I distinctly remember sitting around the house for years, watching TV and never being able to answer what I thought was a simple question: why are local commercials so god-awful? It didn't seem so difficult. You write a commercial, it's good, so it gets produced. The end. Right?
Not even close.
It wasn't until I graduated college and actually got a job writing local commercials that I realized that they were inherently bad--it's the nature of the medium. Business owners do not trust you. They know what they want, and what they want is for their neighbors to say "Oh, I saw your baby on TV. She is adorable!" You can try to steer them in a different direction, you can cajole, you can tell them outright that they are wasting their money if they put what they want on the air. 99 times out of 100, they will not listen to you.
Invariably, customers will choose to have all of their employees out in front of the store saying, "come visit us today!" in unison. Never mind that you can never understand what the hell people are saying in unison, they want their employees in the spot, dammit! They also want their daughter with the speech impediment to list every single thing they have in their inventory in thirty seconds. It'll be amazing.
After a while, you die inside and you give up. You forget how to write anything that doesn't include the phrase "for all your ________ needs." This is why local commercials suck. This is why local commercials will always suck. It's a depressing fact, but a fact nonetheless.
It's been nearly two years since I've written a commercial, but there's still a small part of me that hurts every time I see a bad one--because I know what the people went through who made it. So when I went to the UCB Theater earlier this week and saw the video below, my first thought was "FUCK YOU."
Not fucking funny. Except, totally funny. Damn you, Krohmpf.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Another site for me not to update
Part of the reason that I've had such a difficult time updating this site is because I can't write. The other part is that I spend too much letting celebrity news chew holes in my brain like syphilis. So, as part of my therapy, I present to you, The Hollywood Flash. It's basically a place where I can get all of this stuff out of my head; It's taking up too much room and I'd really like to be able to remember how to do long division.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Crying, sometimes over you, sometimes not.
As I was shoved up against a man's knees and breathing in a mixture of sweat and stale urine on the 1 train last week, I noticed something that should have been more unusual: the woman standing next to me was crying. Our eyes accidentally met in that awkward shared-commute kind of way, and I saw the tears streaming down her cheeks. The look on her face wasn't one of embarrassment, as you might think, but one of resignation. It was a look that said, "Yeah. I'm on a subway, it's rush hour, and I'm crying. What're you gonna do?" I liked that look because it was a look I understood.
For someone with a paralyzing fear of crying in public, I have shed more than my fair share of tears in this city. Bunny wrote about her experience with New York City crying awhile back--it isn't just me, people. The big apple is drowning in tears. I don't know how to explain this phenomenon, other than by attributing it to the sense of anonymity that goes along with living here. None of these people know you or give a shit about your problems. It's easy to convince yourself that you're invisible, and in many respects, it's true.
I have cried everywhere in this city. I've cried while walking down the street, listening to my Ipod. I've cried while waiting for the light to change. I've cried while hailing a cab and, like the woman next to me, I've cried on the subway. Oh, how I've cried on the subway.
I've cried on the 6 train platform in Soho as a relationship I thought had promise disintegrated. I've cried on the uptown 2 because everything seemed to be falling apart at the same time. I've cried on the downtown F, on the uptown A. I've even cried on New Jersey Transit.
I've stood at the waters edge, under the baking sun, as a boy broke my heart from hundreds of miles away, my tears mixing with my sweat. I've cried in the snow and had my snot freeze to my upper lip. I've cried in a Starbucks while sipping a hot chocolate, I've cried in an Au Bon Pain while eating soup. I've sat on a bench and texted while I cried, I've sprawled out on the grass and cried on the phone. I have cried in this city.
Out of all the times the tears fell in inappropriate and public places, there wasn't one person who ever did more than offer me a sideways glance. No concerned old ladies asked if I was okay, dear. No wrinkly men offered me a hankie. No creepy dudes on the corner told me I'd be a lot prettier if I smiled, girl. No mother, sitting on the train with her kids, offered me an encouraging smile. Thank Jesus.
When your life feels like it's so out of control that weeping on mass transit seems like reasonable and appropriate behavior, the last thing you need is a "you'll get through it" smile and head nod from a stranger. No, what you need is for the people to get their bags out of the freakin' doors so they can close and you can get home to your dog and your Tivo'd episodes of Law & Order.
As we passed by the Upper West Side, Columbia and Harlem, the woman standing next to me just stared out of the window and cried. As I stood there, our shoulders touching, her music leaking out of her ear buds, the only thing I could think was, "why? Why, why, why, oh why do you have to be standing in front of the only two empty seats in this entire car?"
