I sat at at a table not exactly in the corner, but positioned in such a way as that I could see the majority of the cafe, its other tables, and the entrance without turning my head. I watched them, watched them all, as they carried on their conversations. Few people turned up to cafes alone these days, almost as bad as going to the movies alone it would seem. I didn’t mind either way, each had its appeal. Attending with company was of course pleasantly conversational, but also ran the risk that all human interaction ran, that one’s party would become somehow unpredictably uncomfortable. Dining alone gave me a chance to study the human animal in various stages of the mating ritual, during feeding, and their drinking habits.

My own drinking habit lent me the supernatural microscopic vision I was enjoying now. Despite alcohol’s apparently depressive effects on the body, my mind seemed to have sped up. Or time had slowed, either way, I was able to observe real-time actions and spin multiple thoughts around each one before the next action had occurred. The way that man’s hand rested on the table, reaching towards the girl opposite, but never quite touching. Was he really reaching? Or was he simply resting? Was it his sister? A long-time partner, their need for physical contact having since faded? An old friend who didn’t stir the need for a touch at all? And of course my own overlain bias, my own feeling that i’d like to touch that woman myself, leading me to believe that the man there does too.

There were three girls eating together across the way from me. And smoking; I really didn’t care for the taste of cigarettes on someone’s mouth, but the one in the middle was good looking. I wondered which of them would be going home to get fucked, which would be alone, and which was jealous of the other. Women were so fascinating, in their professed openness an honesty, and their practiced espionage and deceit. Not that men weren’t liars, but in my experience most of the time, they didn’t pretend to be otherwise. Everyone was a liar by omission. Their secret little lives that they kept at the back of their heads as if they weren’t ever there. The way that I was sitting here for all intents and purposes eating a plate of spaghetti, when I was imagining what I’d do to the girl in the middle if she came home with me and Celeste. Memory merging with fantasy, as I injected the girl in the middle into the midst of a wild night of debauchery that I’d actually known with Celeste.

They concealed it all from each other, maybe forgot about it for a time themselves, but I knew it was always there. Humans don’t really change, they just adjust temporarily to what they think they should be. In fact, everything that makes them up at any given time is always, constantly present. Unshakable, indefatigueable. We cannot escape ourselves no matter how hard we try. The same man who downloads torrents of Russian gangbangs is the same creature who delivers boardroom meetings and takes his family to the beach. He’s the same when he undresses the teenagers on that beach with his eyes. I wondered which one he was, as I surveyed the cafe patrons.

I wondered which person had the darkest secret among them all. Was it the one there with deepset eyes and the scar just above her hipbone? She was a little too thin. I wondered, where had the scar come from? I wondered who’d touched that skin before it was scarred. I looked through time, to imagine her at fifteen, flesh unblemished, unbroken, the first time a male hand slunk nervously below her waist and into the softest of her skin. I imagined the fear, the excitement that raced between the two innocents as they set out to discover what all the fuss was about. How many had it been since then? A lot of years had passed since fifteen, more than she was comfortable admitting, and probably more men than years. What was her secret? Who was she when she wasn’t her, here?

Was it that one, the man there, with the expensive shirt and cufflinks? What had he done in the so-called lifetimes ago? Had he been someone’s first? Someone’s last? Had he taken what cannot be returned? Had he struck a man? A woman? Killed? What taboos were his fetish to break? A drinker? A bi-sexual? Gambler? Was he a religious man who glorified God in order to bask in that self-righteous glory himself? That sort always brought bile to my throat.

Maybe the darkest secrets were my own. I, the one who couldn’t help but transcend the superficial, who felt driven to drill past the facades worn by millions, to find the commonalities shared by all, the same visceral, bloody, messy secrets we all hide from everyone in order to pretend we don’t have them at all. Everything from the cum that’s swallowed to the xenophobic tendancy that can’t quite be shaken. Everything that emanates from the deep-seated fear of truly knowing ourselves, lest anyone catch on that we’re not perfect. To know our imperfect selves is to admit to it, and to surrender to being a real human, which in this post-post-modernity, is unforgivable.

I feel a bit light-headed, maybe you should drive…

This little piece of literature is so absolutely chock-full of scathing hilarity that you simply MUST read it. I had very high expectations of this book, as my first exposure to the story was through the movie by the same name, starring Johnny Depp and Benicio Del Toro, and was not let down. That really is saying something.

