Hiring Criteria: Game of Thrones

The fact that I don’t watch Game of Thrones has absolutely destroyed my ability to get a new job.

Seeing how most of my interviews occur on Monday mornings, I have to endure hearing the following phrase, “Sorry if I seem a little tired, I was up late watching the last episode of Game of Thrones. Wasn’t that just crazy what happened?”

“Actually, I don’t watch it.”

“Oh,” they always say. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

And then they get it over with.

I lucked out and got an interview on Friday afternoon, but then was unexpectedly delivered this juicy quote: “How excited are you for Game of Thrones on Sunday?”

“Actually, I don’t watch it,” I said.

“Oh,” the woman said. “You’ve never watched it?”

“Well, I watched the first two seasons.”

“And what happened?” she asked as if I’d just walked into her office with two broken legs and a neck brace.

“It just wasn’t for me,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

And then she got it over with.

Another potential employer called and asked me to come in on Monday.

“How about Wednesday?” I suggested.

I lucked out again and booked an 11:00 am interview on Wednesday — primetime. This elation was short-lived, however, when the woman interviewing me said, “I just got back from a long weekend in Napa.”

“I love Napa,” I said.

“Me too. The only problem was, my wife and I didn’t have a chance to watch Game of Thrones until last night. I had to avoid spoilers all week. Can you believe John Snow and…” and then she proceeded to list a bunch of characters I did not know, therefore, could not believe.

“I’m sorry,” I said, interrupting her. “I actually don’t watch it.”

“Oh…”

People’s reaction to me not watching Game of Thrones is like when you’re about to hook up with somebody, and then you both realize you don’t have a condom. “Oh…” Then there’s this awkward pause followed by the mutual shrug of “should we still do this?” before you both agree it isn’t a good idea and then you’re walking out of the room calling for an Uber.

I had an interview last week I swear went like this:

“Do you watch Game of Thrones?”

“No.”

“Thanks for coming in.”

In that box where you check your race and ethnicity on job applications, they should have a separate section where you check YES or NO for “Do you watch Game of Thrones?” After which it should read, “Providing this information is voluntary and has no impact on your employment status.”

But we both know it does.

San Francisco DOA

Photo source: The San Francisco Examiner

Fifteen years ago, I remember the city smelling of sweet oysters and freshly cracked crab.  The sidewalks were regularly swept and the streets, apart from a few specific areas, were relatively pothole free.  North Beach was always bustling with Italian grandmothers packing hand-pressed raviolis into green felt tote bags.  The Mission had this unmistakable aura, no doubt fueled by toasted masa and crackling stacks of pork.  The neighborhoods were unique and individualized, but strangely ubiquitous.

Today, the power hungry, IPO-craving, start-up bragging, MIT-graduating vultures have descended on the city with blood-thirsty intents.  The streets are clogged with traffic and construction, everyone stuck in a perpetual state of idle.  Curbsides are riddled by hot garbage, sweating in the sun and stifling the nostrils.  The city is transformed into an amalgam of narcissism and desperation, a stinky cologne in any capacity, but set against the backdrop of a stale, bland series of buildings slowly singing into the bay, it’s downright awful. 

Two bedroom homes have been converted into crude, indistinguishable six-plexes, doing their damndest to house 19-year old programmers who slam Red Bull waiting for their balls to drop, and only visit the Mission to gawk at poverty as they suck down $15 cocktails composed of 58 ingredients all from some organic farm up the coast that nobody has ever heard of. 

I move through the streets uneasily now, shiftily moving my gaze from person to person as if I’m to be stabbed at any moment.  And I see that familiar look in all the other faces, paranoid and stressed.  We easily pass by the homeless mother breastfeeding her malnourished daughter with milk that is tainted by heroin.  A little farther up the road, we ignore the clean-cut 20-something wearing the SendGrid t-shirt and Bose headphones—his only imperfection is the needle sticking out of his arm and the fact that his eyes have rolled back in his head.  We ignore the blood stains on the once-clean sidewalk, stained by some poor sap who stepped off the Wells Fargo building after he lost his pension in PayCoin.  We ignore all this while pretending the city was what it was: a clean, beautiful, melting-pot of cultures and ideas, hell-bent on destroying hate and upholding equality; instead, we choose to hide behind these ideas as we destroy the city we still believe is great.

Surviving the Slew of Uninformed Experts: An Engagement Essay

I haven’t been engaged to be married for very long, but in that time, I’ve come to realize — especially when it comes to weddings — not only is everybody opinionated, everybody is an uninformed expert about everything.

