I-Pod, therefore, I-Am?
I-m not sure.
I am sure that I am nothing if not an opportunist or, perhaps, an I-Opp.
I know, as Marvin Gaye sang, ‘what’s going on’.
I-do.
Or rather, my I-Know knows, what the download is, fo’ shizzle.
To put it bluntly: The Gadj rule - or rather, the I-Gadj rules.
Totally!
But knowing and, well - to be blunt, profiting, are totally di-fizzle.
And the I-Opportunist in me cannot sit I-diddly by, while others hi-diddle-diddle off with the jack.
So I have come up with my own line of I-Thangs, that an I-freak will not be able to do without.
Actually, just one I-Thang.
I call it, the I-Gone.
What’s it do?
Ah, there’s the rub. What sets the I-Gone apart from the other-I’s out there, is how little, I does.
When others are immin’ and textin, and uploadin, the I-Gone is, for all I-tents and purposes, silent.
When others are watching re-runs of movies that were made for a 400 square foot screen, were re-broadcast on a 30” screen – and are now showing on an eyeball distending 6” screen, the I-Gone is in a kind of permanent sleep mode.
When others are Blue-rayin’ and Berryin’ the Black, the I-Gone is far removed from your service area.
Actually, the real I-dea is that the I-Gone has no service area, or that – to put it in philosophical terms, every one else’s service area is outside of the I-Gone’s, and vice versa.
As they say in New England, you can’t get here, from there.
I-Gone.
Do you see the poss-I-bilities?
What would you pay for this one of a kind, revolutionary product?
$100, $500, $1000?
Wait, there’s more.
Only through advanced, evolutionary, genetic engineering was this non-technological breakthrough possible.
Thousands of years ago, humans were unable to remove themselves from the world in which they found themselves.
Thousands of years ago you were permanently, and irrevocably subject to the vagaries of your pathetic existence.
If a mammoth or a saber tooth or a six-foot mosquito dialed up your number, your number was up!
It took thousands of years for man to be able to remove himself physically, from those vagaries, and just when it was safe to take a quiet walk, alone, in the woods.. someone had to go and invent the cell phone.
Suddenly you could be reached, wherever you were, whatever you were doing.
The same cycle of invention and de-invention continued, for years.
As soon as someone invented Tivo - which allowed you to take back control of your life from the television, someone else invented a way to take television with you, everywhere you went.
Just when four-wheel drive seemed to liberate us from the constraints of the paved road, SUVs let everyone in on it.
But the I-Gone ends all that.
The I-Gone is the only gadj of its kind that has a built-in disconnect.
Got Bluetooth? Sorry, no connection.
Got USB? Sorry, there’s no place to stick it.
Gone infra-red? Whoops, the I-Gone is not visible to the naked or any other I.
It’s a proprietary technology I call, NoWhere KnowHow®.
I cannot be reached for comment.
I cannot be reached.
And even if I could, I would not.
I-Gone.
What would you pay?
Hell, you paid $50 for some damn, newfangled mop.
You pay $100 a month just so you can take out of focus pictures of your out of focus friends and transmit them back and forth to each other.
There’s a price to pay, alright, but I am not sure if anyone is willing to pay it.
I am not sure how many people there are anymore, who value privacy, who believe in the benefits of quiet, and who are confident that – left on their own, they will still have something to say.
We tend to see ourselves only in the context of who we know, what we own, and how many others we can boast about it to - with a click of the mouse.
The great fear today seems to be, fear of invisibility.
But, in a world where almost nothing is private, true invisibility may be the ultimate acquisition.
That’s what I’m selling.
A gadj or state of gadgetry that is rare, unique, and, until today, very elusive.
It’s all about the unknown.
It’s the evolution of the species.
T’s the latest and the greatest gadj of them all.
I-Gone.
(Due to forces outside of our control, I-Thang, Inc., has been unable to ship sufficient quantities of the I-Gone to meet demand. In fact, we have not been able to ship any at all. A small number of I-Gone may be available on unknown dates, at unspecified super stores, or not. When rumors arise, suggesting that the I-Gone will be available on certain dates at certain locations, we ask that potential customers do not camp out or otherwise secure their position outside the rumored venues more than 24 hours prior to the rumored availability. Customers interested in the I-Gone may purchase gift cards for the future purchase of an I-Gone, in any amount, but this in itself does not guarantee the consumer the right to purchase the I-Gone if and when it becomes available, nor does it ‘hold’ a position in a virtual waiting list if and when the I-Gone ships. I-Thangs Inc., does however encourage consumers to spread rumors of the availability of the I-Gone, as this is an inexpensive way for the company to advertise.
