Maybe LifeLock would make more money just selling shredders?

I actually really like this commercial on several levels.  I like the way the guy sauntering into the bank to begin his master plan of breaking into someone else's account and stripping it of money can't decide whether he looks more threatening with his hoodie on or off.  I like the way the guard thinks he looks suspicious, but the thief is menacingly dismissive as he walks across the floor of a place which resembles no bank I've ever been in to pull off his Masterpiece of Crime  (I think the building is supposed to remind us of the US Treasury, or Fort Knox, or something.  It looks like Hollywood's version of a bank, circa 1940.)

And I love the little robot that comes swooping down to foil the Bad Guy's Evil Intentions.*  It comes complete with a rotating red light and the magical ability to bring down a set of iron bars to prevent the clueless teller from handing Bad Guy your hard-earned money.  If LifeLock actually provided a cool Super Hero Robot like that, I think I might ignore the fact that the founder of this "service" has had his own identity stolen several times and that LifeLock itself has been the target of multiple complaints and lawsuits.  Or maybe not.

And I really love that in another version of this ad, new subscribers are offered, free of charge, a shredding machine (retail value $29.95) with their paid membership.  Why do I love that?  Because for 99.99% of us, the shredding machine is pretty much all we'd ever need to protect our identities, which are most commonly stolen by dumpster divers who take advantage of people too stupid or lazy to tear up credit card offers and other sensitive material the idiots at VISA and AMEX insist on sending us through snail mail.  So we sign up for LifeLock, AND use our shredding machine, and like magic our identities are....umm....no longer stolen. Something like that.

So while I really do like this ad, Mr. LifeLock CEO, I'm not going to be signing up for your service for two reasons.  First, I don't have any money for a thief to steal.  Second, you don't offer that little robot with a paid subscription.  Just a paper shredder I can buy at any Staples without signing up for your phony "protection."  When you are ready to throw in the robot, get back to me.  Because seriously, he really does look pretty cool.

*Especially the way it taps its foot at Bad Guy.  I mean, how adorable is that?

And the highlight of the evening was...Taco Bell?

Except for the fact that this guy comes home alone, it seems like he's just wrapped up a very successful Saturday night.

He went to what I assume was an awesome concert featuring his favorite band, "Stab Hauler."  Is this a real band?  Wouldn't surprise me in the slightest.  The concert was such a wild time, his sunglasses were broken- and the fact that they were broken is just testimony to how great the evening was.  He got some girl to slip into one of those do-it-yourself photo booths with him and got a strip of pictures featuring- himself.  Seriously.  You can't even see the girl's face.   Oh well.

And to top it all off, at some point he hit Taco Bell and downed some junk which came with extra sauce, a pouch of which he brought home.  The fact that this stuff goes on to the table with the ticket stub and the glasses and the photos, and not in the trash can, suggests that the Taco Bell Drive Thru was an equally exciting part of the whole experience, to be remembered at least as much as the music of Stab Hauler and the incident which got his glasses broken and that girl whose back we can see in the photos. 

Personally, I think this commercial would have made a lot more sense if the last thing he took out of his pocket was an empty condom wrapper, but that's just me.  Maybe he's smiling because he's reminded that he didn't use this sauce and therefore can at least hold out the possibility of a full night's sleep which is not interrupted by a painful, agonizing heartburn.   Or maybe he really thinks that the Taco Bell visit was the highlight of the evening.  Which would at least explain why he's come back to his apartment alone, and why we don't get to see that girl's face.

"Stab Hauler?"  Really?

Yeah, but will they buy my Tandy 1000 TX?

Ever been to a pawn shop?  There are quite a few of them within a few miles of where I live.  When I'm in a certain mood, I like to look at the stuff in the display window.  Sometimes I even go inside and check out the multitude of wristwatches, diamond rings, and guitars.  Lots and lots of guitars.  

Pawn shops are the warehouses where broken dreams are stored away, waiting for someone to walk in and claim them.  They are the inventory of every wrong turn, every stroke of bad luck, every financial slip and fall.  Every single thing in a pawn shop- the Bose radios, the leather jackets, the Saxophones- was once a treasured possession of a person with high hopes which could not survive the harsh reality of What Is.  There is a story in every dust-collecting music box, armchair and coin collection.   A sad story.

Well, it's 2012, and the pawn shop- the center of more than one Dickens or Horatio Alger story- has come to television.  Check out this Even More Obnoxious than Usual pitchman, encouraging people to sell their used cell phones, promising big bucks for plastic junk that can be found in a hundred different places, including every mall and every other street corner in the United States.  This guy is actually trying to convince the audience that their disposable, Out of Date Before You Got It Out of the Box trash is somehow transformed into something truly desirable if you just use the service he's offering to sell it.   Thought nobody wanted that 2009 Nokia?  Were about to toss it in the recycle bin, or maybe donate it?  Boy are you lucky you saw this ad- you had no idea that someone out there was willing to pay Real Money for your ancient, Can't Even Stream Video, Lame 2-D Screen phone, did you?

