Kate Upton is buckling an absurd armor shield over her Sports Illustrated-famous chest. War goes on all around her, but she remains … sexual. Somehow this relates to an app.
Next, a movie preview. Is that George Clooney? Yes, that is George Clooney, and he’s strapping himself into a space ship blasting off to something called “Tomorrowland.”
And here we have Katie Couric, 20 years ago, trying to figure out the Internet; fast forward to the present, and she’s driving a fancy eco-friendly car. And talking about twerking.
This was just one of many commercial breaks Sunday night during Super Bowl XLIX, a peek into the bizarre culture of American entertainment. The in-game advertisements have become must-see moments; no longer bathroom break opportunities, Super Bowl commercials supposedly represent the pinnacle of creativity and consumerism. Though a recent CBS News report speculated the absurdly high cost of air-time may not pay off, most Americans consider the commercials something of a reflection of who America is and what America values (a.k.a. Doritos, beer, dogs and beer and Kim Kardashian.)
But on the drive from our state’s capital to good ol’ Rocky Top, more permanent ads remain — the classic billboards. If Super Bowl commercials reflect something about our country, the massive signs that line Interstate-40 on the route from Nashville to Knoxville undoubtedly tell us even more about our Volunteer state.
As they flash by at 70 miles per hour, it’s easy to let them fade into the scenery. But if you pay attention, you might notice a conversation happening all around you.
At Exit 356, a store claims it can sell you trailers, cars and horses. At Exit 273, a huge sign depicts the promise of “man toys” – judging by the revolver in the center of the ad, I guess they’re not talking about blow-up dolls.
Thirteen miles later, a gleaming white cross towers over the interstate. (No words necessary.) Two miles after that, apparently you can buy boots at BJ’s Western Store.
Interspersed with the churches and the guns and the cowboy hats appear the typical billboards promoting fast food joints and low-rent hotels. Of all the ads you pass, these offer the most immediate relevance to the average traveler.
Of less relevance, of course, are those billboards which say the most about our state; the signs which tell us to “shoot, jump, fish!” and “Sin Enslaves, Jesus Saves.”
Traveling through Tennessee means repeated reminders of the Bible Belt’s grip on our waist, interrupted only by promises of another adult video superstore around the next bend. The windows into our interstate commerce show pictures of guns and pontoon boats and Honest Abe log houses.
My favorite billboard on the trip is honest and to the point. A shout-out to the Haslam family for this one: a Pilot billboard at Exit 320 which simply says, “Coffee coffee joy joy.”
There’s pride in freedom of expression—the ability to advertise various and at times conflicting products is a privilege, especially when contrasted with the political climate within oppressive regimes around the globe. (I doubt any Syrian highways could promote a gleaming white cross or an adult video super store.)
But the consequence of freely expressing yourself is the subsequent moment of exposing yourself. Just as nationally televised Super Bowl ads offer a glimpse into the values of American consumers, the local signs of Tennessee offer a peek into our own state’s demographics.
As our home-state hero Ke$ha once wrote: “We are who we are.”
R.J. Vogt is a senior in College Scholars. He can be reached at [email protected].
