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February 16, 2005
Word to your Marketing Dept.!
I haven't been feeling in and of the world for the last day or so. When vexed, I sometimes feel detached from good people like yourselves. What's bugging me is not the issue for this forum. Instead, let's explore how I chose to dispel this semi-funk.
An hour at the gym on the elliptical machine left me feeling sore, yet active and vital. Blowing plaque out of my arteries almost always cheers me because I know it's healthy. Also, I get to feel smugly superior to anyone who didn't exercise today for the duration of the drive home.
I stopped by Safeway to pick up some croutons for the Big Salad I envisioned for dinner. Croutons begat beets, and beets begat blue cheese. If you've not had roasted beets and blue cheese in a salad, you're cheating yourself.
I walked past the beverage case and noticed a new addition near the syrupy alcoholic concoctions: B to the E, a new Anheuser-Busch product for "contemporary adults" like me who are "looking for the latest beverage to keep up with their highly social and fast-paced lifestyles."
Granted, I hadn't read the A-B press release when I was strolling down the aisle, a sweaty T-shirt plastered to my back. In fact, I was quite dehydrated, and was amused to find that the beer I held in my clammy palm was infused with caffeine, guarana and ginseng.
Understand, my parents raised me to be bulletproof to the whims of Madison Avenue. I was chiefly encouraged to read books, but I was also permitted to watch as much television as I wanted with one caveat:
My parents would not buy me anything that I saw advertised on television.
As a result, I was inured to each pitch for sugary cereals, lawn darts and the like. As an adult, each time I bring home something whose praises have been sung by one marketing genius or another, it's an act of rebellion. I'm hopelessly over-saturated with the popular culture, as the phrase "marketing genius" forever evokes Seinfeld, as in, "Which marketing genius came up with that one?"
So, I disobeyed my parents, and now, I'm sitting here with a 10-oz. can of something. Wait, L just came in. This could be interesting.
"Close your eyes. I want you to taste something."
"What is it?"
The can pssshht! open, and I placed it in her hand. She smelled it deeply, then took a moderate sip. Her shayna punim morphed instantly into a sourpuss, eyes still dutifully squinted shut.
"Gack! What the hell is that?"
"You can open your eyes," I said, taking the can back. "B to the E. Red Bull meets Budweiser."
L grimaced still. "Damn, man. By the aroma, I thought I was getting Hansen's raspberry soda. Bleck."
"Sorry, sweetie." I felt badly, but her reaction was most amusing. She saw me smirk and grabbed for the can.
"Gimme that. One more sip to see if it's really disgusting, or it was just my imagination, running away with me."
She sniffed the can again as if she was huffing hops and barley, then took another sip. She smacked her lips and looked at me skeptically.
"Still weird, but not terrifying. That was scary." She handed the can back and went back to the bedroom to repair a server that'd been hacked by some no-goodniks in a Spanish-speaking nation.
The empty can is now in the recycling bin, and I feel neither buzzed nor a buzz. I won't be buying this swill again soon. But spending $1.59 to satisfy my artificially inflated curiosity and to see L make that face seems like a very good value.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 11:35 PM | Comments (0)
February 14, 2005
Attention, Wal-Mart shoppers.
I understand that this chain offers goods at very attractive prices, but please take a minute to consider what you're supporting:
To settle child labor violations in three states, the nation's largest retailer paid out more than $150K to the Labor Department. In and of itself, that's hardly surprising. They're a large organization, and it follows that there might be a *few unscrupulous people who'd take advantage here and there.
According to an internal Labor Dept. memo, the terms of the settlement "includes provisions that Wage & Hour will not open an investigation of Wal-Mart without first notifying Wal-Mart's main office and allowing them an opportunity to look at the alleged violation, and if valid, correct the problem to everyone's satisfaction."
I know it's unlikely that many avid Wal-Mart patrons will find themselves reading about this issue. Anecdotally (and quite ironically), I don't think many of their customers give much thought to labor laws or workplace safety. Still, I'd love to ask a few of them what they think of this.
Maybe this guy can find out why the Bush administration would extend such consideration to a major contributor.
*Bitter, bitter sarcasm.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 12:51 PM | Comments (0)
February 09, 2005
Quotidian wisdom II
I was finishing a cup of coffee outside an office building downtown before an appointment.
A street guy in his forties approached in a filthy gray trench, some tattered Chuck Taylors and a T-shirt that comemmemorated someone else's recent completion of a half-marathon. He juggled a quarter between grimy hands.
"Can I buy a cigarette?"
"Sorry," I answered.
"Listen, do you have any change? Anything at all would help."
I flashed on the change from my french roast that I'd dropped into the tip jar.
"I might have a buck. Lemme see." I dug in my pocket for the new Coach wallet L gifted me with last week, awkwardly balancing my coffee.
