Friday, February 28, 2014

Do Androids Dream of Electric Cars?

So there's a Cadillac commercial that was in heavy rotation during the Olympics. It stars Neal McDonough, who's played a shady creep in pretty much everything I've ever seen him in (Desperate Housewives and Justified spring to mind; he's always a great choice for a villain), selling Caddy's new electric model.

Here it is, if you want to watch.

Anyway, the Huffington Post got itself in high dudgeon about the thing, calling it a "nightmare."

I've seen the commercial, and I think it's pretty awesome. Not because the message appeals to me, but particularly because it doesn't -- it's not designed to appeal to anyone who would already be thinking about buying an electric car.

All electric-car sales and PR campaigns, to this point, have an element of altruism at their core. (Buy one and save the planet, etc.) This ad doesn't care. It's just "Buy one because it's the new thing. Because we're American. Because we work harder. Because we deserve to have all the best stuff."

It's an irritating message to libs like me. The dude comes off like an arrogant prick. But to the people this ad is meant to appeal to, riling people like me (and HuffPo readers) is a plus. And I understand that -- that multilingual Coke ad in the Super Bowl was nice and all, but wasn't it even better because it stuck a thumb in the right wing's eye? Wasn't watching that ridiculous freakout fun? Pass the popcorn, and maybe I'll wash it down with a Coke.

Cadillac has decided there's a market for electric cars beyond people with environmental concerns. That's GREAT.

(Most of this post originally appeared as a comment in a pal's Facebook thread.)

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

In which Rob's dreams reveal his deep distrust of the medical profession

I dreamed I was going to the doctor’s office to get laser eye surgery. It was a four-part process, at least, and this was my third session. As part of the procedure, after the actual laser eye surgery, I would have to chew a pill and then get shot in the head. They would hand me a pill, I would go into a little room, and someone I couldn’t see would shoot me in the head. I guess you could say this was a nightmare.

I’d been through this several times before. I always assumed the sniper was in the building across the street. Then I heard something shuffle above me. I looked up. In the ceiling tiles were hundreds of bullet holes, patched with dangling strips of bloody gauze. I started screaming. I couldn’t remember whether to eat the pill before or after I was shot, and I scrambled around the room, trying to find cover, a red laser dot following me from above.

Eventually I ate the pill and heard the shot.

Sometime later, maybe that afternoon, I’m recovered enough to leave. There’s a party for me outside, on the hospital lawn – a surprise picnic. My mom’s there, some others of my family, a bunch of my friends. It’s a big day. I only have to go through this one more time, if I’m lucky. I take off my glasses and look around. My vision’s no better than it was before.


(In no coincidence at all, I get my CPAP machine today. My worries apparently run deeper than I knew.)