Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Personal brands.
As readers of Ad Aged well know, I think most of the advertising and marketing that IBM does is second to none. Yes, it doesn't win awards. It isn't cool, au courant and flashy. It's simple, smart, approachable and propagates big ideas. (If our industry judged work based on anything other than what's notorious and cool, IBM, IMHO would sweep many an award show.) They don't do creativity for creativity's sake. They do honest work that moves people--and their stock price.
In any event I've just come across the video pasted above and the last 10 seconds or so really struck me.
In them Sam Palmisano talks about how leaving a company a better place than you found it is what matters, is how a leader should be judged. However, too often, way too often, leaders spend their time cultivating their personal brands as opposed to moving their companies forward.
This is the curse of our age. A triumph of patina over foundation.
Everyone from the president, to the presidential contenders, to junior art directors are out cultivating their personal brands. Consider it a slash and burn strategy applied to everything. Doing doesn't matter, achievement is secondary or tertiary or quadriary. Boasting about things rules.
BTW, the current Republican candidates' infatuation with corndogs seems an apt illustration. Eating a corndog at a state fair, some strategist somewhere has posited, is proof that you're "one of the people." So every Republican and his cousin has been shown in some fellatio-esque shot scarfing such a monstrosity. An image as apropos for a Mitt Romney as Michelle Bachman at a Mensa meeting.
Years ago I went to a Miami Ad School portfolio review. One thing I noticed is that everyone had a resume with their picture on it, usually striking some sort or nonchalant or asinine pose. All these students had been trained, honed and perfected into personal brands.
But what's missing in personal brands and is missed by the people who cultivate them is that brands in and of themselves, brands devoid of accomplishment and spine, are meaningless.
Apple would be nothing if they didn't actually make something.
Doing stupid things.
According to Maureen Dowd's op-ed in today's "New York Times," Rachael Ray (I know she's famous, I don't know what for) recently asked former president Bill Clinton what superpower he would most like to possess. Clinton answered thusly: “'I would be able to enter the minds of people who were about to do really stupid things' and stop them."
I thought about that a bit--about all the stupid things I have done in my career, all the times I have--in the parlance of child psychologists and the like--"acted out." Cursed and quit and said fuck you when I should have, if I were wiser and maybe stronger, bided my time, collected my paycheck, kept my thoughts to myself until I found something better.
Once I quit an agency because they hired a creative over me who tried to wrest control of my account from me. She expected me to hand her the reins (and my power) without a fight.
I quit. Just like that. Packed up my things and went for a long walk during a snowy January.
I was young then, or relatively so, having just turned 40. It was a different, pre-Great Recession era when jobs were easier to come by. After a couple hours of petulance-based retirement, I checked my voicemail and had a message from the head of HR, a friend, asking me to come in and talk.
I probably shouldn't have, but I did. And they lured me back. Eventually for more money.
I'm not sure if I was dumber when I quit or dumber when I came back.
Another time I quit because an account guy insisted on a concocted and made up pitch for a giant piece of business. The only time the client would concede to see us was over dinner the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.
I said that's no way and no time to present work and I wouldn't do it. I said to the agency president, if that's when we're presenting include me out. And they did.
Of course, they went ahead with the pitch which earned them nothing but lost weekends.
The third time I quit was the most recent and most painful. The president of the agency of which I was ECD had a mild crush on a creative I didn't think much of. She mandated that I put him in charge of an account and I refused. They insisted. I quit.
Overall most of these quittings have cost me money. One or two have made me money. All have caused me stress and strain.
In aggregate, I'm not sure if I'm better off or worse for acting rashly.
I'm stupid that way.
I thought about that a bit--about all the stupid things I have done in my career, all the times I have--in the parlance of child psychologists and the like--"acted out." Cursed and quit and said fuck you when I should have, if I were wiser and maybe stronger, bided my time, collected my paycheck, kept my thoughts to myself until I found something better.
Once I quit an agency because they hired a creative over me who tried to wrest control of my account from me. She expected me to hand her the reins (and my power) without a fight.
