If I were to throw out the phrase "entertaining commercials," most likely the list of commercials that would not come to mind include anything about life insurance, Wilford Brimley and his "diabeetus," and 5-Hour Energy (seriously, there are webcam videos of lonely people lip-synching to teen-pop songs in their bedroom on YouTube that are of higher quality than the crap the marketing team at 5-Hour Energy pushes onto the airwaves). What might come to mind are beer commercials. Typically they're funny, they're catchy, they inject sex appeal, and they don't make you sprint for the "mute" button.
That said, beer commercials have the credibility of a toddler who has chocolate smeared all over his face but swears he has no idea what happened to that last fudgesicle. Regardless of the brand of beer, these 30-second spots relentlessly flaunt one heckuva nonstop ice-cold, thirst-quenching, perfect-weathered, sweat-free, big-bosomed, velvet-rope-bypassing, rowdy-yet-controlled, happy-go-lucky night among responsible friends and a universal designated driver who would just loooove to have another glass of water while he watches his friends move in closer on the gleefully welcoming posse of ladies.
Speaking of absence of credibility, what's the deal with the ubiquitous hot chick sitting by herself at the bar in these ads? What bar is that, and how did that girl end up happily sitting alone? What ridiculously gorgeous girl squeezes herself into vacuum-sealed skinny jeans and a frilly halter top and spends an hour on the perfect hair curl so that she can grab a cab to the local watering hole to sit solo at the bar and talk to the equally ridiculously gorgeous female bartender? I like how this girl in the commercial always acts initially stunned when a guy talks to her or bumps into her as if, "Oh my, there are guys here, too? And someone actually wants to introduce himself to me?" Put that same girl in that same situation in a real bar, and I'll give her 60 seconds before a wolf pack of guys pounces her with lame come-ons and drink offers. (I would say just four seconds, but the other 56 rightfully allow for the surrounding guys to process the confusion before them and wait to see if her missing boyfriend or band of 17 girlfriends returns from a bathroom trip.)
The advertisers have also conveniently omitted a few things. For example, where are the drunk people? Well, they're not there yet. Ever noticed how everyone in the commercial is on their first beer? You can tell by the wit and levelheadedness of each character. Everyone is wearing that sober, symmetrical grin that can't possibly avoid askewness after a downed six-pack. All clothes are still fully buttoned, and no one is texting an ex in a dimly lit corner of the room. There's no annoying loud-talker or a girl screaming, "Ooh, that's my song!" as the voice of Gwen Stefani poops out of the speakers. No threats of fighting, bottle-breaking, or vomiting.
Just once I want to see a beer commercial where someone's utterly hammered out of his mind. The commercial starts with a dude crushing a beer can against his forehead in anger as he calls his date "a worthless slut" in the kitchen, while the camera pans over to the living room where a shirtless fat guy pounds a beer in between air guitar solos to AC/DC's "Thunderstruck" and Greek-lettered girls hold hands as they slur their way though sorority chants. Suddenly the Bud Light logo appears, followed by the slogan "Here We Go" -- just before a final cut to an old neighbor walking across the lawn with a bat, screaming obscenities.
Yeah, that's a beer I'd buy. For its honesty, if nothing else.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Waffle House
When you're a kid who just wants cake-batter waffles and an entire plate of bacon, Waffle House is a dream. Its quirks and filth are to an extent charming. Kind of like how your own quirks and filth as a kid are to an extent charming. But as you grow out of your quirky, filthy childhood lifestyle, the charm of it all quickly wanes. As does the charm of Waffle House.
What I've realized since childhood is everything about the Waffle House experience is demoralizing. No one there working or eating is happy. The atmosphere is as exciting as a Phil Collins album cover. Seriously, there is not one remotely happy person in a Waffle House right now. If anyone is smiling, it's probably because they're drunk. Then again, if they're in Waffle House, it's probably because they're drunk. Even if you enjoy Waffle House food, you're likely marginally miserable while sitting in that booth.
It doesn't help that Waffle House hasn't updated its decor since its inception. This is purposeful, of course, since it's supposed to exude a certain throwback affinity, like several diners do. Except most of those diners aim for a '50s sock-hop/poodle-skirt/neon-lights era. Waffle House is trapped in some '50s/'70s nonsensical limbo, where paper diner hats, indistinct lamp fixtures, and a compilation of unnatural yellow and beige hues conjoin to create this culmination of grotesque interior design. And the plateware in each location is obviously the original set used since that location's grand opening as every plate shows scars from hundreds of thousands of late-night intoxicated attempts to knife through waffles and chunked 'n' smothered hash browns.
