Home > Consuming New York
by Wayne Besen
There must me 10,000 clothing designers within a five-block radius of Madison Square Garden, in Manhattan’s Garment District. Yet, the New York Knickerbockers, who play in MSG, have the ugliest uniforms in the National Basketball Association. They are drab white rags with screaming, loud orange numbers. It looks like the same design firm that created the lovely uniforms for the Lincoln Tunnel traffic cops made them.
Attention! Would someone please create new uniforms for the home team?
Okay, the game was a blowout and a bit boring by the fourth quarter. So, I had time to notice the obnoxious sponsorship overload. Oh, don’t worry. This isn’t one of those moralistic columns bemoaning consumer culture and the branding of a logo on anything that isn’t a non-stick pan. It is way too late for that.
It is time to embrace the corporate titans and urge them to stop beating around the bush. Now is the time to let them go all the way and have players legally change their names to the products they represent. We’ve heard of a shoe being named after player, but now it is time to name the player after the shoe.
Tim Duncan of the San Antonio Spurs can become Tim Dunkin Donuts. Cleveland Cavaliers protege LeBron James is already admiringly referred to as King James. For a cool $20 mil., why not become Burger King James? Not to lose market share, McDonalds could write a check to the Houston Rocket’s Tracey McGrady, so he will become Tracey McGriddle. Dirk Nowitzki of the Dallas Mavericks could become Dirk Nokia. And Shaquille O’Neal could transform himself into Shaq O’Reilly Factor.
Imagine the excitement if one day they ended up in the same all-star game. Announcers Marv Albert and Bill Walton would call the game. Whoops, they’ve got contracts too, and now go by the names Bill Wal-Mart and Marv Albertsons.
"This is Marv Albertsons here with Bill Wal-Mart at Compaq Center for the Microsoft tip-off. Shaq O’Reilly Factor tips the exciting, new Spalding leather ball into the hands of Burger King James. Burger King Passes to McGriddle."
"Talk about teamwork!" (Both announcers snicker. Make that Snickers)
"The sizzling McGriddle makes his move. Kobe Beef Bryant, blocks his path. McGriddle swings the ball to Dirk Nokia. He spots up to shoot, but Jamaal "Tab" Tinsley (bad agent), gets in his way. Nokia throws a zippy bounce dryer sheet pass to Burger King. BK throws a Don Carter Premier Bowling Alley-Oop to Tim Dunkin Donuts, for the Frito-Lay up!!!!!! Yeeeeeees!!!!!"
I walked out of MSG with Ben, my boyfriend, and headed towards Times Square with its brilliant flashing lights, advertising every conceivable product known to mankind. Glancing around it seemed everyone was hawking something.
A pushy, bitter Dr. Ruth clone with a thick German accent cut us off and shoved "Don’t Murder Meat, Eat Vegetarian" brochures in our faces. I proudly pointed to Ben and said, "He’s a VEGAN". I was waiting for Dr. Arugala Ruth’s nod of approval when she frowned and her wild eyes widened. She accusingly pointed right at Ben and yelped!
"That’s fur! F-U-R!! You’re no vegan. You’re a murderer."
Crazed eyes aside, I really couldn’t argue her point. His raccoon P-Diddy, Pimp Daddy coat was quite a contradiction. Especially for a guy that looked at me like I was Charles Manson when I made him watch me eat ribs at a BBQ Pit in rural Florida.
Surprisingly, Dr. Ruth continued her tirade and screeched at Ben, "what are you a boy or a girl, anyway?"
So there we were in Times Square: A bacon eating, Jewish gay activist with his fur-wearing vegan boyfriend in a confrontation with an animal rights/peace activist who clearly wanted to behead us. What’s not to love about New York?
We got back to the apartment at the end of the night and I was coming down with the flu. I took a power swing of some awful, castor oil-tasting flu medication. Within fifteen minutes I was so high that Rev. Jerry Falwell would have looked hot in a G-string bikini bathing suit. It is amazing the things they won’t sell over-the counter, yet they sell flu meds, which I’m convinced, are liquid Quaalude.
Shaking with the chills, Ben put his fur coat over me, as a lie on the couch. He prepared a plate of field green Edamame. As I drifted off to sleep I could hear him say, "Damn right I’m a Vegan, Bitch!"