My flight with conspiracy theories
Lonely and looking for meaning, I found escape and connection in Art Bell’s high desert
From a telephone booth at three in the morning, I made a confused phone call to the deacon of our church.
It was late summer and probably 1999 or 2000 — I honestly don’t remember. On that night, I was barely in touch with reality. And in the months and years after, I did all I could to forget the embarrassing and shameful moment ever happened.
This was a lonely and very private moment. Few even know this phone call happened or that the deacon met me for a conversation in the church that night.
But today, every time I log onto social media — especially Facebook, I am reminded of this personal moment. In broad daylight, people I know, and who always seemed to be more connected to reality than myself, are sharing conspiracy theories with confidence and zeal. And because they can easily connect to others who believe the same thing, a scary and unrelenting cycle continues without an off-ramp.
An Alcohol Soaked Brain Loves the Absurd
My life had become detached from reality in 1998 and 1999. I had attempted to end my life at least once by this time (two more attempts followed). I spent many nights in my car, parked out in the North Dakota country somewhere, physically beating myself up and drinking until I passed out, and frankly, hoping I’d never wake up.
I did not know who I was, why I was here, and what was wrong with me.
In 1997, I got a part-time job as a disc jockey. I am naturally curious and radio fueled that curiosity. The more I learned about radio, the more I learned about who I was on the radio. Over time, and because I never slept, I found myself glued to the widest and weirdest bands of the spectrum.
It was all fantasy — an escape.
Soon, and sadly, I was lost in a deep web of conspiracy theories, amplified by isolation, depression, anxiety, and fast progressing addiction.
Art Bell specifically captured my attention.
Bell was a radio man. He was in love with the miracle of wireless communication. Each night, for four hours, he poured his soul into his show. He reveled in the mastery of using words to not just paint a picture, but create a vivid alternate reality for the listener.
As he broadcast from the “high desert”, I received in the Great Plains.
Bell sought out the most mysterious stories, present and past. He pulled on every possible thread. Every story started to seem real. Bell was revealing everything in the world that is invisible to the masses. When you listened long enough, it all started to make sense. And more importantly, you knew the secrets.
As my addiction progressed, my alcohol soaked brain could no longer separate Art Bell’s matrix with the real world. And when a person is searching for purpose and lost in an existential fog, fantasy and reality will collide.
I was spiritually lost. My Catholic upbringing had no meaning. It was weekly ritual without substance.
But the pyramids and Egyptology … that connected. Questions about why the great pyramids were so perfectly built and aligned with the stars were questions that intrigued me. What did the builders know that modern man has failed to understand?
So when I called the deacon in the middle of the night, I wanted answers. I wanted to know if the answers were in the Bible or with the Ancient Egyptians.
Then and Now
I lived in the Art Bell rabbit hole for over a year before that late night call. The moment the fantasy and conspiracies of late night radio were open to the real world, with someone who knew me, my break from reality ended.
But why?
It was embarrassment. It wasn’t really a secret that I had a problem with alcohol and drugs. Despite that, I valued some shred of my reputation. And in that moment, in a very analog and human moment, the shame and absurdity of it all was enough to pull me out of the rabbit hole.
Art Bell and his stories fulfilled my need for connection. I shared Bell’s love of the medium of radio. I tuned in to learn how to tell stories, how to use my voice, and how to connect through the air waves. But the outlandish stories and conspiracies gave me something bigger than my self to believe in. Something, that if true, was only known by the lucky few that listened to Art Bell. This made me feel special.
I see the same thing happening on social media today. Someone I know will post what looks like a legitimate news story about human trafficking or child molestation. They post it because, first, their moral compass agrees that human trafficking and child molestation is wrong. And second, they post it because it’s like they know something the rest of don’t know.
They fell special.
Today, the internet and the speed of the internet is the drug. It provides the recurring dopamine hit. People keep going back for more, something more absurd. Over time, they build a tolerance, so they try to go deeper, find the harder stuff. They do this until their fantasy world intersects with reality.
See Pizzagate: ‘PizzaGate’ Conspiracy Theory Thrives Anew in the TikTok Era — The New York Times
Along with the internet being the drug, people’s lives are frayed. The tectonic plates of the American experiment have shifted and were rattling in the aftershocks. Many are looking for something more, and the internet gives us hundreds of Art Bell’s all at once.
I’ve been in that rabbit hole. I’ve taken the journey to Art Bell’s desert at midnight looking for answers. There are no answers there; only confusion, disappointment, and shame.
But sadly, shame doesn’t work they way it used to. The deacon, without judgement, appealed to my communal sensibilities. He did not try to tie me to Catholicism, but instead invited me to accept a process of discovery. And in this discovery, he happened to be the one, in that moment, helping me see the absurdity of Art Bell.
Since the internet and social media give us instant groups of likeminded connections, shame from one is outweighed by acceptance from many.
Maybe the moral in this story is that we need more telephone booths and face-to-face chats at 3:00 am with someone who cares.
