There's a great little shop near my joint that sells cleanskins. That's bottles of wine without labels (or, more commonly, bottles to which purely functional labels have been attached by the reseller). I am a faithful patron, for two reasons. Firstly, the wine incredibly cheap for its quality—I'm currently partial to a $6 2001 Cab Sav that is more drinkable than its $16 labelled counterparts. Secondly I'm convinced that the business is going to flop suddenly and dramatically, like always happens when someone has a retail idea that I approve of, so I am kinda greedily "stocking up".
This place also sells cleanskin draught beer, $10 for a six-pack, and its good stuff too. Pretty inoffensive, but better for watching the football on telly than a six of Carlton Draught. I get a couple of slabs when I have parties (ones I've planned in advance that is, which are less frequent than the unplanned "oh shit the pub's closing" variety).
Today I noticed they're selling cleanskin spirits—vodka, gin, whiskey, etc. I stuck to the wines tonight, because I'm cooking up some spaghetti, but I'm going to pick up some gin next week. $20 for a bottle of any spirit. It's an excellent idea, and I get the feeling the bloke behind the counter is only just getting started. I mean, why stop at spirits? I'd buy cleanskin orange juice for sure.
In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realise I'm a cleanskinner. I buy cleanskin computer parts (they're the ones in white boxes with Taiwanese installation instructions), cleanskin books (secondhand with the dustjacket long lost), cleanskin meat and veg (from the Queen Vic market down the road).
Recently I was shopping for boxer shorts. Stomping through Myers in the city, grimacing at any sales clerk who made the slightest movement in my direction, I eventually made off with a pair of Mooks jocks. They've got a little devilish lightbulb at the base of the left leg. I don't need a little devilish lightbulb on my boxers, and I particularly begrudge paying twenty-five bucks for the privilege. What I wanted was a pair of cheap-for-the-quality, labelless underdacks. Cleanskins, that is.
I reckon that cheery bloke down at the Melbourne Cleanskins Company should start thinking really big. If he wants to bear the wordless, icon-free standard at the fore of the next revolution—the great delabellification of the West—well, I'll be riding right beside, wallet in my hand.
Joseph | 15 Jul 2004
Topographic view
The qualifier
Two weeks with the apple and the lone star (illustrated).
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