Full Frontal PR Report
Ted Kruckel

I love a disaster, don’t you? When a waiter drops a glass at a restaurant, I clap and say, “Now it’s a party,” which nobody I’m with thinks is funny. I always read the police blotter and if I see some friend has been mugged or robbed, I call feigning sympathy, but really I mostly want to hear the details.

That’s why I loved the failed erection of the Snapple frozen ice pop that aimed to break the Guinness world record but rather ended up sending gallons of sticky, sugary goo onto the street and bikers and pedestrians slipping their way to the hospital. The attempted frozen tower, staged in Union Square Park, got way too little press coverage—I wanted to see so much more. It looked like it was just gushing like crazy. I will pay for footage. But the little I did glean begs for follow-up.

The group that staged the fiasco is called “Art Below Zero,” which I assume means it makes ice sculptures or something. People were asking “Why didn’t they start earlier?” or “Why not on a cooler day?” Naturally my question is: Why do this out-of-doors in the summer? And once it started melting why keep wearing your company logo T-shirts, so even the lamest (or laziest) reporters could assign blame?

Snapple has pledged a donation to the city to pay for the cleanup, but I think there should be a steep fine. Since we all know that Snapple has the rights to brainwash schoolchildren into thinking their sugary water-with-coloring really is the best stuff on earth, one assumes the company’s cozy City Hall relationship will make this go away quickly.

I for one intend to see that justice is done. If I can’t get accountability for torturing prisoners or an under-planned Iraq occupation, I’m not going to just look the other way on this tempest in an ice pop. Anyone with info please get in touch, and stay tuned for Norma Rae-style updates.

The next lamebrain idea to come my way was Paramount’s requirement that all guests attending the premiere of War of the Worlds check their cell phones and purses. This was after a ban on all print press. I gather wee Tommy Cruise doesn’t like that people are finally hep to the fact that Scientologists think we came from an alien spaceship. (Whatever you do don’t tell Katie!)

But the phone/purse ban was planned in advance and printed on the invitation. Apparently Mr. Spielberg was paranoid that someone would record the movie’s climax on her Motorola or with his Balenciaga bag and release it over in Japan.

Putting aside that noggin-buster for a second how come the event organizers didn’t realize that this little stunt would mean virtually every guest would check something and make the necessary arrangements? I’ve never checked anything at a movie theater—do they even have cloakrooms? And forgive me for being mean but the staff at my local cinema can barely work the popcorn butter-er. How in hell did the planners expect them to differentiate over 500 phones that all looked the same?

Sorry, shmorry. I want justice. Heads must roll!

An otherwise swell evening at the Hamptons Decorator Show House benefiting Southampton Hospital, sponsored and organized by House & Garden magazine (who doesn’t enjoy cocktails on the lawn of a zillion dollar beach house tricked out with every imaginable sconce and SWAG?) was marred by the wait of as much as an hour for valets to run up your car. House sponsor Andrea Stark—whose swirling sisal in Alessandra Branca’s witty and intentionally not-waterproofed pool house is to die for—was spitting fire.

I had noticed the parking guys’ T-shirts that said “Your Keys Please” and thought that was clever. I believe it was the name of the firm that did the parking. (Someone tell these event vendors to stop advertising when they screw up or turn their T-shirts inside out.)

I’m not a patient queuer, so I moseyed on back to the lot to see what the hell was going on. Well, the attendants were partly at fault; their numbering system had failed due to a big turnout, and that was compounded by searchers not having enough flashlights.

Oh boy.

But the other problem was the surly and clueless guests, who stormed the lot thinking they could de-park themselves (admittedly, I was one of them until I realized that every other car was a black SUV, just like the one my Aunt Pam shuttled me in). The female guests tottered on their Jimmy Choos (why do women wear high heels to a Hamptons party when there is always grass, sand, or a long hike to the car? Why, why, why?) and I could hear one shouting, “Honey, does our Jag have a Bob Marley bumper sticker?”

But I must say, the attendants kept their cool, were unfailingly polite, and got good marks for making the best of a bad situation. I even pitched in and did a little traffic direction, and I got a T-shirt for my efforts. But it still cost me $20 to bribe my way into the line and get home. So if you are at a party and see a disaster waiting to happen, make sure it keeps happening and call me. I’ll be right there.

Ted Kruckel is an opinionated and snappily-cynical former event planner/ PR pro who ran events for 20 years. FFPR Report is a big fan of his column for BiZBash Media. Ain’t he funny?