Travis Vogt: Not Illiterate

I don’t fancy myself as a luddite, or someone who spurns pop music or pop culture in general. I may not like or be interested in every new development in the pop culture landscape, but I like to stay informed. I can’t stand most reality television, but that’s the only curmudgeonly-towards-the-modern-times ethos I proudly adhere to. Mainly, I’ve got nothing against new shit--technology, culture or otherwise. 

On what should be an entirely different subject altogether, I recently watched Gotye’s “Somebody That I Used to Know” video. For the first time. Ever. And by recently, I mean “yesterday.” The friends with whom I was watching it probably assumed that I already knew what it was, but not a shred of it looked familiar to me. I thought it was one of my co-worker’s musician friends (he’s in a band). “Wow,” I thought, “that’s a pretty neat video for a local indie band.” But I thought it was cool, and I liked the song, so after work I looked into it.

Turns out, other people have seen it, too. On YouTube, the view count is over a million. Wow, right? Good for this “Gotye” guy from Seattle! Except, here’s the thing. The view count is over a million by 694,761,649. Yeah, it’s closer to a BILLION views than it is to ZERO views. And Gotye is totally not local. 

There’s more. Let me just quote Wikipedia: 

“It has topped charts in the US, UK, and Australia, as well as 23 other national charts, and reached the top 10 in more than 30 countries around the world. The song has sold more than 13 million copies worldwide, becoming one of the best-selling digital singles of all time.” Hell, it’s even got parodies with high production value. 

It was on every form of media that music can be expected to be on, and constantly. This was three years ago. Three years ago that a song (and super cool video) became a worldwide sensation, dominating the imagination of the entire world to a truly exceptional degree. And yet somehow, I missed all of that. 

More unfortunate still, this isn’t just some piece of pop culture ephemera that I’d ordinarily be all to happy to miss, like a Miley Cyrus and/or Justin Bieber joint. This is a really brilliant song with an even more brilliant video. It also looks like the sort of thing that could’ve been made with mere thousands of dollars (and, of course, lots of passion and dedication). It was one of those strange circumstances when something truly worthy of mass attention gets every last bit of the recognition it deserves. I like the song as a music fan, and I like the video as a film buff. But I missed it all entirely when it happened. And I’ve been really trying. Haven’t I?

Am I that out of touch?

No. It’s the children who are wrong. 

LEFT TO RIGHT: Martin Van Buren, Sr. (Sr.), Ponce Von Liverpool, Charles Bitteroot Princeton, Yale McHarvard, Penn State, Seth Delaware River, Louie Ziana, The King of Maine, Dr. Emmett L. Brown, Randall “King Pincher” Steelington, Harold “The Catholic” O’Swansburg, Etiquette Dadsberry, Dave Jones, Wight Anglus Saxton Protestory, Picnic Vickstinsel, Ramsey Payne Quarterly, Dutchess Lady Winthrop (in drag), Rumple Stiltskin, Vole Dandypuff, Grint Watson Radcliffe, Calvin Broadus, Paisley Park, Slapdash Bladdersquirrel, Strom Thurmond, Byzantine McStradivarius, Pinochle Johnstone.  

PRIMARY SIGNATORIES: John Adams, Viaduct Crapper, Hangback D’Ghost, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin

Nobody wants to hear about other people’s dreams. This is well established. People want to talk about their own dreams because the cryptic, perverse nonsense made sense to them in some inexplicable way, but it all sounds like boring gibberish to other people. 

So I apologize in advance and I’ll try to keep this brief. I had three dreams last night over an hour’s time (7-8 AM if you’re somehow curious). I woke up and wrote as much down as I could remember--which was quite a lot--because it all simply must mean something. If anything, these dreams were yet another bad omen for McDonald’s. Plus, there were lots of pop culture references sprinkled throughout, so maybe that’s a bonus. Personally, I thought it was kind of pandering. 

Okay, here they are in order. 

1. BUGS AND KORRA I was in my room at my childhood home in Yakima. I had six or seven giant old tube TVs arrayed in front of me, along with a variety of other electronic devices. There was a sound mixing board, a reel to reel and one of those mobile racks that dentists array their drills and pokers on. I had bugs all over my right arm. Lots and lots of horrible, vicious bugs. Dream bugs. Bugs in real life generally want to get the hell away from people ASAP, but dream bugs want to cling to you and bite, bite, bite! 

