The whole kitsch and caboodle

I had an easy faith in capitalism until a friend introduced me to SkyMall.

If you’ve ever flown before, you’ve probably seen one of their catalogs tucked away into the flap in the seat in front of you. It’s usually stuffed behind a safety guide featuring cartoon depictions of passengers calmly donning oxygen masks after the plane’s roof has flown off. I’ve seen the catalog before, but, not being much of a catalog person, I noticed it in the same way you notice a tall man wearing a pink hat: You see it, you register mild curiosity, and you move on.

That innocence was obliterated over a recent weekend, when a close friend of mine – let’s call her “Linda,” because that's her name – decided she was going to show me the ugly underbelly of consumer culture. That underbelly is cluttered with the products found in SkyMall, which range from silly and pointless to wasteful and rage-inducing. “There are children starving in Africa,” Linda told me, “and yet there are people who would buy an underwater cell phone system.”

Unfortunately, that’s an actual product available on SkyMall’s website. And it’s exactly what it sounds like. “Have you ever wanted to make or receive a phone call underwater?” the product description asks us, to which I can only reply, “No, no I haven’t.”

Adding to the surreal nature of this product listing is the photo, which depicts a person wearing an elaborate plastic mask with a cell phone stuffed inside it. The only person I can think of who would legitimately need this product is Aquaman, but even that seems like a stretch given that he can communicate telepathically with dolphins.

But as ridiculous as the underwater cell phone system seems, it pales next to the foot tanner, a product that – you guessed it – tans your feet. The photo next to this listing depicts a model, whose face is mercifully hidden, sitting at his computer desk and sticking his feet into a briefcase-sized contraption that will give his ol’ dogs the same tangerine-colored tan as his legs. That a person could simply lay sockless in the sun seems obvious, but even more distressing is the idea that someone would care that deeply about having orange feet. It only makes slightly more sense if you’re a sandal-wearer, but then you could presumably walk outside and accomplish the same thing, all while saving yourself the rather shocking $229.99 the tanner costs.

Look, everybody owns pointless kitsch. A lifetime of full stockings at Christmastime has assured that even yours truly has stores of curious memorabilia stockpiled in his closet. Among the useless artifacts I’ve collected over the years are plastic M&M mascots wearing holiday hats, a headless mechanical dog butt that wags its tail and farts, a set of wind-up chattering teeth, and a keychain that produces no less than five distinct burping sounds – perfect for those situations when my body yearns to be inappropriate but lacks the necessary carbon dioxide.

The difference is that a burping keychain doesn’t cost several hundred dollars, unlike the more lavish products at SkyMall – products that appeal to people with massive stores of discretionary income who “need” a canine genealogy kit, or a personalized branding iron for their barbecue.

Make no mistake, though: This isn’t class warfare. It’s ridiculousness warfare. It’s saying “no” to expensive clocks that display the day of the week and not the time, a life-size garden sculpture of Bigfoot, and a set of giant plastic eyelashes for your car’s headlights. It’s a shunning of neckties that inflate into pillows.

It’s sad, and a little surreal, that all of the products mentioned above are real. What’s sadder is that I’ve saved the most jaw-droppingly silly invention for last: An iPod dock for your toilet paper holder. You know, in case you can’t make it through a session without blasting Springsteen. I guess the upside is that I can finally be objective when declaring that a SkyMall product stinks.

Exceptional. Except...

I realized I was in desperate need of a hobby recently when I actually sat down to watch a few minutes of commentary on Fox News. It’s not that I actively wanted to, mind you, but sometimes you just have to subject yourself to a torturous pursuit, even if you know it’s bad for you. It’s like finding out that a manure truck has hit a telephone pole a block away from your home: You know the air will be toxic, but you put on a coat and walk down to see the devastation anyway, because what else are you supposed to do?

This was during the Olympics, that special time when people pretend to like water polo, and a plucky Fox pundit somehow managed to use the games as a springboard to a discussion on “American exceptionalism.” You’ve heard the term, I’m sure. Subjectively phrased, this is the notion that America is tops in the world because it’s, well, America. It needs no other reason. The country, and its people, are ordained by supernatural forces to be totally awesome, despite our proclivity for eating sandwiches with slabs of fried chicken in place of bread.

