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.

9/11/01 - An American in Turkey (Part One)

I can’t believe it’s been four years since our lives changed dramatically from the World Trade Center disaster.

I wasn’t even here at the time.  I was on holiday sailing around the bays in Turkey with nine people.  We were all brought together by one friend who was originally from New Zealand.  It was the greatest experience as the boat had nine personalities from all over the world.  We were from Madrid, Auckland, New York, San Francisco, Brussels, and Sydney.

We were sailing from September 6th to the 16th.  The holiday started out wonderfully.  The weather was beautiful, the views were amazing.  We had a Turkish crew that included a captain, cook and a steward.  We’d sail in the morning to a set location and hang out all day.  We only needed to purchase the alcohol and the crew provided breakfast, lunch and dinner.

On the 11th, it started out as a day the same as others.  We’d docked close to a beach and in the middle of the water was this astonishingly high rock protruding from the sea.  Everyone climbed as far as they could and dove from the highest area of the rock.  Around 7pm our CD player that had been playing non-stop for the past five days, finally died.  So as we were sailing to the next bay to prepare for the night and dinner, we asked our captain to take us back to the beach to go ashore and buy batteries.

Three of us took the small row boat that was attached to our larger boat and went ashore.  As we were climbing out of the boat and wading, calf-deep in the shallow water I looked around and noticed the clusters of people lounging on the beach.  They looked relaxed and calm and then I heard this voice coming across what sounded like a sound-system.  It seemed odd to me that this vast beach could carry a voice that far.  The boardwalk area was about a city block away and it just seemed strange to hear this deep, British voice speaking in an eerily hushed tone.  The first thing I thought was this guy sounded like a golf commentator.  But then I realized, what would a golf commentator be doing announcing something across a beach.

Only when one of the friends with us froze in his steps and then took off up the beach to the boardwalk did I start to listen to what was being said.  Instead of how it was being said.  I heard him say, “this is the worst event in U.S. history…” and then my heart stopped.  I immediately thought there was an earthquake or some other natural disaster.  Never did my mind go to the area of a terrorist attack.

At the boardwalk there was only one bar with a rooftop deck that had a large screen TV playing.  Once we got to the deck, we realized that was the voice we’d heard on the beach.  When we arrived, the place was empty.  We stood at the bar, too much in shock and fear for what we might see to sit down.  As we looked at the screen I heard the BBC reporter say, “what you’re about to see is quite disturbing”.  Then came the image of the twin towers.  A plane was flying through the air heading towards the buildings.  My first thought of denial came about when I thought to myself, “wow, I didn’t realize the towers were so high in the sky that they were at the same level as planes”.  Then I watched as the plane disappeared between the towers.  I instantly looked to the other side of the buildings waiting to see the plane come out on the other side.  I assumed it was flying in between the buildings.  And then the explosion filled the screen.  I gasped and our friend sank into the bar stool.

We watched in shock and horror as the events unfolded and realized it was happening live.  We were about 10 hours ahead of New York.  Then I remembered that the friend who sank into the bar stool was from New York.  I asked him if he was okay and he couldn’t speak.  He finally couldn’t take watching the footage anymore and asked us to leave with him.  He stated that it wasn’t a matter of which of his friends were in the building but how many.  When we turned to leave, the bar was packed.  We were in such shock, we didn’t hear or feel the place fill up.  

Upon reaching the boardwalk, our friend could barely walk.  I and our other friend had to hold him up and we went to the nearest pay phone.  He wanted to call his family.  The phone lines were all busy and congested so we walked until we found an internet café where he could try and email his family.

By that time, our other friends had heard the same announcer from the boat and come to shore to find us.  We continued to watch the footage on the internet café’s TV for the next three hours.

The tragic thing about it was when we had a group of European men arrive in the café and asked the owner to turn the TV to a sports game.  Our friends were shocked and the group told us to relax.  That we were arrogant American’s to think that the world stopped because something had happened in our country.  They wondered if our world stopped when tragic events happened in Europe?

We left soon after and upon arriving back to our boat, we were all exhausted and still in shock.  Then the captain from a neighboring boat came over and started to tell our captain that the U.S. now knew what it felt like.  He assumed we were all Europeans and he continued that we deserved it.  We instantly told him to get off of our boat.

For the next several days we felt isolated and scared.  We’d received a notice from our travel agent that upon our arrival to Istanbul on the 16th (our date to return home), we should not let anyone know some of us were Americans.  That Turkey was the ‘Gateway to the Middle East’ and for us to be careful and lay low.

Tom Cruise On Oprah

I’ve always considered myself a fan of Tom Cruise. Sometimes he’s been a little to eager to be liked for my taste but I’ve stayed a fan. Maybe my annoyance with his eagerness comes from my own cynicism. I’m truly one of those cynics who wants to slap the girl behind the counter at Starbuck’s who’s just a little too chipper for 8:30am. The one who wants to kick the chair out from under the co-worker who rolls over to the opening of your cube and, with a little too much energy asks, “how was your weekend, did you have fun, what did you do?”

