Marketing uber alles

The recent howls of protest by conservative Republicans — about what they see as a wave of obscenity permeating the media — amuse Phillipe & Jorge. All of a sudden, they’re outraged about U2 frontman Bono uttering the F-word at last year’s Golden Globes ceremony (this happened, of course, a year ago), Janet Jackson’s "leave it to cleavage" moment at the Super Bowl, and so on. Your superior correspondents, who were in a crowded bar for the Patriots’ big victory, must acknowledge that nobody there even noticed Janet’s tit-flash.

We did notice, however, the highly touted commercials from the high-roller corporations that can afford Super Bowl time. Market researchers must have told the major marketing agencies’ in-house psychologists that using animals is a sure-fire winner. Most of the ads made use of monkeys, horses, dogs, bears, or mules, and rest assured, this was not an accident. Research obviously indicates that Americans are suckers for cute and zany animals.

The halftime show got vetted in a similar way. All the participants were checked for their marketing appeal. It certainly had nothing to do with any kind of aesthetic musical value (that can’t be market-tested, can it?). So what we got was totally expected for America’s utmost secular celebration of the year. That viewing Super Bowl commercials has become a spectator sport in itself ought to tell you something: marketing is everything in America today. The Super Bowl is the epitome of this notion. Yet does the incessant marketing that we’re exposed to daily — jacked up beyond belief on Super Bowl Sunday — make us a better people, better citizens, or a wiser and more aware culture? The bigger question is, how much have we — and especially the young folks — been dumbed down by the unrelenting cascade of daily marketing?

Self-proclaimed conservatives are more concerned with making hay about how some viewers might have caught a glimpse of one of Janet Jackson’s breasts. Compared to the brain-numbing assault of commercial bullshit that confronts Americans, that boob is nothing.

Why are candidates for political office presented like boxes of detergent? Because this is what works, and our status as consumers has supplanted a nation of citizens. If this isn’t the death knell for participatory democracy (yeah, yeah, we know it’s a "republic," but participation is an essential element of our government), then, to quote the jazz sage Mose Allison, "Tell me something I don’t know." You can learn a lot from watching the Super Bowl, and most of it is pretty damn depressing. Once again, as Mose sang, "Stop this world/Let me off. There’s just too many pigs in the same trough."

THE BLEAT GOES ON

Michael Powell, Daddy Colin’s lad at the Federal Communications Commission, is looking into the Jackson/Timberlake scandal, which has received added fuel from Janet’s late admission that her breast "reveal" was planned. So much for Timberlake’s description of a costume malfunction. That probably explains Jackson’s display of nipple jewelry — something that few females don while wearing a bra and outer garment. (Actually, we found Nelly’s constant grabbing of his dick — another wonderful image for today’s ’utes — much more offensive.)

Powell is threatening possible fines. That could make for chaos, with lawsuits flying like confetti, since Viacom owns MTV, which produced the halftime show, and CBS, which aired it, and all of CBS’s affiliates could potentially be liable. The FCC head was also making noises about offensive advertising, but screw you if you can’t take a few fart and crotch jokes, right?

P&J wish that instead of running around like hysterical Butterfly "I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout birthin’ babies, Miz Scarlett!" McQueen impersonators, someone would come down hard on the talent-less, faux homeboy Timberlake, as well as Jackson, for projecting the image that it’s acceptable for a man to sexually attack a woman. Contemporary music does enough damage by calling women "bitches" and "ho’s."

HIRE THE HANDICAPPED

Want to know the biggest question making the rounds at the State House this week? "What is John Celona’s handicap?" In golf, that is.

Our old pal, the fetching Kathy "Faster, Pussycat, Kill, Kill" Gregg, the Urinal’s ace State House scribe, has sung her fangs deep into "My Sharona’s" neck and is publicly shaking him like a rag doll. This comes courtesy of recent disclosures, the kind mostly ignored until the recent ethics scandals, that one of CVS’ and Blue Cross’ best buddies got treated by local companies to golf outings at some very prestigious courses. These included Cox Communications, Lincoln Park greyhound owners, casino lobbyists, Citizens Bank, and Delta Dental. (Phillipe would have loved to make up a foursome on the links with the three of Celona’s benefactors who we regard as old chums — the lovely Smokin’ Faye Sanders of Citizens, Joe Walsh, State House old boy and dog track enthusiast, and Guy Dufault, perpetual wiseass and honorary Narragansett Indian.)

