I recently went to visit the Museum of Illusions in Las Vegas, but it wasn’t there.
The trip was a total loss because I was also staying at The Mirage.
Whilein Vegas, I went to see a psychic. Halfway into my reading, I punched him in the face.
He yelled, “Why’d you do that?”
I said, “You mean you didn’t see it coming?”
Worst. Psychic. Ever. Then again, a psychic who actually saw it coming? That would be the real illusion. More impressive than anything else in that godforsaken desert. A man who can genuinely see the future, working for tips in a strip mall next to a vape shop and a divorce attorney. The holy trinity of Vegas commerce.
But here’s the rub. We don’t need to travel to Nevada to find illusions. We manufacture them constantly, right here at home, using the most powerful deception tool ever invented: language.
The lies we tell ourselves don’t require neon signs. Just the right words.
Freethinkers and Other Comfortable Lies We Tell Ourselves
Cool. So you think freely. I admire folks who don’t want to be lumped into some ideological group. Very independent. Very brave. Your parents must be so proud. Assuming you still talk to them, since they’re probably sheeple.
Wouldn’t it be crazy, though, if “Freethinker” became its own label? A category you could identify with? Then Freethinkers could find each other online, form communities, attend conferences, buy matching t-shirts, and collectively agree on what free thinking looks like. You’d finally have like-minded people who validate your independence.
Perhaps you could be a Notthinker instead. Form your own group of just you, where others’ thoughts don’t matter or provide your self-worth. You wouldn’t have to share your thoughts with anyone. You’d be free. Truly free. Alone in a room, unburdened by the tyranny of other perspectives. It sounds like a TED Talk. Or a manifesto. Hard to tell the difference these days.
(Hit “Like” if you agree.)
The Stories We Believe (Especially About Ourselves)
Of course, words don’t just trap us in groups. Sometimes they trap us in conversations we never intended to have.
I recently told someone I was colorblind and they got angry because it was apparently a micro-aggression against their race.
I told them I meant that I am actually colorblind. Medically. The cones in my eyes are broken, not my social consciousness.
I wasn’t commenting on their plight. I also said I felt terrible that being Blue in this country carried with it so much systemic burden.
Slavery was terrible, and I couldn’t believe Gargamel got away with it for so long. Exposed himself as a villain in the opening credits and still nobody did anything. Three apples high and fighting for their lives while we just watched. For decades.
Smurf lives matter.
The pseudo-offended person did not find this as clarifying as I’d hoped.
And it’s not just our English. Across the pond, the country is either the Netherlands or Holland, yet the people are Dutch or Flemish. That makes very little sense. Why aren’t they Nethers? Or Hollandaise? That would be saucy.
They could go by one name 50% of the time. And then the other 50% of the time. Ya know, go Dutch.
Or split names with Deutschland. Work something out. Get in a room. The European Union loves meetings. Add it to the agenda right after “standardize banana curvature” and before “regulate the word ‘cheese.'”
Used Dogs and the Lies We Tell Ourselves
Speaking of labels that make us feel heroic for doing the bare minimum: why aren’t adopted or foster children called “Rescue Children”?
I mean, we say “rescue” all the time for foster or adopted pets. “This is my rescue,” people announce, gesturing at some drooling labradoodle like they rappelled into a burning orphanage. Like they kicked down a door. Like there was a helicopter involved.
I did “rescue” a pig once. From vegans. Trouble McFussbucketwas sad because she never felt any actual danger or risk. Apparently being “saved” from people who would never eat you anyway isn’t very thrilling. She seemed almost insulted. Like I’d robbed her of a good story.
In general, mostly no one has “rescued” any of these critters. It’s not like Fluffy’s original family plunged off a cliff in their SUV and Fluffy was hanging by his teeth from a branch over a waterfall until your sporty ass hiked in for the save. You didn’t hear barking in the distance. You didn’t follow your instincts. Plus, you didn’t fashion a rope out of your Lululemon jacket.
No. You got a Used Dog. Simple. That’s more accurate and describes how little effort you actually put into it. You scrolled through Petfinder, filled out an application, and drove to a strip mall. The Navy SEALs aren’t pinning a medal on you. Call of Duty didn’t prepare you for this. Your heart rate never even elevated.
I know. Paperwork is a bitch.
Turns out Fluffy is too.
The Bullshit We Buy
But we don’t say “Used Dog” because that sounds like what it is. We say “rescue” because it sounds like what we wish we were. Independent thinkers. Selfless heroes. Allies to the Smurfs. People whose vacations don’t collapse into meta-jokes about buildings that were never there in the first place.
Self-deception is a hell of a drug. And we’re all addicts.
The real illusion isn’t in Vegas. It’s in the mirror.
Brian Gerard (Lewandowski) writes books critics call "aggressively adequate"—better than "aggressively terrible" but somehow more concerning. He once traded a MetroCard for a pitchfork on a subway platform and now uses it exclusively for dramatic pointing. He lives on a farm outside Charlottesville, Virginia with three disappointed potted plants, a judgmental pig named Trouble McFussbucket, and a wife who smiles politely at his life choices.
His first manuscript was composed entirely of punctuation marks and confused sketches. He's since published "Not Bukowski" (poems that don't rhyme) and "Slop and Swell from a Festering Mind" (essays so concerning that bookstores check on his wellbeing). He once spent three hours photographing a rare bird that turned out to be a plastic bag, and he's the only person banned from church bake sales for "weaponized brownies." Inheriting absurdism from Vonnegut and Adams, sprawling narratives from Irving, and weaponized failure from Moore, he writes about conflicted everymen struggling through supernatural chaos. He remains unconvinced that birds aren't surveillance drones.
