This is catalogue land

Fewer clothing catalogs appear in my mailbox these days. This may be because mass-marketers prefer to clog my e-mail inbox, or it may be because I never buy anything, and savvy retailers have decided to stop watering a dead plant. But while I am targeted by almost no one, my wife is on everyone's list. I picked up a copy of her new L.L. Bean spring catalog and was amazed at the world depicted therein. The models in this little magazine all seem to be living on some posh resort island. Everyone is attractive, 30-something and immaculately groomed. Buffy, Muffy and Biff were apparently all enjoying the good life at the yacht club or on the tennis court when the photographer happened by. The photos show rambling country estates with old-fashioned porch swings. Behind the fashionable, thin models, I notice polished coffee tables and hardwood floors or power boats that look like they could accommodate the entire Newport 400. A well-behaved golden retriever frolics out of focus in the background at a garden party for a small blond girl. Who lives like this? I learned in Advertising 101 that marketers must try to relate to their target demographic. If these guys really want to reach me, their catalog might look a little different. Guys, let's lose the country club setting. The last time I saw one of those places was in a "Three Stooges" movie and the boys were ripping up the golf course. In my catalog, we would see pictures of average Toledoans like me on the way to Blockbuster, wearing sweats with tennis shoes purchased during the first Clinton Administration. There would be black snow piled up on the driveways and that little dog would be chewing on some smelly object ripped out of a trash bag at the curb. A dining-room scene might show us eating chicken pot pies. Replace that parquet floor with stained linoleum and the yacht with a five-year-old Honda. Now that's what I'm talking about! Sky Mall is another catalog that misses the mark with me. This one is found on airplanes, and its merchandise is designed only for certain people. By "certain people" I am referring to the likes of Paris Hilton, former Enron executives who are not incarcerated and bejeweled Saudi oil ministers who inhabit that rarefied atmosphere of privilege. These are people who don't have to buy a specific brand of toilet paper based solely upon possession of a coupon for said product. Did you know you could order a device which hangs around your neck and supplies 20 minutes of oxygen? A bargain at only $209. Just have a member of your entourage carry it for you. There are black CD racks which I am sure I have seen at Wal-Mart for $22. But these exclusive black CD racks are emblazoned with a two-inch PBS logo, making them well worth $139 plus shipping. Definitely for the arts-and-croissants crowd! You know you are really in la-la land when you see a "pool chaise" for $169. The description speaks glowingly about the pleasures of floating on a "mattress of air," the handy valve which is used for inflation and the indentation for your glass. Even we Hicksville residents know that these same features are standard on the $19.95 version available at Target. The product advertised in the airplane catalog may be guaranteed for seven years, but with so many wealthy couples divorcing before the ink on the pre-nup dries, this may be overkill. My favorite unnecessary gadget is the combined hot dog/ bun warmer. Do wealthy people really eat "tube steaks" anyway? And while just putting this glorified toaster in a catalog is bad enough, the description glowingly promises that the user can adjust the timing so "It will heat your hotdog and bun to your taste preference." Please. As a woman at a fast food restaurant once shared with me in confidence, "Either they're cooked, or they ain't."