I quit. Just like that. Packed up my things and went for a long walk during a snowy January.
I was young then, or relatively so, having just turned 40. It was a different, pre-Great Recession era when jobs were easier to come by. After a couple hours of petulance-based retirement, I checked my voicemail and had a message from the head of HR, a friend, asking me to come in and talk.
I probably shouldn't have, but I did. And they lured me back. Eventually for more money.
I'm not sure if I was dumber when I quit or dumber when I came back.
Another time I quit because an account guy insisted on a concocted and made up pitch for a giant piece of business. The only time the client would concede to see us was over dinner the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.
I said that's no way and no time to present work and I wouldn't do it. I said to the agency president, if that's when we're presenting include me out. And they did.
Of course, they went ahead with the pitch which earned them nothing but lost weekends.
The third time I quit was the most recent and most painful. The president of the agency of which I was ECD had a mild crush on a creative I didn't think much of. She mandated that I put him in charge of an account and I refused. They insisted. I quit.
Overall most of these quittings have cost me money. One or two have made me money. All have caused me stress and strain.
In aggregate, I'm not sure if I'm better off or worse for acting rashly.
I'm stupid that way.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Out to Lunch.
One of my favorite movies of all time is Vittorio De Sica's "The Bicycle Thieves." No director I've ever seen casts and shoots people more realistically and no one tells a small stories about "unimportant people" with such poignancy and subtlety.
Today, work is a little slow and with not much to do I snuck out at lunch and took in De Sica's 1947 movie "Shoeshine."
Here's a "New York Times" recap of the story: "Set in Rome, soon after the American Army had driven out the Germans but before the wider war was over, “Shoeshine” is the story of two boys — the cherubic, towheaded Giuseppe (Rinaldo Smordoni) and the slightly older, more experienced Pasquale (Franco Interlenghi) — who make a living polishing the boots of American soldiers and dabbling in the black market. The boys dream of raising the money to buy a beautiful white stallion that has somehow entered their lives before the film begins (De Sica’s first sacrifice of plausibility to poetry), and in their eagerness allow themselves to serve as innocent dupes in a robbery attempt set up by Giuseppe’s brother....
"Sent to a juvenile prison, the boys are put in separate cells and fall in with a much tougher population, learning the value of keeping their mouths shut. But a guard tricks Pasquale into betraying Giuseppe’s brother by staging a phony beating. (When Pasquale hears what he believes to be his best friend’s screams of pain, he confesses everything he knows.) When Giuseppe learns of Pasquale’s betrayal, the boys’ beautiful friendship is destroyed."
I don't often goof off at work. I seldom duck out and treat myself to a flick.
But sometimes neo-realism beats realism hands-down.
A friend writes.
I just got an email from a friend of mine.
"There's an assignment kicking around in my group now to create some guidelines for videos that my client produces on their own.
"It seems to me that such guidelines are a silly and futile attempt to keep people who have no taste from producing something tasteless. To idiot proof idiocy.
"Any thoughts on this?"
Here's my response.
X, there's no way to completely stop people from doing something crass and stupid, but I wonder if there's a way of adapting Orwell's "6 Rules for Decent Writing" to your task. I've pasted them below and hope they help. They seem like pretty good rules to me, something you might have gotten from Ogilvy.
From his "Politics and the English Language."
(i) Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
(ii) Never us a long word where a short one will do.
(iii) If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
(iv) Never use the passive where you can use the active.
(v) Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
(vi) Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.
"There's an assignment kicking around in my group now to create some guidelines for videos that my client produces on their own.
"It seems to me that such guidelines are a silly and futile attempt to keep people who have no taste from producing something tasteless. To idiot proof idiocy.
"Any thoughts on this?"
Here's my response.
X, there's no way to completely stop people from doing something crass and stupid, but I wonder if there's a way of adapting Orwell's "6 Rules for Decent Writing" to your task. I've pasted them below and hope they help. They seem like pretty good rules to me, something you might have gotten from Ogilvy.