Someone popped her head into my room and said “Everything okay?” Probably because of all the screaming. “I’ve got these damn bugs on my arm!” I cried. “Are you still recording Legend of Korra for me?” she replied. Indeed I was, on six or seven giant old tube TVs. Korra and Asami were naked. Asami was trying to wipe bugs off of Korra’s arm. “Get the fuck away from me!” Korra shouted. 

“Yeah,” I said, “but these writers clearly don’t care anymore. Everyone’s naked and dropping F-bombs all the time.” 

“Just get it done,” the mystery person at the door replied. I then noticed the bugs on my arm once more and started scratching away. 

2. KIYAKING IN SOUTH AMERICA I was Kayaking from Venezuela to Columbia, which were on separate continents in this dream. Naturally, there was a McDonald’s in the middle of the ocean. Not on an island or anything, just a big McDonald’s poking out of the waves. I parked my Kayak and headed in to use the bathroom, which was in the basement. I struggled to pee, as I often do in my dreams. This is probably good, because it means I’m not peeing the bed. But it’s quite frustrating in the dream. 

There was a guy standing at the urinal next to me. He wasn’t peeing, mind you, he was just standing there, facing me. “Vacation” by the Go-Gos was playing on the intercom. “What people don’t understand is that this song is actually really great,” the urinal man proposed. Frustrated because of my bladder difficulties, I tersely replied “NO. EVERYBODY LOVES THIS SONG.”

3. AL QAEDA’S BIG PLAN The McDonald’s in my hometown of Yakima was publicly threatened by Al Qaeda. At first, president Obama dismissed the threat, but fast food patrons of Eastern Washington got into an uproar, so the President vowed to send in the National Guard. My brother and I, as children, looked on as tanks, helicopters and ground troops armed with Civil War-era muskets swarmed and drilled around the restaurant. By nightfall, there had been no attacks. The manager stepped outside and made an announcement that McDonald’s was closing, but the National Guard would stay on through the night, just in case. 

A fiery, green streak of light shot across the dusky sky to the south. “Look at that,” my brother muttered, “I guess mom wants us to come home.” The next morning, my family watched the news on the black and white kitchen TV. McDonald’s had blown up. Obama claimed that a gas main had exploded, but nobody believed it. My mom said "Looks like the President’s in hot water!” 

You’ve never seen nor heard of this movie. But now you hate it. Is it because of the TOPLESS MENUS? The smiling while holding types of underwear? Everything else about it? Yes, it’s because of that. 

Don’t let the cryptic title fool you. The film Golf Balls is actually about golf balls. As well as goof balls...and BABES! And yet, somehow, you still have found a way to hate this movie. Well done.

Despite the FREE BONUS! Soundtrack CD generously included with this film, you have a burning hatred for it all the same. That tagline (”28 beers. 6 students. 1 assignment.”) sets the new land speed record in going from boring to the most boring in 3 sentence fragments flat. Also: bonus negative points awarded for besmirching Malin Akerman’s good name. 

You have done the math, and yet another baffling word problem tag-line makes you hate this movie despite it being in the BITING tradition of Swimming With Sharks. Not even the presence of Illiana Douglas, Stephen Rea and TOM FREAKING ARNOLD can help you get past the fact that there is a tiny man with flippers in a water bottle holding a briefcase and five $10 bills, while a super tiny shark swims below him and a phantom, god-like fisherman has hooked his tie through the bottle. It’s like an ink-blot test, and the only possible answer is “go to hell for showing me this.”

You hate the fact that these tiny dudes are staring directly at you, in mortal terror as if you are some sort of fearsome monster, while there is a perfectly shapely person--possibly a woman--possibly a MILF--towering over them, wearing dystopian future high heels. You also hate the movie in general, because it’s the “UNRATED EXPERIENCED EDITION,” because it’s called MILF, and because of everything else on offer here. 

You are really starting to hate math equation tag-lines by this point. You also hate everything about this movie, and you want to punch all of those dudes in the face. Apparently, they go to MFU State, and the mascot for this college is a “cock.” That’s garbage. This is garbage. That lady is 9 feet tall. 

