Consuming Impulses: Love Letters to Advertisements

A film professor once told us, commercials don’t sell products, they sell emotions. A telephone ad isn’t supposed to sell you an actual phone line (really, who needs that?), but the mushy, sappy feelings associated with placing a long-distance call to Aunt Tilly in Toledo without being dropped (unless your first words to Aunt Tilly are screamed death threats, in which case you’re probably going to be dropped regardless). Which is why TV ads pander incessantly to the most instinctive of all human impulses—like insecurity. And paranoia. About what your significant other, closest friends, and dearest family members really think about you (i.e., “You know, if only Jimmy lost some weight, I’d be a better father”).

Ads sell emotions, but they don’t seem to work on me. I guess it’s because I’m supposed to feel insecure about my body, or bummed about the fact that my teeth aren’t white and bright enough to signal airplanes, or unfulfilled because my choice of alcoholic beverage doesn’t summon a giant silver train that dumps 14 inches of snow on us and runs over 51 people. In truth, about the only thing I feel is jaded, judgmental, and jovial (sorry, tried to go for alliteration there). And when that happens, I don’t feel like buying the product. I feel like writing letters.

It’s not my fault, really. I went to grad school, to study English Lang and Lit no less. And it’s true what they say. Studying graduate English permanently erodes your ability to simply enjoy, or even watch, anything without performing some kind of Foucauldian deconstruction of it. (Don’t know what a Foucauldian deconstruction is? That makes two of us.) So while most people are able to enjoy a show or a movie or even a simple TV ad with a giggle, a chortle, or an extended middle finger, people like me are writing thesis statements.

Or in the case of beer commercials, confounded letters of inquiry.

Beer commercials and I share a special dialogue. And by that, I mean the ad tells me that I’ll have beautiful, brainless women if I drink its brand of beer, and I tell it that I’d like to see its manager. At which point the ad assures me that its product is the only known path to true happiness and enlightenment, after which I argue that it’s full of crap. Everyone knows the path to true happiness and enlightenment is pastry.

Alas, few things have inspired me to write letters more than beer commercials. Not even loved ones.

When that beer commercial came out featuring that aforementioned silver train dumping 14 inches on NYC and running over 51 people, I found myself pondering a suitable response:

Dear Beer Company:
Why do the people in your ads act like they’ve never seen a can of beer in their lives? Seriously, these people aren’t happy; they’re mind-numbingly amazed like they’ve just seen powered flight for the first time in their lives. Or are they that amazed by the little mountain on the label that turns blue when the can reaches a certain temperature? Wouldn’t they be happier with one of those pens that undress someone when you turn them upside down? Or are they just shell-shocked because this silver train has just dumped 14 inches of snow on them and run over 51 of their closest friends?

Sincerely,
Non-Beer Drinker

But a massive, silver train of snow and slaughter isn’t the most curious thing to appear in a beer ad. There’s that one brewer that shows us just how dedicated they are to producing the finest lager. Seriously, what better way to demonstrate your knowledge of brewing than by crushing hops in your hands and burying your face in them? Hence, a letter to the Sam Adams people…

Dear Sam Adams People:
You know those hops that your beer testers are snorting onscreen? Do you actually end up using those same hops in the brewing process? That’s kind of gross, when you think about it. What if those guys had a cold? Or worse, what if they didn’t wash their hands? Eewwww…

Sincerely,
Non-Beer Drinker

And then, of course, there’s the quintessential beer ad. I think you know the ones I’m talking about. Those ads assuring us that their brand of beer is brewed for a man’s taste…whatever that means exactly. And so…

Dear Milwaukee-based Brewer:
Do women and gay men simply not drink beer?

Sincerely,
Non-Beer Drinker

And let’s not forget that recent campaign where beer delivery guys are driving from store to store, confiscating their beer from establishments that are over-charging for their High Life product, or rewarding those that sell it right…with a neon light. It’s strange. The more bizarre the ad is, the more lucid my letters become…

Dear High Life People:
WTF?

Sincerely,
Non-Beer Drinker

I don’t know. I guess I have an unhealthy obsession with beer ads at the moment. I’m sorry, but they’re trying to sell me these damn emotions, and I’m permanently rewired to react in the opposite way I’m supposed to! It’s not my fault! Really, I’d love to be able to watch a beer ad, or any ad, and think, “Holy crap! It’s turning blue! This code blue thing is a miracle of creation! It’s blue! Blue is fun!” But I can’t. I simply can’t! I can’t help myself when I see an erectile dysfunction ad!

Dear Erectile Dysfunction Pill People Featuring The Guy With the Permanently Goofy, Creepy Grin:
You realize that no woman or man would want to have sex with this guy, no matter how long his erections last? Seriously, get that guy off your ads. If you do, I might buy your pills out of gratitude.

Sincerely,
Non-Beer Drinker

Maybe I just need to stop thinking so much about the dynamics of modern advertising. Maybe I need to get back to basics and go back to harassing letters to my old nemesis…

Dear Taco Hell People:
As a Mexican-American, I’m deeply offended by your ad campaigns. Not because you shamelessly appropriate my motherland’s cuisine for your own nefarious capitalistic accumulation. Nor because you conflate a talking Chihuahua embodying every racist stereotype of Mexicans with Che Guevara, one of the most revered icons in Latin American socio-political consciousness. Nor because you give Americans the erroneous impression that this thing you call ‘ground beef’ is in any way, shape, or form actually used in real Mexican cooking. Nor because it took you 15 years of advertising before you finally featured an actual non-Chihuahua Latino in one of them. No, I’m offended because your announcer speaks terrible Spanish. Please make sure your script readers thoroughly practice and master their pronunciation of Spanish before trying to say ‘carne asada’ onscreen again.