From his "Politics and the English Language."
(i) Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
(ii) Never us a long word where a short one will do.
(iii) If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
(iv) Never use the passive where you can use the active.
(v) Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
(vi) Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.
Monday, September 19, 2011
I wrote this almost four years ago.
A Ballad for the Republicans.
Rudy, Rudy, thank the stars in Heaven
For protecting us from nine eleven.
Mitt's strong and ain't afraid to veto,
His grin is nice, his hair is neato.
I like him more than Tom Tancredo.
Fred Thompson's aspect is Reagan-esque,
He'll sit behind that Oval desk.
And John McCain is tough as granite,
The strongest guy on all the planet.
Republicans there are galore!
They're freedom loving to the core,
They hate abortion, choice and more,
To immigrants, they'll lock the door,
And fight the necessary war,
The Christian god, they all adore.
They'll help the rich and tax the poor.
Support the NRA, of cour'
Republicans there are galore,
I'm a fascist, hear me roar!
Rudy, Rudy, thank the stars in Heaven
For protecting us from nine eleven.
Mitt's strong and ain't afraid to veto,
His grin is nice, his hair is neato.
I like him more than Tom Tancredo.
Fred Thompson's aspect is Reagan-esque,
He'll sit behind that Oval desk.
And John McCain is tough as granite,
The strongest guy on all the planet.
Republicans there are galore!
They're freedom loving to the core,
They hate abortion, choice and more,
To immigrants, they'll lock the door,
And fight the necessary war,
The Christian god, they all adore.
They'll help the rich and tax the poor.
Support the NRA, of cour'
Republicans there are galore,
I'm a fascist, hear me roar!
What Makes Sammy Run?
As I've written about before in this space, when I was a young graduate student at Columbia, I had a relationship with Budd Schulberg, the Hollywood screenwriter who wrote "On the Waterfront," "The Harder they Fall," and "A Face in the Crowd."
Schulberg also wrote a great American novel, "What Makes Sammy Run," which followed the rise and rise and rise and rise of Sammy Glick, an amoral conniver who would do anything to get to the top of the Hollywood heap.
(Schulberg knew whereof he wrote. His father, B.P. Schulberg was head of production at Paramount Pictures after Irving Thalberg died at 38. Budd was writing alongside F. Scott Fitzgerald while he was still in his early 20s.)
All this was rattling through the recesses of my head when the 1959 NBC television broadcast of "What Makes Sammy Run" arrived at my apartment the other day. The novel was one of my favorites when I was young, and though I haven't read it in 30 years, it holds a nostalgic place in my heart. What's more, I often think of a line from the novel, "going through life with a conscience is like driving with your brake on." A line that seems so relevant so often, whether you're in Hollywood, advertising, politics or in love.
In any event, I just watched the movie. And one moment hit me as being a genuine bit of genius. It involves Sammy stabbing his mentor in the back. Burying Sidney Fineman, casting him as old, obsolete, washed up. The way Sammy kills him is an art form. It is murder by Rembrandt.
STUDIO MONEY MAN: Mr. Glick, there's no point in hiding the fact that we're contemplating some changes in our organization here. And we feel that your record entitles you to a voice in that reorganization.
GLICK: That's very kind of you sir. I feel it's only fair to tell you how much I've learned from assisting Sidney. He's been like a father to me. In fact, he's taught me everything he knows.
STUDIO MONEY MAN: Perhaps he's given you all he has to give. He's certainly let too many expensive flops slip into the program this past year.
GLICK: Mr. Harrington, only a genius could produce 40 pictures a year without coming up with some turkeys. Sidney Fineman has done some great pictures.
STUDIO MONEY MAN: I appreciate your sentiments, of course. But frankly the real purpose of my visit is to determine if his recent record is good enough.
GLICK: Mr. Harrington, you put me in a very difficult position. I don't like to speak about my superiors especially a man like Sidney Fineman, a man who was such a pioneer in this business. I mean, he goes way back to the nickelodeons.
