Space Boosters: The Marketing of Unearthliness

Space
Boosters:
The
Marketing
of
Unearthliness
The
Pythia
of
Delphi
has
now
been
replaced
by
a
computer
which
hovers
over
panels
and
punch
cards.
The
hexameters
of
the
oracle
have
given
way
to
sixteen‐bit
codes
of
instruction.
Man
the
helmsman
has
turned
the
power
over
to
the
cybernetic
machine.
The
ultimate
machine
emerges
to
direct
our
destinies.
Children
phantasize
flying
their
spacecrafts
away
from
a
crepuscular
Earth.
Ivan
Illich,
Deschooling
Society
.
.
.
the
emphasis
on
surface;
the
blankness
of
the
protagonist;
his
striving
toward
self‐sufficiency,
to
the
point
of
displacement
from
the
recognizable
world.
.
.
.
Does
the
icy
quality
of
an
artificial
outer
space,
the
self‐conscious
displacement
and
blankness
of
car
commercials,
MTV,
and
"Miami
Vice,"
correspond
to
a
glacial
inner
space?
Todd
Gitlin,
"We
Build
Excitement"
In
a
late
1980s
issue
of
Marketing
Week,
a
columnist
laments
the
post‐Jetsons
lack
of
real
Space
Age
advertising
and
calls
for
campaigns
more
in
keeping
with
an
era
of
Star
Wars
and
SDI
(Myers
12).
Surely
he
cannot
read
magazines
or
watch
television.
Advertisements
could
not
be
spacier
than
they
are
now.
Never
slow
to
capitalize
on
the
tacit
tendencies
of
the
cultural
psyche,
advertisements,
"soak
.
.
.
up
certain
ideals
in
circulation
at
the
moment,
and
squeeze
.
.
.
a
version
of
them
back
at
us."
According
to
Todd
Gitlin,
The Collected Works of David Lavery 2
ads
present
"the
incarnation
of
a
popular
ideal—or
rather,
the
ideas
of
that
ideal
held
by
the
marketer."
An
advertisement
is
thus,
in
a
sense,
a
"tiny
utopia."
The
commercial
"conveys
what
we
are
supposed
to
think
is
the
magic
of
things;
those
things
which,
if
we
buy
them,
are
supposed
to
work
miraculous
transformations
in
our
lives"
("We
Build
Excitement"
141).
In
the
Space
Age,
it
seems,
the
advertising
industry
has
realized
that
virtually
anything
can
now
be
sold
to
us
through
appeals
to
our
otherworldliness.
In
their
1953
novel
The
Space
Merchants,
Frederik
Pohl
and
C.
M.
Kornbluth
imagined
a
Madison
Avenue
advertising
agency
given
the
task
of
convincing
the
human
race
that
it
should
migrate
to
an
uninhabitable
Venus.
In
Ridley
Scott's
1982
film
Blade
Runner,
we
see
an
early
twenty
first
century
Los
Angeles
cityscape
in
which
huge,
floating
video
billboards
beam
promises
that
"a
new
life
awaits
you
in
the
off‐world
colonies."
Neither
of
these
science
fiction
prophecies
has
come
true
(though
Sony
has
now
developed
multistory
video
billboards),
but
they
now
hardly
seem
fantastic
to
us,
for
though
we
are
not
yet
being
sold
Venusian
real
estate,
we
are
being
sold
unearthliness.
In
1981,
I
lived
and
taught
in
Shanghai,
People's
Republic
of
China.
When
I
left
with
my
family
on
a
long
Pan
Am
flight
to
an
alien
world,
the
space
shuttle
Columbia,
then
on
its
maiden
voyage,
orbited
the
Earth.
It
touched
down
soon
after
our
arrival
in
Asia.
In
the
Far
East
edition
of
Time,
I
read
that
the
successful
mission
had
given
post‐Vietnam,
post‐Watergate
America
a
"mighty
lift";
and
President
Reagan,
convalescing
from
an
assassination
attempt,
waxed
eloquently
to
the
Columbia's
heroes,
telling
them
(I
learned),
"Through
you,
we
feel
as
giants
once
again."
On
my
return
to
the
United
States
later
that
summer,
badly
culture‐shocked
from
my
time
in
the
People's
Republic,
I
struggled
to
acclimate
myself
again
to
the
frenetic,
spacy
American
way
of
life.
More
than
ordinarily
attuned
to
its
peculiarities
and
absurdities,
I
began
to
notice
a
new
kind
of
advertisement
appearing
with
surprising
frequency
on
television
(and,
I
might
note,
I
watched
television
with
open‐
eyed
wonder
after
months
without
it
in
Shanghai).
The
image
of
space
was,
throughout
the
decade,
everywhere.

