Ever since Joe DiMaggio walked a mile for a Camel and a full-color picture of the Lone Ranger and Silver came in the mail by my having sent in Silvercup bread wrappers, I entered the world of Barnum’s suckers. I also remember in the thirties how the tobacco industry duped young girls into buying a very fashionable “rose-tip” brand. I personally recall my sister’s Chesterfield ad on the back of a magazine, except that her head was preempted by Rita Hayworth ‘s — my sister consoled herself in that it was the body posture that mattered most. During the war, no one was allowed to forget that “Lucky Strike Green had gone to war,” or that Camel was the most favorite among servicemen.

After the war, whenever a Brooklyn Dodger hit a home run, a carton of “golden oldies” [Old Gold cigarettes] would slide down the foul ball screen behind the plate, and the bat boy would present it to the player as he arrived at home plate. Chesterfield, which sponsored the old NY Giant’s radio program, took down all the billboards in the Polo Grounds and replaced them with 3-D icons of their own on the mezzanine facial tiers. The Yankees never officially sponsored cigarettes but, oh, how Mel Allen blared “blended splendid Pabst Blue Ribbon” beer, and later the “great taste of Ballantine Ale”! The Dodgers later switched to Schaeffer Pale Dry beer.

Advertisers had no scruples then as now. Of course, the scenario has changed by the proliferation of gadgets and media advertising. Having to admit that you don’t own a cell phone is as bad as admitting you’re still a smoker. You’re an idiot if you go to a local bank to refinance your mortgage when Di-Tech prevails. You’re a weird loner if you don’t accept your finance broker as an officious member of the family. The hobbyist photographer is a laughable dinosaur with his darkroom — like he was some kind of rebellious Picasso, frustrated by the digital camera. The old fashioned prankster is a thing of the past what with the camera phone imaging a friend with his fly open or a pie in the face. Downloading by dial-up service is masochistic. The station wagon, along with pleasingly plump, is no longer in the lexicon of Madison Avenue. Lo-carb has upstaged Lo-fat. Auto racers and golfers are living billboards. Spider Man is superimposed on dozens of products. DVD s are subjected to the same fate as eight-track cartridges, thanks to HD.

Let’s face it without marketing we’d still be in the dark ages.