Don’t worry about New Orleans anymore, ‘cause they have a winning football team! Instead, let’s put our collective focus on television advertisements. Ads carry more import than city infrastructure and economy and psychological well-being anyway, right? Well, no. But I have no answers for N'awlins, or Miami, or Indy (boo-hoo), so let’s move on.
Super Bowl XLIV had more viewers than any television broadcast in history, surpassing the legendary finale of M*A*S*H, a show from the 70s or 80s which was about an army of Idaho potato farmers fighting for survival against Irish oppressors. I’m pretty sure it starred Steve Guttenberg.
This year’s advertisers, which can be classified into two groups: “Brands” and “CBS”, obviously viewed the Super Bowl as their prime opportunity to persuade innocent fans of the Colts and Saints to start thinking about other things besides football, like how hilarious underwear can be (UNDIES!) and that Denny’s and Abe Vigoda still actually exist. These life tools are invaluable after the respective fan-nations recover from their joyous hangovers (winners) or their less joyous hangovers (losers) to realize that football season is, alas, over. For the rest of us non-rooters, casual partygoers, and TV addicts, the ads are meant to reinforce how dumb men are. Specifically men who drink Bud Light, willingly, in front of other people.
I’ve already hinted at one theme (UNDIES!), but I’ll get to that later. Another great ad theme was the string of hit CBS shows which are apparently #1! Like Lost, something, something, something, capital letters, something, capital letters Los Angeles, something, something, and of course, The Late Show with old unfunny comedians.
Speaking of old, The Who completed like the 8th straight halftime act featuring an artist whose career pinnacled before I was born. In a clear tryout for next year’s Super Bowl halftime act, KISS and mini-KISS showed up for a Dr. Pepper Cherry ad. (Mini-KISS is slated for halftime of next year’s Puppy Bowl.) Dr. Pepper Cherry: tastes just like sweaty face paint!
Bridgestone, a company that makes tires for automobiles (hopefully not Toyotas), wins the award for Brand Trying Hardest to Seem Cool Despite Fact that Most Humans Pick Whatever Tire is Carried by their Dealership or the Shop Around the Corner with Free Coffee. “Gimme the ones with those grooves in it!” They (Bridgestone, a tire company) also pulled a super lame The Hangover rip-off with their killer whale-in-car ad, with the lamest bachelor party reference of all time. Listen, Bridge-people, Goodyear long ago invented a flying machine to promote themselves, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Only one American automaker paid up the bucks for chicken-wing-interrupted glory: Dodge. Their “I will…” ad featuring a bunch of guys who were saying things about me hit home with most people in the room. It also managed to get in one of the 30 underwear references (UNDIES!) of the night. A few critics have called it whiny, but I related to it in every way. I may just have to go out and test drive a Charger after I fold this laundry and clean the litter box.
Google made a lot of people “awww” and “hey yeah, that IS Google!” with their touching spot about someone figuring out how to create totally unreasonable expectations for their relationship and life. Go watch Sleepless in Seattle again, daydreamer.
Doritos, a product my family and I always referred to as “bad breath chips”, probably had the best laughs in a macro sense (marketing jargon!) with the kid slapping his Mom’s suitor, the guy getting shock-collared, the casket dumping over, and the Doritos-clad warrior attacking dudes in ugly gym clothes. These ads were submitted by regular ol’ people, not agencies, and turned out to be more memorable and funnier than almost every other ad. It’s a YouTube world people, and we’re just living in it. I re-watched almost all of the ads in a conference room with a bunch of marketers on Monday, and everyone LOL’d when the warrior appeared.
You probably noticed the Dockers no-pants chant? I liked this ad better when it was the Dial For Men chant about 2 years ago. Unoriginal, unfunny, and filled with too many tighty whities (UNDIES!). For a good usage of pantsless people, see Careerbuilder.com’s ad. That one featured both men and ladies in their delicates (UNDIES!) as a casual Friday policy gone waaaay too far. The best line was delivered bitingly by a half nude gentleman to the lone remaining pants-wearing holdout: “Nice pants, Terry.”
FINALLY! As the commercial pointed out, men everywhere have been tearing up the gossip lines with their buddies wondering if Dove would release a “for Men” line of products, which they have! Uh…no. See above review of Dockers – this is another Dial for Men rip-off. WE’VE SEEN IT.