Friday, February 09, 2007
George Takes Us for a Ride
Let’s bring Bush’s ‘New Way Forward’ down to a level that we can all understand.
Do your best to forget the talking heads with their expert analysis, the interviews with the man on the street, the Senators and their Presidential strategies.
Imagine this, instead…..
George Bush is your teenage son.
America is the family’s old, but reliable station wagon.
Remember when George first got his license?
Remember how he made you take a picture of him at the registry, in front of the car, with the big ‘Mission Accomplished’ banner?
It was a big day. He was so excited. And admit it, you got swept up in all the excitement too: so much so that, later that same evening when he came to you with those shining eyes - asking if he could take the car to the lake, you consented.
Well, maybe not right away. You went through the motions.
“Who are you going with”, you asked?
“The Coalition of the Willing”, he said.
“What are you going to do”, you inquired?
“Spread Democracy”, he replied, with barely a hint of sarcasm.
“When are you going to be home”, you queried?
Early, George insisted.
Okay, you’d done the responsible thing, acted the concerned parent. Permission granted.
Then the call came at, what was it now, 12:45 a.m?
You heard a familiar voice telling you that they (funny how when there’s a problem it’s always ‘they’) ran out of gas, somewhere near Fallujah.
No biggie.
Oh, and they’ve had a small accident.
Alright.
Nothing to worry about, George insisted: he was just calling to let you know that they were going to be home a little later – and cost a few billion more, than he expected.
How thoughtful of him.
No biggie, you said again - out loud this time: but then why did you tell a bit of a white lie to your wife? No sense worrying her, you rationalized. No sense losing any sleep over this.
Damn, you told yourself as you settled back down in bed, I am so reasonable, so calm, such a good Dad. This was, after all, to be expected. George had never taken the car out before, by himself.
Time passed quickly. The car was repaired: they even added sheet metal to the undercarriage to protect against IED. It drove like new.
Your little white lie succeeded and, as if on cue, George was back.
This time the shine was gone from his eyes, replaced it seemed, by a sense of entitlement.
He wasn’t asking for permission.
He had to have the car again because, well, they were all going on this trip – and they were depending on him.
George made it seem as if to deny him, was un-patriotic.
So off George goes again and, the next thing you know you’re being woken up again, a little later than the last time. Only it isn’t George on the phone, it was someone from the New York Times.
This time it’s more than a little fender bender. This time America is off the road, in a ditch, and two of the boys that were with him are in the hospital.
But George says it’s not his fault. There was a mystery car – came out of nowhere, crossed over into their lane, and would have killed them all if he hadn’t acted decisively. Not only is it not his fault, he is saying, he’s a hero.
The beer in the car? Not his.
The other guy? Didn’t stop.
The final tally? It could have been worse (something tells you it will be): $20 billion for the car repairs, $10 billion for the lawyer to keep his record clean, and an undisclosed donation to the Religious Right.
When the next request for the car comes, you tell yourself, you are going to be ready.
You have developed a few ground rules that will have to be followed: a time-table, benchmarks.
Where, by the way, you plan to ask, is the money Iraq was supposed to contribute to the cost of insurance, George?
But George is playing outside the lines.
Instead of asking you directly – he implements a new strategy. He goes to your wife, and plays on her fears. If he doesn’t get the car, he warns her, his social life will be ruined, he won’t be able to work, and he’ll be at the mercy of that French kid with the Citroen, whenever he needs a ride.
You know she doesn’t know half the story. You know she is basing her decision on information that she was either denied, or that has been modified because of what you might call, national security.
You really should tell her about the accidents and the injuries, and the beer in the car, but then it would become clear that you had been withholding certain facts all along.
So you shrug and turn away, and off George goes.
You’re damn lucky this time.
George is thrown clear of the accident, and has hardly a scratch on him. America though, is a wreck – and the insurance won’t cover the costs. Thank God George wasn’t at the wheel. At least he says he wasn’t driving. It was The Generals.
Whoever is responsible, there is a price to pay this time: George is grounded indefinitely, a lame duck. But he has at least two more years under your roof. Can you really keep him grounded for that entire time?
