Are we being led down the proverbial garden path, yet again?
How is it that so many seemingly disparate entities seem to be conspiring to
influence us to previously unknown needs – still?
Three relatively recent media phenomena have me thinking
that this is so. They are just three of a litany of reasons to avoid mass
communication – and don’t get me going on cloud computing.
First – Cats & dogs. The only thing more frequently
shared on social media than POTUS antics and jokes about wine consumption, are
pets and other animals doing patently cute things, stupid things, performing
tricks, cuddling counter-instinctively (i.e., orphaned puppies suckling
contentedly on the teats of pot-bellied pigs), or cockatiels piggybacking
Shetland ponies and/or water-skiing squirrels.
Admittedly, I have tittered a few times at the sight of dogs
romping in the snow, and marvelled as a pit bull terrier boosts an infant to
within reach of a cupboard full of goodies. It’s not the cuteness factor that
concerns me, however, it’s the sudden proliferation of related merchandizing.
Think about it. We are inundated with images of pets. A
YouTube documentary misses the irony as felons are trained to train service
dogs to detect drugs and gambling addicts. I’m being facetious, of course, for
it is indeed proven that pets can ameliorate loneliness among seniors, sense
illness, predict seizures, calm nerves of sufferers of trauma, and many other
benefits.
It is ironic, though, that social media has promoted furry
friends as a panacea for the chief malaise of our times: social isolation
resulting in part from technological mediation—social media. And it (social
media)—to get to my point on this point—is the tidal wave on which a flood of
big-box pet supply stores has ridden.
We live a couple of hours from Sydney, Nova Scotia, once a
thriving industrial centre, now in a state of decay brought on by politicians
and dreamers who think they can simply recreate the prosperity of that bygone
era by signing on with the very Chinese investors who now control the world’s
industrial output. I digress.
Aside from umpteen veterinary clinics, grocery stores and
Walmarts that sell pet supplies (even Winners has two aisles of doggie duvets
and cat castles) there are, at last count, five major national pet store
franchises there—in a town of 20,000 or so people, a high percentage of whom live
in poverty, barely able to afford to feed their families, let alone a 40 kg
Rottweiler. I am at an age where time seems compressed and rushed, but I’m going
to estimate that these four large pet stores—no ma & pa corner stores
these—have become established over the last 3-5 years, about the same length of
time I’ve been enduring cat videos.
Closer to home, in Port Hawkesbury, one of these franchises
recently appeared in a near-empty shopping mall, right beside that other
harbinger of economic collapse—a payday loan store—and a Dollarama, about a
year ago. Port Hawkesbury serves a catchment area of fewer than 10,000 people.
I’m telling you—beware of social media trends, for therein
capitalist conspirators create needs you didn’t know you had. Conversely,
embrace your inner inventor; immediately establish a Facebook account and start
posting viral videos plugging your pet-dung disposal service.
Second. We love home reno shows at our house. When we adults
have had it with the swamp dwellers, bushwhackers, gold diggers, death-highway tow
trucks and river monsters on the Discovery Channel (where we thought we’d discover
life-altering, planet-saving knowledge), and now that we’ve watched every
episode of Murdock Mysteries, and
since recently selling our home and moving to one new-to-us, family time often
centres around home renovation ideas.
Leaving aside the lifestyles consumption conspiracies that
media studies classes taught us were at the root of television commercials (we
simply must have open concept kitchen/living spaces, and a walk-in shower large
enough for a three people and a Rottweiler), I am a little freaked out by the
scripted heteronormativity.
Oh sure, one in about twenty airings portrays a wealthy
same-sex couple as clients—and the minimum obligatory number of families of
colour or mixed marriages. And to be sure, there are reno-teams of colour. What
I’m ranting about is the hetero arm lock.
There are umpteen husband-wife designer-contractor teams
with starring roles in these pseudo reality shows—HGTV is wall-to-wall home
renos right now. Remember when it was called the Home and Garden Channel? The
only gardening now seen on this channel is sod makeovers by quirky landscapers
who’d give Christopher Lloyd a run for his money. And how about those elfin
design consultants?
Anyway—when posing for their explanatory cameos interspersing
staged decision-making, “surprise” construction
flaws that threaten the entire neighbourhood with mould or termites, and fake
conflicts over farm sinks and non-smudging stainless steel wine coolers, the
couples are locked in an embrace. With the possible exception of Tarek and
Christine, whose marital status is the source of speculation in the tabloids, the
couples can’t keep their hands off each other. Dave has his arm around Kortney
(they are so in love), likewise Chip and Joanne, and Ben and Erin, and, and,
and.
What’s up with all the hugging and hand holding? Does HGTV
have a “make America hetero again policy? Look, I’m straight, and heaven knows
we still need breeding pairs, but what’s going on here? Is this a cable TV
survival strategy lest evangelical building suppliers mount a social media
smear campaign demanding more conservative programming? Wouldn’t it be better
to aim their laser pointers at gratuitous violence on the networks, and at
sexual impropriety among stakeholders behind the cameras? Or is it just that
sexy appeal of a man with a tool belt and big hammer jealously guarding his
mate?
Maybe it’s nothing of the sort—it’s all anecdotal and maybe
it’s just something that feeds my growing cynicism, but you see it too, right?
The connections?
So, why are they still trying to find Adolf Hitler? Odds are
that unless he found Ponce de León bathing in the fountain of youth, he’s long
dead. More elusive even than Oak Island gold, the quest to know whether Adolph
Hitler was assassinated, escaped, or won a free makeover and retired to open a plastic
surgery parlour in Patagonia, is the subject of a series on the History
channel.
And don’t get me started on how they can call themselves the
history channel when most programming is Hollywood war fiction and tarnished
snuff boxes worth 60 pence to an antique dealer from Plockton.
Actually, Hunting
Hitler is not my point here; like I said, he’s dead. It’s just a symptom
and a lead-up to more serious matters. It takes only a cursory scan of the
program guide for the History and Smithsonian channels this past two months to
see that we are being bombarded with militarism—the First and Second World Wars
in particular, I suppose because we have just been through two years observing
significant centenaries, and 2018 is the 75th anniversary of the siege of
Stalingrad. My worry is that there is some sort of intentionality
here—collusion.
At the height of Canadian military action in Afghanistan,
there was a radio drama series on CBC Radio One—daily, I think. It was thirty
minutes of high drama. I was convinced at the time that if CBC broadcasted the
names of sponsors, the Canadian Armed Forces would have been at the top of the
list. There was no doubt in my mind that the drama was more about recruitment
than art. The current proliferation of cable channel drama is akin to the
recruitment reels of the 1940s, either to normalize global conflict or to
harden us to it, a distraction perhaps from the ongoing tragedies of localized
moral conflicts.
Speaking of Stalingrad, apparently there stands an 85-metre
angel of death—Motherland Call —brandishes
her sword over the graves of a million or so soviets sacrificed for the defense
of mother Russia against the marauding hoard of German soldiers likewise
deployed on a suicide mission. That statue, like the so-called Mother Canada
statue at Vimy, France, was almost mimicked (and may yet be) to dominate the
pristine Cape Breton coastline in the name of, in the name of what?
Think how often “war” as a metaphor has been evoked in
recent years – the war on drugs, the war on crime, the war on terror. Like
furry pets and reno petting, creeping militarism is working us over, and it’s
no laughing matter—so be aware, be very aware. I for one am monitoring Jeopardy for more signs.
I’m going to ease up on the sarcasm meter on this one now,
lest some retired general seize the opportunity to view my rant as that of an
ungrateful and unpatriotic bleeding-heart liberal.
And don’t get me started in the Liberals.
=30=