I
saw
Space
Age
microphotography—designed,
we
are
told,
to
view
the
Earth
from
space—reveal
the
epidermis
of
a
woman's
skin
in
order
to
convince
us
of
the
positive
effects
of
an
anti‐aging
cream.
The Collected Works of David Lavery 3

I
saw
the
three‐ply
lamination
of
Glad
garbage
bags
fuse
together,
set
against
the
backdrop
of
interstellar
space.

I
saw
Maybelline
Dial‐a‐Lash
tubes
shoot
off
from
launching
pads.

I
saw
a
fashion
model,
standing
on
the
lunar
surface,
wear
Revlon
lipstick
said
to
exhibit
"out‐of‐this‐world
colors."

I
saw
a
Technics
turntable
orbit
the
Earth.

I
saw
the
Cincinnati
Bell
logo
transformed
into
a
space
station.

I
saw
a
ready‐to‐assemble
"wall
system"—labeled,
of
course,
as
a
"Space
Age"
product—offer
"new
heights
in
organization"
and
"infinite"
possibilities
for
creativity,
solving
storage
needs
by
allowing
the
owner
to
"fill
unlimited
space."

I
saw
a
United
Negro
College
Fund
appeal,
showing
African‐American
scholars
in
graduation
robes
and
mortar
boards
set
against
yet
another
cosmic
backdrop.
(For,
after
all,
this
solicitation
for
contributions
informs
us
that
the
mind
is
as
"vast
as
space.")

I
saw
Taster's
Choice—like
Tang
before
it—offered
to
us
as
the
choice
of
astronauts
(the
shuttle
astronauts
in
this
case).

I
saw
a
spot
for
Home
Box
Office
show
a
family
in
its
living
room
flying
through
space,
watching
HBO.

I
saw
an
insurance
company's
famous
"piece
of
the
rock"
appear
in
a
cosmic
landscape
resting
on
an
Earth
seemingly
without
atmosphere
(the
moon
appears
only
miles
away),
orbited
by
a
ranch‐style,
two‐stall
garage
home,
a
sports
car
approaching
on
a
highway
through
space,
and
a
floating
sailboat
followed
by
frolicking
dolphins—all
in
keeping
with
the

advertisement's
promise
that
"With
the
Prudential,
the
sky's
the
limit."

I
saw
cartoon
children
carried
into
space
by
Bubblicious
balloon
bubbles.
("It
tastes
so
unreal
it'll
blow
you
away.")

I
saw,
during
a
decade
in
which
(inspired
by
Reagan‐era
deregulation)
it
became
increasingly
difficult
to
distinguish
Saturday
morning
television
programming
from
its
advertising,
"kidvid"
become
more
and
more
spacy.
(A
television
critic
notes
that
producers—under
the
influence
of
both
George
Lucas's
and
Ronald
Reagan's
"Star
Wars"—came
to
agree
that
"outer
space,
high
tech
and
faraway
enemies
in
a
distant
future
are
a
safer,
tidier,
less
complicated
way"
to
capture
an
audience
(Engelhardt
1986,
88‐89).
The Collected Works of David Lavery 4

I
saw
a
vacuous
blonde,
female
astronaut
in
a
lunar
lander
proclaim
to
her
companions,
"Go
ahead
without
me.
I've
got
a
run!"
("She
would
have
been
the
first
woman
on
the
moon
if
only
she'd
worn
Sheer
Business
Panty
Hose.")