After only a few weeks, he comes to you, looking tired, sounding apologetic: you don’t know why, but he is making you nervous.
He makes a long and rambling speech, most of which you’ve heard before. He talks about the ‘others’, the ‘mystery driver’, the Generals, and his regret at what happened to the family car.
“Mistakes have been made”, he tells you, adding that he takes full responsibility.
Not legal responsibility. Not financial responsibility. Full responsibility?
He’s learned his lesson.
Not your lesson, his lesson.
“I’m a changed man,” he says, “with a brand new plan: A New Way Forward!”
Things will be different this time, George promises, keeping his head down but holding out his hand with the palm turned up.
He wants the keys.
Do your best to forget the talking heads with their expert analysis, the interviews with the man on the street, the Senators and their Presidential strategies.
Imagine this, instead…..
George Bush is your teenage son.
America is the family’s old, but reliable station wagon.
Remember when George first got his license?
Remember how he made you take a picture of him at the registry, in front of the car, with the big ‘Mission Accomplished’ banner?
It was a big day. He was so excited. And admit it, you got swept up in all the excitement too: so much so that, later that same evening when he came to you with those shining eyes - asking if he could take the car to the lake, you consented.
Well, maybe not right away. You went through the motions.
“Who are you going with”, you asked?
“The Coalition of the Willing”, he said.
“What are you going to do”, you inquired?
“Spread Democracy”, he replied, with barely a hint of sarcasm.
“When are you going to be home”, you queried?
Early, George insisted.
Okay, you’d done the responsible thing, acted the concerned parent. Permission granted.
Then the call came at, what was it now, 12:45 a.m?
You heard a familiar voice telling you that they (funny how when there’s a problem it’s always ‘they’) ran out of gas, somewhere near Fallujah.
No biggie.
Oh, and they’ve had a small accident.
Alright.
Nothing to worry about, George insisted: he was just calling to let you know that they were going to be home a little later – and cost a few billion more, than he expected.
How thoughtful of him.
No biggie, you said again - out loud this time: but then why did you tell a bit of a white lie to your wife? No sense worrying her, you rationalized. No sense losing any sleep over this.
Damn, you told yourself as you settled back down in bed, I am so reasonable, so calm, such a good Dad. This was, after all, to be expected. George had never taken the car out before, by himself.
Time passed quickly. The car was repaired: they even added sheet metal to the undercarriage to protect against IED. It drove like new.
Your little white lie succeeded and, as if on cue, George was back.
This time the shine was gone from his eyes, replaced it seemed, by a sense of entitlement.
He wasn’t asking for permission.
He had to have the car again because, well, they were all going on this trip – and they were depending on him.
George made it seem as if to deny him, was un-patriotic.
So off George goes again and, the next thing you know you’re being woken up again, a little later than the last time. Only it isn’t George on the phone, it was someone from the New York Times.
This time it’s more than a little fender bender. This time America is off the road, in a ditch, and two of the boys that were with him are in the hospital.
But George says it’s not his fault. There was a mystery car – came out of nowhere, crossed over into their lane, and would have killed them all if he hadn’t acted decisively. Not only is it not his fault, he is saying, he’s a hero.
The beer in the car? Not his.
The other guy? Didn’t stop.
The final tally? It could have been worse (something tells you it will be): $20 billion for the car repairs, $10 billion for the lawyer to keep his record clean, and an undisclosed donation to the Religious Right.
When the next request for the car comes, you tell yourself, you are going to be ready.
You have developed a few ground rules that will have to be followed: a time-table, benchmarks.
Where, by the way, you plan to ask, is the money Iraq was supposed to contribute to the cost of insurance, George?
But George is playing outside the lines.
Instead of asking you directly – he implements a new strategy. He goes to your wife, and plays on her fears. If he doesn’t get the car, he warns her, his social life will be ruined, he won’t be able to work, and he’ll be at the mercy of that French kid with the Citroen, whenever he needs a ride.
You know she doesn’t know half the story. You know she is basing her decision on information that she was either denied, or that has been modified because of what you might call, national security.
You really should tell her about the accidents and the injuries, and the beer in the car, but then it would become clear that you had been withholding certain facts all along.
So you shrug and turn away, and off George goes.
You’re damn lucky this time.
George is thrown clear of the accident, and has hardly a scratch on him. America though, is a wreck – and the insurance won’t cover the costs. Thank God George wasn’t at the wheel. At least he says he wasn’t driving. It was The Generals.
