Category: Social Commentary

Crack Awareness

There are some sights I just can’t get outta my head.  Sure, I can try to wash my eyes out with pretty images; pictures of a beautiful woman… nature… or whatever visual cleanse is appropriate for the erasure. But there are some things that are the optical equivalent of eating sardines, that even pizza and hot wings can only mask for a few seconds. There are life-images that even a glimpse etches into that special place in my brain reserved for memories of my senior prom or birth of my kids.

And I’m feelin’ kinda robbed that my happy-memory database is being slowly formatted by out of control image-bombing.  Here’s the thing, I’m incapable of looking away.  I’m not sure if my mind isn’t processing images quickly enough (possibly because there’s no logical reference in my database) forcing me to stay fixed on target too long or if I’m just simply drawn to craziness.

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Zombies in Leggins

Is it a just another social trend or some other kinda misguided response to happiness, excitement, surprise, dismay, fear…just about anything that requires an emotion-enhancer? Why do women – from beauty contestants (that is to say “bachelorettes”) to school girls – cover their mouths. It’s America and you probably have some sort of dental care, so it’s not your choppers. So you’ve watched the series of movies with the crazy native shirtless werewolves and horny glowing skinned tree-climbers but you’re NOT a vampire with big pointy teeth. So why the mouth cover?

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Lab Coats and the Tiny Green Art Smock

I’m thinkin’ I’m invisible. Yup. Invisible. I drive a big black truck but no one sees me on the road. I go out to eat with my wife and get the humbling feeling that I’m making noises like the teacher from a Snoopy cartoon when I talk. And last night one of the shedders that I share my home with (under protest) ran headlong into my leg as I stood in the kitchen.

Invisible.

I’ve reached the not so enviable point in life where young people stare vacantly or roll their eyes when I talk, middle-agers tune me out, and short-timers crash into me when I stand patiently in checkout lines. No kidding, it’s as if when oldies reach the age of AARP, lime green spandex, and fear of bathing they lose all sense of spatial awareness. The other day I had a large heavy-breathing older fella stand so close behind me in line at the post office that I could feel his hot McDonalds breath on the back of my head. And I checked my wallet a few times because whatever he had in his hand – I’m hoping mail – kept touching the back of my pants.

 

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Generation Three-Fer

I want to have a better understanding of the human mind. For the past few years I’ve been trying to figure out the cultural malaise that has gripped America, specifically young people. It’s been like watching a family member sick with the flu but instead of getting better they become more compromised…weaker.

I’ve wracked my brain in a futile effort to identify a cause. Surely it has to be the confluence of events – variables – that have created a culture of youth that has mutated, becoming zombie-like in movement, appearance, and verve. There’s simply a dearth of life-energy in this group. They speak of hopelessness and boredom, unable to get out of bed to go to work or school and face the mundane “challenges” that we eagerly embrace as a means to an end. I’ve seen young men at work standing disengaged, sitting, staring, moving at a disinterested sloth-like pace, that is until the “recess” bell rings, while their older co-workers move like the Energizer Bunny on Red Bull to pick up the slack.

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Perfect Fruit

WAIT! before sending angry emails and rainbow emojis, read on. This isn’t a rant about RuPaul’s Drag Race or some other in-your-face transgender or alternative life-choice. It’s simply a non-political commentary on Americans’ often irrational expectation for perfection, irrespective of personal effort to achieve even basic mediocrity.

As consumers we’ve learned to expect – no demand – perfection. We sort through piles of consumer goods on a quest for perfection, foregoing scuffed packages for ones that look bright and fresh, as if taken from an ad agency photo shoot. What’s inside is the same as that in the rejected box that’s been shoved aside, relegated to the Island of Misfit Toys or the desperate grasp of a waterlogged homeowner that will settle for that last sump pump in a beat up box on a dusty shelf. Continue reading “Perfect Fruit”