HeadOn: A Lesson in Marketing Brilliance

Oh, you've seen it, too?

It's been six months since the most cryptically obnoxious commercial in recent memory first aired. The ad for HeadOn seemed so functionally retarded as to be immune to ridicule, and by now it's revered as a pop culture phenomenon for its "what the hell was that?" quality.

But this was all a front, you see. Have you noticed new versions of the spot? Where a struggling actor/actress steps into the frame to emote about how obnoxious the ad is? At the end, they tack on a grudging testimonial about the stick's apparent effectiveness in spite of its "annoying" promotion: "But your product is amazing!" says the bald black man, gnashing his teeth and clenching the stick in what can only be described as homicidal appreciation. The blonde woman in the other version also seems dangerously undermedicated in her praise.

But there's some genius in this whole promotion.

1. The original ad was just a straw man. We're supposed to rally around the call of those onscreen "critics" who apparently share our distaste for the commercial, and this makes their claims of the product's effectiveness seem all the more objective and credible, therefore.

The only drawback is that they're too crazy. The ad campaign just squandered a perfect setup by making these people seem too wronged by the commercial. It's as if every time they're exposed to the ad, you'd later find them sprawled on the floor of their shower for an hour and a half with the water barely running ("Not getting clean... not getting clean..."). I don't know about you, but even after six months of watching this commercial, I was never quite there.

This is really the only mishandling of an otherwise fiendishly clever advertising scheme, and it does have additional strengths.

2. The commercial induces the very ailment that it is widely assumed to cure. Can you imagine how much more profitable Viagra would be if its nationally televised commercials were to somehow feature 80-year-old women in the nude? I believe men of all ages would be struck impotent and in immediate want of the little blue pills for hours afterward. This is no different.

3. Also notice that the ad and its Web site never specified what malady HeadOn is supposed to assuage. Headaches? A conjecture bearing some merit, yes, but what if it doesn't "cure" headaches? You have no reason to complain; perhaps that's simply not HeadOn's purpose, and you're just misinterpreting a highly complicated commercial. I've brainstormed some other possibilities for HeadOn's intended effect:

a. A spiritual balm to open up The Third Eye, allowing HeadOn's purchaser to mentally punch through the dimensional fabric and peer into the future. Just look at that woman's eyes.

b. wrinkle-busting Botox chapstick.

c. LSD, which takes an express lane from the skin to the brain.

d. A glue stick. After rubbing in its adhesive, the consumer then writes the word "Tool" on a sheet of paper and then applies the sheet directly to the forehead.

I really do think this is the Snakes on a Plane of pseudo-medical products. Now, I don't know anyone who's admittedly bought a stick of HeadOn, but judging by the ad campaign's staying power, something must be working. Still, the ad's oft-repeated line shouldn't be reverberating in our brains for much longer. Which will be nice, because for a few minutes following each commercial break during Jeopardy, it's been a bitch to concentrate.

Snow (Oh No)

It's making national news, this blizzard, and the big picture is that this Wrath of God storm is smothering half the state of Colorado. Here in the Springs, alone, our airport is closed, the post office is closed, and Baskin Robbins is... open.




And yes, that is a skier going down my street.

I hope he found his Saint Bernard.




Everything feels to be in stasis right now. Anyone striving to actually go out and accomplish something, like shop at the mall which opened back up at 2 this afternoon, was due punishment by other like-minded lunatics. Enough of their 2-wheel-drive pickup trucks spun their tires on my street for me to realize the futility of travel today.


Right now there is no safe way to move about town besides dogsled, and I was out of luck; this was the only willing beast available to pull.






Like everybody else around here, I've got relatives trying to book alternative airline flights here in spite of nature's apparent decree. Deep down inside, though, I know my aunts are glad to have this as an unbeatable excuse to stay home.


On the sports side of it, the blizzard also cancelled last night's Nuggets game vs. the Suns. We would be sans Carmelo, J.R. Smith, and our new Blue-Light Special point guard, Allen Iverson, so some of us are relieved that the spanking will be postponed until Iverson can pick up and move to Denver for the game. The heavier sigh of relief, though, has got to come from Iverson, who would have otherwise been subjected to the most haphazardly rushed physical ever performed.

But the Suns are still going to stomp us once the Answer snowshoes into town -- just not to atoms, maybe.

I Infiltrate the Emo Kids Pt. 2

NOTE: See the previous post to learn one of many excuses for this conclusion's delay. I at least wanted to finish the story this year, so now that's that.

