Pre-emptive strike

Just when you thought the world was running out of reasons to hate us and laugh at us comes this. Poo-Pourri.

It's a product that, how shall I put this delicately, masquerades certain odors after you've, how shall I put this delicately, dropped a deuce.

The way it works is you make (I said make) a pre-emptive strike against offensive odors by spraying the floral scent of Poo-Pourri in and around the bowl before you do your business. Then after, instead of smelling like, you know, a bathroom, the room smells like the Rockefeller Rose Garden.

Ask anyone who knows me, and when they're done raving about what a fine, upstanding, talented, funny, good looking, caring, compassionate and—what's the word....oh yeah—humble human being I am, there's a good chance they'll also tell you I've never been one to overthink or overanalyze things.

I mean sure, sometimes it'd be nice to know why I do the things I do. But then it always comes back to my parents, and while I'm sure they're at the root of many my neuroses and self-destructive bad behavior, they've both been dead a long time and I don't want to feel anger or hostility towards them. Where's the percentage in that?

Something tells me I may have wandered off point.

What I'm saying is I'm not a sociologist or psychologist. I don't even play one on TV. And maybe I'm reading too much into this. But it seems just the fact a product like this even exists is symptomatic of a larger issue: a society that wants to avoid any unpleasantness in every aspect of their lives. It's reality avoidance at it's most unattractive. It's the highest form of denial working at the level of one of the most basic human bodily functions.

Or maybe people just want their bathrooms to smell nice.

Sometimes it's hard to tell.

cANT handle it

There was a time in America, a more innocent time, before we were all wired for sound and obsessed with electronic entertainment, when a two simple pieces of plastic, a little sand and a few industrious ants could provide hours of entertainment for children.

Whatever. There was also a time when gas was thirty cents a gallon, but we won’t be seeing that again either. As far as now is concerned, ants are a royal pain in the ass.

It’s summer, and it’s hot and humid. Apparently ants don’t like it anymore than I do, because they’re busy looking for a place to cool off. The problem is they’ve chosen my place.

It seems to be relegated to a few, about 5 at a time that I see in the kitchen, and one or two at a time in the main bathroom. I know what you’re thinking and thanks, but I don’t need to be reminded that for every ant I see, there are probably thousands that I don’t.

Denial is a river that runs right through my living room.

Anyway, right now it’s not unmanageable. I’ve made the trip to Loew’s, bought the ant traps and have strategically placed them in those rooms. And when I say placed them, what I mean is my wife has actually put them down where they need to be.

Truth be told, I have a little issue with ants (what other size issue would I have with them?).

For the most part, bugs don’t bug me. I can deal with spiders, bees, roaches, junebugs, wasps (the kind who sting and the kind who wear button down shirts), ladybugs, dragonflies, worms, whatever. But the one thing I cannot deal with is ants.

It has to do with a giant, sci-fi invasion we had in our house about ten years ago.

Under the heading of no good deed goes unpunished, I had the exterior of our house sprayed for ants after I'd seen a trail of them milling around.

What we didn’t know at the time was there was not one, but two gigantic forty-year old colonies under our house. When they couldn’t get out to do their shopping and take the little ants to school, they came inside.

We tried everything to stop them. And again, when I say we I mean the wife.

I think I completely shut down the morning I walked in the kitchen, looked at the back wall and asked, “Why is that wall black? And why is it moving?”

There were four, three-inch wide trails of thousands of ants coming in the back door, across the floor, up the refrigerator, down the refrigerator, across the counter, in and out of the sink and eventually to our coffee maker, where they were crawling on top of each other inside that clear water level indicator. They were trying to move the entire colony inside.

It was actually a few days before it reached this point, and I was trying desperately to avoid spraying inside the house. But when I saw the kitchen that morning, only two words came to mind.

Nuke ‘em.

After clearing out the bottom shelves in the kitchen, we moved in to the Marriott Residence Inn for three days and two nights while the pest control people had at it. When we got home, we still found thousands of ants, but we found them in the best condition possible.

Say it with me: dead.

Since then, we've had the exterior of the house sprayed quarterly and haven't had any problem. I'm hoping the few I've seen are just a few that've been trapped inside after our quarterly treatment and will die off quickly.

Because if it gets any worse, it's going to be hell on the wife.

AT&T Jew-verse

Everyone has to live with a certain amount of denial in life. Otherwise, we'd never cross a street, get on a plane or eat at Jack In The Box for fear of what could happen to us. It's how we manage everyday risk and emotion.

Since, according to this article, the average consumer can be exposed to between 3000 and 20,000 ads a day, and actually see and register about 250 of them, commercials - especially bad ones - have also become one of the things we have to deny in order not to be overwhelmed by them. Out of necessity, they become white noise.

It'd be a second career getting mad about all of them.

However, there is one commercial so bad, so hateful, so grating in the most primal way, I feel pointing it out is less of a gripe and more of a public service. It's this one:

Here's how I'm pretty sure the meeting went.

CLIENT: What do you think the kid should look like?

ART DIRECTOR: Well, he should be...

ACCOUNT PERSON: We were leaning towards a "New York" look. (actually does air quotes)

CLIENT: You mean Jewish.

ACCOUNT PERSON: Yes, you know, curly hair, big nose...

Laughter erupts in the room.

CLIENT: Can we have him say some Jew sounding words?

WRITER: Like fancy, schmancy or for cryin' out loud?

CLIENT: Yes!

ACCOUNT PERSON: (hamming it up - no pun intended) Oy vey, we'll do it.

ART DIRECTOR: Maybe an argyle sweater, so he looks like the old Je...uh, old "New York" guys you see in the jewelry mart.

CLIENT: I love it. What do they say?

ACCOUNT PERSON: Mazel tov?

CLIENT: That's it!

Laughter erupts again.

Don't get me wrong, I love the Jews on TV. I can even tolerate the stereotyping. But what I hate is a stale concept, long past its expiration date, that's been done a gazillion times before - in this case a kid talking like a wiser, older "New York" grandfather to kids slightly younger than him who, for some inexplicable reason, know how to act their real age.

And wagging the corn dog while he's talking must be a Jewish tradition I'm not familiar with.

It's frustrating because it's AT&T. A big client with a huge advertising budget and decent production dollars to spend, and this is the best they (and their 65-year old, Jackie Mason loving writer/art director team) could do.

Then, just to make sure there's absolutely no escape, they run the crap out of this spot. You can't turn on the TV without seeing it everywhere. Maybe the kid got them the air time wholesale.

The best advice I can give the team, or anyone else associated with this spot is that same advice that works managing life's risks.

If someone asks if it's your spot, deny it.