Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
Somehow, that classic example of
old-school marketing manages to encapsulate the entirety of human existence
in only seven words. It's all there: the first breath of being, the struggle
for freedom, the happy ending. You can be sure the slogan was featured
prominently on the first glossy brochure for America, right above the smiling
Native American clip-art. "Tired of listening to the King drone on about
crumpets - come to America! Lots in Phase One of The New World subdivision
are going fast!"
Thomas Jefferson, Strom Thurmond, and the rest our pine-toothed forefathers
showed remarkable foresight when they added "the pursuit of happiness"
to our national motto. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking at the
time, but the eternal quest for a wicked excellent time remains a uniquely
American luxury. Think about it: The rest of the earth's population is doomed by geographical happenstance to a never-ending cycle of ethnic
skirmishes, religious wars and bloody border disputes. Here in the
colonies, we spend our days designing novelty hats that allow us to
drink two beers at once.
For most US citizens, the shortest path to constitutional happy-land is
buying stuff. And the bliss du 'jour is the new Ford Enormo XL,
the world's largest Sports Utility Vehicle. It's hard to resist the raw power
and superiority promised by this pile of metal and rubber. After watching the
commercial, you can easily imagine yourself behind the giant wheel of your
very own gas-guzzling behemoth. There you are, perched high atop a mountain
ledge, the wild wind in your hair, every inch of your being energized
by the realization that you are stuck on a mountain with no way down.
Alas, material-based happiness, even the type with butt-warming leather seats,
has an expiration date. In this case, the feeling of beatific one-ness wears
off the first time some guy pulls up next to you in his Chevy Colossus XXL -
which is (the gods be damned!) three inches bigger than your assault vehicle.
SUV envy! This affront to your road warrior status compels you to immediately
buy the Honda Humongus XXXL, and so on. Meanwhile, off on a secluded island,
Alan Greenspan is lying naked on a bed of rose petals while leggy supermodels
fan him with the latest consumer confidence index.
For our economic system to operate at peak efficiency, your chosen method of
getting happy must also stimulate Wall Street's erogenous zones. For example,
if your personal path to enlightenment is lined with pasta makers, flat
televisions, and rollerblade actionwear, you are a model citizen. If,
however, your idea of achieving inner-contentment involves the consumption
of suspect combustibles while listening to bootleg Phish tapes, you're a
threat to society. This exquisite logic is called the War on Drugs. A better
name might be the War on Unsanctioned Happiness.
Still, not all lifestyle-enhancing compounds are illegal. And that's where
the confusion sets in. Luckily, concerned citizens seeking up to date
information on whether they are righteous or reprehensible need only monitor
network television for the latest sactioned pills and powders. While local
laws may differ, it's safe to say that Americans are within their rights to grow hair, fall asleep, wake up,
lose weight, and stop "acid reflux." (There's even one with Bob Dole that promises to make
you . . . well, never mind.)
Oddly enough, you can watch TV all night and never see an ad for a
drug that promises to makes you laugh. Apparently it's OK to be skinny,
hairy and amorous as a bull moose, but gigglers will always fall under
suspicion. Which leaves us with the anti-drug campaign with the
petulent Gen-x'er who tests out her frying pan by whacking it against the
refrigerator. I have no idea what that's all about. But I do have an
uncontrollable desire to buy new cookware. Maybe there is hope for me yet.
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