When I try to make sense of the world around me, I maybe sometimes overthink the situation. Other times I’m just trying to do the right thing (or trying to get away with minimal – but acceptable – effort), absent a thorough working knowledge of the context in question. And sometimes, my imagination hijacks me and there’s no leaping from that train once it’s left the station. In that case, I invite you along for the ride. Here’s a brief study in how my brain processes information.
1. Do the cellophane windows on the spaghetti and tissue boxes that I sometimes am too lazy to remove, mess up the recyclers at the sorting center; will they have to halt their sorting in order to peel them off? Or, does it merely interrupt their flow as their brains wrangle with, “is it cardboard or is it plastic?” And, how picky must I be about how clean the cat food cans should be?
2. Do those different strains of coronavirus have smart brains that allow them to understand what we’re doing to try to eradicate them. That they mutate so quickly has me worried. It brings to mind the mosquito, which I detest (almost as much as the tick). Scientists these days can’t possibly be getting any quality sleep, since every time they have a sure-fire recipe to wipe out the population, the community mosquito leaders are already a step ahead. Those liver-spotted, august capos of the disease-carrying, flying insect world have, hidden from human view, two or three uniquely qualified member-representatives that are safely bunkered somewhere in Middle Earth. These mosquito designees, the finest specimens of strength and vitality, pass their days, alternatively working out, playing cards, and making fun of each other, all the while awaiting “The Call” from their FEMA-like headquarters. It goes something like this: “It’s happening. . . (gasp). . . They’ve begun. . . (gasp). . . the Extermination. (Gasp). Prepare to. . . (gasp). . . enter. . . (gasp). . . the battlefield. . . (unintelligible). . . samples. . . (choke). . . analyze. (Final burst of animation) BEGIN ANEW! MAKE MOSQUITOS GREAT AGAIN!”
3. If it were based entirely on advertising, what will future generations conclude about us, say, in 100 years? Will they think us quaint for dressing our dogs in cute jackets, ones that match our own? Will they shake their heads with impatience over our absorption with clothing labels? When I browse newspapers from one hundred years ago, I’m amazed at how much advertising space is taken up with promises to cure all the mundane as well as embarrassing ailments. This one invites comment: “People Constipated and Don’t Know it”. The ad for Dr. True’s Elixir explains for the simple-minded target audience that your bowels get full of waste matter, and then expel only about the same amount that goes into it in the form of food.” Ok, so my comment would be redundant here, don’t you think? The wildly successful inventor, Lydia Pinkham, had “proven” cures for women’s ailments, as if everything that happened uniquely – and naturally – to women were considered a disorder; for example, to treat “hysteria”, her vegetable-based elixir brought about a sense of calm. But, isn’t it just possible that Pinkham had over-tweaked the percentage of alcohol in her formula?
Surely, you all have similar thought trajectories, yes?
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