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?