What’s Wrong with America: Eddie Money Edition

As citizens of an open and free society, Americans are regularly exposed to a variety of different opinions and viewpoints. While we collectively accept the right of people to express themselves as they see fit, there are certainly occasions where this noble ideal is put to the test. Sometimes a person releases something into the public realm that is so outrageously offensive that it shakes our belief in freedom to its very core.

The most recent example of this heinousness is the Eddie Money-Geico commercial.

In recent weeks it’s been difficult to watch television for any substantial amount of time without encountering this ubiquitous ad. The commercial has shattered my already lackluster opinion of our culture and guaranteed I will never call the insurance behemoth for a quote, no matter how much time they offer to save me. I would rather waste fifteen minutes of my precious day than be associated with a company that has bestowed upon us this Eddie Monstrosity.

Yikes. This commercial makes me hate freedom.

I could type hundreds of pages describing what was so god awful about this ridiculous attempt at humor, but all of my blather would inevitably focus on three main gripes:

I. The State of Eddie Money
I’m not sure what happened to Mr. Money, but he’s not easy to look at. I don’t know if the train wreck that is his face is the result of drug abuse, plastic surgery, or some combination of the two. In any event, it should be a federal offense to point a camera in his general direction. Mickey Rourke, Kenny Rogers, and Joan Rivers think this guy looks frighteningly unnatural.

II. The State of Geico
There’s little doubt that Geico is a giant in the insurance game. There’s also little doubt that this success has either a.) given their executives an unbelievable amount of hubris or b.) given them access to some of the best drugs on the planet. Consider this… someone with a lofty position in the Geico Empire approved this ad, essentially saying, “Hell yes, we want Eddie Money representing our company!” This same executive then saw the finished product and said, “Hell yes, you should put that masterpiece on millions of TVs!”

III. The State of Advertising
The only people more culpable than Geico for this Eddie Money-Geico debacle are the advertising folks. A group of highly paid “creative” people sat in a room for hours brainstorming ideas for Geico ads and this was one of the best ones? Really? A rock singer whose near name is the definition of washed-up has a travel agency, ostensibly just because one of his biggest hits has the word “tickets” in it? Don Draper is rolling over in his grave. (I assume the character did not live to see 2012 based on the miles we’ve seen him put on his body to this point.)

For all of the blustery rhetoric our politicians regurgitate about the greatness of our nation, it’s crap like this Eddie Money commercial that makes me reconsider the whole “freedom and democracy” thing. I mean, it’s great and all, but I bet the Chinese aren’t being subject to this horrific ad. They probably can’t even Google it.

Those lucky, lucky Communist bastards.

Hot, Hot, Hot!

During the winter months it gets colder and, in some parts of the country, it snows. And when the yearly ‘snowpocalypse’ occurs on the east coast Right Wing politicians and talk show hosts line up to mock those silly Liberals and scientists who believe that global warming exists.

“If the earth is getting so hot,” the pinheads giddily argue,”then why is it so cold outside?”

Of course, any reasonable human being knows that believing human activity is making the planet hotter does not mean that it’s warmer every day of the year in every corner of the globe. But if we take these Conservatives at their word, that a single snowstorm disproves years of scientific research, then why aren’t they as equally reactionary when America is sweating its collective ass off?

Here comes the sun. And it’s freakin’ hot!

According to the NOAA, the first six months of 2012 have been the hottest on record in the United States, and the last 12 months have been the hottest since 1895, the year we decided it would be a good idea to keep track of such data. And based on these record breaking temperatures, we should surely conclude that, not only is the world getting warmer, it’s doing so at a pace that will eventually lead us into a global climate disaster we’d only previously imagined seeing in a bad Michael Bay movie starring Nicholas Cage.

To be honest, it doesn’t really matter what the politicians think about climate change. The idiots in Congress get less done than that deadbeat cousin of yours, so why should we believe they’ll ever come up with a comprehensive solution to fixing a global catastrophe?

The biggest winner in our slow, inevitable plunge into a sweltering Armageddon will surely be David Johansen (aka Buster Poindexter), whose 1987 hit Hot, Hot, Hot is sure be played ad nauseum over the next 50 years. Every time these yearly heat waves ravage segments of the country, news producers on both radio and TV are sure to go to this old standby over and over and over again.

Is zat you, royalty check?

The only folks that will be happier than Mr. Johansen are the family of Alphonsus Celestine Edmund Cassell (aka Arrow), the deceased calypso performer who penned the soon-to-be ubiquitous anthem of our doom. While the rest of us suffer through record temperatures and horrific discomfort, Johansen and Arrow’s descendants will be pleasantly basking in the crisp coolness provided by the best air conditioners royalty checks can buy.

So this January when the climate change denying ass clowns yuck it up over an extra foot of snow falling along the eastern seaboard, simply tune your brain’s radio to Buster Poindexter’s cheery song, festively shake your body, and remember that while the world may be heating up, at least you can take solace in knowing that the idiots were wrong. But then again, they usually are.

