“Consumerism is so weird. It’s a sort of conspiracy we collude in. You’d think shoppers spending their hard-earned cash would be highly critical, You know that the manufacturers are trying to have you on.” - J. G. Ballard
When there’s a stretch of days where the high temperature drops in the mid 80s you immediately come to the realization that it’s now late August. You don’t any cute TV prognosticator in a tight outfit to tell you that something just shifted slightly with the earth’s axis.
Yes, we all intuitively know the 90s will inevitably return with fleeting but protracted vengeance. We also know the those remaining sweltering days are numbered. At least we hope they are numbered.
There are a few other ways you can tell it’s late August. Most of us can figure this out without the assistance of a wall calendar or the Old Farmer’s Almanac.
The tired old garden is completely overrun with weeds. This is the result of a relatively wet August and prolonged bouts of laziness. The white geese are now ensconced in the garden for cleanup and fertilizer application.
High school football has returned; Slumville Swamp Dogs 42 - Our Lady of Perpetual Slapping My Head Yellow Deacons 6.
The hay is finally stacked and covered. The second cut is so prolific, most hay collectors have no more room left in the loft. The hay burners are sequestered in the dry paddock for their pre-fall weight loss program. Foundering potential is as high as we’ve ever seen it in any previous August summer stretch.
The young Canada goslings have mastered the miracle of flight and bass fishing is about a difficult as it gets. Butterflies and hawks drift slowly by on mysterious migration routes.
Telephone calls out of Montana, from friends bragging about 25 mile elk and sheep hunting hikes, with 40 pounds of gear on their backs, covering 7,000 feet in elevation gain, are trickling in, making us all jealous and questioning our own level of fitness again.
Then there’s this filthy rich philanthropist named Morris, who delights in gifting us a Birmingham phone book sized catalog, free of charge. He joyfully pays the US Postal Service to hand deliver his best marketing dream book right to the old easy chair.
You’re probably well acquainted with generously elite merchant. He’s the one who built the pyramid out of glass over by the big river. A rather elaborate pyramid, likely funded with some of your disposable income.
Now I’m as fond of a free, fun filled catalog as most of you. Let the record show that we all grew up learning to read and studying, for weeks on end, good and free catalogs. Sears and Roebuck and Herters come to mind. Green Stamps come to mind. As I matured I was rather enamored with both Fredricks of Hollywood and Victoria’s Secret.
Sometimes I wonder whatever happened to old Fredrick? The imagination can be known to run a bit wild at times when thinking about his fetching type of merchandise.
When Morris drops off what he calls his Master Catalog, it just instantly propels you to thinking about late August and beyond somehow. How he manages to transport one into the mental future is just another one of life’s little mysteries I guess.
By the time the subtle temperature changes of late August arrive, the old recurring fever has almost metastasized into a full blown contagion. How did this obscenely wealthy catalog peddler know that this pandemic was about to blossom around late August? How did he accurately discern that we would all reflexively rip our plastic out and rush headlong towards some snake oil level cure, desperate for some kind of NEW and INCREDIBLY EXPENSIVE relief from the long, hot, sticky summer?
I’ve dog eared the thing to death. Then I totaled up the dream sheet, revised and redacted it at least four times. I even called the loan officer at the bank a couple of times.
After three inventories of gear and gear checks in every conceivable location I could remember, I finally chucked the free catalog in the to-be-burned pile, in a state of complete frustration.
What little I am able to comprehend about macro-economics, tariffs, world order, Lithium extraction and such, is frighteningly so minimal that it borders on Joe-Six-Pack levels of stupidity.
But I do know this; I just can’t justify what the filthy rich philanthropist wants me to give him for his NEW and IMPROVED STUFF any longer! He has finally managed to price me out of his business. It’s over, it’s done and finished! I’m clean, no more fat catalog addictions for the old Ranger!
There’s another thing about late August that I just realized here lately. The other day I came across a little time that needed killing. The time that deserved to be killed just happened to coincide with the location of a store, relatively close, ok it was within forty or so miles, that had an inventory stocked with similar items to the ones in the large catalog now residing in the to-be-burned pile.
I finally stumbled out of the store in a daze, 100 rounds of twenty gauge #8s in tow.
I could not tell you if I actually needed another 100 shot shells or not. It just happened. Blame it on late August! Blame it on pure impulse! Blame it on addictive tendencies and temperature change!
How does this happen? What is it about minimal temperature drops in August that trigger these bizarre impulses?
It was just a state of near oblivious luck that I left this store with only 100 bullets. As I shelled out more money than I’ve ever paid for shooting lead into the clouds, I checked the watch. To my complete astonishment, I had been adrift in the deep sea of consumerism for over an hour.
I’d recently witnessed this sort of deeply dazed consumerism with Bubbles, my bride. The last time it happened was when our 25 year old refrigerator passed away. Bubbles glazed over badly after about three hours, as she was struggling to pick out a new and improved fridge. One without a computer, and TV/Stereo combo built in, next to a wine dispenser and a shaved ice machine. It was about as traumatizing an event as you’ve ever witnessed my friend!
Back at the bullet store, I suddenly realized that I found myself in some weird state like some junkie’s dream. I’d fondled about every last thing in the place, held them in my trembling hands, burned them into my mind’s eye, and narrowly escaped another deep state of insolvency and financial disaster.
August is utterly light weight when it comes to insolvency. Wait until you get to September and October for full blown financial ruination.
Those biologists over in Nashville, who set the rules, say it’s legal to shoot at squirrels and fuzzy horned deer again. Maybe that’ll finally scratch some strange old nagging, primeval, hunter gatherer itch.
Don’t forget the chigger and tick goop like I did when I stumbled, zombie like, to the store for no apparent good reason.
“Consumerism is at once the engine of America and simultaneously one of the most revealing indicators of our collective shallowness.” - Henry Rollins
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