Jerusalem Syndrome - Marc Maron [27]
The doctor says, “You know, this is the third time this month with the angina, Bob. You gotta quit smoking.”
“What are you kidding? Look where I work.”
The doctor takes a long drag off his butt and responds,
“You don’t gotta tell me, Tiger. I’ve been here for seventeen years. I’m just a little luckier than you.”
After the tour we are led into what I like to call “the temple room” of the Philip Morris plant. It was a small theater where I had the corporate revelation. They had borrowed the illusion-making magic from the Jews in Hollywood to create a film presentation illuminating the mythic power of Philip Morris.
At that point in my life I understood abstract conspiracy theory and the evil momentum. I had no real concept of how corporations worked. I didn’t know that corporations could own other corporations. That they all linked together to create the malignant mesh of commerce that now envelops the planet. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t strong enough to fight anymore.
The lights go down and the film begins. An authoritative but friendly voice blasts itself into our heads. It has a celebratory tone to it, like marching music should be playing.
“Philip Morris makes Marlboro cigarettes and many other brands enjoyed around the world . . .”
Then there’s a montage of people smoking, all with different haircuts, different skin colors, different clothing—lederhosen, dark glasses; in France, Japan, the Arctic Circle; dancing, hooray, smoking around the globe . . .
“Philip Morris also owns Kraft Foods . . .”
Huh? Who knew? Kraft Foods is Oscar Mayer, Velveeta, Macaroni and Cheese, all those artery-jamming convenience foods that you cooked when you didn’t know how to cook but you had to eat something.
“Philip Morris also makes Miller Beer . . .”
The worst beer in the world.
And for dessert, Philip Morris recently acquired Nabisco. Have an Oreo.
It looked like the food pyramid from Hell.
After the film we were led as new converts to the gift shop. They have a gift shop at Philip Morris where they give you a pack of cigarettes. Give you one.
“The first time is always free.” Satan’s motto.
“What if I don’t smoke?”
“I bet you got a friend that does. These are fresh. Smell them. They’re still warm. Feel them. You got kids? You don’t have to give them to the kids. Just put them in a drawer. They’ll find them.”
I surrendered. The momentum won again. I chose a pack of Player Navy Cuts, an English import. I went there to quit smoking and I left smoking filterless. But I felt connected to something big, something global, something all encompassing. A community. An international congregation of vice and weakness. Love is a democratic ideal that knows no boundaries. So are cigarettes.
There are so many things in my life like that; Coca-Cola, for instance. I drank seven today. I’m drinking one as I write this. Is that a problem? Okay, so I drank two. Look at a Coke can. It’s beautiful, the red and white, the letters, the “C” with the little curlicue that represents the Ourbouros, the serpent eating its own tail, which is an ancient mystical symbol of the alchemists connoting primordial undifferentiated substance and the universe’s ability to regenerate itself.
Maybe I’m reading too much into it. So?
Coke is it. It’s the real thing. I’d like to buy the world a Coke. That elevated feeling you get when you crack open a can of Coke and bring it to your lips and the sweet fizz runs up into your sinuses before you even taste the soda. The first sip of the perfectly carbonated nectar pops your taste buds open and then runs down your throat and warms your stomach. That feeling, that wholeness, that abandon, for a few seconds. Then, that itch, that need for another sip. It’s okay, there’s more. There’s always more.
There was a time when we thought there might not be any more Coke. It was a sad time. It happened when I was in college. It was the great Coca-Cola panic of 1985. New Coke had hit the shelves