Make It Stop, Make It Stop! (Alan Jackson's Blathersome Gospel Advert)

<Here's how that annoying ad starts...
(YouTube-stylee screen capture)>

We've got a box to put in your brain

Hard wired for downloading

All the secrets and the mysteries

You've been selfishly withholding

The dreams and hopes

That once were yours

Will now be collected and dispersed

So the first to come with cash to spend

Will be the first one served

<Tracy Chapman, "Hard Wired" (2002)>

<i.>

Nothing personal against Alan Jackson, but his "Precious Memories" TV spot irritates the living f#ck out of me. I've been subjected to it, over and over and over, in all its mindless, grinding, ticktock regularity, to the point of audible shuddering and revulsion, when I hear those ringing chords of its opening number:

"Some glad morning, when my work is over, I'llll flyyyy awayyy..." 

By now, I have my routine down. I know just what to do. I grab my remote, and flip the channel. If I'm feeling especially weary -- since I'm usually subjected to this ad late at night -- I shut the TV off or two minutes. Then, back to whatever dubious show I've already chosen (per the Sex Pistols, in "No Feelings": "I'm watching all the rubbish, and wasting my time").

A rather drastic remedy, yeah. But at least it's one that makes feel more in control, instead of continuing to eyeball something against my will.

For those who've somehow managed to escape it -- which seems impossible to imagine -- the focus of my ire, Precious Memories, is a two-CD collection of classic gospel songs that Jackson released through Walmart last fall. Call it a busman's holiday for an artist who came up in the early 1990s, as one of the so-called "hat acts," whose slicker country-pop began to overtake the traditionalist twang long associated with the genre. 

My antennae tell me that Jackson represents the better end of the whole Hat Act equation, though I've never felt prompted enough to acquire any of his records, let alone those from the other flag bearers of that particular flotilla -- Garth Brooks, Billy Ray Crus, Tim McGraw, Travis Tritt, and all the rest of 'em. Again, it's nothing personal: I prefer a blast of Pinups (David Bowie), myself, now and again. It's simply a matter of preference.

<They just wanna testify:
Alan Jackson, above (rare non-cowboy hat photo):
Alan's mom and wife (below, left and right, respectively)>

<ii.>

Just to make myself abundantly clear, I don't have any issue with the music being promoted here, either. Country and gospel have long been intertwined since the record industry's beginnings, with many an artist -- from Johnny Cash, to George Jones, to Dolly Parton, and Randy Travis, to name only a few -- paying tribute to the hymns that they sang or heard, growing up.

For those who feel a similar calling, I'm sure that Precious Memories won't disappoint. All the usual suspects are here, recorded live at Ryman Auditorium, the temple of country music -- from "How Great Thou Art," to "Just As I Am," "The Old Rugged Cross," and many, many more -- and certainly sound great, even in snippet form. Or, should I say, sounded great.

Because the novelty of being forced to hear them -- over and over and over, again and again and again, several times a night -- wore off long ago. It didn't take me long to reach the point of listening for mistakes! Not that I expected to find any, but it might make me feel better about waking up -- as I've done recently, in fact -- hearing those songs in my mind.

"Then siiinnngs my soul, my Savior, God, to thhheee...."

And that's when they really throw in the monkey wrench. Those ordering the double DVD version will also get "intimate interviews with Alan, his wife, and his mother as they reflect on his musical roots, as well as his personal journey." The first time I heard the announcer lay this gem on me, I groaned aloud. "What the hell is this doing in there?" I asked myself. "Can't he just let the music do the talking? Does he have to convince us that he's some sort of social messiah, too?"

I mean, it's not like he's forcing it on anyone who's not  inclined to spend their $28.85. But even so, the notion of Alan, his mother and wife -- who bears a striking resemblance to Jennifer Aniston -- expounding on faith, justice and the American Way seems like such an unnecessary addition to the enterprise.

