There was a John Carpenter movie back in the 1980s, poorly acted but with an interesting dystopian premise, called They Live. In it, Rowdy Roddy Piper, a former professional wrestler, played a man who acquires a pair of sunglasses that allow him to see past the facade that the rest of humanity sees, to the ugly truth beneath. In the film, a race of aliens has taken over earth, and they are bombarding subliminal messages from every direction that say things like "stay asleep," "consume," and "obey." With the glasses on, Piper sees the true identities of the aliens, with their un-lidded eyes and skinless faces peeking out of their human suits they wear to walk among us. He can read the billboards and television messages for what they really are, commands to the human sheep to be led willingly, never to question authority, to keep buying into the destructive behavior. I tried watching this movie last year, for the first time since it was brand new, and didn't make it through the whole thing (much as I love John Carpenter movies, the acting was that bad). But even from my initial viewing back in college, that story stuck with me. I have often felt like I have a pair of those glasses, and sometimes I brace myself and put them on. It's very difficult to stomach seeing past the flashy advertising to the ugliness and malice underneath, and I can't handle doing it for very long. It's so much easier to accept our version of reality at face value, but it's more empowering to seek the truth.
I drove back from running errands this afternoon, and saw a mobile lighted sign, the kind they use for traffic alerts, set up on my route, pointing out parking for a carnival that is currently set up. I didn't see the carnival (didn't look too hard), and I am not likely to go searching for it. But that is what got me thinking about They Live. I had wondered what it would be like to be a child again, to care about lights and calliope music and cotton candy. I don't remember being all that enthusiastic about traveling carnivals, but surely at some point of my childhood, I must have. There must have been a time that I didn't care about safety records, grifters, ticket prices, or old oil in the funnel cake fryer. If I asked my mother, will she remember taking me to carnivals, where I was more excited to be there than I was grossed out by the reality behind the colored lights? The closest I can recall to relaxing and having fun in that sort of setting was last summer, when I drove up to Myrtle Beach to meet my friends, and we took their kids to the boardwalk carnival that was permanently attached to Margaritaville. Maybe it really is just me. Maybe I am a stick in the mud.
I feel like I carry around this Debbie Downer albatross on my neck every time I think about food anymore. I've always been cynical about food advertising, but in the last year or two, it has come to seem incredibly nefarious to me. I can't look at the names, colors, smiling faces of mothers feeding "food" to children, without getting very upset anymore. There are a lot of days I wish I could take the glasses off, and go back to that happy ignorance about food. But I've passed the point of no return, years and years ago. No more consuming. And definitely no more obeying.
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