\law-guh-REE-uh\, noun: Excessive talkativeness or wordiness.
Amy points out that "logorrhea" could be a nice way to refer either to "diarrhea of the mouth" (and NO ONE we know suffers from that!) or the excessive use of logos. And she's got a really good point there. Corporate and brand-name logos are omnipresent. I don't get paid enough to carry out anybody's advertising campaign on my body, so I try to keep my clothing logo-free. And it ain't easy! Have you ever made a conscious effort to buy a T-shirt that does not display a logo of any kind? Just when you think you're safe, that little Nike swoosh pops up. Sometimes it's quietly stitched on a pocket in thread the same color as the shirt, but it's there. Even my socks aren't safe.
I'm sure everyone has noticed by now that no public venue or event is free from visible signs of ownership or sponsorship, no movie or TV show free from blatant "product placement" moments. A press release we recently received here at Media Headquarters takes logorrhea one step further. It was for a device that will "emboss" words or symbols into uncooked dough so that even baked pizza crusts and breadsticks carry that all-important consumer message. Logos on pizza? Is nothing sacred?! If I don't like to wear advertising, you can be pretty sure I won't be first in line to eat it.
Athletes, no longer content merely to wear conspicuously brand-name sports gear, are now stenciling product endorsements on their bodies during televised events. I've also read about a guy somewhere in the U.S. who has offered to sell advertising space on his bald head to the highest bidder. And let's not forget the female soccer player who became famous a year or so ago for "spontaneously" ripping off her (logoed) team jersey during a moment of (televised) triumph to reveal a certain brand-name sports bra, thereby turning one of the pivotal moments of women's sports into a commercial.
Looking around my own office I can see half a dozen ads at a glance: a company logo on my tea mug, a club logo on the "property of" sticker on my stapler, a different club logo on my anti-stress squeezey toy, the name of a play embroidered on the extra shirt I keep around to fight off the air conditioning, a brand name and logo on my desk lamp, postcards depicting not only scenes friends have visited but also the name of the shop that sold the cards . . . can't we have just a few moments' peace in which we're not being told what to buy or who to be?
Uh oh, my mood ring is straying into high-stress purple. Time to move on.
The Game: Day 2 instructions:
Imagine a ladder in your landscape. What does it look like? What's it made of? Where is it?