Living in the Age of Spectacle: The Opiate of the Masses

It’s been a rough couple weeks out in social media land, hasn’t it? Lessons learned thus far: hundreds of American school kids get reduced to disposable statistics of gun violence every year, but one white Christian nationalist who actively endorsed the utility of such violence? Martyred. Meanwhile, the Western world melts down when a white, unfunny male comedian suddenly disappears from TV as a result of censorship, yet scrolls past two years of bombed-out bodies in the Middle East—until they're fed a product, or some wellness-capitalist platitude that makes them feel something, anything at all. And then, to top it off, pregnant women popping Tylenol is a no-no because apparently it can pass on a little 'tism. Something tells me Dr. Oz will be coming up with the antidote, but I can't be 100% sure. Capitalists gotta capitalize, after all.

Which brings me to my next big idea: funeral merch is the future. Forget legacy. At my funeral, I want pyrotechnics and product-lines. When I die, you can bet your ass my kids will be hawking miniature, gold-plated statues of my (pre-baby) naked body for $139.99 a pop—collectible, tragic, and perfectly absurd. Mourn me in style, baby. For an extra $49.99, you can snag tiny limited-edition coffins bedazzled with hand-glued replicas of my teeth (always admired, obviously). I want sexy little shirts with my sexy little face on them, preferably with the perfect head-tilt. Let’s go all out. Pour it back into my estate. Let’s make my brand bigger than life… even in death.

On a serious note, if you couldn't already tell, my coping mechanism for all this insanity is satire. Without it, I start to spiral, wondering what the point of authenticity is when the very society we crave to belong to is a spectacle designed to keep us distracted while real suffering goes unnoticed. I don’t mean myself—I’ll be fine, if a little alienated—but when I think of the people who don’t have the luxury of escaping pain through modern-day capitalist spiritual bypasses, mental acrobatics, or sheer dissociation, it hits differently.

I really feel like I'm not on the right planet sometimes, but alas...