Salad vs. Steak

Attack of the Marketing Executives

If any of you are like me, and spend way too much time in a state of partial consciousness watching television at night, then you are very aware of the bombardment of images, sounds, ideas, special offers, depictions of the better-than-you Jones’ you have to keep up with, products that you never knew existed but all of a sudden need—in a nutshell, the noise of capitalist society.



Actually, you are subjected to the overwhelming cacophony of sensory clutter every time you leave the house. Any direction your eyes can point you see something trying to worm into your brain. Lying on the beach, relaxing, and taking in the sun (which, by the way, is an idea I think we got from the folks at Coppertone; I’ve never seen depictions of sunbathing indigenous peoples) you think you are safe from the attack of the marketers.

Then a plane passes overhead, dragging a forty foot long message: 20% off at your local tanning salon.

And we always look. These messages are to modern humans like shiny objects to a crow. We have been conditioned to require the constant input of information. I won’t deny some benefits gained, but for the most part, I am carrying at least an extra 500 gigabytes of useless data gleaned from Geico commercials, radio ads with two wacky voices engaged in some inane dialogue, billboards of Tom Cruise, and ten million other sources.

How much more can the marketers cram in? And, more importantly, what is getting pushed out?

According to this very informal, but interesting, estimation, the brain can hold somewhere in the range of 1 to 1000 terabytes. Even on the low end of this absurdly wide range, that’s a lot of info. But if we are inputting information constantly—perpetually downloading the biological equivalent of pop-up windows, spyware, and spam—it might not be enough.

What if I can’t remember the special things my mother did for me on my twelfth birthday, because my brain had to give up that space to store info on how much I hate those Carl’s Jr. commercials where the actors chew their food really loudly, and then have the gall to say “don’t bother me I’m eating.”

I know you’re eating, it’s really loud and disgusting, and you’re in my living room. Actually, isn’t it you who’s bothering me?

Truth be told, I can’t remember what happened on my 32nd birthday, and I’m only 33. But I know all about that little pink bunny who keeps going and going and going…

Each of us is on the frontlines of the mindshare battle. Our adversaries, the marketing executives, are trained in the nation’s most prestigious institutions to capture our minds. Some use subterfuge—clever slogans, well written ads. Others go for more of an artillery type approach—pounding our brains into submission, running the same ad over and over, leaving a trail of destroyed grey matter in their wake.

Our only defenses are meditation, oversleeping, or moving to the jungles of Papua New Guinea. I’m afraid, for me, the battle is lost.

With all the content backed up on my DVR, I don’t have available leisure time for meditation. I can’t sleep in, because I have to work in the mornings to be able to afford a flatter television. And moving to Papua New Guinea is out of the question—who would be impressed by my shiny new car?

I’m Not Lazy; I’m European

We Americans think we are so dope; we scoff when we look at people of different nationalities and their respective cultures.

Germans are mechanical bores. Brits are uptight stiffs. Japanese brains are more computer than human. Canadians are a tad bit dumb, their neural processes slowed to a crawl by the cold climate. The French are arrogant. Italians are violent. Indians (the ones with dots, not feathers) provide terrible customer service. The Chinese make poisonous toys.

I could go on, but don’t want to come across as racist. I’m only repeating opinions I recently heard while walking down Main Street, America.

Our view of ourselves, on the other hand, is golden. We perfected both the political and economic processes. One of our own invented the internet (thanks Al…and an honorable mention to the other un-acknowledged, nameless nerds who helped create your vision).



The Germans might have invented the car, but Henry Ford put one in everyone’s driveway. Airplanes are neater than cars anyway, and who came up with those, Adolf?

But, perhaps our greatest contribution to the world, our most popular global export, and what really makes us feel cool, is American popular culture.

Even our outcasts find success in faraway lands. We have all heard that David Hasselhoff, in between two martini lunches of deconstructed cheeseburgers, conquered Germany with his music. The French can’t get enough of Jerry Lewis. The Japanese devour our heavy metal music like we devour their sushi. Meatloaf is huge in Bosnia-Herzegovina—maybe I have that last one wrong.

But did you know, and this one’s true, that Lionel Richie is still one of the most popular recording artists in Iraq? Even a mild interpretation of sharia doesn’t permit the Lionel-endorsed practice of “partying all night long”, but that doesn’t mean the Muslims can’t hum along. Perhaps listening to tunes through a burqa or keffiyeh (known to most Americans as a head towel) muffles the nuances of better music. If that’s the case, I’m not sure what Germany’s excuse is; lederhosen doesn’t cover the ears.