The pundit complained about the American crowd’s tepid reaction to a remarkable medal run by the U.S. women’s gymnastics team. The Americans in attendance, argued Mr. Pundit, should have let loose with a flurry of wild cheers, instead of “being afraid of expressing their American exceptionalism.”

I searched Mr. Pundit’s face for signs of irony or humor. Alas, there were none. I missed the rest of his commentary because it suddenly seemed very, very important that I find a brick wall against which to smack my already aching head.

Now don’t get me wrong: You don’t live a span of decades in a free country without developing an affinity for it. I’m certainly thankful I was born in the United States as opposed to, say, Afghanistan, where women are uniformly subjugated and made to disguise their faces like ninjas in a Chuck Norris movie. Or Russia, where writing a column like this could get me assassinated. Or China, where zygotes are encouraged to sew soccer balls.

But there’s something intrinsically arrogant about the idea of American exceptionalism. It implies that the soil we walk on, the air we breath, the particles that comprise our bodies, are imbued with special America Juice that makes us smarter, wiser, more athletic, more moral, and better able to guess the value of a toaster on The Price Is Right. It implies that we need do nothing more than be born here to lay claim to these special powers. It implies that it’s everyone else’s bad luck they’re not Americans.

In the case of the Russians, Afghanis, and Chinese, perhaps they are unlucky. But what about the Canadians? Does a Canadian feel burning jealousy every time he turns his gaze southward and bears witness to our monopoly on celebrity dancing shows? Are the French jealous of seeing our political system dissolve into a televised steel-cage death match? Will scores of Australians be bound for the next plane to California because they heard we have dozens of delicious flavors of Rice-A-Roni?

The arguments against American exceptionalism are numerous and oft-repeated, to the point of being chewed meat. Our educational system is in shambles, our health care system stinks, the Kardashians, yadda yadda yadda. Thing is, that’s not even the point. The point is that the very idea, the concept, of exceptionalism speaks to a sense of entitlement that is stunning.

Those gymnasts didn’t win gold because they were American. They won gold because they worked hard and earned it. Now that is worthy of applause.

A horse by any other name

There’s a racehorse, currently running in major competitions, with the name “Game On Dude.” I’m not kidding.

But the horse, ridden by jockey Chantal Sutherland, has a rather tame moniker by conventional horse-naming standards. A quick Internet search (which yields nothing but the truth, every time) reveals the names of horses currently active in the racing circuit: Breakwind, Homewrecker, Nag Nag Nag, Tabasco Cat, Hello Newman, Let’s Elope, Your Place Or Mine, Aphrodesiac, and Rambling Willie, just to name a few.

It can be argued, anecdotally, that horses understand shame. Good thing they don’t also understand English.

When it comes to animal names, horses belong in a special category. The same Internet search reveals little about the history of horse-naming, which is a shame, because I feel it would be enlightening – nay, revelatory – to understand why cats and dogs often get saddled with the standard “Whiskers” and “Buttons,” while a prize stallion can command such arresting titles as “Salmon Leap” and “Shower Scene.” Both real horses, by the way.

Standard pet names, while far less embarrassing for the animal, are also far less adventurous. My family had several pets when I was growing up, and perhaps the most creatively named was a tiny Shih Tzu dog named Cujo, after the rabid St. Bernard in the like-titled Stephen King novel. Cute, I suppose, to name a miniscule yapper dog after a big menacing killer canine, but still no great shakes compared to, say, “Stevie Wonderboy.”

So why are horse names so unique? One reason may be that prize racehorses are much more rare than a housecat or dog, and demand something with an extra dose of creative energy. It also makes the horse stand out on a race card; “Alphabet Soup” is more eye-catching than “Tim,” although, considering most race cards look like a list of discarded names for ska bands, Tim might be a standout.

Still, it seems unfair that horse owners get to have all the fun. Giving a dog a racehorse name may complicate matters when calling it from across the street, but it would almost be worth it for the hilarity of seeing someone screaming “Odor In The Court! Odor In The Court!” to a confused-looking terrier.

