I'm well aware advertising is now ubiquitous. European soccer teams sport sponsors on their jerseys, there's an ad on the cardboard halo that keeps my coffee from burning my hand, and, in Los Angeles, billboards actually get our constitutional rights. But you know what: they're easy to ignore. Magazine ads can be glossed over, radio commercials can be tuned out, and when Jeopardy goes to break, you simply mute the ads for adult diapers and denture creams and sleep apnea meds that let you know you couldn't be further from their target demographic if you were a bi-curious centaur.
But last night, I think I discovered what was essentially the nadir of advertising achievement, that is, until someone starts putting NASCAR-style decals on coffins, which, well, will probably happen early July. But in the meantime, I found the lowest low point, the Mariana trench of trying-to-make-me-buy-shit, if you will (which you shouldn't). Ladies & gentlemen, I present to you the talking-Norbit-poster-over-the-urinal and I ask "does it get any sadder than that?"
I'm not sure if women have ads on the inside of the stalls at public restrooms, but I can tell you for a fact that men do. Not in the stalls but yes, above the urinals. You're standing, you're peeing, and Eddie Murphy is talking to you. It's off-putting. It's invasive. And yes: it's Norbit. There hasn't been a movie since Little Man that I've wanted to see less than Norbit. The trailer alone portends the end of intelligent comedy, thoughtful satire, and, perhaps, the human race as we know it. So please: don't ask me to watch it. Especially while I'm urinating. I ask, as so many before me have asked: Is nothing sacred?
Of course not. But beyond Norbit yammering at me at the most innapropriate time possible, yesterday was what I'd call a success. We played our favorite club on the planet (Bottom of the Hill) with our favorite tourmates of all time (Division Day) for our favorite radio station's birthday (BAGeL Radio). Plus, it was broadcast over the magical being known as the Godternet for those who cared but couldn't come by the fine folks at LaLa.com. And I do realize that last paragraph sounded like me doing an ad for all those fine people & institutions but really, I assure you, they barely paid me. And since you aren't in the water closet right now (hopefully), my rant remains valid. Game, set, match: Birdmonster.