To say even more, I might even suggest those who’ve not read the book, nor seen the movie, to actually watch the film first. Depp’s phrasings of the dialogue, or the inner monologues, whichever it is at the time, are absolutely fabulous. I’ll make no secret of the fact that I adore Mr. Depp’s acting, I really think he’s one of the only decent, interesting actors out there at the moment- and this role is one of the reasons why. Anyway, the thing is written in this insane, fast-paced style. It feels very close to the stream of a seriously fucked-up conscience of a man completely bent on drugs as he screams his way through Vegas. Depp helps me understand what that might sound like.

Its a world I envy, this one. An unimpinged debauchery, a totally unrestrained experience of a potential in life that I’ve never gotten near. Something truly wild, care-free, and yet, deeply noble somehow. The quest to find the American dream is some sort of thin facade, upon finding that there is no American Dream, we are allowed to touch briefly the truth of the experience. In moments of poetics, Thompson pours out nostalgically, and I am a little moved.

Enough of that pretentious garbage. Go and watch the movie and read the book, you’ll be a better person for it. The whole process will only take 6 hours or so.

We’re right in the middle of a reptile zoo! And somebody’s been giving booze to these goddamn things!

A decidedly unpleasant taste rose to the back of my throat as I glanced across the rows of pews to see a group, a family I suppose, of them sitting, waiting for the sermon to begin. The shock was unimaginable. I thought to myself, What are they doing here? I nudged my wife, and gestured towards the five black negroes a few rows ahead.

"I knew this church was going down the tubes," I whispered. "First blacks in the congregation, next they’ll be telling us to abort our children."

It was becoming harder and harder to find a real church in America. Even here in this great country all the riff-raff from everywhere were slowly seeping in, contaminating our values, our way of life. We were being infiltrated at every level, by these outsiders who brought with them their disgusting ideas about abortion, about fags, about politics. I couldn’t stand how they were being allowed to slowly dismantle the nation our forefathers had fought and died for, and our sons were fighting for now in Iraq. Our children were putting their lives on the line to defend this land, which was being eaten slowly from the inside out by hateful, vicious predators, haters of freedom and democracy. I wished that the war in Iraq would be won quickly, so our soldiers would be back home when it came time to clear out the terrorists who were already here.

"I bet they aren’t even Republican," I said. "If they vote at all." My wife nodded silently, her disgust showing clearly in her lovely, powdery-white face.

I tried to ignore them as best as I could while I prayed, though I did hope the Lord could hear my prayers clearly enough, and would bless me with a clean place to worship next week. I did not want to have to change churches again. We already had to drive for nearly an hour to get to this one, because all those closer to our home were already even worse than this. One had even begun to teach contraceptive measures to its congregation. The hypocrisy stunned me. How could a man worship his Lord in a place where the so-called clergy taught heresy? I had to smile at the rude shock those false holy men would receive on their day of reckoning. To re-interpret the word of God for the sake of popular culture, these ‘modern times’ was beyond reproach. I had no time for such fools.

After the sermon was completed, I left my wife to chat with the other women, and spoke to the minister myself. He was a good man, I felt I could reason with him, and we could find some way to ensure the sanctity of this place would not again be fouled by the presence of such un-American, un-Christian visitors.

"Father Donahue, so good to see you again," I said.

"Amos, always a pleasure my son," he replied cordially and clasped my hand in his own. "How are you on this fine day of our Lord?"

"I am well, Father, I have been blessed this week with a positive professional review, and also made a special trip to the navy base to help administer some of the recruitment exams, all volunteer work of course," I said proudly. I was an extraordinarily busy man, my job was a demanding one, but I always found the time to help in ways that others wouldn’t lower themselves to.

"Bless you son, you are a true patriot and a Christian," Father Donahue replied. "Tell me Amos, is there anything in particular I can help you with before I must make the rounds today?"

"Well Father, there is. I wouldn’t trouble you with things if I did not feel they were of the utmost importance, you know this." He nodded to me, so I proceeded. "You and I are both devout Christians, and patriotic Americans, our love of this land is only second to our love of God," I said. "And yet I sense a shade of discolor among the worshipers today."

"Ah yes," said the priest. "Unfortunate indeed, I will ensure that they are redirected to a more, how shall I say, modern facility which will welcome their kind. But in our temperance, Amos, we must forgive them, for as beasts, they know not what they do."

I felt such relief at this, I had feared that Father Donahue had been influenced, had become changed by the railing of those left-wing zealots who speak of opening our doors to all the wretchedness of all the Earth. What would be left then? Where would an upstanding Christian man like myself call home, if my one true place of purity and freedom was threatened by these radicals? By these Democrats and blacks and gays and terrorists and Muslims and their Jihad against my way of life? Where would I go if I could not be among my own kind in my own country?

"I am glad to hear you say that Father," I said. "I will let you go now, I know you have so many things you must attend, God be with you."