I
saw
Timex
watches
link
together
to
form
Star
Wars‐type
spacefighters,
accompanied
by
a
montage
of
images
of
a
man
and
a
woman
in
space
suits
on
an
alien
world,
while
a
voice‐over
tells
us
that
"Timex
performs
with
all
the
accuracy
and
beauty
of
the
cosmos."

I
saw
a
special
new
anti‐plaque
electric
tooth‐brush
("Interplak"),
bearing
a
striking
resemblance
to
the
starship
Discovery
in
2001:
A
Space
Odyssey,
majestically
dock
into
its
recharger
on
a
bathroom
sink
—choreographed
to
a
Strauss
waltz.

I
saw
woofers
and
tweeters
of
a
Delco‐GM
Sound
System
become
a
formation
of
flying
saucers
beckoning
us
to
"Ride
into
the
Sound
Set."

I
saw
a
youth,
dressed
in
Levi's
jeans,
launched
toward
distant
skies
while
a
voice
explains
that
in
the
famous
jeans
"the
mind
knows
no
limits."

I
saw
an
ad
for
a
Chevrolet
pickup
truck
instruct
us
not
to
"leave
Earth
without
it"
and
insist
that
a
new
model
has
"brakes
so
good
they're
almost
extraterrestrial."

I
saw
two
female
astronauts
extol
the
benefits
of
a
new
roll‐on
deodorant
called
"Real":
"We
have
seen
the
future
and
it
is
Real."

I
saw
a
man,
traveling
through
a
magically
real
yet
alien
landscape
(Earth
visible
on
the
horizon),
have
a
"vision
of
the
future,"
not,
we
are
told,
of
"space
travel"
or
"time
machines,"
but
of
the
financial
welfare
of
his
family
(through
the
assistance
of
Equitable
Insurance).
Upon
his
arrival
home,
he
then
witnesses
his
garage
door
open—like
the
entrance
to
the
mother
ship
in
Close
Encounters
of
the
Third
Kind—to
disclose
a
blaze
of
white
light
out
of
which
emerges
a
figure
we
take
to
be
an
alien
but
which
turns
out
in
fact
to
be
his
daughter,
excitedly
pronouncing,
"Daddy!"

I
saw
"Almost
Home"
chocolate‐chip
cookies
float
in
space
in
order
to
optimally
display
their
"almost
out
of
this
world"
taste.

I
saw
a
man
in
a
cumbersome
space
suit
EVA
into
the
cockpit
of
a
new
Toyota
compact
and
then—so
impressed
is
he
with
the
car—leap
in
ecstasy
out
of
the
frame,
beyond
the
limits
of
gravity,
never
to
come
down.
("Oh
what
a
feeling!")
The Collected Works of David Lavery 5

I
saw
the
new
Hyundai
Sonata,
introduced
to
us
as
a
"space
vehicle,"
soar
off
into
the
cosmos
at
the
commercial's
close.

I
saw
an
image
of
a
patch
of
lawn,
complete
with
a
house,
shade
trees,
and
two
family
dogs,
floating
in
outer
space,
evidently
removed
from
the
Earth
by
cutting
along
a
still
visible
dotted
line
surrounding
the
property,
advertising
the
Invisible
Fence
"dog
containment
system."

I
saw
a
solicitation
for
new
members
of
the
National
Space
Society
illustrate
its
motives
and
goals
through
two
paintings:
The
Ultimate
Sandbox
(by
Michael
Whelan)
showing
a
little
girl
in
a
"Miss
Piggy"
space
suit
building
a
sand
castle
on
the
moon;
and
Leonardo's
Finale
(by
David
Brian),
in
which
the
great
Renaissance
man,
sitting
in
his
study
surrounded
by
drawings
and
plans
for
future
discovery,
holds
a
prototype
model
of
the
space
shuttle
in
his
hands.

I
saw
three
former
Apollo
astronauts
("Schirra,
Apollo
7,"
"Bean,
Apollo
12,"
"Gordon,
Apollo
12"),
looking
for
all
the
world
like
has‐been
athletes,
testify—in
extreme,
unflattering
close‐ups—that
Actifed
relieved
their
snuffy
noses
in
spaces.

