Many years ago the phrase ‘co-opted’ seeped into the lexicon before retiring to presumably greener pastures. If you got a job, you were co-opted. If you cut your hair, voted for someone other than Dick Gregory (still a vastly underrated presidential candidate), yeah, you’d been co-opted.
It was a fate worse than death; people with advanced degrees sneered at you. You avoided Woodstock because of the freaking traffic? You don’t enjoy mud? This was in the dark ages before mud wrestling.
Here in blogland, co-opting looms once again. Respectability has reared its head; the centers for breeze control are paying attention. People with advanced degrees are smiling now. Run little hobbit, run fast.
There’s a handy test kit for co-option that can be self administered even while using public transit. Step one is to determine where you’re going and why. On the way to the office? Your boss looks like Leonid Breshnev? The company is embarking on another wave of downsizing? Jump off the bus at a stop you don’t recognize; ask a stranger for directions. If the stranger is armed, skip them and locate someone more sympatico. Failure to do this can result in immediate co-option scorn.
It’s terrible isn’t it? We’ve been co-opted. With Bob Dylan’s memoir on the way, let’s pause to reflect. You better jump down a manhole and light yourself a candle. Easier said than done, Bob. It takes two Con Ed guys with a special tool to move that manhole aside.
How about you? Are you gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more?