Monday, January 15, 2007

CARS

MACHINEHEAD, or the beauty of Das Auto, which is elsewhere

Erotica for dreams. Automobiles for pieces justificatives, supporting documents. Cars for lifestyle statements. Motorcycles for penile extensions. BMW for breasts. Mercedes Benz for sexual proclivity. Ferrari for charisma. Jaguar for lineage. Corvette for sexual prowess. And Camaro Z-28 for the wanna' be's. America, this is your life!

Plastic flesh, fraudulent statistics, sexual anesthetization, and cars for personality statements -- statements of sophistication, of wealth, of sexual orientation, of verve and animation. Automobiles are marquee events because they offer what the proprietor cannot, or does not, or will not, have -- beauty, "a life," ecstasy. Cars represent the belief that a mechanical transportation device can provide douceur de vivre, the sweetness of life. Vicarial life through a car. Whooooooooeeeeeeeee! Where did we get these guys -- and come over here, you've got to see this to believe it! Ha, ha, ha!

Mannered technology, I call it. It lightens the burden of not having a life, not being able to love, not being able to get laid, being impotent, being frigid, being anti-social, being coversationally handicapped -- not being able to feel love, or to be loved. So in this mannered technology -- in cars -- the Western world attempts to find solace in the insulating symbolism of their preferred automobile manufacturer and model.

Vicarial life: leather seats to caress the buttocks that no human being cares to caress. CD players booming out rap-music to replace the words that one wants to hear: "I love you. You're beautiful to me." Eight cup-holders to restrain the cup, that wets the lips, that never get kissed. Chromed, egregious wheels to substitute for the personality that is insipid. Low-profile tires to catch, grip, and feel the road that has become one's ribbon of life: corrugated, dessicated, lonely, black. Buttons, stalks and panels to provide a semblance of control -- a mere touch and it responds. You turn the key and it responds: it gets turned-on. You hit the brake, and the pace slows. You punch the gas and it presses you back, sexually, and the engine vibrates lubriciously between your thighs -- just like your dildo. The shifter is phallic. The interior is a vaginal cave. It's all you've ever wanted or dreamed of -- but something's wrong. It's not real -- it's not love, or beauty or life.

Obliquity of life. Elastic attitude toward the truth, which is that you haven't got a life, and never will have one. The prestidigitation of mendacity -- lying to one's self. Dull, colorless and boring. The masses are the final tyrants: get a life! Buy a car like mine! The vast primitive power of mediocrity. One's life is so crepuscular and/or uneventful that one attains an emotional truce with one's self. One confuses standard of living with quality of life. So I buy a car. And my life becomes mechanical and predictable. The salesman is my mentor, the mechanic is my marriage counselor. My insurance man is my spiritual advisor. And my banker is my god -- because he makes it all possible.

Cars are a tawdry magician's trick. Lying to one's self carries no vestige of beauty. My car is not the salient me. My VW Golf (I lusted for a BMW 330) is only another way of despairing of the truth: I am not beautiful, and no one loves me.

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