Okay, back to the point. Tom Cruise. I was recently watching Oprah and Tom Cruise was a guest. Oprah brought up the fact that he had a bi-racial son by asking if he’d had a conversation with him about race since it’s obvious he’s of another race. Tom’s response? “What do you mean, another race? My son is from the human race. He’s my son and I love him!” He then tells Oprah there was no need for discussion about it and it had never been talked about in his home. That all his son needs to know is that he’s loved and we’re all here to work it out together. I was shocked when Oprah chose not to dig deeper. It was obvious she wasn’t going to lose that friendship by asking anymore questions and offend him. So she doesn’t dig deeper, although she had to be thinking this man was crazy. Instead she starts talking about Steven Spielberg and his adopted, African-American daughter and how ‘pretty her hair is because it’s so big and full and that Kate had to learn how to braid’. Oh lord.

I wanted to throw up. Of course because of Tom’s altruistic, but unrealistic response, but also because Oprah was too busy enraptured with Tom to be an interviewer and get him to answer honestly. It goes back to his wanting to be liked so much he said what he thought he should respond with instead of what was real. His response is an irresponsible way to think in today’s world. And because Oprah let the discussion drop, she gave up on an opportunity to educate him (and the world) and have a very compelling conversation.

Tom Cruise is living in a bubble and that’s scary for his son. His refusal to talk about race is doing a disservice to his son. His son obviously knows he’s adopted, so why not talk to him about where he came from and teach him to not only be proud of the cultures that brought him to this earth, but also the cultures of his existing family. Why can’t he learn that his hair is the way it is because part of him is from Africa and that’s the texture of that culture. That part of him is a descendent of kings and queens who ruled tribes, and still do, for hundreds of years? If the other part of him is, let’s guess, Swedish, then why not tell him about that culture?

My boyfriend found out at a late age in life that he’s part Native American. Did that somehow turn him away from the non-Native American person in his family? No. It just showed him there was another facet to who he was and he was eager to learn more and be proud of that side of himself as well.

How is Tom going to deal when his son comes home and tells him someone called him the ‘N’ word? He’s going to hear it, it doesn’t matter how high up on the financial food chain he is. He still looks African-American and will be treated as such when he’s not under his dad’s arm. Keeping his son in the dark about those issues will only be a bigger shock to his system when someone treats him like he’s different or doesn’t belong because of his color.

It’s wonderful to want things to be equal and for everyone to ‘be in it together’ but that’s not the case and I don’t see anyone stepping up and taking Martin or Malcolm’s place to make sure it does (Jesse doesn’t count. He had his chance after Martin was shot and he sold out). People think because Oprah has been on TV for the past 20 years and almost every show now has a token black on cast, that racism is dead. It’s not.

I’m 35 years old and I live in the real world and unless his son decides to live in his dad’s bubble of celebrity for the rest of his life, he’s going to live in the real world too.

It’s not about preparing him to distrust people, to be cynical. It’s to let him know there are people out there who may judge him for being the shade he is. That some people are ignorant and make decisions about other’s character based on the color of their skin. That he shouldn’t second guess everyone who treats him rudely, but know that those who are blatant in their prejudice; know it has nothing to do with him. There’s nothing wrong with him, it’s the other person’s problem. But if you never have that conversation, how can you possibly know he’ll handle that inevitable situation in a healthy and strong way?

It doesn’t matter how much confidence, strength and love you give a child, when they hear that word, or words similar, it’s a shock to the system and is devastating. I know. I am 100% African American and in third grade, at a school that was 90% white, I was called the ‘N’ word. I knew what it meant without being told and from then on my world was changed. I felt embarrassed, dirty, and different from everyone and I just wanted to go hide. I felt everyone was looking at me with the disgust this one little kid had when he called me that horrible name. Would I have been stronger had I been talked to about the potential beforehand? I’m not sure but I wish I’d been given that option. I wouldn’t have felt ashamed because I would have known it had nothing to do with me. That I was okay, it was he who was the ignorant piece of crap who deserved the look of disgust and indifference.

I went home and told my mom what happened and will never forget the look of pain on her face. I think my parents had hoped it wouldn’t happen to me so young. Therefore, we’d never been any discussions about our being black and others possibly not liking us for it. It has to be painful to have your child come home and tell you they’ve been called any derogatory name. We lived in a predominately white area and when I look back I always felt my parents moved there to an all-white area to let us know we could live anywhere, do anything and be anything we wanted. That others couldn’t dictate our worth and direction in life. To be open to everyone and everything.

Anywho, when I told my mom, she sat me down right then and there to share with me the history of our race and rebuilt my confidence and that sense of pride back into my heart. She told me it was the other people who were ignorant and intolerant, that I was still the daughter she loved and the little girl my true friends cared about. I’d done nothing wrong. She shared with me the stories of her youth in dealing with prejudice and also shared stories of strength of the African American race and how they overcame such diversity and it was up to every generation to hold our heads proudly no matter how many names or stones that were thrown our way.

That day I learned the phrase, Stick and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me. It has stayed with me and I’ve had to repeat it in my head several times since that day to keep me from ripping out some ignorant punk’s throat.

I’ve digressed, back to Tom and his son. Have the discussion. Fill him with pride about the history of all the cultures in his family, including his biological one. Knowing won’t make him turn his back on Tom. He’ll probably love him more for it.