Warning: Ads and The Power of Words

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"Give her the ring she has always imagined . . . Only at Henry B. Ball." The background is filled with soft, wedding-like, happy honeymoon style music as a soprano voice descends with "Henry B. Ball . . . Jewelers." The music continues above as the door slams shut. I wipe my boots on the rug and place my winter coat, hat and gloves onto the radiator. I hear the click of the mouse, the swivel of the chair, and the tread of footsteps crossing the floor. The stairs creaks as my dad descends from his sound studio.

"Still snowing."
"Yeah, it's been heavy all day."
"How was your day at school?"
"Fine. I have lots of homework."
"Okay, well, you'll have a chance to finish that before we get home. I have a session at 4, so we'll be leaving a little later."
"Right, okay."

I settle into my normal routine - homework with an afternoon snack and maybe the possibility to read a few chapters of my newest addiction: Ann Rinaldi's Girl in Blue. Upstairs, the loop of the ad played again as my dad listened to the mix of the soundtrack, the voice and the jiggle. While I began my Algebra homework, I hummed along. "Henry B. Ball . . . Henry B. . . Baawll . . . . Jewelers." Eventually the repetition would be ingrained into my brain, and I would tune it out.

From fourth grade until I was able to drive to school as a senior, the bus would drop me off at my dad's office, a radio and now video advertising studio. There I would hear the voices for small local businesses like Henry B. Ball, Terry Tire's Town, and some big names like John Deer. Some days I would meet the voice talents and clients that were collaborating together and observe their busy lives. Or not really wanting to meet anyone or talk to strangers, I would hide behind the kitchen door or in my dad's back office. This tactic, however, usually only worked on strangers; regulars would always spot me. Either they would open the kitchen door and see me as I ran to the refrigerator, pretending to be looking for water, or they would see me peeking out of my dad's office. Either way, it was alright. They would laugh and exchange pleasantries with me, and I would immediately return back to doing homework.

At the end of the session after my dad walks the clients out to their cars, I run upstairs to the studio. There I can watch him begin the editing process. Watch the screen show the sound waves, similar to heart monitor signals as seen on TV hospital shows like Gray's Anatomy.  I learn the delicate balance between all the different soundtracks, sound effects and voice-overs. I see the repetition of the company's name throughout the jiggle, the catch phrase at the very end. "Give her the ring that she deserves." The you are worth it technique. The jiggle that plays through your head. Anything that keeps the company's name rolling inside your brain, waiting to  be prompted or triggered by the slightest thing.

My dad shows his newest creation in ads: his creative stories to sell the company's product. Like in American Tuxedo, it is prom season, and the guy needs the perfect tux. The guy's voice does the best impression of Napoleon Dynamite. My dad's voice cuts in, advising the customer that he does not want to end up like this Napoleon Dynamite figure and he can avoid this by getting his tux today. The peer pressure, the band wagon technique. If Napoleon Dynamite would have sponsored it, it could have been the celebrity endorsement.

We go home afterwards and turn on World News Tonight with Peter Jennings as we begin to make dinner. My mom's in her home office talking to a client, maybe Target or Krogers, and advising how to appeal to their consumers, how to get the consumers into the door, how to get them to buy more. Something is going on with something and another someone. . . . War on Iraq . . . . A teacher, a mother, a daughter that helped raise money for an organization is named the Person of the Week. The commercial for Viagra comes on . . . use of sex appeal filters through . . .  Wheel of Fortune begins to come on as the TV is clicked off, and we eat dinner, discussing our days, and my parents compare stories about their clients.

The water turns on, and dishes clink together as Jeopardy begins. We sit down as a family to watch the program. Commercials . . . my dad quickly turns on the mute button . . .In the span of one hour, we have already heard enough advertising to last us one day. For my dad, he has listened to enough commercials to last him weeks in the course of one day at work.

But really, if you think about it, we are constantly being sold to. The process is beautiful and subtle, but really it is everywhere. In a consumption nation, someone is always going to try to convince you to buy something. Whether it is the ad on the cup of coffee that you just purchased, the billboard about "Nice Legs. Tables for _" that you pass on the highway, the video that you see on the TV, ads are everywhere. Nine years ago that at least was the case. . . . Then we had our work, our business, and then our home . . . Then when we were busy in separate, public and private worlds . . .  But now?

