Commercial Break

Several days into the Direct TV experience and I”m avoiding the BOX. The commercials creep me out. About thirteen years ago I pretty much stopped watching commercial television, and I’m remembering why. The commercials. Nearly everyone one of them feels like a person in a white coat is approaching with needle and syringe, grinning, “This won’t hurt!” They search for a vein, tap, tap, and over their shoulder I see a personalized headstone and plastic flowers which they’ve not even bothered to hide because it’s considered an appealing part of ye olde Americana consumer aesthetic. No matter the target age, it’s less a boob tube than a coffin.

Years ago, I used to want to do an art installation that would replicate an allergist’s office circa late 1970’s. The walls would be a soft sage green with white molding. A few bad golf paintings would hang on the walls. There would be no windows. The lighting would be lighter tones of lemon yellowy, dispelling all sepia shadows even into the corners. A man in a pink Izod would check in and seat himself. The music would be all Isaac Hayes. It was purgatory. A place where it would always be Master’s week but you’d been dropped off the Master’s tickets list.


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