For the third time in two weeks, my mailbox played host today to a curious marketing campaign, a series of large postcards drawn in the style of Diary of a Wimpy Kid. It wasn’t children’s literature that was being pushed, however, so much as church, with “Diary of a Wimpy Christian” splayed across the front of the slickly produced ad. On the back, there was an exhortation to “find purpose and meaning in every moment” of my life, ostensibly if I acted now and decided to visit this particular church on Sunday.
The purpose and meaning I discovered immediately after reading the postcard was, well, to shred the postcard purposefully and meaningfully. It wasn’t addressed to Current Resident or The Potentially Lost, after all, but to me, and I began to wonder how my info even ended up on this mailing list. Then came the harder questions. Should church be advertised? Existentially speaking, could this ever be a hell of an ad campaign? How would marketers at this church measure performance? On number of souls acquired? Or, even more cynically, perhaps it was simply a matter of subtracting cost of mailing, snacks, and normal wear on pew fabric from incremental tithed revenue.
There is tension here, in other words, and at a certain juncture the lure of being hip and current ran the good ship sense aground, and suddenly the parishioners were praying to Our Lord and Savior and Chief Marketing Officer Jesus Christ. And when your campaign borrows from existing media so earnestly, is it still fair use? Could it be plagiarism? Stealing, which thou shalt not do? It’s, like, if you’re really compelled to market the Sabbath, get some fresh material at the very least. For unto you an original thought is given. Go forth and copy no more, all of your days!
Perhaps it’s a matter of waiting for the right creative to hit. Say there were a pamphlet devoid of graphical flourish and adorned with a single line of text:
Hey, shithead. If you’re not too busy this Sunday, you may want to make your bi-quarterly visit.
I would rejoice. And respond. But such collateral will never come to pass, which means I’ll have to settle for the inevitable postcard based on the Twilight series that sparkles in the sunlight just so.
There’s only one way to explain what happened back in February, during my festival of oatmeal, and it’s temporary insanity. The idea, best as I can recall, was to resolve the issue of breakfast for a whole year in one fell swoop, a harebrained plot that resulted in cramming 960 packets of Quaker’s finest into my pantry. I’m down to precisely 716 packets now, having just prepared a hearty bowl of Apples & Cinnamon to accompany tonight’s post, and clearly I’m behind.
I don’t know why I persist. Perhaps it’s an unspoken commitment I’m honoring, a secret covenant I’ve established with oats. Maybe part of me believes this is all in service of some wretched, Dickensian narrative I’m spinning, where porridge is a necessary prop. But that would be disingenuous because, let’s face it, I’m living in yuppie central here. All I can tell you is I likely won’t be repeating this buying pattern anytime soon, and there are mornings when my thoughts stray to other staples, like toast. Toast! And eggs. Bacon, even.
A head cold is imminent–I can feel it knocking on the door–so let’s adjourn for the evening. The main purpose of tonight, I suppose, was to tell you I’m having Apples & Cinnamon, an exotic flavor I plucked from the “Variety Pack.” Usually my routine consists of Maple & Brown Sugar, so this choice should speak to my ability to spice it up or, more appropriately, Cinnamon & Spice it up, which was yesterday.
Based on my current health trajectory, I imagine I’m headed for two possible outcomes: dead before I hit 30 or, and we’re talking best-case scenario here, my entire frame will adapt itself into a carnival of 90-degree angles, trunk locked in sitting position, forearms perpetually dangling at the precise altitudes needed for a keyboard-mouse setup, skin able to photosynthesize fluorescent light. This state of affairs is nobody’s fault but my own, really, because I’ve committed to a corporate life, and at this point I don’t think fireman or park ranger are even on the table anymore.
A gym membership’s not going to cut it either, according to “recent studies,” which in scientific parlance surmise we’re fucked. Sidebar, you ever wonder who conducts these recent studies? I always picture a couple assholes in white lab coats puffing on pipes, but that’s neither here nor there. Something’s wrong, and you don’t even need to read the article–just look at the picture of the woman on a treadmill. Sitting or standing, walking or balling, there’s a positively wretched undertone to the photo, and it’s, like, how did we ever get from hunting and gathering to this?
I’m going to assume that sitting will be unavoidable for the foreseeable future. This leaves the usual considerations for healthy living, such as sleep, eating well, and exercise. I’ve been good about getting at least seven hours recently, and energy level’s been high. Food front needs work, though. Lunch is catered daily now, meaning I only need to walk a few feet to collect my grub before returning to my desk. Certainly there’s money to be saved here, but the lack of motion means I’ll need to be extra cautious. Yesterday, for example, I ordered a relatively healthy chicken salad sandwich and fries, which simply isn’t sustainable.
I need to be better. There were no fries today, so there’s that. But with exercise, it’s not a question of being better so much as just starting. It’s going to be cooler this Saturday, and I’ve got to capitalize on this. Already, I can feel my thoughts wending to a dark place: Nine irons, wrought by mortal men, the instruments of rituals most foul.
Secondhand Rants will return on Thursday, August 12.
Achewood
Clark and Michael
Consumerist
Fark
FlickFool
Homestar Runner
Newsmap
Onion
PBF Comics
Penny Arcade
Red vs. Blue
Salon
Snopes
Something Awful
Urban Dictionary