On Day 1 of the engagement, I spent the morning sifting through emails in which friends and relatives have given me dates over the next 18 months that simply — and I quote: “won’t work for them.” These emails usually start with something like, “So excited for you guys! Having said that, don’t get married on August 4th, 17th, 23rd, or 30th.”

On Day 2 of the engagement, I received an email from an aunt that went as such: “Dear Ben, Congratulations on your engagement! I hope you know that your cousin Margaret has finals on May 4th, so please consider an alternative date for your wedding. Additionally, it’s Julie’s birthday on the 11th of that month, and on the 18th we are considering a trip to Maui — nothing is booked or confirmed yet, but we’re tossing a few ideas around, so if you were considering May 18th for your wedding, reconsider.”

On Day 3 of the engagement, I received a call from my Uncle Gordon.

“Ben!”

“Yes?”

“Congratulations!”

“Thanks.”

“Just so you know, your Aunt Grace and I are selling the house.”

“Is that right?”

“Well, we’re thinking about putting it up for sale.”

“All right.”

“Not right away or anything. And certainly not during the winter — damn hard to sell a house in Minnesota in the winter, you know — so we were thinking about June of next year. So, if you were thinking about June for the wedding, it’d be better for us if…you know…you didn’t.”

By Day 6 of the engagement, the entire summer had been unofficially blocked out by the unofficial plans of my family and friends.

On Day 8 of the engagement, my work friend Allison came over for dinner with her fiancé of five years, Phillip. They brought a bottle of champagne and the four of us toasted with dusty pink flutes that had been in my cupboard since I’d moved in.

“Sooooooooo, when’s the wedding?” Allison asked.

“Well…” my fiancée began.

“You absolutely must get married in April. Soooooooo romantic. Spring is underway. Birds are chirping. Isn’t that gleeful? Phillip, tell them how gleeful April is.”

“April is gleeful,” Phillip said in a way that made me feel sorry for him.

“Who’s doing your dress?”

“I’m not sure, I think…” my fiancée started to say before…

“You absolutely need to use my friend Veronica. She does the most amazing dresses. And she’ll probably give you a deal. I mean, I haven’t spoken to her since college, but I saw on Facebook she’s doing dresses now and they look soooooooo amazing! Phillip, tell them how amazing Veronica’s dresses look.”

“Veronica’s dresses look amazing,” Phillip said.

On Day 9 of the engagement, I was sitting at work when my co-worker Bernie approached. “Hey, I heard you were getting married,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Why’d I have to read about it on Facebook, man?”

“What’s that?”

“I thought at the very least you’d let me know you were thinking about it. We have lunch together, man.”

“Sometimes.”

“I thought we were friends.”

“I mean, we work together.”

“It just would have been nice to get a call. You know, when I got engaged, I called everybody I knew. You should really do that, you know.”

“Ok, Bernie.”

“Can I tell you the secret to a successful marriage?” he said. “A happy wife means a happy life.”

“I thought you were divorced.”

“Erroneous!” he said, and sauntered off.

On Day 12 of the engagement, I was sitting with my fiancée at an upscale cocktail bar a block south of the train station when a stranger approached us. The woman, in her late 60s; a mink shawl wrapped around her shoulders; her greying hair dyed a cheap orange; said, “Are you two engaged?” She pointed at the engagement ring with an expression that looked like she’d just tasted something sour.

“We are.”

“Is that a princess cut?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It was my grandmother’s.”

“You should really think about getting a princess cut,” the woman said, and then motioned to my fiancée. “It can be very slimming.”

On Day 14, my fiancée and I were told by eleven different people to use eleven different colored wedding invitations. “You should use eggshell. You should use cream. You should use bone. Taupe. Lavender. Snow. Vanilla. Powder. Ivory. Smoke. And Lace.”

“All right,” I said each time.

“You know where you should go on your honeymoon?” my next-door neighbor said on Day 15. “You should go to Greece. I went to Greece the summer after I graduated college. My father paid for me to go; it was the best. Or Croatia? Have you been to Croatia? It’s absolutely magical. I hear the Maldives are nice. I’ve never been, but I think it would be absolutely magical. Bora Bora is nice. Again, I’ve never been, but wouldn’t that be absolutely magical for your honeymoon. For me, though, it doesn’t get more romantic than…”

And then my neighbor proceeded to list half a dozen countries in Europe, a dozen more in the South Pacific, and even work in a quaint B&B in Siberia she’d once seen on the Travel Channel.

