Let it be said up front: Comment-wise, I’m well aware I’m (probably) going to get lambasted for this edition of CommercialClack. But that doesn’t scare me. I have big shoulders … I can take it. Besides, I’m just callin’em as I see’em.

Yes, the annual Super Bowl Commercial Frenzy is upon us, ready to invade our television sets between seemingly endless 1st downs and time outs. Lucky for us (such that that luck is) a select few are available for preview prior to Sunday’s main event. And I’ve decided to feature a couple of them for your (chicken wing) dining and (end zone) dancing pleasure.

Honestly: I don’t know what Mercedes-Benz was thinking with the approval of this “Kate Upton Washes …” spot. It’s a substandard piece of advertising at best and on quite a few different levels … the “mockery” level definitely being one of them.

How ’bout a little breakdown as I see it? Good … glad you’re on board.

Firstly: What the hell is she wearing? Support hose? Fake and bake tanning stockings? I have no earthly idea. I’m happy to state I’m not “up” on my knowledge of female hosiery, so whatever they are I’m glad to be ignorant of them. As a bonus, I don’t have any desire whatsoever to go hunting for answers, either. All I know is their “stirrup” aspect caught my eye right away as the camera began at her feet and began panning up. Now here’s the thing, marketing gurus: If you’re going to (try and) present a sexy commercial featuring a supermodel? Granny leggings ain’t gonna do the trick. (I may be wingin’ it with that statement, but I don’t really think so.)

Then? Well … how ’bout we lie right at the viewing public about Kate washing the new Mercedes? (She does no such thing. She blows a gob of dripping soap bubbles off her hand and that’s it.) Imagine: An ad spot that outright lies to us! The gall … !!!

Several shots later of a wet and obviously-not-being-washed-by-Kate Mercedes CLA, we get 10 seconds of slow motion chest bouncing coming at us (where are the 3D glasses when you need’em?!?) complete with overly-stated hair caressing, face stroking and come hither looks from our Sports Illustrated femme. (Note that nowhere is the Mercedes in this sequence.)

Nor is it in the shot where she tells football player #80 he’s “missed a spot.”

But! The front of the car is there in the next scene as she turns tail and walks away from the washing crew in all her legging-wearing, muffin-topped glory.

Hokay … I’m exhausted. Exhausted over all that hype without a thing (in my opinion) to show for it. I’m stunned Mercedes committed 3 million (upward of 4 million?) to air this drivel during the Super Bowl, not to mention the time and effort utilized to put it together. But I really shouldn’t be surprised. Why? Because there’s a group of people out there who will appreciate the cute face, the smoldering looks and the blond tresses Upton is so good at offering. Me? I’m the furthest thing from being a card-carrying member of such a contingent. Her charms fall on deaf eyes. And as an advertising piece? This commercial doesn’t even work as a teaser for me.

Much, much better is Mercedes-Benz’ “Soul” ad featuring Willem Dafoe, a dapper Usher, brilliant Rolling Stones’ tunage (“Sympathy For The Devil”) and — thankfully — a mere few seconds of Upton … albeit it looking scads more glamorous than her corn-fed country girl visage as a (faux) washer woman:

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=oPNr0_6MnDo

Weigh in and let me know what you think about the two ads.

Meanwhile, I’ll patiently wait for my CareerBuilders spots (previously seen (here and here) to make their appearances. Bring on the monkey business …

[easyazon-image align=”none” asin=”B0078PXSMW” locale=”us” height=”116″ src=”https://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51PkbFwnRkL._SL160_.jpg” width=”160″] [easyazon-image align=”none” asin=”B00AZLERQW” locale=”us” height=”160″ src=”https://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51iSZkh-NsL._SL160_.jpg” width=”117″] [easyazon-image align=”none” asin=”0060890266″ locale=”us” height=”124″ src=”https://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51xNN-xviUL._SL160_.jpg” width=”160″]

CBS’ Vegas is the better version of NBC’s Playboy Club. Last year, NBC introduced a Mad Men knock-off allegedly returning to when men were men and women were eye candy … like THAT’s changed. Instead, we received a saccharine sweet, Taylor Swift rework. Rather than focusing on the Playboy Club’s seedy underside, the show provided a sanitized, kindergarten version. The club’s mysterious ladies man was a pretty boy playing dress up. The strong women wearing bathing suit-accessorized heels were the opposite of feminists.