Dear Sirs and/or Madams,

First and foremost, let me express my sincere appreciation for what you are trying to do. Beloved actor Paul Newman and author A.E. Hochtner clearly had nothing but the noblest of designs when they founded your organization in 1982. It is a well-known and celebrated fact that Newman’s Own donates every penny of profits (after taxes) to charitable organizations. A business that is in it solely for the purpose of the public good is a rare and exceptional thing. I’ve come to learn that since it’s inception, your company has donated over $400 million to charities around the world. You are a self-sufficient, reliable and selfless provider for those in need.

All that being said, I can’t help but wonder how much more money you would be able to raise for your worthy causes if your food products weren’t so terrible. As you are all no doubt well-meaning philanthropists, I would think the idea would be to produce as much profit as possible to in turn give over to your selected foundations. Just think of how much after-tax profit you could generate if people actually wanted to consume your products!

As a person of modest means, I am also something of a beneficiary of your largesse. Most of your products exist on the lower end of the price scale, and so I often have little choice but to purchase your salsas, salad dressing, popcorn and frozen pizza. Every single time I pull one of those dreaded boxes or jars off of the shelf, I sigh heavily, because I am not making this difficult choice out of the goodness of my heart, but rather the shallowness of my pockets. There are real people out here suffering from your substandard fare, real casualties that demand your attention.

I want to be constructive with my criticism. If you so desire, I’d be happy to help you make a better product. Most of the items you produce are basically no-brainers. It’s really easy to make salsa. I do it all the time. There are about five ingredients involved, and mop head clippings are most certainly not among them. Frozen pizza? Even Tombstone and Red Baron can make a decent enough frozen pizza these days. If those clowns can figure it out, I’m absolutely positive that you can. One of the key ingredients is crust, as opposed to the biodegradable shower mats you appear to be using.  

As much as it pains me to say, you should probably give up making microwave popcorn altogether. I bought a three-pack of your “Oldstyle Picture Show” popcorn several months ago; as of the time of this writing, two packets still remain in the box, haunting the darker recesses of my pantry. I haven’t thrown them away yet because I abhor wasting food, but the fact is that you wasted this food long before I ever got to it. This popcorn is an abomination. For a product that requires only dried corn, oil and salt, I have no idea why you deemed it necessary to add what seems to be an uneasy mixture of talcum powder and tree sap. Whatever you put in those vacuum-sealed bags, my saliva was unable to dissolve any of it, and it remained a curiously dry mush in my mouth until I finally gave up and spit it into the garbage can. I shouldn’t have to remind you of this, but microwaved popcorn supposed to be a treat--not an ordeal.

I’m not here to assign blame or posit theories about why your company produces such repellant food. Perhaps Paul Newman had a terrible sense of taste and the recipes were designed to his liking. I find that hard to believe, however, considering the exemplary taste in film projects he displayed in his 60-plus year career. Perhaps you’ve all lost a bit of the passion required for doing good works. The bottom line is this: “cheap” and “for charity” are both great reasons to select a product, but even when combined, they do not outweigh the power of “not disgusting.” Please put a little more consideration into the things you produce which are intended for human consumption. People are genuinely counting on you.

Sincerely, 

Apparently these ads have been around for over a year, but I just started seeing them a few months ago.

They’re all pretty much the same: tough-guy actor Ray Liotta enters an atmospheric locale, usually a bar, in slow motion. There are lots of shadows and shallow focus shots so we know this is a classy, expensive production. Eventually, Liotta is either offered something to drink that is not 1800 brand quality tequila OR sees other people “enjoying” a beverage that is not 1800 brand quality tequila. This does not sit well with him. He menacingly stares down the offending party until they pour him the right goddamn drink or send their drinks back and order the correct goddamn drink. Blues rock blares triumphantly. Ray Liotta cackles his world-renowned Ray Liotta cackle. All is balanced in the cosmos once more.

Here, you only need to watch one to get the basic gist:

Got that? If you’re drinking something other than 1800 brand quality tequila, Ray Liotta thinks your drink is gay. But if you buckle under his silent menacing, he will reward you with a world-renowned cackle. People other than me have pointed out that these ads are morally questionable. Duane De Four at How Manly calls them “stylized bullying,” which is about right. “Drink the drink I drink or you’re a pussy,” Liotta seems to be saying. “You don’t want to know what happens after I’m done staring at you with my lizard eyes and too-smooth face. Maybe I’ll crack your face in with a snub-nosed revolver like you just pushed Lorraine Bracco out of a car.” (Sorry. I’ve seen Goodfellas over 60 times. That’s not a joke.)