I
saw
an
Always
Ultra‐Thin
Panty
Liner
become
an
unidentified
flying
object.

I
saw
a
small,
evidently
sick
young
girl
lying
in
bed,
a
thermometer
in
her
mouth,
securely
wrapped
in
sheets
with
a
sky
and
cloud
pattern
(which,
because
they
fill
the
frame
of
the
advertisement,
make
her
appear
to
be
floating),
reassuringly
touch
a
space
helmet—all
beneath
a
headline
that
reads:
"When
your
little
space
traveler
has
a
fever
.
.
."

I
saw
both
Motorcraft
spark
plugs
and
oil
filters
blast
off,
as
if
from
launching
pad,
from
the
hoods
of
Ford
automobiles
toward
distant
skies.
The Collected Works of David Lavery 6

I
saw
the
Chevrolet
Astro
minivan
circle
in
orbit
about
the
Earth
and
yet
(we
are
promised)
still
remain
small
enough
to
"fit
right
in
your
garage!"

I
saw—in
yet
another
image
plagiarized
from
Close
Encounters
of
the
Third
Kind
(promoting
McDonald's
"Spaceship
Happy
Meals")—children
look
up
at
the
sky
with
true
cosmic
yearning
(fantasizing,
no
doubt,
about
"flying
their
spaceships
away
from
a
crepuscular
Earth").

I
saw
a
poster
in
a
McDonald's
restaurant
(advertising
a
"Space
Age
Calendar")
instruct
parents
to
"help
your
child
into
outer
space."

I
saw
the
traditional
Jewish
child's
toy
top,
the
dreidel,
no
longer
satisfactory,
undergo
a
Space
Age
sea
change
into
an
"Outer
Space
Dreidel"
(made
in
Taiwan)—a
battery‐powered
model
that
not
only
lights
up
but
"makes
outer
space
sounds!"

I
saw,
prior
to
the
feature
presentation,
a
short
subject,
sponsored
by
theater
owners
and
intended
to
discourage
littering,
depict
an
interstellar
cloud
of
snack
bar‐debris—popcorn,
Raisinettes,
straws,
nachos,
Milk
Duds—out
of
which
an
exemplary
soft‐drink
cup/rocket
speeds
toward
the
brightly
lit
landing
dock
of
a
trash
receptacle/space
station.

I
saw
a
Canon
Typestar
typewriter
blast
into
orbit
("A
new
Typestar
lifts
off"),
its
"lift‐off"
correction
key
in
turn
lifting
off
from
it,
like
a
communications
satellite
out
of
the
cargo
bay
of
the
space
shuttle.

I
saw
a
cartoon
Albert
Einstein
plug
the
"genius"
of
Betamax
while
ensconced
in
an
armchair
in
a
living
room
floating
in
the
cosmos.

I
saw
Concept
Custom
Length
electric
guitar
strings
("The
Final
Frontier"
in
guitar
strings)
advertised
by
an
image
of
a
spaceman
The Collected Works of David Lavery 7
strolling
the
lunar
landscape,
an
American
flag
planted
in
the
moon
to
his
left,
the
Earth
visible
in
the
background;
and
I
saw
Kahler
guitar
strings,
in
comparable
"far‐
out"
imagery,
become
in
effect
the
orbital
path
of
a
space
vehicle
made
of
tuning
pegs.

I
saw
the
"baby
of
today"
in
the
"diaper
of
the
future"
(actually
old‐fashioned
100
percent
cotton!)
orbit
about
the
Earth
in
the
arms
of
a
New
Age
father
whose
legs—evidently
his
means
of
cosmic
propulsion—dissolve
into
beams
of
light.

I
saw
the
Nady
Systems
Lightning
Guitar
and
Thunder
Bass—
instruments
with
"the
right
stuff"—billed
as
the
first
electronic
guitars
of
the
Space
Age
and
advertised
in
copy
divided
into
sections
entitled
"Countdown,"
"Liftoff,"
"All
Systems
Go,"
"Ground
Control,"
and
"Link
Up"
and
in
the
usual
"product
in
orbit"
imagery;
and
I
saw
the
Carvin
V220
guitar
blast
off
from
Earth
in
an
ad
whose
headline
proclaims
the
instrument
to
be
"One
Step
Beyond."

