The Anxiety of the Liberal White Guy at the TV SetPosted: September 24, 2011
I know, I know–pity the Caucasian. He’s not sure what to do in a world that he once ruled openly that he must now rule via secret societies and a stealthy network of weather control satellites! Poor lambie!
Indulge me. The above commercial for Malibu Black triggers a low-pressure center of anger followed by a thunder storm of guilt that culminates into a hurricane of frustration (of all the weather white guys can control–and make no mistake, that’s what Bilderberg is all about–he just can’t control the temperate zones of his emotions).
First reaction: what the fuck is this? I don’t care for music with a beats-per-minute count exceeding that of a hummingbird. It sounds like the musical score to a panic attack. This is followed by the screaming, or “bellowing” if one is feeling charitable. And then, just to pull us back from the abyss, the soothing sounds of an air horn. Do the makers of this commercial want me to buy their alcohol or drive up sales of Lorazepam?
Second reaction: is it called Malibu “Black” because of the deejays? That can’t be because the same actors have featured in other Malibu Rum commercials, ones not as enervating but just as open to flirt with racial stereotypes.
Third reaction: what’s with the racial stereotypes? To judge the maker’s intentions by this line of ads (and what right-thinking person wouldn’t evaluate world views based solely on television commercials?), Caribbeans can only afford a shanty-town version of a radio station, enunciate in a manner that makes Bernie Mac sound like Cornel West, and dance dance dance. Surely there’s more to it than all that.
Fourth reaction: am I racist? Maybe this is a faithful rendition of cultural expression and I’m projecting my own conditioned racial profiles into a harmless, joyful, life-affirming ad for 70 proof Canadian-made Caribbean rum.
Fifth reaction: I’m never going to the Caribbean. Less because of this commercial, but more because I believe it’s very hot. I don’t do well in the sun–just another curse of being a pale white guy.