An Open Letter to Whoever Abandoned the Semi-crushed VCR in Our Back Alley,
So … it went on for about a month, I’d say. That semi-crushed VCR just sitting there, in its semi-crushed box, abandoned in our back alley, and no one coming along to claim it, to rescue it.
No one’s going to want that, I thought. Even in our neighbourhood, where culture arrives exclusively in the form of tattoos and misheard expletives, no one has any semi-crushed copies of Rambo or Cobra or even Rocky III that they want to see anymore. I’d say they’ve moved on. I’d say the consensus is that Sylvester Stallone and Brigitte Nielsen and even Mr. T (!) have nothing left to teach us anymore. That they’re just decadent, monosyllabic spectacles from an embarrassing decade.
Full disclosure: I’ve never seen Rambo. I know Brian Dennehy is in it. He’s good. He does a lot of theatre now, that guy. And I know Stallone has that line about ‘pushing me’, and where that leads. Seems like the kind of movie that would be perfect for a semi-crushed VCR, if you ask me.
I don’t know, maybe it’s another technology thing. Maybe nobody watches semi-crushed VHS tapes at all anymore. Maybe everyone’s into DVD’s now, or even semi-crushed Blu-Ray.
Or maybe it *is* the semi-crushed thing. To be honest, we already have a lot of semi-crushed stuff in our neighbourhood: semi-crushed toys, semi-crushed shopping carts, semi-crushed bottles, semi-crushed dog shit, semi-crushed cigarette butts, semi-crushed spiders, semi-crushed squirrels, semi-crushed front doors, semi-crushed roofs, semi-crushed garages, semi-crushed fences, semi-crushed lawn ornaments, semi-crushed housing prices, semi-crushed childhoods, semi-crushed hopes, semi-crushed dreams, semi-crushed attempts at post-secondary education, semi-crushed marriages, semi-crushed employment histories, semi-crushed credit scores, semi-crushed relationships with local law enforcement, semi-crushed attempts at parenting, semi-crushed promises to stay away from solvents, semi-crushed efforts at not yelling obscenities in the street, semi-crushed psyches …
I could go on. But all I’ve ever wanted is an ending for this bit of performance art or public theatre or whatever you want to call it, for that semi-crushed VCR to go back to whatever semi-crushed hole it crawled out of, so we can all get back to our semi-crushed lives.
And then one day it was gone. “It’s gone,” I said to C, in that higher tone of disbelief.
“No it’s not,” she said. “Someone just moved it around the corner.”
Nicely done, I thought. Nicely done.