"And with you, my son."

I walked back to my wife, feeling far better about things than I had felt before. That nervous taste in the back of my mouth was subsiding, and I could look at the little knot of black faces without fear, for I knew they were powerless now, to take what was mine and blacken it with their filth. I only wished I could have a quiet word to our great President, as I had with Father Donahue, and mention the worrying discoloration of our nation and not just the congregations within. I know, great Christian man as he was would know our country was a Christian one, and an American one, and we had no room for their types here. They moved in, they expanded, they multiplied, and pushed us out of our homes, they took our jobs, if they worked at all. If not, they took our taxes, spent them on liquor and frittered their lives away.

I told my wife it was time for us to go home, so she said goodbye to her friends, and we headed towards the car.

"Father Donahue is going to have those blacks out of the church for next week," I said.

"Well that’s good then," my wife replied.

"Much better. You start letting them in, and then it’ll be Mexicans, then Arabs. And you never know which one is the enemy with them, anyone could walk in with a bomb strapped to their chest. No warning, just killing," I said. First in our churches, then our schools. I wouldn’t have any children of mine mingling with little Arab brats, that’s for sure. My children were grown of course, but grandchildren? The children of any freedom-loving American? Not if there was a fighting chance to stop it. And stop it we would. First those terrorists had to be cleared out of Iraq so we could set up a democracy there, to stem the flow of hate from that country. Once that ugly place was cleaned up, things would change. The government would be able to focus again on American soil, and the problems building up here. All those outsiders who were already here, all those who were slowly planning, aiding the enemy, all in vain. We would crush them.

I started feeling better and better, thinking about all the good work I could do in a white country. Proud and clean the way it used to be in my father’s day, or his father’s. Not like now. Now we had our work cut out for us, but with the help of men like Father Donahue and our good President, the Lord’s work would be done.

Part One is below.

Part 2
The Real Deal: The Talking Logo

Ever taken a moment to stop and actually look at a nametag? Usually plastic, pin or clip-on, they are mass-produced and designed to reflect the company brand. There are rare cases where the tag is in fact occupied by only a name, but these are infrequent instances. More often, the name occupies at best a half-and-half share of the tag real estate with the twentieth century icon: a company logo.

Logos are such hevaily-loaded symobls of modernity that one could pen an entire article on their significance alone. But for the purposes of this discussion (and the sanity of us all) I shall encapsulate logos by labelling them as not only the symbolic identity of any given company, but also as representative ofheeir capitals rect of branding. Huge, I know, broad and unwieldy a definition, but for now, that is it.

A logo functions for a company much as a name does for a person, with a few deviations. A logo seeks to identify a discreet business to its customers, or potential customers. To quickly recall the viewer’s understanding of the company, and potentially to help in making new associations with the brand. That is the first deviation: logos are tools, active elements in a scheme of advertisers to actually create a particular image, idea, of a brand, product and coalesce this all down to the convenient logo.

By placing the logo of a motor oil on the banners at a race track pit, the marketers are actively seeking ot associate their product for your car with the products used by professionals. A television ad showing an affluent-looking individual with a nice suit and great car dealing with a particular stock-broker is hoping to associate that sense of monetary success with their services. A beverage being drunk by happy, good-looking young people on a summery beach will be associated with these good times.

Now, after all that justification for a process inescapably visable every day in contemporary life- we begin to see the logo emerge as the representation of the process itself, as well as the symbol of the company. They are powerful little creatures, logos. So what do they mean when paired up with a name, and stuck to the shirt of a person?

Already has the human name on that tag been destabilized simply by being handed out so freely. Its meaning is already undermined. By pairing a vulnerable, diluted name with a cultivted, multi-million dollar asset, the name cannot hope to compete. What single person is as big as a brand-name? That is part of branding: to develop a symbol larger than life, that transcends each person to appeal to all people immediately. Our poor little given names don’t stand a chance. The simple fact that a logo is always presented in its native colours and is almost always pictorial, where names below are exclusively plain text sums up odds reasonably well.

The name of the tag wearer is subsumed by the aura of the logo- rendering that name further useless. A building with a company logo on the outside ‘belongs’ to that company. A shopping trolley, a plastic bag, a gift voucher, anything that is labelled with the logo is part of the enterprise. That is what nametags do. They extend this project to the people that wear them. By donning the company uniform, one is absorbed int the machinery of the business. The nametag takes this a step farther by stripping your name of its meaning, and explicitly labelling it as company property. The name and person it represents are just part of the business.

