These Times

Indecision around the television

Kirk Ericson | Jan 09, 20250

“Freedom of choice is what you got

Freedom from choice is what you want.”

— “Freedom of Choice,” Devo

Imagine being a prehistoric human, sitting around a communal firepit after the dark comes with your closest companion — you know, the person you love so much that you share a nook in the cave with him.

It’s just the two of you, settling down after a hard day of milling grain, slaying prey and not getting killed. After you settle in around the fire stones, the conversation turns to what color-producing element you should add to the flames tonight.

Deep in the distance, wolves howl.

You could add barium to produce a light, apple-green flame or chromium to create a silvery-white flame or maybe even aged applewood for a rainbow effect. But you know your companion prefers potassium. Shouldn’t you just give him what he wants?

But you want sodium because you feel like bright yellow tonight. You’re in a bright yellow mood. And anyway, shouldn’t it be your turn to pick the color tonight because your companion had his pick the past two nights? Maybe something out of the ordinary would be nice, perhaps rubidium because it creates a bold, violet red.

“A nice red might be a good change of pace,” you suggest.

“Maybe,” your companion responds.

“How about lithium? It burns a deeper shade of red,” you ask. “It’s got a hint of purple too.”

“No,” he says. “You know I don’t like purple.”

“How about magnesium? That’s just a pure white fire. How about thallium? It burns a bright green.”

“Could you just pick something? Please?” he says. “I don’t care what we see on the fire tonight.”

You pick something. The two of you watch the thallium burn green for an hour and then retire to your cave chambers.

Morning comes and you learn your companion actually did care. You overhear him talking to a neighbor about having to sit through all that green last night.

Later that day, you’re out walking the trail with your compadres when you ask what they’re watching these days.

“Radium,” one of them says. “It’s a brilliant red and can hold your attention for an hour. It doesn’t peter out like some of other elements. It stays vibrant.”

“Tantalum,” says another. “We love it. It’s the deepest blue you’ve ever seen. He’ll like it, too. But if you don’t like noise, tantalum is not for you. It sparks like the dickens.”

“We’re between fires right now,” says a third. “We can’t seem to settle on the next thing. It’s so frustrating.”

That night, you try a little radium and a dash of tantalum in the fire, like your pals suggested, but neither of you are impressed. You wonder how you could be friends with these people when their taste in fire is so different than yours. Sometimes you feel you’re not even in the same tribe.

At the weekly communal dinner a few days later, the tribe gathers, including the elders — the ones pushing 27, 28 years old. When the conversation turns to fire, the tribe’s oldest member, a wizened 32-year-old, interrupts everyone.

“When we were kids, we had three colors — sulfur, lead and sodium,” the elder says. “That’s it. We watched what we watched and we didn’t complain about having only three choices. We didn’t know from nothing. Life was better then. Simpler. Sure, that was before we killed off all the saber-toothed tigers, but still …”