Whoever is responsible, there is a price to pay this time: George is grounded indefinitely, a lame duck. But he has at least two more years under your roof. Can you really keep him grounded for that entire time?
After only a few weeks, he comes to you, looking tired, sounding apologetic: you don’t know why, but he is making you nervous.
He makes a long and rambling speech, most of which you’ve heard before. He talks about the ‘others’, the ‘mystery driver’, the Generals, and his regret at what happened to the family car.
“Mistakes have been made”, he tells you, adding that he takes full responsibility.
Not legal responsibility. Not financial responsibility. Full responsibility?
He’s learned his lesson.
Not your lesson, his lesson.
“I’m a changed man,” he says, “with a brand new plan: A New Way Forward!”
Things will be different this time, George promises, keeping his head down but holding out his hand with the palm turned up.
He wants the keys.
In the Direction of the Spin
There still doesn’t seem to be a sense of urgency, over here, with the war over there, in Iraq.
I suppose that’s just human nature, but it’s not justice.
Justice delayed, is justice denied.
Here, safe in our homes, we feel we have the time, if we wish, to look up that last quote.
We can take that last bite of egg, get up from the kitchen table, and wander off to the study – where we keep the book of quotations.
The change in routine arouses the suspicion of our spouse, but nothing more.
It is not a risky maneuver.
There are no snipers in the house.
Something the matter, she asks?
No, no, we reply, somewhat disingenuously, just wanted to look something up.
If only we could proceed at that pace, and accomplish something positive.
If only, as the car loses traction on the black ice, turns sideways, and hurtles toward the concrete abutment, we could open up the glove box, remove the informative booklet that the original manufacturer placed there – like the Gideon Bible in a hotel room, and leisurely thumb through its pages until we reach the section on how to handle a loss of traction on ice.
“Turn the wheel in the direction of the spin”.
Perhaps the State Police find the glove box open, the booklet open to the right page, lying on the roof of the overturned vehicle.
Perhaps two troopers make a macabre joke about ‘speed reading’.
Catholic philosopher’s believe that, even in a fatal car crash, the occupants are given one last chance to make their peace with God.
In the fraction of a second between the point at which the concrete pillar smashes through the metal door - and our life ends, Elizabeth Kubler-Ross taught that we can choose between good and evil.
Back at the breakfast table though, that decision is not as easy or, rather, not as urgent.
Death is either an abstract concept or a funny pages cartoon character, hooded, carrying an oversized scythe.
On the back of the newspaper there could be a full page advertisement, of sorts: a very large, bold headline, saying “Choose”, and beneath it, side by side, two boxes.
Underneath the first box, on the left, the word “Good”.
Under the second box, on the right, the word, “Evil”.
But there’s no rush.
We look around and, when there is no pencil or pen within reach, we simply turn the page, to the Sports section.
Through with the scores, we turn to the front page.
“President Ford died?” we exclaim, a bit too loudly.
Somehow we missed it.
The ceremony was held during the Meineke Car Care Bowl.
It was a busy week.
We had the family over on Christmas Eve.
We had our older son down from college, for a few days.
He’s a senior.
It’s hard to believe that four years have gone by already. In May he will graduate. The time has flown by or, rather, it has slipped away.
Disappeared.
I suppose, when you think you are doing the right thing, it is alright to let the time slip away: okay, to muse on the meaning of things.
But what if his dorm were on fire?
What if the people in Waterville were busy loading up their used cars with explosives?
You visit the campus during Parents Weekend and are amused at the students sleepwalking through the day: wearing their slippers to breakfast, hardly appearing to wake at all as they go to classes, to concerts, plays, hockey games.
What if the people of Waterville, wearing masks and dressed up as police, kidnapped entire classes of students, and took them off to the woods and beheaded them?
Would that catch our attention, create a sense of urgency?
You have to wonder.
The ‘shock and awe’ is over, and what remains is the clean-up.
We are not very good at the clean-up.
The President took his time too, cutting brush at the ranch, consulting with his advisors, reading his paper.
On TV the cameras caught him greeting the Iraqi Prime Minister. From a distance you could see his lips moving and you may have been able to make out the words: “turn the wheel in the direction of the spin”.
There was no time to waste before the war began, and now – well, now he’s got all the time in the world.
It’s sad.
