you. The American writer Edward Everett Hale first published his story, The Man Without a Country, in the pages of The Atlantic in December 1863. He didn't sign his name, he just wrote anonymous.

He did this because he wanted to fool the audience with his historical fiction. The Man Without a Country tells the story of an army lieutenant named Philip Nolan, who, in his youth, got caught up in one of Aaron Burr's plots. When he was tried for treason, he cursed America. The judge sentenced him to live out the rest of his life consigned to a U.S. Navy ship, never to set foot or eyes on his native land, and this sentence was carried out to the letter. In the story we learn, the man without a country proved his courage and his patriotism on many occasions and gained the respect of all he traveled with. Many Navy officers tried to win

his release, including the author of the story, who tells us he once sailed with Philip Nolan early in his career. But the man without a country never regained his freedom. He paid for his youthful sin with his life. The story was a hit. The man without a Country was just what America needed in the late 1860s, as the nation emerged from the horrors of the Civil War. And to capitalize on his fame and royalties, Edward Everett Hale announced to the world that he was the author of The Man Without a Country. He sold the rights to the story to a number of early silent film pioneers. In 1917, there were two versions released, one directed by D.W. Griffith and the other by Ernest C. Ward. Even though Griffith was at the height of his

career, it was the Ward version that captured the attention of the American people. This was because the film starred Florence Labede, one of the industry's first superstars. Tragically, on the way to the film's premiere, she got into a car accident and she died from her injuries. Many film historians credit the success of her last film to the American public's desire to see the dead woman on the big screen. But Griffith was so incensed by the lack of attention his version got that he burned all the prints. Why not? When Mary Rutledge honors us. On May 12, 1937, The Man Without a Country opera premiered at the Met. The music was composed by Walter Damrosch.

You are under arrest by whose authority? The president. The opera was not a hit and has not been performed since. There to be pride for freedom. In many adaptations of The Man Without a Country, creative liberties are taken with the story. In the television series that aired briefly on ABC in 1972, Philip Nolan became a West Point dropout who wandered back and forth across America, one step away from the authorities who wanted to try him for treason. In every episode, he would get involved with

someone who was on the verge of committing an act of treason or doing something un-American, and he would intervene. Johnny, Johnny, listen to me. You've got to listen to me, man. I may be a man without a country, but you still have a choice. Put that assault rifle down. Disband your mountain militia before it's too late. The most bizarre rendition of Edward Everett Hale's story is, without question, the 1977 XXX movie supposedly made by Henry Paris. In this version, traitor Philip Nolan is living out his sentence alone on a deserted island, a man without a cunt. Until one day, a ship carrying 50 women washes up on the shore. The women are all state finalists for the Miss America pageant.

Virginia. North Carolina. Montana. Texas. Montana! Texas! The Man Without a Country has been remade countless times. We now have books, comic strips, radio plays, movies, television shows, operas. And in 2006, a video game was even produced. But every version of The Man Without a Country shares the same ending. For there is only one way the story can end.

Even in death, our hero is a man without a country. And thus, his final resting place can only be a cold and watery grave. Thank you. KAMU MENGALA I'm heading north along the California coast. I just passed over Ortonville, where the 33 joins up with the 101. And remarkably, there were cars. Cars turning onto the 101 and going south. Obviously, they're ignorant about what's going on in Los Angeles. They must have forgotten to watch the YouTube before getting into their vehicles. If only there was some way I could warn them. Ever since my encounter with that soldier from the supply plane,

I've felt nothing but love for the people beneath me. I know it sounds ridiculous to even say the word out loud, but it's true. All the loathing, all the hatred, all the disgust that I've been nurturing and cultivating for the past 10 years, it's gone, evaporated overnight. And you have to realize that in my travels, there's no single place I hate more than Los Angeles. For years, I've been fantasizing about its destruction, earthquakes, tsunamis, giant nuclear beetles. But this morning, when the city was engulfed

by violence and terror, I wept. As far as I could tell, the root of the problem was a section of the 405 that they closed down for construction. Sure, a couple of guys in hard hats pretended to dig some holes with a jackhammer, but that was just for show. There was no construction. The whole crew was hanging out in the trailers, playing video games, and drinking iced tea.

