My good friend and former bandmate, Cheree, years ago penned this lyric to one of our band’s (bees are black) songs: “The joy of advertising/Keeps us in place.” I was always especially fond of that particular line, because “advertising” and “joy” are two words you never think of combining.
Advertising, especially the concept of “branding,” fascinates me because it’s really a sort of black magick. Signs and symbols, slogans and catchphrases all meld to become more than the sum of their parts. The patented Nike swoosh, for example, is basically a magickal symbol, a sigil, infused with energy over the years to create an immediately recognizable, global brand symbol. Same goes for the McDonald’s arches. We each have our own feelings that are brought up when we encounter one of these symbols. For instance, upon first glance the Nike swoosh fondly reminds me of my grandfather’s store where he sold many a pair of Nikes, and the dusty, leathery smell of his stockroom. On the filpside, in more recent years Nike has become widely infamous for using sweatshops. Thus my feelings associated with the Nike swoosh, and consequently brand, have been tarnished.
Advertising at its best successfully links products to our positive emotions. At its worst (though some would perversely argue, best) it becomes the Swastika. (See the Wikipedia entry for the history and evolution of the Swastika, perhaps history’s most instantly recognizable symbol after the crucifix.) I like to keep up with trends in advertising, because you gotta know your enemy. That’s why this article struck me:
I’m not surprised. I mean, in a way rock and roll has always included product placement. Hell, some argue that Ike Turner’s “Rocket 88″ was the very first rock and roll song, and that’s about an Oldsmobile engine. And, bear with me here, one could even argue that the Beach Boys actually, if inadvertently, branded the California summer mystique through their sun-soaked harmonies and lyrics invoking images of cars, girls, beaches and waves. The joy of advertising, indeed…
It all started when I was looking for more information regarding a police chase that occurred on my friend Virginia’s block one weekend last month. I did some Googling, and while I didn’t find out much about the aforementioned police chase, I did stumble upon this site: Family Watchdog. Family Watchdog is basically a portal site for the National Sex Offender Registry. You can find all the pervs on your block using this site, and even have the option of receiving email alerts if and when a new perv moves to the ‘hood. While there is something that creeps me out about this email alert feature, I understand parents’ concern for their children and the desire to keep tabs on potentially dangerous predators. I was just curious when I decided to search my street/city/zip on Family Watchdog, but the results were a bit shocking: the guy who lives RIGHT NEXT DOOR to me is, or at some point was, a child molester.
Yep, that’s right: my next door neighbor was at some point in his life (he’s in his 50s) convicted of lewd and lascivious acts with a child under the age of 14. The Family Watchdog site didn’t supply dates of the conviction, so it could’ve happened two or twenty years ago, I suppose. I’m not too worried for my safety, because the guy (I think he lives with his wife) keeps to himself and apparently he likes (or liked) ‘em much younger than me. But if I had a child, the fact that I have a convicted sex offender living next door to me would certainly make me take pause.
The way it stands, I’m not entirely sure what to do with this newfound information. My block has suddenly become a sort of true crime noir scene in my mind. I shut my curtains tight when night falls. I watch my neighbor do something as benign as get into his car, and I wonder where his (sinister?) destination might be. His every action is met with my mental inquiry: what did you do and what made you do it?
Is using the word “heart” as a verb inherently annoying? Anyways, I loathe this woman. Just because she wears a skirt, that doesn’t make her a woman. More like a beast, IMHO. She wants to take away rights women have fought for, for generations. She’s a self-hating woman, it seems to me. Oh, and can you imagine if the Obamas had a pregnant, unwed teenage daughter in the White House?! There is no telling the shit the right wing would say about them. This is nuts, people. Even if you’re a Republican/conservative (probably not many, if any, readers of this blog are) please don’t fall for the lame McCain/Palin ticket this November. How anyone can support these dangerous, dangerous people is beyond me. Palin is completely lacking in sophistication and experience. To get some relief, I’ve been reading this blog a lot recently: Women Against Sarah Palin. Please, everyone, get out and vote for Obama/Biden this November. Especially my Texas friends who may be reading this, as Texas needs as many Dem votes as possible!
I just flew in from Austin and boy are my arms tired. Sorry, couldn’t resist that. Actually I arrived back in LA last night. My trip to Austin (Aug 27 - Sept 1) was SUPER fun and I’m still needing to catch up on sleep. Unfortunately I walked into a steaming pile of crap at work today, as my coworker is stalling on beginning a project that was supposed to already be rolled out. So now several of us have to go in and pick up his slack. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to blog this week, but here’s a theme I’ve been stewing on the last few days: disconnection. Sort of the feeling of experiencing life as an observer, rather than a bona fine member of the species. Detachment, but not necessarily by choice. Detachment by choice would make you a cool misanthrope like the anti-hero of Camus’s The Stranger, or James Dean’s broken and beautiful Jim Stark in Rebel Without a Cause. I think lately I feel more like Hamlet.
