VW's 'Un-Pimp My Ride' is Classic

The ad agency of Crispin Porter and Bogusky have outdone themselves by creating this series of commercials for VW's new car launch. I'm not one to watch anything repeatedly but I have made an exception with this one. They're hilarious each time. CPG definitely did their homework and knew exactly the audience they were targeting, which makes for an even richer and longer lasting campaign. Check out the series of 3 for 'Un-Pimp My Ride'.

I have a friend who lives in Idaho and she says no one in the area gets the commercials and don't find them funny. I say, 'thank goodness since they're not the target anyway'. If you've ever watched any of MTV's original programming (Pimp My Ride, RW/RR Challenge, Punk'd, etc.) for fun or as a guilty pleasure, you're the target.

Enjoy (for many days to come)!

Shopping with Mom

October 28, 2004
When I was 12, my mom and I started a ritual. Every Saturday she would wake me up at 6am and we’d get dressed and spend the entire day shopping. She’d give me my allowance which was usually $5 and we’d head to the first spot which was the Capital Flea Market in South San Jose, about 10 minutes away from our house. It was actually a drive-in theatre that turned into a flea market on the weekends. For some reason we both became hooked on Rain-Blo bubble gum and sought it out every weekend at the flea market. We found one vendor who sold them by the box, like you see in the corner store. Mommy would buy a box of them and depending on her mood she’d buy me a box. If she wasn’t in the best of moods, I had to use my allowance to purchase a box.

I hated going to the flea market during the summer as it was unbearably hot and dry. The flea markets didn’t have shade and it was Mommy’s goal to start at one end and work her way up and down each aisle until the end making sure she didn’t miss anything. That was at least three hours of walking. I know, everyone has bad summers but this is all I knew and for me it was miserable. It wasn’t the type of heat that came with a breeze or moisture. It was dry and burning. I could feel my forehead sizzling and turning black. I was a kid who hated any physical activity that made me sweat. So to walk around a flea market with my mom was fun because I was with her, which was my favorite thing to do in the world, but the heat caused me to sweat to the point where my shirt would be wet and I could feel the moisture running down my back.

It was so hot I couldn’t wear closed shoes like sneakers or loafers. I had to wear sandals or flip-flops. This was gross for me considering even at age 10 I was a OCD about cleanliness. I hated getting dirty, sweating and having anything touch my feet other than nice plush, clean, carpet. However, if I wanted to hang out with Mommy at the flea market, it was either expose my feet or have them sweat to death. I wanted to cry when she’d decide to go to the farmer’s market section. There would be smashed fruits and vegetables on the ground and I’d do everything possible to keep from having any of it touch my feet to the point of walking on the heels of my sandals to make sure nothing touched me.

My mom always thought I was being dramatic and ignored me but it was something that almost brought me to tears. I would immediately rush to the bathroom when we got home and washed my feet. I’d beg for handy wipes if we were going to make any other stops. I finally started asking my mom where we were going each morning and only if we were skipping the flea market would I wear my flip-flops.

But all that aside hanging out with my mom on Saturday mornings were the best.

They were the best when she was in a good mood. She’d joke with me and at the flea market we’d share a cup of French fries or she’d give me money to get an ice cream cone. I loved sharing my food with my mom. I felt like I was giving her something back.

The second stop on our Saturday shopping trips would be to the local thrift stores. They all smelled the same. Musty from unwashed old clothes and furniture. But Mommy loved those places and came away with some good finds on pots, toasters, can openers, books and sometimes she’d get clothes there for her and us. My dad hated her going to those stores. He felt we were not poor and should not buy other people’s cast-offs. His complaints were ignored and he realized it so he just asked her not to ever buy shoes from thrift stores. He felt people could have infections or athlete’s feet and he didn’t want that brought into the house. Just thinking of that grosses me out and to this day I won’t buy shoes from consignment shops. But Mommy didn’t care, she’d find shoes she liked and sneak them in the house and Daddy wouldn’t know the difference. Sometimes when we were shopping she’d try and get me to try on a pair of shoes and I’d complain until she said forget it.

Our next stop of the day would be any garage sale happening on the way to the grocery store. My mom was such a garage sale fanatic that she’d almost leave tire marks coming to a stop if she passed one. She’d always make me look out the car window to see if there was anything good. I was her radar. We spent so much time together I actually knew what she would and wouldn’t like. She trusted me and if I said stop, she’d pull over. It was always a 50/50 chance she’d buy something but she had to stop just in case to make sure she wasn’t missing something. We had more Tupperware containers and pots and pans than anyone I knew then or know now.

Our final stop would be the grocery store which was uneventful but Mommy still had to go up and down each aisle even if she had a list. If she was in a good mood she’d play with me there and as I walked ahead of her she’d pinch or tickle me and when I squealed and squirmed away she’d laugh and ask, “what’s wrong with you little girl, is that a new dance?” I’d look at her with playful anger and tell her no and she’d say, “I think that is a new dance, show me again”, and she’d pinch me again. This continued down the aisle until my squeals were too loud for her. At that point her face would turn from playful to grouchy and she’d pull away from me and tell me to stop being so loud. She asked me, “Why do you have to ruin it by being so loud?” I didn’t realize I was ruining anything, I was just having fun and I was a kid, we have no sense of decibels and when loud is too loud. At that point she’d refuse to talk to me or play and she was back to the business of grocery shopping. That was hard to understand. No one was looking at us or judging her, she was a mom playing with her daughter. But she didn’t see it that way. She told me I was acting a fool in public. This pattern of our Saturday shopping trips went on for years from when I was 8 until I was 16.