What a joke.  This reminds of nothing more than those Cash for Gold ads-- you know, the ones that promise you rent money in exchange for your memories, as long as those memories can be sent it a prepaid envelope and come in the form of broken old necklaces and engagement rings.   Are old cell phones the new Gold?  Really?  Then how come I find pieces of them scattered along sidewalks everywhere I walk?

I wonder if this guy would be interested in my 1985 Sony Walkman.  It comes with a tape player, and the batteries last almost two hours if you restrict usage to the AM-FM radio.   It doesn't even hold a lot of sentimental value for me.   I'd add "just like a cell phone," but I've seen people with their phones, and the emotional attachment is pretty obvious.

Hallmark, Mother's Day, and the Sledgehammer of Guilt are upon us

In a few days it will be Mother's Day, the Mother of all the Guilt Trip "Holidays" Hallmark, Kay Jewelers and countless other bloodless corporations like to toss at us every few months.   Which means it's time to reach into our wallets and pay through the nose for Teddy Bears, Chocolate Roses, and all the other pointless, showy junk that somehow is supposed to send the message "I Love You" to the women who brought us screaming into this world.  Not for bringing us into this world, mind you- because performing that service wasn't doing us any favors.  It's for all the stuff she's done for us since. 

Time to remember all those things Mom Didn't Have To Do For Us, but Did Anyway, without Any Thought of Reward.  Stuff like feeding us and bandaging our scraped knees and rubbing Vicks on our chests and keeping Kraft Mac' n Cheese far, far away from the dinner table.   Because we don't usually remember these things until we are reminded by Mother's Day commercials.  Because we are jerks and need not-so-gentle nudges from the Commercial Fairy, and aren't we fortunate she exists to let us know when it's time to spend again?

Anyway, this especially treacly, manipulative dollop from Hallmark tells us that all our mothers really want is to be told that they are important.  Or that they are "doing this right."  Or that they are in our thoughts.  Or that they are beautiful.  Or that we still remember that they exist, at least on the second Sunday in May, promise.  And how do we carry out this For Some Reason Very Important task?  Well, as far as Hallmark is concerned, it's by dropping in to the nearest drug store and grabbing a One Size Fits All card off the shelf and mailing it to her.  Be assured that she'll treasure it forever- or at least, until garbage day.

Because really, there's nothing warmer than a piece of paper upon which is typed a poem, or pithy saying, written by someone who has never met your Mom and never will.  You can make it extra personal by signing your name to the bottom of it.   Does the post office still sell those "LOVE" stamps, because that would be the icing on the cake, wouldn't it?

As usual, I'm going to be 540 miles away from my mom on Mother's Day.   I'm not going to be sending her a Teddy Bear (because she's not five years old) or a bouquet of roses, real or plastic or chocolate.  I'm not even going to be sending her an Approved By Committee Hallmark card.  I'll just give her a call, like I do pretty much every weekend anyway.  Sorry that doesn't add a whole lot to the economy, but I wasn't raised by someone who sees spending money as evidence of love.   I guess I'm just lucky that way, and I chose my mom very wisely.

What she got with that MRS Degree

Many, many springs ago- seems  like a thousand, but it was probably only around ten- the Mother Bear in these ads was curled up in a corner with an AP US History book pressed up against her knees.  She was taking probably her fifth or sixth practice test, or maybe she was scratching out yet another essay to hand to her teacher for review.   She was worried that she couldn't seem to get more than 55 out of 80 Multiple-Choice Questions right,  but at the same time she was proud that her essay grade average had improved considerably since the first semester, the previous September.

Of course, her principle goal was to simply PASS her very first Advanced Placement exam (at her school, tenth graders took the US History Test, 11th graders took European History.)  Beyond that, she knew that the college she hoped to attend only accepted 4s and 5s for credit-- if she merely passed with a 3, that would be quite an achievement for such a young bear, but not enough to allow her to avoid Freshman History at the local University.  Her teacher assured her that college history could be a fun and wonderfully educational experience and that she should view the Advanced Placement Test as a way to sharpen essay-writing and test-taking skills and not worry about her grade, and she understood this; still, she really wanted to get that 4.  Or maybe even a 5, wouldn't that be amazing?!

The May morning which saw this bear take the exam has come and gone, and was followed by other springs spent sitting on floors with prep books and other May mornings filling out ovals and scribbling out essays.  Each exam came with it's own little package of anxiety, excitement, and relief.   Chances are, the actual scores soon faded into memory,  and in a short while the whole exercise was filed away with all the other experiences that make up a Young Bear's life, to be remembered in fuzzy blurs, or not at all.

