A Copywriter’s Blog
Getting closer to my flying car Ben Levy 19, September

I remember when voice commands first showed up in my cell phone. Thrilled to have a vessel that would obey my unquestioning commands, I eagerly recorded “Jodi” and “Home” into it.

The results were….disappointing. I couldn’t just cruise down the road and say “Jodi”. No, I had to pitch my voice exactly the same way the phone recorded it. “Jo-di. JO-dee. JO-Dee.”

Due to the constant mockery of my wife, (who heard me perform the same ritual for Home) I never bothered recording anymore verbal commands after that.

But yesterday, while driving, I accidentally hit the button on my bluetooth headset. Which asked me to “Say Command”. In a mood to perform pointless acts of speech, I blandly said “Jodi”.

“Did you say Judita?”


I have never programmed this earpiece. It was a cheap, last minute purchase for $14 when I got my phone. It just read my contact list and verbalized a name from it. On it’s own. Holy crap. Ok, don’t panic. Just do the logical thing- talk back to it.

“No”, I said.


It’s going down my contact list? “No”



After going through a couple Js on my contact list it gave up. Undeterred, I hit the button again and in a perfectly normal voice said: Call home.

My mother picked up the phone.

AWESOME. My unprogrammed $14 POS bluetooth just performed speech-recognition. Man, any day now I’ll have a flying car that transforms into an ipod that can also toast and butter my breakfast in the morning. All on the way to work. I should tell someone about this. Like my wife:


Hmm. Maybe the car won’t transform. Let’s try it again:


Jew who? Oh. Juan. Ha. Clearly this earpiece isn’t Spanish. My excitement subsided a bit. It appeared my transportation and toasters would remain earth-bound for the foreseeable future.

Still, I did find a hack. Jodi is #2 on speedial:

“Call 2″

My wife picked up the phone.

Man I can’t wait till my car flies. Then I’ll poop on birds.

NBC is trying to kill me Ben Levy 13, August

I must have been an axe-murderer in a former life. Maybe a child-molester. Clearly I’ve done something horrible. And Fate, not finding a suitable punishment for me in the present-day, has decided to destroy the last fond memories I have from my childhood.

Dear reader, I apologize for what you are about to see: a grown man’s warm youthful memories, callously used as the kleenex for NBC’s programming ejaculate.

What they have done is create the Anti-Rider. This is the perfect antithesis of all that was good about the show. I won’t even discuss the plot here, for fear of spontaneously combusting through sheer hate. Suffice it to say there’s deeper writing in teletubbies porn (never mind how I know, shut up). But look- NBC has graciously found a way to sum up this travesty for me:

KITT happens? KITT happens? Oh fuck you. Seriously, bring me the writer and/or studio executive who thought that was a good idea, and I will gouge their eyes out. With a blunt shovel. That I have dipped in whale urine. And set on fire.

The worst part about this is what they’ve done to KITT. I would have thought a car would be impervious to this sort of career-suicide. I mean, sure he did that stint with Hoff in Germany, but it could have been worse. It’s not like he drove himself drunk. But clearly I underestimated the geniuses at NBC. They couldn’t come up with a good catch-phrase, but they did discover a way to destroy the last shreds of dignity for another of my childhood icons:

What the fuck is that? Why does it have three dicks on its hood? Is it for an automotive bukkake scene? Because that would actually make more sense than the rest of the shit you’ve shoved up KITT’s tailpipe. Did you have to chop it up worse than Joan Rivers’s face? Even if it was based off a 1982 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am, the real KITT would still be the baddest car on the road today. Oh you’ve got fucking flame decals? He’s got g-damned LAZERS. Which he can use to set your car on actual fire, douchebag. This is not a common list of standard fucking features.

Now listen to me very carefully NBC. Very. VERY. Carefully. There is still a way to salvage all of this. It’s not too late. If you follow my directions to the letter:

Do exactly what you’re doing. Keep the PR machine rolling. Fuck it up even more, I don’t care. Play the first episode. Then, 5 minutes in, have the real KITT burst onto the set, destroying everyone and everything for the next 40 minutes. Sets will burn from his flamethrowers, lazers will punch through the grips and cameramen. In the climactic ending, he’ll launch into the air from a turbo boost, and pop the director’s head under his tires as he lands. Then the camera will zoom in on that one, scrolling LED and he’ll say. “You didn’t really think I’d let them get away with this, did you Ben?”

Then he’d open the door, I’d jump in, and we’d ride off into the sunset. Dun-dada-dun. Dun-dada-dun. Dun-dadadaDA-Dunnnnnnn. Da-dun!

But if it doesn’t happen exactly like that, every NBC exec who’s responsible for this should be corn-holed by a rusty tailpipe.