I am reminded of the scenes from the film Woodstock, as the last revelers dragged themselves away, draped in mud-stained blankets, over a wasteland of trash, to the elegiac accompaniment of Jimi Hendrix’ Star Spangled Banner.
We start off so full of enthusiasm, but then we just seem to lose interest.
I think President Bush is counting on that.
I suppose that’s just human nature, but it’s not justice.
Justice delayed, is justice denied.
Here, safe in our homes, we feel we have the time, if we wish, to look up that last quote.
We can take that last bite of egg, get up from the kitchen table, and wander off to the study – where we keep the book of quotations.
The change in routine arouses the suspicion of our spouse, but nothing more.
It is not a risky maneuver.
There are no snipers in the house.
Something the matter, she asks?
No, no, we reply, somewhat disingenuously, just wanted to look something up.
If only we could proceed at that pace, and accomplish something positive.
If only, as the car loses traction on the black ice, turns sideways, and hurtles toward the concrete abutment, we could open up the glove box, remove the informative booklet that the original manufacturer placed there – like the Gideon Bible in a hotel room, and leisurely thumb through its pages until we reach the section on how to handle a loss of traction on ice.
“Turn the wheel in the direction of the spin”.
Perhaps the State Police find the glove box open, the booklet open to the right page, lying on the roof of the overturned vehicle.
Perhaps two troopers make a macabre joke about ‘speed reading’.
Catholic philosopher’s believe that, even in a fatal car crash, the occupants are given one last chance to make their peace with God.
In the fraction of a second between the point at which the concrete pillar smashes through the metal door - and our life ends, Elizabeth Kubler-Ross taught that we can choose between good and evil.
Back at the breakfast table though, that decision is not as easy or, rather, not as urgent.
Death is either an abstract concept or a funny pages cartoon character, hooded, carrying an oversized scythe.
On the back of the newspaper there could be a full page advertisement, of sorts: a very large, bold headline, saying “Choose”, and beneath it, side by side, two boxes.
Underneath the first box, on the left, the word “Good”.
Under the second box, on the right, the word, “Evil”.
But there’s no rush.
We look around and, when there is no pencil or pen within reach, we simply turn the page, to the Sports section.
Through with the scores, we turn to the front page.
“President Ford died?” we exclaim, a bit too loudly.
Somehow we missed it.
The ceremony was held during the Meineke Car Care Bowl.
It was a busy week.
We had the family over on Christmas Eve.
We had our older son down from college, for a few days.
He’s a senior.
It’s hard to believe that four years have gone by already. In May he will graduate. The time has flown by or, rather, it has slipped away.
Disappeared.
I suppose, when you think you are doing the right thing, it is alright to let the time slip away: okay, to muse on the meaning of things.
But what if his dorm were on fire?
What if the people in Waterville were busy loading up their used cars with explosives?
You visit the campus during Parents Weekend and are amused at the students sleepwalking through the day: wearing their slippers to breakfast, hardly appearing to wake at all as they go to classes, to concerts, plays, hockey games.
What if the people of Waterville, wearing masks and dressed up as police, kidnapped entire classes of students, and took them off to the woods and beheaded them?
Would that catch our attention, create a sense of urgency?
You have to wonder.
The ‘shock and awe’ is over, and what remains is the clean-up.
We are not very good at the clean-up.
The President took his time too, cutting brush at the ranch, consulting with his advisors, reading his paper.
On TV the cameras caught him greeting the Iraqi Prime Minister. From a distance you could see his lips moving and you may have been able to make out the words: “turn the wheel in the direction of the spin”.
There was no time to waste before the war began, and now – well, now he’s got all the time in the world.
It’s sad.
I am reminded of the scenes from the film Woodstock, as the last revelers dragged themselves away, draped in mud-stained blankets, over a wasteland of trash, to the elegiac accompaniment of Jimi Hendrix’ Star Spangled Banner.
We start off so full of enthusiasm, but then we just seem to lose interest.
I think President Bush is counting on that.
Foaming at the Mouth
There’s Soothing Aloe in my shaving cream, but I am not sure that I am getting the full effect.
I thought of leaving the shaving cream on for a few minutes, before I shaved – to let the Aloe do its thing, but I really haven’t got the time.
Besides, there’s nothing in the instructions, on the can, about giving the Aloe more time.
I’m worried, and not just about skin irritation.
I’m worried that the Aloe is hanging out with the wrong crowd.
