What do we want? What drives us? Why do we do what we do? As a self-proclaimed intellectual and sometime poet, I like those sorts of questions. Or I tell myself I should like them, which is basically the same thing.
I encountered Maslov's hierarchy of needs in a psychology class when I was fourteen: Food. Shelter. Love. Respect. Self-actualization. The pyramid wraps things up rather nicely. There is some irony, of course, in a schematic that identifies "eliminating prejudice" as an ultimate goal explicitly privileging those who are able to eliminate prejudice. Thus, by being less prejudiced, I am better than everyone else who… uh. Hm.
Anyway, recently, I've discovered an undeniably more fitting schematic. It's democratic; it's primal; it's beautiful. Better yet, it's unabashedly capitalistic. It is not at all shy about privileging those of us who have the internet, have credit cards, have some disposable income.
Amazon's bestsellers: the ever-changing consumer bible. I'm particularly fond of reading the Home and Garden section--while not everyone wants a Kindle or a new digital camera, most internet users have at least some interest in small appliances and soap. So I figure that the Home and Garden section is a unique window into the fluctuating popular hunger. The wants of Everyman.
So what do we want?
As of 9 p.m. tonight, we want the Aroma Cordless Water Kettle, which Nietzsche (Eduardo, that is, not Friedrich) calls "visually attractive AND functionally satisfying." Even more, we want the Black & Decker 4-slice Toast-R-Oven, about which Tanya R. Golding raves, "Wow to get what you want and not have to pay a high price! Woohoo!!"
But most of all, we want a small, t-shaped, handheld bit of plastic We want an ergonomic handle and a stainless steel edge. We want an "innovative grooming tool for long- and short-haired dogs and cats." We want the large FURminator deShedding Tool--only $11.65, with free shipping from Amazon Prime.
With 2,700 5-star reviews, how could I not be convinced? I've just got to have a FURminator. The cat can come later.
