The product: Men's body wash/cologne/deodorant/etc.
The tagline: "You won't smell awful."
The pitch: I consider myself a mostly reasonable man, at least when I'm not in the vicinity of a Chipotle or Five Guys. So already I know that I'm not in the target demographic for Axe body spray and similar products. I, like many similarly sane consumers, know that no matter what sort of scent I apply to myself I'm not going to make women drop what they are doing and chase after me. All I want is to not smell awful. I don't want to smell like body odor, but I also don't want to smell like a douchebag who doused himself with cologne because it think it will help him "score some pussy" or whatever. I'd enjoy a bland, mildly pleasant scent that will allow people's first impressions of me not involve the olfactory sense.
Odds of it happening: Pretty good. I believe there's a fairly sizable chunk of people who are similarly annoyed by the cloying scents on the market today, so it's not unreasonable that some manufacturer might court that demographic with such a campaign.
The product: Junk food
The tagline: "Worth the impending bypass surgery."
The pitch: Products
like Doritos and Cheetos and Hot Pockets would like to focus on
anything except the nutritional content of their stuff--a fuzzy mascot,
their innate appeal to the intoxicated, the convenience with which they
can be imbibed. And this is all for good reason, since that shit will
kill you faster than a vacation to Iraq. But if there is anything that
Sarah Palin has proved, it's that middle America will tolerate any level
of idiocy as long as it comes out of a mouth it would collectively like
to fuck. If there's a second thing that Sarah Palin has
proved--specifically, with the level of offense she takes at Michelle Obama's
measures to curb childhood obesity, and the positive reception it subsequently
gathers--it's that as a country we love our junk food more than we love
our health. If Hostess, for instance, were to run out a campaign that
said, subtly, something along the lines of "All those hippies say this
shit will kill you, but we think these cupcakes are fucking delicious
and you should eat 'em if they taste good to you," you think that
wouldn't strike a chord with some red-state residents? Enough to make it
worth Hostess' while? Shit, I think it would be worth it just to watch
the furious reaction from health groups.
Odds of it happening: Somewhere between 0 and never.
The product: Mid-range beer/liquor/wine
The tagline: "It'll do, for the price!"
The pitch: This sort of pitch would work even better with the Keystones and Natty Lights of the world, but those brands don't really produce advertising because they don't need to. College kids are going to buy their shit no matter what the companies say. High-end booze can't reasonably say it's worth the money when the average consumer can't appreciate the fineness of what they're drinking, especially after they've mixed it with Coke and chugged it on a dare. A $30 handle of Smirnoff will be a similar amount of fun as a $60 handle of Grey Goose, so why not point that out? It seems like the moderately-good brands like Smirnoff or Cuervo would attack the good stuff with this line of thought, and see if they can't grab a little market share with honesty instead of the usual bullshit.
Odds of it happening: Next to nil. Companies, as a rule, don't like to admit that their product is inferior, even if it very obviously is. They'll keep trying to sell us on how hip and fun they are and how beautiful women will have sex with you if they drink their product.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Liverpool v. Fulham, 5/1/2012
Oh, mercy me. We as fans often complain about tanking around this time of year, with the NBA regular season having just winded down (the gold standard for tanking) and the NFL draft having just gone on (the Colts having reaped the reward of their previous season's tank) but I've never seen anything in American sports to compare to this debacle. Today's match on ESPN2 features the Liverpool JV team against Fulham, whose first XI are ostensibly playing but really sort of drifting about the pitch as if they're waiting to punch out their timecards and go home. It is probably the worst game of professional soccer I've yet seen--and I've watched the MLS.
As I typed that last sentence, Liverpool's Stewart Downing launched a ball from the right side of midfield to the left edge of Fulham's box. I groaned aloud as he did that, like much of the Anfield faithful, because there were no Liverpool players standing anywhere near the left edge of Fulham's box. The nearest red shirt was the one worn by Andy Carroll, standing on the right hand side of the penalty area, between the penalty spot and the channel. I'm pretty sure I saw him roll his eyes as the ball flew hopelessly over him.
Liverpool today trotted out their second string so that their first eleven will be well rested for the FA Cup Final this weekend, a game which a team in 9th place has determined is more important to win than a comparatively-meaningless Premiership game against an opponent who they have no real animosity against. Fulham, for their part, is one of the complement of teams who are comfortably above the specter of relegation yet not so competent as to be challenging for a spot in Europe. Their season is for all intents and purposes over, and the only motivation left they have is of the strictly selfish variety of padding stats and inflating value for their next contract negotiations.
As the ball flies over the uninhabited wasteland of Fulham's penalty area, one white shirt settles underneath it. It's Stephen Kelly, the right back of choice for Fulham. There is no opposition around him. Behind him and to his left is his goalkeeper, Mark Schwarzer. To his left, standing perhaps three yards outside the 18 and centered in the goal, is his center back Aaron Hughes. About a dozen yards in front of and maybe 5 yards to the right of him is Maxi Rodriguez, standing in the posture of a man waiting for a bus or perhaps standing in line of Starbucks. The situation could not be less pressure-filled; all Kelly has to do is take the ball down, get his head up, and then find a pass forward for Fulham. As the ball falls towards him, he hauls his right foot back and takes a mighty swing at it. He scuffs it off the outside of his foot and the ball spirals lazily towards Rodriguez, who controls it out of instinct more than anything and now finds himself more or less wide open 20 yards out from goal.
As I've been composing this bit, play has of course continued at Anfield. The quality has not improved, and we're now entering second-half stoppage time as the fans stream from their seats in a disgruntled sort of way. I'd be disgruntled, too, had I paid over 40 pounds for a ticket ($65, for those without a grasp of world financial systems) to watch 22 very wealthy men half-ass it for a little over ninety minutes.
