Warhol how I love to hate you! Your multi-billion dollar glorious comodification of the art world. This object is so useless but holds such an important role. I still wonder why I carry it. Perhaps its obsessive. It hardly posses a burden on me.
Although I think of Ed Burtynsky's manufactured landscapes every time I look at it. How much waste resulted in your manufacturing, how marred is the landscape.
Oh how I hate this little object.
100 grams of pure black injection molded perfection, adorned with silver hexagonal metallic Allen-key. Castoff into the abyss scorned by the Gitzo from which it came. A seemingly useless object, but one which contains such hidden and divine powers. Its dominion is our realm. It breaths by our use, your tightening of screws and fastening of bolts. Certainty resting on the knowledge that everything has its place. That everything is in order. After much internal discourse the notion of such a small hunk of plastic and steel vexes me. I think back to all the Ikea furniture hardware packages, the various car tools and the like acquired over the years. Redundancy, as I have never seen before, but with a twist. "A plastic socket wrench," I exclaim, unsure of the excitement or revulsion. Perhaps an idea born of the 1950's complete infatuation with things space-aged, or a 1960's furniture sensibility. It wreaks of solubility, a lack of permanence shared by soil along rivers edge and snow at the coming of spring. A useless castoff item born in the forge of capitalism.
Although the use value is clear and the utter lack of need apparent, but still, I cannot discard thee. Carried forth on my back I burden you as you gleefully anticipate my next move, to which you will undoubtedly mirror. Mimicry is a form of flattery so they say; but who are they anyway? You are tucked away deep in pocket, but there you hum a ditty to your own cadence, that has always been your way.
I think back to the day we first met. You a recent arrival from Italy, and I a local to southern-Ontario. You traveled so far to enter into such a charged relationship. How could either of us know the contempt we would share for each other.
100 grams of pure black injection molded perfection, adorned with silver hexagonal metallic Allen-key. Castoff into the abyss scorned by the Gitzo from which it came. A seemingly useless object, but one which contains such hidden and divine powers. Its dominion is our realm. It breaths by our use, your tightening of screws and fastening of bolts. Certainty resting on the knowledge that everything has its place. That everything is in order. After much internal discourse the notion of such a small hunk of plastic and steel vexes me. I think back to all the Ikea furniture hardware packages, the various car tools and the like acquired over the years. Redundancy, as I have never seen before, but with a twist. "A plastic socket wrench," I exclaim, unsure of the excitement or revulsion. Perhaps an idea born of the 1950's complete infatuation with things space-aged, or a 1960's furniture sensibility. It wreaks of solubility, a lack of permanence shared by soil along rivers edge and snow at the coming of spring. A useless castoff item born in the forge of capitalism. 