But they went too far. They closed down too many exits. And as the sun came up, traffic was reduced to a crawl. And by 9 a.m., the entire city had stopped in its tracks. I could feel the road rage cooking the underside of my gondola. Not a single car was moving. As far as I could see in every direction, not a single car was moving. As far as I could see in every direction, not a single car was moving. And then, a woman kicked open the door of her minivan and with a frustrated growl,

launched herself at the sports utility vehicle in front of her. Like a mad dog, she gnawed at the brake lights with her teeth until a man in a business suit got out of the passenger side and started clubbing her with a supersized bottle of green fluorescent water. And then all hell broke loose. I don't know if you're familiar with the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch, but his visions of the apocalypse have always haunted me. The fantastic creatures, the fire and the blood. It was like he was able to see directly into the heart of Hades. But I realize now he was having visions of Los Angeles. Men and women and children, they all win at each other with an energy I didn't know existed on the West Coast.

They beat and battered each other with tire irons and steering wheel locks. And when they ran out of blunt instruments, they used their fists and their bodies. This giant obese man climbed up on top of his truck and belly flopped onto the roof of a small compact in the lane besides him, crushing and killing everyone inside. And he tried to do it again, to the car on the other side of his truck. But a woman garrotted him with an iPod cable. The smart ones tried to escape. I saw a man tear the shirt off his back and the muffler off his car

and bare-chested attempt to hack his way off the highway. But he barely made it 100 meters. A busload of prep school kids armed with windshield wipers also tried to slash their way out, but they were mowed down by a group of shrieking soccer moms who had tasers. As the bodies piled up and the cars exploded, I shouted at the top of my lungs, but no one paid me any mind, and Carmageddon continued. I come from a long line of walkers. At least that's what my father always used to tell me. Whenever I would ask him why we didn't own a car, he would tell me that walking was my blood right, my heritage, something that distinguished me from all the Philistines and fools who drove around in pickup

trucks and hatchbacks. He had this story that my great-great-great-grandfather was the first man who walked from Russia to America over the ice bridge. Of course, I knew he was totally full of it. Even though I was only seven years old, I knew that he was lying. When he married my mother, her family gave him a car. But in less than two years, he ran it into the ground.

He never put any oil in it. He never took it in for a checkup. He never even bothered to clean it. And one day, it died. Supposedly, he was on his way to an important meeting, a life-changing meeting. And because of the dead car, he missed it. Supposedly, he just took all his stuff out of the trunk and walked away. But who knows how much of that story is even true. This not having a car, though, it really traumatized me. When I was little, it felt like it was a sign of how dysfunctional my family was, how unnormal we were.

I just didn't understand how everyone in the neighborhood could have a car except for us. Even the woman across the street with the five kids and the husband in jail. She had a car. It just didn't make any sense. It was like we were cursed. When I was in the second grade, I started clipping the car ads out of the newspaper, and at night, I would take them out and hold them underneath my Kermit the Frog nightlight,

and I'd go over the options. Power windows, pleather upholstery, corrosion-proof paint, mud flaps. When I turned 21, I finally got a car. I was working at this used bookstore. This was before they made used bookstores illegal.

And one day, this old guy came in to sell all of his old books because he was going blind and he didn't have any health insurance. And as he was leaving, he said, I also have a car to get rid of. Do you know anyone who wants a free car? Immediately, I started driving everywhere. I drove to my job at the used bookstore. I drove to the flea markets. I drove to my job at the used bookstore, I drove to the flea markets, I drove to the liquor store,

I even drove to the Salvation Army that was technically at the end of the parking lot of the housing project I lived in. That's actually where I first discovered Big Ass Magazine. One afternoon, I found a whole stack of them. Someone had carefully wrapped each one individually in a Mylar bag in order to keep the pictures from yellowing with age. I wasn't a very good driver, though. For some reason, I hit everything. I hit parked cars, I hit telephone poles, I hit newspaper boxes. I even hit this high school girl who lived in my building. And I had to drive around with her for hours until her foot stopped bleeding.

And she promised not to turn me in to the police or her parents. And then, one night, as I was driving to a party, smoke started coming out of the steering wheel. I pulled over and opened up the hood. The engine was on fire. I knocked on the door of a nearby house and asked if I could use the phone, but this old lady just slammed the door in my face. I didn't know what to do, so I just stood there and watched as my car burned. It was like an old mafia movie. A fireball lifted my car off the ground. I never got another car.

