Shakespeare in the Alleyway (Get Your Tickets Now!)
Love is the Dankest of All Memes
Humanity isn’t doomed. It’s simply going through a natural process that scientists like to call ‘Puberty’. It’s time to grow up.
When I was 19, I met a homeless man on the street.
I don’t remember what he looked like, but he explained everything to me — the reason for all the hate, racism, and division.
I didn’t understand what he said at the time, but now I think I get it.
After class one day, I was walking through a seemingly empty downtown alleyway when he called out from behind and said, “Hey! You look like a Psych major!”
Frozen in my tracks, the first thought that came to mind was…
“Did he just assume my major?”
And after getting over my initial impressions — how he was sitting beside a dumpster (as if it was a DIY IKEA mattress), his tattered black jeans, his white Beatles’ shirt speckled with dirt, and a printed quote — saying something along the lines of love being all you need — and a pair of Sennheiser headphones that contradicted the image of a man who had suffered much longer than he had lived, I realized I had profiled him as a crazy homeless person who was tripping on something.
And I’m not talking about untied shoelaces.
I gave my full attention.
The man shot me a smile that could light up every street corner within a ten-kilometre radius — amid a full-blown blackout.
I was unsure if he was doped up on opioids, or just happy to see me.
Every wrinkle was on full display like a Playboy centerfold staring at me seductively— behind shriveled plastic wrap — a look in her eyes that said, “Bring me home, baby. My love doesn’t cost a thing. Pay no mind to the price printed above the barcode. Besides, money is an unsexy social construct. Such a mood killer. Unless your name is Kevin O’Leary.”
He said, “If you were to think of humanity as one gargantuan super-organism — a macrocosm for a human being — you’d realize humanity isn’t doomed. It’s simply going through a natural process that scientists like to call ‘Puberty’.”
In other words, the perceived retrogression of our societal values and morals can really just be boiled down to symptoms of teenagehood, of growing up — macrobiology on an evolutionary scale.
“Old sport, it’s okay to be scared. Growing up hurts. The changes you’re seeing are scary, but necessary. Growing up requires you to embrace that, as inconvenient and disconcerting as it is.
“Maturing means befriending the notion of constant change and accepting parts of yourself you’re unfamiliar with. And if you’re not going to be brave, then life is going to prove extra difficult for you.”
Many of us never reach that point.
Are we not all just brats dressed in trench coats, never snapping out of the illusion that our parents, our heroes, our politicians, are anything more than human beings — and maybe they’re all just as broken, as unsure and terrified as we all are deep down, whether we want to admit it or not?
Nobody wants to acknowledge humans are like un-neutered stray dogs chasing tails and cars, foraging for food scraps, objects, and legs to lick and hump.
“Once you pierce the adolescent fog, you’ll realize the enemy is fear.
“The world doesn’t bend to your will. It doesn’t morph to fit the ideas and ideals you were spoon-fed as a rugrat. Maybe the so-called ‘adults’ who rule the world failed to grow up.”
We have to ensure posterity doesn’t repeatedly fall victim to the mistakes of our ancestors.
Like a Dua Lipa banger, humanity can’t seem to get enough of the most shameful aspects of our history.
“What do you believe in?” I asked.
“My religion is Love.”
“What?” I said. “That’s not a religion! What are you on?”
He smiled and said nothing more than “Love”.
I didn’t get it at the time. I was only 19, and it’s a common misconception that age is any indicator of wisdom.
Maturity is different, and I was still a bona fide rookie. In life. At love. At listening. But I was learning, gradually.
I was tangled — like a hungover Rapunzel the morning after a slumber party with Sleeping Beauty, hairbrush out of reach — in the ever-ongoing process of growing up.
A myopic teen — that was me — with a high sex drive and a leathery, deep-seated attitude of indifference, I was blind to how love can manifest. That love is as simple as empathy — or 1–2–3, A-B-C, or quantum physics.
“Love is an interstellar liquid,” he pontificated. “A substance beyond such arbitrary things like time and space. Louder than the most vicious and vitriolic vocal minorities. It can drown out violence and destruction rooted in nothing more than fear.
“Fear that the world is darker and uglier than you ever imagined. Fear that we are alone on this spinning rock hurling through infinite space, surrounded by meaninglessness and nonsense internet memes.
“Fear that science can’t prove the existence of the soul.”
“Isn’t that what poetry and music are for?” I asked.
“We seek solace in materialism, denying truths like how there’s more to this beyond what we perceive — and forget about the panacea to what many deem a depressing, empty existence… Love.”
