Bob of Montreal
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Beer Money
In societies where we consume brand-names to say who we are, then who the brand is makes a big difference. Thus, if you
don't think the announced merger between Adolph Coors and Canada's Molson is a big deal to Canadians, think again.
Molson sells beer in Canada by showing ads of people drinking Molson and announcing, "I am Canadian". And what is the over-riding characteristic of the elbow-bending Canadians? Politeness. That's right, my fellow Americans: Molson sells its beer not on loutish hollaring and leering jiggly-chasing (tongue-in-cheek ads featuring lots of mammalian beavers aside).
A recent ad shows a midling-looking 25-year old man in a bar, next to a striking young man. The striker is snaping his fingers, trying to get the bar maid's attention amongst the din. And the midling young man turns to the camera and rhetorically asks: "Why don't I try to get the bartender's attention by snapping my fingers?" Cut to the midler's home bathroom: "Why don't I flush the toilet while my room-mate is taking a shower?" (he hands a comely room-mate a towel). Answer: "Because I am Canadian".
And here's a few other "I Am Canadian" ads.
So, I'm curuious to see what happens when a company which has branded its beer with "I am Canadian" merges with a very US-based beer company.
Monday, July 12, 2004
New Things
I just started dating Courtney Love. I know, I know, I've heard it already from my friends: "She's high maintainence", "an emotional nightmare", "hard to shop for on Birthdays and Christmas." Also: "Wanted on a Bench Warrants in two states," say judges in Los Angeles, New York. "Just look what happened to an otherwise stable boyfriend" say millions of fans. Cassandras, all.
And, to be sure, her fortieth Birthday was tough -- a severe gynecological problem according to her lawyer; either a miscarriage or abortion if you believe the papers. But, from her bedside, at the right hand of her press agent, I can tell you that it was none of those things, but as traumatic as all of these things.
Most men of my age -- 36 years old now, single, professor, in Montreal -- would probably give the girl a pass. Too immature for her age, not knowing where she's going, planning for the future. But I suppose I've been guilty of that myself -- we have that in common, and we laugh about it together. We chuckle, Courtney and I.
At least, we have so far. We've only been out three times together -- four, if you count the hospital. Two dinners, one movie and drinks.
I was surprised the first dinner when she suggested that new Olive Garden in Chelsea. But, of course, Courtney Love is exactly who the Olive Garden in Chelsea is for. She couldn't put the breadsticks down. All of our waiter's stations were aflame when we left. In the back of a police car. She overtipped. We talked about politics, movies, all my favorite topics, late into the night in that holding cell, until the sun came up and we made bail.
Oh, but Courtney talks with her fists. Not that she beats me. It's a fair fight -- ground rules set ahead of time, no metal below the elbow. And I have the defensive bruises to prove it.
We'll see how it goes. Also, I bought an ice cream maker and two outstanding mantle clocks in Vermont.
