Skates + Death + Olympics = NBC Heaven

When the mother of Canadian figure skater Joannie Rochette died of a heart attack shortly after arriving in Vancouver to see her daughter's Olympic performance, you knew what was coming: epic pathos milking. And NBC did not disappoint. Consider:

• Color analyst Sandra Bezic, the queen of pretentious over-enunciation, declaring that Ms. Rochette is both the "daughter of Canada" and the "daughter of the Olympics," is an "incomparably courageous soul," and "made magic on the ice." True, if magic involves double-footing multiple landings.
• Scott Hamilton, whose voice registers higher than a shitzu's yelp, weeping his way through two days of analysis and stating that this performance was "not about medals." Please. The only way Ms. Rochette would not have earned a medal was if her routine involved urinating on the maple leaf flag.
• Meredith Vieira, "View" yacker turned Today Show co-host, informing Ms. Rochette that her mother is "definitely smiling down upon [her]." Of course she isn't, for two reasons: 1) the dead do not "live on;" 2) if they did, abusive parents of skaters would still never smile, particularly when their daughters only earn bronze.

Here's an idea: instead of fetishizing death, NBC should, just once, give the public a brief education on the baffling difference between a salchow, toe loop, lutz and axel.

The Clinical Definition of "Sex Addiction"

Being a male.

3rd Quarter Joy

The most sublime moment of the Super Bowl telecast was not the successful outcome of Sean Payton's kamikaze onside kick call; it was not the sight of Drew Brees holding his bewildered, oddly named son, Baylen, aloft at the game's conclusion; it was not The Who's mix-master performance of "Pinball Baba O' Blue Eyes Fooled Again."

It was a commercial. From Google. And it is the best, most perfectly realized piece of television advertising in over a decade.

Consider the run of juvenile spots that surrounded Google's 3rd quarter oasis: castrated men, pantsless office workers, stunted beer drinkers, whorish women (thanks, GoDaddy.com) and, of course, tired anthropomorphism (fiddling beavers, vengeful dogs, talking flowers, screaming chickens). These derivative, desperate attempts at "entertainment" have only a passing connection to the products they represent, and, worse, wouldn't stand out on an average WB sitcom.

Now take a close look at Parisian Love, Google's brilliantly simple 60-second story. Yes, I said story. Because what Google does that's so revolutionary by today's bombastic, set-up/punchline standards is to convey a full narrative arc -- nothing less than the romantic life of a young, then not so young, man -- entirely through the use of its own search engine. And because there are no actors nor settings, we are drawn in even further to flesh out the story ourselves. That is advertising at its most elemental and beautiful.