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today:
7.6.99 oh dear god. as i write this i can feel my stomach rebelling and my head filling with helium. in a desperate attempt to guarantee myself a sandwich-themed lunch, i think i ate some questionable pastrami. in truth, i have a kitchen that is well-stocked with plenty of non-sandwich or near-sandwich items, and a satisfactory cash flow, part of which could have been allocated to purchase fresh luncheon meat around the corner. why i chose to take my life into my own clumsy hands for the sake of immediate sandwich convenience is one of those questions i simply can't answer. it's as difficult as trying to get a suitable answer to questions like "did really you just say 'one adult for BIG DADDY, please'?" and "how can you pretend that you didn't just remove an earwig from that Twix bar?" (here's insight into the next segue: this made me think of the letters of complaint i used to write to manufacturers, which made me think to write something fleeting and uncommitted on the subject. this, in turn, made me think of the very funny mr. fireland, and his newest entry, which made me think he would think i was capitalizing on the aforementioned entry which, while not actually true, made me feel guilty nonetheless, particularly because i think/hope we enjoy a mutual admiration which is more than physical. this, finally, made me decide to go back and add this parenthetical paragraph so there are no mistakes about what you're about to read, i hope.) when i was younger and 100% willing to drop everything for shamefully personal, leisurely pursuits, i would write letters of complaint to nearly every consumer agency on the planet. the companies would, in turn, usually supply me with more free product (almost always the product about which i complained), no matter how inane or implausible my complaint probably seemed. (when you're an enormous manufacturer, i suppose it's just easier to appease the lunatics in the same manner you might appease your consumer target. truthfully, i can't think of one manufacturer out there that openly figures lunatics into their desired demographic, in spite of the fact that many lunatics hold down day jobs and, once they've purchased the aluminum foil needed to line the walls of their trailers, the newspaper to stuff inside their shoes and hats, and the lionel ritchie records required to jam government radio signals, they often have some disposal income which is probably used to purchase crackers and soft drinks and such. i wonder what the VP of marketing at pepsico would think if he saw a shirtless, screaming homeless man take a breather from his anti-zombie public evangelizing to enjoy a nice, long tug on a Pepsi One. "damnit -- that's not for him. that beverage is to be consumed exclusively by grown, weight-conscious men who think 'diet' sodas make them seem a bit effete. hasn't this half-nude, emotionally disturbed man been following our breakthrough advertising campaign? didn't he watch the superbowl?!?" i think television commercials would be far more interesting if manufacturers and advertisers recognized the simple truth that crazy people buy things.) i've gotten candy (most of my letters were about candy because, honestly, most of my major purchases at the time were candy or candy-related -- Chunky Bar holders, for instance) and deoderant and zima and even this wonderful t-shirt from the makers of Dum-Dum lollipops. the t-shirt arrived without any furhter correspondence and was a real coup, primarily because my letter to the Spangler Candy Co. contained graphic descriptions of prison rape. unfortunately, my luncheon meat did not have a customer satisfaction address or phone number embossed into the meat slices, so there is nowhere to place culpability except on my own head. i'm very good with following directions -- i compulsively discard milk on the eve of its expiration date -- but with perishables like luncheon meat you are, sadly, on your own. which is why i am sweating through the early stages of trichinosis right now. depending on what the pastrami wants from me, this might be my last transmission...
all
these words © 1999 todd levin. |
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