Sunday, July 30, 2006

Artisan Water and The Mystery of Jalapeno Trout

Sprite’s savvy marketing campaign ruined a good night’s sleep for me. I used to have outrageously funny dreams but recently that all came to a screeching halt. The dream began in a large meadow of wild flowers. The morning sun bounced playfully off vibrant Zinnias and Morning Glories. Sad Coneflowers and tiny baby’s breath covered the ground, as proud purple Lupines stretched towards the summer sky. Nature’s perfume wafted around me. I strolled carefully looking for ole’ no shoulders (that’s a snake to all you northerners). And that’s when the nightmare began. I could see movement in the thick broom straw in front of me so I stopped. When I moved the rustling grew louder. When I stopped it stopped. I was being stalked. I stopped and stared. And there beneath the Bahiagrass were little white flowers.
Then suddenly one raised its petals and appeared to look directly at me! I took off running. The white flowers were everywhere. I sprinted carelessly across the endless meadow weaving like a running back. Thousands of the evil flowers chased me as I stomped the ones in my way. They tripped me. I tumbled like a fat gymnast and got back up. They were on my head licking the sweat from my face. Little scratchy root feet clawed at my bare legs and finally wore me down. I screamed, jumped out of bed, and promptly put my house plant on the patio it was 3:15am. Once I calmed down. I realized that the Sublymonal Sprite campaign had its first victim.
Being a business owner I understand the mechanics of marketing impact on sales implicitly. But I wonder if there is such a thing as too much marketing. Take the bottled water industry for example. There are so many artisan flavors that a decision has to be made as to WHICH WATER TO BUY. That is just insane. I keep waiting for the “tap” flavor to come out. Niche marketing to country residents who miss the flavor of the city. Somehow I don’t think that is far from the truth.
Hardees used to sell regular ole hamburgers. Now it is the Angus thick burger. And if you don’t like the burger you can always eat the cheese paper. Catfish are now marketed as “farm raised”, or “grain fed” because harvesting those scavengers from a river sometimes gives you a “poo flavored” fish. Or my personal favorite, the Saab commercial slash car wreck. I will not forget the Saab, even though I wouldn’t buy one. See where I am going with this. Just seeing hyper-creative marketing gives me a headache. Deep down inside we all want something new. Like chicken flavored hamburgers or Jalapeno flavored trout. But the true question is at what mental expense and how long should this mental payment last. And if I catch any of those white flowers in my house there will be hell to pay.


Friday, July 21, 2006

First Video "While My Guitar Gently Weeps"

This possibly has to be one of the most amazing things I have seen on the internet.
This talented man sits in Central Park and haves at it. He never misses a beat on the hardest song I have EVER tried to play, and if you look closely it is not a guitar he is playing either.

Watch out for my newest blog entry entitled "Artisan Water and The Mystery of Jalapeno Trout"!


Tuesday, July 04, 2006

Why In The Name of God…

Isn’t the belief in God enough? I recently had a relationship ending argument, while driving, about my Spiritual beliefs. In that car I suddenly became Palestine and she morphed into Israel. There was no middle ground, no compromise or even a solution to our argument. In a flash an imaginary line was drawn through the middle of the vehicle and where once a loving couple sat, warring factions took our places. I could feel her beautiful eyes searing a hole in the side of my neck. I swallowed hard and immediately understood how religious differences could cause civil unrest and the destruction of cities. I tried to make amends by telling her that due to my travels and interaction with other cultures, I found it hard to submit to one spiritual belief and that I was tolerant of all(the intelligent stance). Well, that flew like a lead penguin. She bared her white teeth and scoffed at my ignorance. She laughed because I didn’t resign to her belief system of tithes and Sunday finest, holiday food banks and Pastoral Cadillacs. There was nothing I could say that would reduce the tension in the air. I was then ridiculed loudly because of my own beliefs. I could feel my neck tighten and taste the bitter bile rising in my it became time for a Hamas style attack. So I took a deep breath and unchained my writers mind.

I ask her how many times had the Bible been edited for "clarity" by scholars who wanted some control for themselves or for the ones they served. I asked had she ever heard of the council of Niece. I asked her to tell me who the Byzantine were,(after all they named that hill in the holy land Mt. Zion). I asked her if Christianity was the only way into heaven why didn’t the Jews, Muslims, Buddhist, Taoist, Practitioners of Voodoo, Santeria, or any of the thousands of tribal religions for that matter get the memo. And if the “living” memo was Jesus, why must those before mentioned live their religion every day, instead of on Sunday, between the hours of 10:00am and 2:00pm (3:00pm if you are in a Pentecostal church, 4:00pm if you are in an evangelical church) like good God fearing people should. I exhaled. I pretty much sealed the deal on that conversation. She didn’t look in my direction and by the fog on the passenger window I could tell she was well beyond angry. Her silence or my blood pressure rang like a jackhammer skipping on steel in my head. I tried to touch her hand. But she snatched it away. So I took her home and drove away…crushed. I knew thinking outside of the box could be perceived as evil. And I feel like kicking myself in the butt for even discussing religion… but after all she started it.