Snitch-Berry

The company Arbitron has created a device that acts as an advertising exposure Geiger-counter; monitoring our daily recommended dosage of ad-sell.


The “Portable People Meter” is about the size of a pager or blackberry and, via signals encoded into television and radio ads, monitors which radio stations, television shows, and thereby, advertising you’re exposed to. Each night, in its’ cradle, sends the consolidated data back to home-base.


This ‘canary in a coal-mine’ approach to measure advertising’s effectiveness is a bizarre turn of events. It mutates the audience from the target into a filter of advertising. Companies mine the depths of the markets and media to see where their ad dollars are best spent. Testing the air to see what is the most potent forms of communication, this method is relatively innocuous to the participant.


Throw in the promise of some free seed and see how many willing subjects line up for the job. It’s safe. Advertising is, after all, tasteless, odorless, and harmless in small doses.


Then again, it never works out well for the canary, does it?

Not My Asphalt

Last week I had a statistically predicted car accident. En route to work a
BMW ran a red light directly in my path. We collided.

Now here I am with a bruised knee, worried parents, and a rental car. A giant,
stale smelling, behemoth of a car.

Correction: an American car! American cars are most definitely the epitome of
American.

Larger than they need to be, louder than they ought be, and uglier than what
should be allowed. And as a rental it brings with it all the baggage of a desperate
blind date on February 15. I believe the previous renter must have lived a hermit's
lifestyle exclusively in the car. It smells of cheap cigarettes and failed dreams.
The radio presets offer equal insight into the vehicle's sordid past. All stations
are pure static. Meaning that whomever last drove the car was obviously deafened
by his own defeat and to whom music was no solace. I also found that any American
automotive consumer is forced to drive exclusively from a sleeping position.
Even when the seat is in a full-upright and locked position I still need to
crawl, climb, and hoist myself up to even see the dashboard. I suppose this
is beneficial in the now-inevitable accident as the driver would merely crumble
into the fetal position under the steering wheel. Coincidentally where the pool
of urine used to be.

All of the knobs and buttons have been placed through-out the car in a random order that had to have been devised by Chaos itself.

The radio buttons all do the same function; make the terror coming from the
sound system louder. Want to play some music? Great, so long as you love treble
and hate bass. Need the high-beams? No problem, they're always on, even
when the engine isn't. Need a light for your smokes? Don’t worry,
it's the only thing that's clearly labeled on the dash; more obvious
and accessible than the wheel itself.

I'm not saying that American cars are horrible because they made by Americans. Far from it. Instead, I'm saying they're horrible because they're made for Americans. They're the American ideal. Bigger than you what need, louder than you can handle, heavier than they should be, and all painfully, painfully identical.

[Insert Noun] Rage

Two years ago, a Houston woman drove her car over a McDonald's employee effectively breaking the employee's pelvis. A just retribution for not getting mayonnaise on a cheeseburger, wouldn't you agree?

Too many people today are succumbing to the latest rage of being in a, well, Rage. Being ever-diligent in giving all things a jingoistic title, we now welcome the advent of Air Rage, Road Rage, Consumer Rage, and Employee Rage (a.k.a. Going Postal) just to name a few.

The latter is perhaps the best known as it caught the most media attention from both news organizations and gun lobbyists everywhere. To recap for those who missed the headlines; some years back, a rash of killings erupted from postal offices across America. The event occurred so often, and left such a mark on society, that the term "going postal" entered into the modern lexicon as a term used highlight the possible outcome for stress related situations.

As with all faults of modern society, we have the drivers in the road-warrior of Law to thank for the many added prefixes to 'rage'. Should you disapprove of your in-flight meal, simply cold-cock the flight-attendant and bite a few passengers. Later, at your trial, simply confess that the stress of being in Business Class was too much to bear. All will be forgiven.

People fly off the handle so often that AirMiles is offering reward points. It seems that we collectively have lost the ability to channel our emotions into more constructive paths. Instead of beating the sales clerk unconscious with the barcode scanner, stow your energies away for another purpose. Go home and yell at the houseplants and Tupperware.

If all else fails, retreat to a dirty cabin in the woods and compose darkly ironic poetry. When finished, read it to the small woodland creatures. I'm sure they'll get the subtleties therein.

The next time you're in line at McDonald's and you can't get your McGriddle because it's four minutes past eleven, don't gun down the place. Instead, take a handful of napkins, jam them into your mouth and deeply sob in the corner until you're needed at work.

A Word from our Captors

Famed Canadian media-savvy intellectual Marshall McLuhan once stated, “All advertising advertises advertising.” What does that mean? I haven’t any clue aside from the fact that it nails modern culture pretty good; you can’t seem to say ‘advertising’ enough anymore.

Could someone please tell me at what point did we cross through the looking-glass? When did we become so inundated with commercials and advertising that even satire as in movies like “The Minority Report” and “Brazil” seem normal? Have you seen a movie lately? Probably not as now there’s a good half-hour to an hour of advertising before a movie can even start anymore. It’s omnipresent today but it didnt’ start out this way. First, it started as the previews we’re used to. Actually, a lot of us love these previews. Often better than the movie we’re there to see, they’re sort of welcomed additions to the experience.

However, things then took a turn. Full-on advertising crept in like a one-cheek sneak.Today, you can expect a good fifteen minutes of full advertising before anything important starts. Yet, having an audience sit in the dark Clockwork Orange style wasn’t enough.We also have to numb our asses through a PowerPoint slide show of local advertisers whose ads seemed to throw feces in the face of good taste and general appeal.

So now, an 8:15 PM start time means the movie will eventually roll opening credits sometime during the second coming of Christ.Here’s an idea, next time you’re at the theater, bring along some big flash-lights. When the ads start, fire up the light and shine it on the screen. Get a bunch of your friends to do the same thing. Just blank out the Mazda ad or commercial for Glossettes with everything you can find. If anyone tries to give you a hard time about it, just say that you’re here from the Duracell company showing off the power of the copper-top

Chariots of Ire

No brood of vehicle before has been fired upon more often by the slings and arrows of contempt, outrage, and all-consuming hate than that of the SUV.

This tyrannous wreck of the motor-way consummates consumer excess and conspicuous consumption with leg-room to spare. However, even within the cushioned leather seats and easy fold-down third row, nary can be found a justification for its' existence.
For purposes of cartage, nothing can truly beat a pick-up truck. For ample seating and transportation of family and kin, a mini-van or station-wagon would prove more than adequate. Yet it is this strange, puffy and swollen love-child of the two that has captured the imagination and commerce of today's affluent elite.

Vicious anti-environmental ethos aside, the SUV is an obvious culprit in the belching out of climate changing chemicals. Global warming or not, the funneled exhaust from these beasts is far from simply a warm summer's breeze. Classified in the categories of large transport and RV motor-homes, the SUV is not regulated by the same emission controls as that of the average family four-door or hatch-back. Instead, they can easily main-line carbons and carcinogens into the bright blue skies. As for safety requirements and regulations; these wonders of the tarmac roll-over easier than a two digit odometer.

Don't be fooled. Their size is not for driver's safety; their height isn't for increased visibility. These abominable machinations are built with such size and girth so as to comfortably fit the ego and self-importance of their mighty pilots. Their height is to remind the proletarian masses shuttled around them as to who's truly the King of the Road.

It is in my opinion that these off-road vehicles should remain just that; off the road. A menace to an already delicate vehicular ecosystem; they can only wreak havoc on the highway. Should you chance to see one of these creatures at rest, do the world a great service; free the air trapped in their tires. Perhaps then there will be one more breath of fresh air.