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Magical Thinking
Mar. 19th, 2006 09:34 amMagic is behind most retail.
For example – people don't buy things because they need them. Well. Except for the occasional loaf of bread or six-pack.
People buy things because in the back of every store – often squirreled away behind bulletproof glass – sits a professional Mind Blitzer beaming powerful mental images into the brains of everyone who walks through the door. It's kind of like telepathic Muzak: What a loser I am, I can't get a blowjob to save my soul, my life is meaningless, when I die – which will be soon, either from a malignant tumor that none of my useless doctors can pick up on ultrasound or when the terrorists figure out how to program meteorites – no one will remember my name six weeks out…unless I buy this terrific, life-changing [Your Commodity Goes Here]!
I think I must have forgotten the Mind Blitzer payola for March.
Because March has been a really rotten month for the store. And yesterday, it finally got to me – possibly because it was the first sunny day we've had in ever so long and three little otters were playing in the waves – good omen! – and I allowed myself to have… expectations.
The secret to all human happiness, of course, is diminished expectations. Sign up for a Carnivale Cruise, but always pack for Auschwitz.
By 2pm it became obvious that we were not going to make our numbers. I felt as though I'd morphed into some kind of human radio tower, beaming repulsiveness. I could barely open my mouth to speak. And this was kind of odd seeing as one of my few bona fide talents in life is banter. Lorelei Gilmore? Nothin' on me.
But now I couldn't talk, plus the smile glued to my lips was this death head rictus. I was pretty sure I looked like someone auditioning for one of the zombie roles in Night of the Living Dead: The Musical.
Called Ben. "I hate to do this to you, but we gotta switch."
Went home & took the dogs out for a two-hour beach hike. Wallowed in introspection. Let's see. Certainly there are people who are bigger failures than me. I bet Ken Lay isn't feeling great about himself right about now. I'm pretty sure Saddam Hussein's self-esteem is in the shitter. Or how about Colin Farrell? Sex tapes, rehab. Or Brian Dunkelman, the first-season cohost of American Idol, unceremoniously dumped for the greater glory of Ryan Seacrest?
I'm tired of this shit, I thought, staring at the waves. But the waves always have the same answer: nothin' to do but soldier on.
With Ben at the helm, the store ended up doing exactly what it had the week before and the week before that: not good, not hideously wretched. We will probably be $1000 under my March projections. Don't know what I'm going to do about the balloon payments that come due on the first of next month. Probably the same thing I've done for the past three years: play wackamole.
Cause in the end, you see, it really doesn't matter – failure, success, we all die. And the memory of everything unique or special or memorable or loveable about us is dust in the wind.
For example – people don't buy things because they need them. Well. Except for the occasional loaf of bread or six-pack.
People buy things because in the back of every store – often squirreled away behind bulletproof glass – sits a professional Mind Blitzer beaming powerful mental images into the brains of everyone who walks through the door. It's kind of like telepathic Muzak: What a loser I am, I can't get a blowjob to save my soul, my life is meaningless, when I die – which will be soon, either from a malignant tumor that none of my useless doctors can pick up on ultrasound or when the terrorists figure out how to program meteorites – no one will remember my name six weeks out…unless I buy this terrific, life-changing [Your Commodity Goes Here]!
I think I must have forgotten the Mind Blitzer payola for March.
Because March has been a really rotten month for the store. And yesterday, it finally got to me – possibly because it was the first sunny day we've had in ever so long and three little otters were playing in the waves – good omen! – and I allowed myself to have… expectations.
The secret to all human happiness, of course, is diminished expectations. Sign up for a Carnivale Cruise, but always pack for Auschwitz.
By 2pm it became obvious that we were not going to make our numbers. I felt as though I'd morphed into some kind of human radio tower, beaming repulsiveness. I could barely open my mouth to speak. And this was kind of odd seeing as one of my few bona fide talents in life is banter. Lorelei Gilmore? Nothin' on me.
But now I couldn't talk, plus the smile glued to my lips was this death head rictus. I was pretty sure I looked like someone auditioning for one of the zombie roles in Night of the Living Dead: The Musical.
Called Ben. "I hate to do this to you, but we gotta switch."
Went home & took the dogs out for a two-hour beach hike. Wallowed in introspection. Let's see. Certainly there are people who are bigger failures than me. I bet Ken Lay isn't feeling great about himself right about now. I'm pretty sure Saddam Hussein's self-esteem is in the shitter. Or how about Colin Farrell? Sex tapes, rehab. Or Brian Dunkelman, the first-season cohost of American Idol, unceremoniously dumped for the greater glory of Ryan Seacrest?
I'm tired of this shit, I thought, staring at the waves. But the waves always have the same answer: nothin' to do but soldier on.
With Ben at the helm, the store ended up doing exactly what it had the week before and the week before that: not good, not hideously wretched. We will probably be $1000 under my March projections. Don't know what I'm going to do about the balloon payments that come due on the first of next month. Probably the same thing I've done for the past three years: play wackamole.
Cause in the end, you see, it really doesn't matter – failure, success, we all die. And the memory of everything unique or special or memorable or loveable about us is dust in the wind.
Hot off the press: Robin took first place in his age division in his category at the Monterey County Science Fair, has been nominated for something called, "The Discovery Channel Young Scientist Challenge" and was one of ten students out of a field of 600 invited to participate in the state finals.