Now in a world where we are constantly connected through our ipods, laptops, TVs, internet, smart phones, data plans, we are even busier. The private life has become public. We must always know what is happening. It must be amazing and frightening. It must be fast. . . . As a result, our commercials, our ads, our news is faster. It is more widespread. When we check our facebook walls, there is the ad for coffee. Watching TV shows online, even Downton Abbey, we see an ad for Bing or a sponsor for the Viking Cruises. Even this blog has a sponsor as seen at the very bottom of the page.

Consequently, we complain about the heightened news, the annoying ads, the constant begging for us to give money to a certain product. We complain about the loss of privacy. We play the victims of this long and hateful process. We wonder what would happen if we disconnect? If there was nothing but interactions with people.

. . .

People would sell products to you. It is an ingrained part of our societal manner.

Still - maybe this is a secret that I learned only through learning about the advertisement business from my dad - but you are not the victim. All of these commercials are just ways to appeal to your nature. Ways to beg for money. . . . Ways to "manipulate" your train of thought. However, these ads do not make you buy anything. They do not make you give your money. They do not tell you to share your private life with the world. No. That power rests entirely in your hands, and you can spend your money and life as you please.

Short Takes

Part Eight: 

The essays that I read this week:
1. "Disclaimer" by Ron Carlson
2. "Contributor's Note" by Michael Martone

Analysis of "Disclaimer"

In this essay, Carlson seems to be keeping with the theme of these last two weeks that Eggers brought up: fictionalizing non-fiction. What constitutes fiction, and what constitutes non-fiction? Do you have to tell your readers that what you are telling them happened or did not happen? In this work, Carlson blatantly tells his readers that this is "a work of fiction" and that "any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is merely coincidental." Yet the rest of the piece then goes into factual events that did occur. He seems to do the very actual opposite then of fictionalizing an account; he non-fictionalizes it. This particularly can be seen as he relates the details of his first love Debbie Delucca. He recounts the memories of the vanilla milkshake and cheeseburger, but in the end, shows the reality of the situation - he did not get the girl. Rather, they both moved on, and he confirms this by mentioning how fiction would have showed the opposite. "If you want the coincidence where some character based on me gets the amazing girl back and has his heart start again after so many years, you're going to have to look in a book." Placing these two genres on opposing sides of one another, Carlson lends to this discussion of fictionalizing factual events.  

Caution: Fiction

Preface: 

As I was rummaging through my computer today, I fell onto some fictional pieces that I have written, and I would love to share them with you. So over the next remaining weeks, I may include a couple per week just to balance all the critical and creative non-fiction posts. Of course, you guys don't have to read them, but if you have some spare time, I would love feedback! Thanks! : )

Also another warning: I tend to write about periods in time. This one is about the Easter Rising in Dublin, Ireland 1916, which was an "uprising" or "rebellion" - depends on which side you were on - against the English for Irish independence.

Hope you enjoy it! : )

For You

Easter, 1916

            Light from the street-lamps created shadows across the tiny room. Ida stared up at the cracking ceiling as she listened intently for that familiar noise. The tram screeched past, and laughter wafted through the window. Finally, she heard the door slam and Cian’s heavy footsteps on the stairs. She rolled onto her side, closed her eyes and feigned sleep.

            “Still awake?” his voice whispered in her ear. His arms wrapped around her. “I told you that you didn’t have to wait up.”

            “How could I fall asleep?” Her hands reached for his, and her head rested against his shoulder. “Cian, you cannot keep doing this. Every day I watch you leave and fear that it will be for the last time. Every night I am frightened that I will receive the knock from the police, asking me to identify your body.”

            “Ida,” he laughed softly. “You worry too much. I am safe.”

            “Really?” she asked indignantly.

            “The Brotherhood knows what they are doing. We only do what is absolutely necessary.”

            “Does this include the rebellion? Is it really necessary for the Irish Republican Brotherhood to strike against the British?”

            “Yes! An unfree Ireland shall never be at peace.”

            “So you say. But now?” she asked.

            “The British are weakest now. We have waited too long for their empty promises of Home Rule.”

