American Fez

Commute Via Hipsterville

Each morning, on my long march to work, I pass a hipster donut shoppe. Hazelnut, sugar maple, Nutella, kale and bacon, obviously: so many typical hipster flavors, except, of course, donut flavor.

The twentysomething men all sport Karl Marx beards and retro shoes; the fiftysomething men, meanwhile, are uniformly attired in jeans and rock band t-shirts. It's like the youngsters and the oldsters have swapped appearances, as in some tedious role-reversal Hollywood excuse for comedy. The world turned upside down and then squeezed until all the local buffoons are wrung out over the sidewalk. 

And what of the local women? There aren't any in this shuffling Donut line of transposed facial hair. In fact, I suspect that women of all ages are too wise to queue for fatuous breakfast foods at such an early hour. And even if they did, they would not look so slovenly, graceless and inappropriate. 

Personally, I enjoy a morning repast of plain yogurt, blueberries and a sprinkling of granola in a shirt and tie. Make of that what you will.

Man And His Symbols

To paraphrase Groucho Marx, I would never want to be part of any Jungian collective unconscious that would accept me as an archetype. 

If you ask me, being part of the collective unconscious is the psychic equivalent of receiving free membership in vacation cottage time-share scheme that's actually a derelict construction site in the middle of the Arizona desert. It is a shadowy world of mental real estate deals gone wrong. 

And what about the archetypes of this Jungian collective unconscious? Well, just take a look for yourself: the warrior, the trickster, the wise woman and the rebel, amongst other fairy-tale self-delusions. These are stereotypes more likely to encountered at the dreariest of Renaissance Fayres than in the day-to-day grind of actual life. 

More accurate archetypes would be the colossal bore, the scold, the alcoholic, the eternal teenager and the kind of douche bags who claim to be in a "Kolleltiv". But I suppose such unromantic characters would never appeal to a Jungian sense of medieval Tarot card tomfoolery.

At any rate, preserve me from the collective unconscious. I'd prefer to be a lonely brain, rolling off-course and lost in the rough like a shanked golf ball.

Big Yellow Praxis

"They paved paradise and put up a parking lot." 

Joni Mitchell's trenchant lyrics have haunted me ever since I first heard them in a Stonkton's Supermarket, broadcast between announcements of daily meat specials via the store's muzak system while I was comparison shopping for brie cheese, which was quite popular back then but rather expensive.

How very true, I remember thinking, that what remains of Eden is in the sweaty hands of unscrupulous developers. Although, to be fair to them, these same developers would obviously also pave over the circles of Hell, if there were profits to be made from a circular, self-heating parking lot. 

You win some and you lose some, I guess, when it comes to paving over theological landscapes.

If they paved paradise today, of course, the parking lot would be a subterranean pay facility burrowed beneath a congealment of luxury condos and high-visibility retail space.

Progress of a sort, I suppose. 

Day of the Triffids

Today, even the most of mundane of tasks can quickly becomes inspiration for that dystopian novel I've been itching to write.

Negotiating with cable and Internet companies, for example, is an ersatz Kafkaesque experience. And trying to travel across a city on public transport is a mind-bending scenario straight from the pages of J. G. Ballard. The effort required to recycle unwanted materials, meanwhile, is pure Orwellian nightmare.

I merely wanted to dispose of some clippings from the garden; a few sticks, weeds and miscellaneous undesirable greenery dumped into a plastic barrel; a typical Saturday afternoon haul. But judging by his suspicious nature and interrogative manner, the custodian at the town recycling center is more interested in acting like O'Brien, Big Brother's local waste management agent and enforcer.

What's in the barrel, he demanded, when I showed up at his little municipal fiefdom, as if I were an obviously shady character arriving on a Middle Eastern carrying what was clearly a suitcase with a false-bottom.

Just some yard waste, I told him.

From your garden?

Yes.

Did you fill the barrel yourself?

Yes.

Did anyone help you fill the barrel?

No.

Did anyone ask you put waste that was not from your garden into the barrel?

No.

Does the barrel contain any tropical or exotic species of plant not commonly found in the North East of the United States?

I don't think so. It's just some weeds and stuff that came out of our backyard.

Are there any dead rabbits, vermin, birds or deceased livestock in the barrel?

Not unless they crawled in there to die while I've been standing here talking to you.

There's no plastic, glass or other non-organic recyclable material in the barrel?