“I was thinking of Casablanca for the honeymoon,” I said.

“Oh gawwwd! You don’t want to honeymoon there!”

“You’ve been?”

“No,” the woman said, almost appalled by the question.

After the first few weeks of being engaged, wedding conversations resulted in something closer to turmoil than joy. I dreaded whenever somebody pointed out my fiancée’s ring or even sent me a text.

Don’t get married in Napa, it’s too touristy.

Don’t get married in Half Moon Bay, it’s too quiet.

Don’t get married at the courthouse, too many degenerates.

After work, I have a standing invitation with the fleece throw pillow on the edge of my bed to launch my face into and scream. And I scream knowing full well when we inevitably decide on the eggshell invitations with American gothic calligraphy inviting family and friends to an October wedding for which they will eat whole roasted filet and mashed sweet potatoes with carrot top chimichurri and sip 16 year old Lagavulin and slurp down $60 bottles of Iron Horse champagne and watch us drive off in a restored Volkswagen Beatle with environmentally safe, biodegradable soda cans tied to the bumper which will take us to the Kenwood Inn where we will stay in the Tuscan Suite before we jaunt off to Palermo for an eight day tour of southern Italy somebody will undoubtedly call, or post, or text, or tweet that they were the one that suggested the fucking eggshell invitations.

(Originally published on Medium on September 17, 2017 under the title “An Engagement Story”)

Shawls and Handbags Are Not Your +1s

There were only three seats at the bar, a peculiar set up for a Hollywood watering hole with newfound prestige. As it turned out, all three seats were occupied. In the first seat was a crocodile skinned Lana Marks handbag. In the middle seat sat a woman, her back arched so that I could see the depth of her spine and the zipper running up her Oscar de la Renta dress. And in the third seat rested the woman’s pleated Valentino shawl, delicately wrapped up like a nest of angel hair pasta.

“Are these seats taken?” I asked, gesturing toward the two inanimate objects flanking her.

The woman — I pegged her to be in her late 40s — looked from her shawl to her handbag back to her shawl again. Believing this was a sufficient enough response, she went back to staring at her $18 Gimlet. Realizing I wasn’t moving, the woman turned back and said, “Do you mind? You’re crowding my space.”

I thought, I know who you are. You’re another one of those entitled prima donnas; a trust fund baby who grew up with two ponies and complained she didn’t have a third. I thought, you grew up in Westlake Village and starred in two or three community theater productions, the most notable of which was Oklahoma! Maybe you played Gertie or Aunt Eller. Or maybe Daddy threatened the director or Mommy pulled a few strings and got you the part of Laurey. I thought, you’re another future victim of Hollywood, stagnated by a slew of failed auditions and humiliating casting couches. You breeze through life expecting the world to hand you what you trust is already yours. Your brain has been pumped so full of wild delusions, you truly believe three seats aren’t enough to accommodate yourself, a shawl, and a handbag.

I thought, you’re one of those people that volunteers to work at soup kitchens, but only on Thanksgiving mornings. And even then you refuse to go because of a mild hangover or Lithium-induced paralysis. You march for women’s rights, but then don’t vote. You wear Black Lives Matter t-shirts, but don’t know what the A.C.L.U is. You watch H.G.T.V, but then change the channel to CSPAN when you hear a knock at the door. And, just admit it, you secretly love that Kylie Jenner Pepsi commercial.

I thought, I know who you really are you conceited shit bird. You drive 55 in the far left lane and then cut over at the last second to make your exit. I thought, you’re the one I honk at when the light turns green and your Range Rover doesn’t move. I thought, you pump your gas while smoking your Cloves and Instagramming your lunch. You don’t tip the maid because you think it’s her job to clean up your vomit tinted green with half-digested Crème de Menth. And you hold up the Starbucks line and then order the same fucking thing you always do: a triple venti, half-sweet, half-fat, caramel macchiato with an extra shot and caramel drizzle.

I thought, you’re one of those people that insists she’s allergic to gluten, soy, milk, eggs, beer, yeast, nuts, sugar, and corn syrup, even though you eat brioche, egg-white omelets, feta, almonds, and, oh yeah, triple venti, half-sweet, half-fat, caramel macchiatos with extra shots and caramel drizzle.

I thought, you’ve probably never even seen Star Wars.

