Marketing

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Bah, way to wreck one of the semi-autobiographical fics by skipping a week of archives, gocomics.com...

I'm currently (04/14/2010) looking for the image to this one. It was something about, like, there are a lot of commercials for denture cream and life insurance and stuff during the daytime soaps and gameshows and what have you. Thus, marketing. Plugger marketing, I suppose, since I tagged the post with comic.plugger tech.

Stay tuned for possible future pictoral update!

"Oh, dear, don't you remember?", Mother replied. "Today they're airing Marie's episode of The Price Is Right! You weren't going to the store just now, were you?"

Emma shifted the phone to her other hand. "No, I didn't remember that." She walked into the living room, grabbed the television remote and sat down on the couch. "I can wait until it's over to go."

"Well I should hope so!" Mother sounded so matter-of-fact that Emma had to smile. "Marie's only been wanting to meet Bob Barker for ages, and then when she finally got her ticket she was so excited -- "

"Did she actually meet him?" Emma answered distractedly as she flipped through the channels. "I mean, I don't think they do unless they actually get to go up and all."

"Well, no. But she said it was a thrill all the same. Are you watching it yet?"

"Mmm. Yes. I always know I've got the right channel when the commercials for scooters and Centrum Silver come up."

On the other end of the phone, her mother chuckled. "It's all about knowing your audience, dear. The only people who watch this show are children home sick and old women like Marie and me."

"Hey! Where does that leave me, then?" Emma replied, and they both laughed at that. Then a commercial for denture cream ended, to be replaced by one touting life insurance. Emma's laughter cut off quickly, and there was a pause for a few moments.

Finally Mother spoke up. "I know you still miss him, dear. Death is never easy to deal with, and when it's so unexpected it's even worse. But eventually the memories will stop hurting so much. You believe that, don't you?"

Emma closed her eyes. "I've certainly been told it by enough people," she answered quietly. "But I don't know what I believe anymore."

Silence then but for the rattle of cheerful game-show music; loudly, from Emma's own television set; and, more quietly, floating down the line, echoing as though from a very great distance.



Meh. Fairly obvious bit of fictionalized self-insertion here. Well, "write what you know" and such, I guess.