No.

Mind if I inspect the contents?

Be my guest.

He leaned into the barrel, rummaging around its depths like a drunk searching for the last cold beer in a picnic cooler full of Diet Coke and Dr Pepper. Unfortunately for him, he was unable to root out any crushed peyote leaves, executed hedgehogs or contraband latticework. 

Just some yard waste, I repeated, when his head reemerged from the barrel. A few sticks, weeds and things.

Grudgingly, the custodian was forced to let me and my barrel through. Silo 101, he grunted, indicating a huge green shed structure on the left.

When I returned home, I seriously began to consider starting to compost instead of revisiting my ordeal with O'Brien at the recycling center. After all, to paraphrase Orwell, he who controls the recycling controls the pain-in-the-ass, but perhaps he who controls the compost can at least control the recycling. 

If I Were A Corinthian

Like the espistler, Paul, I also put away childish things upon reaching adulthood; but I made sure mine were always easily accessible. 

After all, you never know when you might need a G.I. Joe with no pants on, some colorful Lego bits and pieces, and a model ocean liner that belches steam from its funnels if you pour boiling water into the hold. There is also an unidentified small furry object that looks suspiciously like an ancient cube of fudge covered in forty years of lint. 

These childish things now reside in a decrepit cardboard box in the coat closet beneath the stairs; "put away" in body, certainly, but as anyone who knows me well can attest, not put away in spirit.

Naturally, I don't pretend threatening the Romans with a trouserless G.I. Joe would have done Paul much good when he faced Caesar's axeman, but it's possible that playing with the Legos might have provided him with some source of escapist distraction during his daring descent via basket from the walls of Damascus.

Trying to look through an old hunk of fudge, however, even darkly, doesn't sound like very much fun no matter how you slice it.

A Sluggard Writes

"Go to the ant, O sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise."

I've spent the morning watching numerous "increased productivity" tutorials; a form of occupational discipline so inane that even my most unimaginatively corporate colleagues consider running away to join the circus rather than complete any of the ludicrous exercises recommended by the so-called efficiency experts. 

When asked for my opinion by our team leader, I simply suggest we should probably follow the advice of Proverbs: observe the ant; bearing in mind, of course, that the ant has "no guide, overseer, or ruler."

For if we actually did observe an ant in our office, we would merely be confronted by the uninspiring sight of one aimlessly wandering around with a dropped seed from a sesame seed bagel balanced on its back. 

Which is pretty much what we already do. So at least we're on the proverbial right track, I guess.

Boring Chinese Wisdom For Rainy Summer Days

According to Lao Tzu, a man who still shelters under umbrella because he doesn't realise it's already stopped raining is like a middle-aged fat man who still wears basketball shorts and rock band t-shirt.

A meteorologist standing on the Great Wall with a weather balloon is worth two back in the Forbidden City Studios gesticulating at computer models of possible storm patterns in your area.

Confucius say: Man whose shoes and socks are soaked through from sudden July torrential downpour will confuse air conditioning thermostat in office.

A wise man from the city of Rai Ning once drove past a campsite and saw a miserable old monk wearing waterproof sandals and a packable anorak. He kept driving. 

Anthologist's note: some of the wisdom contained in these boring Chinese proverbs may have been lost in translation. 

Stupid Is As Stupid Does

I often wonder what stupidity, as a substance, might look like.

Would it be a thick, brown fog enshrouding a stagnant mind so only faint, dull moans of an aimless diaphone can be distinguished?

A misshapen lump of consciousness drowning in a dense, congealed broth, rather like rancid meatballs found in the most unlit recesses of a malfunctioning refrigerator?

Or just a deflated rubber brain, long ago abandoned in a dark, dank and cavernous skull?

These are the images that I always conjure when contemplating stupidity. Perhaps because I am too stupid to think of anything else.

Alas, we stupid people spend our days collecting brittle wooden sticks of facts that we fail to build a fire from. Clever people, on the other hand, invest in a lifetime's supply of Duraflame logs and self-fuelling Zippo lighters, so they can warm themselves beside the fireplace of knowledge with very little effort.

At least that's how it seems to me. But then I'm a bit, you know, dim.

Our Town

They are opening a Cheap 'N' Nasty around the corner, sandwiched between Kalifornia Junk and that First Conglomerate Bank. It's replacing the Gypsy Soul store that had been empty for some time.

