Once, when I was an adorable little fellow with golden curly locks my father showed me an item he pulled out of a box in his basement workshop.
“Know what this is?” he asked.
Now, while I was pretty quick off the mark, I didn’t have a clue about this thing that looked a bit like a school pencil sharpener, complete with little handle. So, I went for the seemingly obvious and indeed suggested a pencil sharpener.
“Nope,” he said, assuming that smug look that older people tend to take on when they have outfoxed an ignorant kid. “It’s a razor-blade sharpener.” He went on to explain that during World War Two, when virtually all steel went to the war-effort, it was virtually impossible to get new razor blades. Therefore, men either returned to old-fashioned straight razors, or they sharpened their disposable blades. He said it wasn’t an ideal situation and people ended up with a lot of nicks and cuts, but it was better than a straight rzor, unless you were planning on cutting your throat.
Anyway, wartime frugality got me to thinking about the realm of excess that we got into in the years that followed the war. Years punctuated by the idea — really until quite recent recessionary times — that bigger and more were always better. That left us with suburban homes that house a three person family but are commodious enough to accommodate an entire Albanian village. At the vehicular end you get the Hummer and the monster pickup trucks that will never haul dirt or tools (would make them messy) but are only showpieces of some sort. A friend of mine dismisses them with: “The bigger the truck, the smaller the owner’s dick.” I suspect he’s right.
And this craving for excess spilled over egregiously into the realm of men’s razors. First off the mark was the two-blade razor that would give a guy a cleaner and closer shave and possibly get him laid more often, is the underlying idea, I suspect. But, a rival company would then see a certain logic in suggesting that if two blades were good, then three would surely be better. Not sure how many blades we’re up to now. Likely 18 or 20. I stick with my old three-bladers, which is ever so much better than two — isn’t it?
But, blades are not enough. We also have cereal.
Even when the weather is warm I like to have hot cereal in the morning. It just kind of starts the day right, and it is good for me, they say. Never been much on cold cereal, except in a pinch, but give me a good bowl of oatmeal or Cream of Wheat and I feel ready to start the day, not to mention morally superior to somebody who scarfed a bowl of Cap’n Crunch.
Now, this morning I asked Wendy if she would like “Seven-Grain Cereal.” She said she would. Moments later I had to disappoint her by saying we only had Five-Grain Cereal. “I hope you won’t miss those extra two grains, though I’m not sure what they are.” She said she’d survive, but feel slightly cheated
Then I got to wondering. We have five-grain, and seven-grain, and even ten-grain cereals. Maybe there’s even a twelve. Why stop there? Why don’t cereal companies enter into an up-the-grains competition with their rivals. You know, if eight grains are good, shouldn’t sixteen grains be twice as good in the old healthy living department? The advantages of 32 grains goes without saying. I suspect we should only be limited by the numbers of actual grain types in the world.
“Try our new 472-grain cereal and we guarantee you immortality!” That’s right, live forever as the health benefits exponentially soar. “Heart attack, Bob? That’s because you were stuck back there in that crappy old unhealthy five-grain world. Look at me, I’m 82 and I just completed the Iron Man in record time.”
Anyway, I’m certainly looking forward to its appearance on my cereal shelves.
