THE RED SOCK REBELLION

It’s finally happened; I’ve been physically attacked by Phillip Glass. There I was, calmly minding my own business, trying desperately to shove my sock drawer back onto it’s runner, cursing my overabundant yet still somehow lacking sock selection, when BOOM! out of nowhere Phillip Glass comes tumbling down on top of me. He was backed up by a troop of Tuvans on horseback and drummers from across the world—I didn’t stand a chance. All this to dig out that one pair of red socks I knew existed in the back of the drawer somewhere, gifted to me several years ago by Guildenstern when it was decided that they no longer meant the same thing worn outside of the context in which they had once signified rebellion.

The smell of straight menthol oil is mildly hallucinogenic to me. My nose is so clear I can see through it. Things have a kind of shiny white star around them that I can as much smell as see. La la la la la…

I am tearing apart a room to find a red triangular scarf that I know exists somewhere. It would be nice if I could just go back in time to retrieve objects I’ve misplaced. I know exactly where everything is, just not where it is right now.

Consumer.

Such an ugly word, just sitting there, by itself. Chomp chomp chomp. Does it follow karmicly that a consumer is waiting to be consumed? Chomp chomp chomp.

There are days when I feel as though I should wrap something snugly around my head. This is one of them. I never did find that red scarf, so I’ve made do (huh huh) with leopard print. I feel like a cast off set from a David Lynch production—and no, you will never never understand, not even if you watch the director’s commentary a million times. Red. Velvet.

A good patriot is a good consumer. A nation is an abstract ideal supported by a whole lot of cash—if you don’t buy the red white and blue M&M’s then They win. Howabouta plastic snow globe filled with national tragedy? Nothing is too crass to be converted into cash here in the land of the buy one get one free.

In nature they call continuous and unchecked growth cancer. In western culture they call it economic planning. Twenty pounds of matter in a two pound space…

Meta. Phiction. Shove that in a freezer bag and sell it.

Remain calm, citizen. I hate to be the one who has to tell you, but you’re surrounded by plastic. Ssshhhh! Don’t jump—the plastic will see you. Some of the plastic represents something real, and some of the plastic just represents more plastic.

Defining plastic is the first step to overcoming it. Look around and see the plastic.

We are no longer called citizens—we are consumers. Chomp chomp chomp. Do you ever feel like a termite chewing through the trees for the national cause? Once we understand our part of the cause then we are able to be part of the solution.

There are many things to think about. Many things. Shiny things. Plastic things. Alarming things. Distracting things. Loud things. Televised things. With all of these things jumping around in our eyes and ears demanding our attention, what is being overlooked?

If you hold very still, you can hear the plastic creeping closer.

In large office buildings all over the country, men and women surreptitiously wear red socks to signify their disapproval and rebellion against the system. Rebellion against the very structure which feeds you is a risky undertaking, but total compliance with that which eats your soul is riskier still. So, quietly, they wear their red socks, creeping around the office, covertly glancing at the ankles of their co-workers searching for kindred souls. Deep down they don’t buy the hype—often the very same hype they are being paid to produce—but they don’t know how to subsist without the corporate teat either.

I think that, perhaps, the red sock people are slowly tearing down the structure from the inside, secretly undermining the belief in consumer culture from within, stealthily tunneling their way out of the cubicles with a stolen spoon after the janitor has left the building for the evening. They pierce things, they dye things, they wear ties designed by LSD icons, and wonder if The Boss will say anything about it. Slowly, slowly, they relax the rigid backbone of corporate expectation and convention.

I hope that they make it out. I hope that each and every one of them is someday able to gleefully run from beneath the shadow of the highrise façade, throw their red socks into the air, and declare their own freedom. I hope that someday all creative and undronelike individuals may be happily and securely making their livings from creative outputs of self-expression and will be found sitting in the comfort of their own homes in the middle of the day of the work week planning, perhaps, the escape and rescue of those less fortunate who are still bound by the ever-present cubicle of homogeneity. May the font size and implied meaning of COMMERCIAL art one day soon reach more equitable proportions, and may all creative types fly uncrushed from beneath the shadow of the world boot.

But until then, I wear my inherited red socks proudly to signify my support of the red sock people everywhere who are, as I write this, pouring over dreary and meaningless reports, choosing exactly the correct shade of blue which most closely implies “clean pants” for tampon boxes, or discussing things like “brand identity” with the passion of one who desperately desires corporate mobility. I wear the red socks of one who did escape, who no longer needs this simple sign of rebellion, who has told me the horrors and true definition of “salaried pay.” When I wear them here in my library on Tuesday afternoons, I give thanks that I’ve figured out a way to make The Man work for me until such a time as I achieve self-sufficiency.

Ahh…independence…freedom. Certainly I have heard those wonderfully subversive ideas mentioned somewhere before…