And, more to the point -- it doesn't make me feel anymore forgiving toward the marketers who've gatecrashed their way into my brain...uninvited.

<And here's how that bothersome ad should end, 

once and for all -- fading to black!>

<iii.>

The "Precious Memories" ad isn't the first time that any of us have endured the unwelcome hell of relentless repetition. I remember the gnawing feeling of dread that would sweep over me during the holidays, when some sort of sex drug or other would flash on my screen.

I can recall the tagline, uttered by the stars, some clean-scrubbed yuppie couple, or other -- something to do with, "just kick off our shoes, and then, go straight to bed." I quickly tired of seeing them, too, carpet bombed into my senses, hour after hour after hour. 

And I also remember enduring a fair chunk of one '90s-era summer, courtesy of a boss who adored The Division Bell, the flagship album of the lusher (yet blander) post-Waters Pink Floyd era.  Some nights, we all heard it three or four times running in the newsroom, which nearly drove me right around the bend. 

I've almost forgiven David Gilmour, if only because he's such a great, inventive guitar player, but I just can't stomach hearing that album ever again. 

Still, all these anecdotes should drive home one basic point. The human brain just isn't wired to experience any combination of images or sounds at saturation levels. To me, it's a symptom of a much bigger problem -- a world whose defining tools, like Twitter and TikTok, seem designed to continually shrink our attention spans, until we'll finally give in, and let their creators do whatever the hell they want with our senses.

Don't believe me? The industry's spin doctors admit as much, like the minds  behind the curtain at mymarketingdoctor.com, who cite a study on the effects on streaming (see links below). According to the study, six repetitions of one ad per hour amounted to a 92% overall increase in awareness of the particular brand.

However, the study also showed annoyance increasing by over 48% among those same participants -- feelings so pervasive, in fact, that their intentions to buy declined by 16%:

"Consumers often perceive repetitive ads as intentional actions by the brand, which can impact their perception of the brand. With this in mind, media agencies must manage ad frequency and optimize exposure to protect the brand's reputation and market sentiment. Consistency in ad delivery and an optimal viewing experience are important to maintain positive consumer sentiment and protect sales performance."

There you have it. Whether Alan Jackson's marketing team learns this lesson, time will tell. Having been so relentlessly exposed to his latest effort, thanks to a campaign that puts the "nausea" back in "ad nauseum," I'm not sure that I care one way or the other anymore.

All I can say is, the floodgates of mere irritation burst wide open long ago, into raging torrents and cascades of resentment. This much, I can tell you -- if I never hear a note of Alan Jackson's music again, I'll count myself a happy man. And what's more, a greatly relieved one, at the same time. --The Reckoner

<Coda: One More Thing, Sir...>

"When we die, I suspect that our last thoughts are not about the Great Truths which we seldom hear nor do we spend our final moments recalling some Wondrous Beauty so infrequently glimpsed -- the light streaming through a Sequoia tree, a Polynesian sunset -- that sort of thing.

"No, I suspect that our last thoughts are those dopey advertising slogans which have been clubbed and beaten and pounded into our minds thousands and thousands of times  so that even as our brains begin to melt and the worms commence to gnaw at the softer parts and the light flickers and fades, even as we are swept toward the Eternal Void, we'll still be mumbling over and over, "Looks like a pump, feels like a sneaker...Looks like a pump, feels like a sneaker...Looks like a pump, feels..."

<Mr. Mike: The Life and Work of Michael O'Donoghue: 1998>

Links To Go: Hurry, Hurry

(Before Those Same Damn Ads Invade Your Brain Again):

Tracy Chapman: Hard Wired (lyrics in comments):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bhl2KtsZKEM

Digiday: Ad Overexposure On CTV Hurts Streamers As Much As Brands:
https://digiday.com/media-buying/ad-overexposure-on-ctv-hurts-streamers-as-much-as-brands/#:~:text=Participants%20who%20saw%20the%20same,overall%20experience%E2%80%9D%20by%2033%25.

