Pacotopia: Just like Civilization, Only Absurd on Purpose

I’ve always laughed a little at games like SimCity and The Sims because the basic idea behind these games always seems to be: you’re going to do on the computer what you would very likely be doing during the course of your day, only you feel empowered because the consequences aren’t real and you can creatively name banks and fast-food restaurants “Institutional Robbery” and “Poop Stand” (respectively). Well, perhaps you didn’t; you better believe I did. Although I generally find videogames tedious and a waste of perfectly good napping time, I grasped why these kinds of demigod role-playing games are appealing. It’s probably the closest most anyone is ever going to get to having unadulterated control over everything that happens on a much larger scale than real people can actually comprehend (I get wrapped up on how the computer makes the tiny computer people remember to drive to work and protest things. I also can’t play these games without getting intensely sad when I eventually give up and start over because my SimTown sucked. Surely, SimCitizens can sense they’ve been abandoned… poor, little SimSuzy and SimSammy. I can just see their tiny SimFaces SimPouting. I need a drink).

Barring, say, the ability to cause great fires, hurricanes and evil flying saucer/spider monster attacks, what if you could manage to rebuild civilization from scratch? You take the same human organisms with the same inherent traits and try your hand at the same goal of propagating this civilization of yours. It’s easy to say “Legalize drugs and lower the drinking age, baby… yeah! That’s what I’d do with Ted-town!” (if your name should happen to be—just as an example—Ted) or even “I’d make it just like France”, but history’s taught us these plans are destined to fail (or at least grow terribly tiresome).

So, exactly where does one start when founding civilization? Okay, name: check.. Overbearing, self-indulgent societal architect: check. Well, I have the critical facets of a society down, now on to the details (Incidentally, Aldous Huxley, Thomas More and George Orwell all went through this exact same thought process. Any history book will tell you that even Karl Marx, when he first sat down to pen out his manifesto, allegedly said, "Okay, let's start a revolution... a rev-vo-lu-tion! Let's call it... hmmm... Karlsvilles? Nah. Let’s see… Karlopotamia? Nah. Name, name, the revolution needs a name. Think, Marx, think! Marxism. Great! I'm on a roll!")

Pacotopia, unlike every other Utopian society ever conceived, is not an island, isolated compound or moon colony. It’s a mid-sized municipality of 85,000 Pacotopians within an hour’s drive of a major, sprawling metropolis. Its city limits are marked with signs that say “Welcome to Pacotopia! Population: One more than we wanted now that you’re here”. I would work exhaustively with city planners to ensure that zoning, construction and public spaces fit together in such a way that, from above, Pacotopia looks like a Magic Eye photo. At first glance, it’s a city like any other, but if you try to cross your eyes, the image of a puppy peeing on a tree pops out at you (needless to say, the puppy would be smirking).

Aesthetically, the neighborhoods and business districts seem as though their owners had built them without any knowledge that anyone else was ever going to build around them. Colors are painfully bright and nauseatingly uncoordinated. The architecture in Pacotopia is marveled at for its biting commentary or playful irony. Financial institutions are generally deeply underground—beneath untended fields—and are marked by rather ominous black, iron gates guarding stairs with the phrase “LASCIATE OGNE SPERANZA, VOI CH’INTRATE” (Canto III, Line 9) spelled out as you descend each step. Fashion malls and beauty parlors are inside ugly, industrial factories with giant smokestacks pouring thick, black smoke into the air. Charities and homeless shelters are in monstrously gaudy, baroque buildings and the office of the city planners is desperately disorganized.

There isn’t a police force in Pacotopia; instead, there are very, very large men who wear reflective yellow vests and call themselves “Helpies”. Helpies are never off-duty, they live their lives as they normally would only they always wear the yellow vest and have the authority and responsibility to beat evil-doers senseless. They carry neither guns nor billy-clubs, they’re just really scary looking and probably have impressive scars and tattoos. There has only ever been one reported complaint concerning a Helpie loose-cannon who abused his power by parking in front of fire hydrants, intimidating Pacotopians into letting him cut in lines and took bribes (consisting principally of éclairs) from Marty, the crooked bakery chef. He was promptly investigated by his peers, found guilty, publicly beat lifeless and asked to leave town. His wife stayed; she married Marty and gained forty pounds.

Pacotopia doesn’t have a fire department either. The collateral duties firefighters have conventionally handled (getting cats out of trees, emergency medical services and posing from hunky calendars) are the responsibility of all Pacotopians and, when in severe circumstances, Helpies. Happily, in 1985 (when its supreme leader was a bouncing toddler of two), Pacotopian scientists (the only useful ones the world over) invented a system so that nothing ever burns (even toast) unless it is supposed to. They also invented what went on to become a worldwide retail juggernaut: the happy weather coat. A coat that gives its wearer the sensation that it’s sunny, 78 degrees with a gentle breeze carrying aromatic sea-spray no matter what the conditions might be outside. The happy weather coat went on to sell millions upon millions of units and became all the rage in Prague during the winter.

