The progression of (a single) Single-Use Technology, and (mostly) the epic digression that illustrates its dangers.

The Progression

Single-use Technology, and its sister field, the marketing of its products, is here… to stay? Yes, until the pool of natural resources drains enough to reveal the nakedness of those splashing about in it. For it is often only when one looks like an idiot for continuing a course of action that he seeks another. Should it stay? Shouldn’t it? These questions will not be answered or even argued here, at least not in any broad sense. I must be clear that the following is not to be taken into that larger context of ecological conservation: This is to be a focused attack on a single incarnation of Single-use Technology. I aim to deconstruct a marketing concept so terribly “wrong” it threatens good taste everywhere. I volunteer this sacrifice so that you don’t have to. Please take the following information as a prophylaxis, i.e., don’t expose yourself directly to this virulent idea by visiting the website, especially alone, and most especially, with a valid credit card number either in your wallet or your brain — the consequences are too dire to risk. Please. Notwithstanding, the preceding warning may land in the same way as a father’s injunction for a little boy not to play on the other side of the railroad tracks. If crossing them is such a deadly prospect, what unspoiled wonders must await the bravest and most intrepid adventurers? If you must “go there”, then be an Admiral Byrd, not a Michael Rockefeller. Let me most deliberately and deeply digress…

The Digression

The Asmat tribe had boats but didn't know how to use them.

Young Michael Rockefeller, last-born son of New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller, was not satisfied with his elite family status and its accouterments (read “money and chicks”). Upon receiving a Harvard education, he burned with a desire, possibly even malaria, to study the Asmat tribe of southern New Guinea. He disappeared on that expedition in 1961. True enough, he was not alone, but traveling with Dutch anthropologist Renee Wassing. But after their boat overturned and Wassing clung to its hull to await rescue, Rockefeller’s last recorded words — as he swam for shore, alone — were “I think I can make it”. A young man with the whole world (read “money and chicks”) spread before him threw his life away to record the habits of an obscure race who only sank evermore deeply into National Geographic oblivion because, though possessing boating technology, they never figured out how to get off that island and market themselves to a wider audience. These were the unspoiled wonders for which Michael crossed the railroad tracks. There are some who may wish to confuse the issue by instead causally linking Rockefeller’s demise with his choice to throw in with a Dutch anthropologist, but either way, he died alone, and it was Renee who lived to describe his last moments. If you, of the “I’ll see it for myself” persuasion, must visit those shores (of that website from which I have digressed, nay, not introduced yet), then prepare as a professional would. Be a Byrd.

Alone? Not so much.

No moss grew on the agile brain of Admiral Richard Byrd. Nor malaria, or any of the various jungle malaise, as he wisely chose to explore colder climes where nothing survives without blubber or a parka. See the one on the cover of Byrd’s autobiography, appropriately mis-titled “Alone”. Ultimately, he was never alone in his feats of exploration, which is why he died in his sleep in Boston and kicked back in a cushy plot at Arlington National Cemetery. Our tricky issue-confusers will of course attempt to discredit his accomplishments by clinging to the fact that he died in Boston. The truth is, there are worse places in which to come to one’s end, namely New Guinea. But let’s live in the world of the credible. Admiral Byrd charted new lands while yet ripening to the age of 69 because of his strategic ability to conscript large groups of people to suffer frostbite and isolation with him. As a rule, he did not act unilaterally. Let’s go so far as to call him downright shrewd. The fame which earned him the kind of cache it takes to raise a bankroll for an Antarctic expedition (or five), which, even in this period of history had cost at least hundreds of dollars, was secured by his mere claim in 1926 of flying from Spitsbergen (not to be confused with Pittsburghen) to the North Pole and back with Floyd Bennett, a huge leap for mankind widely disputed to be nailed instead by Amundsen, et al., in the airship Norge. The controversy was broad enough to even include speculation from a guy named Bernt Balchen that Byrd and Bennett had simply circled around and around while out of sight of land. That seems harsh, but the Norge camp had more logic behind it merely based on the argument that they flew from Spitsbergen and landed in Alaska, making a cheat impossible, unless Spitsbergen was confused with Pittsburghen. None of this matters. Byrd took a slew of support personnel with him when he created the first research base on the Ross Ice Shelf, and again when he subsequently ventured, like, so totally South that he discovered there was a Pole with the same name. His road trips were so populated that newsreels took on the look of a wintry, early 20th-century proto-Entourage where the blow, if present, was indistinguishable from all the other white stuff. Even the autobiography that lined his pockets modestly describes him as having spent five months “alone” in the winter of 1938, manning the Advance Base meteorological station. On the contrary, it only proves further the folly of going solo — he was in regular radio contact with staff at his base camp, Little America. It was they who saved Byrd’s life after his failure to read the safety instructions of a heating stove, thus leading to the requisite carbon monoxide poisoning that comes from using it in a confined space. Nor were they simply “grunt” rescuers — they first had to interpret his increasingly cryptic radio messages as a sign of real trouble, not merely those of a stir-crazy dude in a shack continuing to take weather data for months after it was obvious the forecast would be the same every day — minus 40 Celsius with a snowpack of 2,500 feet. But what is all of this really saying?

