It’s that time of year when the cicadas scream, the fires crackle and Sam Kekovich awakes in his palace of meat. For months he has slumbered, his still flesh almost as pink as the enormous steak on which he lies. First one eye, then the other, open to survey the sausage chandeliers, the cutlet curtains and the rissole walls. He rises, straightens his tie and begins to consume his breakfast – a slab of beer, a live sheep and a mound of white powder as soft as a baby lamb’s belly. Once he is sated, he calls the ad people on an iPhone woven intricately from mince. His wolfish maw curves into a knowing smile. Sam Kekovich understands that the industrial production of meat is environmentally catastrophic, intensely cruel and predominantly unhealthy. But he is complicit in it anyway.
Comparing generations is usually a ridiculous indulgence in pop academia and generalisations, and this post is no exception. Anyone who’s had the misfortune of reading any of endless execrable columns called “Why Gen Ys Are Twitter Dependent Sociopaths” or “Why Gen Ys Aren’t Twitter Dependent Sociopaths” written by some beaming twit in a tabloid lift out will know exactly what I mean.
We have a natural tendency to categorise and label because it saves us mental energy – it’s much easier to start with a template or a stereotype than to establish an understanding of a person from scratch. Of course, most of these assumptions are false, and we have to constantly strive to notice and discard them.