I checked out the fine print: the Aloe is fifth in line, in its gang of ingredients.
Water is number one, followed by Stearic Acid, Triethanolamine (TEA), and Laureth-23.
Coincidentally, I used to date a girl named Laureth-23.
Anyway, in this particular can I am not sure if Aloe –even Soothing Aloe, feels comfortable speaking up.
When I was a lot younger, the guys I used to hang with were a bit uncomfortable with the soothing side of the emotional spectrum, especially in large groups.
It could also be that Stearic Acid, TEA, and Laureth, are simply not giving Aloe the opportunity to fully express herself.
When it comes to shaving cream – I am told, it’s all about the foam.
The Stearic Acid – a naturally occurring fat, is the foam’s foundation. The TEA whips it up. And Laureth-23 adds a final, if insincere touch.
Soothing Aloe?
My sense is that Soothing Aloe’s only real contribution - to this particular brand of shaving cream, is like that of an old jock selling insurance.
Hey, whether we want to admit it or not, fame is still a powerful tool in advertising’s arsenal.
There’s a reason why Buick pays Tiger, and Hanes pays Jordan.
The truth is that, if I had to choose whether to buy shaving cream from - say, my old girlfriend Laureth-23, or the well-known Soothing Aloe, it’s going to be Aloe almost every time.
That is of course, until it dawns on me that I am being taken for a ride, so to speak.
I don’t usually go around questioning the ingredients in the products I use. I take it for granted that they are there for a reason.
But if you can’t trust Soothing Aloe, it makes you think.
What ingredients can you trust?
Is there really any vanilla, in Vanilla Coke?
And even if Vanilla is there, is it just a token natural ingredient, there to give the others some cover: like Secretary of State Colin Powel, in the Bush Administration?
Or maybe I have the wrong metaphor in mind.
Maybe a product’s ingredients are like rabbits and flowers and silk handkerchiefs: the items hidden in the magician’s cloak, before he even starts the show.
Each ingredient has its own part in the show, and all contribute incrementally, to achieving the desired effect – to the magic.
Even so, given the way that it is billed on the can, Soothing Aloe is clearly supposed to be the big number, the rabbit out of the hat. So when the rabbit that emerges is a bit scraggly, or worse – the overall effect is less than stirring.
And when the magic is gone, you begin to question everything, even whether you are getting a good, close shave.
I am reminded of Rocky and Bullwinkle – a flying squirrel and a moose, respectively. They never had their own shaving cream, but they had their own show – a half hour cartoon, back when that was truly a radical idea.
They used to segue to commercial with a little 15-second cartoon, all its own.
“Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat,” Bullwinkle would say.
“Again?”, the flying squirrel would whine, with real exasperation.
And always - instead of a cute, harmless rabbit, an angry rhinoceros or a roaring lion would appear.
Rocky and Bullwinkle seemed to winking at the audience, saying, ‘we’re having fun now, sure, but sooner or later the fun has to end and accounts must be settled’.
Face up to it: everything, in our society, has a hidden price.
And that goes double for Soothing Aloe.
Column Ingredients:
Words: You know, words.
Laureth-23: 1. An emulsifier. The polyethylene glycol ether of lauryl alcohol. 2. An old girlfriend. Her family were abstract expressionists.
Soothing Aloe: A popular entertainer in 19th Century England, noted for her perfect complexion
TEA (Triethanolamine): Produced by ammonolysis of ethylene oxide. Neutralizes carbomer solutions to form gels. Neutralizes stearic acid to form anionic emulsions and acts as an alkalizing agent to control pH.
Stearic acid: A common, naturally occurring fatty acid, widely used as an inexpensive primary emulsifying agent. When neutralized with triethanolamine, it functions as a tremendous thickening agent. Its soap-like character enables it to penetrate the skin and to have emollient, skin-softening properties.
Sodium Laureth Suffate: 1. Laureth-23’s mother. 2. The sodium salt of sulfated ethoxylated lauryl alcohol. A high foaming, viscous surfactant, milder to the skin than sodium lauryl sulfate. Excellent cleansing agent for shampoos.
Original Humor: A short-lived froth that neutralizes old girlfriends, forms unattached emulsions, acts as a socializing agent.
I thought of leaving the shaving cream on for a few minutes, before I shaved – to let the Aloe do its thing, but I really haven’t got the time.
