I don't think anyone actually gets weened off of breast feeding, we just swap one nipple for another. Now this isn't going to be a long winded diatribe about why we suck. I stopped wasting my time wondering why we have to breathe a long time ago (although I am still disturbed by the autonomic nervous system). My preoccupation with understanding these so called needs (air, breast feeding, American Idol) really stems from my love of studying economics and the illusive pursuit of logic. It is a simple fact that across the world we are punching each other in the private parts trying to retroactively build roots for a tree whose branches were too pre-occupied with the sun. In other words: fabricating capital to pump into a system that grew under false pretenses. It is nothing new, in fact history, as my friend Charles Kindleberger illuminates, tells us that it happens often. Again, we trade nipples for other nipples. I truly believe that the global problems we face are no different than conflicts between children, only there are greater elements at stake and the resolutions are less civil because the players are sexually aware. But honestly, the subject at hand here is not the outer shell of human behavior, namely economics and global conflict, rather what I feel is the pseudo-whatthefuck.com of motivation and complacency. And so we have A Memo Concerning: TJ Max, Naughty Dogs and Rod Freaking Stewart.
One of my favorite things in this world is the look of a dog that has obviously “escaped” from their owner's backyard. Those jackasses who do the “Girls Gone Wild” videos-- you know the videos where blacked out hammered co-eds flash their tits because their fathers marginalized them as children and thus failed to instill a concept of self-worth-- really missed the boat. A “Bad Dogs Gone Wild” video series would be exponentially more entertaining/not depressing. Anyone who has seen a dog on the loose knows that Bad Dog usually keeps a low profile, their heads dipped close to the ground and decorated with a savage shit-eating grin that undeniably signifies that they know fully the naughtiness of their behavior. They usually trot with the awkward briskness of a competitive speed walker, realizing that this moment of bliss may end at any moment while also saving energy for the possible longevity of the excursion. The most gratifying element though is the manic, juvenile glint in their eyes, so innocent yet sociopathic, filled with the euphoria of delinquency. The other dog's in the neighborhood usually freak out completely when they see Bad Dog and begin screaming “Attica! Attica!” in Woof. This causes Bad Dog's smile to shift into the smile of the fat kid with chocolate all over his face sitting next to the kid who is gnawing his way through a piece of organic fruit leather. The other day I was walking to work to begin a day that I anticipated would be about as gratifying as dry humping a porcupine when I crossed paths with one of these glee filled canines. The poetry of the moment was undeniable. The rest of the day I whispered to myself “Just be a Bad Dog, you are a bad, bad dog.”
They say that only in America will large groups of people wait patiently for a traffic light to change when there is no cross traffic. Even though it makes my skin smell like hotdog water just thinking about it, I'm forced to recognize the ridiculousness of this behavior. There is something bizarre about a man dressed in business casual squeezing the shit out of his driving wheel with knuckles jittering in the manic pulse that obviously followed the consumption of a thirteen phrased Starbuck's beverage. How could an individual so in touch with their needs and particular over so many variables (double venti, jamaican, chai, cumshit, mocha, fetus, double pumped, latte, pulled out, single whipped, twice homogenized, thrice fellatiated) later surrender all control to a light on a small metal box? I'm forced to think that freedoms are only given in exchange for dignities. Fish in an aquarium may be able to convince themselves they are in the ocean by staring at the sea-floor rendition on the other side of glass. The chick wearing painful, but “stylish” footwear is having a goddamn party. The dude going to a tanning salon to look like an Oompa Loompa is having a goddamn party. The guy at work whispering to himself “You are a Bad Dog” is having a goddamn party. But the truth is some parties are more kickass than others. So if you catch me sitting before an empty intersection, singing my heart out to early Rod Stewart and ignoring the honking horns of cars behind me, then you will know why toddlers scream with glee when running through their house naked. Just chill you muppets, the song is almost over.
It is 9:52 AM and in 8 more minutes someone will briskly move behind finger print stained pane glass and unlock the door to TJ Max. There will be a click at the moment the deadbolt slides, but only one person will hear it. Just seconds ago I pulled my car into an anemic parking lot positioned deep within the walls of this strip mall, buildings extending like an exposed ribcage. It is a ghost town, tumble weed shopping cart stuck against a curb, For Lease signs on empty storefront windows. The ghosts are the middle aged women waiting within their cars, spread across the lot in a few stoic blemishes to emptiness. None of them park next to each other as if hoping to hide within an empty sheet of paper. They are junkies waiting to tie off another one in the wrist jerk reactions of credit card swipes. An empty home with children at school, a husband at the office, the television voices that have grown so common they are hard to distinguish from their own. From within my vehicle I look across them, spread like a constellation within polished SUVs and wearing meticulously painted make up. Two years ago they congregated at Nordstrom's and Banana Repbulic, now they cower as if stepping into an AA meeting for the first time. Either Alcoholics Anonymous or being leashed by bank statements into shopping at TJ Max. They are mothers, and they suckle, waiting for daddy to blow up another balloon. Attica! Attica!
