Advertising is cruel when it plays on universal fears and weaknesses. It is at its best when attempting to market ideas rather than products. Mobile phone ads sell liberation, autonomy and communication.
I hate the Nutrient Water bottles called Rehab. Sometimes I will glance over it in a store. It that something I need? Will that purple liquid suffice, save me from the gaping doors of the inpatient's ward?
I tried calling the dedicated Drug and Alcohol Counselling Service a few months ago. First I got an answering machine. I was very close to giving up but I left a garbled message. They called back swiftly.
Operator: Hello James?
Me: Hi.
O: You rang?
M: Yeah. I think I need to talk to someone about my habits.
O: Will you be needing Rehab?
M: I guess it couldn't hurt but I'm-
O: Surname?
M: Cunningham.
O: Date of Birth?
M: 30/01/87
O: Okay. And occupation?
M: I'm a barman funnily enough.
O: Hang on. You're 21. You need our youth services number. 9287 4556. Good luck.
I couldn't ring the new number. I couldn't believe the operator would offer rehab so quickly. As easy to get as Nutrient Water. It must be a real good service, considering the amount of grinning reformed junkies I see wandering about. Not. But surely all of them would have got the same treatment if they'd just had that little bit of self-awareness and hope and reached out that dedicated, understanding service. No questions asked.
The Coca-Cola Amatil knows this generation. Of course they do, they probably ask us more questions than any politician ever has. We are enamoured by drinks calling themselves Rehab, because we both glorify and fear the possibility, the absurdity of us needing it.
I think alcohol ads sell acceptance, community, joy and strength. If that's not good salemanship I'll never touch another drop in my life.
Hrmmm. I have lost one job and with it the little thing I was giving love to. It's okay, as the fawning affection and lack of independent movement was beginning to do my head in.
Spent a mad Saturday flying around in my car, tanning poet's corner savvy B from the bottle. Would enter suburb and burst into aptly located acquaintance's lounge-settings. So many home for a Saturday. Middle age arrives. Demand we have a drink, then rush out the door soon afterwards. Wished I was wearing a trench coat, but then it is 38 degrees.
Feeling the weight of my heavy vehicle around dockside roads, letting the engine find it's own rhythm. Late-night radio hosts provide me with some conversation. I like the way neither of us is really listening to the other. I stop in dimly lit car parks, with the pretense of searching for wireless Internet hot spots. Really I'm looking for other late night sojourners. I'm looking for grime and insidiousness, for desperation and intrigue.
There is no-one else. I open the laptop and madly research walking meditation and lucid dreaming, all the time reading all and understanding naught. My eyes drift often to the rear-view, fervently hounding the car park's entrance for the arrival of a fellow soul. I need a new low point, the entrance of someone so depraved and shat-upon that I can end my night drunk on a rich dose of catharsis. Disgusted with my reading a rev the engine and move on.
I arrive at a woman's. Her friend, a camp one, is there also. I pick them up before at a train station. While I'm waiting they get chatting to some people, just 20 meters from my door. I can't hear what they're saying. Who are they, chatting up two teenagers at midnight? I scream for them to get in the fucking car. They giggle and run over, hop in.
We go to the house someone has let her stay in. I ignore all conversation and download brit-pop, pausing only to sing the praises of some tawdry act or another. Then we go to bed.
Spent a mad Saturday flying around in my car, tanning poet's corner savvy B from the bottle. Would enter suburb and burst into aptly located acquaintance's lounge-settings. So many home for a Saturday. Middle age arrives. Demand we have a drink, then rush out the door soon afterwards. Wished I was wearing a trench coat, but then it is 38 degrees.
Feeling the weight of my heavy vehicle around dockside roads, letting the engine find it's own rhythm. Late-night radio hosts provide me with some conversation. I like the way neither of us is really listening to the other. I stop in dimly lit car parks, with the pretense of searching for wireless Internet hot spots. Really I'm looking for other late night sojourners. I'm looking for grime and insidiousness, for desperation and intrigue.
There is no-one else. I open the laptop and madly research walking meditation and lucid dreaming, all the time reading all and understanding naught. My eyes drift often to the rear-view, fervently hounding the car park's entrance for the arrival of a fellow soul. I need a new low point, the entrance of someone so depraved and shat-upon that I can end my night drunk on a rich dose of catharsis. Disgusted with my reading a rev the engine and move on.
I arrive at a woman's. Her friend, a camp one, is there also. I pick them up before at a train station. While I'm waiting they get chatting to some people, just 20 meters from my door. I can't hear what they're saying. Who are they, chatting up two teenagers at midnight? I scream for them to get in the fucking car. They giggle and run over, hop in.
We go to the house someone has let her stay in. I ignore all conversation and download brit-pop, pausing only to sing the praises of some tawdry act or another. Then we go to bed.
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