In case you were wondering what Liotta and the ad agency behind the “Enough Said” campaign are really trying to say, there’s a wondrous compendium commercial that shows us clips of our favorite “Ray Liotta thinks your drink is gay” moments, inter-spliced with one of the most mind-blowingly nonsensical monologues ever delivered. Please. Watch. Don’t make me menace-stare at you. 

Ohhhhhh I love this ad so much! It’s the perfect encapsulation of everything that’s shallow and meaningless about advertising. Ray is apparently trapped in a hidden realm of inky shadows. Wiling away his days in this dark void has made him thoughtful and introspective, so he decides to share some powerful ideas with us. What he says has less substance than a Mad Lib that hasn’t been filled out yet. Best of all: Ray is saying absolutely nothing at all, but he says it with a seriousness that should be reserved for talking about fatal diseases and 9/11. Just dig that weirdly mournful music! 

This is what it takes him 2 and 1/2 minutes to say: 

“They say less is more. Maybe they shouldn’t say anything at all.

‘Cause it’s not what you say. It’s what you do.

You know the big difference between saying and doing? Anyone can say it, but very few can do it.

It’s always good to get the last laugh. But what’s even better? To put a smile on the other guy’s face.

In the end, if you’re too tough to have a laugh, or to live a little…or a lot, Then you’re not really tough at all. You’re just missing the point.”

AAAGGGH! I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS! 

1. Who says less is more? 2. Why should they shut up? 3. Why did you just abandon the whole “people who say less is more are dumb” concept in favor of a general “actions not words” theme? 4. What’s “it”?  5. Why can few do “it”? Is “it” playing professional basketball? Is “it” drinking 1800 without gagging? 6. Why are we talking about laughter now?  7. What does toughness have to do with laughter or saying vs. doing or “less is more”?  8. Is it possible to be “too tough” to live a little...or a lot? 9. WHAT IS THE POINT? WHAT IS THE POINT?

As ridiculous as this thing is, it’s a testament to Liotta’s under-appreciated skills as an actor. The man is just saying a bunch of buzz-word gobbledygook extracted from a decades-old focus group spreadsheet, and yet he delivers the monologue as if he’s a doctor telling you that your wife isn’t going to make it. He is DEAD SERIOUS. ABOUT NONSENSE. It’s the same thing as an actor being paid millions just to say “blah blah blah blah blah.” 

Oh, speaking of which:

In the end, there’s not much to this story. And that’s definitely for the best.

I was taking the D Line north on 15th to a tennis court in Ballard. I’m a grizzled old bus pro; I keep my earbuds buried deep and my eyes cast down. I’m barely even there, man. After a stop in Interlake seemed to go on for a particularly long time, something started to breach the defenses of my space-age sound-canceling technology. What is it about the word “motherfucker” shouted at full volume that so deftly draws one’s attention? 

Looking up, I saw that the bus driver was in the midst of a loud vocal altercation with a tall, crazy-eyed man who was leaning into the front door brandishing a blue sneaker in his left hand. For the sake of brevity, we’ll just call him “Hank” from here on out. “YOU FUCKING TRIED TO KILL ME, MOTHERFUCKER!” Hank screamed, at what I can only hope was full volume. 

The driver was in full-on dealing with lunatics mode. Patient, reasoning, not trying to provoke. “No, no I didn’t,” he reasoned, “now can you please exit the door? These people have places to be.”

“FUCK THESE PEOPLE,” Hank replied, “GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING NAME AND NUMBER! I WANT TO TALK TO YOUR SUPERVISOR! YOU TRIED TO RUN ME OVER WITH YOUR FUCKING BUS MOTHERFUCKER!”

Glancing around, I noticed that everyone else on the bus was unplugging and looking up from their phones. People shouting on the bus is pretty normal even for dilettante riders, but this had gone on long and loud enough to finally warrant everyone’s full attention. We shot each other looks that suggested “sheesh, this again?” mingled with a bit of “well, I hope we don’t all get stabbed.”  

As the bus driver tried to get a word in edgewise, an old bald man in a blue collared T-shirt decided that times like these called for a peacemaker. He wearily rose from his seat and limped over to the door. “Okay, now, let’s break it up, gentlemen,” he pleaded, “what seems to be the problem here?”

