A New Breed of Men

Rise of the MMCs: Media Manufactured Clones

If you are wearing ankle length socks, this article is targeted at you. If you sport a beard, this article is targeted at you. If you have short, gelled-up and blow dried hair, this article is targeted at you. Brown loafers? Or is it Oxfords? Waist-cut jacket? Slim fit jeans/chinos? Same applies.

Last week on a Friday evening I went to a restaurant in Delhi, where I live, with my wife. I saw my clones all around me and it spooked me to no end. Ok, I wasn't wearing loafers — I don't think I'll ever understand the use case for that product, but apart from that I was sporting (almost) everything mentioned above. And so was every single other guy in the restaurant.

Sure, I exaggerate a little. There was one bald guy with a clean shaven head. And another with really long hair neatly tied up in a bun. I couldn't check everyone's socks either, but you get the drift. Barring one, maybe two, aberrations the men were pretty similar in their attire. And the beard does wonders to hide the few chromosomal, facial differences leading to an army of clones sipping the nice wine from their expensive looking fat glasses.

I witnessed a measure of success of media's control over us which surpassed my wildest expectation (on this matter, strictly). This was a whole new breed of men. I had to find a name for this new breed and Media Manufactured Clones (MMC here on) seemed to best describe this phenomenon.

I couldn't help but think that as a kid I had prided myself in being different. There's a punjabi song that's quite popular in India right now: Wakra Swag. Literally, that translates to Unique Style. We all love the song here in India — well most men do. There's a part of us that aspires to be unique or at least different. How and why, then, did we all gravitate towards this singular image? Why did we all give our consent to this style of dressing?

Coming back to the topic of moi — conformity does not sit well with me. At least it didn't used to. What happened in the last decade? When did I become a part of the herd without even realising it?

I think it began at work. My boss told me that I don't dress smartly enough and that being in a reasonably senior role, I carry my organisation's brand on my shoulders. Literally. That sort of pushed me to the mall over the weekend, sulking all the while I should add. That's where the problem starts. At the mall, the options are limited and everything looks pretty much like everything else. It maybe my daft sense of fashion, but I sort of picked the clothes that were easiest to access (eye level shelves, front hangars, you get the general idea). In the trial room I wound up looking at myself in a full-length mirror after a really long time and I liked what I saw grâçe à my new clothes, thank you very much. I stepped out, swiped my credit card and bam! External validation aplenty. Happy boss, happy me. That lasted a couple of weeks. Bliss! But that quickly went back to pain last Friday when found myself at this fancy restaurant looking like a fucking mannequin from the store where I bought all the clothes. Looking exactly like the other unsuspecting members of my creed.

So? What do I do with this new information that was shocked into my conscious thought stream from the ubiquitous sub-conscious? Of course I am not going to throw all my clothes away! That would be wasteful. Plus, I hate shopping and, hence, a wardrobe overhaul is not happening anytime soon. But I haven't shaved yet either and that I can't explain why. There's a fight building inside me but I can't seem to mount the horse and ride into the battle field.

Which is why I had to write this piece.

Until a couple of hours back, I thought it was laziness. But I realised just now that it's not the case. I am scared. It's tougher to admit than I had believed, but it is true.

What is it exactly that I am scared of? Having to face judgement from others? Having to face ridicule? Being a clone is better than being a clown, right? Alas, it's not as simple as all that. Life gets strange kicks from kicking us in the balls, doesn't it? My epiphany from moments ago did exactly that to me.

Nothing is simple anymore. Everything has layers and is super complex. No matter how deep you think about anything, you are just scratching the surface most of the time. There are experts, super specialists, in almost every single field these days and they'll tell you that you are nowhere near the truth. That makes a generalist like me sometimes give up trying. I stopped thinking because I am super busy with most things life most of the time. In the little time that I have, I can't do justice to anything. Better than being a pseud is not having a half-baked opinion. Isn't it?

Which is the crux of the problem. I stopped applying my brain and making conscious life choices after duly weighing the pros against the cons. I outsource difficult things (fashion being one of them for me) to the virtual experts sitting behind this 13 inch mac or the 5 inch android where I'll later be re-reading this article. They tell me to buy chinos, tight fitting jeans, waist hugging jackets, ankle length socks and loafers for the evening and oxfords for work. And a well groomed beard is just the fucking cherry on the cake.

A PhD in journalism or anthropology will read this article and scoff at its superficiality and lack of the deep understanding of how media manufactures consent and makes us the MMCs. And I respectfully agree with you, Ma'am. Or Sir. A generalist like me can’t afford to have a fully formed opinion, most of the time, but we sure as hell can rant.