The Brand
Giving Tommy Hisfinger
I’m all wound up like the Duracell bunny with no place to just do it. I want to give Tommy Hisfinger but I don’t want to start a panic. It seems like these people are trying to brand me with a small alligator. I too, “know my needs”, Ricardo, and it has nothing to do with a Cordoba. It’s more like a brand new Nubira from Daewoo. I just like saying that. The car does nothing for me. In fact most cars do nothing for me. When I want sex, I don’t thumb through new car catalogues. I go for “yeah, baby” Victoria’s Underwear!
I’m always impressed by how much gold chain rappers have to wear. It has the same effect on me as seeing an ornamental tattoo on a holocaust survivor. O.K. it’s a free country and all, but if you want to distinguish yourself why wouldn’t you just shave your head and wear prison stripes. People would notice. Especially if you’re a bit anorexic.
I’m simply not buying in to the premise that other people are impressed if I spent an obscene number of Euros for a mere hint of fabric to cover my nudity. Versace me, so I can walk a runoff with Zoolander at St. Bart’s waterfront. Inundate me with J-Lo posters in a thirty peso panama weave that, because it hangs on Front St. is suddenly worth something the itinerant peasant will never imagine, or see. J will get her cut of course. Am I to trade my next Cherry kitchen for the chance that this week, right now even, I can be..... “like hello”! Just get me a palm frond to cover my member ship in the public domain, the rest of me can be wide open. The way they do it on the other side of the Island. Did you ever notice how naked guys always stand at the nude beach? They put their hands on their hips! A totally arrogant posture that says “here I am, I’m naked, deal with it!”
The aspect of advertising I hate the most is the affront to my intelligence. What does Rolex have over the generic Asian chip. The one that whispers the split between $3.95 real time and a $15,000 fashion statement. I can picture all the guys at the Rolex Cup pounding into the waves lined up on the rail of a hundred million dollar effort to shave thirty seconds off last year’s boat model when Mr. Rolex does a fly over and holds up a sign that says “show us the Rolex”.
The bemused sailors do a frantic search and come up with a message board that says “it’s being polished”. You don’t have to polish a plastic watch. It doesn’t care. It’s impervious to water, never tarnishes, keeps time in six zones, tells you what the moon is doing and has an alarm to remind you that this could be the day you get lucky with your girl friend. The GPS model even tells you when your off your game. Oops. Wrong Bar!
Martha took the blush off the rose, from the inside. Can you believe it? Some people never have enough. Poor little rich bich. The thought of losing the K-mart account drove her to do it. Calvin warned her to keep the razor blades out of the mirror aisle, to stick to the fabric and plant thing and stay away from where the boys play with fast and loose. I have to tell you Martha, I make my own art, and it’s not for sale.
I came through the airport in San Juan with a mirror in a really nice wood frame. I made the frame myself. Cherry, with a satin finish. Everyone looked twice to see if I would take out a razor blade every time I sat down. I kept apologizing profusely. “Excuse me, I have a mirror.” As if they didn’t notice. One TSA guy looks at the mirror and says “Coke?” out loud. Everyone turned to look. “Not me man, unlike Winona, I don’t do BRANDS!”
The clerk at the Tanzanite shop put the whole phenomenon into perspective for me. “How much is the woman worth to you? A carat? A carat and a half?”
I blurted out “half that.” “But make it zirconium silicate. It looks much bigger at night, under the sheets.”
“Like the rest of the package?” she retorted.
I’m half american. I live in the best half to be sure, though I’m not native. I mean when my ancestors came to America they were talking about the portion above 49 degrees north latitude. That’s Canada to most of you, but They are American. They also must resent the way, we, here in the United States, declare that we are American. People from Guatemala are American. People from Chile are American. Peruvians are American. Where do we get off calling them Mexicans and Canadians. They are Americans. Along with the Sioux, the Cherokee and the Utes. Now they’re the true Americans. We branded them Indians. Who’s confused? They didn’t have a name for the Continent. We could have told them anything. We could have branded them Nahuatlanians. It would have been a bit closer to the truth.
I did the calculation. OHMYGOD that’s an obscene markup. Juanita was making 0.02 Guatemalan Pesos, Demitri made .06 Drachmas for shipping, and it’s being marketed in St. Barts for 80 Euros! There is no way I’m gonna wear that garment with the tag on the outside. I’d rather wear something from Wally World with a moose embroidered over the breast pocket, and an action stripe diagonally across the front.
It’s not that I want a bigger piece of the fashion pie. I just don’t want to be suckered into giving Jenny or Liz a premium for running a sweat shop and working the spread between equal rights.....and justice. Brand? When the product comes from Bengladesh? What brand are you?