My Marketing Doctor:
Repetition Or Irritation? Understanding Ad Frequency:
https://www.mymarketingdoctor.com/repetition-or-irritation-understanding-ad-frequency

The Squawker Returns: "The Poor...Is Separated From His Neighbor"

<"The Dividing Line":

The Reckoner>

Wealth maketh many friends; 

but the poor is separated from his neighbor.
Proverbs 19:4 

"It's the story of my life, paralyzed in the headlights

Looking out from the inside, same old story of my life

Vice Squad ("The Story Of My Life")

Want to know how your friends, or even your enemies, are really doing? Just look for them on Facebook. If they're flush with cash, they'll let you know. If they're struggling, you won't find them. Like ghosts, they drop out of sight, ducking any attempt to capture them on film or video. 

That's the conclusion I've reached after seeing what happened to a friend of mine, who retired from the administrative job that she'd held for 30 years. We used to see each other at one of the churches we'd periodically visit for food, whenever our own resources ran out. Judging by her Facebook posts, she really seemed to have it all.

There she was, trotting off to Chicago for ball games. There she was, hosting large parties of 50-plus people at the height of COVID, without a mask in sight. I always took her for a Republican, but that told me, loud and clear. There she was, going out with this friend or that one, to places that the Reckoner and I couldn't afford. Where'd she get all the money for that stuff?

These days, I don't know, because she dropped off the social media radar about eight months ago. I barely see her on Facebook anymore, and when I do, it's usually terse updates from her book groups. I wondered what was going on, until I heard what happened through the grapevine. She lost her retirement when the corporate bully changed its mind, and walked her benefits back. What looked like a great sendoff evaporated overnight.

If she's not on Facebook, I understand why. Seeing people out visiting all their friends and having fun can be difficult as hell, especially during a pandemic. How'd they afford that trip to Tennessee? Look how much fun they're having with their families and friends. I was struggling with this stuff even before COVID, seeing people caught up in a whirlwind of gatherings -- graduations, parties, weddings -- that take MONEY to pull off. Gas needs to be bought, hotels booked, meals taken out. How do these people afford all that?

Poor you has paid your bills for the month and there's only enough money to buy a Burrito, yeah, there's your "fun" for the month, aren't you thrilled? Post that burrito with those lettuce and tomato slices on social media! Time passes by and the memories everyone else makes are lost to you.

Poverty hurts relationships. You can't afford to visit people and your relationships ebb with time. The Reckoner and I haven't been able to afford a trip to our old hometown since we left over a decade ago. (He did make it back a couple times to play there, but I don't count them, since I didn't get to go along.) 

Now that we finally have a working van, and some discretionary money, what happens? We can't go far, because the anxiety of using public bathrooms and spaces, plus the stress of playing human dodgeball, is too nerve-wracking to think about.

It's a continuation of my pre-COVID struggles, when I went without seeing some relatives for too long, and those relationships withered, as well. I became a stranger. Would they have loved me if I had money? It eats like gall within my soul. A rich, spoiled Baby Boomer mother, too embarrassed to even have you around. Years of being made to feel like pond scum, because, for some reason, others in your family were loved enough to get good jobs and a chance and a place to belong. Not you and yours, though.

Who wants to be around people who always have their hands out and never have any money? Who wants a friend who can't even afford a Greyhound to come and see you? Even if you hide your desperation, it shows. People hate when you are poor. It makes you boring. You can't go out to eat, or go on trips, you are always in need. You are the "mooch". Your clothes don't fit right, you get too fat, they are tight, you lose a little bit of weight, your dress keeps sliding off your shoulder, it sucks.

Normal people make goals. But goals cost money, too. And there's that elephant in the room, COVID-19, getting in our way again. The Reckoner and I haven't made it back to the gym since all this madness started, but for now, we're just letting the bank deduct our $30 memberships per month, until we figure it's cool to return.

