Manitobans are cowards and I am one of them. I know this because I am already regretting writing that first sentence.

It’s too abrasive, probably offensive to my parents and a mass generalization that undercuts all the achievements of our spirited energy. But the next time you find yourself at the end of a concert in this province participating in a standing ovation, you’ll know what I mean. It’s not that the concert was groundbreaking. It probably wasn’t even one of the top 20 performances you’ve seen in your life. But there you are, standing.

Standing ovations used to be special. You’d save it for a deserving person or band, and when the time was right, offer it up in hopes that it might inspire future good in the world. It was sacred, withheld and put aside for the truly worthy. An exquisite tropical bird, a rare orchid, a moment in Tetris where every block disappeared. A standing ovation was a celebration of the truly wonderful.

Now the practice bears closer resemblance to soap opera red roses on Valentine’s Day, or occasion-based Hallmark poetry fitting for any person willing to usurp their special message with gifts whose meanings are lost in mass production.

But why mass-produce the standing ovation? Have we begun to fear the ordinary? When did David Letterman decide that all of his guests were special? When did McDonald’s stop selling medium-sized fries?

This epidemic is spread much wider than the Manitoban auditorium. It has been slyly injected into all North American activity.

Still, somewhere in our rational selves, we must know that floor 14 is really floor 13, large is really medium and Gary Busey promoting Dr. Dolittle 3 is far from momentous. Yet we wrap ourselves in a comfortable blanket of augmented rhetoric, demonizing the mundane. We act like we deserve better. Like we deserve the super-sized.

And why not? Why not have a sale every day of the year? Why not say “fuck” in every sentence? Why not eat Pot of Gold chocolates year round? Why not make some music, make some money, find models for wives, live fast and die young? It’s an appetizing mantra, one that perhaps this generation’s North America has embraced.

But how much “special” do we have left?

Specialness, I believe, is a resource, and a resource is subject to the rules of supply and demand. Just as gold or silver’s scarcity defines their value, specialness just isn’t all that special when everything we do is made with it.

With every “pro-bio-tri-(insert brand name here) plus” product created, we partake in a celebration of gratuitous hyperbole, voluntarily rendering ourselves impotent in determining the really great. We increase, augment and amplify, creating an exciting world where nothing is ordinary. Or perhaps, special is ordinary.

So one day, when we find ourselves in an auditorium realizing that what we have just witnessed is the truly great, the wonderful, the beautiful summation of all artistic endeavours, I suppose our tippy-toes and hand claps will have to do. We used to save that last bit in case we needed it. Turn the volume up to seven so you can crank it up to 10 for the solo.

Now, we’d better hope these amps go up to 11.

Matt Shellenberg never misses the opportunity to slip in a Spinal Tap reference.

Published in Volume 64, Number 25 of The Uniter (April 1, 2010)