The happy weather coat gave way to the happy weather canopy, happy weather lawn furniture, the compact happy weather sports visor and—the ever popular—happy weather lip gloss. Pacotopian economists determined that outsourcing production to Bolivia (where nice weather and aromatic sea-spray were originally invented in 1967) would improve profit margins. Unfortunately, quality control went down and the Japanese innovated on happy weather merchandise to create the Variable-weather-for-pleasurable-moments-at-any-weather-condition-you-might-desire line of products. Happy weather merchandise was criticized, but Pacotopians didn’t care; in fact, they chortled together all the way to the Institutional Robbery.

City Hall in Pacotopia is a well sized building made entirely of durable, transparent plastic. All the walls, cubicles and office furniture are completely transparent and the front door never locks. After former Mayor Embezzlucious J. McGillicutty, a short, balding squat of a man with a handlebar mustache, was implicated in a series of misappropriation scandals (for which he was pulverized by Helpies who disliked both Mayor McGillicutty and handlebar mustaches), the citizens of Pacotopia decided it would be best to have City Hall completely exposed to public scrutiny. The next mayor was fundamentally in favor of the idea as it allowed him to display his endearingly white teeth and painstakingly perfected mayoral wave to Pacotopians as they passed his office. Everything ran smoothly the first day of (new) City Hall until shortly after lunch when staffers found the practical joke the architect and engineers had played on them: the restrooms in the only completely transparent building in town faced the busiest intersection on Main Street. Two disquieting weeks later, an outhouse was installed fifty yards behind the building; when the door locked, instead of “occupied”, a red sign above the handle declares “DO NOT DISTURB: Important Matters of State”.

There are few laws on the books, but society runs on the principle that no one person (or group of one persons) can impose their will onto others such that they wouldn’t be able to pursue their own amusement. Helpies mediate conflicts of interest and apply appropriate physical pressure after a Pacotopian has made it clear he or she doesn’t want to play nice. Pick a purse: get a beating. Steal candy from a baby: get a beating. Cheat at poker: get a beating. If two strapping, young bucks decide that their problems are so very irreconcilable that it has to come to fisticuffs: they’ll call for a Helpie and he’ll watch them beat the hell out of each other. Should one decide to ride their motorcycle without a helmet, no one will bother them. Should one decide they don’t want to wear a seatbelt, no one will bother them. There’re no speed limits in Pacotopia, but if one were to lose control and smash through a storefront, Helpies would quickly be on the scene to help them out of their car… and proceed to beat them.

Pacotopia is not particularly well known for its healthcare system. There are clinics throughout the city for cuts, burns and broken bones, emergency rooms for more traumatic accidents and only a handful of specialists (for things like births and rectal exams… because even Pacotopians can’t escape that particular shame... rectal exams, that is). Pacotopians, on average, maintain fairly healthy diets and lead moderately active lives, but are not immune to plagues and cancers. While they very much value life, there is a deeply engrained cultural acceptance that people can and will die when their time comes. The citizens of Pacotopia don’t want to live forever; instead they strive to accomplish what they will in the time given to them. Those Pacotopians that choose to smoke, drink or engage in what would be considered life-shortening activities do so with the understanding that they’re responsible for their choices and embrace the consequences as their own doing. They die when they’re supposed to and funerals are modeled after Dean Martin’s celebrity roasts.

Churches in Pacotopia modeled themselves after Blockbuster video-rental stores. Pacotopians go in at their convenience when they feel they want spirituality, religion or enlightenment. Some go two or three times a week, some only once a month, some daily and some never. Church-goers go in, select whatever they’re in the mood for (maybe some action-packed Christianity… immensely funny Judaism… a dense Buddhist thriller… maybe a Mormon horror) and proceed to the checkout line where a cheerful pastor tells them they’ve made an excellent choice and that it’s due back next Tuesday. While there are no late fees, rarely are things not returned on time. Church officials claim there used to be a huge problem until they posted a big sign on the exit that reads “There are no late fees, but there sure is a hell!”

Pacotopians revel in their individuality, but share many cultural interests. There’s no one preferred kind of music, but something always seems to be playing. Theaters are highly acclaimed worldwide for their impressive productions, exceptional actors and beautiful stages, but shows are generally under-attended. Almost every kind of cuisine is available at a variety of fine restaurants, but even the most exotic of restaurants offers Lucky Charms, burritos and Buffalo chicken (insert noun) on their menu. Pacotopian chefs experimented with the development of something called Paco Charms (which were just like Lucky Charms, only the marshmallows were flavored and shaped like chicken wings and burritos), but—surprisingly—the idea never caught on. Bars and pubs are remarkably affordable for having such generous servings and each one has air filters working feverishly to allow smokers and non-smokers to coexist. The vineyards of Pacotopia are small, but respectable and the Martini Orchards (They did it again! Those amazingly useful scientists actually went and invented the Martini Tree) are renowned.

