CONSUMER CONFIDENCE? WHICH CONSUMERS? On Sustainability, Need-Based Lifestyles, and the Naturally Green Choices of a Cheap Fucking Bastard

The astronomical growth in the wealth and cultural influence of multinational corporations over the last fifteen years can arguably be traced back to a single, seemingly innocuous idea developed by management theorists in the mid-1980s: that successful corporations must primarily produce brands, as opposed to products.

- NAOMI KLEIN, from No Logo
(2000, Full e-Text Here)

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I'm not what anybody in their right mind would consider to be a man driven by consumerism.

In fact, I'm quite the anti-consumer, especially when my infrequent forays into luxury spending are weighed against the downright gluttonous behavior of a good portion of my countrymen at the hog trough of reckless capitalism.

A few DVDs, books, the occasional magazine or candy bar.

Yup. That's about it.

Not that I'm bragging or talking shit - that's not my point. I've always been like this. I've never really seen the point in spending money on things - often junk - that contribute nothing to my well-being or to that of my neighbors.

I don't buy clothes for anything as silly and bourgeoisie as style; I consume my basic wardrobe of jeans and tee-shirts as thriftily (often second-hand or in the form of gifts) as possible, based on need, digest them slowly over years until the fabric's threadbare and the holes in the pockets can no longer be restitched.

That's right. I said restitched. I'm lousy with a needle and thread, but I know at least how to sew on a button of fix a tear. I see no sense in wasting that which I have so carefully digested.

Hell, my Baltimore Orioles baseball cap - the "lucky" one (not for the Os, obviously) my parents bought me at a game at the old Memorial Stadium - is roughly the same age as my last girlfriend. And, as ratty as the damned thing is, I'll probably keep wearing it until it rots into oblivion, or I do.

I'm a notoriously cheap fucking bastard. Emphasis on the fucking bastard.

And on top of that, I'm not to big a fan of wasting natural resources simply because some advertising agency generated market trend tells me I won't fit in if I don't conform.

My anti-consumerist behavior doesn't stop with my wardrobe, either. Roughly 90 percent of all of my apartment's furnishings were either found on the street, inherited from somebody, of acquired at yard sales. The rest? Bought on clearance or off the scratch-and-dent racks.

I own no video games or consoles. I don't have cable. My microwave was stolen from the curb and the dresser in my bedroom used to belong to a Super Bowl quarterback.

Hell, I'm writing these very words you're reading right now on an Ubuntu machine, using open-source software.

My electric bill - with electric heat in a region that experiences single-digit temperatures at night occasionally - hasn't topped 80 bucks in more than two years. Thermostat's set at 53 degrees in the winter - if you're cold, grab yourself one of the half-dozen second-hand sweaters that don't fit me anymore that I keep on hand for guests.

And I don't use air conditioning. Period.

Cheap. Fucking. Bastard. I say it loud, say it proud.

* * * *

Why?

For one thing, well, it's better for the environment, better for the planet. It fucks rampant unchecked corporate greed in the ass with a greener chainsaw and keeps extra cash in my pocket.

And it's become a comfortably sustainable lifestyle.

Yes, not the media buzzword version of sustainability, not the White House teleprompter versions touted in speeches in Copenhagen or Kyoto.

We're talking My Ecological Footprint is roughly one-third that of other 30+ single males living in North America sustainable lifestyle.

Sustainability requires one to be just about as conservative as possible in resource consumption, especially of that which the consumer has few controls over the means of production, to be minimalist and marketing-resistant, consciously frugal in both purchase and usage, to make compromise not over what one needs but over what one does not.

Why give more money to the same multinational corporations that already own our politician and media outlets, defecate in the very global market capitalist buffet they feed upon, and, hell, already take my money without my consent through government bailouts and state contracts?

Sure, they naturally get some of my paycheck. I have to, after all, buy foodstuff and toiletries somewhere, still have to have a provider of laundry detergent and of consumable goods. And in rural parts of the US, like here in Oxford Fucking Ohio, some of my consumables are either purchased in the local-employing Big Box Stores or small locally-owned businesses, since it'd be, well, a waste of about a half-tank of gas to shop in the nearby cities.

But, seriously, who pays full price for such things? Wait for the sales. If such businesses are to get chunks of my paycheck, why not simply wait until I can rob them blind by binding my time for clearance markdowns?

And like I said, I'm in no way bragging. It's just how I live my life, and its not a perfect model.

I forget to recycle. Often. I drive a late-model pickup like a Los Angeleno, hitting the road for any trip longer than to the mailbox, despite being a avid hiker, out of sheer laziness. I forget to wash out old plastic containers for reuse, forget that only a hypochondriac needs plastic produce bags for a few avocados or oranges.

It's a work in progress.

But at least I'm trying.

* * * *

Which is more than I can say for a lot of people, probably the majority of that undefined bulbous mass called the Average US Consumer.