I Went to Vegas and All I Got Was This Lousy Epiphany
Filed under:
Estimated reading time: 6 minutes
I recently went to visit the Museum of Illusions in Las Vegas, but it wasn’t there.
The trip was a total loss because I was also staying at The Mirage.
Whilein Vegas, I went to see a psychic. Halfway into my reading, I punched him in the face.
He yelled, “Why’d you do that?”
I said, “You mean you didn’t see it coming?”
Worst. Psychic. Ever. Then again, a psychic who actually saw it coming? That would be the real illusion. More impressive than anything else in that godforsaken desert. A man who can genuinely see the future, working for tips in a strip mall next to a vape shop and a divorce attorney. The holy trinity of Vegas commerce.
But here’s the rub. We don’t need to travel to Nevada to find illusions. We manufacture them constantly, right here at home, using the most powerful deception tool ever invented: language.
The lies we tell ourselves don’t require neon signs. Just the right words.
Freethinkers and Other Comfortable Lies We Tell Ourselves
Take “Freethinker,” for instance.
Cool. So you think freely. I admire folks who don’t want to be lumped into some ideological group. Very independent. Very brave. Your parents must be so proud. Assuming you still talk to them, since they’re probably sheeple.
Wouldn’t it be crazy, though, if “Freethinker” became its own label? A category you could identify with? Then Freethinkers could find each other online, form communities, attend conferences, buy matching t-shirts, and collectively agree on what free thinking looks like. You’d finally have like-minded people who validate your independence.
A group of individuals.
Rats. Nevermind. Scratch that.
Perhaps you could be a Notthinker instead. Form your own group of just you, where others’ thoughts don’t matter or provide your self-worth. You wouldn’t have to share your thoughts with anyone. You’d be free. Truly free. Alone in a room, unburdened by the tyranny of other perspectives. It sounds like a TED Talk. Or a manifesto. Hard to tell the difference these days.
(Hit “Like” if you agree.)
The Stories We Believe (Especially About Ourselves)
Of course, words don’t just trap us in groups. Sometimes they trap us in conversations we never intended to have.
I recently told someone I was colorblind and they got angry because it was apparently a micro-aggression against their race.
I told them I meant that I am actually colorblind. Medically. The cones in my eyes are broken, not my social consciousness.
I wasn’t commenting on their plight. I also said I felt terrible that being Blue in this country carried with it so much systemic burden.
Slavery was terrible, and I couldn’t believe Gargamel got away with it for so long. Exposed himself as a villain in the opening credits and still nobody did anything. Three apples high and fighting for their lives while we just watched. For decades.
Smurf lives matter.
The pseudo-offended person did not find this as clarifying as I’d hoped.
And it’s not just our English. Across the pond, the country is either the Netherlands or Holland, yet the people are Dutch or Flemish. That makes very little sense. Why aren’t they Nethers? Or Hollandaise? That would be saucy.
They could go by one name 50% of the time. And then the other 50% of the time. Ya know, go Dutch.
Or split names with Deutschland. Work something out. Get in a room. The European Union loves meetings. Add it to the agenda right after “standardize banana curvature” and before “regulate the word ‘cheese.'”
Used Dogs and the Lies We Tell Ourselves
Speaking of labels that make us feel heroic for doing the bare minimum: why aren’t adopted or foster children called “Rescue Children”?
I mean, we say “rescue” all the time for foster or adopted pets. “This is my rescue,” people announce, gesturing at some drooling labradoodle like they rappelled into a burning orphanage. Like they kicked down a door. Like there was a helicopter involved.
I did “rescue” a pig once. From vegans. Trouble McFussbucket was sad because she never felt any actual danger or risk. Apparently being “saved” from people who would never eat you anyway isn’t very thrilling. She seemed almost insulted. Like I’d robbed her of a good story.
In general, mostly no one has “rescued” any of these critters. It’s not like Fluffy’s original family plunged off a cliff in their SUV and Fluffy was hanging by his teeth from a branch over a waterfall until your sporty ass hiked in for the save. You didn’t hear barking in the distance. You didn’t follow your instincts. Plus, you didn’t fashion a rope out of your Lululemon jacket.
No. You got a Used Dog. Simple. That’s more accurate and describes how little effort you actually put into it. You scrolled through Petfinder, filled out an application, and drove to a strip mall. The Navy SEALs aren’t pinning a medal on you. Call of Duty didn’t prepare you for this. Your heart rate never even elevated.
I know. Paperwork is a bitch.
Turns out Fluffy is too.
The Bullshit We Buy
But we don’t say “Used Dog” because that sounds like what it is. We say “rescue” because it sounds like what we wish we were. Independent thinkers. Selfless heroes. Allies to the Smurfs. People whose vacations don’t collapse into meta-jokes about buildings that were never there in the first place.
Self-deception is a hell of a drug. And we’re all addicts.
The real illusion isn’t in Vegas. It’s in the mirror.
And unlike The Mirage, it’s not going anywhere.
Though honestly, give it a few years. They’ll probably demolish that too and build a casino called “Self-Awareness.” No one will go.
Key Takeaways
Related Links
See my Amazon author page.
His first manuscript was composed entirely of punctuation marks and confused sketches. He's since published "Not Bukowski" (poems that don't rhyme) and "Slop and Swell from a Festering Mind" (essays so concerning that bookstores check on his wellbeing). He once spent three hours photographing a rare bird that turned out to be a plastic bag, and he's the only person banned from church bake sales for "weaponized brownies." Inheriting absurdism from Vonnegut and Adams, sprawling narratives from Irving, and weaponized failure from Moore, he writes about conflicted everymen struggling through supernatural chaos. He remains unconvinced that birds aren't surveillance drones.
More biographic lies...err...info.
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