By Kevin D. Williamson
Thursday, November 21, 2019
Frisco, Texas — “Am
I just dropping a garbage bag full of dead dogs into outer space?”
Okay, so that question is going to need some context . .
.
And the context, here at the Embassy Suites Hotel
Convention Center and Spa on the dreary Cracker Barrel–pocked exurban northern
fringe of Dallas, is the Flat Earth International Convention, which — and this
is the first thing you need to know and will be enthusiastically reminded of
every seven minutes — has absolutely no relationship of any kind whatsoever
with the Flat Earth Society, those heretical, weak-tea, milk-and-water,
pansified, considerably less respectable flat-Earth enthusiasts, who,
unlike our rambunctious gang here at the Embassy Suites, have basically nothing
at all to say about the finer points of Hebrew cosmology, laser-beam
experiments disproving the curvature of the Earth, nighttime infrared
photography, autographed Illuminati cards, sundry NASA hoaxes (“‘NASA’ stands
for ‘Not Always Telling Truths,’” insists one conference-goer as his fellow
conferees scratch their heads in pained acronymic perplexation), or any of the
other Very High Weirdness on chiropteran display for those willing to fork over
the $250 entry fee (cash only at the door, please, because that’s not
shady-seeming in any way, and here’s your hand-scribbled receipt from the
harried wife of the guy who runs this show — “Sorry, we’re Canadian!” she
explains) and enjoy the rich terroir of Embassy Suites coffee and take
unselfconscious selfies with a parade of honest-to-God flat-Earth celebrities
after a couple of intensely awkward audience Q-’n’-A sessions (heavy on the Q,
if you know what I mean and I know that you do!) during which a very wide range
of semi-debilitating social-anxiety pathologies is on excruciating display.
From the stage, Mark Sargent smiles down over it all,
beatific and imperturbable. He is a hero in this world, a Very Big Deal,
indeed.
And he is trying to wrap his head around those
hypothetical canine corpses that may or may not be floating about in space.
(Also: “Space Is Fake!” as one seminar title insists.) The guy in the audience
wants to know how deep he could dig a dog-burying hole in the purely
hypothetical case in which he might find himself obliged to bury a garbage bag
full of dead dogs, which he very much has on the brain, for some reason. He is
concerned about the possibility of falling through into whatever is on the
other side, floating there in space like Major Tom with a Hefty Steel Sak full
of dead dog. Sargent, who unquestionably has the mien of a man who knows
that he is participating in a scam, takes a second. “There is no consensus
about how thick the Earth is,” he responds. In fact, there is no general
agreement here among the flat-Earthers about what the Earth actually looks
like, which of several competing maps and models of it might be accurate or
even whether drawing up such a thing is epistemically possible. Being a bunch
of guys who have organized a two-day international conference about the shape
of the Earth, they strangely do not seem to give a furry crack of a rat’s
patootie what the Earth is shaped like. It’s kind of weird.
“All we can do is agree that it’s not a globe,” Sargent
says.
That’s one of the funny things about these flat-Earth
guys: They not only don’t know a goddamned thing, they don’t claim to know or
want to know a goddamned thing beyond the one thing that brings them together,
i.e. the thing about the Earth’s being shaped like a ball, a claim they sneer
at as an obvious fraud and superstition and hoax put forward by “globalists” to
snooker vulnerable believers on behalf of Satan, who has a thing for balls,
apparently.
And there is no evading Satan’s great swinging balls here.
The flatness of the Earth is the big topic on the main stage, but the hot topic
on the sidelines is Satanic ritual abuse, the fixation du jour of the Q-Anon
conspiracy nuts who believe that Donald Trump is just right on the verge of
leading a massive national purge of Satanic pedophiles, who, as everybody
knows, secretly run the world. (Also: Jews! Jews! Jews!) As flat-Earth
writer Noel Hadley tells me, “Satan runs everything: music, Hollywood, media,
Republicans, Democrats, Washington, Israel, Zionism. . . .” They know
Satan when they see him. But they don’t know what the Earth looks like — only
that it is not round. And that if people only understood that, then they would
. . . change their diets, and vaccine companies would go out of business, as one
speaker insisted.
