Britical

 

 

Dear Victoria,

What a slut, lounging supine and half-naked at the corner of 58th and Lex. Have you no shame? Someone has pasted a sign on your window - big, curly white letters saying: "Follow the Sun", and underneath that, in large caps, ‘SWIM’.
 
What?

It’s 22 degress out. Meanwhile, you’re all tarted up in a little bikini behind a thick pane of glass with your other strumpety friends. Gone is the usual uniform of frothy concoctions in pinks and baby blues in favour of sensible earth tones. I guess that’s something. But really, Victoria, what does "Follow the Sun" mean exactly? Are you suggesting we stand here and gawp at the thing as it crosses the skies above the city, plopping down some hours later behind the stern, grey canyon of Park Avenue?

And speaking of Park Avenue, presumably the still rich are still buying their swimsuits and underwear from Eres and La Perla and Agent Provocateur? - even if, as we’re told in mollifying fashion, they do now feel just a teensy weensy twinge of guilt, dahling, at this "conspicuous consumption". But not enough to slum it with you, I’ll bet. That would be far more embarassing.

Many people are frantic with worry over their financial survival. Familiar with end-of-the-world type movies like ‘Mad Max’ or ‘I Am Legend’, they might well be wondering if their lives will soon resemble one; that is, future worlds where peoples’ base stupidity, bad luck, or sub-par genetics (not yours, duh!) have left them stranded and pill-popping on a dying, perpetually raining/parched planet Earth while the haut monde leg it to somewhere even more "haut", Mars say (like St. Barts. Bit warmer.). Such a life might be advertised on giant, envy-inducing billboards (your "Follow the Sun" slogan is a perfect example - well done). A very few citizens might aspire to afford a genetically engineered pet, real ones having been polluted to death - as in Philip K. Dick’s book and ‘Blade Runner’ precursor ‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?’ (No.)

But aside from the desire to own a fake pet, most of these scenarios have one thing in common: does anyone in them seem preoccupied by luxury items or accoutrements unnecessary to their very survival? No, Victoria, they do not. And why not? Because, in an age of looming ‘Mad Max’ or ‘Omega Man’ type desolation, these objects have become useless artifacts of a lost age - and we, as the viewer, understand this, which is why, as survivors dodge zombies and scavenge for guns and water, they are always, always shown doing so among dusty stores chock-a-block with unwanted luxury items. Brand new and untouched! There for the taking!! Imagine!!!
 
…It used to be a novel concept.
 
Though the streets of Manhattan are not yet filled with zombies (Upper East Side apart), and plucky regular folks and Will Smith smashing windows looting supermarkets for food, water and tinned goods - ignoring even Louboutin’s latest 5 inch heeled, red-soled long-distance running snakeskin slingbacks (or insert own preferred luxury item here) - we would be forgiven for wondering if it’s just a matter of months. People hurry by even H & M these days with nary a glance at the window - and the exchange rate crazed chav-ish Brits that used to infest the place like rats in a Taco Bell? All gone. Funny, that.

In fact, almost all the stores in the city, whether on lower Broadway or Madison Avenue, are more or less deserted, despite multiple SALE signs plastered over their windows. Granted, on Madison it will be a discreet yet still desperate little number in a gilt-edged frame. (It will be placed carefully in the bottom left hand corner. They must be mortified!) Shoes, bags, dresses, plates, Italian bed linens, jewellery….piles and piles and piles of… stuff. Just laying there unwanted. Prices have been violently slashed - 40%, 70%, 80% off. But no one’s buying.
 

Who can relate to these things anymore? We can do without them, can’t we, these things that are not rent, food, mortgage payments, electric bills, phone bills, medical bills, college fees…? Luxury purchases have, in 2009, started to acquire a weird patina of irrelevance. Their utter uselessness is thrown into surreal relief by our collective worry about the narrowing gap between us and the raving homeless guy on the 6 train. These shiny things in shop windows and magazines now induce a sort of vague apathy - or a disassociated curiosity as to what they’re really for. Or were for. What was it all about, the "It" bag? We feel like Shakespeare’s Titania in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ as she awakes from the wicked spell to find that in her reverie she had fallen in love with an ass. Or as the perpetually puzzled alien in ‘Star Trek’ might enquire: "What is this thing called……Prada, Captain?" - although judging by this season’s collection Miucca borrowed a lot of the alien’s clothing ideas.
  
 
Not only this but we sense there is no one to save us. Not Will, not his dog, not Roy Batty and, unless you’re a failed bank or the cause of one, definitely not the government. So we are having a go at "cutting back". Like Europe in World War II (history: look it up sometime). Maybe you hadn’t heard, darling? It’s the new black. In fact, the term "Luxury" now includes even shoddily made basics. Like your lovely swimsuits. Surely you cannot believe that the assorted size 14 semi-plebs among those who buy your undies can afford to jet off to somewhere sunny and St. Barts in February of 2009, or anywhere else for that matter, except by racking up more debt - which is, I’m afraid, what got us here in the first place, isn’t it?

