I worked last night, and came home tired. I had a new Heineken Dark. It’s OK, just upper middle quality dark beer. Nothing to go on about one way or the other. I read my daughter a story. I slept. I slept for 12 hours. I got up at 2330. Wife is asleep. Daughter is asleep. In fact, the good people of the world are all asleep. If I want company, I need to go to a bar. And I can sit at the bar alone because everything that makes me cool to me makes me lame to others. Materialism is the idea that you are what you buy. Post modern responsibility means you accept your place in the global village and that your actions affect people you will never meet. I do both, and I call it narrative materialism, because I accept the full story of materials, both in how people perceive me and the effect my materials have on my own life and the life of others.
You are what value. You buy what you value so are what you find valuable enough to buy. You can’t escape materialism, but narrative materialism means you chose the story you are going to tell, intend of letting the brand that produces the material tell it for you. If you walked into the bar and I was there, this is what you would see…
A man, with a shaved head. If you look carefully you could tell he is not so bald as his razor would have you believe. He clearly does not shave his head to hide baldness, and you might guess he does so for the utility of never having hair to worry about or a hair style to maintain. He’s wearing a plain T-shirt, perhaps white or grey, but most likely black, because he has to have black tees for work, and so he wears them out. You might reflect on this that he doesn’t believe in waste, and he isn’t here to impress people. You would notice his jeans. They are cut very well, almost tailored, but not tight. From head to toe he is startling plain. There is no mark on his shirt, his clothes, his watch. His clothing is remarkable only for being so unremarkable. His shoes alone have brand, NB. They aren’t flashy, nor are they conservative as the rest of his clothes. If you looked carefully, you would see they are running shoes, and you might given everything else, guess that its not that he is against brands, he simply buys exactly what he wants. These were the best running shoes money can buy, and he wears them when ever he is not at work because he refuses to won multiple pairs of shoes. His body is fine. He doesn’t have the bulk of weightlifter nor the delicateness of a runner. Clearly he takes care of his body for health sake, and not to build a sculpture that impresses others or achieve arbitrary goals. His glasses are thin and classy, but plain and simple. What is he drinking? Either a rich dark brown beer, or a single shot of high grade bourbon or single malt scotch. He’s not drinking to get drunk, he’s drinking because he likes it, and he will stop before he drinks too much.
He’s not looking around the room for anyone, he’s not hitting on anyone, he’s chosen a quiet corner of the room or bar and he content alone. He would be equally content with company.
That is me. And everything that makes me who I am makes me the sort of person that people don’t want to talk to. It’s true I am content alone when I am in public because desperation disgusts me and I don’t wish to disgust myself. But I could just as easily drink alone at home. I am at the bar because I want meet someone, converse, enjoy some friendly chatter. But it won’t happen.
And so I sit alone, sipping tea in front of my computer. Writing this shit, and the temptation to look at porn as healthy substitute for getting drunk (the other way to achieve numbness when you are lonely). But I don’t want to look at the images cast out to all to entice me to spend money. I don’t want the company of a whore tonight, if I am going to see a woman naked I want it to be a friend. I want a friend to say…
My dear, you are lonely and cold. Let me make you not alone and warm. That is what I would want from a bar tonight, and that is what I would want the great singles bar that is the internet tonight. Instead, I will sit here, writing to no one.
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