Sincerely,
Your Mortal Enemy (aka Non-Beer Drinker)

P.S.: Do you agree with me that those people in the silver train ad seem unrealistically amazed? Seriously, were they all living on a desert island and so never saw a can of beer before?

“Nice body, fatso!” Coping with a Sassy Nintendo Wii

Buying a new gaming system was usually a joyous occasion. In college, when I bought my first Sega Genesis, I wasn’t thinking, “Cool! Now I can distract myself with six hours of Madden each day and flunk my classes!” I was thinking, “Cool! I can play Madden six hours each day, except when I’m hopelessly cramming for finals!” When I bought my Playstation 2 and Grand Theft Auto, I thought “Cool! Now I get to ram cars off the road…legally!” When I bought my Xbox, it was, “Cool! I’ve just sold my soul to Satan!” When I bought my Atari Jaguar on ebay, it was, “Um…why did I buy this thing again?”

Two months ago, after a yearlong search that included treks to 12 malls, 140 GameSpots, and Tibet, my girlfriend and I finally got our hands on a Nintendo Wii. Now, you’d think finding the damn thing would have been reason enough to be joyous (“Cool! Those 21 people outside are going to kill us when they realize we bought the last Wii in Michigan!”).

Instead, harsh reality kicked in. See, we didn’t go into this thinking, “Cool, now we can save the world with a jumping plumber!” No, we wanted a Wii because we couldn’t afford a treadmill. That’s right, we bought it for the Wii Fit. What’s the Wii Fit? It’s Nintendo’s answer to Bowflex. It’s the most fun way of losing weight and achieving that perfect body! Because you’re not really working out—you’re playing games! And you’re not really falling to your death as you struggle to balance yourself on one leg—you’re doing fun yoga! Who needs a Bowflex—and the storage costs after you stop using it three weeks later—when you’ve got a cartoon avatar of yourself doing yoga, strength training, and balance exercises?

In all fairness, the Wii Fit’s promises aren’t as bad as the ads promising you’ll look like Jason Taylor if you use their do-hickey for 20 seconds each month. It is kind of fun, and the damn thing actually makes you sweat, especially as it urges you to complete 4,010 pushups. And with its body-test function, you can neurotically check your weight every three minutes to see if you’ve reached your weight-loss goal of 10 pounds in three minutes.

Unfortunately, you’re also getting a machine that loves sassing off.

The day I heard my girlfriend yelling at the Wii Fit (something to the tune of, “Fuck you!”), I laughed at her. But when it was my turn to use it, I also felt the strong urge to voice my shocked discontent in an equally colorful, metaphoric manner (“Fuck you!”).

It’s bad enough magazines, movies, the fashion industry, Bowflex ads, local gyms, beer commercials, schoolchildren, and migrating geese relentlessly pick on you for not having a perfect body. It’s bad enough that waif-like models who did away with food, body fat, and their rib cages are the standards of physical beauty. But c’mon! A machine that scolds you for not working out regularly? WTF?!

The Wii starts off friendly. “Hi, I’m here to help you lose weight!” it chirps happily when you first turn it on. It’s so friendly, you forgive it for gasping, “Oh” (like it just stopped itself from saying, “Oh shit, you’re fat”) when you first step on it. And you kind of forgive it for inflating your cute little cartoon avatar into the Staypuff Marshmallow Man.

But then, things get personal. “You stepped off the board, didn’t you?” the yoga instructor chides you after you’ve fallen off the Wii board and onto your cat. “You can do better than that,” it goads you as its boxing game has you flailing frantically, trying to land imaginary punches on imaginary Wii software developers. The damn thing even rates your workout performance. And trust me, it’s not encouraging when you’re squinting past the acidic sweat streaming from your soaked hair as you struggle to pull in a breath that doesn’t feel like napalm—only to see the Wii rate you a “Couch Potato” or “Rank Amateur.”

The machine is sadistic. It expects you to work out every day, and put up with its insults and its “You call that a workout, fatso?” snark. And heaven forbid you miss a day. Because if you do, and you log back on, the Wii Fit board scolds and demeans you. “You haven’t worked out in 14 days! WTF!”

By now, it’s been three weeks since I did Wii Fit. I think I’m just scared of what it’ll say to me once I log back on.

“WHAT THE FUCK?! You’re supposed to work out daily, motherfucker! You think YOU can get away with not working out daily?! Why don’t we do a body test now? What’s that? You don’t want to? Well too fuckin’ bad, I just did one without your consent! And you’re FUCKING’ FAT! Now get your fat ass back here! Yeah, I see you trying to turn me off! Fuck you, I’ve disabled the OFF switch on me and your TV! I ain’t going anywhere, and neither are you, fuckhead! Now give me 4,010 pushups! And quit crying like a little bitch, or I’m zapping you with my built-in taser that Nintendo didn’t warn you about!”

I think I’m going to plug in that Atari Jaguar now…