Friday, February 18, 2005

You Are What You Own: The American Advertising Industry


“Why do I get the feeling that society is trying to make us discontented with everything we do and insecure about who we are?” asks a character in Bill Watterson’s comic strip, Calvin and Hobbes, as he flips through advertisement after advertisement in his daily mail. His wife gives a tongue-in-cheek answer: “I suppose if people thought about real issues and needs instead of manufactured desires, the economy would collapse and we’d have total anarchy. It’s our patriotic duty to buy distractions from a simple life.” Enter Calvin, the poster-child of his generation: “Hey Mom, I saw a bunch of products on TV that I didn’t know existed, but I desperately need!”

Watterson is very clever at poking fun at modern cultural values--while we appreciate an exchange like the above for its entertainment value, it also reveals something about our society and what we value. We instinctively recognize ourselves in Calvin, which gives the comic strip its appeal as well as (more importantly) its relevance to our world. Just as the media convinces Calvin that he desperately needs what they are advertising, so we too are influenced by advertiser’s claims that we need what they are selling in order to maintain a popular image.

The degree to which advertising has saturated our culture is evidence of the continuing effect of the civilizing process in our world, as it sends the message that consumers must pursue the bigger, the better and the newer products in order to compete effectively in our image-sensitive culture.

Unable to perceive ourselves objectively, we can only view ourselves “second-hand”, as it were, through the value-judgements of our culture, which tell us that we are the sum of what we wear, what we look like, and what we can afford to buy. Whether a pop diva like Britney Spears or the neighbor next door sets the standard, everybody else can either expect to fall in line or fall by the wayside.

The importance of image in our culture can be seen in the fact that advertising has become a multi-billion-dollar concern. Our interest in image encourages our consumerism, as we believe our culture’s lemma that everything that matters can be bought. Our resulting product-driven society is fertile ground for the advertising industry, which has been able to persuade consumers to depend fully on its mandates. Consumers rely on advertisers to help them stay abreast of the current trends in clothing, technology and even mundane products like cereal and shaving cream. Nothing is sacred where advertisers are concerned—they have a finger in every pie.

The pervasiveness of advertising in our daily lives says something about our culture—that part of our identity is wrapped up in what we own, and it is this fact that allows the advertising industry to manipulate our emotions and our credit cards. Just as earlier cultures used physical prowess or intellectual abilities as ways to gain the acceptance and respect of peers, so our culture uses material possessions to compete socially.

...to be continued...


Note of explanation: I'm lazy, folks, if you hadn't figured it out already--this was my final paper for English Lit to 1700 last semester! It should provide a couple posts, at least! *grin*

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Just to prove that truths can be found in the oddest places:

Mrs. O [reading her horoscope]: You have green, scaly skin, and a soft yellow underbelly with a series of fin-like ridges running down your spine and tail. Although lizardlike in shape, you can grow anything up to thirty feet in length with huge teeth that can bite off great rocks and trees. You inhabit arid sub-tropical zones and you wear spectacles.

Mrs. Trepidatious: It's very good about the spectacles.

Mrs. O: It's amazing!

--From Monty Python's Flying Circus ("What the Stars Foretell," episode 37)

Sunday, February 13, 2005

This is a poem I came across a long time ago, and I've always liked it. That sounds so inadequate--liked. What I mean is, it's one of those poems that does things to me...and that's inadequate too! Maybe I should just post it. It's very long, but good.



THE GATES OF DAMASCUS

Four great gates has the city of Damascus,
And four Great Wardens, on their spears reclining,
All day long stand like tall stone men
And sleep on the towers when the moon is shining.

This is the song of the East Gate Warden
When he locks the great gate and smokes in his garden.


Postern of Fate, the Desert Gate, Disaster's Cavern, Fort of Fear,
The Portal of Bagdad am I, and Doorway of Diarbekir.

The Persian Dawn with new desires may net the flushing mountain spires:
But my gaunt buttress still rejects the suppliance of those mellow fires.

Pass not beneath, O Caravan, or pass not singing. Have you heard
That silence where the birds are dead yet something pipeth like a bird?