I would guess that Waffle House prides itself in its open-air kitchen that allows the customers to watch the preparation of their food and leaves nothing to hide. But is it just me, or is Waffle House the last restaurant to whose kitchen practices you'd want full exposure? The disheveled cook gloveless-ly handling dinner orders while bellyaching to his coworkers about his need for a smoke break hardly enhances my assurance of a quality, sanitary meal. I'd quite honestly rather have no idea how the food is prepared and instead be perfectly fine with not knowing the culinary secrets to that greasy platter of trans fats.
The lone prerequisite for its cooks and servers at Waffle House, I'm most certain, is not experience in cooking or serving but simply ownership of at least one tattoo. And the tattoo has to be on a body part visible to the customer -- the forearm, the bicep, the neck -- somewhere that inked tribute to Mom is in plain view to the untrained patron eye. Waffle House is the place where tattoos go to retire. I've seen more Mighty Mouse tattoos in Waffle House than episodes of Mighty Mouse. There's also something greatly chilling and unsettling about seeing the cook flipping your omelet with tattooed weaponry. At what point in that guy's life did he think embedding a sketch of a scorpion wrapped around a dagger into his forearm was not only a good immediate decision but a decision that most assuredly would not affect any future employment?
And let's not forget the Waffle House jukebox, which showcases a music selection worse than that of a high school talent show. I mean, how many songs with "Waffle House" in the title does a jukebox need?
Funnily enough, all of this seems to work because Waffle Houses are never not crowded. The parking lots are always full, whether it's 3:00 PM or 3:00 AM, so what do I know? Well, one thing: I know I like my waffles with butter and syrup -- hold the quirks and filth.
What I've realized since childhood is everything about the Waffle House experience is demoralizing. No one there working or eating is happy. The atmosphere is as exciting as a Phil Collins album cover. Seriously, there is not one remotely happy person in a Waffle House right now. If anyone is smiling, it's probably because they're drunk. Then again, if they're in Waffle House, it's probably because they're drunk. Even if you enjoy Waffle House food, you're likely marginally miserable while sitting in that booth.
It doesn't help that Waffle House hasn't updated its decor since its inception. This is purposeful, of course, since it's supposed to exude a certain throwback affinity, like several diners do. Except most of those diners aim for a '50s sock-hop/poodle-skirt/neon-lights era. Waffle House is trapped in some '50s/'70s nonsensical limbo, where paper diner hats, indistinct lamp fixtures, and a compilation of unnatural yellow and beige hues conjoin to create this culmination of grotesque interior design. And the plateware in each location is obviously the original set used since that location's grand opening as every plate shows scars from hundreds of thousands of late-night intoxicated attempts to knife through waffles and chunked 'n' smothered hash browns.
I would guess that Waffle House prides itself in its open-air kitchen that allows the customers to watch the preparation of their food and leaves nothing to hide. But is it just me, or is Waffle House the last restaurant to whose kitchen practices you'd want full exposure? The disheveled cook gloveless-ly handling dinner orders while bellyaching to his coworkers about his need for a smoke break hardly enhances my assurance of a quality, sanitary meal. I'd quite honestly rather have no idea how the food is prepared and instead be perfectly fine with not knowing the culinary secrets to that greasy platter of trans fats.
The lone prerequisite for its cooks and servers at Waffle House, I'm most certain, is not experience in cooking or serving but simply ownership of at least one tattoo. And the tattoo has to be on a body part visible to the customer -- the forearm, the bicep, the neck -- somewhere that inked tribute to Mom is in plain view to the untrained patron eye. Waffle House is the place where tattoos go to retire. I've seen more Mighty Mouse tattoos in Waffle House than episodes of Mighty Mouse. There's also something greatly chilling and unsettling about seeing the cook flipping your omelet with tattooed weaponry. At what point in that guy's life did he think embedding a sketch of a scorpion wrapped around a dagger into his forearm was not only a good immediate decision but a decision that most assuredly would not affect any future employment?
And let's not forget the Waffle House jukebox, which showcases a music selection worse than that of a high school talent show. I mean, how many songs with "Waffle House" in the title does a jukebox need?
Funnily enough, all of this seems to work because Waffle Houses are never not crowded. The parking lots are always full, whether it's 3:00 PM or 3:00 AM, so what do I know? Well, one thing: I know I like my waffles with butter and syrup -- hold the quirks and filth.
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