Michael John Bobak

Cigarettes, Whiskey, and Armageddon

“Everything Shines

Open and waiting.
We reach with hungry fingers
out into Infinity.”

Excerpt from Everything Shines, Cigarettes, Whiskey and Armageddon
(Musings on Death, Grief and Loss)
© 2019

“Great-grandmother is wasting away.
Pass the head and you’ll be alright.
That’s what I’ve heard.
Otherwise, the damned thing will regenerate.
What is the purpose of these parasites?
The same could be asked of Man.
It’s all a matter of perspective.
Why do people have to die?”

Excerpt from Verminous Terminus, Cigarettes, Whiskey and Armageddon
(Musings on Death, Grief and Loss
© 2019

"A name that conjures ease
and carefree thoughts 
in stark contrast 
to the raging battle
waged beneath."

(Excerpt from Shenandoah, Cigarettes, Whiskey and Armageddon
Musings on Death, Grief and Loss)
© 2019

Essays

The Death of the American Intellectual

In recent decades, America has witnessed an intentional dumbing down of the population, the effects of which are unmistakable. This isn’t an accident or a natural shift in education standards but rather a calculated effort by certain political forces to reduce critical thinking. When people lack the tools to question or dissect information, they become more malleable and easier to manipulate. It’s no wonder that a former president openly declared, “I love the uneducated.” Anti-intellectualism has flourished in this climate, feeding off both a suspicion of “elitism” and a comfort in simplistic narratives. Meanwhile, credible sources are struggling to make themselves heard amid a cacophony of misinformation. Instead of promoting knowledge, public discourse increasingly rewards sensationalism and surface-level engagement.

This deterioration isn’t limited to any one political ideology. On one side, some figures seem almost proud to erode intellectual discourse, insisting that feelings are more important than facts or deriding experts as disconnected elites. On the other, we see cancel culture, where voices holding unpopular opinions are silenced or erased rather than debated. The rise of “call-out culture” may have begun with good intentions, intending to hold individuals and institutions accountable. But it has devolved into something far more concerning—a collective fear of speaking out, of exploring new ideas, or of challenging the dominant narratives within any given ideological camp. Individuals, rather than grappling with dissenting views, now often cherry-pick facts to reinforce existing beliefs, discarding inconvenient truths along the way. This trend of “cherry-picking” runs even deeper in an era of extreme polarization. People find themselves locked in echo chambers, surrounded by voices that only reinforce what they already believe. In the process, even our social media feeds have been curated by algorithms to show us opinions that mirror our own, reinforcing the divide and shielding us from alternative perspectives. Debate, once considered a healthy part of democratic engagement, is increasingly dismissed as too divisive, and as a result, we are seldom exposed to ideas that make us uncomfortable.

Yet it’s precisely this discomfort—this challenge to our preconceived notions—that spurs genuine intellectual growth. If we hope to reverse this intellectual decay, it’s essential to return to first principles, to the belief that education is not merely about gaining knowledge but about fostering an environment where ideas can be tested, where individuals are empowered to think critically and independently. Intellectual curiosity should be celebrated, not viewed with suspicion or disdain. And disagreement should not be equated with enmity. Indeed, there is value in a society where opposing views can coexist and where questions are encouraged rather than suppressed. In a functional democracy, education should ideally empower citizens to make informed choices.

However, when intellectual rigor is treated as elitism, and skepticism is replaced with cynicism, the entire democratic framework becomes fragile. The outcome? A society driven more by fear, tribalism, and reactionary thought than by reason, evidence, or constructive debate. If the American intellectual is to survive, we must recognize that intellectual growth comes from questioning, not blindly accepting, the narratives fed to us. Ultimately, intellectual growth relies on the openness to revise our own beliefs. It’s a lesson that’s as old as democracy itself. As thinkers like Socrates taught, the unexamined life is not worth living. If we allow our intellectual institutions, public discourse, and individual curiosity to atrophy, we risk creating a future where critical thought is not just devalued, but becomes a relic of the past.

The Earthman

The first thing I remember when I think of James is his voice, deep and gravelly with a strong hint of the South. It could range from a barely audible whisper to a booming as if from a deep pit and when he spoke in anger people would take a step back.

His was a face artists dream of, tousled windblown hair swept back from the cliff of his forehead. It was a face eons old, seamed with the experience of all men from the beginning of time. He was born too late was James. Born into a world where man’s civilization has encroached on the forest choking nature almost to the brink of her demise. His visage showed this and more, and yet he was not unhandsome.

His eyes were the only kind thing about his countenance and they betrayed his true nature. You were drawn to those eyes, like twin oases on the wasteland of his face and when the mood struck him and a smile emerged from that face, like a sunrise behind a mountain, his eyes would shine with the brilliance of youth. Then his laughter would ring out like the pealing of church bells and you would be swept up and carried along the current of his good cheer.

Hard work was not unknown to James, nor pain. Calluses populated fingers better suited to a pianist, hands sinewy and strong like the rest of him. His clothes hung on his wiry frame like a ship’s sail.

This is what I remember about James, and now he’s dead, but not gone. I can still see him in the ancient trees struggling for existence in the city and his voice rides the wind.

When I Saved the Life of a Cop

When I was in the band the Zealots in about 1994 or 1995, the drummer, Jess, lived above Manny Brown’s, a bar on South St. in Philadelphia. There was a staircase that went straight up to his apartment on the 3rd Floor.

On this day, Paul, the guitarist, and Norman the bassist and I, the frontman, went to Jess’ and he told us he had been robbed. They had taken the door from the roof off the hinges. Jess said his roommate was sleeping at the time and never woke up while they rifled through her belongings in her room. So thankfully, she was ok. The police were on the way.

When the cops got there one of them, a petite woman cop, reached out to open the door to the roof. She must not have been listening well when we told her it was taken off its hinges. The door started to fall on her. That door was at the top of the stairs which you may remember was a straight 3 story drop to the street. I caught the door with one hand before it hit the cop.

That’s it. She didn’t even say thank you. I don’t think cops are used to saying that.