Basketball is a sport near and dear to my heart. I love playing it, I love watching it, I love writing about making 19 consecutive 3-pointers and how crappy the NBA Slam-Dunk competition (sponsored by Sprite!) has become. So it pained me to see McDonald’s completely abuse the memory of the classic Jordan vs. Bird game of “HORSE” ad. You remember: “from the bleachers, over the rafters, off the glass, nothing but net.” Swish. The new one—which, in true professional sports league fashion, was overhyped—featured LeBron James and Dwight Howard calling out ridiculous dunks, and then we had to watch as their herky-jerky digitally enhanced selves “completed” those dunks. The NBA is now failing at their real dunk contest and at making impossible dunks look cool on television. McDonald’s, I am most certainly NOT lovin’ it!
In another lame remake, Boost Mobile knocked off the Bears Super Bowl Shuffle from 1985. I guess if you take something that’s already hokey and stiff (but awesome at the time!) and copy it, it’s going to be hokey and stiff. And of course, there was a line about some teammate’s “cheetah print thong” (UNDIES!) to continue with the overdone theme.
This review is getting out of hand, and there are plenty of places to get professional, respected opinions on the ads by people who had time to write them two days ago. Or you can just watch them again on your own, because I just checked and New Orleans is still partying. So let me wrap up with my favorites:
Audi “Green Police”: It sounded like a real Styx song, was fun, dramatized an important topical issue, and clearly showed one of the vehicle’s consumer benefits. Audi had my favorite ad two years ago, too.
Both Coca-Cola ads: Surreal contrast of bright, wacky Simpson’s characters underneath light-hearted music and no dialogue; and the sleep-walker’s dream sequence, which happened to feature a man in boxers (UNDIES!). Both harkened to the classic feel-good message going all the way back to “I’d like to teach the world to sing…” Simply brand builders, but good ones.
Volkswagen slugging: Relatable across generations, and capped off by—no, not the kid punching grandpa in the crotch—but by Tracy Morgan’s “How do you DO that?” line to Stevie Wonder. Rarely do 2-second celebrity cameos work, but this one was perfect.
Unknown: Somewhere in this mess was Megan Fox in a bathtub. I don’t know what it was for, but I’m sure I scoffed at it and turned to my wife to tell her how much I love her. My wife, that is.
Sorry I couldn’t keep this review, uh, more brief (UNDIES!).
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
My Memoir of Writing Class #1
Saturday morning, I packed a bag lunch of turkey sandwich and Teddy Grahams (honey flavor), drove to the University campus, and attended Read Like a Writer. I joined 11 other students and an instructor, all better read than me, in that they did not scrunch up their face and shrug when the instructor mentioned someone named “Ayn” Rand. I certainly did my part to participate in the class. In business, I’ve learned if nothing else that if you’re walled in with a bunch of people around a table, saying stuff is the best way to avoid nodding off. So I offered my limited examples of book knowledge (Dirk Pitt is rad!), espoused original observations, and even made counterarguments to a few really opinionated lifelong students, which isn’t something I normally do. It was a rare time for me to engage in intellectual discourse with a group of people about things other than work or sports. I do engage my wife in intellectual discourse about once a week, but you should stay out of my business.
Several classmates expressed their desire to write memoirs; some as retirees with decades of life experiences looking to share their stories, others as people writing to write. I’ve thought about this too, and I find that the following facts about me – facts which are almost certain not to change – make the idea of my memoir quite silly:
- I was never in the military
- I was never poor
- My father was not a drunk
- My mother was not an evil taskmaster
- I did not attend Catholic school
- I am not an expert in any field
- I am not gay
- I did not have an older brother who beat the dickens out of me
And let’s be honest, facts like those are often bases for compelling and interesting memoirs. But screw it. I’m compiling a memoir-ific outline using the following facts about myself – facts which are almost certain to make you drowsy:
- I sort of skipped 3rd grade
- I once made 62 consecutive free throws
- I won the “Director’s Award” in 8th grade band, only to quit band after 9th grade
- I grew up on the rugged avenues of Hudsonville, MI
- I scored a 33 on my ACT
- I’ve sprained my ankles a combined 34 times
- I wore teeth braces for 5 years, and still made homecoming court
- My family is quite nice and I enjoy hanging out with them
My challenge is clear: figure out how to create an indulgent meal out of weak-sauce ingredients. And if there’s one story-of-my-life asterisk here, it’s that I avoid challenge at all costs (just kidding, employer!). I’m diving into this memoir full speed, tomorrow. But if it takes 31 more years to write, all the better, because by then I will have:
- Probably beaten down a few minor diseases
- Probably been married 4 or 5 times (just kidding, honey!)
