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Catalogue MeJune 17, 2007 Take an inventory of the catalogues on my little four-shelf mail table and you can figure out a fair amount about me, most of it pretty accurate. The bottom shelf is all horse catalogues. The next shelf up is clothing -- Deva, Marketplace of India, Vermont Country Store, and several flavors of L.L. Bean. The next shelf up from that (second from the top) is miscellaneous: Ladyslipper for women's music CDs and calendars, Fahrney's for pens, the Syracuse Cultural Workers for politically and/or culturally rowdy buttons, bumper stickers, and note cards, Levenger mostly for pens but also to drool over office supplies and furniture that I would buy if space and money were no object, and Peet's Coffee & Tea, which I rarely look at these days because I finally admitted that "my usual" hadn't changed in more than a year and sprang for a standing order. Now they ship me a pound of Assam Golden Tip and a pound of Yunnan Fancy every three months. At the West Tisbury post office I glimpse the wider world of catalogues. The ones that land in my mailbox usually bear some relationship to the catalogues on my shelves, but a few show up because of one anomalous purchase. Colorado Cyclist, for instance, probably assumes that friends of cyclists are apt to be cyclists too, or wannabe cyclists, or pre-cyclists, or non-cyclists who want to pass for Tour de France groupies. Fair assumption, but in this case no sale: I ride occasionally, but my only special equipment is a bright red helmet, which I bought in Vineyard Haven. So Colorado Cyclist and nearly all the other hopeful catalogues wind up in the recycle bins thoughtfully provided by the p.o. I've been horse-sitting the last few days. Horse-sitting provides opportunities to live other people's lives, at least their horse lives. You learn how they organize their spaces and their routines; what they feed and what they read (especially if you're staying in their house). This is how I recently learned that my catalogues are penny ante stuff. Sitting on my lap right this minute is a catalogue that -- if only I had enough money and storage space -- practically guarantees that I could live forever. It offers products that promise not only to optimize the functioning of my limbs, joints, and bodily systems but to fix whatever's bugging my brain. Boost your memory and energy levels. Stay sharp and help improve your concentration. Help promote a positive mental outlook. Maximize your mental alertness. Here's a book about the Fat Burning Diet. "You will discover," says the blurb, in a burst of unqualified assertiveness that is rare in this catalogue, "a natural way of eating that can provide you with a never-ending supply of energy. You may find yourself enthusiastically leaping out of bed and never having to slow down until bedtime." Rather a daunting prospect, thought I, till I flipped to the pages of products that promise to promote restful sleep and keep my cardiovascular system from getting too stressed out. "Is your mood in the dumps?" I'm asked, and even "Does your head feel like it's ready to explode?" If enthusiastically leaping out of bed causes a collision with the ceiling, I can keep my head from exploding (at least as long as 30 tablets last). Raising one's mood from the dumps seems a less daunting project: $9.87 buys 90 capsules -- one isn't told, however, how many capsules and tablets you're meant to take daily. Whatever the measure, capsules, caplets, tablets, softgels, tea bags, or ounces -- nothing comes in pills anymore -- the recommended quantity is rarely given. If you want to "tune up your prostate and bladder," which is the better deal? (A) 100 capsules for $7.95; (B) 60 softgels for $10.97; or (C) 45 tablets for $9.94. At first glance, $19.57 seems exorbitant for 60 capsules, but who knows? It's been "extensively researched" and it includes stinging nettle, which has to be good for you: another product that contains it promises to help support respiratory and sinus health. OK, so I'm not in the market for prostate relief, and Horny Goat Weed isn't likely to do me much good either, but the very next page promises menopausal moi relief from "raging hormones" not to mention "hot flashes, night sweats, and irritability." I missed raging hormones the first time around and it looks as if they're going to pass me by this time too -- unless my occasional bursts of rage at, e.g., the Bush administration, mealy-mouth liberals, and sexist pigs on AlterNet are less about being pissed off and more about hormones? Nah, probably not, and in any case I don't want any softgel to deprive me of a good rant. And while we're at it, given a choice between hot flashes and the anxiety provoked by the possibility of tampon leakage, I much prefer the former. But I am glad to know that there's an iron-free multi-vitamin out there for 45-Plus Women: "Six tablets daily combined with a lifetime of regular exercise and a healthy diet may reduce the risk of osteoporosis later in life." Huh? Six tablets -- a $22.87 bottle contains 180 tablets, making this a 30-day supply -- may "reduce the risk of osteoporosis later in life" combined with a lifetime of regular exercise and a healthy diet? Granted, 76 cents a day is not a big investment, but do I really need the pills? And if I've spent half a lifetime getting irregular exercise and living on genetically modified foodstuffs fried in trans fatty oil and garnished with chocolate, can the pills save me? I'm probably not going to order anything from this catalogue, though I feel a little guilty about depriving Rhodry of "the nutrient which will lubricate [his] joints for healthier tomorrows," not to mention the "tasty chewable tablet" that will give him the "specific nutrition" he "may be lacking in [his] senior years." He'd almost certainly prefer the latter to the cheap glucosamine-chondroitin pills I buy at the drug store and wrap in thin slices of cheddar so he'll eat them. (The cheddar, he concedes, is pretty tasty.) What fascinates me about this catalogue is the writing. It's brilliant. With carefully chosen words and adroit juxtaposition of sentences, it manages to make product after product sound like the answer to all your prayers without actually promising that the product will do anything. In marked contrast, your average pol on the campaign trail promises you lower taxes, improved services, and assorted cures for what ails you -- but doesn't deliver on any of it. Lies are easy. What this catalogue manages is far more challenging: it promises nothing, but the reader feels that promises have been made. Strunk, White, and numerous other literary guides and mentors took up residence in my head long ago. Clarify, clarify, clarify! they keep saying. Do you need this word? Wouldn't that one be better? Do you mean this? Is it true? Writing is both truth serum and lie detector. Most the time I recognize crap, BS, half truths, and self-delusions as soon as they hit screen or paper; the rest of the time it takes a little longer. My internal editor doesn't tolerate crap, BS, or half truths, and she balks at encouraging delusions, her own or anyone else's. This is probably why she so readily recognizes and even appreciates mastery of the delusionary arts. I really do have to return this catalogue before anyone notices it's missing.
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