I think I have it: the New York Times is engaging in post-structuralist satire of the hyper-consumerist excesses forced by behavioural evidence of selfish gene theory. Otherwise, I can't explain this.

"Deborah A. Sullivan, a sociology professor at the School of Social and Family Dynamics at Arizona State University, said that people who feel forced to forgo cosmetic medicine might experience a loss of control in their lives. "I think it will intensify the sense of downward mobility: 'I can't even get my wrinkles treated' "

See, I thought they were serious until I read this.

Maidei Kunaka grinds the animal feed she earns in exchange for her labor on a nearby ostrich farm — an unappetizing amalgam of wheat, soy bean, sand and what she calls "green stuff" — to nourish her three children.

"It's not tasty, but we at least have something in our stomachs," she said

Oh, come the fuck ON!

I'm procrastinating, and I thought I'd find out more about the man who felt it was time to connect with his family and eschew ostentatious display by telling the New York Times about frozen hamburgers on silver trays.

It seems he is also a superhero. That's right: he has a power that no other human being possesses. He can smell anything, anywhere, anytime. The downside is that he can be brought low by gardenias, which seems to be why he hasn't made headlines stopping bank robbers.

He does wear a scarf as a secret identity, though.

In these tough economic times, it is important to re-evaluate. Think about whether you really need to spend money on the inessential. Consider all the consequences; not get into debt for no real reason. Deleverage, if I have used the stupid word correctly.

And all this is cool with me. What is less cool is rich people being fucking douchebags about this. Here is a story about how people are now conspicuously not consuming. Which from one perspective, I suppose, could be seen as a beautiful display of community with the commonalty. From another, it could be seen as exactly the same impulse to vainglorious self exposure that prompted the conspicuous flaunting of crystal-encrusted diamond caviar tongs and beds made entirely out of torn up hundred dollar bills.

My favourite quotes:

Harry Slatkin, the founder of Slatkin & Co., a home fragrances company, said he and his wife, Laura, recently canceled a 50th birthday party for her at a Four Seasons hotel. Instead, they plan to have a party at home, with defrosted White Castle cheeseburgers served on silver trays. "It's not time to have splashy birthday parties," Slatkin said. "It's a time to stay home, spend time with friends and connect."

Or this:

He cited a story from an Audi dealer: a buyer of an S4 high-performance sedan requested the nameplate be removed, "so only the person who really knew what they were looking at," he said, "would know what it is."

That's it: let's hit the barricades.

I have a friend who plays bridge. We tease him about this. Not too much, because I am all too aware that my complete collection of Frank Miller comics and Iain Banks novels is possibly opening me to charges of nerditude. Just possibly.

But after he showed me some of his rivals, I have come to believe that bridge has some kind of physical effect.

The world number one and Australia's number one, for example. But here's the thing: I bet I would enjoy hanging out with these guys. Up until they beat me at bridge, and I overturn the table in a blind rage.

Don't mess with me, I have particularly potent voodoo powers.

BEHOLD.

Oh, fellow children of the 80's, mourn with me: a little piece of Roadhouse has died. Sadly, it was not Patrick Swayze, but let's all just be grateful it wasn't Wade Garrett.

There's a part in High Fidelity that points out for pop culture obsessives, it's not what someone's like, but what they like, that determines whether you're going to get along.

I used to believe this so firmly that if someone mentioned enjoying, say, the Spice Girls, I would immediately break up with them and never call again. Sorry, Jen. BUT YOU CAN'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU.

Ahem.

I got older, discovered the joys of singing Bon Jovi in a darkened room with a crew of other drunken idiots, and loosened up a little. To the point where people can freely mention their desire to go see Meet The Spartans and I conspicuously fail to batter them to death with all the immediately available loose objects to hand.

I'm holding on to two things, though. Not so much as a discriminating factor of to whom I condescend; more as a "someone who enjoys this cannot take themselves seriously enough to be a total asshole, all the time". The only remaining uncertainty for me is whether you have to read them as a kid to enjoy them as an adult.

1. The Princess Bride: I accept both the novel and the movie.

2. Bridge of Birds: I bet you never even heard of this.

That second one requires both a) a sense of humour and b) the ability to find hard to find books. Sure, it's unrestrained orientalism/chinoiserie, but it's solid gold. Assuming you are comfortable with prolepsis as defined in the book. Most of the poetry is even real. Go on, buy a copy, then let me know if we're still friends.