- Probably developed random neuroses, like plucking hairs out of my upper arms (wait, I already do that)
- Probably punched a few hobos
- Probably figured out what I’m good at
- Probably failed as a writer...
Several classmates expressed their desire to write memoirs; some as retirees with decades of life experiences looking to share their stories, others as people writing to write. I’ve thought about this too, and I find that the following facts about me – facts which are almost certain not to change – make the idea of my memoir quite silly:
- I was never in the military
- I was never poor
- My father was not a drunk
- My mother was not an evil taskmaster
- I did not attend Catholic school
- I am not an expert in any field
- I am not gay
- I did not have an older brother who beat the dickens out of me
And let’s be honest, facts like those are often bases for compelling and interesting memoirs. But screw it. I’m compiling a memoir-ific outline using the following facts about myself – facts which are almost certain to make you drowsy:
- I sort of skipped 3rd grade
- I once made 62 consecutive free throws
- I won the “Director’s Award” in 8th grade band, only to quit band after 9th grade
- I grew up on the rugged avenues of Hudsonville, MI
- I scored a 33 on my ACT
- I’ve sprained my ankles a combined 34 times
- I wore teeth braces for 5 years, and still made homecoming court
- My family is quite nice and I enjoy hanging out with them
My challenge is clear: figure out how to create an indulgent meal out of weak-sauce ingredients. And if there’s one story-of-my-life asterisk here, it’s that I avoid challenge at all costs (just kidding, employer!). I’m diving into this memoir full speed, tomorrow. But if it takes 31 more years to write, all the better, because by then I will have:
- Probably beaten down a few minor diseases
- Probably been married 4 or 5 times (just kidding, honey!)
- Probably developed random neuroses, like plucking hairs out of my upper arms (wait, I already do that)
- Probably punched a few hobos
- Probably figured out what I’m good at
- Probably failed as a writer...
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
What's So Lucky About Them?
We had a pot luck Tuesday at work. I brought in some chicken chili, the only thing I ever take to any event involving prepared food. Why? Because I have a crock pot and the recipe involves 5 or 6 cans or jars of various things, some shredded cheese which I hand-shredded, and a teaspoon of something called "cumin". I looked up "cumin" on the internet and it is defined as "something you put in chicken chili". The hardest thing about this creation was remembering to dump it all together in time for it to crockulate overnight, which I did (remembered) at 11:30 the night prior, approximately 14 seconds before I nodded off to sleep. There's nothing quite like being comfortably settled into bed, finally getting warm, fading gently into blackness, then realizing you have to get up and go downstairs and crank open 3 cans of great northern beans. And it's a good thing there's nothing quite like that, because that thing would suck.
Our pot luck at work was so successful we put all the leftovers in the break room fridge, and reheated them today for another one! Which made me wonder... Why do people prepare so much food for pot lucks? If 20 people are slotted to bring something - and everyone who attends has to bring something - and if all 20 people make/buy enough food for like 5-10 people, then you have either a) food for 100-200 people; or b) 5-10 servings of food for 20 people. No wonder we did it all over again.
My favorite memories of pot lucks come from church when I was young. Several times a year a pot luck would be announced to celebrate some event or another; a church milestone, a sending-off of a missionary or pastor, maybe a softball league championship? The thing is, I can't really remember why most were held, I just remember the thrill of walking into the multi-purpose room, greeted by the sights and smells of so many various pots of meats and potatoes and gravies and indecipherable casseroles.
A good pot luck always had these items (from these people):
- 2 pepperoni pizzas from local chain (forgot about pot luck until en route to church)
- Bucket of KFC (didn't necessarily forget, but a dad was in charge)
- Green bean casserole with soggy fried onions on top (mother who thinks having greens is important)
- Someone's homemade fried chicken which lasted way longer than the KFC bucket (thinks they're a good cook and resents fast-food addicts)
- Cocktail wieners! (single mom who loves America)
- 2-pound bucket of store bought potato salad (didn't necessarily forget, but definitely can't cook)
- Au gratin potatoes which are so hot they burn your tongue and then you can't even taste the KFC (my mom)
And I haven't even gotten to the dessert table!
Pot lucks at church had several other attractions to me, like danger and sports. The multi-purpose room was carpeted but had basketball hoops (a rug burn lover's paradise), and there was always a group of us trying to get some shots in before the tables were all set. One of the more assertive mothers would always insist we "put those away before they knock something over", but we'd push it until something was knocked over, or until the larger, even more assertive father would just go ahead and grab the basketballs and say "Come on you guys!" in that midwesterny way.
