COLUMN: Slaves to Joe Camel, Acapulco Gold and Soloflex

From Corin Brown's "The Ugly Stick Chronicles," Winter '94 From Corin Brown's "The Ugly Stick Chronicles," Winter '94Scene #1: It's 11:32 p.m. on a random fall Tuesday in a brother's room in the fraternity house. Four brothers lounge like slugs in varying states of immobility. SportsCenter is illuminating the otherwise dim room through the $800 27–inch Sony Trinitron. As SportsCenter anchor Craig Patrick silently mouths the gruesome but, to the slugs, only mildly interesting details of Lenny Dykstra's latest drinking–induced misadventure with the law, someone crams the bowl with the mustard colored buds of the newly acquired "Acapulco Gold." After a few moments of frantic rummaging, a flimsy, limp, half used WaWa matchbook is procured. Someone lights a match. Someone takes a hit. Someone passes the bowl. Soon that day's Finance midterm is forgotten. Soon next week's interview at Chiatt/Day in L.A. is forgotten. Soon the sadness over the new ex-girlfriend is forgotten. No worries. . . The screen dissolves. Scene #2: 1:19 a.m. Sink or Swim. Springtime. Two friends sit at the bar happily straddling the threshold of oblivion. They've been drinking since 8:00 p.m. First they killed a fifth of Cuervo at their Beige block apartment. Then they hustled over to Smoke's where it was amaretto sours, pitchers and Marlboro reds for the remainder of the evening. One friend just got accepted at UVA law that day. The other friend doesn't have class until 3:00 p.m. on Thursday. Just as Eddie Vedder begins waxing super sensitive to the tune of "Daughter," Joe the bartender walks over to the two friends with a small rocks glass in each hand. He slams a glass in front of each friend on the bar among the pack of reds, the pitchers, and the mugs which rise like islands through the expansive lake of spilt beer. Joe then reaches up above his head and seizes the liter bottle of Wild Turkey. He gracefully and professionally speedpours a triple shot of Wild Turkey 101 into each of the two new islands. Their brains devoid of reason, the two friends heartily throw down the triple shots without wondering who purchased them in the first place. This is heaven, thinks one of the friends: Listening to Pearl Jam, hanging out with my buddy, on top of my life, drunk as shit. No worries. . . Screen dissolves. The two scenes above are common. It is what we do. We drink, smoke, and do drugs for pleasure. We manage our lives in two segments: the segment of our life that we do not enjoy and the segment of our lives that we do enjoy. The segment of our lives that we do not enjoy is represented by our obligations and responsibilities. The segment of our lives that we do enjoy is represented by our vices. I am only a college student, but it appears to me that whatever equilibrium between the obligations in our lives and the vices in our lives has, in this century, shifted in favor of the Marlboros not the homework. This shift in equilibrium has fully administered its wrath on me. And this shift in equilibrium has kicked your ass too. Go on, admit it. We need constant mini–vacations from that which truly does suck in our lives. I need my hour of Sega a day. I am a slave to the fleeting buzz that a Marlboro red gives me. When I am stressed about how I'm going to come up with the 2.0 GPA to stay in school, I throw in a dip or a chew and wait for the freight train to hurtle through my mind. They own me. Philip Morris, Sega Corp., U.S. Tobacco Corp.; they all own me. For you saps who think you are immune from such vices, check out Anheuser-Busch's closing price for January 19, 1994 on the New York Stock Exchange: 48 1/2, up 1 1/2. Now for all of you who think you are too healthy, smart and sweet to smoke, drink or play vids, consider your University City Nautilus membership, your $700 Specialized mountain bike, and your frequent visits to My Favorite Muffin. These are your vices. The next time one of you suckers is enjoying a healthy Diet Coke after a gruelling, ten minute, leg enlarging stairmaster workout while sporting your $150 Reebok workout ensemble, stop and think who's behind all this. Try to imagine the fat slob CEO's of the companies you line up like lemmings to patronize in search for a pure and healthy life. And then, ask yourself who pays for their country club memberships, their mansions in Newport and their high priced hookers. We all do. There is no difference between the CEO of a tobacco company and a CEO of a Health Club company. To them, there is no difference between selling me Hockey '94 for Sega or selling someone else a $120 pair of Nike cross-trainers. They all own us. On the one hand, the marketing geniuses of the early twentieth century have conspired to invent unpleasant obligations and responsibilities for our society, such as work and school. At the same time, they have conspired to legally and illegally market vices for the same society to consume, giving it temporary gratification while making the captains of these industries obscenely rich. Could it be possible that this duplicitous act is a sign of the natural progression to Armageddon? There is something very Orwellian about this whole concept. Except that our current demise is much more elegant than Orwell ever prophesised. Today Big Brother is Joe Camel and the Soloflex couple, not that stiff, O'Brien, from Orwell's 1984 . This whole situation is thoroughly depressing – I think I'll go to Wawa and pick up a tin. Better yet, I'll go buy 100 shares of Anheuser-Busch at 48 1/2 so I can get in on this carnage of consumer sensibilities. Happy fucking New Year. Corin Brown is a junior Political Science major from Newton, Massachusetts. The Ugly Stick Chronicles will appear alternate Thursdays.

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