I love possessions. There are things in my house that I love more than most of the people I know (but do not want to know). Oh, I know, we have all been effectively brainwashed into believing that loving our possessions is wrong and that unstoppable thing-hugging should not be mentioned on Facebook. That it is not only politically-incorrect to touch your stuff and stroke it but, much worse, biblically-incorrect. "Thou shall not covet thy iPhone or hole-y skinny jeans! Blasphemy!" Right. As if heaven and iPhones don't match. As if there are no CDs in heaven that I can use as a mirror when I'm six feet under. Give me a break and go sit on a horse. Possessions rock. One look at my hard-earned deluxe comic book collection and you know what I'm talking about. Wait! I said, "Look." I did not say, "Touch." It's great to finally be able to say that to somebody else. Usually it's what I am told or tell myself when I'm about to explore all things nature in my bathtub.
Unfortunately, bald and handsome Captain Picard may not have been far off the mark when he pointed out ever so eloquently that the millennium you and I now live in is the one in which all of us are slowly but surely saying adios to our possessions, and it's not like we have any say in it. One word: music. There was a time, a happy time, a nexus time, when you would buy your favorite songs (those black vinyl disks the size of a luscious pie) in a record store. Then you would go home and be impressed by the artwork that someone had obviously put a lot of effort into. Your collection rocked. It felt like being wrapped in joy. Then everything got shrunk to the size of a CD and, unlike me in my tub, you needed a microscope to find the artwork. Why?! (Imagine an impressive echo.) Whyyyyyyy? Little did you know that things would get much, much worse. In spite of the seeming return of vinyl, we're now heading toward a world in which your music collection is in fact somebody else's collection and all you've got is a lame subscription giving you access to a bunch of, well, links. That's it? Yeah, that's it. Say it ain't so. I just did.
The same can be said about movies, your favorite series, and books. They won't be yours. They will be somebody else's. In a sense, life is becoming one gigantic video store or library and all you've got to show for is a digital membership card to take a quick peek. That's the future, my friends, and it's not like you've got a choice. I know, you can download books and movies and call them your own, but that's just a bunch of ones and zeros. It's like owning a digital Van Gogh. Would you say that's the real deal? My five-pound Spider-man omnibus... now, that is the real thing. A digital version of the same book really is not. Mind you, I'm not opposed to digital books. I just want to have a choice, is all. But with the whole world hating paper so much (because of those poor trees) while feeling great and not guilty at all about charging their tenth iPhone twice a day (because that's good for the environment), I don't think that's going to happen any day soon. Smoking is bad for you and so is real stuff.
Well, they can go sit on a horse.
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|Did I say, "Penis"?|