Look, nothing says community like a dozen crock pots and a bowl of punch, so let's beat this topic up a bit! What else is a favorite or must-have item at a pot luck? Comment below or at Facebook.
Our pot luck at work was so successful we put all the leftovers in the break room fridge, and reheated them today for another one! Which made me wonder... Why do people prepare so much food for pot lucks? If 20 people are slotted to bring something - and everyone who attends has to bring something - and if all 20 people make/buy enough food for like 5-10 people, then you have either a) food for 100-200 people; or b) 5-10 servings of food for 20 people. No wonder we did it all over again.
My favorite memories of pot lucks come from church when I was young. Several times a year a pot luck would be announced to celebrate some event or another; a church milestone, a sending-off of a missionary or pastor, maybe a softball league championship? The thing is, I can't really remember why most were held, I just remember the thrill of walking into the multi-purpose room, greeted by the sights and smells of so many various pots of meats and potatoes and gravies and indecipherable casseroles.
A good pot luck always had these items (from these people):
- 2 pepperoni pizzas from local chain (forgot about pot luck until en route to church)
- Bucket of KFC (didn't necessarily forget, but a dad was in charge)
- Green bean casserole with soggy fried onions on top (mother who thinks having greens is important)
- Someone's homemade fried chicken which lasted way longer than the KFC bucket (thinks they're a good cook and resents fast-food addicts)
- Cocktail wieners! (single mom who loves America)
- 2-pound bucket of store bought potato salad (didn't necessarily forget, but definitely can't cook)
- Au gratin potatoes which are so hot they burn your tongue and then you can't even taste the KFC (my mom)
And I haven't even gotten to the dessert table!
Pot lucks at church had several other attractions to me, like danger and sports. The multi-purpose room was carpeted but had basketball hoops (a rug burn lover's paradise), and there was always a group of us trying to get some shots in before the tables were all set. One of the more assertive mothers would always insist we "put those away before they knock something over", but we'd push it until something was knocked over, or until the larger, even more assertive father would just go ahead and grab the basketballs and say "Come on you guys!" in that midwesterny way.
Look, nothing says community like a dozen crock pots and a bowl of punch, so let's beat this topic up a bit! What else is a favorite or must-have item at a pot luck? Comment below or at Facebook.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
3 Questions You Should Just Let Me Ponder
If you use your child’s name as part of an online or network password, do you actually run the risk of forgetting your child’s name?
Like you’re sitting there one day, dying to check the spam building up in your “second” email account – which you use for retailer and airline spam and questionably tasteful picture-of-the-day subscriptions – and as you begin typing the password (starting with a month/day code of a child’s birth of course), you realize you don’t know which child’s name you used, or if you used the entire name (Samantha) or the abbreviated/nick-name (Mantha), and then as you rack your brain trying to work all this out, you realize…OH NO… the name escapes you entirely! To add insult to injury, you’ve just forgotten your password, too. Which, as we know, is inevitable. Later, you run into your child – also inevitable since you live with them – and all your flustered brain can manage to send through your mouth is “Oh hey there, uh, password to my Hotmail account. How was your day?”
If you lose your mobile phone, and nobody is around to call you, did it ever exist?
I was faced with this conundrum recently whilst on a sports-watching holiday in friendly Florence, Alabama. Florence is quite easy to find on a map: look at the dangling protuberance at the southwest corner of Alabama – call them Alabamacles? – and then go straight north all the way to the Tennessee border. It’s within 300 miles of there. OK, maybe not the most direct way to point it out, but I did get you to see Alabama in a whole new way. (Thanks, Matt, for the inspiration.) Anyhoo, I lost my Samsung Omnia touch screen web-browsing text machine, which places something called “telephone calls” from time to time, somewhere around the place in which we parked for the game many hours earlier. Inexplicably, we made it all the way back to the hotel in Decatur (again, Alabamacles, then straight north but a little further east) before I realized the device was no longer in my coat pocket, nor in a pants pocket, nor in the trunk, nor in my hand. And there was no chance of finding it now that it was dark and we were 50 miles away. Strangely, a sudden calm descended on me as I realized I no longer needed to compulsively check for new texts. I had no desire whatsoever to check my Fantasy Football scores the following day on my mobile browser. I spent less time in the bathroom since I didn’t have to start a new game of Jamdat Bowling. I even used a PAYPHONE. You remember those; they’re the silvery boxes where you put in quarters and get a friendly, female voice to let you know you have 5 minutes to place a call and you’d better get yakkin’ cuz you just used up 2. This oasis of personal freedom lasted a good 2 days, until my mobile’s insurance carrier zipped me a replacement, no questions asked. Now it’s back to—hold on, I have to go. Texts coming in.
