“Have you ever wanted to make or receive a phone call while underwater?” asked the glossy magazine advertisement. In that instant I realized there was nothing I desired more. I mean, seriously, think about it. What freedom! The ability to check your bank balance while exploring sunken wrecks. Or to order a pizza while sitting on the bottom of the swimming pool.
I didn't just want that “sophisticated scuba face mask with Bluetooth interface and 40 feet of hose.” I needed it.
Admittedly, I might not have been thinking straight, trapped in an aluminum tube, 30,000 feet above the Earth, cramped and bored. I'd already reviewed the airline safety card (twice) and read the barf bag instructions, which consisted of a single (albeit thoughtful) reminder: “Discard after use.”
That's when I found a dog-eared copy of Sky Mall buried in the seat pocket, and my chance to live a James Bond/Jacques Cousteau fantasy. Hallelujah! For a mere $1,790, the underwater cellular phone system could be en route to my house even before the plane touched down.
But there were other temptations to consider: a full-size replica of King Tut's throne (“attention-demanding”); a suit of medieval armour (“complete with seven-foot-tall halberd”); a clear resin toilet seat inlaid with gold lions (“the timeless symbol of brave Richard the Lionheart”).
Oh, the convenience of ordering all this from the comfort of the plane!
Without doubt, those accustomed to domestic Canadian travel can find flying in the United States like a journey to Mars. They may be our nearest neighbour, but things are different down there. There's an urgency surrounding shoe removal that verges on manic. And a carnival-like atmosphere pervades most departure halls: Novelty shops overflow with stuffed animals and snack bars serve up gargantuan treats. But no single item defines American air travel – and arguably the entire bloated American dream – as completely as the Sky Mall catalogue.
Stuffed in seat pockets on 93 per cent of all domestic U.S. flights, Sky Mall contains a dizzying collection of things you didn't know you needed, each addressing problems you never knew you had. Admittedly, it's immensely entertaining to browse, although you'd raise your eyebrows if fellow passengers noted your interest. Really, who buys a life-size throne or suit of armour while flying?
Someone must, for the magazine has been a fixture since its launch in 1990. Its business model is compelling. The quarterly publication is viewed by an estimated half-billion upscale readers. And because Sky Mall advertises other people's products, they have no warehouse and no inventory. They don't spend a penny on postage, or deal with returns. (Their vendors do that.) And in case you were wondering, the company has processed hundreds of millions of dollars in orders.
A common assumption is that Sky Mall caters to the poorly educated and fiscally illiterate. Think again. The average customer is a college grad, between 35 and 64 years old, living in a metropolitan area and earning $75,000 a year.
And the magazine's existence is almost understandable. The gadgets may sound laughable while standing on solid ground, but aboard a plane we've all had those “I-gotta-get-me-one-of-those” moments. An under-desk tanning machine for your feet? What's not to want? Only in the United States of America…
In Canada, where the need for slippers with miniature snowplows attached to the toes (allowing owners to shuffle to the curb without changing into boots) is dire, nary a Sky Mall can be found.
For much of the rest of the world, I suspect Sky Mall is a sweeping insult, for despite the optimistic copy and glossy photos, what the publication really says is this: Some Americans don't need a damn thing any more. Some don't even remember what the word “need” means. Tellingly, the vast majority of Sky Mall's 2,000 products address deadly sins, particularly sloth. Tired of lifting your wine bottle to pour a glass? Why not use a gas-powered automatic dispenser?
Sky Mall is as American as the Statue of Liberty and apple pie. It is a distillation of why the rest of the world both loves and hates the Land of the Free. And while Sky Mall says something profoundly sad about modern culture, the magazine itself can't be blamed. It is simply a barometer of bizarre desires.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to order a countertop nano-silver ozone sanitizing oven – which will disinfect everything from sandals to cellphones. Soap is just such a hassle.
Special to The Globe and Mail
