Funny Thing About that Consumerism...

I'm not the most avid television-watcher in the world, and definitely ignore most commercials when they come up. I'm not rolling in a ton of money and pretty much abhor reviews--since the opinions expressed in them never seem to reflect my own experiences, so it isn't like I'm going to be purchasing anything from a commercial, anyway. Thus, I'm ignorant to many of the shows and advertisements that are out in the world of television at the moment. I can't say that I'm fortunate that I have a number of friends who constantly send me links to Youtubes and 4Chans--definitely leaning to the unfortunate side on the latter example--but, periodically, I see something that strikes me in such a way that I realize what I'm missing.

Today, it came from a link to a series of utterly bizarre commercials from Old Spice Bodywash. I remember, clearly, what Old Spice was. It came in a really strange, opalescent or porcelain bottle with a plastic cork. Removing the cork caused insanely powerful scents to attack olfactory glands of anyone nearby. Dogs would whimper. Then quickly die. They were the fortunate ones. The first time I opened the bottle of Old Spice--I would suspect it was my father's, grandfather's, or someone in that lineage, though I cannot remember with any certainty--I dropped the bottle from shock of the potent aroma. In my mind, the liquid splashed over me. A vicious and corrupted water elemental, seeking vengeance for its long years of entrapment. Realistically, the small hole is only three or four millimeters wide, so no more than a tiny stream and a few more drops would have splashed out on my clothes. Still--it was far too much. I suspect I cried, though anything after the attack of the Old Spice elemental has long since become a blur.

What I can recall, after, is wondering why the scent was so intensive, but usually less damaging when it was simply worn on my grandfather and, later, my father. I wondered, also, why old men wore it. Why only men, and why only old ones? My father never used to wear it, but then he'd suddenly started. Clearly, there was a specific age when you started.

I did not want to reach that age. (And still do not.)

So, today, when I saw this commercial link for a bodywash based on Old Spice, I had to wonder: why in the hell would I want that? Of course, the link was not sent to me out of suggested body care--at least I hope. The commercials star highly characterized men. Strong, muscled, dominant, intelligent, capable, sexualized. These are the men all men want to be, the men that women want to be with--well, 90% of them, and 10% of the guys, anyway, if we're to trust going statistics. (I tend to be more generous with 15%, calculating for those who aren't ready to face it, or the bisexuals who find more happiness with more traditional relationships--but that's beside the point.) These god-men present their product in utterly unbelievable contexts, filled to the brim (and beyond) with exaggeration: arms with the bodywash grow in bulk, color, and musculature, while the sad arms with alternative substances wither to bone and dust; craftsmen and seducers break the boundaries of physics and gains supernatural powers--both physical and mental--and become the sheer idol of Adonis-masculinity. The commercials are speaking clearly. They say, "This product will give you superhuman abilities and make you everything you've always wanted to be. Well... not really. Obviously we're lying, but we're pretty damned funny, right? Give us a shot!"

This is the thing that I realize that I'm missing out on. Not the commercial or the bit of humor, of course, but the realization that these commercials are the flash fiction of the video medium. Or whatever the non-fiction form of flash is. Someone wrote these little flash TV-moments, these tiny, quick blurbs cast out among larger works, and they have intent. Perhaps they're educational, enlightening, eye-opening, entertaining, or simply asking for the rest of the world to pay attention to them for just a split second--or closer to thirty. I'm not suggesting they were born of the same creative impetus as writing in other mediums. I'm certain a network executive approached an advertising agency and said, "Give us a commercial for this," and people went to work--but it would be callous of me not to give credit to the fact that, paid and prompted or not, they came up with a brilliant bit of work.

The first commercial gave me a chuckle and prompted me to look at another, which gave me another chuckle and an additional prompt. The collection of nine commercials--three that were not terribly amusing or interesting, but six that got full laughs from me--were each different but still possessing the same kind of tone and humor. It gave the feel of reading a collection of a handful of flash pieces from a humor writer. It made me wonder if I should give other commercials and shows a little more credit, a little more patience. It also made me think that I'd give the bodywash a shot. I don't currently have a brand I am religiously connected to, and they did some work, made me laugh, so why not? Am I respecting the work of a writer? Am I buying into the commercialism of our world? I'm not really sure.

Of course, I could just be an old man, now.