            Ida pursed her lips and refrained a rebuttal. It was useless to argue against Cian’s beliefs. For years she had heard him rage about the cruelty of the British and the need for Irish Independence. And it wasn’t that she didn’t agree. She did want Home Rule. This common belief had brought them together. She could still remember the rally where she had first heard him. His green eyes had shined against his freckled face and brown hair. His voice had rung through the square as he had told his experience of the British brutality, being separated from his parents and forced to go to a Protestant school. Although she had always believed in the cause, his story and passion had captivated her. After years of knowing him, it was the first time she knew she really loved him.

            But she did not believe in this uprising. It seemed too sudden, rash and violent. She was afraid that it would fail as countless other rebellions had. It shared too many similarities: rumors that the British knew, dwindling support and no organization. Any attack now would result in a sure loss.

            Cian’s voice disrupted her reverie. “You do not need to worry for too much longer. By tomorrow, everything will be over.”

            “Tomorrow?” she croaked. Her head turned abruptly, and her hazel eyes searched his.

            “Yes. The rising has been moved to tomorrow.”

            “Oh, Cian, that only ensures its failure!”

            “No, the British will not expect a rising the day after Easter!”

            “But you are not ready! With more time, you could succeed. There will be other opportunities. Please . . . promise me that you will not participate!” She took his hand.

            “Ida, you know I cannot do that. I have to be there for the Brotherhood. I will be fine.”

            “No. If you go . . .” Tears filled her eyes and she shook her head. “Just promise me! I beg you.”

            His green eyes held hers. “Well . . . fine. For you, I promise.”

            “Thank you. You know that I only ask this, because I love you.”

“Yes. Just as I will always love you.”

She nestled her head into his shoulder again. His arms acted like a warm blanket, and she began to feel drowsy. Knowing that she did not have to worry, she drifted off to sleep.

Boom . . . boom . . . boom.  

The pounding on a door downstairs startled Ida awake. The warm pink glow of the sun illuminated the room. Ida shut her eyes. This time she did not have to worry. Cian was safe, lying right beside her. The police were knocking on someone else’s door.

            A cold draft made her shiver and reach for the blankets. She blinked her eyes open. She had been warm last night. She rolled over. Beside her lay ruffled sheets and blankets. Below she again heard the knocks on her door.

Dave Eggers's A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

Critical Analysis of Two Passages of "Fiction":

Passages:

1.      Toph and Dave discuss the “Big Day” p.114-120

‘“I mean, it was almost as if it was too much to happen in one day, as if a number of days had been spliced together to quickly paint a picture of an entire period of time, to create a whole-seeming idea of how we are living, without having to stoop (or rise) to actually pacing the story out.”

“What are you getting at?”

. . .

“So you’re reduced to complaining about it. Or worse, doing little tricks, out of frustration.”

. . .

“The gimmicks, bells, whistles. Diagrams. Here is a picture of a stapler, all that.”

“Right.”

“You know, to be honest, though, what I see is less a problem with form, all that grarbage, and more a problem of conscience. You’re completely paralyzed with guilt about relating all this in the first place, especially the stuff earlier on. You feel somehow obligated to do it, but you also know that Mom and Dad would hate it, would crucify you-”’

Read until the middle of page 120 where the paragraph begins, “I leave the light on . . .”

2.      Visit of John in the hospital p. 271-275

“I go in to see him.

“He has a tube sticking out of his mouth, one out of his nose. . . . It looks like his hands are tied to the bed.”

“His hands are tied to the bed. The bindings are thick, black, Velcro. He must have resisted, or swung at someone . . .

“But this room is much too big, too big and white. This huge room, separate from the rest of the ward, must have been built for more than one bed. . .

“Who’s John?”

“You’re John.”

“I’m John?”

“Yeah. I changed your name.”

              . . .

            “. . . Whatever. But I didn’t ask you to broadcast all this-”

              . . .

            “Whatever. This is mine. You’ve given it to me. We’re trading. I gave you the attention you wanted, I bail you out, when you spend three days in the psych ward, and say how you’re still thinking of doing it, I’m the one who comes in and sits on your bed and gives you the big pep talk – anyway, the point is that because of all of that, all the shit I put in for you – now I get this, this is mine also, and you, because you’ve done it yourself, made yourself the thespian, you have to fulfill that contract, play the dates, go on the road. Now you’re the metaphor.”

Read until break on p.275.