Clearly, the lesson to be drawn from these two pioneers is that though both men enjoyed the same excesses of free time and money which would become the match to ignite the gasoline of their even more similar stupidity, the noble Admiral had a talent unique between them — the ability to convince scores of other, smarter, men to join him on his death marches and preempt his more suicidal choices. Michael Rockefeller only had Renee Wassing, and we all know the most Renee likely did to avert Michael’s disastrous swim was to mutter, “Maybe that’s not such a good idea.” After all, Renee was a Dutch anthropologist. It wasn’t his job to trip Rockefeller’s mental circuit-breaker. But this is my desperate attempt to trip yours. Don’t go it alone.

The Connection

To the crux. You’ve seen what happens to the cocky maverick in the extremest of circumstances. The circumstances which compel me to make this plea are no less dangerous; indeed, they are worse. The single most dangerous single-use idea threatening good taste in our society — our menace on the other side of the railroad tracks — is called “onederwear”. The marketing in the image below is not unclear or deceptive; there is no mistaking what product “onederwear” offers you. But you must not consider it. Do not visit this site alone. Do not even visit this site.

In an attempt to satisfy some basic curiosity regarding this concept and to subvert any urge you may feel to visit this site just to “have a look around”, I have outlined below a list of 11 offenses committed by Onederwear and its developers. I call attention to these standout features shown in their ad to say, in effect, “yes, I noticed that too, and the brain stem-level horror you feel is right on the mark.” If I can help you to move along without doing something we’ll all regret, like making a purchase, my efforts will have been worthwhile.

1. Onederwear. Yes, that’s pronounced “WONDER-wear”. Without prior exposure to the bubbly Tom Hanks movie about “The Wonders” (a band which initially insist on a trickier spelling of their name), many will fall prey to the mispronunciation “oh-NEE-der-wear”. Take Tom’s cinematic advice and spell it “Wonderwear”. Skip the phase in which your customer mis-reads it and move straight to the one where he merely thinks it is stupid.

2. LOGIN? No, my friends. When I am visiting a website dedicated to underwear, especially the disposable kind, I do not want to be asked to “Log In”. It turns me off. No longer am I in the mood to buy. You might as well ask me to “Crap-in” or “Drop-in”. In those rare cases where I may need to have a registered username and password for an unmentionables e-tailer, I will always (and reluctantly) want to “Sign in”. It lets me know I’m entering a classy outfit, and not just another soil-and-chuck peddler.

3. Graphics. You’ve done it. You were on the edge of the bowl, but willingly dove straight into the toilet. You’ve categorized your own product as “Wear-n-Toss”. Why not “Fart-n-Forget”? “Soil-n-Sayonara”? They’re equally as disgusting, and deserve your equal consideration. I won’t even waste time inquiring why the picture implicates the “tosser” disposing of his oldies in an outdoor, public wastebasket.

4. Store Locator. “Let’s see, Tuesday… I’ve got three pairs left. I’ll reach Omaha by Friday… Let me check and see if they have a retail presence in the area. If I have to, I can go commando from Omaha to Denver – that’s just one day.”

5. Referral program. Thank you, no. I am not going to try to convince my friends to start using onederwear. It’s a long-odds proposition, and no amount of discounts or “rewards” can make it sound any more tempting to me. The rewards structure itself is suspiciously “Amway”-esque: friends who I successfully indoctrinate get an enticing bonus on their first order, and then I make one dollar each time they re-order. If I can establish enough nodes in my downline, and in turn get them out there selling to create their own downline, I might be able to quit my day job in a matter of months. Hmm… No, No, and No. And if I did have friends that patronized onederwear, I would dread outing them to anyone with a feeling of indignant violation worthy of the McCarthy hearings.

6. News. The list of publications into which Onederwear has seeped is disturbingly numerous. A quick check of the Daily News reveals not a news story, but an ad. A unique selling point here appears to be their handiness for anyone shy about being naked during a spa treatment. It’s hard to say why switching to disposables would be preferable to one’s standard briefs, unless they are suggesting that area will be lacquered with massage oils. Who can say? Maybe the sticking point can be explained by the follow-on admonishment, “Don’t get too attached.

7. FAQ. “Another thong focus group Friday in Dallas – show of hands? Bob, you just did Tallahassee, let someone else take this one.”

8. Dorm Life. I simply do not remember college as the kind of Roman orgy that would necessitate such a rapid-change-in-change-out approach. Perhaps mine was not well-known as a “party school”.

9. Emergencies. If carrying a “spare pair” pays off for you in anything near a high frequency, investing in Depends will probably offer more protection against embarrassment, and can even be covered by insurance. Go ahead, take the plunge, don’t pretend anymore.

10. Travel space. How long must a vacation be, or alternatively how regular must one be, to open up that kind of extra luggage room by the end of a trip? Also, I can see the amount of time elapsed influencing the purchase of souvenirs: “Honey, we’ll just have to wait ‘til Monday to go to the duty-free shop.”

11. Making love. “Baby, you know I love it when you put on those Onederwears.” “Honey, let me slip into some Onederwear. I don’t want to ruin a good pair of panties.” No. A truly preposterous suggestion. No enhancement in the realms of neither mood nor sanitation can be derived from donning Onederwear before, during, or even after sex.