February 12, 2001
We walked into the movie theater. We were twenty minutes early. There were already a dozen people in the place. More poor schmoes with nothing better to do on a Sunday than watch a film which had been out for a month, already. Annoying music was playing; some pre-pubescent twelve-year old who dripped smarm.
The usual advertising slides were clicking past. "Please place trash in proper receptacles" one of them read.
My husband glanced at me as we sat down. "Just what is the proper receptacle for a lawyer?" he asked. "110v?"
"Nah, go 240; don't take chances."
The man in front of us choked on a laugh and buried his head in his science-fiction novel.
"It's not that all lawyers are bad," my husband continued, "I mean, your step-mother's nice, Joe's nice... but he's a real estate lawyer. Does that count?"
"I think Joe's the exception that proves the rule. By rights a real estate lawyer ought to be the worst: part lawyer, part real-estate salesman, right?"
"No... politicians are the worst. Lawyers are just their larval stage."
"Hmmm... better nip them in the bud, then."
"What is the bud of a lawyer?"
"The part that sticks out of it's collar, I think...."
The sci-fi novel was being chewed by now.
The woman on the other side, also a reader, looked us over and looked at the novel being chewed. She glared up at the speakers in the ceiling, then down at her book. She seemed to have no appreciation for saccharine twelve-year-olds either.
"Remember the days when they used to play quiet, relaxing music in movie theaters?" she asked. "Then they would let you alone to read your book. But now, they play this crap. It's like having a Barbie doll shoved in you ear...."
I started laughing. The science fiction book took another set of dental impressions.
"Yeah...," added a man behind us. "For some reason they call this the pre-show entertainment. I thought this was advertising."
"If this is the entertainment, then what do they call the film?"
"The feature."
"A feature? Well, at least it's not a Microsoft program; then it would be a bug."
"Hmmm... then what do you call the Coke commercial?"
"A short subject."
"A sub-routine. They just want us to goto the concession stand."
"That would be a major concession on my part. I object to paying $4 for a soda."
"Sustained."
The house lights dimmed and we were treated to the entertaining sight of an animated box of popcorn awaiting the arrival of an animated Pepsi cup. I seem to have been one of the few people in the theater to recognize that the underlying theme of this little film was cannibalism. The Pepsi cup sends the popcorn box out to the lobby (there's the goto routine) for candy and... Pepsi. The popcorn-fella sips the Pepsi (Oh, my Gods! In public?!), and then takes it back to his sloshy girlfriend, who kisses him for his efforts. This apparently blows his mind....
Oh, but, my goodness, what is that Pepsi-fatale planning on doing to her en-cupped relative? And why were the depraved popcorn and other edibles helping her out? Arrggh! this is dreadful! Quick, bring on the previews of coming distractions before I start to wonder about the motives of the concession-stand employees....
And to think I refused to go see Hannibal....
February 18, 2001
I think of window shopping as "visiting my potential stuff." If I stop to look at something that I appreciate and desire, I then step back and think "Do I really need it? Would I actually use it, appreciate it, love it every day I owned it?" Usually, the answer is "no." I walk off thinking "I hope the person who buys it loves it as much as I do," but I'm usually satisfied with that.
"If I gave you... say, a million dollars to spend on yourself, what would you do with it?" someone recently asked me. (Well, actually, people have asked me this question on several occasions and I generally just stare at them in bemusement.) This always struck me as a rather stupid question, but, recently, I sat down and started spending this theoretical million bucks. It was very interesting....
There's this great sailboat and to get a new one, custom-built to my specs with all the bells and whistles, would be about $200,000 US. And there's a very nice motorcycle (I do vacillate between the MotoGuzzi and the Ducati, I admit) about $12,000 and throw in the leathers, helmet, gloves, call it $15,000 all together.
"Umm.. is there tax on this stuff?" I asked.
"Ahhh... just add ten-percent and we'll call it even."
"OK...."
"You've only spent about a quarter of a million dollars."
"I'm thinking...!"
Hmm... replace the computer systems with total balls-to-walls screamer of a central server system with custom ethernet throughout the boat, pull-down LCD screens, wireless keyboards and mice... I mean the works at the absolute bleeding-edge of technology and a laptop for wandering about with off the boat: about another $10,000. Add that again in camera equipment and I'd be pretty maxed-out.
Upgrade the stereo, the wardrobe, the firearms, add a few interesting bits of jewelry, adopt another ferret or two (ok, that's pushing it, since they aren't just for me: they're to keep Fidget company), surgery to correct my less-than-perfect eyesight, a few other medical details....
Even presupposing a rather expensive and ridiculous taste in clothes and such I had difficulty breaking $400,000. There just isn't that much I want. I suppose that if I had to start from scratch, that might be different, but I already have a lot of things I'm satisfied with and, really, I don't give that much of a damn about "things".
