Let’s take the next few minutes that ease us toward the big ‘fade out’ to talk about what’s important.
I was having a discussion the other day about a wine bottle opener. A friend of mine was ecstatic about this apparatus she had purchased for removing a cork from her dinner bottle. It included two arms that closed around the top of the neck like a vice, an arm like an electric chair lever that impaled the screw into the cork, like a medieval catholic conversion machine. It was about the size of a ban saw and came in a curious stainless steel briefcase that had an interior adorned with velvet and various other implements of wine bottle cork-ectomy.
It was with the knowledge of this item I realized that we as a society had turned a corner.
This brings me back to the ‘big finish’ fast approaching. Imagine the bombs are in the air. The fingers on the switch have finally answered their itch. The projectiles have in fact just passed the high part of their arch. Or if you prefer, the evil mother-ship has just taken orbit over your city. Perhaps the monster asteroid barreling toward earth is now in sight. Whatever your favorite method of vast human catastrophe, the fat lady is belting out her high notes, and its time to decide what’s important.
We have lost sight of what is truly important. Buckle your seatbelts, there are only one or two other statements capable of shattering the earth itself.
When did it happen? When did we start caring more about who designed our furniture, which celebrity is divorcing whom, and what features we have on our cell phones more than what we and those around us actually need to survive?
It seems as though we’re drowning in surpluses of fashion and approval. Truthfully, there are as many culprits as there are brand names in your local price-town-retail-religion-emporium. There’s no one or no thing directly to blame, which is a sad state for a soapbox prognosticator like myself. This is the fault of an evolution in our western civilization.
Normally it is at this point is in my nasty little satirical M.O. to offer my own solution. Normally at a point far earlier than this one I have waxed political philosophical about the issue that should be before the eyes those less fortunate than myself for not seeing it sooner. Admittedly, normally I’m talking about something as shallow as my offering of advice. Our fixation on brands, trends, and bitter ends goes far deeper than changing the channel, braving profanity, or loving thy neighbor.
This is an addiction. We are quite simply addicted to objects and images. We all at one point stood in the immaculate glow of the fluorescent retail splendor, and low-low warehouse prices and said, “I have to have that massive wine bottle opener”. From that point we are hooked and we all seek our fix in what we wear, drape, drive, drink, draw, and use to access our alcohol.
Standard twelve-step logic states that first must begin by admitting we have a problem.
Done.
Note: a little self-test. If you can look around the room you are currently in and find three items that you know the function and purpose of but do not know the name brand or store of origin… you are among the minority. But sadly you still fail.
So now that we’ve admitted we have a problem, what’s the next step? A cold turkey kind of solution? Clearly a boycott of the very nature of our economy is not the answer. Consumption is the essence of what keeps us going. We make our money, we spend it on something dumb, a chunk of that money is reinvested in the goods and services we’re waiting in line for with more of our saliva covered cash, and around we go.
The answer, as near as I can figure is being cool with the aforementioned step one. We’re not going to stop buying things that are novel and irretrievably pointless, that are shiny and possess European names, and the envy of those around us, but as long as we consider the point every now and then, I think we’re going to be okay.
Perhaps the auspices can be altered slightly. You don’t have to picture the end of the world, or the next evolutionary cataclysm, and your frantic gathering of the vitals for survival to count your blessings. Just count them.
Count them on a Holiday morning when the gesture of giving feels as good as the subsequent name brand recognition to follow. Count on them when one of these useless bobbles actually becomes useful, like the cell phone in your mother’s stalled car. Try to count them when you’re waiting in line at the store in the upcoming months. You’ll need something to do amidst the swarm of shoppers in line with you who would rather see you die than let you stand in the way of them, the cashier, and the end of their retail journey. In those moments, appreciate the luxury and the treat you’re giving yourself. Savor that line up, you’ll seek to join it again.
On the afternoon that this cake was baked, I had the pleasure of going to the opening day of the latest location of the grand poobah of warehouse stores. This awe-inspiring-scabie on our planet shall remain name-brand-less. I can’t be certain what lead me to that place, a lone star in the sky or a misguided guide with too much free time. It occurred to me upon entering that in this particular abomination I'd come about as close as possible to the coming of that malevolent mother-ship. I savored 'step one' and my own lustful wanting as I made my way through the aisles, appreciating all the things I would gladly leave in the face of the big falling bombs. I also savored leaving the warehouse of retail worship and the lion’s den line divine without the luxury of a luxury purchase.
I will admit that the wine bottle opener was impressive, and that I would be hard-pressed to prove that these words in any way out weigh its necessity.
Back to the bombs.
I hope the bomb that gets me is a Halliburton, because I really refuse to be atomized by a no-name bomb.
Patrick TM - Copyright - All Rights Perversed