The singles scene in Pacotopia has perplexed sociologists and social psychologists alike for decades. Single men and women go to the bars (or Martini Orchards) and, upon entering, wave their hands furiously in the air signifying their interest in finding other singles. When an attractive woman waves, a waving man approaches her and introduces himself. She greets him, says it is a pleasure to meet him and continues waving her hands furiously. He tries desperately to say something charming or clever, perhaps asks if she’d seen the most recent play at the theater (which all parties involved knows neither of them had) in an effort to coax her arms down. She’ll wave more furiously, at which point he’ll begin waving again and find another waving woman. The cool guys in the room have a patented wave that makes them appear as if they’re really not all that interested. They lean against walls and lazily raise their hands in the air with each finger trying to look more disinterested than its digit neighbors, occasionally jolting it so as not to be confused with someone just wanting to clear their tab. Surely, when too many non-cool guys attempt the cool wave, the cool guys will change it thereby dating the non-cool guys and making them not cool all over again. A vicious cycle.

Should a studly waving guy find a pretty waving girl and they go on to find love together (perhaps behind a Krispy Kreme… where love was invented) they’ll probably get married and probably have kids. Weddings are an interesting experience in Pacotopia because they’re also essentially roasts—similar to funerals, only much meaner. Everyone goes to the Blockbuster video rental and, for the first half of the ceremony, the groom’s family tries to convince the bride why the groom is such an awful choice and vice versa. The second half of the ceremony involves the bride’s family trying to convince her that the groom is worthless and vice versa. It always starts fairly civil—“Bobby wet the bed until he was 20”—and moves on to just outright malicious—“Susan is a filthy whore and you know it and she knows it and that filthy whore of a mother of hers knows it too!” Finally, after everyone is shocked and the bride’s father is terribly embarrassed by what he’d just said, the priest asks if they want to carry on with their marriage with the knowledge that they only have one shot at it, and once that shot’s spent you’re only allowed to marry lepers. The couple will either agree to carry on or decide to call it off (either of which is a happy event); if they agree, they recite their vows and the priest ends by saying “I now declare you husband and wife… always remember how much you thought you loved each other at this very moment.” They do and the divorce rate is low in Pacotopia.

The population growth is at a slow, but steady rate. Rarely will couples have more than two or three children, but when they do, it’s traditional to name that child in the order it was conceived. While it isn’t terribly unusual to meet someone simply named Four in Pacotopia, there have only ever been four Sevens and only one Thirtyone (born to Pacotopia’s most famous fertile dyslexics). Children are, from a very young age, encouraged to be funny, but are generally governed by very strict rules. Spankings by unfamiliar adults is common in markets and parks with only two accounts ever of Helpies stepping in to savagely beat an adult that overdid it. Children are bombarded with school work from the time they can reasonably speak, walk, eat and pee-pee/poo-poo on their own.

At the age of 15, young boys are ceremoniously forced through rings of fire, pits of burning coals and cages of ferocious, ravenous animals in order to prove their readiness to take on manhood. At the age of 9, girls (since they mature so much faster than do boys) are given credit cards and undergo exhaustive training on the subtle arts of frivolity and irrationality (because even in perfect societies, girls are still girls). When they emerge from their tests, young people are given considerably more liberty and independence, but are also expected to work the most ignoble, tedious and (sometimes) repulsive of jobs so that real adults can go on waving arms at one another and not be concerned by who has to clean gutters and collect animal poo from public places.

The principle feature of Pacotopians is their intense affinity for sarcasm and humor. Rarely does anyone ever get offended and even rarer does one intend to offend. Instead, jibes and cracks are as banal as asking “How are you?” at the beginning of a conversation when everyone knows that the only answer they really want to hear is “Fine” or perhaps “Great”. Anything else would throw us off and force us to actually pay attention to what the other person is saying and feign interest. By saying “I’m very sorry to hear that” (e.g. “I’m very sorry to hear your parents died at the mouth of a volcano as a sacrifice to appease the gods of wrath”), most people really mean “I’m so very sorry you told me that… and, consequently, me having to hear you say it… golly! Why couldn’t you have just said ‘fine’ like everyone else?” Pacotopians eagerly invest their focus in commenting on another’s shoes, hair, blunder or personality quirk as a means to express joy in seeing them. They believe it’s far more genuine than “How are you (please say ‘fine’, please say ‘fine’)?”

Perhaps everyone in Pacotopia isn’t totally happy all of the time, but most of them are most of the time. Chronically miserably people are encouraged to travel more and constantly angry, belligerent people are beat by Helpies. Pacotopians take pride in being very different from those in the surrounding communities and are okay with the fact that they’re well hated. A man can find a quarter on the street (change is randomly sprinkled on sidewalks by Helpies, at the expense of (new) City Hall, for just such an occurrence) and that man will feel compelled to tell the first person he sees about how lucky he must be. That person will feel obligated to tell them that he’s right and, perhaps, he can use it to call someone that cares “…just a thought”, the stranger would say. The sun sets on Pacotopia and content Pacotopians stop to watch it descend, appreciating how much better they off they are than anyone else. Life was absurd today—much like it was yesterday—and I couldn’t ask for more… they seem to say.

Good night clear building where city affairs are discussed…
Good night yellow vested Helpies…
Good night happy waving singles, good luck to you…
Good night boy in the pit of burning coals…
Good night smirking, peeing puppy…

Hellooooooooo Martini Orchards….

That’s all.