People suggest solutions for you to fix your shitty life, and "get it together" instead of being a disabled "loser". All of it costs money. The stimulus checks have interrupted that groove a little bit, at least. Before COVID, we'd pay our rent, medical bills and the little bit of food that would run out in a week. Even then, it took tons of cooking from scratch to stretch our budget. 

Once we paid the cable, electric, Internet, insurance and rent, by the 15th of the month, we'd barely have $50 between us, and we might still have to shell out seven bucks for a prescription co-pay here, or 10 bucks, to buy some hearing aid batteries there.

You'd feel like you were circling a never-ending drain, as you wondered, what's gonna happen the rest of the month? Oh, wait, maybe we have a few more books or records we can sell. Let's try that again. But why doesn't anything sell on eBay like it used to? Maybe because everybody else has the same idea, I guess. 

Being disabled means you burn with shame, and despair inside at what has "become of your life" and wake up every morning in tears. What else is there to do, but sit at home, and live vicariously through "Better Call Saul" and "Fargo," and reality TV shows? You do the housework, dying a little bit with each wipe, remembering all the richer ladies you made the mistake of showing your apartment, who went off twittering among themselves about how little you owned.

I thought of my friend when the Reckoner and I were running errands around town today, and we happened to drive past a food pantry. I craned my neck to look more closely. It's all the usual stuff, lots of milk and potatoes, sugar and carbs by the truckload, because they really think that's all we want to eat.

I swear I'm not going back to food pantries, either, because I'm allergic to most of the stuff they hand out, or it doesn't fit a diet that's turning partially vegetarian, so i can avoid the horror of kidney stones. 

Also, I'm not a Christian anymore, and I'm not comfortable with what the established churches are pushing. It's the same reason I don't go to my friend's book groups anymore, because it's gotten too awkward for me to dodge the whole issue. It's the same reason, I'm sure, my friend has vanished from Facebook.

But that Bible quote says it all, doesn't it? Money drives a wedge between us, and it's not hard to figure out why. I wonder how many people are having conversations like mine, and if my friend is joining them. Or if she's finally figured out the red thread running through it all. --The Squawker

Any Port In A Storm? Not If You're Trans, Apparently

<www.theadvocate.com>

<Who, Me? I'm Not Nappin'...>

<i.>

You can tell something about an administration by its hit lists. For Nixon, it was the press. For Reagan, it was the Sandinistas. For Bush the Elder, it was the Iraqis. For Bush the Younger, it was anyone Middle Eastern, and Social Security. For Trump, it's anyone with the T-word -- not T for Texas, but T as in Transgender. He's not keen on having them serve their country, he's not willing to give them equal access to healthcare, and now, apparently, he's not ready to accept them in homeless shelters.

That's the word from "U.S. Housing and Urban Development Secretary" Ben Carson, who's championing a rule change that would roll back the 2012 Equal Access Rule that prohibits homeless shelters and programs from discriminating "on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity." The proposed change, if it sticks, would allow providers to consider either of those factors "for the purposes of determining accommodation within such shelters and for purposes of determining sex for admission to any facility." What's more, they can also evaluate "privacy, safety, practical concerns, [and] religious beliefs" in making a determination about a person's sex. 

There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. If you don't meet Baron Bozo von Combover's hetero measuring stick, you'll just have to spend another night on the streets. And you can roam them, knowing that the decision-maker who put you there did so, because God whispered in their ears. Nothing personal, but their faith was strong, right? Such thinking would hardly raise an eyebrow in countries like Iran or Saudi Arabia. There's just one small matter, though. That's not how our democracy, as fractured and broken as it appears, is supposed to work, exactly. But I digress.

<I'm Just Busy Makin' Life...>

<ii.>

The only silver lining here, if we can call it that, is that this proposal -- like so many that this noxious regime belches up, and spews out -- is likely headed for some type of legal challenge. it's hard to imagine trans folks, or their allies, simply winking at this latest blast of legalese, one that's designed to make their lives significantly worse.