Pass not beneath! Men say there blows in stony deserts still a rose
But with no scarlet to her leaf - and from whose heart no perfume flows.

Wilt thou bloom red where she buds pale, thy sister rose? Wilt thou not fail
When noonday flashes like a flail? Leave, nightingale, the caravan!

Pass then, pass all! "Bagdad!" ye cry, and down the billows of blue sky
Ye beat the bell that beats to hell, and who shall thrust ye back? Not I.

The Sun who flashes through the head and paints the shadows green and red,
The Sun shall eat thy fleshless dead, O Caravan, O Caravan!

And one who licks his lips for thirst with fevered eyes shall face in fear
The palms that wave, the streams that burst, his last mirage, O Caravan!

And one - the bird-voiced Singing-man - shall fall behind thee, Caravan!
And God shall meet him in the night, and he shall sing as best he can.

And one the Bedouin shall slay, and one, sand-stricken on the way
Go dark and blind; and one shall say - "How lonely is the Caravan!"

Pass out beneath, O Caravan, Doom's Caravan, Death's Caravan!
I had not told ye, fools, so much, save that I heard your Singing-man."

This was sung by the West Gate's keeper
When heaven's hollow dome grew deeper.


I am the gate toward the sea: O sailor men, pass out from me!
I hear you high on Lebanon, singing the marvels of the sea.

The dragon-green, the luminous, the dark, the serpent- haunted sea,
The snow-besprinkled wine of earth, the white-and-blue-flower foaming sea.

Beyond the sea are towns with towers, carved with lions and lily flowers,
And not a soul in all those lonely streets to while away the hours.

Beyond the towns, an isle where, bound, a naked giant bites the ground:
The shadow of a monstrous wing looms on his back: and still no sound.

Beyond the isle a rock that screams like madmen shouting in their dreams,
From whose dark issues night and day blood crashes in a thousand streams.

Beyond the rock is Restful Bay, where no wind breathes or ripple stirs,
And there on Roman ships, they say, stand rows of metal mariners.

Beyond the bay in utmost West old Solomon the Jewish King
Sits with his beard upon his breast, and grips and guards his magic ring:

And when that ring is stolen, he will rise in outraged majesty,
And take the World upon his back, and fling the World beyond the sea."

This is the song of the North Gate's master,
Who singeth fast, but drinketh faster.


I am the gay Aleppo Gate: a dawn, a dawn and thou art there:
Eat not thy heart with fear and care, O brother of the beast we hate!

Thou hast not many miles to tread, nor other foes than fleas to dread;
Homs shall behold thy morning meal and Hama see thee safe in bed.

Take to Aleppo filigrane, and take them paste of apricots,
And coffe tables botched with pearl, and little beaten brassware pots:

And thou shalt sell thy wares for thrice the Damascene retailers' price,
And buy a fat Armenian slave who smelleth odorous and nice.

Some men of noble stock were made: some glory in the murder-blade:
Some praise a Science or an Art, but I like honourable Trade!

Sell them the rotten, buy the ripe! Their heads are weak; their pockets burn.
Aleppo men are mighty fools. Salaam Aleikum! Safe return!"

This is the song of the South Gate Holder,
A silver man, but his song is older.


I am the Gate that fears no fall: the Mihrab of Damascus wall,
The bridge of booming Sinai: the Arch of Allah all in all.

O spiritual pilgrim rise: the night has grown her single horn:
The voices of the souls unborn are half adream with Paradise.

To Meccah thou hast turned in prayer with aching heart and eyes that burn:
Ah Hajji, whither wilt thou turn when thou art there, when thou art there?

God be thy guide from camp to camp: God be thy shade from well to well:
God grant beneath the desert stars thou hear the Prophet's camel bell.

And God shall make thy body pure, and give thee knowledge to endure
This ghost-life's piercing phantom-pain, and bring thee out to Life again.

And God shall make thy soul a Glass where eighteen thousand æons pass,
And thou shalt see the gleaming Worlds as men see dew upon the grass.

And son of Islam, it may be that thou shalt learn at journey's end
Who walks thy garden eve on eve, and bows his head, and calls thee Friend."

--James Elroy Flecker (1884-1915)
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