clint outdoes the economists yet again

I’m on constant watch. I’m trying to avoid the slow plunge into idleness that claims so many Americans. This laziness ravages those whom it touches, eventually leaving them with no aspirations at all except to make sure to be home with the pizza by the time American Idol starts. I’ll admit though, I can’t claim complete immunity. I realized recently that I’ve stopped purchasing products that say things like “some assembly required” or “ready in minutes” (they try to trick you with that one). Even “just add water” sends me into an illogical tirade directed at the box that contains my would-be dinner: “First of all, don’t tell me what to do. Secondly, why didn’t you do that before the Hamburger Helper was in the box? I mean you already had all the stuff right in front of you; why not just finish the job, Betty Crocker, if that is your real name?!”

As I said, I don’t think I’m alone. I think much of America is riding shotgun in my slow descent into laziness. But that is just a hunch. There are no cold hard statistics to support that claim because laziness is a really tricky thing for economists and other college-graduate-types to measure. But I think I figured out how; I bet the most accurate measurement for America’s laziness is IKEA’s annual revenues. The two variables are inversely related of course. The lazier America is, the less they buy stuff from IKEA (because then they have to put it together). A more robust attitude on the part of Americans translates into higher revenue for IKEA; ergo, we have an easy and accurate measurement for national indolence—IKEA sales.

Think about it—is a lazy person willing to deal with wordless instructions, wayward hammers occasionally landing upon unsuspecting thumbs, particleboard that becomes an increasingly accurate representation of its name, and countless unmanageable little wood pegs? I think not. According to the website www.ikea’sannaulrevenuesasameasurementofamerica’slazziness.org IKEA’s annual revenues are down. Doesn’t sound like good news for the old American ideals of hard work and industriousness.

I sometimes wonder when America will be so lazy that products with the forewarning “assembly required” will become entirely obsolete. Far off or just around the corner, that day will really rattle the jigsaw puzzle industry. I can only imagine the whole family gathering around the coffee table for some jigsaw-oriented quality time. They’ll open the box, remove the “puzzle” and set it on the table. Done. On the box’s cover it will read “Number of Pieces: 1” and everyone will go back to their video games, web browsing, and reality shows.

This whole endemic of laziness ruffles my feathers enough that I think I just might do something about it . . . but on second thought . . . meh.

cup cakes.

You know whom I feel sorry for--the guy who goes to prison, but is a true lover of cup cakes. You know if that guy’s grandma or girlfriend or nephew decides to bake him some cup cakes to try to brighten his otherwise dreary and orange-jumpsuit-filled existence, those cup cakes will never reach their intended recipient. All because one too many times someone has attempted to smuggle a small key or chisel or file into a prisoner by baking it into the center of the cup cake. The prison guards caught on to that trick decades ago. Now nobody gets cup cakes. Those bad apples ruined it for everyone. It’s sad if you think about it.

the one about envelopes

While shopping for envelopes the other day I realized just how uniquely odd a product they really are. I was examining the shelves’ different boxes, trying to decide which variety of envelope would most fully convey my cheery-but-not-cheesy outlook on life, when my attention was nabbed by the instructions on the side of one of the boxes:

1. Place letter in envelope
2. Lick flap.
3. Press to seal.

It struck me that envelopes are perhaps the only product that one can purchase in which the product’s instructions direct the new owner to lick the product. It’s weird. And applied to another product, we see just how weird a directive the above Step 2 really is. Imagine instructions for powering up a new computer:

1. Insert power cord in wall socket.
2. Press ‘Power’ button found on tower.
3. Lick.
4. Wait for Windows to open (and then suck by involuntarily shutting down at really inconvenient times).

It’s just weird that there exists a product that encourages us to lick, a behavior typical of social deviants. But of course there are lollypops and popsicles and other food-oriented products that also engender licking. But there’s no instructions on these foods. The licking is implied. I guess what makes me nervous about envelopes is that I have to be told to lick them. If the need for licking a thing isn’t obvious enough as to not require instructions, I don’t think I want to be licking that thing. The scariest part is that the instructions on the box tell me to do the very same act that in elementary school constituted a dare. “Lick it. I dare you.” “Do you double dare me?” “I double dog dare you.” It seemed like a bad idea then and it seems like a bad idea now.