Plus, the 1960s world created by the Playboy Club had nothing in common with that period’s reality. In the show’s world, racism magically didn’t exist and women weren’t sexual objects. Using the Playboy name shackled the writers creatively. Sure, Hef gave them carte blanche, but they wrote to the club’s idealized fantasy, rather than its historical actuality. I briefly wondered — what if they created a show focused on a generic casino (not the Playboy club fantasy) featuring Nick Dalton as the owner (to more believably center him in the action)? Would that create a more believable 1960s drama? The answer is yes. The result is Vegas.

Looking over the post I wrote last year, there are multiple items that Vegas hits out of the ballpark where Playboy Club utterly failed.

Vegas gives us more realistic women.

Let’s be honest, the 60s weren’t exactly a bastion of female equality. But, that doesn’t mean women didn’t step outside those lines in a manner believable to that period. The Playboy Club pretended women achieved sexual equality by dressing up in heels and strutting in satin corsets for smarmy men that looked like Eddie Cibrian. REALLY?! Sell that to me again, because I’m pretty certain there’s someone else on the street corner rocking those same goods.

By contrast, Vegas shows opportunities women received in that period without using their bodies. The mob daughter working as bookkeeper, the justice-focused female DA, the observant police secretary and the wife turned federal informant all rock it major league. All of these women, despite holding the traditional roles of daughter, secretary and wife, come across as intelligent, thoughtful and strong.

Vegas gives us more believable racial issues.

Considering we’re currently recognizing King’s birthday, we all know the 1960s didn’t feature 100% peace, love, and happiness. The Playboy Club addressed racial issues by adding an African-American character who had no personality (or relation to the ongoing plot) outside of her sauciness. I love Naturi Naughton, but seriously?! Becoming a “Chocolate” bunny is a step for equality? Really??! ‘Cus I’d place lawyer, state senator, or principal a few steps ahead of centerfold.

I’m totally grateful to Vegas for handling racial issues with historical accuracy and aplomb. I loved the episode surrounding a casino maid’s murder. The episode hit all the issues – the illegitimate daughter, the loving brother stealing from the aforementioned daughter, the negative connotations witnesses inferred concerning the woman’s interracial relationship with her father and the jealous friend. I doubly love that the police department features a vibrant, intelligent woman of color without labeling her “chocolate” or “butterscotch.” Even better, they don’t reference her race at all. She’s a core part of the cast which isn’t hinged on overtly referencing her culture. Wow. That’s a step in the right direction.

Vegas gives us actual intrigue

While the Playboy Club promised sinful behind the scenes intrigue, it never appeared. We actually get it in Vegas. In Playboy Club, one week the women giddily receive new costumes, while the next they fight for a photo shoot. *yawn* When does the intrigue start? That isn’t seedy crime, that’s America’s Next Top Model. Despite all the sex the preview photos implied, we barely saw any in the episodes. Bunny Maureen remained as naïvely innocent as the day remains long while all men inexplicably lusted after her despite the scions of surrounding beautiful, busty bunnies.

By contrast, Vegas’ characters and their problems are more realistic and address behind the scenes casino issues. Mobster Rizzo is definitely the snake in the grass, by murdering his fiancée and allowing the police to use her drug-ridden past as explanation. He’s the douchey asshole destroying good boy mobster Savino’s casino garden of eden. He’s the jerk Playboy Club’s Billy Rosen should have become, but didn’t. I loved seeing the behind the scenes drama with the local ranchers, bankers, opposing casinos, unions, and internal mob fracas. PLUS, even better, in Vegas, when a character’s in trouble with the mob they DIE (see aforementioned dead girlfriend) or GET THE HELL OUT OF TOWN (see Vincent’s wife)!!!

I STILL don’t understand why bunny Maureen hung around the Playboy Club after the mobster’s accidental death. Um, you need money? Nick Dalton just gave you a ton. Um, you want to become a dancer? Then you DEFINITELY shouldn’t remain a cocktail waitress. Um, you don’t want to lose your job? Um, then tell the matron whose boyfriend you keep pawing to recommend you for another club.

