Thursday, April 21, 2005

I-PhrOD

There exists a new social order in this era of information & technology. The substituents thereof are not the genetically superior, for the upper echelons of beauty, intelligence, and strength are not solely comprised of these beings. Nor are they the proletariat or the followers of the American Dream, as comfortably wealthy members of society have joined this rank as well. No, the primary requirement to be a part of this new elite caste of American culture is but to own an IPod.

The IPod is not simply an MP3 player women use to accessorize with its undoubtable beauty and men use to compensate with its enormous hard... drive. Rather, it stands as a symbol of musical authority, a testament to your peers and colleagues that you too are musical connoisseur enough to necessitate such a monstrosity. The chic shades of fruit dialectically paired with the unprecedented white head phones speak to your unquestionable sense of good taste and modern fashion. As they are the symbol of a new social class, the envious dwellers of earth (whether we'd like to admit it or not) have checked the price tag on these items. Knowing we cannot afford such a thing makes the IPod an artifact of affluence and conspicuous consumption - pocket sized.

As our quazi progressive nation (I saw quazi progressive because we are in the era of Bush) moves towards a society of equality, it is time for the common man to be given his reprieve. The IPhrOD is the solution.

The IPhrOD simply put, is a pair of white earphones. "What the ..." you may ask. The reality of the situation is simple. Don a pair of these IPhrODs and watch heads turn and eyes enviously follow. Legitimate IPod owners will notice your equipment and quietly offer their nods of approval as you pass them by. Who cares if there's no 20GB musical hard drive at the other end of the cable. Tuck your social inadequacy nicely into your sweatshirt pocket or your backpack: no one will ever know.

This isn't about music... this is about respect. Order yours today.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Losing Touch

I've lost touch with reality.
Uprooted. Estranged.
Syncopated rhythms lulling syncopated rhymes
Not for me.

Me, the mouse in the apartment refuses.
Enter the trap, I will it.
There is cheese in there, I say.
He stares.
Blink.
Blink.
Blinks in mouselike mockery
(if they are capable of such a thing).
He is smarter than I.


...

Followers

About Me

I'm a quixotic idealist that's readjusting to the reality of the world around him. An aesthetic at heart, willing to not shower a week at a time to go camping, exploring, hiking, etc. I love food, poker, and anything that can be turned into a competition.