To:

Zcom_simple
Home » ZMag » Lydia Sargent » Extreme Advertising!?!
?1295269164

June 2004

Volume , Number 0
Activism

There are no articles.

Commentary

There are no articles.

Culture

There are no articles.

Features

The Military
Kyle Tucker


Law & Order
R. valeria Treves


Interview
Ed Tant


Music Reviews
Norman Solomon


Media Beat
Norman Solomon


Africa
keith harmon snow


Hotel Satire
Lydia Sargent


Torture
Kurt Nimmo


Fog Watch
Edward Herman


Europe
Aidan Hehir


Interview
Carolyn Crane


Anti-Choice
Raquel Castellanos


Interview
David Barsamian


Music Reviews
Teo Ballvé


Reproductive Rights
Eleanor j. Bader


Labor
Javier Armas


Zaps

There are no articles.

NOTE: Z Magazine subscribers and sustainers have access to all Z Magazine articles here and in the archive. The latest Z Magazine articles available to everyone are listed in the Free Articles box at the top of the table of contents, and are starred in the list below. Questions? e-mail Z Magazine Online.

Extreme Advertising!?!

By Lydia Sargent
PDF Version
Printer Friendly Version
June 2004
 Change Text Size a- | A+

W elcome to Hotel Satire, a place where gals gather to learn how to be the domestic appendages/sex objects they were born to be. 

These are exciting times for gals. No, we don’t mean the so-called abuse in Abu Ghraib and elsewhere where gals got to drag prisoners around on leashes. Please. You can see worse abuse and humiliation every night on reality TV where gals in bikini’s shake and quiver before leaping into a tub of elephant snot. 

We're also not referring to the abuse in the military itself, where there have been over 100 accusations of sexual assault and misconduct within the U.S. Central Command area in the last 18 months—not to mention the war itself, what with the bombing and the strafing of civilians in mosques and hospitals, etc. Says Ellen Embrey, director of the eight- member panel convened to produce a report on the sexual assaults, “Sexual assaults are a challenge to our nation….” 

Good grief. If a president waging a war on false pretenses doesn’t result in impeachment; if bombing and strafing doesn’t raise an eyebrow or two; and if sexual assaults are merely a “challenge to our nation,” why get upset about Abu Ghraib and what Rush Limbaugh describes as events similar to fraternity hazing? Torture builds character, says Rush, “I think the reaction to the stupid torture is an example of the feminization of this country.” 

So true. The important lesson from Abu Ghraib is that gals should not be in the military. War, as well as torture, is about men humiliating other men. How do they do that? By calling them gals and various gal-related epithets, followed by raping their women. Why can’t people GET this? But we digress. 

So what are the gals at Hotel Satire really excited about? Well, all the many examples of how wonderful this country is, like that show “Extreme Makeover.” Have you seen it? You can watch someone (usually a gal) complain in intimate detail about specific parts of her anatomy/face and then have these rearranged or “fixed” so that, between surgery and makeup, she can look like someone else—or in some cases, almost the same as she looked before. In the process, there’s the drama of the bandages being removed while the husband/boyfriend eagerly awaits the results. Will he love her now? Will he love her more? Will he demand more cutting and pasting of body parts? 

Isn’t this fantastic? It’s almost as exciting as watching a half-naked gal get a mammogram on the “Six O'Clock News.” Wow. There should be a show, "Extreme Mammography,” so we can see more gals' breasts on TV than we do already. 

We gals have often felt a void in our lives—a void created, in part, by the fact that, until now, we haven't been able to view the intimate details of someone’s rhinoplasty on TV. 

We love "Extreme Makeover" and hope it becomes a dramatic series like “ER” or “24.”  They could have 24 hours to do the makeover. Or a show where gals are so unattractive to men that they have to be rushed to the emergency plastic surgery room. Or it could be like the “Survivor,” where makeover contestants compete to see who can survive cosmetic surgery or to see who looks best after it’s over. Wait, there is a show like that. It’s called “The Swan” where contestants have makeovers and are then judged for who’s post-makeover face looks the best. 

Another exciting development is the news that jockeys may soon be able to wear advertising on their “uniforms” while riding in the Kentucky Derby and elsewhere. Thank goodness. When we gals are at the track we often bemoan the fact that, for the minute or two when the horses are pounding around the course, we aren’t being reminded of a product we could/should know about. What a joy to watch a race and see the logo for, say, Playtex Tampons, on a jockey’s backside. 