I thought, I got some life advice for you, lady: first, go watch Star Wars. Then have a beer. Purge your inbox. Update your apps. Read the classics. Subscribe to something. Go to at least one baseball game a year. Wash your car once a month. Floss daily. Moisturize. Drink more water than most articles say. Donate. Find a rooftop, sit on it, and stare out at the horizon. Write more letters. Talk less. And please, for the love of God, stop telling me how great Hamilton is.

Lastly, I thought: look, lady, there are hooks under the bar top for a reason, so do us all a favor and move your fucking shawl and handbag. You’re not saving those seats for anyone and your obliviousness only makes this worse. And I know you know the hooks are there. And I know that you know that I know that. And I know that I’m not the first schmuck to wander up and see your callous disregard for everyone else in the room.

I thought all of these things in an instant, but the only thing I said was, “Sorry,” and moved to the back of the bar.

You Can STILL Go Now, Clay Helton

Photo Credit: Associated Press

The following is a redlined version of the article “For Clay Helton, You Can Go Now” originally published on November 12th, 2018.

Idiots in training

Photo credit: NBC Sports

For USC's Clay Helton, You Can Go Now

University of Southern California Head Football Coach Clay Helton

Coming off their most embarrassing loss in recent memory, there are several uncertainties when it comes to the USC Trojan football team.  But there is one thing that has become clear for a team mired in a dreadful 5-5 season: head coach Clay Helton has to go.

Personally, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a Clay Helton fan.  History has shown he’s not exactly been a “winner.”  While he started his college playing career at Auburn, he transferred to Houston after his father was hired as their head coach.  Even with his father at the helm, Helton became nothing more than a backup quarterback and he finished his college career completing just 47 of 87 passes with 1 TD and 4 INTs in 16 games. 

But did those Blake Bortles-worthy numbers deter a team from hiring him?  Not when your father is head coach.  Houston hired him to be running backs coach in 1997, a position he held until his father’s final season in 1999.  From there, Helton moved on to Memphis where he held the positions of RB and QB coach, as well as offensive coordinator, from 2000-2009.  During that time, Memphis went 53-68 , with Helton’s final season as OC ending with a measly 2 wins and a whopping 10 losses.

53-68 hardly screams success.  But what does that matter when Lane Kiffin (another one of USC’s unmitigated disasters) is in charge of the hiring process?  In 2010 Kiffin hired Helton to be the team’s QB coach.  He was promoted to O.C. in 2013, and named head coach in 2015 after the departures of Lane Kiffin, Ed Orgeron, and Steve Sarkisian.

Since his hiring as head coach, Helton has led the Trojans to a respectable, albeit unremarkable, 32-15 record, with a Bowl record of 2-2 (including a humiliating dismantling by Ohio State in 2017’s Cotton Bowl).  Fans have watched him squander talent, blow leads, and destroy a once-revered program, and all of this has culminated in one disastrous 2018 season.

And Helton’s problems this season are well-documented and not easily refutable.  We’ve witnessed his inability to make halftime adjustments (the Trojans average 3.4 points in the 3rd quarter—ranking 118th out of 130 FBS schools—and an abysmal 11.4 points in the second half).  We’ve witnessed his inability to get his team to run the ball (nearly 25% of the Trojans’ runs have gone for no gain or a loss, and their average of 2.07 YPC ranks 122nd in the FBS) or to pass the ball (of the 13 eligible quarterbacks in the Pac-12, JT Daniels ranks 12th).  The Trojans do rank inside the top 10 in one category, though, most penalties per game (tied for 8th).

But the most unfathomable moment of 2018 came last week when, after Helton fired USC’s offensive coordinator and assumed play-calling duties, the Trojans suffered an embarrassing home loss to the Cal Bears, 15-14 (the Trojans scored 0 points in the second half, by the way). A loss rife with mistakes, stagnant play-calling, and bungled coaching decisions. The Bears, in case you were wondering, are a team USC had beaten an incredible 13 times in a row, and Helton let them walk onto his field and break him. 

It’s clear Clay Helton is not the guy you want to be stuck in the foxhole with.  He’s not the guy you look to when the going gets tough.  He’s the guy wandering the locker room at halftime looking for anyone else to make a decision.  He’s the guy standing on the sideline after his quarterback has thrown a pick-six wondering what the hell he should do.  There is zero confidence in the man—and, what’s worse, his players know it.

For most football programs, the Trojans’ stunning loss to Cal would be the last straw.  A final cherry on the sundae of a lost season.  For now, though, USC Athletic Director Lynn Swann seems content to let the sinking ship sink once and for all.  But with scholarships on the line, recruits leery of committing to a fledgling program, and commitments itching to decommit, I ask the A.D.: at what cost are you willing to let Clay Helton drive this storied program into the ground?