I
saw
an
ad
for
a
Kenwood
stereo
satellite
receiver
announce
the
company's
proud
claim
that
"after
conquering
Earth,
we
headed
into
space."
(An
image
from
the
Japanese
science
fiction
film
The
Mysterians
[1959]
appears
at
the
top.)
"We've
been
a
force
in
home
and
car
audio
on
this
planet
for
over
25
years.
But
now
we're
aiming
even
higher."
"Get
on
board
now,"
we
are
warned
in
a
classic
Space
Age
threat.
"Or
get
left
behind."

I
saw
a
space
colonist,
showered
by
the
spores
of
a
huge,
menacing
flower
on
an
alien
planet,
plagued
by
allergies
("No
matter
where
you
go,
there's
going
to
be
pollen"),
at
least
until
he
uses
Contac.

I
saw
us
encouraged
to
give
to
the
college
of
our
choice
through
an
image
of
a
young
boy
in
a
Day
the
Earth
Stood
Still
space
suit
and
his
dog
standing
beside
a
space
capsule/doghouse
accompanied
by
the
following
text:
Today
he's
off
exploring
the
back
yard.
Tomorrow,
he
may
be
off
exploring
new
galaxies.
But
before
kids
of
today
can
conquer
the
frontiers
of
The Collected Works of David Lavery 8
outerspace,
they'll
have
to
conquer
the
complexities
of
mathematics,
physics
and
chemistry.
That's
where
you
come
in.
For
only
with
your
help
can
they
be
assured
of
the
first‐rate
college
education
they'll
need.
.
.
.
So
please
invest
in
the
future.
Give
generously
to
the
college
of
your
choice.
You'll
be
helping
launch
America
to
a
successful
future.
"Help
him
get
America's
future
off
the
ground,"
the
public
service
advertisment's
headline
pleads.

I
saw
a
woman,
once
"in
the
dark
about
blinds,"
open
her
Levelors
—blinds
"enlightened
by
Space
Age
technology"—to
watch,
as
if
from
the
Archimedean
point,
an
Earthrise.

I
saw
a
woman
in
Sheer
Energy
slippers
blast
off
from
the
Earth's
surface—
finally
able,
with
their
support,
to
overcome
the
harsh
demands
gravity
has
placed
on
her
feet
and
distance
herself
from
its
draining
effect
on
her
energy.

I
saw
a
new
breakfast
cereal
from
Ralston‐Purina
called
Freakies—marketed
as
"multigrain
.
.
.
crunchy
honey‐
tasting
spaceships
with
marshmallow"—offer
"out
of
this
world
fun
with
earthly
nutrition."

I
saw
the
legendary
Barbie
herself
enter
into
space.
"Barbie's
on
the
Moon,"
proclaimed
the
cover
of
an
issue
of
Barbie
magazine,
and
there
she
was,
in
her
"Astronaut
Barbie"
manifestation.
(Later,
in
the
"Barbie
Drama"
section,
I
learned
that
being
the
first
woman
on
the
moon
was
all
a
dream,
though
a
spacy
date
with
Ken
at
the
"Lunar
Lounge"
made
it
all
come
true!)

I
saw
in
a
Space
Age
toy
store
a
new
line
of
dolls
called
the
Shimmerons,
a
species
of
alien
Barbie
clones.
"Lacy‐Spacy—Out
of
this
World
.
.
.
Space
Cadets"
with
spindly
bodies
and
sparkling
wardrobes,
they
have
come
to
Earth—according
to
their
back‐of‐the
package
mythology
—because
our
planet
offers
not
only
the
cosmos'
best
shopping
but
also
the
most
awesome
parties!
("What
on
Earth
are
they
doing
here?
Well
the
Shimmerons
wanted
to
discover
why
the
Planet
Earth
is
number
one
for
teenage
fun,
and
show
you
how
fun
is
done
on
the
Planet
Shimmeron."
"Here
on
Earth,
the
Shimmerons
are
discovering
skateboards,
hot
dogs,
rock
music,
and
shopping
malls!")
The Collected Works of David Lavery 9

I
saw
us
encouraged
to
"Expect
the
World
of
ABC
News,"
for,
as
their
advertisment—showing
the
Earth
from
space,
coupled
with
a
cosmic
telephoto
lens
and
an
extraterrestrial
Peter
Jennings—
made
clear,
the
network
evidently
covers
the
planet
from
the
Archimedean
point.