But why stop at the jockeys, why not ads on the horses? Then, as they round the turn and we’re sipping’ mint juleps, screaming for our favorites, a horse’s ass can remind us to purchase a large bag of Puppy Chow on our way home. 

Why stop at jockeys and horses, why not ads on the gals at the Derby—on those big hats they wear? Because when you’re watching the Derby, having bet your hard earned money on Lucky So and So, you don’t want to go for ONE SECOND without being told to chat with your doctor just for the hell of it about your possible fear of crowds or your upcoming inability to sleep, which can be cured by a drug of some kind, which hasn’t really been tested very well and which has side effects that replicate the symptoms you took the drug to cure in the first place. 

Come to think of it, why not skip the horses/people altogether and have the Kentucky Derby become the Palmolive Derby with bottles of green soap on wheels racing around the track? Or packages of condoms? Or bottles of Southern Comfort? Actually, why have a crowd in the stands? Instead, just have various products. Why spend time looking at actual people, when we can look at bottles of Smirnoff’s?

We hope this concept spreads to other sports figures that don’t already cover themselves with corporate logos, like, say, figure skaters? As those gals glide across the ice, showing us their crotches for the umpteenth time, there could be well placed ads right over the vaginal area for Monistat 7 or Lemon Pledge. 

Also exciting to us gals is Bob Dylan as spokesperson for Victoria’s Secret. Nothing says sexy, flirty, underwear like Bob at his aging, emaciated best. Nothing makes us want to make ourselves sexually available to men 24/7 than to purchase a teddy at Victoria’s Secret and get a deal on a Dylan Lovesick CD. The album features such songs as: “She Belongs To Me,” “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right,” “To Ramona,” and “Love Sick (Remix).” 

Even though it doesn’t include some of Bob’s anti-commercial/corporate songs, w hich would have been a nice touch, we gals rushed out to make a purchase because nothing makes us want to make love “just like a woman” more than Victoria Secret’s new “very sexy convertible bra” that we can “wear many sexy ways.” And nothing makes us want to “break just like a little girl” more than Victoria Secret’s BabyDolls —“delicate, feminine trims that add romance to sexy silhouettes.”  

We hope Bob does more commercials. “Maggie’s Farm” would really make us want to purchase Purdue chickens, for instance. “Tombstone Blues” could assist us in the purchase of a headstone for whomever in our family croaks next. 

But, again, why bother to write these kinds of songs at all? Listening to them means we aren’t getting any marketing information about the latest crotch ointment or diet pill. Dylan, et al, should stop with songs like “Lay Lady Lay” and write songs like “Lays Lady Lays,” all about spending the night cuddled up with a bag of potato chips. 

These excitements pale when compared with the possibilities unleashed by Massport (Massachusetts Port Authority). They are planning to offer advertising on EVERYTHING: bridges, water fountains, air traffic control towers, baggage carousels, and virtually any other space that will fit a corporate logo. Not only that, for the upcoming Democratic Convention in Boston (roughly 35,000 out-of- towners are expected), they are considering selling companies the rights to parts of the airport where they can put up banners and give away samples in lobbies and at the baggage claim area. 

Is this a wonderful idea or what? When the Hotel Satire gals fly to Florida or wherever, we’ve often remarked about the lack of advertising en route. When we go out for a walk in the park, our main topic of conversation is, “Why doesn’t this or that park bench have an ad for Sweet and Low on it, for chissake?” 

Just off the top of our heads, we gals could think of a gazillion places for ads. The playground, for instance. What mother or grandmother wants to take her kids to a playground with swings that don’t promote Revlon beauty products or Depends? 

How about selling ad space on city sidewalks? Or on street signs? Instead of Broadway, it could be Hellmann’s Mayonnaise Way. Instead of Wall Street, it could be Wellbutrin Street. Come to think of it, why have street signs or sidewalks at all. Why not just giant bottles of Valium as signage and boxes of Tide as sidewalks? 

There’s no end to the possibilities. Getting back to TV, for instance, with the already existing product placement on shows and the 20 minutes of ads for every 60 minutes of programming, there’s still a few SECONDS when we aren’t being made aware of a new makeup we just have to have. So how about this: ads on people’s body parts. For instance, on “Extreme Makeover,” as they are zooming in to cut some flesh out of someone’s face, what do we see?—a gal in a Victoria’s Secret pink bikini with a soundtrack of Bob singing, “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.” 

Lydia Sargent is co-founder of South End Press and  founder and staff member of Z Magazine. She writes, acts, and directs plays in her spare time. 
Loading_border