Take a step back, read the numbers, read the results, and read the players’ faces, Mr. Swann.  They’ll tell you one thing: it’s time for Clay Helton to go.

Also published on Medium

My Case Against Tiger Woods

There’s no denying Tiger Woods is the game’s most popular golfer. He’s hit some miraculous shots, won by improbable margins, and currently owns 14 majors and 80 career wins, but — and hear me out here — Tiger Woods is not the player, nor the person, you think he is. And it’s time to concede he shouldn’t be as popular as his charade would have you believe.

Bear with me as I dispense a few points.

To start: Tiger Woods is not a team player. This past weekend was the Ryder Cup, and the United States was subjected to another thrashing by the Europeans on foreign soil. Tiger Woods, fresh off his first tournament victory in more than five years, finished the weekend with an 0–3 record. This isn’t an isolated incident. Tiger Woods’ career at the Ryder Cup is a dismal 13–20–3 (W-L-T), with a partners record of 9–18–1. Woods has the second-most lossesof any American player in Ryder Cup history. Now, one can argue being selfish is in a golfer’s nature; in tournaments, they’re out there on their own, competing against a field of 100+ players; them against the rest. But year after year, Tiger Woods is picked for the Ryder Cup team, and year after year, Americans cheer for him even when the math suggests he’ll be one of the team’s biggest detriments.

In his prime, Woods dominated the game like no other. He still holds the record for the highest win margin in the U.S. Open and he’s the youngest player ever to win a career grand slam. But let’s consider the “talent” he was competing against, and recognize it was extremely limited. Woods was beating guys like Bob May, Chris Dimarco, and Rocco Mediate. Combined, these three hold 9 career wins (May has 0) and zero major championships. That’s like the big 8th grader on the playground beating up on the scrawny six-year old. Next, think about guys like Jack Nicklaus (who currently holds the record of major championships, with 18 — an additional side note: Nicklaus finished 2nd in major championships a whopping 19 times — 13 more times than Tiger Woods). Nicklaus competed against legends like Arnold Palmer (7 majors), Tom Watson (8 majors), Gary Player (9 majors), Lee Trevino (6 majors), and Seve Ballesteros (5 majors).

Woods has never faced this kind of talent.

Therefore, Woods’ so-called dominance must be taken into account. Most people are familiar with his intimidating Sunday-red attire, Woods prowling the golf course, ready to pounce on the competition. But did you know Woods has never won a major when trailing on Sunday? All 14 major victories came when he was leading, or sharing the lead, going into the final round. He’s never been able to overcome a 1-shot deficit in majors. If this man is so dominant, how come he can’t get it done on the final day when trailing? If he’s so intimidating, why doesn’t his competition go running for the hills? Tiger isn’t just mortal on Sundays, if he’s trailing, history says he’s all-too beatable.

I also question Woods’ treatment of his fans. Growing up, I remember him always shouting into crowds, “Who took that picture?” or “Get that camera out of my face.” Even to this day, when he walks through galleries, he refuses to high-five any of the youngsters, instead skulking through the crowd with a fierce intensity normally reserved for bull-fighters. When I raise this issue with Tiger fans, they’re almost excited about this intensity. “That’s just how focused he is, man! He doesn’t have time to high-five, he’s already thinking of the next hole!” If that merits popularity, so be it, but I don’t see how ignoring a 7-year old who traveled 2,000 miles to see his idol warrants likability.

Lastly (and this is purely subjective), his game-style isn’t one I’m attracted to. It never has been. I find his fist-pumping obnoxious, his self-importance insufferable, his treatment of the media eye-rolling, and his tantrums childish. I always preferred the strong, silent-type of players. Athletes that went about their business with little aggrandizing. Athletes like Sampras and Federer over Nadal or Djokovic. Larry Fitzgerald over Chad “Ochocinco” Johnson. Venus over Serena. LeBron over Kobe. Pacquiao over Mayweather.