Scenes From a Prefrontal Cortex

There are universal experiences we all share in life. No matter what a person’s race, religion, creed, or political affiliation, we’ve all felt the joy of love, the sorrow of death, and the satisfaction that comes with a really good bowel movement. And at some point in time, we’ve all had a song stuck our head.

You know how it goes. You hear a song, it burrows its way into your brain, fills out a change of address form, and sets up camp. Once it’s hunkered down, it just stays there, and repeats, over and over and over and over…

I’ve recently been afflicted with the dreaded “song stuck in head” syndrome, and it’s one of the worst cases I’ve ever experienced. A couple of Thursdays ago I made the mistake of listening to a few Billy Joel songs on my IPod, which included his 1977 opus Scenes From an Italian Restaurant. Since that fateful afternoon, my head has been debating the wine selection – white, red, or perhaps a bottle of rosé instead.

I’ll meet you anytime you want… as long as there’s “Never Ending Pasta Bowl®.”

As much as I honestly enjoy Scenes From an Italian Restaurant (really it’s one of Mr. Joel’s best songs), I don’t know if I can live the rest of my life rehashing the star-crossed relationship of Brenda and Eddie on a daily basis. I get it. They were the king and the queen at the prom, hung out at the Parkway Diner, bought a waterbed (and a couple of paintings from Sears), then the money got tight, and they just didn’t count on the tears. Tough break, kids. Sorry it didn’t work out. But now I need my brain back post haste.

I’ve tried listening to the song a few times in hope that hearing the real thing would flush out the facsimile that haunts my days. Nothing. I’ve tried listening to other songs repeatedly in the hope that it might evict Scenes From an Italian Restaurant and claim that cerebral real estate as its own. No luck. I’ve tried to simply ignore the iconic piano chords that ring in the beginning of the song, but it’s no use. Apparently it’s there to stay.

The Piano Man’s been haunting me for weeks.

That’s why I’m using this seldom read forum to personally ask Billy Joel to call off the dogs Please, Piano Man, do whatever you need to do to reverse the curse and extract your enchanting musical composition from my noggin. I beg of you. I promise to buy dozens of copies of your classical album and give them away at Christmas if you’ll show mercy and release me from your song’s icy grip!

I desperately wish to wave Brenda and Eddie goodbye.

Summer 2012: Bold Predictions

This past weekend was Memorial Day. Like most Americans I celebrated this solemn holiday by spending time outdoors, drinking a little too much, and taking advantage of all the 2-day sales our capitalist democracy afforded me.

Of course, Memorial Day is more than just a 3-day weekend featuring barbequed meat and canned beer; it’s also the unofficial start of summer. With the Summer of 2012 bearing down on us, I thought it the appropriate time to gaze into the future and reveal what might unfold in the upcoming months.

Bold Predictions for the Summer of 2012:

Gas prices will near $5 a gallon. People will bitch and moan. Some will blame President Obama. But despite the high cost of fuel, Americans will continue to buy large trucks and SUVs so they can “see better” on the road.

Several multi-day musical festivals will take place. At these festivals, young people will rock out, over imbibe, and collectively complain about how hard it is to be young.

Dude! I can’t wait to be older. It’s gonna be so much easier!!!

Presidential campaign ads funded by SuperPACs will attack Barak Obama for single-handedly destroying America by forcing nuns to undergo government-funded abortions performed by Muslim doctors.

Americans young and old will sincerely claim to be interested in the Summer Olympics only to abandon the sports of track and field, swimming, and gymnastics shortly after the closing ceremonies.

Smart phones will surpass the intelligence of the average human being. (Assuming this hasn’t already happened.)

A young, attractive, blonde American girl will disappear. This tragedy will dominate the 24-hour news cycle for weeks and Nancy Grace will be apoplectic about the lack of justice.  Thousands of uglier people will disappear and no one will care.

Record hot temperatures will be recorded around the country. Some people will blame global warming. Some will blame President Obama. Temps will cool in September and all Americans will silently agree to not give a shit about the weather until the arrival of winter.

Super hero movies will finally find their audience and make a respectable amount of money at the box office.

After 3 movies, the Batman franchise might finally turn a profit.

Presidential campaign ads funded by SuperPACs will attack Mitt Romney for destroying vibrant companies then grounding the laid off workers into a paste and using it to grout his 900-square-foot bathroom.

The Chicago Cubs WILL NOT win the World Series. (Technically, this is a fall prediction, but it’s bold nonetheless.)

I will continue to write posts for this blog despite summer’s attempt to seduce me into a prolonged state of procrastination. Maybe.

Something’s Got to Give

For the most part, I don’t shed any tears when famous people die. I consider it a personal philosophy. It’s not because I’m a heartless monster or because celebrities aren’t occasionally good, decent people. It’s because I didn’t know them. There are plenty of people in my life that I actually know, so I feel like my attention and sympathies should be focused on them.

