When you heard about how Smithfield Foods was acquired by a Chinese company for a pretty penny recently, you likely reacted normally, read an article or two, then clicked out of your browser. I chose a different route. Sure, I scanned a few news pieces. But then, instead of shutting down Chrome, I opened another tab and beheld my Kickstarter profile with a renewed fervor, the dual sensibilities of consumerism and patriotism colliding at sympathetic frequencies.
I’ve doubled down on my Kickstarter habit, in the truest sense possible. My last confession placed me at six projects backed. As of today, I’ve upped the ante to 11 projects, and the train doesn’t seem to be losing any steam. I was able to resist the hoodie I mentioned last time, primarily because, well, I don’t wear hoodies, but now I’m on the fence about this belt. I like belts. Been wearing the same one for more than a decade, so it’s high time I upgraded, right?
I logged into my Amazon account this afternoon and witnessed a startling sight: naught but a single order in the queue. There’s been a significant shift of wallet for me to Kickstarter, and I need only look at my actual wallet for proof. The Slim has grown on me, with its slight profile and surprising durability. For a swatch of woven elastic, the little fucker’s proven remarkably resilient, having been tried in the crucible of daily usage. I need only look at my shoes to be reminded of how I snipped off the bows three weeks ago, courtesy of my Lace Anchors. And I need only click on one of the production videos for any number of projects to appreciate the creative process. On Monday, I took my Kickstarter relationship to an altogether different level–I’ve ordered meat from the Internet. You heard me. Internet meat! There’s no turning back for me.
After more than a month of regular exercise, I’ve finally dropped– Well, it’s either one, two, or a paltry three pounds, max, depending on the day of week and wind shear. I have a theory, and it’s by no means revolutionary: this is what metabolism is like in your 30s. Time was, a regimen like this would virtually guarantee progress at four, five times the pace. I just wish I had more data to confirm my theory, but honestly the last time I subjected myself to scheduled torture was in my 20s, and two points does not a curve make.
But I’m having a hell of a lot of fun. I suppose if weight loss were the true aim of my industry, I would’ve supplemented tennis with jogging and a revamped diet, complete with fresh salads, tree bark, and kale smoothies or some shit. No! No. I shall not trod in depths such as these yet. To wit: I tried a bacon and egg pizza during lunch yesterday, if you can fathom such a Venn diagram, and by “tried,” I mean I crushed the whole damn thing.
The sun was especially brutal this afternoon–a summer sun, the likes of which I traditionally would’ve traded for air conditioning and video games. Not today, though. A few of my serves sounded like gunshots, which was gratifying to no end, and I cannot reiterate enough the importance of the toss. That said, I’ve been committing to every toss, good or bad, in an attempt to whip my form into shape. It just feels shameful to have your opponent wait for a re-toss, you know? And yet, I’m certain my decision has cost me dignity, especially when I end up throwing the ball slightly behind my head, forcing me to contort my body to make the serve. In my mind’s eye, I see a vignette of grit and determination. But to the spectator? A horrifying rain dance, or a Pentecostal match point.
It all began with a series of posters. Bold, orange, clever pieces that promoted the new season of Arrested Development, available exclusively on Netflix. I’ve managed to resist Netflix up until this point, innoculating myself against their ads strewn across the Internet, but my resolve began to buckle with the release of House of Cards, their first foray into original content. This was the tipping point, and I finally relinquished my credit card number for a free trial yesterday night, along with 32 minutes of crushing disappointment.
Posters aside, I think I was particularly enamored with the meta-story: a fantastic series cut short in its prime by Fox, now resurrected by a sponsor who presumably could grant the creators more artistic latitude. Same cast, same writers, but a fresh chance. All the ingredients were in place, ready to combine in delicious concert. And while it’s certainly possible to procure these episodes through illicit channels, this was a creative endeavor I wanted to support. So I prepped. Rewatched seasons one through three to remember. Bided my time to make the most of my monthlong trial.
I can’t recall any laughs during the season opener. At minute five, I was waiting for a punchline–any punchline. At the 10-minute mark, the grim realization that this might be a slog, rather than a treat, crept into the periphery. Right around the halfway point, I was wondering if I had hit the halfway point. And when the credits finally rolled, regret. Whereas the original series was breezy, sure, and scalpel-sharp, this revival was like watching a fat kid attempt a triple Lutz–an uncomfortable scene, to be sure, yet a spectacle nonetheless. Such are the trials of a first-world existence.