30 Seconds to Mars rushed out on stage wearing hooked-nosed Renaissance masks. Before beginning their set, they ripped off the masks, and all eyes locked onto the lead singer: as I'm sure any of the howling girls would have told you, Jared Leto is the band.

And good gravy, the guy has a set of pipes. He surpassed the recorded album in this respect, belting the vocals with the length and precision that makes one wonder "he acts, too?" I was all the more impressed upon learning he was sick that night and chugging along without sleep for the previous 48 hours. His stage antics included venturing into the crowd twice (apparently seeking to spread his illness), and spinning, which was made all the flashier by his wearing a white coat with tails.

Honestly, only in rare moments could I actually hear him sing. Since most of the time I chiefly heard the vocals of the girls behind me, it's only fair that I review their performance as well:

This trio of girls gave a vocal interpretation of 30STM's set that was uneven at best, downright amateurish and grating at worst. The harmonies were nonexistent and they obviously did not know how to blend. However, they exuded a confident crowd presence, and what they lacked in pitch control and tempo they compensated in zest and loudness. Nonetheless, these girls (whoever they may be) left much to be desired, and this reviewer fought a constant temptation to shove his way elsewhere in the audience to be couched among superior talents.

Jared Leto made himself surprisingly personable on stage. Sometimes, in the middle of a song, he'd engage us in banter.

“Repeat after me: Fuck you!”

(“FUCK YOU!”)

“Fuck you!”

(“FUCK YOU!”)

This made for a more stimulating All Ages concert than I’d expected.

After the show, anyone who'd obtained special wristbands from buying 30STM merch could stand in the band's autograph line. Bare-wristed, I lounged near the merch booth waiting for Saskia to get her T-shirt eventually signed by the blood-soaked minstrels. Also near the merch table were assorted members of the opening acts, lounging or moping. If you've read Part I, then you're quick to understand that there were no autograph lines forming before these fellas. Maybe one resembling the famous single-file line in the movie Airplane!, but for autographs and hugs, no.

I had a wrenching inner conflict over whether I wanted to make small talk with any of the other bands; I was in a position to instantly improve some of their moods provided I was willing to lie. I knew I would open with some banal question over how they were adjusting to the high altitude, etc., but I feared the conversation would steer toward the topic of whether I'd enjoyed them at all. I remained in my corner, choosing the honest path of silence. This in itself was difficult because while Head Automatica was playing I was seriously considering the honest path of violence.

Eventually Saskia, autographed shirt in hand, found me again. Because of the creatively altered dress she was wearing, the band insisted that she get her picture taken with them, and they encouraged her to wait outside by the tour bus.

We reunited with the magnanimous group of Echelon kids who originally let us stand with them at the front of the line that afternoon. Shivering in front of the tour buses, 30STM fans exchanged awe-struck reviews of the concert in a perceivable glow, though grimacing in the cold. I spoke to no one except for some occaisional whispers to Saskia, and although I looked the part, I was, in my silence, obviously not a 30STM fan. I had a favorite song of theirs now ("From Yesterday"), but nothing I felt was valid to offer in any of the fans' conversations.

Shannon Leto, the drummer, emerged from the back doors to greet the fans. Clusters of emo kids converged on him, broke away, shuffled around, then reformed for picture after picture. Before Shannon left, he said he had no idea whether his brother was feeling well enough to make an appearance as well.

The emo kids grew uneasy. And to pass the time they snapped more and more pictures of each other. I drifted to the fringes of these photo clusters, observing their "see you at the next show" cameraderie and undertones of musical kinship. Then the leader of Echelon arranged a giant ensemble photo for the Web site, cramming everyone in red and white lacy dresses and black tuxedo shirts into the frame.

They invited me into the photograph.

With an uncanny sense of timing -- for many of us were about to desert the tour buses before hypothermia started claiming lives -- Jared Leto came out soon after. My memories of his appearance are dominated by his eyeliner and surprisingly short height; I flashbacked to the time I shook Eddie Izzard's hand in the Paramount Theater lobby.

Gruff but not surly, Jared Leto warned us that he had only ten minutes before he had to hit the road, so everyone best get their cameras ready so he can get to everyone. And from what I know, he did: Saskia got her picture with Jared.

30STM is going to play California over winter break, and Saskia's ambition is to gather a group for a road trip. Currently, I'm waffling. Should I decide to go, I'll have to get that white button-up shirt dry-cleaned. And prepare a more credible explanation for the blood stains.