It hurt when we’d go shopping and she was in a bad mood or her mood would turn sour. We’d still have our ritual stops but she was quiet, grouchy and everything I said, did or touched got on her nerves. This resulted in my getting in trouble over the smallest things (touching something, walking too slowly, being too loud, etc.) which usually resulted in my being yelled at in front of other people. I hated that. She could have done anything to me, taken something away but to yell at me in public was the worst. I felt so small and I’d refuse to cry so I’d swallow my tears and feel like I was choking on a lump where it sat in my chest for the rest of the day.

My Mom, the Military & 1964

October 10, 2004
My mother, Margaret, is from Cleveland Ohio and at age 27, decided she needed to leave Cleveland and build a life for herself and that life was the military.  Margaret first went to Alabama for physical training which was not great considering it was the Deep South in 1963-64.  She dealt with the ‘white’ and ‘colored’ bathrooms and barracks.  Most challenging was having to rely on her white colleagues to order food at the local restaurants and bring it outside to them for consumption in their car because blacks weren’t allowed inside.

Margaret was excited when she received a notice stating she was being relocated to Japan considering her most recent experience in Alabama.  She had been coming back to Alabama on the Greyhound after a recent holiday from visiting her family in Cleveland.  Because she was heading back to the military base, she was dressed in her full army uniform.  She was so exhausted from the ride that she fell asleep and missed her stop to transfer buses that would get her back to her barracks location.  Once she was realized the error, she asked the bus driver what to do next.  He suggested she get off at the next stop, and take bus 32 which was heading back in the direction she just missed.  

Upon arriving at the next stop, she secured her luggage and walked over to bus 32 and to make sure she asked the driver if he was heading back to the military base in Alabama.  The driver sat for a moment staring at my mother in her army uniform.  He was an older white man in his late 40’s with a blotchy face and swollen belly that exposed his years of drinking.  He finally replied in a dismissive tone, “You’re not riding my bus”.  My mom stood there confused, unsure of what he meant and was wondering if she’d walked up to the wrong bus.  She stepped back, looked at the bus number and approached the driver again.  “Excuse me sir”, she said, “I missed my stop on the last bus and that driver said for me to take your bus to get back”, she said, pointing to the bus she just left.  The driver now was looking at my mom with sincere disgust and repeated those five words, “you’re not riding my bus”.

Feeling utterly confused but also embarrassed, Margaret picked up her bags and headed into the train station.  She went to the ticket counter and explained her situation of needing to get back to her military base.  The ticket agent confirmed that bus 32 was indeed the bus she needed to take to get back and Margaret took a deep breath and headed back outside to the bus 32 driver.  As she approached the driver, she was scared as she realized she was alone but her desire to get back was stronger.  She walked up to the bus driver who was standing on the last step of the bus entrance, drew herself up to her full 5’6” frame and said, “excuse me, but the ticket agent inside said your bus is indeed the bus I should take to bring me back to the Alabama Army Base”.  

The bus driver stepped down and took two steps toward my mom, making sure his full height and belly towered over her.  He looked down at her as if she were an annoying bug he thought he’d ridden himself of and it now had appeared again on the end of his fork.  He stepped so closely to my mom that she had to lean back.  Although she tried to stand her ground, his weight and smell continued to force her backwards and she finally had to take a step back.  She kept her head up and never took her eyes off his.  Finally, he yelled with the level of menace you’d expect from someone who would really like to see you dead, “look, I don’t care what he told you, you are not and will not ride on my bus”.  He leaned forward in one motion with such force that my mom stumbled back, to which he turned, stepped onto his bus and closed the door in her face.

Feeling completely humiliated my mom smoothed out the front of her uniform and tried to avoid eye contact with those who were standing outside the bus station watching the entire exchange.  She refused to cry in front of these people so she bent to pick up her bags and fighting the tightness in her chest and the sting of tears to come, she walked back into the bus station.  She went back to the ticket counter and to the agent she’d previously spoken to.  She relayed the incident to the ticket agent who looked at her with the pity one would give to a child who couldn’t grasp the answer to a math problem and said, “Well honey, if the man says you can’t ride his bus, that means you can’t ride his bus”.   He told her the next bus would arrive in three hours and she was welcome to wait in the terminal until that time.

Margaret sat on the hard station benches for the entire three hours.  Her throat burning the entire time from the tears and pride she’d had to swallow.  By this time Margaret was exhausted and stressed at the thought of missing her curfew.  The bus came when the agent said and Margaret boarded the bus and made the ride back to the military base without another incident.

Margaret would remember that story vividly for the next 20+ years but never shared it with anyone until she told me over dinner two years ago in 2004.