50-year old Q: Can you work on this assignment?
25-year old A: How many hours am I allocated for this?
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
The Hedgehog and the Fox.
Many decades ago Isaiah Berlin wrote an essay called "The Hedgehog and The Fox." In it, he divided writers and thinkers into two categories: hedgehogs, who view the world through the lens of a single defining idea. And foxes who draw on a wide variety of experiences and for whom the world cannot be boiled down to a single idea.
Hedgehogs keep their heads down and move relentlessly forward. Foxes are more peripatetic and curious. They flit about.
To succeed in our business, to last--really last, you need to be both a hedgehog and a fox. You need to be an animal, single-minded, focused and tireless to fight through the stupidity and lassitude of the modern work place and so many naysayers in clientville. You need the stamina of a glacier to see work through the vicissitudes it faces to get it produced. It's that simple. You need to be as stubborn as my mother. Focused on nothing but getting it done and done right.
You also need to have some fox in you. You need to be insatiable. Curious, fast-moving and voraciously learning. You can't become the old guy, you need to be ahead of the game. Always moving, always a step ahead.
I'm on the cusp of selling what would be for my client a big TV campaign. I've been working on it almost exclusively for eight months. I've probably presented 50 boards to them. It takes a hedgehog.
I also need to do new, cool work for them. Things they haven't seen and haven't done before. That takes a fox.
Verdi, Katz and Vietnam.
I went to the opera again last night, the great opera "Rigoletto" by Giuseppe Verdi. There are still people who dress for the opera, there is a smattering of opulence, gowns and tuxedos. But most people are coming straight from work and they're wearing their work clothing, whether that's a business suit or a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. It's nice seeing the semiotics of dress at the opera, the "to-each-his-own-ness" which is one of the things that makes New York different and wonderful.
The best poetry of the evening came not from Verdi's score or from the libretto, it came from the back of a t-shirt that a heavy-set older man was wearing. The t-shirt was advertising Katz's Deli, the deli that was famous for decades before the famous orgasm scene from "When Harry Met Sally" made it even more famous. In fact, their famous t-shirts were emblazoned with a bit of anti-war ironic sloganeering that I remember from my youth.
The t-shirt had an old siphon seltzer bottle on the front, with a big "Katz's" in ornate script. And on the back, the famous words "Send a salami to your boy in the army." For me, growing up in the late '60s and early '70s, during the American carnage in Viet Nam, those words were as powerful and loaded as Country Joe and the Fish's "I Feel Like I'm Fixin' to Die."
"Well come on all of you big strong men, Uncle Sam needs your help again,
he got himself in a terrible jam, way down yonder in Vietnam,
put down your books and pick up a gun, we're gunna have a whole lotta fun.
"and its 1,2,3 what are we fightin for?
don't ask me i don't give a damn, the next stop is Vietnam,
and its 5,6,7 open up the pearly gates. Well there aint no time to wonder why...
WHOPEE we're all gunna die.
"now come on wall street don't be slow, why man this's war a-go-go,
there's plenty good money to be made, supplyin' the army with the tools of the trade,
just hope and pray that when they drop the bomb, they drop it on the Vietcong.
"now come on generals lets move fast, your big chance is here at last.
nite you go out and get those reds cuz the only good commie is one thats dead,
you know that peace can only be won, when you blow em all to kingdom come.
"now come on mothers throughout the land, pack your boys off to vietnam,
come on fathers don't hesitate, send your sons off before its too late,
be the first one on your block, to have your boy come home in a box."
Not the point of the evening, and it didn't overshadow the incredible aria "La Dona Mobile," but where my head went, at least for a while.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
The 11-day rule.
Many years ago two women who were creative partners worked for me. One of them was being promoted and the other wasn't. The woman who was being promoted was worried that the other woman, her friend, would be angry at her. What I told her then has since grown into a rule of mine.
Most upsets, whether they involve minor things like moving offices, a change in the format of a magazine, a new job or whether they represent a major global happening, stay in the front of your brain for a maximum 11 days.
When Facebook changes its format, people bitch and moan for about 11 days. When you get a new job, that "I'm new here feeling" lasts about 11 days. Even when you get a new haircut, the "news" of it (even if it was a radical change) will be over in about 11 days.
