You’re the bagman
I seem to have adhered to a bag-related theme for the last two Friday posts. Maybe because people’s bags are full of their most personal effects. What speaks more volumes about a person than what they choose to carry on their person? Like any other sartorial cue, a person’s bag tells us about themselves. A bag overflowing with muddy wrenches makes us think plumber. You follow fashion if you’ve got the latest couture purse. Artists have to carry those huge, flat bags.
Each trinket, whether it’s a wrench, a tube of lipstick, or a crusty vial of paint is a verb. It tells us what that person does. Nothing in a bag, even if they’re an artist, is meant to be held up and admired as a piece unto itself. Each object is functional.
Bags are often full of mysterious lint or awesome trinkets as well. Here’s a cell phone with a picture of the owner standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. Now you know that they traveled to France, assbag. But what contains the cell phone can say even more about the owner.
Bags say a lot about who we are and aren’t just important for what’s inside of them. They’ve destroyed shambling entities from dimensions most foul and eaten people on the metro.
They also hit me in the nuts because of a height mismatch between myself and my wife.
And that, my friends, is the story of why Coach bags can all go to hell.
