We are in the full swing of an epidemic. It has been going on for years, but most people don’t give it a second thought. Few give it a first thought. Humans are incubators for nasty little diseases, but the worst, the true Silent Killer, is poor taste.
In a democracy, majority rules. This works great when a social group consists mainly of thoughtful people who maintain perspective and appreciate beauty in its myriad forms. When we live in a nation where Ashlee Simpson is a successful musician, however, then there is a serious problem.
The ugly stepchild of tolerance is mediocrity. In the system of government we maintain, it is illegal for me to gun down all the marketing weasels behind “The Biggest Loser” and Paris Hilton, even though the aesthetic and aural improvement would be widespread and immediate. I am forced to see and hear about painfully inane people and events. I cannot simply avoid this stuff; it has taken over all media. I overhear conversations about “The Real World,” and random people seem to think that Jennifer Anniston is interesting enough to talk about. I hear Avril Lavigne, Blink 182, and System of a Down shrieking away on the gym radio while I exercise. The movie theaters are full of sequels to remakes of bad movies—Zorro 2? Are you kidding me?
This disease is attacking all of our senses and, perhaps most heinous of all, our sense of flavor. The marketing machine has convinced most people that fast food is not a contradiction in terms. Seemingly intelligent people admit to shoveling Big Macs into their mouths by choice. Tens of millions think that the chemical waste water they call Pepsi is a refreshing beverage. Restaurants like TGI Fridays, Chili’s, and Applebee’s defy my thesaurus to find an appropriate synonym for mediocre, awful, or soul-stealing, yet they are more successful than truly enjoyable cafés such as A Taste of Greece, The Larkin, and the Plum Blossom.
It is an insidious poison every bit as lethal as a bullet in the brain. Worse than dying, the flare of American culture is being overrun by focus group-driven corporate zombies. Jimi Hendrix replaced by Nelly, “M*A*S*H” replaced by “According to Jim,” The Secret of Nymh replaced by Madagascar, Howard Cosell replaced by Joe Theismann, Walter Cronkite replaced by Wolf Blitzer. The corruption touches every level of our being. Instead of provocation, insight, and subtlety, everything is made to avoid offense, to be less memorable, to be quickly discarded so the next pabulum can be absorbed.
What is the cure? I don’t know. Much like the Soviet sailors of the K-19 nuclear submarine who were given rain jackets to protect them from radiation, we have not been given the means to protect ourselves from the ever-present banality that assaults our senses. I have taken to reading old books, unplugging my television, drinking wine, and listening to old albums from Duran Duran, Depeche Mode, and Morrissey. It helps, but I still know who Lindsay Lohan is and it keeps me awake at night for all the wrong reasons.
