War on Rugs

Here we are spending time waxing and washing our floorboards, looking for some of that nice reflective grain to mug for the varnish. Enough sheen to reflect and recharge. We sand down the edges, touch the molding, sob over subtle scratches, and engage in highly pedantic exchanges surrounding the quality of good wood. Yet when it’s all said and done, we carpet the place, covering our exhaustive work in thick Persians and creepy bearskins (wishing the head possessed similar prophesizing abilities as that fella from Delphi or a shiny new magic 8 ball, learning the future simply by shaking it). That and long, winding runners.

Why is that? Why must we willingly cover up reality at every chance? What’s the purpose of wood when we pretend it isn’t there? The very real risk of a splinter or stubbed toe teaches us humility or makes us consider adopting better footwear. Stains on wood add to it, giving them character. Stains on carpet remind you of spilled sour cream or worse, losing their luster and darkening your dreams of floorplan independence.

There are musicians, some of whom I won’t name, others of which I can’t name, who cover the stage with thickly threaded Orientals beneath their amps and snaking cords. Any aesthetic sin is accepted in the name of acoustics, as they all pray at an audiophilic altar nightly (twice on weekends if there’s a late show). 

I want carpeting ripped up in convention centers and chain hotels. I want it out of international airports and transit hubs. I want to see the staples stacked up in the garbage. I want to hear steps when someone is coming up from behind, not the silent treatment of a shoe-on-rug pedestrian. Carpeting these public places is akin to Major League Baseball’s love of artificial grass – another sickening form of athletic carpeting. 

It’s okay to be a doormat as long as you don’t own one. Just ask any tech bro you come across. They’re always there to welcome you inside if you promise to take your shoes off first.