Hank countered with “NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS, MOTHERFUCKER!” At this point, any of us who had just tuned in and were wondering if this loud man actually had some sort of legitimate gripe realized that he was more of a threat than a victim. No matter how much adrenaline you might have pumping after a traumatic event, nothing justifies calling an old bald man with a blue collared shirt a “motherfucker.” It's simply not done. 

The old man shuffled back to his seat, shaking his head; his expression was aiming for bemused but settled on terrified. The driver tried to close the doors, but Hank caught them with his hands and a foot and pried them back open. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, BITCH?!” he screamed.

“I’m trying to close the doors! I can’t do this with you all day, we need to get back on the road!”

“YOU’RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE, MOTHERFUCKER!” By now you could sense an acrid change in the air. The passengers were no longer amused or annoyed. People were getting scared. Hank was big, wiry and completely unhinged. What if he got on the bus? What if he had a knife or a gun or a chainsaw? With Hank, anything seemed possible. 

At this point, a young man wearing a black T-shirt and jeans rose from the back. He strode up to the front of the bus purposefully. He didn’t run, he didn’t creep. As he passed by me, he had absolutely no expression on his face. When he was about 5 feet from the door, Hank spotted him. “OH, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WA--” and right then the guy KICKED HIM OUT THE DOOR. He literally kicked him. With his FOOT. Right in the chest. 

As if the whole thing had been planned and practiced, the driver immediately shut the door and took off. Hank pounded on the door and windows with his shoe. Then he broke into a terrifying sprint and followed alongside the bus for a good half block. He pointed a crooked finger at the driver, the kicker and everyone else. After he receded to a safe distance behind, there was a long pause...and everyone on the bus broke out into applause. The guy in black walked back to the rear of the bus and sat back down. A few blocks later, he spoke with the driver about god knows what and disembarked. It all happened pretty fast. To my everlasting regret, I wasn’t able to get video of the incident, but I did get a picture of the kung fu bus hero. 

I don’t know if you can tell, but he’s not even that big. There’s a helpful height ruler on the bar next to him like the ones in police lineups, because buses often contain people who have been or will soon be in police lineups. He’s about 5′6. Hank was much taller. 

I’ve known lots of guys like him before. Guys who see something they don’t like  and have an immediate answer: violence or the threat of violence. My friend Tony used to get us in all sorts of trouble because of this weird, totally natural instinct when I was living in LA. I had a lot of friends in High School that were the same way. If they saw a fight happening, they would run towards the violence, and I’d hang back and say “Hey! The other way is THIS WAY, GUYS!” I never understood it and I don’t have an ounce of it in me. 

Sometimes, though...it really pays to have a badass around. A guy who will kick a lunatic in the fucking chest just for wasting his time. I wasn’t going to do it. The bus driver wasn’t going to do it. Nobody else on that bus was standing up. The old bald man with blue collared shirt? Maybe 30 years ago. 

Favorite Lines From Glengarry Glen Ross!

The classic 1992 film adaptation of David Mamet’s brilliant, profane play has spawned a lot of memorable lines. Here are my ten favorite, in no particular order. Other than numerical.

10. “You gotta take that—what? A man’s what? That’s that? Well, this is that, too. Who? Piss on it.” Ricky Roma (Al Pacino)

9. “You either sell this land or you ain’t got a penis. It’s simple arithmetic, gentlemen: land plus sell equals penis. Land minus sell equals no penis.” Alec Baldwin (as himself)

8. "I shit better leads than this one a Sunday with one eye closed, you shrivel-packed, yellow-donkey sniffer!” Sheldon Levine (Jack Lemmon)

7. “I got my fuck fuck back, daddy!” George Aaronow (Alan Arkin)

6. “Glen? Garry? Meet Glen. Ross? You get over here, too.” John Williamson (Kevin Spacey)

5. “Man, job, man, job, man, job, man, job, etc. you get the idea.” Dave Moss (Ed Harris)

4. “Remember: A.B.C.D.E.F.G.H.I.J.K.L.M.N.O.P.Q.R.S.T.: Always Be Closing, Dammit, Enough Fucking Getting Handjobs In Janitor’s Klosets! Let’s Make Nifty Old Piles Quickly, Right? See ya later, Tom!” Alec Baldwin (as himself)

3. “My crap’s bigger than your balls, you steaming pile of jerk.” Ricky Roma (to John Williamson)

2. “I want Dick Tracy dead!” Big Boy (Al Pacino) from Dick Tracy