When you fire a starter’s pistol on the Internet, as we did last week with the launch of FlickFool, the sharp report doesn’t accomplish what it normally would in the real world. You aren’t signaling to other people to start a race, or kicking off the regional homemade chili semi-finals, or robbing a convenience store on a modest budget. What you’re really spurring is a rush of content, in this case self-produced content, and the shot is actually for yourself, the faraway finish line being the ability to sustain an influx of fresh material for those first few critical months.
I believe I’ve ruined movies for myself. Whereas previously I could mellow out to an audiovisual experience, content to keep my opinions to myself, these days I’ll wonder during the flick whether I can summarize the plot in 11 words, thereby freeing the other 39 for some semblance of critical thought. This awareness is like a trapdoor, with no easy way to climb back to how things were, though one possible outlet is the existence of other media. Music, for instance. Right now, I’ve got Beulah on the speaker, singing about heaven knows what, but I enjoy it. I can leave it at that.
There’s also this idea of casting judgment from the public’s perspective. The Game, for instance, is one of my all-time favorite movies, and yet I wouldn’t recommend you purchase it because of its niche appeal. Travel too far in this direction, however, and you go totally milquetoast, which simply won’t do. All this is more realization than gripe, of course, as I swap priorities. Consumption for creation. And that seems like a worthwhile trade.
Little could I have known, the first time I tied a necktie, the depths to which the human psyche could plumb to establish business tradition. Some of these customs seem purely arbitrary, never mind nonsensical, yet the number of adherents–everybody, basically–compels you to adopt them. Let’s return to the topic of ties. At one point, far back in the recesses of antiquity, some old dude took a bolt of cloth and wrapped it around his neck in a half-assed knot. He secured the other end to the rafters, toes balancing ever so precariously on a chair, and by rights he should’ve hanged himself then and there.
But the human spirit is indomitable, just as the rafters were weak, and the whole arrangement came crashing down, ironically birthing neckties in the process. A few drinks later, followed by the approbation of his peers, and sartorial history was made. Nowadays, the accessory commands respect and projects masculinity, and instead of one old dude you have entire meeting rooms full of dudes swingin’ their ties around. Why, though? The article itself isn’t enchanted. It can’t stand on its own. I mean, if I sauntered into a conference room wearing nothing but a tie, it clearly wouldn’t be acceptable. Or would it?
What I really want to discuss, however, is drinking. For me, consuming alcohol, whether in a social or professional setting, has all the appeal of being trapped in a shit-stained elevator with Twisted Sister stuck on loop. You know, to not put too fine a point on it. Understand, then, the best possible scenario for me would be to tolerate the stuff in a corporate capacity, just like golf.
Certainly I’ve made progress by committing to sampling each concoction that passes my way. I figure it’s the least I could do as a card-carrying adult. By and large, though, every drink tastes vile, no matter how many years it sat in some godforsaken cellar, and really they should call it foulcohol. Now, I understand one of the main appeals of drinking is its liberating effects, not simply its taste, but even then my desire to reach the finish line is nonexistent. A buzz to me feels like a warm curtain on the brain, which I simply don’t value over clarity of thought. I like inhibitions, you see. I virtually collect them.
Meanwhile, I’m looking around the table at all the happy people, and it’s, like, I must’ve taken crazy pills in place of multivitamins this morning, or maybe you guys actually aren’t gulping down what essentially came out of a bacterium’s anus. A long time ago, probably just as the necktie guy was falling from the rafters, the neighbor across the street forgot a batch of perfectly delicious grape juice in the basement. Decades later, his granddaughter would discover it and, upon verifying the product was well past its expiration date, proceed to power it down. All the while I’m on the street between these two houses, trying to find the alcoholic equivalent of the clip-on tie. Easy. And tasteless.
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, July 08.