The Microwave Is a Metaphor

THE MICROWAVE IS A METAPHOR
THE MICROWAVE is a metaphor.
A cell phone is a metaphor. The cell phone-–even when it’s not in use; even when it’s turned off and is unable to be in use--is still a metaphor. The dial tone, the busy signal, the little recorded voice inside the cell phone that tells you that the person you were trying to call is not there and to "please-leave-a-message-at-the-beep" is a metaphor. The ringing of the telephone at the dinner table at the dinner hour is a metaphor. The caller I.D. and your own message machine--your own recorded voice that your own callers hear--and the call waiting option are all metaphors. The phone booth on the street is an aging metaphor.
A camera is a metaphor; a video camera is a metaphor. A video camera in the hands of a parent is a metaphor. A video camera in the hands of a parent on Christmas morning is a metaphor.
The incandescent lightbulb is a metaphor; the neon light is a metaphor. The flashlight is a metaphor. The electric cord and the plug and the electric socket outlet are metaphors. The lights in the hallways of the workplaces are a metaphor; the lights in the hallways of the workplaces when everyone has gone home are a metaphor. The street lights on an empty street at three o’clock in the morning are a metaphor. The lights that remain on all night long above the Larry H. Miller new and used car lots (two miles long, a mile wide); the neon lights at the Malone-to-Stockton Connection at the Larry H. Miller car lot. Karl Malone and John Stockton themselves are metaphors. The billboards along the sub-colonial interstate highway five miles away from the parking lot are a metaphor. The billboards directly above the car lot are metaphors. These are all metaphors.
The sports page is a metaphor. The front page is a metaphor. Dear Abby is a metaphor. And the financial pages and the business section. The editorial section. The comics. The obituaries. The page after page and section after section of want ads are all metaphors. The newspaper itself and the weekly news magazines, the news on the television. The radio; talk radio. And the goddam weather. Yes. The goddam weather report is a goddam metaphor.
Many people in the United States of America and in many other industrialized countries around the world never get more than a hundred yards away from their automobiles. Therefore, the car-–the mini-van, in particular; and the Sport Utility Vehicle, especially–-is a metaphor. A new car is a metaphor; a used car is a metaphor. The air conditioning in the car is a metaphor; the tape deck, the CD player, and the speakers and the sound system are a metaphor. The street is a metaphor. A parking lot is a metaphor. Again, the streetlights are a metaphor. Again, the billboard is a metaphor. And the gas pumps. And the little television screens on top of the gas pumps that the drivers of the automobiles can watch while they–-the drivers--refuel their cars: that’s a metaphor. The way the food items and the non-food items in the convenience stores at the gas stations are arranged: a metaphor. The window-sized advertisements covering the window: a metaphor. The aluminum cans of Coca Cola and Pepsi Cola and Mountain Dew that are stacked inside the convenience store where you buy gas: a metaphor. The Stop Sign. The stop signal; even the green light is a metaphor.
The magazine rack at the checkout stand of the grocery store is a metaphor; the magazines themselves with the beautiful faces of the beautiful people: the young people; the beautiful, young, thin people: the women; the men: George Clooney especially is a metaphor, sticking his face (a metaphor) out at me from the glossy cover (a metaphor) of a magazine (a metaphor) with the caption (a metaphor) squeezed there on the page next to the image that proclaims, "SEXIEST MAN ALIVE," an expression of benign confidence (a metaphor) on his face (again, a metaphor) that reveals to the world that he too knows this fact. Many metaphors, all representing the same thing.
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R. C. Willey is a metaphor.
A health spa is a metaphor.
A gun is a metaphor; the Second Amendment is a metaphor.
A job can be a metaphor; not having a job is a metaphor.
A sitting duck is a metaphor.
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Muzak is a metaphor; but even more so, live music that attempts to sound like muzak is a metaphor. The canned laughter; old man jokes. (John Gorka does not tell old man jokes.)
A mastectomy is a metaphor, as is the scar from the incision, the removed nipple, the scraped-out fatty tissue of the limp breast; the loose, hanging flesh of what remains of what was once a breast. Or the tight skin held tight against the rib cage that was once a breast. And four years later, when the second mastectomy is required. That’s a metaphor, a huge, gaping, painful, infuriating metaphor.
A hospital is certainly a metaphor; and the nurses and the doctors and the patients and the visitors; and all the equipment: the beds and the gurneys and the x-rays machines and the needles and syringes and the medicines that go inside the needles and syringes first and are then transferred to the patients (and sometimes to the doctors and the nurses too); and all the equipment that costs so much money--much more money than you or I can even imagine.
All of these are metaphors. And there are more:
But first, back to the grocery store: the conveyor belt at the check-out stand is a metaphor; the checker is a metaphor; the name tag on the checker’s shirt or blouse or whatever is a metaphor; the apron; the smile, the words, "Thank you"; the credit cards and debit machines at the check-out stand; the automated check-out stands are a metaphor: the computerized cash register with the digital numbers is a metaphor; the bar code; and the little paper receipt that says, THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING at . . . fill in the blank; the frozen food aisle; the paper products aisle; the seasonal promotion aisle (Christmas and Easter and Halloween and Valentine’s Day and all the other Days); the aisle with the trial-size shampoo and conditioner and toothpaste; the economy, family-size shampoo and conditioner on another aisle. Mouthwash is a metaphor.
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The earth spins on its axis. The earth revolves around the sun. The earth’s axis is tilted 23½ degrees. The moon orbits the earth. Because of all these beautiful facts, the earth has seasons and days and months and tides. And more. Everything changes, it seems; everything changes, it seems; everything changes; everything.
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Every spring-–though it could just as easily be any season--many people in the United States of America (a metaphor) celebrate the Academy Awards, i.e., they watch them on television: the nominations for the Best Music and the Best Special Effects and the Best Screenplay and the Best Costuming and nearly everything imaginable that is the best: There is the Best Picture award, the awards for Best Actor and Actress (in that order), Best Supporting Actor and Actress (again, in that order), and the Best Director. The ceremony goes on and on, long into the night and under the brightness of many, many incandescent lights. It takes many, many hours to recognize all of the achievements. One day there will be nominations for the Best Key Grip and the Best Gaffer and the Best Boy. These people deserve Academy Awards because they too have become metaphors.