“You’re rapid-firing a bunch of ten-dollar words there. You have a rich vocabulary. I’ll give you that.”
“Old sport,” he said. “Let me rephrase so you’ll understand: love is like water for a world thirstier than a horny hipster on Tinder. More meaningful than a pop song that gets airplay on the radio — the same tired chords, uninspired melodies, and EDM-style beat drops.
“Love is the dankest of all memes.”
“Uh…” I said. “I don’t think so. Love is something we feel, not something we can endlessly repurpose and message to our friends. Plus, it isn’t all that funny. Often, love makes us sad.”
“Love has more spreading power than the most radical and toxic of ideas and ideologies. It can batter down walls, no matter how tall or tremendously dense.
“So maybe we should get with the program.”
“Get with the what now?”
“We should awaken to our programming and snap out of the consensus trance we’ve been indoctrinated into as adolescents. Realize love is real, and so is fate, but so is fear, and so is hate…
“You’ve just forgotten that truth you once knew, that we’re all the same deep down. We all want and crave love.
“Are you catching my drift yet, Ponyboy?”
I didn’t know how to respond. It had been years since I’d watched The Outsiders. But I was catching his drift, the majority of it, at least subconsciously.
He kept rambling on like some ambush-style, guerrilla TED Talk. There was no pause button or browser window for me to close. And, it seemed monumentally rude to exit such a profound, intimate moment with a stranger.
“It’s normal to feel lost, small and insignificant. Especially when you realize there’s so much world out there beyond the walls of your bedroom — as if you’re a floating dust speck, thinking, ‘I don’t matter, so what does any of it matter?’
“And sure, maybe none of this matters. But surely the answer isn’t to go on the internet, throwing caution to the wind!
“Like, to hell with manners and considerations of being civil and kind, hurling insults and slurs at strangers in comment sections or poorly designed message boards — or composing diatribes targeting cartoonish misrepresentations of groups you want to tear down for some reason, people you haven’t taken the time to understand.”
“Wait,” I said. “That’s not me. You’ve got me all wrong. I never — ”
“Hate throws the planet off equilibrium,” he continued. “Diametrically opposed to integration, hate multiplies itself and divides people, all the while adding nothing of value, subtracting the remainder of our collective humanity — with zero consideration of what carries over. And this isn’t a tangent. I’ve just reached a point where I’m no longer afraid to call out the wrong answers when I see them!”
“You’re preaching to the choir here, man.”
“In that case, choirboy, why don’t you tell those internet trolls and inter-web instigators I have a verse for them. They need to change their tune to something more soulful — and soon. Or the glass will break beneath the weight of their cruelty — and it won’t only be eggshells to tango around!”
“Did you just call me choirboy?”
“Tell the keyboard warriors they’re allowed to have their thoughts and opinions, but remember there’s no UNDO or DELETE button in real life. This isn’t like Minecraft or Fortnite!
“There’s literally no ESC key!
“The only escape is DEATH!”
“I hear you,” I say, tossing glances over my shoulders in case any passersby overhear Shakespeare in the Alleyway. Miraculously, nobody had passed by up to that point. It was as if we were tucked inside a pocket dimension housed within God’s favourite pair of denim Levi’s. “There’s no need to yell. You’re getting your points across just fine.”
“Maybe that’s something to consider next time you post that status or write that tweet invalidating somebody’s existence, just because they’re different.”
“You’re making valid points, but — “
“What happened to our human sensibilities? For civility and decency? Did they get prematurely buried in a cemetery of societal values, on either side of chivalry? Rest in peace. Future generations will hardly know ye!”
“I think they’re still alive, but — ”
“Something to consider next time you speak without thinking or resort to infantile name-calling, you ugly bunch of poo poo heads!”
“Okay, that’s a bit much. But I’ll assume you’re being cheeky to drive your point home.”
“Because playground power dynamics don’t work in real life! This idea is elementary, my dear Watson!
“Are you smarter than a 5th grader?
“Because you get an ‘F’ for your Efforts.”
“Again…” I sigh, tightening my backpack straps. My bag felt light compared to the gravity of the man’s never-ending soapbox soliloquy. “Not me. You keep saying ‘you’, and I keep telling you this doesn’t apply to me. I don’t do any of that. I attend university. Plus, I’m too busy.”
“Look,” he said in a subdued tone. “Do you see?”
“What?” I glanced around. Cars whirred by at both extremes of the alleyway. “See what? That you’re losing your cool? Along with your last milligrams of sanity?”
“Do you see… that fighting fire with fire is a surefire way to get history to repeat itself?
“A reliable recipe for bloodshed and societal collapse?
