Targeted Silence: A Garden Variety Horror

Targeted Silence: A Garden Variety Horror

How Ads Stopped Dancing and Started Stalking

Photo by Florian Wehde on Unsplash

I have a small garden. I’m told this is “a healthy hobby.” What they mean is: It’s harder to sell you things while you’re covered in dirt.

This morning, I looked up how to stop possums eating my basil. By lunch, my phone suggested I buy “Possum-Repellent Chinos™” (breathable, ethically sourced, $129). I don’t own chinos. I don’t want chinos. But somewhere in California, an algorithm had decided: This woman’s basil crisis can only be solved by tailored gentlemans slacks.

I miss the old ads.

I miss Louie the Fly, dancing on a toilet seat, blissfully unaware that I’d never bought Mortein in my life. He didn’t care. He had a song, a top hat, and zero interest in my purchasing history. Pure, honest capitalism.

I miss ads that arrived by accident – the jaunty jingle for Meadow Lea that interrupted A Country Practice whether you ate margarine or not. “You ought to be congratulated!” they’d sing, to nobody in particular. Beautiful, aimless enthusiasm.

Remember when the Aerogard family went camping? Mum sprayed Dad, Dad sprayed the kids, everyone got bitten anyway, but nobody blamed targeted advertising. The mosquitoes weren’t in cahoots with Big Data. They were just mosquitoes, doing mosquito things, democratically biting anyone within range.

Now everything knows too much.

Last week, I searched “why does my knee click.” Within hours, YouTube offered me orthopedic mattresses, knee-replacement holidays in Bali, and a documentary called The Clicking: Big Joint’s Last Stand. The documentary looked suspiciously like it was filmed on a security camera shot in a Bunnings carpark.

When I was a kid, if your knee clicked, the chemist might suggest Dencorub. That was it. No algorithm tracking your limp. No targeted ads for walking frames. Just a bloke behind a counter who’d seen clicking knees before and thought menthol might help.

I went for a walk to escape the digital stalking. Mistake. A bus thundered past: “YOUR SKIN IS BETRAYING YOU!” Even the park bench bore a plaque: “Relax! Sponsored by CalmCoin™” The clouds looked suspiciously like Gerry Harvey, grinning.

The old ads had dignity.

The White Knight promised to make your washing whiter, not because he’d analyzed your laundry habits, but because that’s what washing powder did. Simple. Honest. The Milky Bar Kid rode into town for every child, not because your parents had googled “healthy snacks” at 2am.

Even the dodgy ones were charmingly amateur. Remember that bloke flogging Crazy John’s mobile phones? Pure enthusiasm, terrible acting, zero surveillance. He wanted to sell you a phone, not harvest your soul for advertising revenue. There’s something refreshing about honest greed.

My garden used to be the last quiet place.

Then came Tuesday.

I was talking to my lemon tree – casual conversation. “You’re looking peaky, buddy. Need some fertiliser?” My phone, resting on the potting bench, lit up immediately:“Lonely plants? Try PlantMatch™! Connect your lemon with citrus singles in your area!”

I stared at the screen. In the ‘80s, if you talked to plants, only the neighbors judged you. Now, everything’s listening. My fridge suggests probiotic kimchi. My electricity bill arrives with “wellness tips.” A billboard near Parramatta Road offers “financial serenity” in Comic Sans – serenity shouldn’t shout in the font of school newsletters.

Sometimes I fight back, searching things like “best flamethrower for data centres” and “is spite a renewable resource.” The ads that follow are troubling: “PREPPER GEAR FOR THE MODERN HERMIT!” Even my rebellion is monetized.

But the garden persists.

The rosemary doesn’t care if I’ve “engaged with content.” The pumpkin vine has never suggested I “optimize my nutrients.” Yesterday, I watched a cabbage moth flutter past – no pop-up urged me to “UPGRADE TO PREMIUM MOTH EXPERIENCE!”

It’s like the old ads, in a way. The moth just… is. Doing moth things. No ulterior motive, no hidden agenda. Just a creature living its life, blissfully unaware of my browsing history.

This morning, I found a flyer in my letterbox: “TIRED OF ADS? ESCAPE TO OUR AD-FREE RETREAT! Terms apply. Proudly sponsored by Nike, Netflix, and Nihilism Ltd.”

I used it to mulch the zucchini.

I want ads to be like Louie the Fly again.

Remember his second verse? “I’m bad and mean and mighty unclean, afraid of no one, except the man with the can of Mortein. Hate that word, Mortein!” Even Louie admitted what he was up against. There was honesty in the transaction – fly versus spray, consumer versus product, a fair fight with clear rules.

He knew he was the villain! He embraced it! “I’m bad and mean and mighty unclean” – when did advertising become so ashamed of itself that it had to pretend to be your friend first?

Modern ads don’t announce themselves as the enemy. They sidle up, claim they’re “personalizing your experience,” then follow you home like a stalker who insists they’re just being thoughtful. Louie the Fly would never. He’d dance on your toilet seat, declare his badness, and accept that you might buy Mortein anyway. Honest villainy.

I want ads that show up uninvited, do their little dance, and leave without demanding my personal information. I want jingles that stick in my head because they’re catchy, not because an algorithm has calculated the exact neurological frequency needed to trigger my purchasing impulses.

I want advertising that admits it’s just throwing stuff at the wall to see what sticks – capitalism with its pants down, shameless but straightforward.

Now they know too much. They’ve stopped dancing and started stalking, stopped being honest villains and started pretending to be helpful friends.

Louie the Fly never followed me home. He never analyzed my bathroom habits or served me targeted ads for toilet accessories. He just put on his top hat, admitted he was mighty unclean, and trusted that somewhere, someone might think, “You know what? I could use some fly spray.”

That’s the tragedy of modern advertising. It’s lost the art of the honest dance.