For someone with a paralyzing fear of crying in public, I have shed more than my fair share of tears in this city. Bunny wrote about her experience with New York City crying awhile back--it isn't just me, people. The big apple is drowning in tears. I don't know how to explain this phenomenon, other than by attributing it to the sense of anonymity that goes along with living here. None of these people know you or give a shit about your problems. It's easy to convince yourself that you're invisible, and in many respects, it's true.
I have cried everywhere in this city. I've cried while walking down the street, listening to my Ipod. I've cried while waiting for the light to change. I've cried while hailing a cab and, like the woman next to me, I've cried on the subway. Oh, how I've cried on the subway.
I've cried on the 6 train platform in Soho as a relationship I thought had promise disintegrated. I've cried on the uptown 2 because everything seemed to be falling apart at the same time. I've cried on the downtown F, on the uptown A. I've even cried on New Jersey Transit.
I've stood at the waters edge, under the baking sun, as a boy broke my heart from hundreds of miles away, my tears mixing with my sweat. I've cried in the snow and had my snot freeze to my upper lip. I've cried in a Starbucks while sipping a hot chocolate, I've cried in an Au Bon Pain while eating soup. I've sat on a bench and texted while I cried, I've sprawled out on the grass and cried on the phone. I have cried in this city.
Out of all the times the tears fell in inappropriate and public places, there wasn't one person who ever did more than offer me a sideways glance. No concerned old ladies asked if I was okay, dear. No wrinkly men offered me a hankie. No creepy dudes on the corner told me I'd be a lot prettier if I smiled, girl. No mother, sitting on the train with her kids, offered me an encouraging smile. Thank Jesus.
When your life feels like it's so out of control that weeping on mass transit seems like reasonable and appropriate behavior, the last thing you need is a "you'll get through it" smile and head nod from a stranger. No, what you need is for the people to get their bags out of the freakin' doors so they can close and you can get home to your dog and your Tivo'd episodes of Law & Order.
As we passed by the Upper West Side, Columbia and Harlem, the woman standing next to me just stared out of the window and cried. As I stood there, our shoulders touching, her music leaking out of her ear buds, the only thing I could think was, "why? Why, why, why, oh why do you have to be standing in front of the only two empty seats in this entire car?"
Friday, February 23, 2007
But what about THE CHILDREN???
She shaved her head, she got tattoos, she went to rehab three times in three days. To say Britney Spears has had a rough week would be an understatement. Girlfriend has had a rough couple of years. I was sitting at my desk this morning, watching the video of her bashing in a car with an umbrella and thinking that the widely-held belief that marrying K-Fed signaled rock bottom seems so...quaint now.
We didn't like Kevin Federline from the beginning. From his stringy hair to his insistence on wearing manpris for every occasion, to his weasly little eyes, we did not want him near our Britney. The guy was obviously a freeloader, obviously only after her for her money, and was obviously going to get her pregnant as soon as humanly possible in order to ensure a permanent stake in her fortune. He was the skeevy guy at the club who comes up behind you and starts grinding on your ass before you even see his face.
Throughout their marriage, Britney was seen as the good guy. Sure, she got herself into a bad situation. She's obviously made mistakes, but she's not to blame. She was a CHILD STAR. She can't possibly be held accountable. Through the Red Bull, Marlboros and Cheetos, we stuck by her. We kept thinking it was a phase that she would soon outgrow.
When she filed for divorce last October, we felt vindicated. She finally wised up. She was doing what was best for her and her boys. And then? Paris Hilton.
On the New York City subway system, there are these terrible posters put up by Health and Human Services that offer basic parenting tips like, "Never, ever shake a baby","Don't leave your infant in the bathtub unattended" and "Don't put your baby to sleep in your bed, do a bunch of heroin, nod off and roll on top of your baby, killing him, like Christopher did to Adriana's dog on "The Sopranos." I know no one in L.A. uses their subway system, so perhaps the city could erect billboards that say something along the lines of, "Hey, do you have kids? Do you want to have kids? Are you perhaps passing by a playground or a Toys R Us on the way home from work and run the risk of accidentally making eye-contact with a child? Then stay the fuck away from Paris Hilton. Seriously. Her shit is airborne."
I try to stay away from the pearl-clutching judgment calls as much as possible, but when you have two small sons, you do not need to be running around with Paris Hilton, flashing your lady business to strangers. It is completely unnecessary. Rent some Baby Einstein DVDs and try to undue the damage genetics have already done to your children.
So fast forward to today. After months of Cesarean scar flashing, stripper outfit borrowing, drinking, vomiting, and alleged drug use, Britney has been locked away. The dust is beginning to settle, and who is coming out as the winner? None other than Fed-Ex himself.