You know. That mass that supposedly holds the fate of the global economy in its "consumer confidence" indexes and other measurements of the perceived movement of wealth?

Take a trip to any large in door shopping mall, into any major retailer, even into your neighborhood supermarket. Look around you. Look in every shopper's cart, at stuff you know they're buying that they don't need to actually improve their lives.

Listen to the squeals of fat kids begging for name-brand candy and proprietary-code video games, the sounds of obsessive sports fans drooling over hi-def televisions they'll only enjoy a handful of Sundays out of the year. Watch men and women stop by clothing racks adorned by celebrity endorsements yet still made for pennies in places like Bangladesh or, worse, in conflict areas.

Or maybe, if you're lucky, you'll catch a middle-aged woman adorned in the bling of African blood diamonds and gold, lugging a rat terrier in a purse, as she shops for the latest cosmetic product tested, probably, on animals just like her precious pet.

These shopping habits? All lifestyle choices.

You will see consumption of things, many glorious gluttonous things, that are not so much bought for need but for image, to maintain the fallacy of "Free" marketplaces that dictates freedom in terms of who can acquire the most junk.

And what you'll see is in no way sustainable. Eventually, natural limits are reached beyond the ability of one to purchase them, scarcity leads to higher prices, higher prices leads to panicky conservation and state intervention. So long as consumption of resources is tied to image or brand instead of actual human need, sustainability is but a wet dream in a capitalist society.

Yes, I'm really just a cheap fucking bastard.

And the scary thing?

No matter how bad the economy gets, how much the numbers are doctored and the shady accounting sold to reflect recovery in terms of bullshit measurements like "consumer confidence," my lifestyle will rarely be affected.

Me and, well, the Amish.

Some things in life are bigger than one's lifestyle. Sometimes, there's a conscience behind such choices.

- # # # -

OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL: "If a Punk Redneck Peter Pan Carjacked Rehab Hippies" Does Describe my Personal Style Quite Well, Actually...

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I'm a loner, a solitary man, a veritable 21st Century Libertine.

Beyond that, well, I'm just one mean-ass nonconformist motherfucker, I do my own thing, and I'm little too out there, in my own special way, for most people.

I make no bones about it, really. Life's meant to be filled with strange people and mysterious freethinkers - hey, somebody's gotta do it.

In public, I try to put up a front of being an extrovert, of being good-natured and humorous, and, of being, occasionally, talkative and a good listener, friendly and self-absorbed, all simultaneously...

But at home? In the ol' Bachelor Pad of Mystery and Mirth? My Fortress of my Motherfucking Solitude?

Why the fuck would any sane person think my personal sanctuary would be any less strange than I am, on or offline? I live like a mad monk. Or maybe a curio shop owner. Or, possibly, one of those people destined to become a crazed old man who scares small children on Halloween.

Regardless, well, wherever I've hung my hat in this world, through the three residences here in Oxford where I've rested my boots, through the seven different dwellings over the past ten years across three states, there's one constant:

My "home life" is almost always a thousand times weirder than most "normal" folks expect.

Even from me.

* * * * *

If you can't take the heat, stay the fuck out of my apartment.

Seriously.

According to my lease, that energy-guzzling box near the living room window is an air-conditioning unit. I've never used it, never even tested to see if it works. I don't use A/C because, well, it's a waste of energy, a waste of the human body's own climate control system - the good ol' sweat glands and skin.

Man was meant to sweat. Women, well, were meant to glow. Especially during the dog days of summer. And, yep, it gets pretty toasty in there at times, especially during the hottest months, when the air heaves with bone-soaking humidity and the mercury floats up towards one hundred degrees, Fahrenheit.

I usually advise female friends who stop by for the first time to wear a sports bra - I make no exceptions for the dainty, the pretty, or even the damned-too-cute . If it gets too hot, well, feel free to strip off as much clothing as you wish. Or sit in front of the numerous energy-efficient fans.

Hell, I'm probably half-naked... don't be modest. By giving up the A/C, we're helping save electricity -- as well as the friggin' planet.

* * * * *

I smoke. And I smoke in my own home. Cigarette (and occasionally cigar or pipe) smoke permeates every corner, every nook and cranny.

Asthmatics and those with allergies are welcome to ask, politely, that I not smoke whilst they're visiting - I'm generally a decent host. People who give me the second-hand smoke lecture? Well, there's the door. Leave anytime you wish or shut the fuck up.

And I smoke tobacco. And tobacco only. Other substances are never welcome.

If I know you're holding, well, it's out the door with it and possibly with you, too. We can still be friends, but, well, I've been clean for almost a fucking decade, dammit. Show some respect.

It always blows my mind when some poor stoner swings by and thinks that, well, because I'm puffing away, they can puff away on anything they so choose. In the homes of others, well, I'm fine with it and could care less. But in my place, you'll end up getting yelled at, verbally humiliated, and, possibly, assaulted.