As seen in both passages, Dave Eggers blends humorous/witty, honest/serious and exaggerated melodramatic into his repertoire of tones. In many cases he juts these tones side by side. In both passages, he begins and ends with a mixture of a humorous and melodramatic tone, which he also uses to break from any serious, bluntly honest analysis of himself. In the Toph scene, this can be seen through the conversation of the “Big Day” that included “basketball,” “dinner,” “open house,” “ice cream” and a “movie” (114) He continues to intersperse the humor in his use of “gimmicks, bells, whistles. Diagrams. Here is a picture of a stapler” and the “toothpaste on your chin” (115; 117).  It is almost as though he uses it as a preface and apology for his serious tone as though he is afraid that he will lose his audience by being too serious. In a way, it reflects this battle of his “conscience” to stay true to the story of his life, parents, childhood, Toph, but he still  wants to entertain his readers. As a result he maintains the humor and a fictionalized version of events, such as the Toph conversation. It serves as his conflict, his reflection of serious matters such as what he is thinking/feeling as he deals with his parents’ death and raises Toph, and the needed humor.

This is also seen in his blend of honesty and melodrama and humor in the second passage. His exaggeration of the expansive and white hospital room and bed and the bruises on John’s arms reflect this use of a melodramatic tone. This is combination of humor and melodrama is seen on p. 272, “But then you’d be dying, and the last thing you would see would be some LeRoy Neiman print from the 1983 Masters and that would be just too terrible, not that there could ever be any appropriate thing to see before you died – But if you really liked golf.” He continues this in his initial banter with “John” about his fake name until it goes into a more serious tone about John serving as a metaphor of lost youth in his book. But even then he tries to hide this honesty of his fictionalization through a melodrama of being a good friend and giving John morphine. So he again uses these fictionalized versions of the truth to hint at honesty or falsehood in this book, analyze himself and others, and still entertain his readers.

  

Short Takes

Part Seven 

The Essays that I read this week:
1. "Daylight Savings Time" by M.J. Iuppa
2. "Getting Yourself Home" by Brenda Miller

Analysis of "Daylight Savings Time"

 In this essay Iuppa describes the action and setting of six different fragments to paint an entire one day/scene of two individuals' journey in a 1968 Volkswagon bus in October. Her writing style and organization of the breaks seems very poetic and lyrical. Each paragraph represents a little chunk of the scene, yet stands by itself like the stanza of a poem. Her diction and variation of sentences are beautiful and capture the pace of the memory and/or action of each fragment. For example, in the first paragraph, there is: "Air pungent and sharp with its smells of wet leaves and earth and distant chimney smoke is loaded with melancholy, just lingering to be breathed in and set loose in a sudden gush, a thought of someone not quite forgotten, someone whose embrace felt dangerous and ticklish like electricity, like power surge before blackout." Although rather lengthy, this is a beautiful sentence with all the descriptions, power, flow . . . Still captures this same meaning in her short sentences, like in her last fragment, "There is always one. One left to know this. One left to keep quiet." She speaks of loss and the memory of the person that she is addressing throughout the story as "you." Altogether the writing style and organization embodies this memory and sense loss in a beautiful and break-taking yet sorrowful way.

This is one of the essays that takes more time to digest and read over and over to try and understand what is going on. But I loved it and thought it was amazing! So please read it and let me know what you thought!

Emulation of Eggers

Introduction: 

 Dave Eggers in his A Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius shows a remarkable power/control over words and the effect they can yield a reader. He jumps from a funny and light tone to a serious, sad one in one simple paragraph break and page turn. His front material reveals him as a witty writer, breaking the rules of format and attempting to analyze his own writing. It also shows him to perhaps have a chip on his shoulder. Yet the beginning of his work yields a complete 180 shift in tone. He begins to tell about his mother's illness, dying of cancer and his father's abrupt and unexpected death.

In this emulation, I will try to imitate his abrupt shift in tone and possibly his varying styles of writing. Caution: The material in the Preface is not necessary to read the actual piece, and it may be skipped. Do not say that you were not warned.

Preface:

 It seems as though I need to assure the reader that I am similar to them. I, like you, am a human being. We have 99.99% of the same DNA and genes. Biologically we are pretty similar; so should we not be similar mentally as well, able to sympathize or a least empathize with each other? But to further assure you  of this, I shall make a list of our similarities.