But from 1997–2009, when I’d raise these issues with Tiger fans, they’d brush them off as insignificant points. And then it happened: it was discovered, for years, he had been cheating on his wife with not one, not two, but dozens upon dozens of women. From porn stars to Chili’s waitresses, Woods had no filter for his mistresses. Admittedly, cheating on your wife isn’t an anomaly when it comes to professional athletes, but the way in which Woods went about it was genuinely bizarre. On more than one occasion he took his wife to the Perkins restaurant where his mistress worked, playing out some weird sadistic, sexual game. He engaged in multiple rounds of sexting, many times in his wife and children’s presence. His affairs were even discovered during a Thanksgiving Day dinner. He followed this up with a bizarre press conferencein which he (sort of) apologized for his actions. As the scandal unfolded, I felt a surge of vindication. This player so beloved around the world turned out to be a scumbag, putting his family through one of the most reprehensible tales I had ever seen.

But did this change the perception of the masses?

Hardly.

Strangely, for many, it only intensified their loyalty. Kobe Bryant (guilty of his own indiscretions) infamously told Tiger Woods if you want fans to forgive you, you just have to win. And many fans seemed satisfied with that. “Why should we care what Tiger Woods does if he wins?” several of them told me.

But Tiger didn’t win.

In fact, he basically left the game. He went into seclusion, locking himself away for days at a time playing Call of Duty; he underwent several knee, back, and Achilles surgeries; and he spent time training with Navy Seals in Southern California as one of his “bucket list” experiences.

In turn, golf ratings dropped and fans found themselves clamoring for his return. But he didn’t oblige, slighting his fans and even suggesting he may retire. At this point, I thought for sure fans would move on from the man who either ignored, berated, or scolded them; a man who had never been a team player; a man whose dominance in the game was like if Michael Jordan played against the Florida Atlantic basketball team; a man whose moral character was comparable to that of Ben Roethlisberger and Donald Trump. To me, Tiger was like that abusive boyfriend whose actions were perpetually swept under the rug and fans kept telling themselves “this time it’ll be different.”

Why are we so quick to forgive these athletes for their actions? I find it shocking that when you go to Kobe Bryant’s sexual assault case Wikipediarecord, the page ends with “He was named the NBA’s Most Valuable Player in 2008 and the Finals’ Most Valuable Player in 2009 and 2010,” as if this fact vindicates him of his actions.

Why, after so many years of abuse, do fans insist on cheering for a man who has shown them little to no love, who has treated women like objects, who has disregarded his family’s well-being? After all, Tiger’s success is not our success. What benefits do fans see when he wins? When your team wins the Super Bowl or the World Series, it’s most likely the town you grew up in; there is a sense of local camaraderie there. I get that. But when a golfer wins a tournament, so what? Why does it matter so much? And why are we so intent on subjugating ourselves to amnesia for a player like Tiger Woods? What is the appeal here? I may never know.

In his time as a golfer, Tiger has proven to be nothing more than a narcissist and I will spend the rest of my days rooting against him. I will resume my tangents at parties as to why I don’t like him (nowadays, something that’s turned into a bland party trick), and, even after I explain why I don’t like the guy, people will look at me as if I have two heads, unable to comprehend why I don’t cheer for a player they covet so much.

I’m not asking you to hate the guy, or move on from the guy, or even root against the guy, I’m just asking you to recognize him as the person he really is.

(This originally appeared on Medium on October 3, 2018)

Michelob Ultra Has Some Explaining to Do

Dear Michelob Ultra:

I recently saw one of your commercials that roused an angry, unhealthy obsession in me. This wasn’t your light, prosaic, Chris Pratt advert that aired during the Super Bowl. This was your commercial depicting two women, in tableau, sidling up to a bar, ready for a night on the town. The woman on the right — a brunette — orders a white wine for her friend — a redhead — and, unsurprisingly, a Michelob Ultra for herself. The bartender first pours the glass of white wine. With each ounce, the glass begins to crack the marble bar top. The more he pours, the heavier the glass gets. By the time he’s finished, the entire bottom of the wine glass has broken through the marble.

A second bartender appears and sets a bottle of Michelob Ultra in front of the brunette. Smugly, she picks it up and smirks at the redhead, as if to say, “Drink up, fatty.” Male voiceover then tells me, “Michelob Ultra — 55% fewer carbs than a glass of white wine.” Unfocused in the background, we see the brunette chatting it up with a group of friends, the redhead nowhere in sight — seemingly run out of the bar for such a preposterous order.

If your memory is fuzzy, you can see the full ad here.

The ad is only 15 seconds, but as soon as the commercial ended I had this sick feeling in my stomach. Admittedly, though, I wasn’t entirely sure why. I suppose I felt bad for the redhead. All she did was order white wine and she was treated like a Hun.