The biggest difference between the European football season and American athletic seasons is that the former doesn't include any form of playoff (the lower divisions do include a playoff for promotion purposes, but for simplicity's sake I'll stick to the top-flight leagues here). This works out perfectly well for soccer, which is a game in which form plays such an important role in any given match. It's impossible for a team to struggle for 2/3 of the season, sneak into the playoffs, catch fire and wind up winning a title. Winning the Premiership or La Liga or a scudetto takes consistent excellence over eight months, not a run of good results when it counts. On the other hand, it gives teams like Liverpool or Fulham (sitting safely midtable) very little incentive to push themselves at the tail end of the season.
Of course, on the other end of this equation is that the threat of relegation ensures that the bottom-feeders will be fighting to the bitter end, no matter what. Anybody who has watched a local NBA or NFL team "limp" to the finish line may find relegation to be an appealing alternative, as unlikely as it is to ever appear in a major American sports league.
Maxi Rodriguez, to return to our sad narrative, now possesses the ball within shooting range of Schwarzer's goal, with plenty of time to let it fly. Past history suggests that he's primed to bang one home from this range. He looks up at goal, back down at the ball, swings that right leg of his back, and buries one into the mass of portly men standing in row M to the left of the goal. It's the perfect conclusion to this microcosm of midtable drudgery I've been walking us through, and both the Anfield crowd and I on my sofa can't contain our disappointment. After the comparative excitement and relative quality of the Manchester derby yesterday, I suppose most games would be a letdown. But even still, I can't help but wonder if I can't have found a better use of my afternoon off. Here's to waiting for next August, when all 20 teams will once again have hope--and motivation.
As I typed that last sentence, Liverpool's Stewart Downing launched a ball from the right side of midfield to the left edge of Fulham's box. I groaned aloud as he did that, like much of the Anfield faithful, because there were no Liverpool players standing anywhere near the left edge of Fulham's box. The nearest red shirt was the one worn by Andy Carroll, standing on the right hand side of the penalty area, between the penalty spot and the channel. I'm pretty sure I saw him roll his eyes as the ball flew hopelessly over him.
Liverpool today trotted out their second string so that their first eleven will be well rested for the FA Cup Final this weekend, a game which a team in 9th place has determined is more important to win than a comparatively-meaningless Premiership game against an opponent who they have no real animosity against. Fulham, for their part, is one of the complement of teams who are comfortably above the specter of relegation yet not so competent as to be challenging for a spot in Europe. Their season is for all intents and purposes over, and the only motivation left they have is of the strictly selfish variety of padding stats and inflating value for their next contract negotiations.
As the ball flies over the uninhabited wasteland of Fulham's penalty area, one white shirt settles underneath it. It's Stephen Kelly, the right back of choice for Fulham. There is no opposition around him. Behind him and to his left is his goalkeeper, Mark Schwarzer. To his left, standing perhaps three yards outside the 18 and centered in the goal, is his center back Aaron Hughes. About a dozen yards in front of and maybe 5 yards to the right of him is Maxi Rodriguez, standing in the posture of a man waiting for a bus or perhaps standing in line of Starbucks. The situation could not be less pressure-filled; all Kelly has to do is take the ball down, get his head up, and then find a pass forward for Fulham. As the ball falls towards him, he hauls his right foot back and takes a mighty swing at it. He scuffs it off the outside of his foot and the ball spirals lazily towards Rodriguez, who controls it out of instinct more than anything and now finds himself more or less wide open 20 yards out from goal.
As I've been composing this bit, play has of course continued at Anfield. The quality has not improved, and we're now entering second-half stoppage time as the fans stream from their seats in a disgruntled sort of way. I'd be disgruntled, too, had I paid over 40 pounds for a ticket ($65, for those without a grasp of world financial systems) to watch 22 very wealthy men half-ass it for a little over ninety minutes.
The biggest difference between the European football season and American athletic seasons is that the former doesn't include any form of playoff (the lower divisions do include a playoff for promotion purposes, but for simplicity's sake I'll stick to the top-flight leagues here). This works out perfectly well for soccer, which is a game in which form plays such an important role in any given match. It's impossible for a team to struggle for 2/3 of the season, sneak into the playoffs, catch fire and wind up winning a title. Winning the Premiership or La Liga or a scudetto takes consistent excellence over eight months, not a run of good results when it counts. On the other hand, it gives teams like Liverpool or Fulham (sitting safely midtable) very little incentive to push themselves at the tail end of the season.
Of course, on the other end of this equation is that the threat of relegation ensures that the bottom-feeders will be fighting to the bitter end, no matter what. Anybody who has watched a local NBA or NFL team "limp" to the finish line may find relegation to be an appealing alternative, as unlikely as it is to ever appear in a major American sports league.
Maxi Rodriguez, to return to our sad narrative, now possesses the ball within shooting range of Schwarzer's goal, with plenty of time to let it fly. Past history suggests that he's primed to bang one home from this range. He looks up at goal, back down at the ball, swings that right leg of his back, and buries one into the mass of portly men standing in row M to the left of the goal. It's the perfect conclusion to this microcosm of midtable drudgery I've been walking us through, and both the Anfield crowd and I on my sofa can't contain our disappointment. After the comparative excitement and relative quality of the Manchester derby yesterday, I suppose most games would be a letdown. But even still, I can't help but wonder if I can't have found a better use of my afternoon off. Here's to waiting for next August, when all 20 teams will once again have hope--and motivation.
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