Tag Archives: nyc

NYC, Videocracy

Behold! The Crazy Local Ad Lives!

On this site, I’ve often lamented the disappearance of insane local TV ads in the tri-state area. Thanks to the high cost of broadcast time and the disappearance of the mom-and-pop outfit, seems like there’s just no place in this world for the owner of a used car lot to put on a huge foam cowboy hat, force his kids to woodenly recite lines, and blow out lavalier mics anymore. *sigh*

Not so fast! Last night I saw a commercial on (where else?) SNY that gives me hope for the future of Crazy Local Ads. Granted, the production values on this are much, much better than the traditional Crazy Local Ad. Advances in video technology have made it virtually impossible to make a “cheap” looking commercial anymore. And obviously, some expense was spared to write and record the epic jingle you’re about to hear. Still, I feel safe placing this into the category of Crazy Local Ad, for reasons that I hope will become evident shortly.

Without further ado, I present to you Daisy Mae’s BBQ.

Wow. That’s a lotta crazy in 30 seconds. Maybe you didn’t catch it all on your first viewing. Don’t worry, I have a fully detailed breakdown for you, because I’ve watched this thing 50 times since last night.

Start: The jingle vaguely follows the olde timey tune “Bicycle Built for Two,” but you can hear the “homage” lose steam almost immediately. The only instrumentation you can clearly make out are timpanis and background yellers (CUE! CHEW!) And oh, that voice. Boy, that makes me hungry for barbecue. Or a throat lozenge.

0:04: I think this man wants to murder these ribs.

0:08: You know, it’s okay to write more than one draft of something. If your first set of lyrics require the singer to cram a bazillion words into one small space like the Micro Machines guy, you can try again. Really, you can. Virtually all pretense of “Daisy, Daisy…” has been dropped by this point.

0:10: The girl licking barbecue sauce (I hope?) from her fingers, which is clearly meant to be sexy, but just looks like she’s someone who might be too mentally impaired to know how to use a wet nap. And what is on her fingers? They’re orange and yellow and black–is she wearing candy corn?!

0:14: This is the part I had to rewind a million times, because I was laughing so hard. This poor girl goes through at least five distinct accents in the span of one sentence, and never quite settles on one. Is she supposed to be Southern? Irish? Pirate?

0:25: “It’s the best sweet iced tea in a jar you’ve ever had!” Forgive my Yankee ignorance, but is that an actual Southern barbecue thing? Because it sounds completely made up by someone who knows nothing of Southern cuisine. “Come on over, y’all, for some dee-licious meatloaf in a cone!” The picture of said jarred iced tea also looks more like pickled red peppers.

0:27: The jingle tries again to pick up the “Bicycle Built for Two” motif at the very end, yet also doesn’t come to a definitive end. It definitely sounds like it’s going to launch into another verse, completely with timpani roll, and then just like that, the ad is over. Extremely unsettling.

Daisy Mae’s BBQ, thank you for making us laugh about Crazy Local Ads. Again.

Religium

Two More Notes from the Delayed but Impending End of All Humanity

NOTE #1: When I stepped on the 1 train this morning, I soon discovered I was standing right next to a Jesus Guy. Like most subway panhandlers, this Jesus Guy was smart enough to start preaching only after the doors had closed and the train began moving. Although it’s not really accurate to call this guy a panhandler. He wanted no change, only a few moments of your time so you could be informed that you were going to hell, and why.

He was not a rant-y rave-y Jesus Guy. (Once a ubiquitous feature of the New York landscape, the Crazy Jesus Guy has all but disappeared from our midst.) He spoke in measured, mellifluous tones buoyed by a West Indian accent. I had headphones on, but I was listening to a podcast, so I was catching about every third word that came out of his mouth.

The train paid him little mind. Subway crowds seldom give Jesus Guys the time of day, but this one seemed to aggressively ignore him. This is not a good week to be a Jesus Guy, what with the postponed Apocalypse. It was like he was selling Y2K insurance on January 1, 2001. Nothing this guy said (that I heard, anyway) indicated he was on board with the Family Radio Ministry theology, but simply being in a subway car at this hour preaching at people on their way to work implied he might be.

As I said, I missed most of his sermon until one line stuck out at me: “I have the mayor’s son coming over to my house.” I think he may have prefaced this by saying, “Let’s imagine,” or something to that affect, as if he was relating a parable. But since I didn’t hear that part, it sounded like he was describing an actual impending visit from the mayor’s son.

“I have the mayor’s son coming over to my house. I am going to prepare a feast,” he said. At that point, the train had pulled into a station, and as soon as the doors opened, he beat a hasty retreat into the car behind us–mid-story! You finally piqued my interest, Jesus Guy, and then you bolt because you got a tough crowd? You’ll never play the big rooms with that kind of attitude, Jesus Guy. Now I’m left hanging, wondering where that story went. What did you serve the mayor’s son? Did you serve cordials afterward, or just coffee? So many unanswered questions.

NOTE #2: As I wrote in this post, there’s this odd dichotomy amongst the millennial Christian set, in the sense that they seem to want the world to end because they think it’s so rotten, and yet they also vote in droves for people who they think will prevent the world from ending. But I wonder if a politician could capitalize on the opposite instinct. What if you actually declared yourself the Antichrist and promised to bring upon the Biblical Apocalypse?

