The Hunger Games. The Hunger Games. The Hunger Games. Just a couple weeks ago, my son got a hold of the Kindle in our house and inadvertently ordered a copy of The Hunger Games. In the airport yesterday, waiting to board, someone is reading a copy of The Hunger Games. On the plane, on her iPad, someone is reading The Hunger Games. After landing, at the pool, a young woman is sunbathing…and reading The Hunger Games. Some people enter the pool area and start talking about the movie version of The Hunger Games. Someone says that the book is better. I want to dive into the deep end of the pool and stay there. There are no more options. If my seven year-old son is ordering up The Hunger Games, that’s because there is no such thing as consumer discernment left. Books and movies have become like Wal-marts and McDonalds.
You look at The Week, and you read about two plays that opened this weekend – Aurthur Miller’s Death of Salesman as directed by Mike Nichols and someone’s adaptation of a Tennessee Williams. Two plays opening this weekend? No, thousands of plays opened this weekend. Dozens of movies were released, hundreds of books. We hear about the ones with the biggest money behind them, like we talk about the candidate with the largest SuperPac.
The Hunger Games, The Hunger Games, The Hunger Games. My son inadvertently ordered a copy because it was easy enough for a seven year-old to find it and buy it. Nobody’s taking any chances – it must be in every single home.
Well, it’s in mine, too. I could have deleted the order, but, you know…
(And now I’m helping to advertise it.)