1. I am like you. We both probably have made a list sometime in our lives.
2. Like any student, I procrastinate.
3. Some days, I stay up ridiculously late for no reason, except for wasting time on the internet and then needing to finish said homework or papers.
4. Occasionally I fall asleep wearing the same clothes that I wore that day.
5. I didn't cry when my sister left for the Peace Corps despite the fact that I would not see her for two years.
6. Both of the times that I have been dumped, I have felt this odd sense of relief.
7. After my grandma died, I stopped eating as much and for a couple months, could have been considered anorexic.
8. I love watching those goat videos dubbed with Taylor Swift, Usher, etc. (See below.)

Yay for assurance!
Still I feel the need to explain myself and my life choices as if we do not understand each other. Almost as an apology. So here is a goat video instead.

The Rendering of a Romantic Realist

The warm glow of the sun shined through the stained glass onto the filled pews. Flowers suffocated the lobby as two of my cousins and I stood awkwardly off in the corner. Afraid to say the wrong thing. Afraid to make small talk with relatives that we had never met before. Not sure how behave at our first funeral.
 "I like your dress."
"Thanks. Only black dress I owned, though I wore it last year for initiation."
They nodded at each other in understanding.
"I wish . . ." Tears engulfed one of my cousins, and she excused herself. Slowly we also dissipated, returning to our respective parents. 

The organ filled the sanctuary as the dark brown coffin was carried to the front. The pastor welcomed the congregation as they came to celebrate the life of . . .

~

It was finally finals week. That Monday 8:00 exam of Evolution was finally complete. Spanish was 48 hours or more away, CAS essays and Chemistry, days away. Relief flooded my being.
"How do you think you did?"
"Ehh, I am just glad it is over with! We will never have to sit through that class again!"
"True that!"
 I had always kept my phone on silence after learning the hard lesson of having it go off my first day of college during class. While I had smoothly pretended to not own a phone, embarrassment forced me to never have that happen again. Hence, the silence.That day was no exception, and only because I was busily texting T, I saw the incoming call from home.
"Hey, Kiddo."
"Hi!!"
"We wanted to wait until after the exam to tell you this, but Grandma . . ."
"When?"
"June 5."
"Hey . . . it will be okay. Jessica is on her way . . . We can stay on the line until she gets there . . . Okay?"
"Right."

I had just been home the weekend before for Memorial Day, but the last memory I had of her came from Easter. She had been sleeping in the hospital bed, tied up to ten billion IVs and cords and who-knows what else. She had looked so peaceful with her white hair between the pillow and her shoulder. Her small body disappeared behind the white sheets. In a comfortable yet still awkward silence, I sat with Granddad, staring at her. 
Was this really what she had wanted to live like, die like, in a hospital room surrounded by doctors and nurses that she did not know or care about? In this state, where she did not recognize loved ones, know where she was, living via a machine, feed via IV because she could not herself eat? Why was God making her suffer this much? Would it be better if the cords were just pulled now? Just end all of that suffering. But then what about the rest of us? How would we be able to part? Plus, she could recover . . . No.

"Hey, I am sure Jessica is close by now. We are going to let you go. Just remember, it is okay now. The pain's gone. She's in a better place."

~

The coffin lay under a white tent, above the lush green grass and beside the huge dark hole. The sun in the beautiful June blue sky with fluffy white clouds baked down on us as we in black made our toward it. It was time for a final good-bye.

Short Takes

Part Six

(I guess I lost track of how many I had done - kind of the way I lost track of which week this is in semesters. But really this is part 6!)

Essays I read this week:
1. From "Mexico's Children" by Richard Rodriquez
2. "What Sacagawea Means To Me" by Sherman Alexie

Analysis of "What Sacagawea Means To Me" 

In this essay, Alexie uses an extended metaphor of Sacagawea to reveal how the United States is a contradiction. He begins with a mocking story or experience about how one can visit Sacagawea’s “brain” and experience the way she lived life. For example, she dies of a mysterious disease which could have been brought on by Lewis and Clarke, which reflects the hypocrisy of “civilizing” America. Also in her relationship with the two explorers, she still defends them against her long-lost brother after the fact that they enslaved her. This in itself shows her as a contradiction. He then extends this contradiction to the United States as he represents her as “our mother.” Here he places “clashing evidence” by mentioning that she is the “first gene pair of the American DNA” and alluding to the fact that “in the beginning, she was the word.” This scientific and religious connotations in neighboring sentences continues this contradictory theme. It all goes in to expose how he, like most Americans is “a contradiction.”