I just passed over the Emma Wood State Park. I've done this leg of the journey a countless number of times now, so I know exactly where I'm going. My craft is programmed to follow the California coast all the way to the Redwood National Forest, and then we'll head northeast into Oregon. For some reason, I keep weeping. Perhaps it's the ocean, or perhaps it's the scene I witnessed in Los Angeles, or perhaps it's the woman below, the one wearing

the polka dot dress riding the mountain bike. But it's been an emotional couple of weeks. My craft got stuck over Boston. Then I had that encounter with a soldier And then, this morning, I witnessed Carmageddon I don't think I want to be up here anymore I would like to come down But I can't When they sentenced me, the judge made a point of saying that there was no hope of parole, no chance of a reduced sentence for good behavior. He said that since I had cursed America,

I would never again be allowed to return. You know, it's strange, me being a political prisoner, because before all this mess happened, I don't think I ever had a political thought in my life. I mean, sure, I was bummed out every time they made another thing illegal, and sure, it bothered me to see the stupid and the evil ruin everything, but I just was never really into politics. But before all this is over, I feel I should at least say, you know, one thing that's political.

So I'm going to share with you now my political philosophy. Now, it is a bit light. You might find it even a bit silly. I've actually never told anyone about it. But bit light. You might find it even a bit silly. I've actually never told anyone about it, but here goes. After my car blew up, I got a bicycle, and this changed everything for me. I wouldn't say I turned into one of those bike nuts. I was never able to ride fast enough to hang out with them, but I did take my bike everywhere. I took it to school. I took it to work. I even took it to the mall once. I thought it would help

me meet girls. It didn't, but over the years, I've come to realize that the bike is the answer to all our nation's problems. It's economical, it's environmental, and it's fun. I told you it was a stupid political theory. But what did you expect to get from a guy living out the rest of his days in a hot air balloon. Thank you. Jesus once turned water into wine, but the scriptures do not tell us what kind of wine it was. Some theologians have made the case that Jesus being holy would never turn water into an intoxicating beverage. So therefore, his wine was most certainly of a non-alcoholic variety.

But Jesus was at a wedding. He was trying to win followers and impress people. He had a religious vision to push. It was not the time or place for grape juice. I'm sure the wine that Jesus made was of the highest quality. And I'm sure that many of the men and women at that wedding dreamed about that wine for the rest of their days. I'm trying to make wine myself. A few weeks ago, I made an accidental discovery. One morning, I awoke and found that I had unfortunately spilled the contents of one of

my bread machine packets, a whole wheat mix, onto the floor of my gondola. The night before, there had been no moon, and in the dark, I had missed the bread machine entirely. I scraped up what I could from the floorboards and put it back into the machine. I added some more yeast and some more water, and I put the machine on another cycle. But a few hours later, when I opened the machine, I discovered a strange-smelling liquid. It was a miracle. I had turned bread into wine. And I'm getting better at it.

With every batch, I'm getting better. Tonight, there is a full moon. I can see the waves crashing on the beach. From my perspective, or maybe it's just the bread wine, the ocean looks like it's nurturing and cultivating the vineyards of the Sonoma coast. Jack London wrote about this place in his novel, The Valley of the Moon. This is the book where he began to question his liberal and socialist beliefs. His protagonists, Billy and Saxon, go on an epic road trip.

Fed up with the corruptions of modern life, they flee the city and travel around the countryside. They meet farmers, artists, adventurers. And when they come to the Sonoma coast, they decide to settle down and live happily ever after. According to Jack London, Sonoma Valley was the Native American way of saying happily ever after. But it's unclear just where Jack London picked this up. Most experts claim this statement is untrue.

He certainly didn't get it from the Pomo, Wapo, or Miwok peoples, but there used to be so many tribes in the valley, so it could have come from a tribe that was obliterated by the white man. But even so, even if that's the case, it's still not true. It's said that before the white man came the diverse native peoples of the valley lived in harmony and peace. But today on the Sonoma coast there is only acrimony and division. The trouble can be traced back to 1987.