Besides, there’s nothing in the instructions, on the can, about giving the Aloe more time.
I’m worried, and not just about skin irritation.
I’m worried that the Aloe is hanging out with the wrong crowd.
I checked out the fine print: the Aloe is fifth in line, in its gang of ingredients.
Water is number one, followed by Stearic Acid, Triethanolamine (TEA), and Laureth-23.
Coincidentally, I used to date a girl named Laureth-23.
Anyway, in this particular can I am not sure if Aloe –even Soothing Aloe, feels comfortable speaking up.
When I was a lot younger, the guys I used to hang with were a bit uncomfortable with the soothing side of the emotional spectrum, especially in large groups.
It could also be that Stearic Acid, TEA, and Laureth, are simply not giving Aloe the opportunity to fully express herself.
When it comes to shaving cream – I am told, it’s all about the foam.
The Stearic Acid – a naturally occurring fat, is the foam’s foundation. The TEA whips it up. And Laureth-23 adds a final, if insincere touch.
Soothing Aloe?
My sense is that Soothing Aloe’s only real contribution - to this particular brand of shaving cream, is like that of an old jock selling insurance.
Hey, whether we want to admit it or not, fame is still a powerful tool in advertising’s arsenal.
There’s a reason why Buick pays Tiger, and Hanes pays Jordan.
The truth is that, if I had to choose whether to buy shaving cream from - say, my old girlfriend Laureth-23, or the well-known Soothing Aloe, it’s going to be Aloe almost every time.
That is of course, until it dawns on me that I am being taken for a ride, so to speak.
I don’t usually go around questioning the ingredients in the products I use. I take it for granted that they are there for a reason.
But if you can’t trust Soothing Aloe, it makes you think.
What ingredients can you trust?
Is there really any vanilla, in Vanilla Coke?
And even if Vanilla is there, is it just a token natural ingredient, there to give the others some cover: like Secretary of State Colin Powel, in the Bush Administration?
Or maybe I have the wrong metaphor in mind.
Maybe a product’s ingredients are like rabbits and flowers and silk handkerchiefs: the items hidden in the magician’s cloak, before he even starts the show.
Each ingredient has its own part in the show, and all contribute incrementally, to achieving the desired effect – to the magic.
Even so, given the way that it is billed on the can, Soothing Aloe is clearly supposed to be the big number, the rabbit out of the hat. So when the rabbit that emerges is a bit scraggly, or worse – the overall effect is less than stirring.
And when the magic is gone, you begin to question everything, even whether you are getting a good, close shave.
I am reminded of Rocky and Bullwinkle – a flying squirrel and a moose, respectively. They never had their own shaving cream, but they had their own show – a half hour cartoon, back when that was truly a radical idea.
They used to segue to commercial with a little 15-second cartoon, all its own.
“Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat,” Bullwinkle would say.
“Again?”, the flying squirrel would whine, with real exasperation.
And always - instead of a cute, harmless rabbit, an angry rhinoceros or a roaring lion would appear.
Rocky and Bullwinkle seemed to winking at the audience, saying, ‘we’re having fun now, sure, but sooner or later the fun has to end and accounts must be settled’.
Face up to it: everything, in our society, has a hidden price.
And that goes double for Soothing Aloe.
Column Ingredients:
Words: You know, words.
Laureth-23: 1. An emulsifier. The polyethylene glycol ether of lauryl alcohol. 2. An old girlfriend. Her family were abstract expressionists.
Soothing Aloe: A popular entertainer in 19th Century England, noted for her perfect complexion
TEA (Triethanolamine): Produced by ammonolysis of ethylene oxide. Neutralizes carbomer solutions to form gels. Neutralizes stearic acid to form anionic emulsions and acts as an alkalizing agent to control pH.
Stearic acid: A common, naturally occurring fatty acid, widely used as an inexpensive primary emulsifying agent. When neutralized with triethanolamine, it functions as a tremendous thickening agent. Its soap-like character enables it to penetrate the skin and to have emollient, skin-softening properties.
Sodium Laureth Suffate: 1. Laureth-23’s mother. 2. The sodium salt of sulfated ethoxylated lauryl alcohol. A high foaming, viscous surfactant, milder to the skin than sodium lauryl sulfate. Excellent cleansing agent for shampoos.
Original Humor: A short-lived froth that neutralizes old girlfriends, forms unattached emulsions, acts as a socializing agent.
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