My first reaction was to loathe the brunette woman, self-righteously grinning at her friend whose only desire was a simple glass of wine. I pictured the redhead finishing a long, grueling day of work — an overachiever forced to answer phones for some wheezing, obese broker who preys on young interns and says things like, “Take that ass downstairs and fetch me a danish, will ya, sweetheart?”

This obsession had run far deeper than it probably should have. After all, it’s just a commercial. Right? Most people probably watched your ad and didn’t give it a second thought. But (and I’m almost embarrassed to admit this), I was so incensed, I found your ad to be the first thing that would come to mind when I’d woke and the last thing I’d think before bed. Things were getting out of hand…

After my 100th viewing, I finally stowed my computer away, ready to let you off the hook. Then I realized something: Somebody had to conjure up this commercial. Somebody had to storyboard it all. Somebody had to make the decision to pay for Computer Generated Imagery depicting a wine glass breaking through fucking marble. So, I did what any insane person would do: I researched the ad agency representing you. I needed to know who was behind such a thing.

After a few quick keystrokes, I discovered Foote, Cone & Belding represented the Michelob Ultra brand (they’re also responsible for your Chris Pratt ad people inexplicably love). Its key executives are Carter Murray (CEO), Jonathan Harris (Vice Chairman & Executive Advisor, Global Creative), Neil Miller (COO), and Susan Credle (CCO). The agency has won dozens of awards and seems fairly well-regarded in the advertising industry.

But how can that be? How can a company that has created something so grotesque be so respected?

Your ad which, at its very base, insists if you order white wine you’re a fat slob, and if you order Michelob Ultra, you’re a skinny winner. I wondered what your ad might look like if two men had ordered the same thing. Perhaps the man who ordered white wine would suddenly get a paunch. Or perhaps his hair would magically turn grey. Or bald? Perhaps the man who orders white wine loses an inch in penis length? Granted, the hilarity of the penis ad would be much grander than your original, but I’m convinced there would also be far more outrage.

How dare you depict a man losing an inch of his penis? society would scream.

You’d have to pull the ad. You’d have to issue a public apology. You’d have to fire the creative staff and scramble to assure your shareholders this was just an oversight.

But why, when it comes to two women, are people so willing to let you promote body shaming? By concocting such a commercial, you’ve created a world where women go into bars, see a slew of their friends drinking Michelob Ultra, and sheepishly have to order their Chardonnay while their “friends” silently judge them.

Why have you done this to women? But, more importantly, as a man, why have some us sat idly by and watched this happen. Whether we want to admit it or not: Men have been complicit in the oppression of women for years; years filled with rampant sexual harassment, promotion of body dysmorphia, unequal pay, unequal rights, the creation of a general fear-inducing culture, and, as evidenced by your commercial, it’s even seeped into our pop culture. Maybe your Michelob Ultra ad was the straw that broke my camel’s back. Maybe, in this Harvey Weinstein-era of abuse, it can be the catalyst needed for change.

I hope so.

I hate what your Michelob Ultra commercial represents, and I hate that this idea went past the creative phase at Foote, Cone & Belding. Do yourself a favor: go back to pitching Michelob Ultra as the beer for athletes, because if you want to promote 55% less carbs, you’ll have to do it without shaming women.

Sincerely,

Ben Hasskamp, Concerned member of society on a mission to civilize.

(This originally appeared on Medium on February 7, 2018)

Heartbreak: The Ballad & Plea of a Minnesota Sports Fan

Unfortunately, I am a Minnesota Vikings fan. To make matters worse, I am an all-encompassing Minnesota sports fan. And in the 30+ years I’ve spent cheering for the Minnesota Timberwolves, Twins, Vikings, Wild & North Stars, I’ve experienced more than my fair share of heartbreak. For examples of this, please reference: Gary Anderson missing a 38-yard field goal in the 1998 NFC Championship Game — his first missed field goal all season (he’d previously hit 35 of 35, a record at the time) — the Vikings would go on to lose in overtime; Blair Walsh missing a 27-yard field goal against the Seahawks (Vikings lose 10–9); Brett Favre’s interception against the Saints in the 2010 NFC Championship Game (Vikes lose in OT); and A-Rod’s 2-run homer over Joe Nathan in 2009 (Twins lose in the 11th). These, just to name a few.

