Saturday, February 5, 2011

30 Types of Cereal: Clay Johnson 2011

Sex and consumerism should have a parade of their own. After all it does seem like they’ve tied the knot in the states.

“Captain crunch is living the Life and counting his Frosted Flakes with none other than the Count himself, Chocula. They’re after me Lucky Charms he’d always yell at the Trix bunny who was busy getting Kix from the Honeycomb.” Walking towards the grocery store we would often play this verbal story game. It’s just to pass time or uncertainty, whichever is less in demand.

Approaching the buildings automated sliding gateway we both look at each other…knowing what was to come. We had only talked about doing it in the past but now we had taken the first faithful step on a staircase of which we couldn’t quite make out the end.

Inside the speaker box voice from above is blaring/glaring a mush soup of warbled words and either broken or muddled sentiments lost in the haze of suburban hub. It sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher saying, “Important message for all shoppers; Wiggly womp fruit buried in sun blasted raw profiles of strained optimism and feigned relativism.” We laugh as we walk past the detergent and barbed wire.

The magazines say the word so much and yet avoid it directly. Proper posture and the crass laughs of class stringing deep, line the magazine racks just covered in it. They seemingly scream, SEX!

“This week on sale; a new product called Visa that lets YOU consume virtually and with a brush less guilt.”

Love is a verb that implies doing. The act of love being communicated through various forms of language. In aisle 14 the making of this particular verb includes us naked. You (the reader) and me (the writer). After all what are love and reading both if not communion? So we are in the store, on the floor sprawled out in sublime ecstasy. People pass like ships in the night. They never glance directly down the aisle and through their blinders that both lead and bewilder. It’s cozy to put up defense mechanisms I suppose.

Gender lost in an androgynous gel that heats the scene. Approaching the arc of an eternal climax we look up and notice 30 different types of cereal. I think to myself, “that’s a fairly absurd number of cereal choices” then shrug as we’re putting our pants back on.

All of a sudden I can for the first time clearly discern what is playing on the loudspeaker. It’s “Lost in the Supermarket” by the Clash. You just gotta love that voice from about right? We walk away whistling.

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