And on this May morning, which seems like a thousand years later but is probably only around ten, that not-as-young-as-she-used-to-be bear is acting as Inspector of her Son's Butt, making sure there aren't any pieces of bathroom tissue he missed when he wiped himself.  If he did a good job, maybe he'll get a medal (he's got one on a few of the package labels, I kid you not.  It reads "No. 1," which makes ZERO sense when you remember how he earned it.)

I wonder if this Mommy Bear ever experiences moments of introspection.  For her sake, I kind of hope not.  Because it would be cruel for her to spend any time thinking back to those spring days with her AP prep books, those extra nights of studying, that last evening of butterflies before the test, as she checks her son's ass for tissue bits for the fourth or fifth time on THIS spring day.   When Daddy Bear comes home from the office after a hard day of work, he doesn't need to be met by a Mommy Bear quietly weeping in her favorite chair as Son watches his favorite video, his reward for getting all the paper off.   He just wants his dinner, and some gratitude for his willingness to provide All This.

"Loco" referring to the condition you'd have to be in to enjoy this crap

I'll admit that I really wanted to snark on the new Taco Bell Locos Doritos Greasy Meat and Cheese Not-Sandwich commercial in which half a dozen disgusting losers tweet their homages to this disgusting non-food, but I couldn't find it.  I'm sure it will show up on YouTube eventually, be proclaimed as Epic by the drooling children who post there, and then it will be good times all around.   But until then, I'll just have to be satisfied to point out a few really stupid moments in this minimalist attempt to get us excited about Taco Bell's latest effort to convince us that there's something attractive about fatty, oily hamburger meat mixed with onions and spices and served on a large snack chip.

Fat doofus sits on a park bench and pulls a tiny bag of Doritos out of a slightly larger plastic grocery bag which contains nothing else.  This means that when jerkwad put down his dollar to buy eight cents worth of preservatives, salt and artificial flavoring, he insisted on having it bagged- so he could have two future landfill contributions to chuck after he finished eating his 11 Doritos, I guess.   So he's not satisfied with polluting his body with this junk; he has to punish the environment too.  The next time I see a plastic bag wrapped around a tree limb or wafting through the evening air, I'll think of this stupid, thoughtless dick.

When he opens the Doritos bag, it stuns him with a weird glowing light and the sound of angelic music, like the freaking Holy Grail (or at least a Wonka Golden Ticket) is to be found inside.  And THEN it gets REALLY stupid, because a hand comes out of the bag holding about three ounces of ground cow held together by grease and a cheese-infused crunchy thing that really only tastes good if you are drunk or high. (I've heard this from people; no first-hand experience, mind you...)

Anyway, the result of all this Dumb is that Overweight Slob has found a new way to subtract years from his life in the form of a Taco Bell Loco Dorito Insert Any Additional Faux-Spanish You Like Here Dollar Menu Crud Special.  The look of contentment on his face at the ad's conclusion would be priceless, if it wasn't so depressing.

Not as depressing as the Pretty Young People tweeting how gosh darned epic Taco Bell's latest Obesity Promoter is.   But I'll be getting to that one eventually, promise.

I guess this is preferable to "Brains, Brains, Brains..."

This used to be such a pretty song.  For those of you who don't remember, it's about a lovesick young man suffering the torture of unrequited love.  In the real world- cruel, harsh, intensely unfair- he can't be with the woman of his dreams.  But in his daydreams, he can hold her and tell her that he loves her, and he can imagine that she is holding him and returning that love.  Sweet, and Universal.

Ah, but this is the 21st century, and there's electronic crap to sell.  So now the song is sung by glassy-eyed zombies staring at their portable televisions---errr, "streaming devices."  Which device is being sold here?  Well, do we even care anymore?  And if so, why?

What a drugged-up culture we've created here.  A culture in which happiness is being able to download any video you want, any time you want to.  And watch it anywhere and everywhere.  And when you are done, watch something else.  Ad nauseum.

That would all be bad enough, but do we have to trash perfectly good classic songs in order to celebrate our addiction to electronic eye candy and a lifestyle that worships moving as little as possible?  Is this really all there is to life- "Stream, Stream, Stream?"  I mean, it's not like television and movies have gotten more worthy of our attention over the years.

But, who am I kidding?  In a society which is becoming increasingly Disconnected in the name of Connectivity, expressing undying love for the electronic device which never criticizes you, never talks back, and exists to pour junk into your brain is just par for the course.  I'm the outsider here, and I know it.  Not going to stop me from commenting on the carnage I see scattered all over the landscape,  though.