Slowly but surely, all the places I didn't shop at are being replaced by new places that I won't shop at either. Meanwhile, the lot where my old dry cleaners stood is still being decontaminated.

Shame about Gypsy Soul. It sold nose rings, toe rings, belly-button rings, eyebrow rings, even earrings and a small selection of rings for your fingers; every kind of decorative ring except engagement and wedding rings. I suppose you might say it sold jewelry for people who, like the store's owner, weren't in it for the long haul. Still, what can you do when a month's rent is more than the value of your entire inventory? 

Cheap 'N' Nasty sells everything from packaged food to polyester underwear. My neighbor says the one they opened in the next town over is always busy and they're already hiring extra staff for ours.

Urban Bucolic

My first apartment overlooked a field of patchwork roofs with the occasional gabled hillock and long, straight telegraph wire tracks ploughed through the air inbetween.

Pigeons, crows and even adventurous rats grazed on this grayscale land of asphalt and slate. Typical crop rotations were wind-blown plastic bag, grimy milk crate, TV antennae and underachieving art student failing to evoke his mental image of Montmartre. I once saw a fat man sunbathing in the nude, so I called the police.

Ah, the halcyon days of youthful summer in the city. Staring out of the freon smeared window, rationalising reasons for not paying your rent on time so you can spend a week on the Cape instead, where the rooftops look like sand dunes.

City Economics, Country Economics

All Breakages Must Be Paid For. 

I brush past an overstuffed armchair in the overstocked antique store, taking care to squat down so my head does not smack into a Murano chandelier hanging from the rafters. This is more of an obstacle course than a shopping spree. Apparently you should take army basic training before negotiating the maze of booby-trapped aisles in Blue Cockerel Antiques and Collectibles.

Please Ask For Assistance Before Touching Merchandise.

Indeed, the ceramics for sale seem so fragile that they might shatter if you simply say the word 'Wedgwood' in a louder than normal tone of voice. And some of the metal curios are so rusted at the edges I wouldn't dream of touching them without a recent tetanus shot.

How much is this wooden duck decoy thing? I ask the owner, pointing towards a fine example of hand carved shooting memorabilia incongruously balanced on top of a tower of old hat boxes.

It's priced on the bottom, he replies, without looking up from his book. 

I thought I wasn't supposed to touch anything.

You can touch that, he sniffs.

So I do. There was a tiny sticker just barely clinging to the base of the duck with a trio of inky squiggles scrawled on it. After a few minutes of scrutiny and deliberation, I decide these squiggles indicate a price of $145. Not cheap, but despite my better judgment I am resigned to paying such an unreasonable sum for an antique wooden duck decoy thing. It is a birthday present, after all. 

I begin to turn towards the cash register, wooden duck decoy in hand, and immediately notice another sign.

Cash Only

Cash only? Who the hell carries around $145 in cash these days? I flip open my wallet, nevertheless, just in case. I haven't investigated the cash compartment since last year's Christmas raffle. Who knows what forgotten currencies lurk within its leathery folds. 

The answer is two ancient dollar bills that looked like they've spent more time going through the laundry than in financial circulation. Cash only? My wallet contains more credit cards than actual bucks. 

Is there an ATM near here? I ask the owner.

Used to be one at the gas station about eight miles down the road, he says, still more engaged by his book than his customers. Probably two or three over in Wadville. I take personal checks with a valid ID. 

Ah yes, personal checks. I have a checkbook somewhere, but the account associated with it is older and more obsolete than these antiques. Perhaps the owner might consider a barter deal? My genuine Bank of Constantinople checkbook with intact deposit slips for his old wooden duck decoy thing? Never mind. There are no doubt cheaper and easier to buy ducks on eBay.

Does the Blue Cockerel Antiques and Collectibles store ever sell anything, I wonder. Perhaps it used to be called just Blue Cockerel Gifts, and only became an antique store by default when the gifts never sold, the stock turning into antiques over time because nobody has ever bought anything. This is obviously what happens when your business is in the back of beyond and you don't accept modern methods of payments.

So I place the wooden decoy duck back on top of the hat boxes, bid the oblivious owner farewell and thanks with as much theatrical irony as I can muster, then inch carefully towards the exit, my eye briefly catching the words of yet another store sign as I do so.

You Don't Have To Be Crazy To Work Here But It Helps