Commercials, and the famous people who inhabit them, are they truly the criterion that reflect our lives. Remember Joe Namath, that most famous quarterback. Broadway Joe? Strutting around in his lynx fur jacket and fighting off adoring women like irksome gnats? Now he’s an old skinny guy living in Florida and peddling medicare policies. And Pat Boone. Oh my, he was a heartthrob, espousing April Love while gliding on a ferris wheel, sporting that clean and wholesome smile. Now he is batting balls on the tennis court, dressed in baggy shorts and a tee shirt, looking like he’s stepped into someone else’s very oversized and very wrinkled skin, talking about the products he takes to abate nature’s pains during the aging process.
Granted, I was never all that pleased with the commercials from TVs’ early days. I was a hopeful young girl looking forward to an adventurous future but watching these commercials made me wonder: would my life really only matter if I wore gloves so comfortable that I could pick up a dime. Did I really want to wear gloves that made my hands look as nice as my daughter’s hands. What if I didn’t have a daughter. And then there was that waxy floor buildup that caused so much heartache to every housewife on the block. Would girlfriends whisper behind my back after their weekly card dates. Was that what I had to look forward to, and don’t get me started on ring around the collar. Watching those commercials made me realize that I was not ready to grow up if my life was to be about the kitchen, the floors, the shirts and J-E-L-L-O. I wanted more. I especially wanted commercials that spoke to me. Me.
The 60s arrived, and that gave me heart; my life was about to undergo radical change, or so said the commercials. “You’ve come a long way, baby.” Although Madge was still soaking my fingernails in detergent, at least I was out of the house having a manicure, and LSMFT. I was smoking cigarettes that taste good like [as] a cigarette should. Cigarettes were the panacea for all manner of complaints and ailments. I was going to be worldly sophisticated one day soon. Commercials said that I wasn’t cooking at home every night either, because I “deserve a break today, so get up and get away” at McDonalds. It was McDonalds, but I was, nevertheless, out of the kitchen. And if I was in the kitchen, I could serve Swansons TV dinners. I still wasn’t happy. Even while those commercials showed happy housewives parading around their kitchens wearing high heels and organza aprons, I knew something wasn’t right.
And still commercials moved on. Some things changed, while others did not. Paul Anka crooned “remember, do you remember, the times of your life”; all during those Kodak moments, the times were changing dramatically. While we young folk were marching, protesting, burning bras and flags, fighting our way up the corporate ladder, Coca-Cola commercials sang in perfect harmony. Coca-Cola wasn’t just carbonated high-fructose corn syrup, Coca-Cola was the solution to world peace.
Today we still don’t have world peace, but we still have Joe Namath and Pat Boone. Consider the irony.
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