An Exchange of Services

I’ve been kept from this blog lately, which is a bother because I had yet to conclude my 30 Seconds to Mars story (I had a couple readers complain to me about that, which is reassuring). The trouble is that I’m heading into finals week, and as it happens, my professors think essays come from magic and that I’m goddamn Merlin. There aren’t enough hours in the… hour, to accomplish what I need to. Combine that with Adelphia’s flickering broadband service at my house, and blogging has been nigh impossible. (At the moment Adelphia is being taken over by Comcast, so as of yet I’m not sure who to mail the king cobra to).

I’ve been equally occupied at my work. I tutor at my school’s Writing Center, and we’ve been getting some… interesting cases… in there lately, which I blame on the end-of-semester stress and the phase of the moon. Of the handful of stories I’ve accumulated in the last few weeks, here’s the most recent one of note.

During a session this week, one of our writing tutors was... propositioned for sex.

According to Patrick’s personal account, a 40-ish woman came in one evening especially harried. Her Art History papers were routinely mutilated by any pen-wielding professor who attempted to comprehend them, and she needed help with an especially important analysis assignment. When her alotted 45 minutes was almost up, the woman told Patrick, who is in his late 20’s, that she was dyslexic and couldn’t edit the rest on her own. She began speaking to him in hushed, confiding tones. If he could find the time to “come over” later and help her finish, she said, placing her hand on his leg with a smile, she would “take good care of him.” She slid her hand further up on him with a wink. Patrick was, it’s safe to say, taken off guard, and he reacted much like I would have under these circumstances (“she didn’t really just do that, la, la, la, la…”).

The woman saw that his uncomfortable disregard for the comment signaled her failure, and the session soon concluded without any home addresses being exchanged. That doesn’t change the fact, though, that this lady was willing to exchange sexual favors for proofreading.

Yesterday I learned who this student was, and I’m going to tell you that I’d had a couple one-on-one sessions with her, myself. Now, two weeks earlier I critiqued one of her feminist film analysis essays that she submitted to our online service, and seeing that there was too much going on in the paper to handle through email, I advised her to come in for some live tutoring. She showed up asking for me, and we sat down to review the parts of her essay that I hadn’t gotten to. The woman made a few disclaimers about how she was a horrible writer who hadn’t been back to school in eons, and even then her papers would be looked over by a boyfriend – a resource she no longer has. She was clearly a wounded ego, and I adopted honest yet euphemistic language that I use when I have to tell vulnerable writers why their papers are shit. She was much more accustomed to “direct” criticism, and when she noticed that I was sugar-coating a bit…

She: “I know, I know – this paper’s just terrible.

Me: “No, it’s just not ‘there’ yet.”

… she seemed half-surprised and half-appreciative, remarking that I was “very cute”. I blushed.

“Well, I’m just telling you…”
“No, really, you’re cute.”
("She didn’t really just say that, la, la, la, la.")
We moved on. Later, during a pause, she looked at me and said that I resembled her nephew in New York.
“Okay,” I acknowledged. “Now, if we move this phrase to the front of the sentence, does it sound any bet—”
“Oh, but he’s a very handsome young man,” she assured me.
“Really? Well… thanks, I guess.” I blushed. “That’s funny that I would look like—”
“His name is Giovanni.”
“Uh, okay.”

The next week I worked with her, she was better behaved. I suspect this was due in part of her having her two young children in tow. The prepubescent boy and girl played on a nearby computer, and their mother managed not to hit on me once.

I know what you’re going to say. First: poor kids. Second: I wasn’t the one being offered sex for editing, so what do I have to talk about?

Now granted, Patrick’s a tall, well-spoken man with a deep voice for radio, but if you ask me, it was all a matter of timing. She came to see me at 9:30 the morning; her appointment with my compadre happened to be in the evening. And don’t forget that this Writing Center temptress was likely more stressed as deadlines drew closer and closer, presumably bringing her desperation (if not her libido) to a boil by the time Patrick tutored her. Again, that’s not to say that Patrick doesn’t appeal to many females who receive his counsel: I know for a fact that he does. I’m just saying that had I been in his place that Wednesday night, I’d have undoubtedly received the same offer, that’s all. Which, mind you, I would have declined, but still, I’d have that story to tell instead of the one where I’m “cute”.

Right. Glad to clear that up.