To add insult to injury, the Vikings are tied for the most losses in Super Bowl history (1969, 1973, 1974, 1976); the Minnesota North Stars lost their only two Stanley Cup appearances before the team was moved to Dallas (where they finally won a Stanley Cup in 1999); the Timberwolves lost in the first round of their first 7 playoff appearances (they have never appeared in a Finals); Wild — 0 Conference Championships, 0 Stanley Cups, only 1 Division Title; and, since 1925, the Minnesota Twins have two World Series titles — to this day, the only two championships of all four Minnesota sports teams combined*. This heartbreak, though, goes largely unnoticed amongst sports fans, and we’re forced to listen to the obnoxious droning of others who claim to have endured more suffering.

This first became apparent during my sophomore year in college. I was living with a Boston Red Sox fan who wouldn’t shut up about the Curse of the Bambino. During those four days in October, when the Yankees squandered a 3-game lead in the AL Championship, we were all sitting on the couch cheering on the Sox, eager to witness the end of the Curse, and bring — what I thought — were much needed winning vibes to New England. But then I started to think…

Wait a minute, New England, the Boston Celtics have 17 NBA Championships. You guys got to watch players like Kevin McHale, Larry Bird, Bill Russell, and Robert Parish. You have 6 Stanley Cups. Your football team would go on to procure the greatest quarterback of all time and lead you to 4 Super Bowl rings (5 total for the Pats). And even before the so-called Curse of the Bambino, the Red Sox still won 7 World Series. To date, New England sports teams hold 37 championships across the NHL, NBA, NFL, and MLB (second only to New York with 50).

During the year I spent living in Chicago, Cubs fans everywhere bitched and moaned at the end of every season, grumbling about their Lovable Losers and how sorry I should feel for them. In fact, everyone seemed to be on the sympathetic bandwagon. Including me. For a while, at least. Then it dawned on me…

Chicago, you guys had the ’85 Bears. You’ve won 6 Stanley Cups. Even if you’re not a White Sox fan, they brought home the World Series in 2005. And, lastly, it’s hard to appropriate much sympathy for a city who had Michael Jordon. Jordan and the Bulls brought home 6 NBA titles in just 8 years (1991, ’92, ’93, ’96, ’97, ’98). For the record, Chicago holds the third most championships by city (29), including a 2016 Curse-Breaking World Series win for the Cubs.

My belief in Minnesota sports teams was waning. And then, just weeks ago, Stefon Diggs caught a miracle 61-yard pass from Case Keenum, something actor Michael Rappaport wasn’t a fan of, even though, and this is true, he’s a New York Giants fan. Putz.

After Diggs crossed the goal-line, we were foolish enough to believe luck was finally on Minnesota’s side. This optimism was short-lived as the Vikings were crushed the following week by more than 30 points in the NFC Championship game. We are left only to suppose it goes with the territory, since that’s the way the cookie has crumbled for many, many, many years in Minnesota.

But too frequently we’ve had to listen to fans tell us how “heartbroken” they are when their team loses. There have been too many instances when Lakers fans have said, “If only Kobe could’ve stayed healthy we would have won x,y,z.” You people don’t know what heartbreak is. So, let us Minnesota sports fans make one thing clear: We’re done doling out sympathy for franchises that deserve none.

Bay Area folks, stop telling us how shitty the Niners are this year. Or how under-utilized Derek Carr is. You had guys like Steve Young, Joe Montana, AND Jerry Rice. Between Oakland and San Francisco, you have 7 Super Bowls, 7 World Series, and 3 NBA Championships. Currently, you have arguably the greatest shooter of all time in Steph Curry.

Angelenos, quit whining about Lonzo Ball’s ineptitude and the heartbreak of this past year’s World Series. You still have 11 NBA titles, 5 World Series, and 2 Stanley Cups. By the way, you now have two NFL teams to which you can show up at halftime and leave halfway through the third.

It doesn’t matter, Clevelanders, if your Browns are 4–41 in their last three seasons. And it doesn’t matter if your Indians haven’t won a World Series since 1946? You have LeBron!

All you Eagles fans out there, if you should fall victim to the Patriots this weekend, thus, preventing you from winning your first Super Bowl in franchise history, fret not, the city still owns 7 World Series , 2 Stanley Cups, and 4 NBA Championships.

To be frank, as Minnesota sports fans, we’re not looking for sympathy; we’re not hoping you cheer us on in the playoffs; hell, we’re not even wishing you hope we make the playoffs; we’re just looking for you to shut your yap when your team loses. So, from this point forward, your belly-aching will only fall on deaf ears. Except for you, Phoenix (combined 1 championship), I think we can universally agree, even you deserve sympathy from all.

*Thank the heavens for the Minnesota Lynx! (4 World Championships)

(Originally published on Medium on January 29, 2018)