”Even Martha Stewart would agree this is not a good thing.”
“I… well, actually, I wholeheartedly agree.”
“It’s like a teenager popping and scraping zits off their face and not being proactive about the underlying issues.”
“That’s… vivid and relatable.”
“It’s like a snake eating its own tail, not realizing how much it’s hurting and poisoning itself by doing so.”
“Ouroboros go brrr?”
“Precisely!” he said. “What do the laws of thermodynamics say about why this world has gotten so damn cold? I thought global warming was a thing. How ironic.”
“It — still is, though?” I stammered. “I mean, a lot of people would disagree. And I’m no climate expert or activist. You’ll have to ask Al Gore or Greta — ”
“Mainstream media wants us to believe this world is dying, but that’s fake news because it operates on ‘doom and gloom’, and ‘if it bleeds it leads’.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Well, Newsflash! Even Superman bleeds.”
“I understood that reference.”
“According to Nietzsche, ‘humanity is a bridge and not an end’. So if we’re going to be curt about it, humanity should find its niche in loving whoever is around to be loved.”
“I love The Sirens of Titan.”
“After all, love is the dankest meme. It’s the most selfless gene. That is what love can be. That is God to me.
“What does Richard Dawkins have to say about that?”
“No clue,” I said. “I’ll ask Mister Dawkins later. Good thing I have him on speed dial, right under Mom.”
“Love, like so many of us, especially Oriental folks like you, has not been properly represented by the media, by that happily ever after, by that one-dimensional kiss that Hollywood sold to you like a late-night infomercial.”
“Hold on, man,” I said. “That term is outdated and considered offensive. The proper term is Asian American. In my case, it would be Asian Canadian. Guess you didn’t get the memo.”
With an eyebrow raised, he paused for dramatic effect… then spoke again.
“What if Love is the answer to your question?”
“What question?”
“What does it all mean, really?”
I shrugged. My backpack straps slipped down my shoulders an inch. I adjusted my posture and scratched my head. I shrugged again.
“Ultimately,” he said. “That is the only question that matters.”
“Hard disagree,” I said. “There’s the question of what to have for dinner and if I should go to that frat party instead of studying for my Sociology 101 midterm.”
He stood up. That Beatles song about love was bleeding through his headphones. Pretty sure it had been playing on repeat.
He closed the distance between us. I stood my ground, unflinching, keeping a straight face, hoping my eyes didn’t betray any semblance of intimidation — or fear. I fixed my posture and thought about my mom.
He leaned forward and whispered in my ear.
“So you want to start a revolution?”
Frowning, I took a step back (in case I was dealing with an unhinged Guy Fawkes-type) and said, “Revolution? What do you mean? Like, the French kind?”
“Pas du tout!” he answered. “You might not understand now but you will one day. You’ll find a way to spread the word about this drug I’m tripping on, this invisible substance called Love — because, like blood or dopamine or DMT, it’s already inside you! And like that tiresome Canadian Blood Donor services slogan, ‘It’s in you to give’. Give it freely, and without thinking. It’s unlimited. Nobody has ever overdosed on it.”
“Oh, I actually traveled to the Philippines recently. I don’t think I’m eligible to donate blood yet. I’ll have to wait a couple — ”
“If everyone could learn to be less selfish and uncaring, and simply get along, the world would be a better place. More comfortable and supportive than the softest cardboard I’ve slept on recently.”
“I highly recommend switching to Tempur-Pedic,” I blurted.
“The beauty of the future would only be outmatched by how far we can dream…
“I have dreamt of something better for humanity. Something better than this. Better than now. Better than the accumulated empty promises of politicians shouting atop a podium.
“Imagine how exquisite this world can be, old sport!
“The endless zeniths humanity could reach!”
If he’d had a microphone, I bet he’d have dropped it. I would have clapped. That didn’t happen.
He sunk slowly, his rear scraping against the rusty dumpster. He saluted and winked. I’d been dismissed.
I forced a nod and a smile and went on my way, thinking of the man as nothing more than a starry-eyed freethinker, lost in time and out of touch with reality.
Another ‘enlightened’ hippie stuck in a fantasy world.
A cautionary tale of a person who needed to escape into daydreams of a utopian society — free of dirty looks, abuse, and prejudice — that had not, and would never, turn its back on him — or others stuck in the same position — sleeping atop cardboard, their backs flat on the ground but their eyes pointed toward the stars.
I think I get it now. I’m starting to…
Walking away, I stepped on an untied shoelace, plummeting face-first to the pavement in Zack Snyder-like slow motion.
And then I woke up.
