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I'm not lovin' it.

That would, of course, refer to the McDonald's ad campaign which features the slogan "I'm lovin' it," and I don't have to tell you how the campaign appears to be an attempt to seem "hip" and "now" and "fab" and "boss" and possibly even "groovy, man" or "gear" to today's young trans-fat consumer. And that would be fine, if rather misguided, if it wasn't accompanied by things like I got in a Valpak coupon mailer this week.

The McDonald's coupon is a promotion for the fact that the chain has expanded the menu to include marginally less lethal, if significantly less tasty, items. The arches and slogan appear in the upper left (I'd scan it, but there are copyright notices and while I'd call it fair use, I really don't need any C&D letters right now), and there's ayoung blond woman in pigtails with a strange, insane grin looking at floating food items, accompanied by the slogan "my life my choice." Er, good for you. But that's not the problem. First, the detachable coupon says "get me FREE," and if "me" is the same as "I'm" and "my" elsewhere in the ad, I assume that means you get the girl free, which is certainly a deal but might be a little scary, considering the insane grin and all. And then there's this:

Get a free McVeggie Burger (R) with the purchase of any menu item, 'cuz McDonald's fits the way you live.

Wait just a goldarned minute. Let's replay that last part:

'cuz McDonald's fits the way you live.

Get that?

'cuz

Ah... no. No, no, no. NO. McDonald's can't go around saying "'cuz." McDonald's is a multinational corporation. Multinational corporations don't say "'cuz." This is the kind of cutesy, heavy-handed stuff ad agencies put in ads to make them "relevant" to the "target audience," who, of course, wouldn't be caught dead writing "'cuz" or, for that matter, ordering a McVeggie Burger. A Quarter Pounder, sure. But no McVeggie and no "'cuz."

You may not care about this. It makes me want to track down the marketing people responsible for this and make them pay.

(Is there any relevance to the fact that the Spanish version on the opposite side ("mi vida me eleccion") has nothing comparable to "'cuz"? Probably not- the agency geeks probably couldn't figure out how to do it, but you know they tried)

Here's a message to corporate America: it's okay, really, it is. We know you're a bunch of (mostly white, mostly male) people who aren't in touch with the street. You don't have to be. You keep pumping out the burgers and fries, we'll eat 'em, and you don't have to try to act "cool." You're not Fonzie. You're not even Richie. You're Potsie, you're terminally uncool, and that's the way we like you.

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The sun was setting, it seemed, directly at the end of the Hermosa Pier as we strolled on it, across the beach and over the ocean, and stopped above the water's edge. There was a warm breeze, the lights of Malibu and Palos Verdes were twinkling in the distance- Southern California doesn't get more Southern California-like.

And the only thing that mattered to me at that moment, this evening, was that the woman I love was there with me, her smile outshining the lights. Everything else disappeared. Work, money- nothing mattered. Just one person, the perfect partner for the perfect moment.

And whatever the faults of this day, however you want to spin its origins and commercial aspects and Hallmarkization, if it's merely an excuse to escape from the office on a Monday night, head for the beach, and share a special moment, well, that's good enough for me.

Happy Valentine's Day, Fran.

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A long, long time ago- okay, it was about 1988- Fran and I, as yet unmarried, were sitting in the field boxes down the third base line at Veterans Stadium, watching the Phillies play, when Dan Baker came on the P.A. and called attention to the scoreboard, on which someone was proposing to his girlfriend. As the happy couple burbled and smooched, Fran and I looked at each other, and we didn't need to say anything, but Fran did anyway:

"If you even THINK of proposing here, I will kill you."

No worry about that, ma'am. I'm not that stupid/crazy/unromantic.

Sunday night in Orlando, a guy dropped to his knees on the court during the Magic-Hornets game and proposed.

Photo Credit: WKMG-TV/Orlando- local6.com

Bless her heart, his girlfriend turned and ran away.

(Hat tip: Pat Campbell, WFLF (540 WFLA)/Orlando)

Guys, it is a rare woman who wants to be proposed to at a ballpark. Women grow up dreaming of being swept away by the handsome prince riding the white steed. They'll accept a heartfelt ring presentation at a nice restaurant or an appropriate location (for us, it was Logan Square in Philadelphia, by the fountain at night). They most assuredly do not dream of being embarrassed or pressured in front of 15,000 strangers buzzed on watered-down Bud Light.

The hard truth is this: the proposal, the wedding, the reception, guys, they're not for you. Guys don't dream of marriage. Guys don't think they'll ever get married, and when they do, it's kind of a surprise to them. Women- not all, but I'd venture that it's most- dream of the proposal, dream of the wedding, dream of it all very specifically. They know what they want- the proposal on the beach, the wedding at the Ritz-Carlton, the prince sweeping them away, riding off into the spectacular sunset. Dwight Howard and Grant Hill do not figure into that image unless they're the groom.

Yes:

No:

If you're a single guy, consider yourself schooled. No need to thank me.

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And after all that, the proposal in Orlando was a hoax. The Magic did it as a publicity thing.

It worked- nice one. But what I said still holds. You don't propose at a ball game. And it you were thinking about doing that, don't. You got that?

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I was going to go on a rant about the House passage of the indecency bill when I was distracted by models in body paint. The good part is that if you really, really concentrate and focus on the body instead of the paint, the view's nice. The trouble is the paint. If I'm going to be staring at, say, Daniella Sarahyba (and that reference guarantees a sudden Google leap- hi, Daniella Sarahyba fans), I really don't want to have any thoughts about the Phoenix Coyotes.

