Ads That Suck

Flipping through this week’s issue of Time I turn a page and there she is. We’ve met before, in the pages of other mags. G’head, click and look closer at her sitting there ó confident and stylish yet casually barefoot cool. In her understated ensemble with one leg parted and hiked up on her understated chair her bodytalk says yes, but you’re in her world now and she’s 65 incredible inches and 103 perfect pounds of No Way, Jack. Instead, she tells us what she tells her girlfriends every day: “It’s not your handbag. It’s not your neighborhood. It’s not your boyfriend.” And they all believe it. In her world “It’s your watch that tells most about who you are,” and there’s no room to be defined by what’s on your iPod, or your Amazon Wishlist, or your compassion, hope, humanity, and humor.

See her eyes? That Mona Lisa-like smirkgaze? She’s not looking for your soul or your heart or your mind. Instead she’s locked and almost laughing at the battered and beloved $40 whatever from Costco you’ve got strapped to your wrist ó and no way is it good enough. “What time is it?” she asks coyly. And before you can check she yells: “It’s time to go ó and get your takes-a-lickin’ functionality and dependability out of here!”

See it’s all about style over there where she’s sitting, and she has so much of the stuff she doesnt’ even have to show you hers. Instead she keeps her Seiko Coutura’s 16-diamond bezel, mother of pearl dial, and sapphire crystal hidden discreetly beneath the long sleeve of her Vera Wang cashmere top. And you can almost hear her laughing when you turn the page.

6 thoughts on “Ads That Suck”

  1. So is that why those gang bangers be wearing them expensive watches…they don’t want to be defined by the neighborhood they live in?

  2. duh, as if. Everyone knows it’s your handbag that defines who you are. Who do they think their fooling? Unless you’re a guy, then it’s your sound system.

    love, Nigress (Chanel tote in “rose”))

  3. The watch is not the problem. I like watches–I have a picture of John Cameron Swayze tattooed on my wrist and Dali’s melting clocks on my butt. Watches remind me of stuff like: it’s time to have a martini; or the Sopranos are on right now and I could watch Christopher Moltisanti get whacked–as he must–if only I had a TV; or, wow! it must be midnight in Ouagadougou! I’d love to own a Cartier Tank watch (Rollex is for ostentatious pissants, as they say in Texas) just so I could feel smug about the fact that my 22-buck Timex would probably break down much less often.

    No, as William points out, it’s the advertisement for the watch and the Rodeo Drive ethic that it promulgates that makes us want to puke as we type out vain messages on our 2000-dollar laptops. But as McCluhan used to say, the medium is the message, and in this case Time magazine is the medium. You’ll notice that William saw the ad for the watch while “flipping through” Time. That’s because that’s all you can do with a publication that, over the years, has gone from being something that you read to something you flip through like People and Los Angeles Magazine. (Then again, what is life if not flipping through time?) Pretty soon, it will resemble Angeleno magazine and it will have nothing but ads for watches featuring beautiful people in a kama-sutran variety of titillating poses. What time is it? Why it’s Suntori time, of course. But it’s also time to shave your head and get a sundial tattoo. I recommend Don Ed Hardy, the John Cameron Swayze of American tattoo artists.

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