Blunt Wit

So is it just me or is everything there days getting chopped, diced and sliced into ever smaller chunks for our entertainment consumption? Seems like we’ve become a nation of instant gratifiers – give it to me now, give it to me quick, gimme, gimme, gimme.
So back in the good ole days our forefathers had single-moded recreation. They listened to the radio. Or watched TV. Or bowled. Nowadays our diversions stream at us deludgelike and we process information and experiences multi-modally. Meaning, we blog, text, chat, watch Youtube and bowl all at the same time. Television comes at us via snaky cables and ubiquitous satellites with a specific channel for every perversion. The internet fractures our attention even further. We get bombarded with messages like we’re in some sort of primordial multimedia soup.
And back in the day we actually moved our schedule around to accommodate our entertainment and not vice versa. Do you even remember back to the time when you waited for that specific time for your favorite TV show – you know, Thursday night Seinfeld’s. These days with Tivo, YouTube, BitTorrent and internet TV, we watch what we want, when we want to view it. And don’t get me started on lascivious content.
Speaking of which, in the past, our recreation broke distinctly into either high brow or low brow. You either sipped highballs and watched opera or chugged Pabst Blue Ribbon while ogling women wrestling in mud.

Nowadays the demarcation between high and low brow culture has been blurred. Heck I think they’ve even got a mud wrestling opera cable channel now but I could be wrong. At a minimum everything these days gets sexed up. I mean sex sells, yes, but scantily couples hawking toilet paper …

and vacuums …

Jeesh.
And then there’s blogging. Who has time to read – God forbid – a novel. I mean I break out in hives when I see the polysyllabic length of a USA today newspaper. Give me short snippets of wisdom, entertaining nuggets of laughter, in short, give me blogging or give me a lobotomy.
I figure in time our collective attention spans will shorten to that of the common goldfish – which is to say, 3 seconds.
Not what were you saying …

So tell me, what is it about the human species that drives us to pursue extreme experiences? Why do we often invite pain and suffering against our better judgment?
So the other night under an orangy sunset and the warm intimations of summer I drove the whole family down to Baskin Robins for their 31 cent scoop night. Out front, a gaggle of firemen stood eating their ice cream.
“Where’s the fire?” I asked good-naturedly.
The Captain, or a least the self appointed leader of the flock, seemed surprised and deadpanned, “There’s no fire here.” I smiled to lighten the mood. He came round and responded, “We’re just protectin’ the place.” We all laughed. Although, my guess is he won’t be opening any comedy clubs soon.
The next day I wandered into my newest, favoritest eatery, Firehouse Subs. Apparently started by a couple of firemen, the place had old axes and oxygen tanks hanging on the wall, which I guess would come in handy if it ever caught fire.
Also on the wall to the right hung a plaque of small individual pictures of all the town’s firemen, including the crew from the night before. All over the room fire engine red chairs sat nestled up to Dalmatian spotted table tops. I hadn’t come here for the subs, although I will admit they taste good. I had come for the sauces. (cue ominous music.)
Like a dangerous police line-up, there were (and I counted them precisely) fifty bottles of various chili laden hot sauces on the counter behind which the faux firemen prepared my sub. Each bottle kindly wore a pasted-on white tag with a hand-written number denoting their relative heat index.
To the wimpy left stood “Melinda’s Habanero Pepper Sauce” at a measly 3. Next to that, also a 3, stood “Bee Sting Honey ‘n Habenero”. After several more came my personal favorite, “Georgia Peach and Vidalia Onion Hot Sauce” at a respectable 5. After several more stood “Contempt of Court” at 6 followed by “Elvis I’m all Shook Up” with the King himself on the bottle’s label at a 7. Now at the far right stood “Pain 100%” at 10 with just two bottles to the right of it. So I grabbed those two bottles and my favorite Vidalia Peachy and sat down at one of the 1001 tables. After my sub arrived, I embarked on my adventure.
I slathered my sandwich with the Peachy sauce. Then, to add a little umph, I sprinkled some “Spontaneous Combustion” (a simple 10) on to it. The back of the bottle read “For the pyromaniac who says nothing is too hot for me.” Well, one bite and I cried (from happiness.) It felt as if someone had used my tongue like a strop to sharpen one of those old fashion razors. Within seconds I had lost all sense of taste. I might as well have been eating rocks and hay for all I knew. After three cups of iced tea, my mouth simmered down enough for me to open the very bottle that had been mocking me every time I had ever stepped into this infernal shop – “Dave’s Ultimate Incendiary” at a whopping 10+++ (this link is hilarious). Determined to lick it, I poured some on the second half of my sub and proceed to chomp down.
Sweat beaded instantly on my forehead. My mouth practically exploded in scorching pain. I puffed mushroom clouds. Who says you need fissle material for a nuclear reaction. I downed 5 cups of tea and still could not cool down the meltdown in my mouth. I rushed to the bathroom mirror to check if my tongue were still attached. I didn’t recognize it. Swollen, it looked like a red sea cucumber.
I then glanced at the label to find the following warning: Use this product one drop at a time. Keep away from eyes, pets and children. Not for use by people with respiratory problems.
So as I write this my tongue still hurts and I think I might have lit upon an answer for the questions I set out at the beginning of this odyssey.
I seek out extreme experiences to prove to myself that I’m alive. I torment myself because I alone have earned that privilege. I hunger for the full range of human experience because in a flash it’ll be gone. I’ll be gone. Possibly cremated into happy ashes. That, in essence, will be my ultimate incendiary.