As you can tell, I’m a big Vegas fan, which I didn’t expect. I like that Vegas didn’t hinge itself overtly on the 60s. Unlike the Playboy Club, it doesn’t use neon signs shouting “HEY! I’m from the 60s! I’m COOL! Watch me! PLEASE!” They allow covert environmental indicators (the undeveloped dirt strip, cars our parents drove and clothing) to indicate the period. Unlike Playboy Club, Vegas features a club I’d love to visit. Sorvino’s blue and white main floor looks awesome. THAT’s a casino I want to see! Unlike today’s loud, flashy, oversized casinos, it features understated games, amazing jazzy musical acts and awesome interior décor. Why aren’t today’s casinos going for a more intimate approach?

Overall, the writers get a thumbs up from me, as well as the cast. I love Dennis Quaid (Sheriff Lamb) in the lead with Jason O’Mara (Jack Lamb) as his equally hot brother, Taylor Handley (Dixon Lamb) as his adorably cute son and Michael Chiklis (Vincent Savino) as his on-the-fence mobster opponent and occasional collaborator. I love the female characters played by Sarah Jones (Mia Rizzo), Aimee Garcia (Yvonne Sanchez), Vinessa Shaw (Laura Savino) and Carrie-Anne Moss (Katherine O’Connell). I seriously love Mia Rizzo’s wardrobe, as well as the family drama, the sexy intrigue between Mia Rizzo and Jack Lamb, the fun flirtation between Yvonne and Dixon and the intensity between Katherine and the sheriff. Can you believe it, a show about a loner rancher turned sheriff features more sex than a show about playboy bunnies? Because the show’s understated and lowkey, I feared CBS might cancel it. Luckily, they haven’t.

So, if last year’s Playboy Club wasn’t your thing, consider watching Vegas. It’s the party Playboy Club never started, but Vegas finishes. In spades.

[easyazon-image align=”none” asin=”B0058YPHVA” locale=”us” height=”160″ src=”https://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51szx3HRkSL._SL160_.jpg” width=”111″][easyazon-image align=”none” asin=”B009GX6F10″ locale=”us” height=”120″ src=”https://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51BlzS6ppWL._SL160_.jpg” width=”160″]

Anyone who reads my posts has most certainly stumbled over one of my most beloved topics: The Decline of Western Civilization. I’ve discussed this particular idea on several fronts and, most recently, with regard to Cadillac’s new XTS with ass-jolting technology.

I’ve even hinted at the fact I may be losing it. But that was only a momentary stumble in the grand scheme of things. After all, if I can transcribe more quickly than some of my other esteemed CliqueClack colleagues, I figure I’ve still got it where it counts.

And then over the celebrated Carmaggedon II weekend here in sunny Southern California, more proof of “the decline” reared its head. No, no, no … I’m not talking about Honey Boo Boo’s raise. Nor the latest monkey business from Chick-Fil-A. Or the political circus currently taking place as we plod ever closer to the presidential election. Or even the fact you can’t find a good chicken broaster around town anymore, dammit. It came in the form (once again) of a CBS Sunday Morning news report, this time about our never-ending love affair with our portable telephones and whether or not we can pull the plug on our obsession with them.

In a nutshell, the report states we’re pretty much addicted. And while I’m pretty much in agreement with a lot of the report, there are certain aspects of it I’m not on board with.

Of cell phones, MIT psychologist Sherry Turkle stated in the piece: “I think we’re smitten.” No, we’re not. No one who spends an inordinate amount of time on their phone is “smitten.” Come on, let’s call a spade a spade: they’re addicted. It’s an addiction, pure and simple. Regardless of the fact she doesn’t like to use that word, the matter remains and is clear. Why is “addiction” such a difficult thing to say? Don’t sugar coat it — call it out for what it is.

But wait … there’s more. “We’re like young lovers who are afraid too much talking will spoil the romance.” Now, this one I call bullshit on. There isn’t a modicum of romantical feeling when it comes to our need to jabber on the phone or tweet some witty aside. Because it’s not a need. No one “needs” to do that. It’s a want and a desire and people give in to them continually, constantly … and many times without the restraint of common sense. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen that very thing from your friends and associates and the random goofball who happens to be a friend of a friend of a friend. Because you have. And a lot of times we find it annoying. Or out-and-out stupid.

(This post contains 2 pages. Please visit the website to continue reading. Thank you.)