I would bet that in just about nine days from now the news of bin Laden's capture and execution will be off the front pages, "back with the shipping news," in the words of Preston Sturges. Just as perhaps the greatest environmental disaster in recorded history quickly faded into the distant past.
Russell Baker, a Pulitzer-prize winning columnist who wrote for "The New York Times" some decades ago called the news "the olds." Because nothing lasts long enough to get old.
Most companies that advertise and most agencies that serve them do not acknowledge the power of "news" and on-going "newness" in advertising. Instead they chug along talking about themselves and hope you notice.
And if they do recognize the power of news, they don't understand how quickly news passes.
11 days.
Most upsets, whether they involve minor things like moving offices, a change in the format of a magazine, a new job or whether they represent a major global happening, stay in the front of your brain for a maximum 11 days.
When Facebook changes its format, people bitch and moan for about 11 days. When you get a new job, that "I'm new here feeling" lasts about 11 days. Even when you get a new haircut, the "news" of it (even if it was a radical change) will be over in about 11 days.
I would bet that in just about nine days from now the news of bin Laden's capture and execution will be off the front pages, "back with the shipping news," in the words of Preston Sturges. Just as perhaps the greatest environmental disaster in recorded history quickly faded into the distant past.
Russell Baker, a Pulitzer-prize winning columnist who wrote for "The New York Times" some decades ago called the news "the olds." Because nothing lasts long enough to get old.
Most companies that advertise and most agencies that serve them do not acknowledge the power of "news" and on-going "newness" in advertising. Instead they chug along talking about themselves and hope you notice.
And if they do recognize the power of news, they don't understand how quickly news passes.
11 days.
Better living through blogging.
As I near my fourth year of writing this blog--over 2000 entries in all--I thought I'd take a brief moment to reflect on all its done for me.
I started writing Ad Aged at the behest of my dear friend and partner, Tore Claesson (http://toreclaesson.blogspot.com/). I was painfully unemployed at the time and Tore intuitively knew I would wither if I didn't have to write every morning.
I started writing every morning. I put pressure on myself to find something to say. Yes, some times I have nothing to say, but most mornings I find some sort of inspiration and write about something that matters to me.
The writing--every morning--gave me something to do every morning, an assignment. It wasn't a substitute for work but it lent me a vector when I needed one. It was also a way to "keep my name in front of people" when I had no other way to do so. To coin a phrase "writing is a force that gives me meaning."
Over time through this blog, I have met other bloggers and tweeters. It's funny how close you can feel to people simply by reading their writing, their thoughts and their spirit every day.
I've never done anything "right" with this blog. Never searched for an audience. I don't, in the end, care that I don't have many readers. I write for a small audience. But the person I'm really writing for, solipsistically, is me.
Every once in a while--way too often--a friend calls and tells me that they've lost their job. One of the things I always advise is blogging. It's a daily affirmation of who you are and what you do.
Thank you for reading this today.
I started writing Ad Aged at the behest of my dear friend and partner, Tore Claesson (http://toreclaesson.blogspot.com/). I was painfully unemployed at the time and Tore intuitively knew I would wither if I didn't have to write every morning.
I started writing every morning. I put pressure on myself to find something to say. Yes, some times I have nothing to say, but most mornings I find some sort of inspiration and write about something that matters to me.
The writing--every morning--gave me something to do every morning, an assignment. It wasn't a substitute for work but it lent me a vector when I needed one. It was also a way to "keep my name in front of people" when I had no other way to do so. To coin a phrase "writing is a force that gives me meaning."
Over time through this blog, I have met other bloggers and tweeters. It's funny how close you can feel to people simply by reading their writing, their thoughts and their spirit every day.
I've never done anything "right" with this blog. Never searched for an audience. I don't, in the end, care that I don't have many readers. I write for a small audience. But the person I'm really writing for, solipsistically, is me.
Every once in a while--way too often--a friend calls and tells me that they've lost their job. One of the things I always advise is blogging. It's a daily affirmation of who you are and what you do.
Thank you for reading this today.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Music for a memorable Monday.