And
I
saw
that
entrepeneurial
plans
are
afoot
(I
cite
but
three
examples)
(1)
to
bury
people
in
space
(several
companies
have
marketed
such
schemes,
one
of
which
involves
a
three‐hundred‐pound
spacecraft
containing
no
fewer
than
fifteen
thousand
"cremains"
launched
into
polar
orbit
["Ashes
of
the
Stars"]);
(2)
to
offer
extraterrestrial
vacations
(Davies;
"Orbital
Jaunts"
32‐33);
and
(3)
to
develop
robotic
"space
pets"
(Liversidge).
Space
has,
no
doubt,
been
sold
to
us
along
with
our
meat
and
potatoes
for
some
time
now.
As
early
as
the
1960s,
space
ads—like
those
represented
here—exhibited
1
most
of
the
ascensionistic
clichés
we
find
in
later
ones. Nor
is
the
cosmic
exaggeration
of
such
advertising
really
new.
It
can
be
understood
as
an
extension
of
what
Daniel
Boorstin
describes
as
"Booster
Talk:
The
Language
of
Anticipation,"
a
way
of
speaking
about
things
in
which
"what
may
be
is
contemplated
as
though
it
were
in
actual
existence"
(Boorstin
is
quoting
an
early
nineteenth‐century
British
observer
of
American
ways).
Booster
Talk
is
not
misrepresentation—or
at
least
it
does
not
seem
that
way
to
Americans—but
rather
a
kind
of
clairvoyance,
"not
exaggerating
but
only
anticipating—describing
things
which
had
not
yet
'gone
through
the
formality
of
taking
place'"
(Americans
296‐98).
But
why,
in
the
decade
of
the
space
shuttle,
did
the
pace
and
intensity
of
the
pitch
increase
so
prominently?
Interestingly
enough,
in
1965
the
Italian
journalist
Oriana
Fallaci
found
the
possibility
that
space
might
be
marketable
beyond
belief.
In
If
the
Sun
Dies
135‐37),
she
contemplated
the
possibility
that
the
astronauts
might
be
commercialized
but
is
told
by
a
NASA
spokesman
that
the
idea
is
ludicrous:
"Can
you
imagine
a
billboard
in
Times
Square
with
a
photograph
of
[Gordon]
Cooper
[one
of
the
original
Apollo
7
astronauts]
smoking
a
certain
brand
of
cigarette?
The
cigarette
of
space!
Up
in
space
1
Such
selling,
of
course,
is
not
merely
a
Space
Age
phenomenon.
As
Boyer—in
By
the
Bomb's
Early
Light—
and
the
film
Atomic
Cafe
have
documented,
the
Atomic
Age
spawned,
at
least
in
its
early
years,
similar
advertising,
driven
by
atomic,
rather
than
space,
metaphors.
T h e C o l l e c t e d W o r k s o f D a v i d L a v e r y 10
Gordon
Cooper
smokes
only
.
.
.
Inconceivable!
None
of
them.
.
.
."
This
was,
of
course,
years
before
an
astronaut
became
head
of
a
major
airline,
and
famed
test‐
pilot
(and
hero
of
Tom
Wolfe's
The
Right
Stuff)
Chuck
Yeager
lent
his
image
in
support
of
his
favorite
spark
plugs.
Even
as
she
wrote,
Fallaci
herself
was
already
helping
to
advertise
space.
She
confesses,
"When
I
returned
to
Milan
I
stuck
up
in
my
study
a
huge
map
of
the
moon
that
had
been
sent
to
me
by
the
advertising
office
of
Nestle's
Powdered
Milk.
On
the
Mare
Copernicum
was
printed:
Feed
Your
Babies
on
Nestle's
Powdered
Milk,
but
it
looked
beautiful
to
me."
Only
two
years
later
Kubrick's
2001:
A
Space
Odyssey
demonstrated
conclusively,
with
its
open
display
of
brand
names
in
extraterrestrial
2
settings,
that
"space
was
finally
going
to
be
conquered
by
Coca‐Cola
and
AT
&
T." And
by