After some pondering, an idea map, and a flow chart or two, I identified another product that requires (or required) licking—stamps. What is it with the letter writing process and licking? Is there some intrinsic link between the two? It's mysterious and just another reason I prefer e-mail.

oranges.

Oranges--almost a pocket food.

fashion pickle

I think we throw the word ‘emergency’ around way too much. If while chopping tomatoes, you slice your finger off at the knuckle, then okay, you can say ‘emergency’ to your heart’s content. But otherwise, let’s reserve the term for situations that warrant its use. And don’t think that just because you put the word “fashion” in front of “emergency” that that makes it okay. White shoes with a brown belt is hardly a reason to get a fire fighter up from his nap. So let’s just collectively resolve to dispense altogether with the term “fashion emergency." Deal? Unless of course your shirt comes to life and tries to strangle you. Or if a guy is cursed to experience the excruciating consequences of zipping up much too fast. If either of those things occurs, then you have my permission to refer to it as a fashion emergency.

"Fashion pickle," on the other hand, might be a more appropriate way to describe a situation riddled with poor clothing selection. "Wow John, that flannel shirt really doesn't go with those leather pants. Looks like you're in a serious fashion pickle."

That's much better.

being original

Being original seems to be all the rage right now. Which is understandable, because being original is the bee’s knees. But there are some often overlooked downsides to such intentional self distinction. For instance, as some may recall, my high school years were very much characterized by my frequent sporting of a unique hat that I affectionately referred to as the dutchboy hat. I so dubbed it because with its undersized bill and slightly floppy top, it closely resembled the hat worn by the Dutch Boy Painter. See:



For years this hat and I could hardly be severed. Like all unicycle riders, I loved the idea of being unique even if the thing that distinguished me from the rest of the crowd bordered on stupidity. When I went on my mission, I ceremoniously passed the torch of sporting the dutchboy on to my little brother as well as to one Marshall Hunt. (Owing to my obsession with the hat, I purchased an identical one to supplement the first and could therefore bestow dutchboys upon two). During the two-year hiatus I itched for my hat. Without it to support, the only thing my stupid ears were good for was hearing. It is no surprise that as soon as I arrived home, I commandeered the dutchboys I had lent and immediately resumed my trademark look.

Even though it was Angela who originally gave me the hat (which accounted a great deal for my obsession with it) she soon developed a loathing for it. Yet, because of my love for the hat, I denied her repeated petitions to retire it. My resolve was to be buried in that hat and my resolve was unflinching.

Soon though, the dark side of individuality began to surface. Christmas sucked that year. I opened up present after present to find hat after hat. From Cat-in-the-Hat style striped top hats to train conductor hats to Jamaican knit hats with fake dreadlocks sewn into them, every one of them was as gay as gay can be. Apparently my feigned appreciation was thinly veiled because each bestower of each crappy hat felt it necessary to explain the reasoning for their gift—they figured that since I liked one abnormal hat, any abnormal hat, no matter how completely idiotic, would strike my fancy. They were grossly mistaken.

Though annoyed, I was not swayed in my devotion to the dutchboy—at least not until Britney Spears in all her debased frivolity endeavored to boast a hat almost identical to mine in one her music videos. The only difference was that hers was sparkly and lined with diamonds around the rim. Determined not to cave, I continued to rock my hat, now with even more vigor. The first time someone asked me why I was wearing a Britney Spears hat, I sternly corrected their assertion that that wily hussy had been the one to patent the wearing of such a hat and informed them that my dutchboy hat long predated her silly antics. But the comments kept coming. And the curious stares piled up. And more and more girls, most of them being the type that just don’t know when to say when in regards to either glitter or sparkles, began to follow Britney’s suit. Out of sad necessity the dutchboy was forced into an ill-timed retirement and pushed to the darkest part of the closet.

Though the fad initiated by Britney Spears has long passed, the dutchboy hasn’t found his way out of the closet. You can understand—it’s soiled now. Yet it still stands as a symbol—a symbol of the danger of originality, for someday, mainstream culture will catch up to your trademarks, dip them in sparkles, and ruin everything.