But upon hearing the news last Friday that Adam Yauch (aka MCA of the Beastie Boys) passed away, it grabbed my attention a little more than the average celebrity death. Not just because he was a great rapper, musician and activist whose work I greatly admired, but because he died of cancer. And he was only 47.

Of course, dying of cancer hardly makes Mr. Yauch unique. According to the World Health Organization, cancer is the leading cause of death worldwide, accounting for 13% (7.6 million) of deaths in 2008. I’m no mathematician, but that seems like a lot of people. So why don’t I feel like more is being done to combat this dreaded disease? Based on these rather large numbers, shouldn’t our country be doing more? Shouldn’t fighting cancer be one of our top priorities? And I don’t mean top priorities in terms of fighting diseases, I mean top priorities. Period.

I recently lamented the phony use of the word “war” as a political marketing ploy. (You know, “War on Women,” “War on Drugs,” “War on Christmas,” et al.) Where’s our “War on Cancer”? Where’s the great PR campaign that’s aimed at education, awareness, and fund raising? I know, the Susan G. Komen people are great. And because of their hard work a lot of money is raised and a lot of good things are being done, and once a year we get to see Major League ballplayers use pink bats. But shouldn’t there be a bigger, more comprehensive campaign that encompasses all cancers and truly represents the breadth of the disease?

The news media breaks out the 3-D graphics and sends Anderson Cooper halfway across the world in his vest every time there’s a minuscule chance of a bird flu epidemic, but when a disease kills roughly the population of Manhattan every year…? Nothing.

Why isn’t the government out front on this? How many trillions of dollars have we spent on the “War on Terror”? Don’t get me wrong, terrorists are a threat and all, but they don’t kill anywhere near the number of people cancer does. It’s not even close. Anecdotally, I’ve never personally known anyone who’s been killed by a terrorist. And I probably never will. But I’ve known plenty of people who have died of cancer. And I will know many more as the years go on.

There are many men and women out there fighting the good fight. Scientists are working hard to find a cure, activists are educating people about early detection, and so on. It just doesn’t seem to me like cancer is the priority it should be.

But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m just a little cranky because I feel like it’s only a matter of time before cancer starts claiming the lives of my friends. Or maybe it’s because MCA’s death means the end of the Beastie Boys and that the Insane Clown Posse is now the most accomplished white rap group on the planet.

Every Rose Has Its Hypothetical Conversation

Recently, as I rode the ferry into Seattle to go to work, I overheard a conversation in which a chaperone on a school trip explained to a few 12-year-old boys who Paul McCartney and the Beatles were. While the kids seemed only mildly interested in what the man had to say, he was clearly excited to be introducing these young men to the majesty that was the Beatles.

Listening to this conversation led me to tweet the following:

Guy on ferry telling kids who Paul McCartney and the Beatles were. Look forward to telling my son about Bret Michaels and Poison.

This got me thinking… what would this hypothetical conversation between me and my son actually sound like? For the sake of this exercise, let’s assume my son is a curious, 12-year-old when he decides to inquire about the majesty that was Poison.

MY SON: Dad, I saw some guy named Bret Michaels on TV the other day. I guess he used to be in a band called Poison. Did you listen to them?
ME:  I sure did.
MY SON: Did this Bret Michaels guy always look like an old woman?
ME: No. Back in the ‘80s he looked like a young woman.
MY SON: Did he always wear that douchie cowboy hat?
ME: Sometimes. Other times he just wore a douchie bandana.
MY SON: Has anyone ever seen the top of his head?
ME: Not since ’89.

The '80s... when men were men. Sort of.

MY SON: Was Poison a good band?
ME: Define “good.”
MY SON: You know, good.
ME: Well, Poison was part of a musical sub-genre known as hair metal. It was kind of fun, and sometimes it was kinda good. And of the bands in that sub-genre Poison was probably one of the better ones.
MY SON: Oh.
ME: At the time, I was such a big fan that I actually ran out and bought their second album the first day it was released. I was that excited about getting it. I still have that cassette.
MY SON: What’s a cassette?
ME: Basically, it was a crappy way to listen to music.
MY SON: What were Poison’s songs about?
ME: Mostly they were about partying or sex or some combination of the two. And once an album they worked in the obligatory power ballad, which was the custom at the time. It seems odd in hindsight given the way they treated women and relationships in the non-power ballad songs.
MY SON: Did you ever see them live?
ME: No. But I did own a Poison t-shirt. (Remembering.) It had the Poison logo on the front – bands always had symbols or logos or special fonts back then – and on the back, it said “Talk Dirty to Me.” (My son looks confused.) That was the name of one of their more popular songs.
MY SON: How old were you when you wore that shirt?
ME: Uh… your age.
MY SON: And Grandma let you wear a shirt that said “talk dirty to me” in public?
ME: Umm… yes.
MY SON: Why?
ME: I have no idea.
MY SON: Dad…
ME: Yes, son?
MY SON: I’m glad I didn’t grow up back when you grew up.
ME: Me, too, son. Me, too.