1970,
when
Norman
Mailer
published
Of
a
Fire
on
the
Moon,
it
had
already
become
apparent
that
"a
new
kind
of
commercial
was
being
evolved.
NASA
was
vending
space"
(45).
But
only
in
the
1980s
did
the
vending
become
blatant:
a
prominent
feature
of
our
cultural
landscape.
(As
Andre'
Marchand's
Advertising
the
American
Dream
shows,
advertising
"paved
the
way"
for
all
that
we
think
of
as
modern;
now
it
paves
the
way
for
the
postmodernism
of
the
extraterrestrial.)
"The
master
fantasy
of
the
Reagan
era,"
which
informs
the
"little
utopias"
of
the
Space
Age
advertising
chronicled
here,
may
now
be,
as
Todd
Gitlin
suggests,
"the
fantasy
of
thrusting,
self‐
sufficient
man,
cutting
loose,
free
of
gravity,
free
of
attachments"
("We
Build
Excitement"
143).
Implicit
in
most
advertising,
according
to
John
Berger,
is
the
following
hidden
transaction:
"The
spectator‐buyer
is
meant
to
envy
the
person
he
will
become
if
he
buys
the
product.
He
is
meant
to
imagine
himself
transformed
by
the
product
into
an
object
of
envy
for
others,
an
envy
which
will
then
justify
his
loving
himself."
Thus,
Berger
concludes,
the
"publicity
image"
of
an
advertisement
"steals
love
of
oneself
as
one
is,
and
offers
it
back
for
the
price
of
the
product"
(134).
Is
it
too
much
to
say
2
In
The
Mailing
of
America,
Kowinski
observes:
"A
prominent
enthusiast
for
space
habitats
has
already
suggested
that
rockets
carry
display
advertising
as
a
way
of
financing
their
voyages.
.
.
.
Just
think
of
all
the
noncommercial
Utopias
of
the
past
and
how
they
had
one
thing
in
common.
They
remained
fictional,
or,
after
a
few
brief
moments
in
the
sun,
subsided
into
myth.
...
all
of
them
were
based
on
philosophy,
religion,
architecture,
and
science,
and
they
were
all
more
or
less
prescriptive,
dependent
on
people
fitting
into
their
ideas
and
ideal
structures.
But
how
naive!
Did
they
really
expect
those
Utopias
to
work
without
making
a
single
market
survey?
Did
they
really
think
they
could
even
be
built
unless
somebody
made
money
from
them?"
(400).
T h e C o l l e c t e d W o r k s o f D a v i d L a v e r y 11
that
the
Space
Age
advertisements
catalogued
here—which
sell,
in
a
package
deal,
not
just
mascara,
or
a
Betamax,
or
Big
Macs,
but
a
hyperreal
longing
for
space‐
steal—or
seek
to
steal,
not
just
our
love
of
ourselves,
but
our
very
earthliness?
But
it
does
not,
as
in
the
normal
marketing
dialectic,
then
offer
it
back.
In
a
"bait
and
switch"
duplicity,
it
would
rob
us
of
it
permanently.
And
we
seem
so
ready
and
willing
to
have
it
stolen.
As
Boorstin
observed
(in
The
Image:
A
Guide
to
Pseudo‐Events
in
America)
at
the
very
beginning
of
the
Space
Age,
Americans
are
ruled
by
a
powerful
will‐to‐illusion.
When
we
pick
up
our
newspaper
at
breakfast,
we
expect—we
even
demand—
that
it
bring
us
momentous
events
since
the
night
before.
We
turn
on
our
car
radio
as
we
drive
to
work
and
expect
"news"
to
have
occurred
since
the
morning
paper
went
to
press.
Returning
in
the
evening,
we
expect
our
house
not
only
to
shelter
us,
to
keep
us
warm
in
the
winter
and
cool
in
the
summer,
but
to
relax
us,
to
dignify
us,
to
encompass
