WHAT IS IT ABOUT THE USELESS THAT WE FIND SO CAPTIVATING?

Saturday, November 30, 2002

Did you all have a nice Buy Nothing Day Friday?

Oh dear, missed it, did you? Friday was the 10th anniversary of the first Buy Nothing Day in 1992, brought to you each year by the Adbusters Media Foundation, and dedicated to the proposition that if you buy stuff for the holidays you ought to feel really, really guilty.

Well now, there, there, never mind. Thanks to the fact that I actually bought something from a mail-order catalog last year, I have a great Christmas list of things Nobody Buys culled from the foot-and-a-half of catalogs I've stacked up this buying season. You can draw on it if any of those grinches tries to guilt-trip you.

I thought we'd start with the illuminated ice cubes. They come in a set of six, in blue, white, green or red, and for $21.95 the set, the nonreplaceable lithium batteries will keep them lit for up to 12 hours.

``In addition to chilling drinks,'' says the Hammacher Schlemmer catalog, they ``can be used for an unusual decorative illumination in a pool or spa.''

Six ice cubes in a pool? Do be serious.

Now, if the technology for the illuminated ice cubes were married to the technology for the battery-free flashlight -- you shake it for 30 seconds to get five minutes of light -- it would be slightly more practical. Though I'm not certain what cocktail-party dress would be appropriate for the hostess who has to swim laps in her pool every five minutes to shake the ice cubes.

The criterion here is not extravagance; it's uselessness. I have nothing against extravagance, at least as practiced by other people. I myself have neither the income nor the inclination to wear haute couture clothing, to drive a car worth as much as a house, or to live in a house worth as much as the gross national product of a small Caribbean tax haven. If people who do have the money want to spend it that way, though, it's no business of mine.

I do wonder, though, about who would buy a $1,600 replica of an antique popcorn cart that pops six quarts of popcorn every three minutes. Does anybody need that much popcorn? And if you do, wouldn't the $1,000 countertop model serve the purpose?

In one of those magazines for people devoted to conspicuous consumption, I saw a fawning article about a society hostess who had her Thanksgiving tablecloth expensively embroidered every year with the names of her guests in their own handwriting. I can't decide which would be worse; to be someone who thought that would be impressive, or to have to spend time with people who were impressed.

A lot of the catalog offerings feature technological wizardry applied in nonsensical ways. You can buy an umbrella that lights up. Talking picture frames, or talking photo Christmas-tree ornaments. Motorized tie racks, for men who have 72 ties and need to look at them in a dark room. An automatic watch winder. A programmable hat, which scrolls 10 pre-selected messages or allows you to compose your own. Business cards with free tattoos. A toaster oven that you can use in the car; the catalog calls it ``a traveling pizzeria.'' A microwave flower press.

In this company, the nativity carousel -- powered by six candles -- is rather sweet, even if it appears in a catalog that blares, ``It's a miracle -- gifts under $20.''

I don't believe in miracles, but I have more respect than that for people who do.

The catalog offering an 80-acre amusement park in Arkansas, or a 67-foot Ferris wheel for $300,000, must know it's over the top, right?

There's a vast category of stuff you can buy to help you solve the problems that come along with your other stuff. A fake security camera. A personal-sized concrete mixer. A tote bag for storing your tote bags.

The catalog copy is as weird as the merchandise. Pre-lighted Christmas trees ``to save your family the aggravation of waiting for you to string the lights.'' A 4-foot helium-filled blimp that drops plastic bombs on a target. The helium lasts for weeks and ``can be easily refilled by a trip to the nearest party store.'' Right.

I end with the ``Sno-baller,'' a ``14-inch plastic wonder tool'' ensuring you will ``never again experience the frustration of lumpy, icy snowballs and soggy mittens.''

What is the country coming to, when kids need a gizmo to make snowballs?

Perhaps the Buy Nothing cranks have a point.