“We don’t believe in a flying pancake in space,” says
exasperated conference organizer Robbie Davidson, a Canadian conspiracy
hobbyist, “and we don’t believe you can fall off the edge of it.” But what does
the Earth actually look like? That, apparently, needs “more investigation,” in
the inevitable dodge uttered from the stage. Right outside the door, a guy who
looks exactly like a Lord of the Rings elf who retired to be an Uber
driver in Colorado Springs is nonetheless selling models of the Earth that look
an awful lot like a pancake in space — or, really, a dinner plate, since this
sad folk art appears to be made of repurposed kitchenware and electric clock
motors, with the sun and moon circling the sky on the minute hand in decidedly
non-heliocentric fashion. There’s a big version up on the stage, too. But just
because the world is a dinner plate sitting on top of a battery-operated quartz
clock motor doesn’t mean that you can fall off the edge — the general consensus
here is that Antarctica is actually a giant wall of ice surrounding the flat
Earth, making exit impossible.
A bearded man in quasi-clerical garb walks by. Another Lord
of the Rings elf in a nametag reading “Angel” confers with Elf No. 1.
There’s a guy on a crutch with a ballcap emblazoned “Level-Headed” and a
T-shirt reading “Flat Outta Hell!” arguing with a bouncer, who thinks Crutch
Guy may have faked his credentials. The bouncer wants to see some
government-issued identification: Funny how these guys suddenly trust The Man
when there’s conference-goer revenue on the line. Someone across the room
denounces the United Nations.
Noel Hadley tells me he is interested in Hellenistic
mystery religions, and he has written a book on the subject, an extract from
which reveals it to be exactly the illiterate effluence you would expect of a
self-published flat-Earth tract written by a man whose Amazon page identifies
him as “a former career wedding photographer.” (It’s the word career
that really gets it done, there, in that particular sentence.) The hilarious
part, the wonderful irony, is that for all his sincere interest in mystery
cults and his “research” on the subject, he does not quite seem to understand
that he has joined a mystery cult, that the joy and fulfillment he derives from
the secret knowledge (never mind that it is not knowledge) of his flat-Earth
cult is nothing more or less than the makarismos enjoyed by initiates
into the ancient mysteries. It is all around him: A young mother says that she
wishes the people she loves “could feel what I feel” when she meditates upon
the truth of the flatness of the Earth.
Everybody is after that feeling: the flat-Earthers, the
Q-Anon dopes who have got themselves so torqued up that the feebs are worried
about them as a terrorism threat, the Bernie Sanders partisans whispering
darkly about the “rigged” economy and the shadowy billionaires acting behind
the scenes, who control the media, the corporations, the government . . . The
social exclusion and isolation that comes from joining a mystery cult isn’t a
terrible price to pay but one of the main benefits, the mechanism by which the
cult imbues its members with a sense of new identity. They speak about
flat-Earth belief as something that follows a conversion experience and sadly note
the apostasy of one high-profile social-media advocate who recently left their
community.
Which is to say: One conspiracy theory is very like
another. The people out in the pews are in a cult, but the men on the stage and
hawking books and DVDs and such do not have the faces and souls and elocutions
of cult leaders — no, they are exactly like the guys who want to sell you a
vacation time-share in Belize, “official” President Donald J. Trump memorial
gold coins, miracle cures for baldness or fatness or arthritis or diabetes. And
they know what their product is. It isn’t geography lessons.
“His name was ‘Adolf,’” says an older man standing in the
lobby. “He was the first politician to figure out the lie.” (Spoiler alert:
Yes, he meant that Adolf.) In front of him is a small knot of dumpy
flushed anxious Tammys with forearm tattoos, pale wan broken men in Australian
bush hats, older guys in denim overalls, and younger men with beards and beanie
hats, trying to figure out how to get $5 off their Embassy Suites Hotel
Convention Center and Spa parking bill, scanning their tickets and punching
buttons on a machine with a label offering in big 72-point type: Validation.
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