What is a Curator?
I hear this word a lot. Millennials in floppy hats with tight jeans and blinged out iPads say it multiple times during ads I’m forced to watch on Spotify just so I can listen to half of a David Bowie album without commercial interruptions. This enrages me.
A dictionary on the internet correctly told me that Curator means:
“a keeper or custodian of a museum or other collection”
This conflicts with my previous personal definition, which I knew was incorrect, but that wouldn’t leave my brain so I let it fester until I passed out and woke up in a pool of warm Iced Tea. To me, Curator erroneously meant:
“A meat producer; one who cures meats; a seller and collector of meats and meat products; meat man”
So when some hip twenty-something Millennial told me they had curated a playlist of hot Trap music, I wanted to spout, “What is Trap music? Oh wait I don’t care get away from me life gets harder and everything is terrible!” Instead, I muffled that response and replied with a dash of snark, “So you gathered some spiced meats?”
The twenty-something rolled their bloodshot eyes and Snapchated a dead bird and Instagram Storied a frog playing Jenga whilst I defiantly shook my head in disgust. I cracked a smile, thinking I had the upper hand in a conflict that didn’t exist when a haze cleared and I was alone in a room with my cat.
The next day, I was at a midweek 9am showing of Avengers: Infinity War and a trailer/commercial thing about artisan something or other started playing. A trendy lady with thick glasses announced from a perfectly decorated workshop in a converted slot machine factory that she was a curator of beads and I audibly rolled my eyes. I was inclined to stand up and yell, “Beads aren’t meat you crazy individual!” However, I stayed calmly seated, seeing as I do have a small measure of maturity after all. It was a mere 14 seconds later when that ounce of maturity ran dry and I decided to go ahead and un-halt my previously halted inclination. The smattering of theater patrons just stared more deeply at their phones and Venmoed a Facebook Candy Crush whilst I shouted at the IMAX screen that was too close to my face.
No one acknowledge me or my comment.
I sat back down and tried to log into the hot new social media network “Groshler” that doesn’t exist yet but probably will soon. The message on the screen made my blood boil:
Later that day I was looking for some pens at a pen store downtown. Upon entering an establishment, a big blue sign informed me they “Curated Vintage Writing Tools for the Modern Twerking Tween” and my vision went red. I approached the manager, who was way too young to be alive, and stood there, huffing and puffing. He glanced up and nonchalantly asked if I needed a curated closet of antique carpenter jeans.
“Pants are not made of summer sausages !” I screamed into the pillow I’d brought with me. He responded by putting on his VR headset and performing laparoscopic surgery on a mystical ogre in a made up cyberspace world.
I realized my anger was consuming me, so I marched home and tried to take a 5 hour nap while Spotify consecutively played 22 commercials suggesting I check out the latest track from Thicc Boi & Lil Roundabout (ft Susan Lucci Mouse Brigade).
In conclusion, Curator is a buzzword that is overused in advertising and I’m just a grumpy person who doesn’t like all aspects of social media and should probably take another nap because ranting is bad and the entire world is on fire.
Please send spiced meats.