us
with
soft
music
and
interesting
hobbies,
to
be
a
playground,
a
theater,
and
a
bar.
We
expect
our
two
week
vacation
to
be
romantic,
exotic,
cheap,
and
effortless.
We
expect
a
faraway
atmosphere
if
we
go
to
a
nearby
place;
and
we
expect
everything
to
be
relaxing,
sanitary,
and
Americanized
if
we
go
to
a
faraway
place.
We
expect
new
heroes
every
month,
a
new
literary
masterpiece
every
week,
a
rare
sensation
every
night.
.
.
.
We
expect
everything
and
anything.
We
expect
the
contradictory
and
the
impossible.
We
expect
compact
cars
which
are
spacious;
luxurious
cars
which
are
economical.
.
.
.
We
expect
to
eat
and
stay
thin,
to
be
constantly
on
the
move
and
ever
more
neighborly
.
.
.
to
revere
God
and
to
be
God.
Never
have
people
been
more
the
masters
of
their
environment.
Yet
never
has
a
people
been
more
deceived
and
disappointed.
For
never
has
a
people
expected
so
much
more
than
the
world
could
possibly
offer.
(3‐4;
my
emphasis)
When
Boorstin
wrote
these
words
in
the
early
1960s,
he
thought
he
was
speaking
figuratively.
In
1983,
I
went
to
see
E.T.:
The
Extraterrestrial
in
a
movie
theater
in
Huntsville,
Alabama
(a
city
which,
because
it
is
home
to
NASA's
Marshall
Space
Flight
Center,
T h e C o l l e c t e d W o r k s o f D a v i d L a v e r y 12
takes
pride
in
its
nickname:
"The
Rocket
City").
At
this,
my
second
viewing
of
Steven
Spielberg's
touching
story
of
the
triumph
of
the
values
of
the
heart,
I
watched
with
interest
a
preliminary
commercial
for
Atari
(screened
before
the
film,
I
surmised,
because
producers
and
distributors
had
convinced
the
game
company
the
demographics
of
a
typical
E.T.
audience
indicated
openness
to
such
a
sales
pitch).
In
the
ad—which
exhibited
special
effects
not
unlike
Tron's—a
young
man
sits,
back
to
the
camera,
dreaming
up
ideas
for
video
games,
and
the
games
he
invents
miraculously
materialize
around
him,
filling
the
screen.
As
his
dreams
become
wilder
and
wilder,
as
he
imagines
"Asteroids"
and
"Space
Invaders,"
he
finds
himself
floating—as
does
the
audience—in
interstellar
space.
The
image
is
a
common
one
now,
of
course;
I'd
seen
it
all
before.
But
it
struck
me
that
day
in
that
context
that
it
presented
an
ironic
counterpoint
to
the
evocative
tale
of
homesickness
I
was
about
to
watch.
Here,
during
a
single
Space
Age
afternoon's
entertainment,
I
was
being
asked
to
imagine
myself
as
unearthly,
and
then
to
feel
the
pathos
of
a
poor
alien
creature
trapped
far
from
home.
I
suspect
that,
against
its
own
better
wisdom,
E.T.
has
promoted
in
many
of
its
viewers
not
that
supreme
value
which
E.T.
himself
cannot
live
without—the
need
for
a
place,
for
a
home—but
rather
extraterrestrial
urges.
The
desire
to
become
precisely
that
which
tortures
E.T.,
robbing
him
eventually
of
his
very
life
(at
least
momentarily),
extinguishing
his
heart‐light,
the
longing
to
become
homeless
and
displaced
ourselves,
is
so
prominent
now,
so
much
an
everyday
search
image,
that
it
would
not
surprise
me
if
many
viewers
of
the
film—if
they
could
trade
places
with
Elliott—
might
reply
affirmatively
to
E.T.'s
petition
at
the
movie's
close
to
"Come."