Yep, Kevin Federline, king of the cornrows, bad rapping and illegitimate children is looking pretty damn good right now. His threat to have Britney's hair tested for drugs is reportedly a big reason why she shaved her head. The dude is pissed. And who can blame him? He's been vilified in the press sense the moment we learned his name, yet there have been no blind items featuring him snorting coke in a bathroom stall. There have been no pictures of his vomit staining the floor of his SUV. He may be a douchebag, but I doubt he would put his kids at risk like Britney probably has. I mean, seriously.
I picture a day with Britney and her kids starting out like that episode of jackass where Johnny Knoxville pretends to leave his baby on top of the car and then drives off. You know that shit has happened more than once. You know what else I'm sure has happened more than once? Britney coming home with Jayden in her arms, putting down her keys and her bag, and then hanging the baby on the coat rack, followed closely by her nanny who just sighs, shakes her head, and wordlessly gets the little munchkin down, taking the airplane bottle of vodka that Brit has been using as a pacifier out of his mouth.
K-Fed's day with the kids probably involves a lot of propping them up on pillows next to cardboard cutouts of celebrities, and then playing his CD while he lip-syncs and dances in front of his adoring fans. Sure, it's still not an ideal living condition, but when the poor kids have these two parents to choose from, it's really the best they can hope for. Well, second best. I hear Queen Latifah is looking to adopt some American kids and everyone knows that lesbians make the best mommies.
We didn't like Kevin Federline from the beginning. From his stringy hair to his insistence on wearing manpris for every occasion, to his weasly little eyes, we did not want him near our Britney. The guy was obviously a freeloader, obviously only after her for her money, and was obviously going to get her pregnant as soon as humanly possible in order to ensure a permanent stake in her fortune. He was the skeevy guy at the club who comes up behind you and starts grinding on your ass before you even see his face.
Throughout their marriage, Britney was seen as the good guy. Sure, she got herself into a bad situation. She's obviously made mistakes, but she's not to blame. She was a CHILD STAR. She can't possibly be held accountable. Through the Red Bull, Marlboros and Cheetos, we stuck by her. We kept thinking it was a phase that she would soon outgrow.
When she filed for divorce last October, we felt vindicated. She finally wised up. She was doing what was best for her and her boys. And then? Paris Hilton.
On the New York City subway system, there are these terrible posters put up by Health and Human Services that offer basic parenting tips like, "Never, ever shake a baby","Don't leave your infant in the bathtub unattended" and "Don't put your baby to sleep in your bed, do a bunch of heroin, nod off and roll on top of your baby, killing him, like Christopher did to Adriana's dog on "The Sopranos." I know no one in L.A. uses their subway system, so perhaps the city could erect billboards that say something along the lines of, "Hey, do you have kids? Do you want to have kids? Are you perhaps passing by a playground or a Toys R Us on the way home from work and run the risk of accidentally making eye-contact with a child? Then stay the fuck away from Paris Hilton. Seriously. Her shit is airborne."
I try to stay away from the pearl-clutching judgment calls as much as possible, but when you have two small sons, you do not need to be running around with Paris Hilton, flashing your lady business to strangers. It is completely unnecessary. Rent some Baby Einstein DVDs and try to undue the damage genetics have already done to your children.
So fast forward to today. After months of Cesarean scar flashing, stripper outfit borrowing, drinking, vomiting, and alleged drug use, Britney has been locked away. The dust is beginning to settle, and who is coming out as the winner? None other than Fed-Ex himself.
Yep, Kevin Federline, king of the cornrows, bad rapping and illegitimate children is looking pretty damn good right now. His threat to have Britney's hair tested for drugs is reportedly a big reason why she shaved her head. The dude is pissed. And who can blame him? He's been vilified in the press sense the moment we learned his name, yet there have been no blind items featuring him snorting coke in a bathroom stall. There have been no pictures of his vomit staining the floor of his SUV. He may be a douchebag, but I doubt he would put his kids at risk like Britney probably has. I mean, seriously.
I picture a day with Britney and her kids starting out like that episode of jackass where Johnny Knoxville pretends to leave his baby on top of the car and then drives off. You know that shit has happened more than once. You know what else I'm sure has happened more than once? Britney coming home with Jayden in her arms, putting down her keys and her bag, and then hanging the baby on the coat rack, followed closely by her nanny who just sighs, shakes her head, and wordlessly gets the little munchkin down, taking the airplane bottle of vodka that Brit has been using as a pacifier out of his mouth.
K-Fed's day with the kids probably involves a lot of propping them up on pillows next to cardboard cutouts of celebrities, and then playing his CD while he lip-syncs and dances in front of his adoring fans. Sure, it's still not an ideal living condition, but when the poor kids have these two parents to choose from, it's really the best they can hope for. Well, second best. I hear Queen Latifah is looking to adopt some American kids and everyone knows that lesbians make the best mommies.
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