This is when the United States Department of Alcohol and Tobacco created a new appellation, the Sonoma Coast AVA. At first, producers big and small welcomed this new appellation. Finally, they had a way to distinguish themselves and compete with Napa. But as the wine market became more and more competitive and more and more difficult for the smaller producers to sell their estate wines, fault lines emerged. The battle began in earnest

when a few small wineries from the Fort Ross area petitioned for a new Appalachian, one that would include all the vineyards on the coastal ridges from Casadero to Annapolis. The petitioners met fierce resistance. The larger producers would have no talk of secession, and the Fort Wass winery was appalled at the idea that they might lose control of their brand name. So the campaign quickly fell apart.

But a small group of producers refused to accept defeat, and they rebranded themselves anyway as the True Sonoma Coast. They say that the story of the true is the story of America's struggle with nature. In this wild, remote area, the only way to produce wine is to battle the cold, the fog, and the rain. What defines the true is a series of ridgetops close enough to the coast to be cooled by the deep cold Pacific, yet high enough to bask in brilliant sunshine above the omnipresent summer fog. These conditions make for a very long growing season. Bud break can begin as early as February and the harvest can linger into October. So it's a fruit that has a haunting perfume and a bright acidity unlike anything else.

Unfortunately, I've never been able to try one of these fabled Pinot Noirs or Chardonnays, but I've passed this way so many times now that I can recite the legends and the magazine copy by heart. Of course, once the subdividing began, there was no stopping it. And now the true Sonoma Coast breaks down into three pieces. In the north, the vineyards around the town of Annapolis call themselves the truer Sonoma Coast. And to the south, stretching to the town of Occidental, we have the truest Sonoma Coast. And in the middle, the central region, we have the true, true Sonoma Coast. Here, around Fort Ross and Seaview Road, one finds the oldest vineyards. But even here, in the true true, there are still divisions.

There's a girl who spends her days hiking in the woods behind the Russian Orthodox Church and riding her bike on the Fort Ross Trail that goes to the beach. She is immune to the fighting and undaunted by the tribalism. She makes it a point to say hello to the true, the truer, and the truest alike, even though it drives her mother crazy. Her family owns one of the most famous vineyards of the region. It's also one of the original producers of organic wine. Her grandfather did everything without pesticides or chemicals,

not for ethical or environmental reasons, but because he had allergies. This is what gave the family a head start on what would eventually become a popular trend with the rich and the powerful. The vineyard is officially a member of the True True contingent, but only by geography. The girl's father can't stand most of the neighborhood producers and their arguments for subdivisions. He calls them the nouveau wine. But her mother thinks brand names are important and proudly tells everyone about their true, true pedigree.

This is why her brother left. Before he took off to start his own winery in Washington State, he told her that their mother made it impossible to envision a future that was anything unlike the past. He sent them a case of his first production, a Pinot Noir he gave the name Don't Worry Mama. But the girl's mother still can't bring herself to try it. She cries every time she looks at the bottles. This afternoon, the girl took one of the Don't Worry Mama bottles to the beach,

and she drank it while she wrote in her diary. She thought it was okay, but she says she'll do better when she starts making wine. She also likes to draw on her diary. She designs labels for future vintages. And today she drew one that was quite remarkable. It was a red heart suspended between the ocean and the sun. It was a heart that drew power from both the cool water and the warm breeze. She spent hours working on it and she gave it a name, the true, true, true. And then she drew a less than sign and a three, making another little heart. Incredible. Tonight, in honor of this true, true, true, I am going to attempt to make a new batch of my own bread wine. Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to unhook my bread machine

and climb up the rope to where the hot air burners are. And then I'm going to hold the bread machine over the flames for a few minutes. You see, I've jerry-rigged a siphon. Using a plastic bottle, I've made a siphon that should draw out all the alcohol as the hot air burners heat the bread machine. I just have to go slow

because the bottle's not exactly a tight fit. And so if I'm not careful, some of the liquid could spill out and then I'll end up losing some of my distilled alcohol to the flames. But I'm going to try. If I know one thing, you have to try. I'm sorry. You have been listening to Benjamin Walker's Theory of Everything. This installment is called Man Without a Country.

It was written and produced by Benjamin Walker with help from Bill Bowen and Laura Mayer.