If IKEA furniture were harder to put together, would we ever put up with its chipped edges and dodgy fasteners?
We have no less than 17 pieces in our home (including each dining room chair) which Annie or I assembled using the illustrated, non-gender monster guided instructions. Assembled well even, although it’s probably hard to do a poor job of assembling pre-drilled boards with wooden pegs and lock screws. It’s essentially Tinker Toys for grownups, let’s be honest. I shouldn’t really complain; our furniture looks great in our home and has afforded us some modernity and matching color schemes which we might not have otherwise achieved. In college, for example, my shared rented house had a set of donated couch, chair, and ottoman that matched (in lovely green plaid) and then 24 other miscellaneous TV stands, folding chairs, long mirrors, coffee tables, handy plastic crates, and upside down wastebaskets covered with a towel (end tables). Clearly I have experienced a major furniture upgrade in my life and for that, IKEA, I thank you. And for the Marabou chocolates and Daim candies, too. And Swedish meatballs.
Like you’re sitting there one day, dying to check the spam building up in your “second” email account – which you use for retailer and airline spam and questionably tasteful picture-of-the-day subscriptions – and as you begin typing the password (starting with a month/day code of a child’s birth of course), you realize you don’t know which child’s name you used, or if you used the entire name (Samantha) or the abbreviated/nick-name (Mantha), and then as you rack your brain trying to work all this out, you realize…OH NO… the name escapes you entirely! To add insult to injury, you’ve just forgotten your password, too. Which, as we know, is inevitable. Later, you run into your child – also inevitable since you live with them – and all your flustered brain can manage to send through your mouth is “Oh hey there, uh, password to my Hotmail account. How was your day?”
If you lose your mobile phone, and nobody is around to call you, did it ever exist?
I was faced with this conundrum recently whilst on a sports-watching holiday in friendly Florence, Alabama. Florence is quite easy to find on a map: look at the dangling protuberance at the southwest corner of Alabama – call them Alabamacles? – and then go straight north all the way to the Tennessee border. It’s within 300 miles of there. OK, maybe not the most direct way to point it out, but I did get you to see Alabama in a whole new way. (Thanks, Matt, for the inspiration.) Anyhoo, I lost my Samsung Omnia touch screen web-browsing text machine, which places something called “telephone calls” from time to time, somewhere around the place in which we parked for the game many hours earlier. Inexplicably, we made it all the way back to the hotel in Decatur (again, Alabamacles, then straight north but a little further east) before I realized the device was no longer in my coat pocket, nor in a pants pocket, nor in the trunk, nor in my hand. And there was no chance of finding it now that it was dark and we were 50 miles away. Strangely, a sudden calm descended on me as I realized I no longer needed to compulsively check for new texts. I had no desire whatsoever to check my Fantasy Football scores the following day on my mobile browser. I spent less time in the bathroom since I didn’t have to start a new game of Jamdat Bowling. I even used a PAYPHONE. You remember those; they’re the silvery boxes where you put in quarters and get a friendly, female voice to let you know you have 5 minutes to place a call and you’d better get yakkin’ cuz you just used up 2. This oasis of personal freedom lasted a good 2 days, until my mobile’s insurance carrier zipped me a replacement, no questions asked. Now it’s back to—hold on, I have to go. Texts coming in.
If IKEA furniture were harder to put together, would we ever put up with its chipped edges and dodgy fasteners?
We have no less than 17 pieces in our home (including each dining room chair) which Annie or I assembled using the illustrated, non-gender monster guided instructions. Assembled well even, although it’s probably hard to do a poor job of assembling pre-drilled boards with wooden pegs and lock screws. It’s essentially Tinker Toys for grownups, let’s be honest. I shouldn’t really complain; our furniture looks great in our home and has afforded us some modernity and matching color schemes which we might not have otherwise achieved. In college, for example, my shared rented house had a set of donated couch, chair, and ottoman that matched (in lovely green plaid) and then 24 other miscellaneous TV stands, folding chairs, long mirrors, coffee tables, handy plastic crates, and upside down wastebaskets covered with a towel (end tables). Clearly I have experienced a major furniture upgrade in my life and for that, IKEA, I thank you. And for the Marabou chocolates and Daim candies, too. And Swedish meatballs.
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