Cats? Well cats are easy. They don’t respond to their names anyway, so one could conceivably give them a name culled from a flowery passage in “Great Expectations.” Wouldn’t it be rad to have your fingers licked by the sandpaper tongue of Miss Havisham’s Wedding Dress? Or rub the belly of The Convict Abel Magwitch?

And there’s no need to end there. The Pied Pipers among us, those with veritable zoos of caged animals in their homes, could have a field day. Think about it: A guinea pig named Your Mama’s So Fat. A parrot named Captain Jack’s Rum. I’m Your Venus, the lovable mouse. I’d suggest buying four turtles and naming them after Renaissance painters, but that would probably just open you up to copyright infringement.

Point being, horse breeders and jockeys have had a monopoly on creative animal-naming for far too long. They’re ridiculous and giggle-inducing and astoundingly impractical, but unless your pet is a chimpanzee fluent in sign language, you’re probably safe.

Don’t get me wrong – Snowball is a perfectly cute name for a poodle. Any cat called Mittens will not be immune to my chin-scratching fingers. Call your bulldog Buster, if you absolutely have to.

But a pet name, more so than a baby name, is an opportunity for creative writing. Human children need practical names that won’t result in in the backs of their necks being pelted with spitballs. For a caged rat, Hobo’s Gunny Sack isn’t out of the question.

Think about it the next time you’re at a pet store looking at parakeets and tropical fish. Let Game On Dude be your inspiration: If it’s good enough for a horse, consider what it could do for a gerbil.

Prologue

Alright, so this isn't my first attempt at a blog. Or my second. My third, and most successful, was a blog I kept on my old MySpace profile, but I've since graduated to a social media platform that's less cluttered and stained with the residue of tween hormones. It's a shame, too, because I wrote some passingly decent stuff on that old MySpace blog. I may post some of it here in time, even though most of it's better than three years old, because frankly I think it deserves a broader audience than the one it had. Which was comprised of roughly no one. But still.

So what to expect on this here bloggeroo?

The short answer is that I have no idea. A lot of randomness is what I'd expect. When my last blog was rockin' and rollin' along, most of my posts were basically columns, or essays, covering whatever random topic happened to be on my mind that day. I expect I'd do more of the same here, thrown in with some shorter musings, links to articles and videos, and maybe an unsolicited insult or two just to keep things fresh. My approach in the past was that everything had to be at least column length, have a beginning, middle, and end, and maybe even some kind of point. Which makes for an ideal writing exercise, but with all the other writing I do, it was hard to find the time to keep it up. I figure if I give in to sloth and start tossing about some brain farts I'll have an easier go of it.

Kinda makes this experiment sound indistinguishable from all the other blogs out there. And it probably will be. But really, when you look at all the crap that's out there – and most of it is indeed crap – what ground is there left to cover? There are blogs about news and politics, sex and relationships, cooking and gardening, parenting and trip-planning, reading and writing, movies and sports, theater and dining, ferrets and antelopes, constipation and leprosy, and I once found a site devoted to a disturbing fetish involving creative uses of a woman's high-heeled shoes. Although it's possible my dubious search patterns are to blame for that unfortunate discovery.

This will simply be about me, my views on things, and my need to speak my mind without actually speaking. Although if I ever do happen upon a constipated, leprous antelope, you can bet your tookus I'll write about it.

One quick note about the blog's title. A few years ago, after buying a new computer and some video-editing software, I started filming footage for a documentary short that I called “A Little Left of Center,” which was a catch-all blend of conversation, skits, and party footage cut to music. The title was meant to convey how unconventional and off the whole production was. I just liked the ring of it, and so I kept it. It's not meant to be a political insinuation, and this isn't meant to be a political blog – but I'll likely touch on politics at some point during these proceedings, and yes, my politics tend to lean a little left of center. So if you're a gun-toting, flag-waving, Mike Huckabee-loving patriot, skip over any post that begins with the words, “So I was watching the news the other day...”

So. The ground rules are set. And as unsure as I am about this whole experiment, I expect it'll lead to a chuckle or two. And if a couple of those chuckles are yours, well, all the better.