Last week I heard that Ian McKaye, lead singer of the bands Minor Threat and Fugazi, was killed by a passing car. McKaye has long been one of the few living individuals whom a cynical, former-leftist ideologue with a penchant for the melodramatic and hackneyed turns of phrase can look to for inspiration. His highly principled, personally responsible anti-corporate ethos that borders on puritanical sans sky-god foolishness always struck a chord sweeter than vegan honey. I was more than a little upset upon hearing of his death, so I went outside and fist-flogged my pecan tree until I couldn't stand it any longer.
No one forced me to do such an idiotic thing. I did it myself to discover some other kind of pain. But I wish someone had forced me to check my facts first. It turns out McKaye's death was just a widely reported rumor that found its way back to me. But my computer was turned off, and emotion took control. The episode of poor decision-making was fueled by my amygdala and whatever parts of the brain account for laziness and masochism.
But it was my decision. There was no overwhelming, irresistible force compelling me to be an idiot. Ultimately, I'm the one who is accountable - not my environment, upbringing, friends or family, and not the government or advertising as either.
When we submit to the images and promises that advertisers and global corporations throw our way, we retain culpability. These people are powerful, sure. But their power is something we hand over to them with every dollar we spend. Even then, we're not programmable.
Sure enough, those who give the marching orders or come up with the jingles tend to have a somewhat malleable moral core, but that's a given. We ought to expect that only the most craven, self-interested opportunists would ask for Americans to die in the Middle East or for women to actually believe they need to or can look like waifs grounded solely by their massive tits.
Advertisers, PR flacks, hawks of any sort - these people play upon fears, insecurities and inadequacies, real or imagined. They're pretty low. Don't we get that by now? Can't we accept these truths as self-evident and take a little responsibility for how we act in light of their diamond-studded demands and boot-heel-ridden reassurances?
They speak folderol; we take it as Gospel. Yet so many of us pretend advertising is a pernicious beast capable of feasting on our insides. And it is, if we let it.
It's like having the Swedish Chef talk Kermit through de-arming a nuclear bomb that's about to go off in the middle of Houston and then complaining about being totally dead.
Let's stop pretending that we're being made victims of some rapacious juggernaut's wide-ranging onslaught that holds our dreams and puppy dogs hostage with every DVR-ignored television commercial or the 15 pages worth of slick, thumbed-over ads in the front of each issue of Rolling Stone.
We ourselves allow these things to strip us of our humanity. There's no oppression on the airwaves; we've just let the cult of victimization oppress the best of us. So we can continue on the victimization-is-cool kick, or we can simply say "no." It's not that hard.
Makeup? No. Diet pills? No. A new bag, pair of shoes or vintage pearl-snap shirt? No.
Dinner for the girl sitting across from you? Dutch.
Beating your fists against a tree? Not so much.
It's so simple.
But we can't accept that. Instead we're wont to blame advertisers and cede our agency to the ether, playing hapless victims with disposable incomes.
And this full-force drive toward victimhood is played to the hilt by purveyors of identity politics who are quick to swoop out of their nonprofit nests and ivory belfries to exploit ideology-soaked children in much the same manner that scary advertisers fool the weak-minded among us into buying Crocs.
It's a circular, self-defeating dance of dumb, and it hurts, too. It hurts our pockets, self-esteem and oftentimes our health.
But this is no holier-than-thou screed. I'm a variety-obsessed, society-consumed, anxiety-filled master of my own destiny who tends toward overkill on pop cultural references. And I buy things I don't need. All the time.
So if we're not self-righteous pricks who preach radical lunacy and daydream of a revolutionary world where everyone is empowered except for straight white males, then we're either masochists or hypocrites, and if my coping methods and recent purchase of a ball-gag are any indication, it's a safe bet where I force myself to fall. Kalmbacher is a journalism senior.
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