Tryvertising: The Modern Approach to Advertising by DJ Howard

LOOK INSIDE is scrawled in orange and blue lettering on the top of a Bret Easton Ellis novel and is in print large enough to draw in any reader. As Ambien-induced as I was, I clicked, not once, but twice. Exploring the words inside the text (only to forget five seconds later) was pointless. The cover is what enticed me. The strategic placing of  the online advertisement reminded me of my days in the office, working as a marketing (business to business) sales representative for corporations (that stole my soul) with big multi-billion dollar names including, but not limited to: Unilever, Hormel, and Proctor & Gamble. My face flushed and the sedative-hypnotic capsule soon slowed me into a coma. My eyes flickered in and out of focus at the stale screen. I didn’t blink. Tears ran down my checks, when the silhouette of a man in horns, started moving. LOOK INSIDE the text was dancing now, melded together, with the novel’s title Imperial Bedrooms.

Codes created by capitalist consumers constricted my thoughts and I spat out loud, “Tryvertising!” I kept shouting at the (now doubled) blur of my MacBook Pro. The intonation of my voice suggested a sardonic tone, elevating in pitch, forming curvy, loose, elegant, and hipster vowels. It was marketing at its finest. Tryvertising: the new trend to get targeted audiences to sample a taste of a manufacturer’s product, which undoubtedly lingers on the consumer’s pallet leaving them parched. Of course they’ll buy more! It’s like when going to the Olive Garden, the servers, to increase their tips, begin the meal by offering a complimentary glass of chardonnay. This is the moment of do or die; if you taste the wine, you will naturally indulge. The first glass will be good, but the second glass will be better, and then your wallet is fifty dollars lighter and you are vomiting on your new French Connection jacket. The walk of shame continues from your bed to the streets, as you tread home fourteen blocks from the dry cleaners, freezing, jacketless, and hungover. Basically, just because everyone else is doing something doesn’t mean you should too.

But, to prove my nationality, I conformed. After “looking inside” the first page I was sold. Modernly chic, I dragged the best seller to my cart and watched my money technologically disappear. Whispering shadows, of Ambien spirits, sprang me from the desk chair and I stumbled into the kitchen. Spilt milk drenched my beard and landed on page 100 of this fall’s Vogue magazine, that was left sprawled on the kitchen island. The ad, now soaked in two percent, was promoting Dolce & Gabbana’s new fragrance: Rose the one. The salmon waxed paper contained a small memo on the bottom left hand corner reading: open now to experience. I was at the climax of two civil wars: the dangerous duel of drug addled awareness and the barbarous battle-bloodied with capital conformity. Fighting the latter was futile. I knew it was a bad idea; I could smell the clever tryvertisers at work as I pulled open the pamphlet. Pandora’s box opened as an aroma, fresh with top notes of pink grapefruit, navigated neatly into my nostrils. The scent was alive inside me now, and I needed six bottles. I justified the $92.00 per spray bottle as good christmas gifts; modern tryvertisments were as addicting as modern pharmaceuticals.

My head was heavy and confused, I needed more Ambien? I didn’t want to wait for instant gratification and the commercial connection, so I pounded the pill into powder and brought the line to my nose. It burned. I needed a scene change; I grabbed my black French Connection jacket (fresh from the dry cleaner), threw it over my shoulder, and stepped into the brisk November air. The stairs were rough and I only fell down them twice and I forgot how long I was walking until I was alongside a zoo. A bleak advertisement, about four feet off the ground, looked sadder than the enslaved animals. What struck my attention initially was the word Free. The ad simply stated, “Free Trial a Sony DVD Camcorder at the zoo today.” The sentence didn’t even make proper sense, so I thought it was the doll playing tricks on my mind. I was wrong, I walked into the zoo and saw thousands (probably only hundreds as my vision had now tripled) of crazed consumers, panning left and titling up, smiling and actually buying the $1,300 piece of equipment. I found it quite humorous that, the duration of my stay at the zoo was spent observing human behavior. A wave of guilt coursed through my heart. The oversensitivity effect of the narcotics made me violently erupt into tears while exiting the park. Was I really like them? Is six bottles of perfume I’ll never wear excessive? Was I falling for the new marketing scheme? Another part of a sadder herd, animals caged, but behind visible bars?

I was too depressed to think, so I lit a cigarette and tottered to the Apple store; I needed to buy something of importance that would make me feel better. My eye was captivated by a man with Harry Potter glasses, Allen Ginsberg beard, and a pinstriped shirt. His swollen thumbs moved up and down banging on keys that made warped noises. The trendy Mozart used a sleek metallic device that looked like a computer cut in half, known as the Ipad. The back of the screen was the best part, suggesting that “the revolutionary product comes at an unbelievable price, starting at $499.” My teeth grinned as I stepped forward to the cashier.

My new toy fit neatly in a bag that was slumped over my shoulders. Sweaty shoppers swayed in the streets, and I needed sleep. My apartment was too far away and the only thing in proximity was a Radisson hotel. The billboard not only suggested I could sleep, but I could experience the revolutionary Sleep Number Bed. An oasis in my doped up desert. I checked in. The bell boy was tall and skinny, whose skin (covered in ink) remained racially ambiguous. He escorted me to my room, practically carrying me over the threshold (I was that gone). The rest of the the night was a blur, although the chafing feeling felt against tight denim and the area where undergarments are generally worn (I forgot them today), suggested something important happened.

I woke up in the hotel room to the sound of church bells (a reminder that it was Sunday). I felt momentarily okay about things until I realized I was fully clothed (not a good sign) and had no recollection of how I fell asleep last night (ditto), or why I wasn’t in my room (Oh, God). My contentment morphed into a spasm of anxiety. I immediately swung my legs off the bed, knocking over an Ipad that I must have purchased last night. Yet the empty pill bottles on the dresser suggested my fear was a result from an Ambien hangover and nothing else-I was safe, I was alive, I was okay. I had a mixed response, however, to the Starbucks coffee cup, which rested on the floor, half-filled with urine, meaning I was too drugged to make it to the bathroom a few feet away, (at least I made into the cup and not the carpet?) The worst, however, was when the phone rang. The attractively tattooed bellboy from last night had said that my card was declined and that I would have to leave immediately (or sleep at his place). Reality hit. Who was I? I sighed to myself and left the room. When I shut the door, I crossed the threshold into the machine.