I want to be comfortable and I want not to have to worry about paying the bills. I want to go out to the theater and concerts occasionally, to eat in nice restaurants a bit more frequently than that, do a little traveling first class, visit my friends... but those aren't things, they are experiences. To set out to acquire things simply doesn't do much for me.
And it's not that I don't like nice things or appreciate them. I do. Believe me, I do. I just don't feel the need to own them, or, more to the point, to be owned by them. In spite of my love for the displays in jewelry store windows, my jaw-dropped awe over certain pieces of art, machinery or engineering, I don't want to own those things. Where would I put them? I just want to visit them once in a while. Owning them is way too much work. I don't even own a bicycle at the moment. And, no, I haven't forgotten the Porsche Boxster S over which I get downright wet, I just don't know what I would do with it, after the initial fun of driving it palled (or I got into deep shit for the way I'd drive it...) and the maintenance and insurance costs kicked in.
Yeah, I like to look at all the nice things, but, in the end, no matter that I could afford them or not, I leave most of them on the shelves. I don't need, or even truly want, most of these things. The things I want enough to pursue them are mostly matters of comfort, ease, facility, not just acquisition. (Well, a few aren't, but you have to have some ludicrous vices, right?)
I suppose my acquisitiveness could swell. This could just be a phase I'm going through, like puberty without the pimples. I could turn out to be full of shit and discover that I really do want my stuff.
Then, I'd fall into a fit of manic shopping and I'd really need that million dollars, then. I would have a lot of catching up to do in the "stuff" department. Would I have to buy the first version of the stuff, or do you suppose I could just leapfrog straight to the newest and coolest stuff?
Oh, gods, this sounds like a lot of work. Maybe I'd better spend more time at the gym, just in case. Do you suppose there is a good exercise program for acquisitiveness...?
Saturday, February 24, 2001
I walked into the miasma of stink and choked on it. My eyes watered at the sweet stench and my nose began to curdle with the urge to sneeze. Some women wear way too much perfume.
Don't get too high and mighty, just yet, O schlong-bearers. Guys are occasionally guilty of the same thing. Worse with some who insist on cologne and aftershave which may or may not agree. Bleh....
I suppose it's rude to gag in public, but it's more than I can bear sometimes. I'm offended by the attack of other people's fragrance products. Keep the chemical warfare on your own side of the street, please. Ugh. It doesn't really matter to me if it's perfume or hairspray: once it's on your body, it shouldn't enclose you in a six-foot circle of aggressive odor.
Now, if someone happens to pong a bit, because it's a hot day or they have been working hard, that's understandable. Not always pleasant, perhaps, but I understand why their personal odor is strong. But someone whose cologne could best be depicted in art as a rampaging spectre of odious, choking vapour is beyond my personal pale.
Is it just that their noses are suffering a kind of scent-overload which leads them to believe that it isn't that strong or are they clueless? Maybe perfume and cologne simply aren't expensive enough, any more, for people to be encouraged to use them with restraint (though I doubt this, considering how expensive some perfumes are. Yet I still find myself going up escalators behind dozy bints enclosed in a reeking cloud of Opium or Shalimar or what-have-you).
When the stuff was wickedly expensive, it was used sparingly, a few drops at a time. Each drop was carefully placed where the skin was warmest... both discretely and with calculation.
I do wish people would all wear their chosen scents with discretion. Not only is it considerably more polite, it's a lot sexier.
You shouldn't smell someone before you're close enough to make out their eye color. The tingle of scent should reach out a gentle tendril as you draw close enough to take their hand. Just enough to notice during a handshake... or a kiss on the palm. It should intrigue and invite as you come into personal space, a whisper of mood, a statement of personality. Closer, it should be an accent to intimacy, an extra secret shared, a momentary headiness as you breathe delight against the curve of neck or breast, or the firmness of their jaw....
Seduction, surprise, subtext; that is the role for perfume.
Not assault and battery. The distance of perfume, even if the perfume is soap, should be sixteen inches, not sixteen feet. Male or female, you should keep it close to you. Like the shape and cling of a woman's lingerie, it should be only hinted at until the person you'd really like to get to know is close enough to know for themselves. A reek of perfume in public is, to my mind, as crass as panty-lines, slipshod brassieres and handymen whose jeans don't cover the crack of their ass.
Intimate things should remain intimate. They become rather cheap, otherwise. Wouldn't you rather be thrilled when your lover doffs their clothes than think "Ah, well, I knew that was coming"? (We'll get around to that that some other time, you wicked-minded thing, you.) Wouldn't you rather bury your face in their hair and think "Ahhh... you smell wonderful"...?
Scent is our strongest key to memory, so it seems to me it would be better to be discrete with these potential memories and not to inadvertantly rouse a vision of some ditzy bimbo, with no more class than a formica tabletop, who stepped on your foot at the mall. A whisper, a hint, is always more provocative than a shout.
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