LOT 2046

I remember when strange images floated on banner ads. Curiosity led me to click,
eager to unravel their mysteries. And that's how it all began. Everywhere I
turned, I encountered all-black garments, enticing me with the promise of a
groundbreaking service. This wasn't your typical Silicon Valley giant,
effortlessly delivering cars, groceries, or filling empty apartments with
furniture. No, this was something unique—a clothing and accessories company like
no other. It went by the name of LOT, offering a subscription-based delivery
service that vowed to transform your life.

The name didn't hold significance for me. The now offline website,
www.lot2046.com, reminded me of the movie "2046". In the film, robots on a train
symbolized our regrets. "2046" represented a future where unimaginable things
would become ordinary. However, the LOT subscription already existed; the ads
invited me to join the cult.

I used to get a monthly bundle of clothing: t-shirt, pants, shoes, jacket,
underwear, socks, and accessories like a toothbrush, deodorant, and floss.
Initially, it was all black in a cyber-goth style, but it evolved based on my
preferences. My LOT was unique, unlike anyone else's. Rather than a single brand
identity, it was like a generative equation, constantly producing new output
from its input.

The LOT company was described similarly, not aiming to scale, be acquired, or
disrupt anything, except the concept of fashion itself. According to the
designer, it had no founder, equity, board of directors, or future. It lacked a
creative director, advertising campaign, and an obsessive drive for profit. The
notion of "ego death" was highly significant to them.

The crucial point was that the origin didn't hold significance; all that
mattered was its existence. To obtain it, one simply needed to visit the LOT
website, choose their subscription level — $50 per month for clothing alone, or
$100 to include hygiene products — and provide their size. The sizing ran
slightly smaller compared to American standards.

Outside my apartment, packages arrived in a bag I couldn't wait to open, like a
mysterious Christmas gift from a goth Santa. The clothes were neatly rolled up,
secured with Velcro belts, and vacuum-sealed. The plastic bore perplexing
messages seemingly addressed to me personally: "This is between us, Kyle" and
"For the good death." The deodorant simply read "Weeping." It was as if "LOT"
was getting to know my quirks. As time went on, the monthly packages adapted to
my needs. In summer, I'd receive no-show socks, and in fall, a jacket. The
constant stream of essentials meant I never had to shop for anything else.

The program embodied both practicality and conceptual thinking. It shared a
common thread with the tech-bro culture, showcasing an affinity for the
uniformity seen in Mark Zuckerberg's grey hoodie or Steve Jobs' iconic
turtleneck. By allowing LOT to dictate your wardrobe, decision-making
responsibilities were absolved, as it left no room for personal choice. However,
unlike a minimalist capsule wardrobe, LOT didn't draw attention to its own
austerity, as no two subscribers received identical items. These differences
were not something to boast about, as they were not truly selected by the
individual. LOT aimed to eradicate fashion as a marker of identity, even
designing the brand itself to possess a sense of dematerialization.

Product quality? It was decent, like a blend of Uniqlo and MUJI. It wasn't
fancy, but that wasn't the point. It was meant to improve over time: more
subscribers meant more potential. A cash reserve would accumulate for creating
intricate products, and more user data meant a more refined AI.

Manufacturing played a vital role in the operation's success. LOT strategically
established an incubator in Shenzhen, China, the epicenter of global material
culture. With a vast network of factory relationships, they had the capability
to produce anything at any scale. Thanks to extensive supply chains and
investments in manufacturing innovation by corporations like Nike and Adidas,
producing a thousand subtly different items became as effortless and
cost-effective as producing a thousand identical ones. It was no longer just
about what could be made, but rather the accessibility to it.

LOT embodied a moral dimension, akin to the universal humanism of the Bauhaus.
It allowed individuals to grasp the universe's subtle indications of mortality,
fleeting personal significance, and the ephemeral nature of possessions. Like
meditation or medicine, it compelled individuals to confront challenging truths.
Admittedly, these were not always pleasant realities to embrace, yet they
offered a path to reevaluate self-identity. In an era of constant distraction,
LOT provided a much-needed respite.

As technology outpaced us, we became increasingly complacent. The visionary
behind LOT imagined a future where Airbnb would not only provide accommodations
but also curate your entire travel experience. WeWork aimed to redefine work by
offering more than just office spaces; they sought to provide meaningful
employment opportunities.

Facebook connects you with friends, Soylent provides a tailored nutrient blend,
and LOT delivers clothing, cosmetics, and soon, furniture. In the past, we
risked succumbing to mindless consumption, binge-watching endless
robot-generated Netflix shows. However, in LOT's utopian vision, we could wander
the city streets, contemplating our lives as if we were Greek philosophers. If
the mundane and easy aspects of life were taken care of, only the challenging
questions would remain. Could we face them without the reassuring hum of
everything else?

The packages consistently arrived on a monthly basis, promptly and without fail.
Occasionally, I would receive standardized emails inquiring about their fit and
if any adjustments were required.

The accessories became progressively more obscure. A necklace, a hospital
bracelet, a mixtape—filled with unsettling ambient soundscapes from the renowned
German label RDK Island. And there, a glistening black tattoo gun, its symbolism
still elusive to me.


It felt as though it had a destination, like a narrative woven through the
objects around me. I wasn't merely reading a story; I was a character in its
world. If a package arrived with a small dose of shrooms, I would consume it,
placing my trust in wherever it was leading me.

However, the advent of the COVID-19 pandemic brought forth a devastating supply
chain crisis that abruptly crippled the service. This unforeseen occurrence left
countless individuals, now akin to metaphorical orphans, desperately grappling
to fathom the extent of their dependence on it. Consequently, LOT was forever
consigned to oblivion.

I continue to wear their (now) worn-out socks and faded shirts while hoping that
one day, I will play with that tattoo gun.