Our culture is everywhere. Whatever corner of the world you visit, you are bound to see some local wearing a t-shirt, fashionable solely for its American-ness, with no idea of what it really means; perhaps a West African fisherman hauling in the day’s catch wearing an Alf shirt that used to belong to some fat American kid who outgrew it years before.

As much as they hate us, the world can’t get enough of us. I wouldn’t be surprised if Kim Jong Il tivos reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. Someone has to be watching; no one I know cops to it.

But, as much as we like to think that we are the life of the world’s party, it simply isn’t the case.

Germans too humorless and mechanical? I hate to break it to you, but we invented the time clock—thank New Yorker Willard Bundy for accomplishing that great feat in 1888.

You say the English are the uptight ones? Who do you think invented the electric iron? We all could be saving countless hours if we collectively decided to go wrinkled. But no, some jerk named Henry Seeley (another New Yorker I’d like to smack in the face) made sure that we would all need to dispose of all those pesky wrinkles before leaving the house with his 1882 invention. Evidently the 1880s was a productive decade for decreasing the quality of life through innovation.

But the main reason we Americans aren’t nearly as cool as we think is the disgustingly high percentage of our lives that we spend working—far too many of us in despised careers or dead end jobs. I know everyone has heard this topic before, so I won’t bore you with too many details; here’s the main one, the average American gets two weeks of vacation a year.

We might like to make fun of the French for being wartime cowards. But, evidently, they aren’t as scared to ask their boss for a day off as we are. They get 39 days a year, on average. I suppose French CEOs, naturally occupying the top end of the scale, work two days a week. Maybe that’s why no one drives Peugeots.

The Germans are so efficient they can afford to take 27 days off a year. I would hazard to guess that, due to the well-planned schedule of the typical German vacationer, those 27 days are probably equal to at least 32 of anyone elses’.

How did we get so off track about what is important in life? Usually these discussions reference our Puritan heritage. I can’t say that I know anyone who identifies with the Puritans, but maybe that’s because of the people I hang out with. But who can argue with history?

During the Industrial Revolution, there was a really big American asshole named Frederick Taylor, considered the father of something known as “Scientific Management”. In one of his more obnoxious crusades, Taylor sought to maximize corporate efficiency by regulating the precise movements a worker made while performing a specific repetitive task. Industrial management, he preached, should define the optimal mechanics of each individual physical movement in a given task, even something as simple as shoveling coal, so that every worker followed a precise and repeatable formula and not one second of potential productivity escaped the balance sheet.

Sounds like a real fun guy, with a really well developed respect for the human soul.

So, I guess it’s in our blood. Don’t hold your breath for anything to change, just suck it up and wile away the extra hours you’re spending at work thinking about those lucky Europeans spending the day at the beach in their Speedos.

All is not lost, I’m sure, after your overly extended work week, you can unwind with some quality Everybody Loves Raymond reruns. I’ve heard the producers of that show put in 70 hour weeks to make sure we never run out of mildly humorous entertainment.

Canine Abuse

A lot of focus these days is on the internet-based, underage-inspired, sexual predators. Thanks to Chris Hansen and Dateline NBC, it's a topic du jour. Seeing that they are on at least the seventh installment of "To Catch a Predator", it's apparent that America enjoys the spectacle of real lives ruined in a live format. Artificial drama can't match up to that--sorry Hollywood.

But while we focus on that particular perversion, slipping through the cracks, is another form of electronic deviance. The ugly practice of canine abuse.

This isn’t a reference to the recent abuses that have come to light in the Michael Vick situation. A few dogs chewing on each other to settle a bet is not that big of a deal. They give out a few bites, take a few on the chin, get electrocuted, and then it’s over. It’s what they were born to do.

There is a far more exploitative and damaging practice that is going unnoticed—the sexualization of bulldogs in funny costumes.

On some sick, evolutionarily unexplainable level, the uglier the dog, the more humans are attracted to it. It is a phenomenon that defies all reason. As I pored the deep recesses of the internet engaged in a harmless search for pictures of noble English Bulldogs in a sporting setting, I came upon a series of images, each more degraded than the last.

What makes the fetish even more decadent is the inherent unattractiveness of the species. Deny it if you will, but I firmly believe that more Jerry Falwells would come out of the woodwork to shut down the porn industry, if it was producing movies starring Aborigines.

Aborigines, for the record, are said to be the ugliest of the world’s peoples, closely followed by Mongolians. Apologies to anyone of either of those descents who might stumble on this, I heard it somewhere.

Not only is someone producing this stuff, evidently there’s a market for it. I won’t hazard a guess to the market’s size in dollars, but I would guess it is somewhere between the size of the markets for cat juggling and amputee pornography.

Something must be done to bring this issue to the forefront of the public’s attention. Let this essay be a call to arms.