As in many cases, statistics tell their own story. According to transequality.org, one in five trans people experiences homelessness at some point in their lives, or about 20 to 40 percent at any given time. Stated another way, that's roughly 1.6 million people, a staggering number for a modern developed nation. Then again, we've lived with ever-spiraling numbers of homeless since the Reagan Eighties, so what's a million more? These facts, inconvenient as they seem, count for little in the brutish world of Trumpism, where money and power are prized above human life. (Never mind the last words of Bob Marley, who told his sons on his deathbed: "Money can't buy life.")

There's no question that young trans people would feel especially hard hit, since family rejection -- coupled with eviction from their homes -- is a common trigger of homelessness, which often coincides with violence, and other types of discrimination. Like housing, where Carson has never worked, and knows nothing about. But that doesn't stop him from plowing ahead with a measure that, again, will make life worse for millions. Because, when God whispers in your ear, anybody who gets in the way is fair game.

<...Miserable For Millions>

<iii.>

Two other aspects are worth mentioning. First, why it should surprise anyone that the announcement doesn't square with Carson's assurances to a Congressional committee that no plans existed to roll back the 2012 language? Trump can't keep his story straight, so why would any of his minions? If I were sitting on any of those bodies, I'd start with the notion that I'm not getting the whole truth, let alone a half, or even a sliver. In other words, if they told me the sun was shining, I'd go outside to check. And take my umbrella. Just in case.

From my perspective, it's hard to overstate the contempt that the Carsons of the world feel for rules and procedures. (I can't say "the Trumps," since I don't hang out in those circles, not have I interviewed any of them.) At best, they are nuisances to be gamed, or gotten around; at worst, they are obstacles to subvert, by any means necessary. If that means ducking FOIA requests, so be it. if that means lying to a committee, so be it. if that means telling a different story as each new contradictory fact emerges, so be it. Take your pick of the relevant quote here, whether it's William Henry Vanderbilt ("The public be damned"), or Abraham Lincoln ("Public sentiment is everything").

What's all the more galling, as I've already mentioned, is that the decision-maker here has no housing experience (so, in keeping with our house style, we put his title in quotes). in all fairness to Carson, he's certainly not the only know nothing cluttering up Trump's Cabinet. "Education Secretary" Betsy DeVos has never worked in a school; "Consumer Financial Protection Bureau" head Kathy Kraninger has no experience in consumer affairs, financial services or regulation, the very areas that she's tasked with overseeing. 

This same ignorance, as my sister pointed out in our weekly phone call, looms large over the rush to ban abortion in Ohio, where State Senator John Becker seriously suggested that an ectopic pregnancy can somehow be reimplanted into the uterus, or in Alabama, where State Senator Clyde Chambliss freely admitted his lack of scientific knowledge over the area he couldn't wait to impose his views. But it didn't matter, he asserted, because "from what I’ve read, what I’ve been told, there’s some period of time before you can know that a woman is pregnant… It takes some time for all those chromosomes and all that." 

Such mangled reasonings put them on par with geniuses like the late Senator Ted Stevens (R-AK), who earned raspberries all around for describing the Internet as "a series of tubes," and email technology as "an Internet," as he clumsily waded into the net neutrality debate. Even so, such gaffes didn't prompt his colleagues to yank his leadership of the committee charged with regulating the technology. Failure falls upwards, as we've seen. Especially in politics.

Multiply this confederacy of dunces by hundreds, or thousands, and you begin to realize the enormity of the damage that Carson and his kind may dish out. Such matters often end up as late night comedy fodder, but let's not allow our laughter to push the consequences out of our minds. Will we recover? Time will tell. But in the short run -- or, at least until this policy is overturned -- millions will suffer for who they are, or who they love. Nobody deserves that. --The Reckoner