AM's blog: "Mindless Rantings"

In these modern times, the concept of workmanship, of taking pride in one's craft, has gone the way of Nagel paintings, the Thompson Twins, and Vision Street Wear. And nowhere is this more evident than in the sorry state of our beer commercials. What? You say the beer commercials of today are just as good as those of the past? Nonsense! Peel back the scales from your eyes and gaze unblinking into the gaping maw of inarguable truth. Let us go back to the 1980s, the Golden Age of beer advertising, to see how far we have fallen. Take the gloriously whimsical Miller Lite campaigns. In one classic spot, comedian Rodney Dangerfield is called upon to win a celebrity bowling tournament. His team implores him, "We only need one pin, Rodney!" thereby setting up a moment of high drama. Can lovable loser Dangerfield pull off the seemingly simple task under intense pressure from his middle-aged cronies? Our hero proceeds to roll the ball dead-center down the middle of the lane and, though it appears he is headed for a triumphant strike, in a surprising turn of events, the ball bounces harmlessly off the head pin, toppling not a one and losing the game. This defies our expectations, for we know that a bowling ball is a good deal heavier than a bowling pin. The resultant response of the viewer is one of delighted laughter and merriment. Now, compare this bit of levity to the recent Budweiser campaign featuring the talking frogs and lizards. It is common knowledge that lizards and frogs can't talk, so this freakish defiance of nature's laws provokes a confused reaction. Where did these lizards learn the English language? Where did they pick up the regional dialect? And since when do amphibians of any sort consume beer? How could the producers of these ads expect the public to buy into the ludicrous premise of beer-swilling iguanas with powers of speech? Have the higher minds at Budweiser forgotten their own Spuds MacKenzie, the beer-drinking "party animal" of the fraternity Tappa Kegga Bud? Spuds never uttered a single syllable and went on to become an internationally recognized icon of the go-go '80s. Who, meanwhile, cares a whit about the Bud frogs? Nary a soul. And what about human personalities? In the '80s we had Dangerfield, Bob "I Must Be In The Front Row" Uecker, Bubba Smith, Ed "Too Tall" Jones, Joe "Python" Piscopo, and pool-player extraordinaire Steve Mizerak. And what have we today? Those faceless shills who prattle "Wazzup" as they remain lethargically splayed on the davenport. Can our beer-commercial standards sink any lower? And what sort of catchphrase is "Wazzup"? It is not even a proper English word! In my day, the slogans were at least complete sentences, like the poignant, "It just doesn't get any better than this." But even phrases that weren't full sentences were infectiously catchy. Sports enthusiasts of today still chant the "Tastes Great, Less Filling" slogan of the '70s and '80s. Meanwhile, "Wazzup" has already been supplanted in Budweiser ads by the shamelessly derivative "What are you doing?" Appalling! Most importantly, to paraphrase Pete Seeger, where have all the hot chicks gone? In the glory days of the beer commercial, we had the Swedish bikini team and the Amazonian babes playing volleyball using the Rocky Mountains as a net. All the recent Corona ads offer is a faceless woman lounging in a beach chair propped up by cell phone. As a male viewer, I want to be reassured that drinking a certain beer brand will make me desirable to supermodels and other unattainable women. Once upon a time, the simple act of cracking open an MGD or an Old Milwaukee held the promise of scantily clad young ladies mobbing a man to bathe in his alcohol-tainted essence, with strains of Eric Clapton's reworked "After Midnight" playing in the background. Sadly, an entire generation of boys is now growing up unaware that there exist harsh deserts that, at the twist of a bottle cap, turn into snow-covered party paradises, complete with bikini-clad sex kittens and caravans of 18-wheelers fully stocked with ice-cold Bud. Hear my plea, beer-commercial directors. We can fix this problem. Next time, instead of making another Coors ad with a faux web-browser look, try putting that creativity to constructive use. Give us Pete Sampras or Norm Macdonald spouting a few zingers. Or, better yet, a fraternity pool party with two guys shotgunning a couple of beers, only to be attacked by the U.S. Women's Naked Soccer team. Only then will our beer commercials once again achieve greatness.

What is happening to the earth's whales? The humpback, once more than 1.5 million strong, now numbers fewer than 20,000. The minke whale, once free to swim the ocean's depths in all its smooth, streamlined glory, has seen its population decimated by commercial fishing in a generation. Since regulation and political pressure have failed to produce results, we have only one option left if there's any hope of saving the future of these massive, supple creatures: We must start breeding with them right away, and not stop until they're saved. I am not naïve. I know this will be a long, sometimes painful, task. But it is a task we must undertake, no matter the complications inherent in extended periods of underwater copulation. If we do nothing, we risk depriving our children of these magnificent beasts' tender embrace forever. There is no longer room for excuses. I am proposing a widespread campaign to preserve the whale's precious habitats, rehabilitate their ecosystems, and titillate their enormous erogenous zones. Who among us can hear the whale sing without being moved by the timeless beauty of the wordless melody? Who can look into those eyes, filled with peace and wisdom, and not be aroused? It is time to consummate my long love affair with the whale in order to prevent its extinction. I am more than prepared—even excited—to spring into action at a moment's notice to save the whale not only from Japanese poachers, but from the destructive forces of celibacy. The survival of the species, be it toothed or baleen, will be ensured as man and whale writhe together in the surf. It is hard work finding a whale, let along trying to seduce it. But every worthy endeavor requires sacrifice. Yes, my day-and-night obsession with saving whales cost me my wife and family. But it shall all be worthwhile the first time I glide across the waves atop a gray whale, knowing that we share not only a common ancestry, but a simultaneous orgasm. What, I ask, could be more satisfying than that? My campaign to save the whales is a natural progression of my life's work. Wherever a species finds itself in danger, I am there to rescue it through raw, unadulterated fornication. Granted, not all of my efforts toward preserving diversity has been successful. Some say I even had a detrimental effect on the Karner butterfly populations of North America. But despite setbacks—such as my late but strenuous attempts to save the Elfin tree fern—I remain a determined conservationist. If you want proof of the tonic effects my love can have, just look to the bald eagle: Once on the verge of destruction, they now soar from coast to coast. It is exhausting work, but once complete, you can roll over and fall asleep knowing you have done all that you possibly can. The time to act is now, and preferably at dusk, when most whales are both disoriented and physiologically predisposed to sexual advances from a fellow mammal. Still, I am only one man. I do not possess the time or physical stamina to save all the whales myself, as much as I may wish to do so. True, a few have heeded the call and forged deep bonds with the bowhead whale, the beluga, and, in a particularly tragic yet moving instance, the narwhal. But we can still do so much more. If people could see how a mother blue whale cares for her young, or witness up close the gentle affection of two Baird's beaked whales, they would surely open their hearts, minds, and loins to these endangered and sensuous creatures. We must penetrate them not with harpoons, but with love. For, if there is one force capable of saving the whales, it is love. And I have an abundance of love for the whale. But let us not dally in abstraction. As we debate, more whales are going to their pointless and cruel deaths. In order to ensure their preservation, it is necessary to take concrete, measurable, and drastic action, and make the beast with two backs and one fin. We cannot wait for the world to wake up, nor can we wait for our government to construct a tasteful, discreet breeding ground. In fact, we cannot even wait for the aquarium to open in the morning, because I can feel the desire to save several whales growing within me now. I urge anyone who believes in the cause, and also owns a car and a crowbar, to contact me immediately.