What?

Oh, right, indecency. Well, you know how I feel. Like here or here or here or here or here or here or here or here. I'm not gonna repeat the argument here. But I still want Fred Upton or Joe Barton or any of the Congresspersons who voted yea on the bill today to explain to me why they're so crazed by whatever they perceive indecent broadcasting to be, what the harm is, and why this, of all things, required a rush vote while countless other actually important issues remain untouched. I also want to ask why the Washington press corps doesn't ask them the same questions, why the Congresspeople and Senators and FCC commissioners all get a hall pass for this one Perhaps it's because 99% of the reporters covering broadcast regulation have no idea what the issues are, because they haven't worked in the business and don't understand the business and don't give a rat's ass, since they only took the beat because it was the only one available. (Even trade reporters, a group of which I am a member, aren't on the ball- I won't make much mention of a particular trade reporter's embarrassing appearance- he clearly didn't know how Congress works- on Stern's show this morning because I like the guy, but, y'know, geez)

Bottom line: we've entered the Twilight Zone, and broadcasters refuse to stand up for themselves. If I had a show right now, I'd be on the air every day demanding answers and rallying listeners and storming Capitol Hill. But I don't have a show, and the industry won't defend itself.

And maybe I shouldn't waste my time helping people who won't help themselves.

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It's raining in L.A. right now- it's pretty hard and pretty steady, and pretty, actually. Southern California in the rain is lovely, palm trees waving and glistening, the ocean turning dark and choppy. THis is lost on the locals, who can't drive in this weather, and it turns the TV newscasters absolutely moronic. A few minutes ago, the weather clown on KCBS-TV news actually suggested that viewers take the day off on Friday if they can to avoid driving in the rain. He was serious. We're not getting a monsoon, we're just getting rain, regular rain, the kind Seattle gets 300 days out of the year. Yeah, take the day off. Take cover. RUN!!!

And the idiocy is contagious. Just after that gem, anchor Harold Green introduced a report on the mysterious peacock deaths in Palos Verdes Estates by saying they were happening in "Rancho Verde Estates," then threw it to reporter Jaime Garza, who promptly identified his location as "Rancho Palos Estates." He later amended that to Rancho Palos Verdes, which happens to be the correct name of the town in which I'm located. But that's not where he was.

I have to stop watching the local news.

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We walked by a place tonight that does cosmetic enhancements and procdures and the like, and there was a menu of sorts outside the front door:

You can see there are some things that have been taped over on the menu. Um... what's under the tape? I mean, are there things that, well, they can't- er, don't do anymore? Was there a consent decree with the state? Why would they have to cover over some options?

Just asking.

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Yeah, so, Los Angeles people overreact to rain. Ha ha!

Ha ha my ass. Sometimes, smug sarcastic humor comes back to haunt you. Last night, after writing yesterday's post and hearing John and Ken talk about it on the air, mocking the weatherman for his panic-inducing forecast, I went to sleep, secure in the knowledge that, hey, it's just rain. No big deal.

It was about 2 am.

CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

What the hell was THAT?

Thunder, Fran whispered. Just thunder.

But it sounded like the roof just caved in!

It's thunder.

And so it was. The rain had picked up into a torrent, the lightning and thunder were... well, you know, we don't get lightning and thunder in Los Angeles like you do almost anywhere else. I hadn't heard nor seen that kind of thunderboomer since a couple of Midwestern trips over a decade ago. And they were close- I was doing the count-the-seconds-between-the-flash-and-the-boom thing, and the two were simultaneous. Direct hits.

CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

Ella the World's Most Famous Cat was born in Long Beach. She's never been outside of the LBC and South Bay. She had no experience with this kind of thing, and she was terrified. After running under the bed and spending a couple of hours there, she decided to try and come back out. She scrambled onto the bed at my feet, teetered on the edge, then tried to walk across the bed, planting one paw on my leg, wobbling, testing the ground (my leg) with her other paw, satisfied, then, just as she began to walk over me...

CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

And like a shot, she was back under the bed. It's about 12 hours later and she's still shaky.

The next inkling that this was bigger than we'd thought came when my sister and I went to get a little walk/run exercise in between the raindrops. There'd been some dirt in the pool, some standing mud/water on the edge of the patio, but nothing too bad when we went out, but after we got rained on a lot, we returned and a neighbor was bailing water out of his garage with trash cans. Poor guy, I thought, and then I came back, took a shower, changed, walked into the living room, looked out the glass doors to the yard, and saw that the patio was underwater. The whole thing, right up to the house. Water and dirt and mud. After a while, it subsided, and we all figured it was over and time for lunch. We drove up the street and had to turn around- a fire truck and utility crews were there, and there were hoses and mud everywhere. Down at the end of the block, a fleet of trucks had appeared, with several workers and sandbags. Up the next street, we got onto the main road, which was now covered with mud and rocks, and after a quarter mile, we were turned back because rockslides had closed the road. We went the long way around, and in our lunch travels, we saw power outages, mudslides, utility crews, sewer trucks, and blinking or dead traffic lights everywhere. Finally back home, we discovered our street had become Mud River.

And that's what it's like now. Looking up the street:

And down the street:

And right at the street:

The shiny stuff's mud. It's flowing. It's worse in person.

And now comes the promise: I will never make fun of people who panic over minor weather emergencies again. Never.

Until next time. I can't help myself.

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