Shaq's grinning mug makes me happy. He seems like a friendly guy, and his skin glows with the aura of a latter day saint. What I wouldn't give to be able to use my cheek's natural sheen like a heat-lamp, as Shaq can. Andre 3000's face inspires me to shave better. He has such neat-o facial hair that looks like it was invented by an alien. I have no problem styling my scraggly beard into some emulation of an Andre creation, no matter how wispy and barely-visible, and then telling people that this is my "Andre-stache." And, of course, Jeff Bridges' kindly voice makes the otherwise average Hyundai seem like a vehicle fit for royalty.
I generally have no problem with celebrity endorsements. I like to see my favorite stars during a commercial break. On the one hand, anything is better than another lizard selling car insurance (I will, however, always crave another visit from the Insurance Cavemen). On the other, I get to feel close to these human ideals whenever I use their product. I can imagine that if I were to lease the newest Hyundai Elantra tomorrow and cruise around with my awesome new Andre goatee styled by a new Schick razor, I would feel a little more Dude-like and awesome.
I can even get behind this oddly invigorating cell phone ad starring the Flaming Lips' Wayne Coyne:
What I don't like, however, is hearing my favorite song in a commercial. Music is absolute. It is visceral. It hits you in the gut, in the face, in the heart. For me, there is nothing worse than pairing a Stones song, an MJ song, a Rihanna number (yeah, even something by HER), whatever, with some hip product. In me, there occurs this painful mental dissonance, as my pure emotional response to the music clashes with the psychological one prompted by the images of THINGS.
Shaq should do a PSA about this. Who would would be able to resist that face?