No joke. Ten years clean. Assaulted, as in knock the damn taste out'cho mouth.

Once, a fling's cousin lit up and laughed in my face when I told him to remove his kind herbal product from my home. When I insisted, he stood there and kept puffing away, giving me the Legalization lecture. He really thought I was kidding -- Who doesn't, in this modern era, partake of such a plant, silly librarian who's fucking my uncle's daughter?

I broke his little finger with a crescent wrench and left a forearm imprint in his throat.

People, like all animals, sometimes need to be conditioned to respect the master of a given domain. And if one acts like an obstinate, unlearned animal in my domain, well, I will break that animal. Almost felt bad, but, well, rules exist only so long as they are enforceable - and I am more than capable of enforcing my rules with all of the gusto of an Old Testament legend.

He never lit up in my apartment after that. Even apologized. Kid lived like a fucking Mormon the rest of his visit. And, well, he wasn't really able to speak for the last few days at my place, so I was able to get quite a bit of reading done...

He did, however, manage to crank out a few pages of his doctoral dissertation with nine working digits and to drive his stick-shift sedan back to his Kentucky university.

Needless to say, the fling ended shortly thereafter.

* * * * *

"Jesus Fucking Christ, Jason! You really eat this shit?"

It's a common refrain, when people look into my refrigerator or peek into my kitchen cabinets.

Organic crunchy soynut butter and fruit-only preserves. Flax-and-psyllium-husk cereals and whole-grain, no-sugar-added instant oatmeal. Pork shoulder, cans of smoked oysters and sardines and anchovies, baby spinach, gravadlax and Middle-eastern lavash, thinly sliced turkey pastrami and hummus and at least three varieties of olives.

No junk food. No processed sugar or corn syrup. Not a candy bar or potato chip to be found.

And I'm from Virginia, too, a Southerner who grew up eating all sorts of cute, furry and feathered critters. I have a hearty respect for those who harvest nature's edible wildlife. When time provides, I've been known to barter with local hunters for organic, free-range vittles.

Finished off the last of my squirrel stockpile last month. Made a wonderful soup, actually, with leeks, red onions, and plenty of cilantro and thyme, dill and rosemary. If that grosses you out then you'd probably, well, starve to death in many of the poorer parts of rural North America.

And Berberé, that marvelous Ethiopian and Eritrean spice mixture? Goes great on a veggie pizza, venison or with beans and rice.

This is how I eat. It can be quite nauseating for the weak of stomach to witness, especially those who find it appalling that an educated man would gnaw the flesh from Bambi's carcass.

Yeah, I cook and consume some pretty strange things. Every damned day, save for the occasional workday lunches or whilst on vacation.

And there's no booze in the cabinets, beer rarely in the icebox.

Seriously? Seriously.

For as much as I supposedly drink, for all the perceptions that I'm a raging alcoholic because I write so much about bars and booze and the fucktardish lifestyles of the binge-drinking collegiate masses, I don't as a rule keep any sort of alcohol on hand for guests.

It's a BYOB sorta deal. I rarely drink at home, actually. Most of the time, my dwellings tend to be only slightly less dry than a West Texas creek bed.

* * * * *

Yes, it's true, whatever you've heard or read over the years -

I do have a chin-up bar installed in my living room, so I can watch Star Trek reruns, cartoons or ThinkTV while I work out. I don't have a couch, because, well, I would rather stretch out on the floor.

...And I'm rather well-known for my repetitive, downright predictable eating habits - there are people reading this right now, in fact, who don't even need to guess what sandwich I will order at a restaurant at least twice next week...

...And there's weird music almost always playing, downright bizarre occult trinkets and paintings and sculpture hanging from the walls, obscure books packed into the bookshelves...

... And there's no proper bedspread on the mattress, just an assortment of hand-me-down sheets and thrift-store clearance items and, yes, even the horse blanket that I was conceived upon in a Colorado trailer park three decades ago...

... And I still haven't felt the need to replace the headboard, either. Women just seem to break the damned thing...

But it's home.

* EPILOGUE *

"You know what I miss about fucking Oxford?"

"I dunno. What?"

A random phone call from a former friend of an ex-fling who, well, turned out to be a lot cooler to hang out with after the pair had graduated from the Local U. and the fling ended (as they all do).

She dialed the wrong Jason by mistake. We ended up chatting for a few minutes. Strangely enough, she'd been planning on calling me anyway, to invite me to dinner when she was back int town for Alumni Weekend.

"Your place, the one you used to have on High Street, above the beauty shop..."

"Yeah, that was a cool place, huh?"

"Not really, but it was so... you... ya know?"

"Heh, yeah. The Bat Cave thing?"

"Hahaha! ... You really are a fucking mystery, you know that...? "

I closed the cell at the end of the call, ate a can of smoked oysters for lunch, and did some chin-ups while Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk duked it out with some alien menace on television.

- # # # -