Naturally, none of these ventures into the world of $50 Nassaus and a few cold ones at the 19th hole have anything to do with My Sharona’s former post as chair of the Senate Committee on Commerce, Housing and Municipal Government. The swinging senator from Nawt Prov got pushed from his chairmanship after the Urinal blew the whistle on his undisclosed financial ties with CVS and Blue Cross. (Kind of like those companies having a good recovery club in the bag for those tough shots in the rough.)

Also making out well were officials at the Economic Development Corporation, and state treasurer Paul Tavares, a Seinfeld’s "Newman" look-alike. The latter told Gregg that being treated to lunch by the various financial institutions he deals with is "normal." There’s the rub. None of the folks who routinely have favors bestowed upon them by the corporate community view any of this as out of line, let alone a potential breach of ethics.

P&J’s chum Representative Edie Ajello acknowledged, "Tickets and offers of tickets for professional athletic events and the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus have been sent to me," but she threw them away. Why not? Once you’ve worked at the biggest circus of all, under the dome of the state capitol, what could be better? The greatest show on earth, replete with the odor of manure generated by large animals, right here in the Biggest Little.

(Sideshow attraction: Both GTECH and CVS, expert sword and information swallowers, refused to give information to Gregg about their outlay of goodies to legislators and decision makers. P&J would never even think to begrudge them. But as the saying goes, you are either part of the problem or part of the solution.)

BOBBY'S NEEDS A BUTT-KICK

Jorge was brought up in the Bucket, also known as Pawtucket. He spent more than a few hours, in fact, roller-skating at the old Bobby’s Rollaway, just off Newport Avenue near the South Attleboro line. In recent years, the rink went the way of all 1950’s fads and gave up the ghost. It was resurrected a few years back as Bobby’s Banquet Hall, and although we’re glad to see something happening at one of the old destination spots in the Bucket, our vexation continues.

Jorge’s family goes quite far back in Pawtucket history. His mother’s maiden name was Jenks, a direct descendant of the city’s founding family. This is one of the reasons why P&J have been so thrilled about the administration of Mayor James Doyle and his efforts to make Pawtucket a serious arts center. In noting this, we don’t mean to overlook the good work of other Pawtucket visionaries like Bob Billington, state Representative Peter Kilmartin, and especially Herb Weiss, a prime cultural and economic development mover. None of it would be possible without the vision of Jim Doyle.

So much for brown-nosing — here’s the downside. Last weekend, there was a magnificent performance in Pawtucket by the world-class tenor saxophonist Scott Hamilton (a Providence native, by the way), augmented by a terrific group including Harold Jones, Marty Ballou, and Paul Schmeling. The Pawtucket-based jazz promoter John Worsley is chiefly responsible for making this happen, and he deserves congrats.

The people who run Bobby’s Banquet Hall, however, ought to straighten out their act. They drew a full house for the Hamilton gig (we’d estimate about 300 people), but were somehow unprepared. There had far too few bartenders and wait staff to serve the crowd. If you wanted a drink, the wait was a good 30 minutes. Not only is this bad planning, it’s bad business. Bobby’s lost thousands in sales because it had no clue as to how to deal with this crowd.

What really upsets P&J is how so often we hear the complaint, "We can’t have jazz shows in Rhode Island, because we can’t make money." Well, Bobby’s could have made a killing on this show, if only it was prepared.

RIP 'CRAZY LEGS'

Any football fan worth his Tom Brady replica jersey knows "Crazy Legs" Hirsch, a Hall of Fame wide receiver who spent his wonder years in the 1950s with the L.A. Rams, virtual inventors of the wide-open passing game that is now the foundation of the NFL. He got his nickname in high school and bore it throughout his life — which ended last week at age 80 — and why not? What a great handle. He also parlayed his fame and Left Coast locale into a brief fling on the silver screen, starring as himself in the eponymous Crazy Legs, and a couple other B-movies. He also features in a famous Vo Dilun-related story.

After his pro football career, Hirsch became the athletic director at the University of Wisconsin, in his home state. Back in 1978, the Providence Civic Center was chosen to host the NCAA Frozen Four men’s hockey championship, which Wisconsin was playing in. Although the defending champions lost both their games, many Wisconsin fans came to Little Rhody to support the team, decked out in red and white, the school colors. When his team wasn’t playing, Hirsch took up residence in the legendary Player’s Corner Pub, across the street from the Civic Center, a real sports bar before there were "sports bars." After the Badgers’ second loss, Crazy Legs came in for a few consolation pops, and as he left, threw a $100 bill on the bar, loudly telling the bartenders, "Buy a drink for anyone who comes in here wearing red." He departed to cheers. Bottoms up, Crazy Legs.

Send drinking tales and Pulitzer-grade tips to p&j@ phx.com.