Twigs in Glass

There has been a disturbing thought plaguing my mind for months now. It is a result of the "Nobody knows how to make a pencil" speech we heard in economics. It is the realization that all of the man-made things around me are, in fact, made by some human being or machine out there. All of it. I say disturbing because when this realization hits full swing, the whole world seems to be utterly mad.

This all culminated into a recent trip to the grand opening of my local McDonalds. There my brother and I sat down and enjoyed the greasy goodness, until I began to look at the decor. I saw that the new establishment was aiming for a modern cafe-style set up. The thing that caught my eye was the booth dividers.

They were sheets of glass, with twigs cast into them.

Pictured: McDonalds vaguely similar to ours from Attleboro, MA.

Not Pictured: Twigs in Glass...

At first I shrugged it off as modern artistic bull shit, but then I thought about it. I thought about it in the context of the previously mentioned disturbing thought. I realized that several other McDonalds must have these, I doubt they're hand made, nothing at McDonalds is. So what I'm realizing is somewhere there is a facility, with a room or a machine or something, that specializes in placing aesthetically pleasing twigs inside of sheets of glass. There has to be multiple people working there, and thats what they do. They are professional twigcasters.

I began to consider all the implications of this. What do these people claim to do at High School reunions?

Man 1: So I've went on to do some venture capitalism, pretty profitable stuff. Also been dabbling in Real Estate. What have you been up to?

Man 2: Oh me, I put twigs... in glass.

Man 1: ...

Then I imagine the board meeting, where some young hot shot industrial designer, had to convince a company to set up a division dedicated to the art of placing small aesthetically pleasing twigs inside of glass. The presentation was a hit and an ad hits the newspaper, asking for people with knowledge of glass casting and an overly zealous passion for twigs. Machines were designed, a workplace protocol established. Engineers worked on making the most cost-effective twig-glassification device.

Then when this Caribou McDonalds was built, some office assistant in McDonalds called and made an order for 8 sheets of twigged glass. The order was processed and loaded onto a truck and driven, to Northern Maine and dropped off where construction workers opened the box and I'll be damned if one of them didn't ask "What the hell are these for?".

Are the twigs real? If they are real that opens a whole new vista of ridiculousness. They have to find a perfect variety of twig producing plant. At some point there was probably an executive, calling a biologist, wondering about twig genetic engineering. Can we make them straighter? Fewer defects? More... twiggy.

It also means that the holy grail of twig-related careers is listed in the classifieds somewhere, "Twig Inspector". The person's job is to spend the whole day being judgmental, of twigs...

What sort of education does that involve? Would one consider it a job or a career? Then I can't help picture him being one of those passionate workers, someone who ends up taking their work home with them. One day there is a family BBQ, everyone is out back, listening to music, eating grilled meats and assorted salads. Children are laughing and playing in a sprinkler. The adults sit around a small fire pit, drinking wine and talking about the good ol' days. Then a twig falls from the tree. The man, we'll call him Randy, looks at it from his $10.00 lawn chair from the local Walmart and says,

Randy: That twig is rubbish, I'd never put it in glass.

Sharon: Honey don't bring work home with you.

Steve: Randy, your job is oddly specific.

Randy: SHUT UP STEVE.

A fight breaks out, a friendship is shattered. Years down the road his obsession with twigs leads to a divorce. The children can't stand him, as his twig-related Christmas presents prove lackluster as they grow older. At the age of 47 he is found dead in a pile of twigs just off the highway. No one knows how he or the twigs got there or what killed him, as an autopsy is deemed unnecessary. Case closed, so ends the life of Randy, Twig Inspector. His gravestone is placed in a cemetery five miles out of the town he grew up in. It is placed under a tree that is known for shedding twigs. The gardener at the cemetery has always been annoyed by this tree. Then one day as it began to rain and the gardener began to pack up his equipment, a lone woman arrives, she is dressed all in black. She stands in front of the grave for five minutes, only letting a single tear slide down her cheeks in that time. She then leaves a bouquet of the most perfect twigs ever gathered, some from Randy's own collection. She kisses her hand and lays the hand reverently on the gravestone. She gets inside her maroon Subaru and rides off. She was never identified, never seen again. The gardener made the decision not to bother picking up the twigs next to the stone from there on out.

All of this flashes through my mind and I take another bite out of my Angus Bacon and Cheese. I talked about it for a half an hour with my brother. This train of thought has plagued me for days. More question keep popping up. Is there a lobbying group for twig-related industries? What kind of regulations must a twig glassification operation deal with? Are there more than one twigging glass company? Is the competition stiff? Are they geographically near each other? Do they ever play each other in competitive sports? Are there small towns out there supported by their twig and glass industries? I can go on. The point is, I'm going mad, and I blame Milton Friedman.

Note: I did a quick Google search, there is a website called twigsandglass.net. Not related to the twigs IN glass mentioned in this article, but I giggled none the less.