There’s a million variations on what the Apocalypse would entail. But if you believe that it’s coming and coming soon, you also believe it is ultimately a good thing, because it will end Satan’s grip upon this planet and bring Jesus back and, I dunno, make more puppies or something. So wouldn’t the person who pledged to make the Apocalypse happen be the best person to elect? In other words, shouldn’t you want The Antichrist to come to power?

Believers, I’m sure, would counter, The real Antichrist would never openly declare himself as such. Okay, so how about some enterprising young politician works on molding himself into a vague resemblance of The Antichrist as described in the Bible? Then, people will subconsciously vote for him hoping that in so doing, they will hasten the day when they will be assumed into heaven?

Any politicians who want to steal this idea, I will gladly accept a minor position in your Satanic cabinet.

NYC

A One-Way Street

Recently, I was reiterating my pet theories on city traffic. I was reiterating them to my wife, because I’m sure she loves hearing me say the same thing a million times. I’ve held for a very long time that, of the five boroughs, Queens has the worst drivers while Brooklyn has the worst pedestrians. These theories have been arrived at following years of both driving and walking in New York. Queens has a deadly mix of aggressive louts and the dangerously clueless behind the wheel, while Brooklyn pedestrians love to pop out from between parked cars and get within a hair’s breadth of your car as they amble across the street. (Don’t believe me? Try driving down Bushwick Avenue some evening. Go ahead.) I shouldn’t call these “theories,” since all my evidence is circumstantial and I have no idea what the root causes might be. Regardless, experience convinces me of their absolute truth.

While I expounded on these theories, my wife asked which borough had the worst bikers. I thought about this for a few moments and then realized it was a trick question. The answer is, they all do. Bikers in all parts of the city are completely terrible.

Spiritually, I am pro-bike. They’re obviously much better for the environment than cars, and you burn more calories pedaling than you do steering. Critical Mass? Sure, go ahead. But in reality, 99.9% of my interactions with bikers, as a pedestrian, have been miserable.

Perhaps because there is an assumed superiority of bike ownership, at least in this city. Sometimes it’s implied, sometimes it’s stated outright. Proclaiming that a bike is your primary mode of transportation is often said in the same manner as one might say, I don’t own a TV. It reminds me of what Paul F. Tompkins once said of San Francisco residents, that they’re very proud–not of the city, but of themselves for living there.

It is often stated by bikers that cars need to share the road, and drivers in this city definitely need to work on pretty much every aspect of driving, from signaling to not zipping across five lanes of the BQE at a 45-degree angle. The problem is, bikers in general do not extend pay that courtesy forward to pedestrians. I can not tell you how many times I have nearly been mauled by a biker who decided to ignore a red light or a stop sign, or to drive the wrong way down a one way street, or to hop the curb for no good reason. And in the vast, super-majority of these incidents, the biker will give me the stinkeye, like I’m the bad guy for getting in their way.

I was reminded of all of this yesterday as I walked up Hudson Street on my way to the L train. A good chunk of Hudson Street has a bike lane, and that’s perfectly fine. Considering the homicidal proclivities of cabs and trucks in this town, bike lanes are a legitimate public safety measure.

There is one awkward spot where Hudson meets Bleecker and becomes Eighth Avenue. Hudson curves eastward a bit, forming a weird little cobblestone triangle. This triangle has a tree and well manicured island surrounding it, guarded by large black pylons that I presume are meant to guard this elm from terrorist attack. It all conspires to leave very little room for a pedestrian to walk.

As I reach this junction, it is necessary to step temporarily into the bike lane. There is simply no way to walk this along this street without doing this, unless you want to go out of your way to a ridiculous extent.

Before I step off the curb, I give a quick glance behind me to make sure there’s no bikes coming, as a courtesy to bikers and my own neck. I see nothing, so I proceed. I take three steps and am literally angling to get back on the “sidewalk” at a more accessible point, when a chunky blur whizzes past my ear.

It’s an older gentleman on a well-worn bike, with a large gray Jansport backpack strapped on tight. As he zips past me, he says Get out of the bike lane. I would have put this in all caps, but his voice wasn’t quite an all-caps voice. It sounded more like Droopy Dog, or, if you listen to The Best Show on WFMU, frequent caller Spike. It dripped with harassed annoyance, even though I feel I’d taken all necessary precautions and was literally one step away from stepping back onto the curb.

Something about this guy’s voice absolutely infuriated me. Maybe it was the tone, the weirdly wimpy aggressiveness. Getting “yelled” at by such a voice was so weird and grating; imagine being reprimanded by Truman Capote. But I think, ultimately, what I found so galling was the idea that, by virtue of riding on a bike in a bike lane, this schlub felt instantly superior to everyone in his line of vision. Oh, how DARE I tread on the majestic and sacred BIKE LANE, me a common flesh-bag with not even a single wheel upon my lowly frame! A thousand pardons, fat guy with rusty old Schwinn!

Unfair? Trust me, if this guy had hissed get out of the bike lane to you as you were in the process of exiting said bike lane, you’d want to crush every Huffy in the world under a Hummer’s wheels, too.