So the question remains: why ever are you - bizarrely secret-obsessed Victoria - urging us all to splash out on expensive plane tickets, take a vacation and "Follow the Sun"? Am I missing something here? Why else a marketing strategy as patently absurd as urging your jobless, mortgaged to the hilt clientele to buy swimsuits of all things? Are you mad? Haven’t you been told that traditionally, during an economic downturn women forgo larger items in favour of a small indulgence here and there, usually lipstick? In fact, wait, don’t you even sell lipstick?? - lipstick and sparkly lipgloss! And body lotion that smells like a taxicab air freshener. Idea: why not put those in your window, slap on a ‘Treat Yourself!’ sign, and once you’ve enticed the guilty customers in you can do the old bait ‘n’ switch and make them buy a matching bikini.

 

See? It’s not as if I’m suggesting you start selling guns and Spam. But I just don’t get it, unless, posed vacantly in your window, you really are just as stupid as you look. But you know me, I like to see the best in people and hate to Judge. So last night a better idea just came to me….an epiphany if you will! Could "Follow the Sun" be code for something? Might it be you really do know something we don’t? That you have, as you have consistently and publicly maintained, a Secret? If so, maybe you’ve decided to finally reveal it. (We know you’re not shy at revealing anything else.)

 

Let me explain. And being an Occam’s Razor kinda gal, I will say it’s the simplest one I can come up with: it is obvious that you’ve morphed from a shallow dimwit into a secret superheroine in big fake angels’ wings and a nylon camisole. Having been reverse-engineered, then brainwashed and given emotions by a secret and powerful anti-globalization cult or cabal (can’t decide which) who deplore corporate anything (especially effective marketing) you are aware that The End is Nigh. So you have issued a coded warning: "Follow the Sun". The sky is falling and by next winter we’ll all need to head south for warmer climes - not to relax and swim on the beach - but to survive!

 

However, there’s one problem that I can see, Victoria: do you think your average, hefty-type customers will really get it? I fear they may not grasp its subtlety. I fear they will continue to lose their McMansions, their jobs, their giant SUV’s, and all eight or so of their children. I fear they will stick around and do nothing as the weeds have their way with the skyscrapers. As the Economy has their way with them. And come next winter, they will starve to death, oblivious to the cruel irony that right before they do, they might finally be able to fit into one of your itsy-bitsy bikinis. Then again, they will all be too busy duking it out on Mad(max)ison Avenue among the tumbleweeds, the zombies, and packs of rabid dogs to even care. There is some comfort and justice in that, at least. Oh yes.

 

Copyright Britical, 2009. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

Chir-rrRRUP, buzz and bzzzzzzzz…zzZZZZZ!! An ex of mine, now a mere friend, arrives of late equipped with a third wheel, an enemy commonly known as the Blackberry. Trilling angrily at regular four minute intervals, it demands attention - and gets it. And while I understand perfectly that this is how my friend can tell, in some flimsy fashion, that he is popular - with Amex, Verizon paperless billing, or whichever royal personage needs to get 3 billion out of Burkina Faso (it’s the new Nigeria, dahlink), for me, it’s even worse than people with babies. As a conversation killer, Blackberries rock.

Sometimes I wish he’d just lose the wretched thing, as he has lost hats, scarves, me and a bunch of other precious items over the years - some replaceable, some not. Still, losing a Blackberry would involve annoyance, effort, and eventually, especially if you’re someone afflicted with ADD, acquiring new friends. Sitting at his kitchen table the other night, though, I realized he had unconsciously stumbled upon the perfect solution to this problem.

Imagine if, upon losing your Blackberry, there was a surefire way to guarantee its safe return to you? Even if it was delivered in person at 3 in the morning along with a bottle of cheap wine and a large case of Rohypnol. Ooooh…. Yes, well, whether this was an appealing bonus or not would be up to you - and much dependent upon the physical properties of the bearer. They might, after all, be an utter minger.

But there are other downsides, one of which I tried valiantly and repeatedly to warn my friend about - just like that FBI guy right before 9/11. But mine is the story of how I learned to love the enemy, the Blackberry - or at least respect it.

Back to his kitchen over dinner, as I mentioned, and the thing dementedly vibrated and shuddered its way back and forth across the table. He would pick it up and go through his standard series of slight frown…raise eyebrow….smirk….followed by a few seconds of key-punching. This is all meant to be Very Mysterious, by the way. I have figured out it’s to give the impression of being popular, or, more effectively, is used to foster insecurity in the female observer. With me he just sometimes forgets that I simply don’t have a dog in the fight anymore, and thus don’t much care. Still, in defence of this ludicrous schtick, it serves as a handy reminder of how glad I am to be not dating him (anymore). Little did I suspect that something else would make me gladder still.
 