There are two things I witnessed yesterday that I need to report on. The first was a license plate frame on a late-model BMW that read: “Real Men Loves Jesus.” [sic] Needless to say, that amused me on multiple levels. The second thing is the following commercial, which I luckily found on YouTube this morning. I caught this on cable last night, and for a second or two I thought I was in the Twighlight Zone — or at least in some bizarre, Southern accent-drenched, urinary-related equivalent:
But censorship on this scale is anything but funny: China blocks iTunes over all-star Tibet album free download. Bravo to the International Campaign for Tibet for using a creative marketing approach in spreading their statement of protest.
In unrelated news, I feel I need to write something on the topic of “sex” soonish. The subtitle of this blog promises sex and so far I’ve managed to delivery exactly one post (my first) in that category. But don’t fret my friends, the subject matter of my forthcoming sex-related post will likely remain true to Pink Moan form (read: abstract, analytical, kind of creepy).
There are a LOT of things that bother me, but here is just one of them: people who vehemently oppose gay marriage and adoption under the umbrella of family values/Christianity. Get over your fear of the “other” (let’s evolve a bit, shall we?) and learn to embrace difference. Variety within the population of a species is a necessary thing. That’s just good science, people. Oh, and remember that trend several years ago with the WWJD (What Would Jesus Do?) bracelets? I don’t know for sure, but do have a gut feeling, that Jesus would unconditionally love his fellow wo/man no matter her/his sexual preference or gender identity.
That being said, here is a recent trend I’ve noticed: male pop vocalists whose sexual preference invites inquiry (gay) having babies via surrogate moms:
I just wanna say I’m all for this trend of non-romantically involved couples becoming parents. And I think it’s wonderfully queer that the first name of Aiken’s babymama is “Jaymes” to boot. I love that detail. Clay and Ricky both chose to sire children via their seed and a surrogate, but let’s not forget adoption as an option. Here’s to more queer, planned and loving families of the future (and not just celebs).
I LOVE this story: Rolling Stones classic wakes grandfather from coma. It warms my heart on so many levels. I like the idea of this grandfather in a coma revisiting his younger consciousness upon hearing (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction and tapping into that reality in order to receive the burst of energy necessary to wake up and continue to live. The thrill and urgency of primitive rock and roll = life.
My friends and I were talking about this over dinner yesterday: what music would we like to have played to us in an attempt to bring us out of a coma if we ever were to experience the misfortune of being in such a state? My first choice was the Velvet Underground and Nico, but then I quickly nixed that option for fear the album might actually enhance the comatose state (Nico’s sultry croon beckons from the other side — come join us). I’ve settled on the punk rock (Dead Kennedy’s, Descendants, Gray Matter, Operation Ivy, Black Flag) of my teenage years and early Beatles. I think, if anything, the jangly Rickenbacker guitars, signature harmonies and pure pop magic of early Beatles’ tunes could bridge my adult and childhood selves, and nudge me sweetly back into waking life.
Something I’ve been interested in for a while now is the concept of bilocation, or the ability to appear in two separate places at the same time. According to the Wiki entry on bilocation, many of the 17th century saints experienced this phenomenon, as well as folks like Aleister Crowley. The Wiki entry defines bilocation as a physical, rather than spiritual, phenomenon. I don’t know how within the realm of physics this material duplication could ever be explained, so I am more inclined to think of bilocation as a phenomenon related to perception.
Carlos Castaneda writes a lot about energetic “doubles” that we all apparently possess. Our double is just as real as we are, it is a part of us. It is the “us” that travels in dreams and elsewhere, astrally, and at times manifests itself physically. In Tales of Power Castaneda’s Don Juan character calls upon his double to perform tricks of perception — like being on flat ground one moment then on a mountaintop the next. At one point in the book, Don Juan reveals to a terrified Castaneda that he, Castaneda, has interacted with the double, rather than the “real” Don Juan, on several occasions. Now, is this the same thing as a doppelgänger? The term doppelgänger can mean “look-alike” but generally it has more sinister connotations. Are our doubles are always sinister, ready to perform bizarre, evil-tinged tasks in the 5th dimension? Not necessarily. I like to think that our energetic doubles are amoral. They exist outside of normal space/time as non-dualistic beings, ungoverned by human inventions like “good” and “evil.” Perhaps that’s why doubles, or doppelgängers, get an ominous rap. On the flipside, Vladimir Nabokov explores the sinister aspect of the doppelgänger in his 1934 book Despair, whose main character Hermann is obsessed with executing the perfect crime — his own murder.
I have a friend who said she experienced a sort of astral projection once. She floated away and saw her body from the ceiling. Then, just as things were getting interesting, she was back inside her body and the whole experience was over. Another friend of mine, who now lives in Austin, says she likes to think part of her is still in New Orleans, her pre-Katrina home. She imagines her double going about business as usual in New Orleans, while she exists simultaneously in Austin. I love this notion, and haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since she shared it with me.
Perhaps the dream world serves as ground zero for interaction with our doubles. Maybe we share energy, foster ideas, make plans, etc., with our doubles in dreams. To borrow the title of a Delmore Schwartz short story, in dreams begin responsibilities. I know I’ve strayed off the topic of bilocation here, but doppelgängers, doubles and dreaming are all interrelated in my swirly mind. I’ll leave you with this dreamer’s call to arms, a clip from Waking Life:
