Welcome to my pockets...
Generally the contents of my backpack remain consistent, with various beverage bottles and packaged foods rotating in and out. The real action is in my pants (HA!) and jacket pockets. I often imagine scenarios where I would have to decide between my life and my backpack; like if it was caught in a hay baler or something, and I would be left with only the stuff in my pockets for survival. I feel confident about my odds should I decide to cut the backpack loose.
First and foremost, one should always have fire. It is primal. To not have it is to render Prometheus' Promethean efforts moot. Starting fires is probably one of the first things we did when we got our new thumbs. In fact, I would argue that all technology is simply a combination and extrapolation of the mixture of fire and talking.
Secondly, there is tobacco. After all, we are civilized. We are living in a civilization. One of the perks of this fact is leisure time. And what says leisure like sitting down, lighting up a delicious cigar, and contemplating shit. Freud was wrong- a cigar is never just a cigar. For some it may be a penis, for others it may be mommy's denied boob at a fragile age, and there are certainly a multitude of different points between. But what it always is to me is the comfort that the next hour or two will be on my terms exclusively. I am, for a moment, a Master of the Universe. Cigars ought to be a required vice for all film students.
Thirdly is the lip balm. I loathe chapped lips, and because of this my lips have decided to be of the variety that chap easily and frequently. In my lifetime struggle against this unfortunate circumstance, I have found most labial unguents to be lacking; they taste funny, they are lost easily, or they simply do not work. However, this past holiday season, I was delivered the solution to my balm qualms in the form of a product dubbed "Anthony: Logistics For Men". The title itself conjures images of Patton, Peckinpah, Lombardi. It is slightly longer and wider than the usual "chapstick", and the tube design tweeks the traditional delivery system just enough to allow you to feel like you are at last living in the future. Jet packs can't be far behind. It is non-petroleum based; it is not tested on animals; it pays for prostate cancer research. It's label claims "strategies" and "objectives". It has more focus and purpose than a rabid hyena. My fiancee will frequently ask to use my lip balm. I love her dearly, but in these instances I can only look into her effulgent eyes and say, "Angela, love, you ARE the fire that burns in my belly. The fabric of my universe is spun from your hair, and for me to hold you is to know the Buddha. But no. Not. This. Lip balm."
Always there are the crass necessities of money and subway tokens; items not worth commenting on at the moment.
And then the things which are conspicuous in their absence: wallet and keys. This tandem occupies a special status among my stuff as replaceable only through incredible inconvenience. In service of this fact, they remain tethered to my person at all times.
Lastly, there are the contents of the small front pocket of my backpack. These are the secret artifacts, to be revealed only to those who have achieved a certain rank in unnamed esoteric orders. To many of you these items shall remain a mystery. This is not out of a desire to exclude or alienate; it is simply a matter of your own personal safety. Or sanity. To know the contents one must ask the right questions, provide the correct answers, and make their offerings to the Widow's Son.
First and foremost, one should always have fire. It is primal. To not have it is to render Prometheus' Promethean efforts moot. Starting fires is probably one of the first things we did when we got our new thumbs. In fact, I would argue that all technology is simply a combination and extrapolation of the mixture of fire and talking.
Secondly, there is tobacco. After all, we are civilized. We are living in a civilization. One of the perks of this fact is leisure time. And what says leisure like sitting down, lighting up a delicious cigar, and contemplating shit. Freud was wrong- a cigar is never just a cigar. For some it may be a penis, for others it may be mommy's denied boob at a fragile age, and there are certainly a multitude of different points between. But what it always is to me is the comfort that the next hour or two will be on my terms exclusively. I am, for a moment, a Master of the Universe. Cigars ought to be a required vice for all film students.
Thirdly is the lip balm. I loathe chapped lips, and because of this my lips have decided to be of the variety that chap easily and frequently. In my lifetime struggle against this unfortunate circumstance, I have found most labial unguents to be lacking; they taste funny, they are lost easily, or they simply do not work. However, this past holiday season, I was delivered the solution to my balm qualms in the form of a product dubbed "Anthony: Logistics For Men". The title itself conjures images of Patton, Peckinpah, Lombardi. It is slightly longer and wider than the usual "chapstick", and the tube design tweeks the traditional delivery system just enough to allow you to feel like you are at last living in the future. Jet packs can't be far behind. It is non-petroleum based; it is not tested on animals; it pays for prostate cancer research. It's label claims "strategies" and "objectives". It has more focus and purpose than a rabid hyena. My fiancee will frequently ask to use my lip balm. I love her dearly, but in these instances I can only look into her effulgent eyes and say, "Angela, love, you ARE the fire that burns in my belly. The fabric of my universe is spun from your hair, and for me to hold you is to know the Buddha. But no. Not. This. Lip balm."
Always there are the crass necessities of money and subway tokens; items not worth commenting on at the moment.
And then the things which are conspicuous in their absence: wallet and keys. This tandem occupies a special status among my stuff as replaceable only through incredible inconvenience. In service of this fact, they remain tethered to my person at all times.
Lastly, there are the contents of the small front pocket of my backpack. These are the secret artifacts, to be revealed only to those who have achieved a certain rank in unnamed esoteric orders. To many of you these items shall remain a mystery. This is not out of a desire to exclude or alienate; it is simply a matter of your own personal safety. Or sanity. To know the contents one must ask the right questions, provide the correct answers, and make their offerings to the Widow's Son.
posted by Woody Pase at 12:49 PM
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