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 This is the most productive day I’ve had in years. It’s amazing what you can do when you don’t leave the house. For one thing, you don’t spend any money. Which is nice. Everyone should have a day where they don’t spend a dime. Not because you want to poke a stick in the eye of our Capitalist Overlords, man – no. I like buying things. Buying things makes me happy. I go to the store, I buy hummus, I come home, eat the hummus: I am happy. You could say it’s the eating, not the buying, that makes me happy; perhaps. But the fact that I can buy the hummus instead of make My Woman spend all day slaving over . . . over . . . a hot hummus maker, whatever, makes me happy. And it’s not just plain hummus the store sells – they have ten varieties from two different companies, each chasing that narrow slice of discriminating hummus-client who is willing to take a chance on the new hummus with lime and basil. I have more hummus options than a 19th century Turkish sultan.
Anyway: today’s duties were the Bleat, the historical postcard segment for Mpls / St. Paul magazine, the national column, and the local Thursday column. Plus and coloring books and games and lunch and a nap and the weekly shot on the Hewitt show. It’s all done, although I will have to wrestle the national column down to fighting weight tomorrow morning. (At least I have the last sentence, which is crucial. If I go to bed without the last sentence, I’m screwed.) So now I can upload and relax. People ask: how do you do so much? Simple: a poultice of clove, arsenic and coca leaves, rubbed briskly against the gums.
Sometimes I fear we are on the cusp of another age du merde again - a catastrophic meltdown in taste not seen since the 70s. I check the weekly catalogs with mounting dread. This week's report: Furniture is in good shape. Appliances have survived the iMac wannabee phase. Men’s fashions are reasonably dull, as usual. Woman, as it often happens, are screwed:
Ponchos. Good God. Ponchos. And what’s with this blonde's hair? How many My Little Ponys did they kill to make this wig?
This has to be the itchiest thing conceived for human beings; you shouldn’t wear it unless you have applied a thin layer of lacquer to your torso, lest the fuzzy-wuzzy feelings drive you mad by noon. But then I looked at the model:
Could it be former Victoria Secret model Frederique? Probably so. And if that’s her, then this horrible shot from the next page is probably her, too:
What the hell is going on here? It’s bad enough to drab down lovely women, but this entire circular is stuffed with 70s era crap. Oh, please, let me rush out today and buy my wife these lovely new timepieces from Guess:
Of course, guys are in for it as well; you too can be a prefab dork with straight pseudo-retro graphics on a Beefy T!
God forbid our children should ever be happy. Not when they can have ATTITUDE, which is what we all really want from our kids.
Charming. Remember: Fashion means never having to say you're happy. From Dutch supermodels to haughty tykes, the watchword from Dame Fashion is "pissed." Now put on your poncho and radiate sullen blankness.
Does this make you want to spend money? No, didn't think so. Sell your Marshall Field's stock. The fools are back in charge.
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