"Bless you. Thank you." He smiled and walked down the block about 20 feet before stopping.
"Thanks, man! Hey, what did Springsteen say? It's so hard to be a saint ..."
"In the city," I finished.
"Yeah!" He grinned again. "Just what does God want from us, anyway, man?"
"Be good," I said before gulping the last of my coffee. I tossed the cup in a trash can.
The street guy walked on, then stopped again. "Hey, man -- you inspire me!"
I returned his thumbs-up and went to my appointment.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 03:11 PM | Comments (0)
February 08, 2005
Yet another Super Bowl ad critique.
I went to my first Super Bowl party on Sunday in nine years. In this town, the big game is a non-event, so the notion of the SB as a cultural signifier just can't be grokked. My host for the party was an East Coast transplant whose family owned part of a NFL team, so this gathering had gravitas and tradition.
As ever, I paid as much, if not more attention to the commercials than the game. The usual parade of pitches (some clever, some not) for snacks, beer and boner pills.
One commercial in particular made the back of my neck itch: part of the ongoing "What happens here, stays here" ad campaign for the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority.
Historically, I've enjoyed these ads. They're irreverent, memorable, and are elegant examples of how to tell a compelling story with economy. This latest one, though -- I just don't know.
The commercial opens in a dressing room after a boxing match. The contender slouches on the training table and his left eye looks like ground chuck. He's flanked by his corner men and a few dudes in flashy clothes who likely comprise his entourage.
The other men in the room: a middle-aged guy who appears to be the boxer's manager/promoter, and a silent suit who keeps his back to the camera.
Papparazzi buzz just outside the door, and the manager is trying to determine if his fighter is up facing the lights and cameras. He asks the boxer a few questions. "Do you know where you are? Do you know what day it is?"
Listless and slumped in defeat, the fighter answers "no" to each question.
Manager: Do you remember what you did last night?
Fighter: No.
Manager (tense): Do you remember what I did last night?
(The corner men look at each other with some concern.)
Fighter: No.
The manager relaxes and rubs the fighter's head good-naturedly, saying something like, "that's my boy." Assured that no one will ever learn of his (assumably) embarassing behavior of the previous evening, the manager opens the door and admits a media swarm.
Then, the tagline: "What happens here, stays here." Good one, right?
My problem? The fighter, his corner men, and the shadowy dudes in the entourage are all black. The manager/promoter and his silent friend are white.
As described, I know this doesn't sound like that much of a much, but if you get the chance, watch the ad the next time it's on. The visuals are more striking.
My reading: the black man took a bad beating, leaving him with a brain injury that was obvious to his trainers. Rather than arrange for a doctor, the manager makes sure that the boxer can't recall the tranny hooker he sneaked out of his suite at the Belaggio at 5 a.m.
The corner men stand mute, complicit in the boxer's inevitable downward slide. The boxer is disposable, a means to an end.
This is the part where I say something like "no one enjoys a laugh more than I do, but..."
Well, no one enjoys a laugh more than I do, but I thought this ad was somewhat dehumanizing. I'm not sure it would have been better if it'd been a Don King-type talking to a white guy who'd just had the stuffing beat out of him. I guess I'm uncomfortable with the notion of a boxer's beat-down and attendant concussion being played for laughs. Using a black guy as the palooka/punch line just piles on the tsuris for me.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 01:15 PM | Comments (0)
February 04, 2005
Georgy Porgy snogs The Senator.
OK, I backslid into watching political coverage again.
Whomever challenges Joe Lieberman for his Senate seat in the next primary should secure as much outdoor advertising as possible and blow up this image to billboard size:
Sure, it'll be grainy, but that will enhance the tawdriness. In fact, the distortion might trick the eye momentarily, giving the image the feel of one captured through a telephoto lens angled through someone else's window. Something we weren't meant to see.
I'd put this image all over the place, principally on coffee sleeves and in commuter stations, so those good liberals who put Joe in the Senate could see how well they're being represented while they keep their hands warm on the Metro-North platform sipping their double half-caps.
Paid pundits evoke Michael kissing Fredo, and the video backs up that claim. Bush strides over confidently and grabs Joe with two clammy hands, drawing him close. I guess Lieby never had time to react, but I wonder how I might have reacted.
Would you be polite and gracious if Shrub tried to plant a big, wet one on you? Or would you instictively pull back, revulsed?
I'd like to imagine Joe slouching in a club chair with a Yoo-Hoo, hours after Hadassah has tucked herself in. He gazes balefully at the C-SPAN replay of the SOTU:
*"It ain't the way I wanted it! I can handle things... I'm smart -- not like everyone says -- not dumb, smart and I want respect!"
Posted by Your Protagonist at 01:15 AM | Comments (0)