Because, ever-so-secret-message sent, he unexpectedly turned the Blackberry to face me. I was gobsmacked! This was a first, indeed, and certainly an unexpected honour.

"Hey, did I ever show you this?" he said. On the shiny black surface was something pale and curved, and for a moment I couldn’t quite make out what it was. Was it an alien? So I peered more closely - and was instantly sorry.

"Look at that piece of meat!", he crowed. "Whaddya think of that?"

Speechless. What ever was he thinking?? Not to mention that out of its more traditional context, it looked like a large, pale sea cucumber.

"It looks like a large, pale sea cucumber", I said.

He glared, flicking his hand at me in a dismissive gesture, "What do you know!"

Not as much as I thought, apparently. I was still stuck at why. Plus what can one even say in such a situation? I knew laughing was out of the question. I feared even social etiquette expert Emily Post would be struck dumb at this one. And "That’s nice, dear", would sound bland and uninterested. Did my friend require an artistic critique? Photoshop advice? Shrieking?

I took a stab at it. "Is it, um, yours….?"

"Of course it’s mine! I took it myself!! Whose else’s would it be??"

"Well, whose hand is that in the top left corner?" I said, knowing full well it was his, and imagining the contortions he’d accomplished to get the shot and the time it must have taken.

"Look", he said, huffily, "Don’t even bother, you’re just….weird!
 
Weird? Me? At least I wasn’t OUT OF MY MIND, I thought, but did not say. Fine, I decided. I would pretend to humour him, as I would with a mentally ill person who deliberately and with malice aforethought chose not to take their medication. Plus, as usual, I wanted to see what would happen. After all, I may not know what I was expected to say, but I sure knew what not to say and I intended to say it.

I said the photo would guarantee the Blackberry’s return allright (solution theory above), especially since he lives on the border between Chelsea and the West Village. Ignoring his grimace, I went on to suggest he take another photo but with something in it that provided the viewer with some reference in terms of scale….so they could fully appreciate….its girth, and so on. He ignored this helpful comment, too. Accurately sensing my mirth, my disbelief, he had written me off both as a worthy art critic, or, more crushingly for him, as someone driven instantly mad with desire by the towering white beastie on the screen.

As I failed to burn, he continued to fiddle - flicking, I noticed, through even more pictures of the same specimen. Stark and blanched against a blackish background, it did rather look like something preserved in formaldehyde; as if photographed by a bored pathologist or a keen and slightly pervy medical student - from all angles, above, below, one side, the other side, underneath….it was quite an exhaustive study.

I gazed at him across the table. He was oblivious, head down, entranced by the images on the little screen. Then: "You know…", he said, looking up, while a dopey and comically wistful expression crossed his face, "I never really realized how beautiful it was until I photographed it….."

That did it. Even I cannot not make this stuff up. The violent urge to giggle was almost too much. But I resisted, desperate to be privy to the suicidal cost-benefit ratio logic behind putting multiple photos of your own genitals on your Blackberry.

Did all men do this? And if so, how had I been so fortunate to not be aware of it? Did all men, plonked on the sofa with nothing to watch on cable, suddenly get up, put down the remote, undo their trousers, and start shooting away? And if so, did women do the same thing?

But there was no time to ponder this conundrum, as right then, something occurred to me (downside theory alluded to above), and I saw the opportunity to redeem myself by saying something undeniably useful:

"Hey, what if you left it somewhere? Like at work? Wouldn’t you be embarrassed? And couldn’t someone just send all these photos with some filthy message to everyone in your address book? Your Mum, your sisters, your clients….. "

"What are you talking about??" he barked, cutting me off. "You just think too much."

This stung. I had only been trying to help (sort of).

As providence would have it, he imprudently chose that very moment to stump off in a snit to the bathroom. I sat there and realized I’d lost my appetite for dessert. I thought, I’ve had enough of my kind efforts being rebuffed, my warnings going unheeded, not to mention this fucking device which made conversation impossible, and which, I now saw, he happen to have left on the table. Huh.

I picked it up. It had never held it in my hands before and it felt weird and wrong, and not just because it was a stupid, annoying Blackberry. I am not a snooper, you see, since I do believe that if you go looking for something, you will generally find it…

Meanwhile, the pallid creature in the photos stared balefully up at me with its gimlet eye. It looked lonely and I felt a bit sorry for it. But in just a few seconds, with the mere push of a few buttons, it could have a lot more friends and admirers, people who would appreciate it more than I. Hundreds of them. And maybe, if someone was feeling particularly benevolent that night, millions of them on its very own MySpace page. Gee, I thought, Blackberries could be pretty great, after all.

…And that, my friends, is how I learned to love the Blackberry.

 

Copyright Britical, 2009. All Rights Reserved.