So instead of re-establishing a human level of relationship between employee and customer, the nametag actually accellerates the dehumanization of the whole process. The very function of a name tag dilutes the individuality of the wearer on two levels. Their usual control over their own name is usurped by the company, abolishing its value, and the value of the identity it symbolizes. Secondly, the dominant presence of the logo overrides the weakened name, assimilating the meaningless set of letters into the greater body of the business brand. Resistance is futile.

Part 1

Is it possible, I wonder, to achieve adulthood without bein in some way obliged to wear a nametag? Possible, well of course, but its distinctly more likely that anyone reading this will have at one point held a job where nametages were part of the required uniform. So, this discussion applies to all of us.

Supposedly, nametags bring a touch of humanity to an otherwise sterile and utilitarian relationship between customer and employee; in fact, the name tag does quite the opposite and reinforces that impersonal relation. In theory, the name badge allows the customer to quickly observe the employee as a human being with which to identify. By introducing a first-name basis it is thought the customer will feel more at ease, more likely to spend money at the end of it all.

Essentially, the theory is that humans like talking to other humans. We are social creatures, and like engaging with each other. In the American model of national chain outlets of everything from department stores to burger joints to auto-shops, one finds a decidedly un-human uniformity across all outlets. In the name of efficiency and brand strength, all the outlets will have an eerily familiar flavour. A Wal-Mart in Boston is set out the same as on in Phoenix. A MacDonald’s in Cinncinati uses the same furniture as one in Miami. They are all the same.

Now if there is one thing that is certain, it is that people are not all the same. This affects the istuation here in two very conflicting ways. First, these outlets, unforntuately for the corporate bottom line, must be run by regular, real-life people. These strange, imperfect and individual creatures are not all the same size, shape or flavour. They do not fit in the regular, regulation pattern that the Starbucks board has approved. So, put them in uniform. Force an otherwise average human to wear the same garish attire as a red-afroed clown in the name of corporate recognition. Branding of people in order to smooth down any potential for differentiating one outlet from another.

Second: Customers are still normal people. Eventually, the fact that demographics and real humans behave rather differently came to be understood. Demographics, you see, do not care that Joe in Cinncinati is exactly the same product as the same training as Joe from Portland or Albany or wherever. Real live people though, as we already established, like talking to real-live people, not trained automotauns. Solution? Whack a name badge on all our employees, that way customers will know that the staff are real people (and they’ll spend more money because we can capitalize on that basic human trait).

I finally articulated why this logic baffled me so (after around six years of reluctant badge-wearing). There are two reasons. The first questions the theory itself: where in the rest of your life have you ever gotten to know someone on a personal level, based on the wearing of name tags? The whole concept is patently artificial. In actual social interaction, no one anywhere will have their name just sitting there for anyone to make use of. There are, again, reasons for this.

Firstly, a name is sort of a personal thing on one hand. When divulged it allows the other party to pick you out of a crowd, to have some tiny control over you- even if only of your attention for a moment. Possession of another’s name grants the ability to correllate various other facts or experiences with an identity, to create an image of the person, and label that image with the very same label the person in question uses themselves. This lends the whole process a sense of authority. Saying "You know the dude who lives two doors down? Yeah he got busted for pot last week," carries far less strength, meaning, than saying "Yeah Mike got busted for pot last week."

The point here is that people do not give every schmuck on the street this power. And precisely for that reason, names retain this symbolic magic. That is the second fork in this argument.

Companies who use name (tag)s to engender a sort of personal trust between customers and employees are actually relying on a fragile power which this very practice undermines. Names are meaningful as symbols, the name itself is symbolic of the overall, true identity of the named person. Possession of that name is symbolic of a particular level of relationship between the nameholder, and the named, precisely because the named individual is expected, assumed, to safeguard his moniker to some degree. If one shouts their name out so that all and sundry knows it, then what does knowing that name mean? Instead of actually creating that close sense of ‘knowing’ of the employees by the customer, these practices of namebadges simply destroy a layer of meaning, rendering it more difficult to establish a true sense of trust or camraderie, rather than easier.

Without the usual social mechanism for step one of a human-to-human relationship- the exchange of names -the customer/employee relation is immediately just that. Not person-to-person. There is no naturalness to offering up one’s name before introductions are made. A lack of introduction leads to a severe imbalance of power; the customer knows the name of the employee, the inverse is not true. Where is the reciprocity that is expected in the original ‘exchange’ of names theory? The employee’s name is already irrelevant- he will not verbally offer it, and the customer will not be triggered to respond in kind. End: staff will not know the customer’s name, which is much more detrimental to providing a friendly environment for that customer.

Finally, on this note, in an arena where names are just tacked onto people’s shirts as a matter of course, who even knows if Dan’s name is really Dan? Who reading this has never worn someone else’s name?