When I was a kid, my father's favorite singing group was the Ink Spots. He had a stack of 45s he would play and he would try desperately to get me to listen to their harmonizing. I ignored the Ink Spots and my father as much as I could. I ignored my father clanking around his house vocalizing. But for whatever reason, when I heard the news last night about the assassination of Osama bin Laden and the dumping of his long and hirsute body into the sea, I thought of this song. And then I thought of this song.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Most advertising is off brand.
The problem with advertising in our modern world isn't that no one believes in it anymore, it's that most brands refuse to spend the time and the money to live up to the image they want to project.
I say this roughly 48-hours after returning from Las Vegas and still unable to rid my 6'2" frame from the deep vein thrombosis-inducing coach seat I was sentenced to for the five hour duration of the flight. I flew "the new United," and airline that's "merged and is now emerging."
If airlines were as good as they make their commercials say they are, people would love them. As they love Jet Blue, Virgin and to a degree, Southwest. Likewise, the top two telcos, AT&T and Verizon spend over a billion each telling you they're reliable and they don't drop calls. But of course, you hate them. Because they're unreliable and they do drop calls. Fast food restaurants show us delicious looking food that looks nothing like the final product.
People don't hate, or ignore advertising. They hate and ignore advertising that isn't backed up by brand behavior.
Again, it's not advertising people have stopped responding to, it's advertising that lies or distorts.
People listen to Apple ads. Not necessarily because they're better ads, but because they're actually on brand.
Most ads, those that show you a world that isn't delivered by the brand they are advertising are, simply put, off brand.
I say this roughly 48-hours after returning from Las Vegas and still unable to rid my 6'2" frame from the deep vein thrombosis-inducing coach seat I was sentenced to for the five hour duration of the flight. I flew "the new United," and airline that's "merged and is now emerging."
If airlines were as good as they make their commercials say they are, people would love them. As they love Jet Blue, Virgin and to a degree, Southwest. Likewise, the top two telcos, AT&T and Verizon spend over a billion each telling you they're reliable and they don't drop calls. But of course, you hate them. Because they're unreliable and they do drop calls. Fast food restaurants show us delicious looking food that looks nothing like the final product.
People don't hate, or ignore advertising. They hate and ignore advertising that isn't backed up by brand behavior.
Again, it's not advertising people have stopped responding to, it's advertising that lies or distorts.
People listen to Apple ads. Not necessarily because they're better ads, but because they're actually on brand.
Most ads, those that show you a world that isn't delivered by the brand they are advertising are, simply put, off brand.
Sunday in the Park with George.
I ran through Central Park today. The park was in the glorious Monet-at-Giverney-like-bloom. The spring so beautiful that it makes the slush and filth of a New York winter worth every slip, splash and slide.
Little League teams were on two of the six ball fields on the Great Lawn, skinny teenagers in tight polyester uniforms playing in the perfect weather. There was no recession on the fields, no wars in three countries, no global warming. There were just boys newly playing an old game.
I watched for a few minutes and was right back to my own childhood, playing on the same fields. I wondered if boys today taunted the same taunts I did.
"Ya swing like a rusty gate," when a batter swings and misses.
"Aunt Jemima makes a better batter," when a player whiffs.
'We want a pitcher, not a glass of water," when the hurler is wild.
I watched the boys for an inning. Their moms and dads cheering in a desultory manner, their brothers and sisters playing on the sidelines. The sunshine bright, the wind gentle and the songs of birds audible over the wails of sirens.
Little League teams were on two of the six ball fields on the Great Lawn, skinny teenagers in tight polyester uniforms playing in the perfect weather. There was no recession on the fields, no wars in three countries, no global warming. There were just boys newly playing an old game.
I watched for a few minutes and was right back to my own childhood, playing on the same fields. I wondered if boys today taunted the same taunts I did.
"Ya swing like a rusty gate," when a batter swings and misses.
"Aunt Jemima makes a better batter," when a player whiffs.
'We want a pitcher, not a glass of water," when the hurler is wild.
I watched the boys for an inning. Their moms and dads cheering in a desultory manner, their brothers and sisters playing on the sidelines. The sunshine bright, the wind gentle and the songs of birds audible over the wails of sirens.
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