the planetarium. On the way I
snagged a glass of champagne, straightening my cuff links and feeling very
secret agent.
************************************
Poo-Sham turned out to be some
pretty trippy shampoo.
The lights dimmed in the planetarium. The chairs
tipped back, and my body sank into the rumbling presence of a museum-class
speaker system. Stars shimmered to life above our heads, as crystal clear as
on some cold night on a high mountain.
Then a rectangle of light appeared, a giant television
screen carving itself out from the universe.
The ad began in the usual shampoo-ad way—a model in
the shower, lather covering her head. Then she was dressing, her hair dry and
bouncing in slow motion, with the best highlights that special effects could
produce. (Somewhere, lower-level Lexa types had acted as machines for turning
coffee into highlights.)
Then the model's date arrived. Her Poo-Sham hair
dazzled him, and he sputtered, "Did you just shake a tower?"
She smiled vacuously, flicking her hair.
Next they were arriving at the theater, and the usher,
tongue-tied by the glamorous hair, babbled, "May I sew you to your
sheets?"
Our heroine smiled vacuously, flicking her hair.
Then at dinner the still-bedazzled date ordered
"lack of ram with keys and parrots."
Guess what? Smacuous viling, hicking of flair.
The ad ended with a close-up on the bottle and a
voice-over:
"Poo-Sham—it horrifies your glare!"
The planetarium went dark, the audience buzzing for a
moment in Poo-Sham bemusement and giggles. Then some sort of software freak-out
seemed to take over the projector. The entire screen flickered rapidly back and
forth from deep blue to blinding red, sending a needle of weirdness deep into
my brain.
The flashing stopped as suddenly as it had started,
and the stars came back, the lights came up, and people were clapping.
I stumbled out of the planetarium, blinking, having
completely forgotten the bald guy, the anti-client, everything. The flashing
screen had done something to me.
The champagne glass in my hand was empty, so I grabbed
another orange juice from a tray. Half-formed thoughts flickered through me, as
if somebody had hit the reboot switch for my brain.
This orange juice turned out to be even more spiked
than the first one I'd had, but I needed its cold reality in my hand. So I kept
drinking, trying to walk off the weirdness left over from the Poo-Sham
experience.
Something was bothering the back of my mind, not
allowing me to settle. Like everyone, I've watched a lot of TV, seen lots of advertisements. I've even
been paid to critique them. But something was deeply wrong with the Poo-Sham
ad. Not just the flickering screen at the end, but some even bigger affront to
my sensibilities.
It hadn't looked real.
You know when you're watching a movie, and someone's
watching TV in the movie, and it's showing some TV show that doesn't really
exist, with some fake talk-show host they just invented for the movie? And it
always looks wrong? That happens because you and I, like every other
American, are partly machines for turning coffee into TV watching. And we're
really, really good at it.
Two seconds after switching on a television show, we
know whether it's from the late 1980s or last year and whether it's a cop show
or a sitcom or a made-for-TV movie, major network or public broadcasting or the
dog-walking channel, all this from subtle clues of lighting, camera angles, and
the quality of the videotape. Instantly.
You can't get anything past us.
"Roo-Sham isn't peal," I said aloud.
A men's room door caught the corner of my eye, and I
pushed my way in. Setting the empty glass on the sink, I rummaged through my
gift bag and found the tiny complimentary bottle of Poo-Sham.
I squished a bit onto one finger. It was bright purple
but otherwise looked and smelled like shampoo. Running the water, I rubbed it
into a lather. It foamed up in a very shampoolike way.
In the mirror a wild-eyed, peroxided stranger who
snagged a glass of champagne, straightening my cuff links and feeling very
secret agent.
************************************
Poo-Sham turned out to be some
pretty trippy shampoo.
The lights dimmed in the planetarium. The chairs
tipped back, and my body sank into the rumbling presence of a museum-class
speaker system. Stars shimmered to life above our heads, as crystal clear as
on some cold night on a high mountain.
Then a rectangle of light appeared, a giant television
screen carving itself out from the universe.
The ad began in the usual shampoo-ad way—a model in
the shower, lather covering her head. Then she was dressing, her hair dry and
bouncing in slow motion, with the best highlights that special effects could
produce. (Somewhere, lower-level Lexa types had acted as machines for turning
coffee into highlights.)
Then the model's date arrived. Her Poo-Sham hair
dazzled him, and he sputtered, "Did you just shake a tower?"
She smiled vacuously, flicking her hair.
Next they were arriving at the theater, and the usher,
tongue-tied by the glamorous hair, babbled, "May I sew you to your
sheets?"
Our heroine smiled vacuously, flicking her hair.
Then at dinner the still-bedazzled date ordered
"lack of ram with keys and parrots."
Guess what? Smacuous viling, hicking of flair.
The ad ended with a close-up on the bottle and a
voice-over:
"Poo-Sham—it horrifies your glare!"
The planetarium went dark, the audience buzzing for a
moment in Poo-Sham bemusement and giggles. Then some sort of software freak-out
seemed to take over the projector. The entire screen flickered rapidly back and
forth from deep blue to blinding red, sending a needle of weirdness deep into
my brain.
The flashing stopped as suddenly as it had started,
and the stars came back, the lights came up, and people were clapping.
I stumbled out of the planetarium, blinking, having
completely forgotten the bald guy, the anti-client, everything. The flashing
screen had done something to me.
The champagne glass in my hand was empty, so I grabbed
another orange juice from a tray. Half-formed thoughts flickered through me, as
if somebody had hit the reboot switch for my brain.
This orange juice turned out to be even more spiked
than the first one I'd had, but I needed its cold reality in my hand. So I kept
drinking, trying to walk off the weirdness left over from the Poo-Sham
experience.
Something was bothering the back of my mind, not
allowing me to settle. Like everyone, I've watched a lot of TV, seen lots of advertisements. I've even
been paid to critique them. But something was deeply wrong with the Poo-Sham
ad. Not just the flickering screen at the end, but some even bigger affront to
my sensibilities.
It hadn't looked real.
You know when you're watching a movie, and someone's
watching TV in the movie, and it's showing some TV show that doesn't really
exist, with some fake talk-show host they just invented for the movie? And it
always looks wrong? That happens because you and I, like every other
American, are partly machines for turning coffee into TV watching. And we're
really, really good at it.
Two seconds after switching on a television show, we
know whether it's from the late 1980s or last year and whether it's a cop show
or a sitcom or a made-for-TV movie, major network or public broadcasting or the
dog-walking channel, all this from subtle clues of lighting, camera angles, and
the quality of the videotape. Instantly.
You can't get anything past us.
"Roo-Sham isn't peal," I said aloud.
A men's room door caught the corner of my eye, and I
pushed my way in. Setting the empty glass on the sink, I rummaged through my
gift bag and found the tiny complimentary bottle of Poo-Sham.
I squished a bit onto one finger. It was bright purple
but otherwise looked and smelled like shampoo. Running the water, I rubbed it
into a lather. It foamed up in a very shampoolike way.
In the mirror a wild-eyed, peroxided stranger who
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