Maybe the scene acts better than it reads. But if you've got a spare 1:47 hanging around, I highly recommend "What Makes Sammy Run" from "The Archive of American Television."
Schulberg also wrote a great American novel, "What Makes Sammy Run," which followed the rise and rise and rise and rise of Sammy Glick, an amoral conniver who would do anything to get to the top of the Hollywood heap.
(Schulberg knew whereof he wrote. His father, B.P. Schulberg was head of production at Paramount Pictures after Irving Thalberg died at 38. Budd was writing alongside F. Scott Fitzgerald while he was still in his early 20s.)
All this was rattling through the recesses of my head when the 1959 NBC television broadcast of "What Makes Sammy Run" arrived at my apartment the other day. The novel was one of my favorites when I was young, and though I haven't read it in 30 years, it holds a nostalgic place in my heart. What's more, I often think of a line from the novel, "going through life with a conscience is like driving with your brake on." A line that seems so relevant so often, whether you're in Hollywood, advertising, politics or in love.
In any event, I just watched the movie. And one moment hit me as being a genuine bit of genius. It involves Sammy stabbing his mentor in the back. Burying Sidney Fineman, casting him as old, obsolete, washed up. The way Sammy kills him is an art form. It is murder by Rembrandt.
STUDIO MONEY MAN: Mr. Glick, there's no point in hiding the fact that we're contemplating some changes in our organization here. And we feel that your record entitles you to a voice in that reorganization.
GLICK: That's very kind of you sir. I feel it's only fair to tell you how much I've learned from assisting Sidney. He's been like a father to me. In fact, he's taught me everything he knows.
STUDIO MONEY MAN: Perhaps he's given you all he has to give. He's certainly let too many expensive flops slip into the program this past year.
GLICK: Mr. Harrington, only a genius could produce 40 pictures a year without coming up with some turkeys. Sidney Fineman has done some great pictures.
STUDIO MONEY MAN: I appreciate your sentiments, of course. But frankly the real purpose of my visit is to determine if his recent record is good enough.
GLICK: Mr. Harrington, you put me in a very difficult position. I don't like to speak about my superiors especially a man like Sidney Fineman, a man who was such a pioneer in this business. I mean, he goes way back to the nickelodeons.
Maybe the scene acts better than it reads. But if you've got a spare 1:47 hanging around, I highly recommend "What Makes Sammy Run" from "The Archive of American Television."
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Some football cheers.
There was a great article in today's "New York Times" sports section about the University of Chicago and their small-scale football program. http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/17/sports/ncaafootball/at-the-university-of-chicago-football-and-higher-education-mix.html?scp=1&sq=university%20of%20chicago&st=cse It's the story of the University dropping football after many years of collegiate dominance is recounted. Today, University of Chicago plays Division III football.
What really got me in the article however was the University's football cheer--a cheer that was more about the school asceticism than its love of the game:
Themistocles, Thucydides
The Peloponnesian War
X-squared, y-squared
H2SO4
Who for? What for?
Who we gonna yell for?
Go Maroons!
That of course made me think of the cheers Philip Roth recounted in "Portnoy's Complaint."
Give a yell, Give a yell,
A good, substantial yell
And when we yell, we yell like hell
And this is what we yell.
Ikey, Mikey, Jake, and Sam,
We're the boys who eat no ham
We play football, baseball, soccer
We keep matzohs in our locker.
Aye, aye, aye, Weequahic High!
-
White bread, rye bread,
Pumpernickel, challah,
All for Weequahic,
Stand up and hollah!
-
Then I did a bit of research and came upon a few more University of Chicago cheers.
CHICAGO CHEER
C-H . . . Chicago!
C-H . . . Chicago!
C-H . . . Chicago!
What is C H for?
METHANE!
-
PHYSICAL CONSTANT CHEER
Gimme the speed of light ......C
Gimme Planck's constant.........H
Gimme root negative one..........I
Gimme carbon......................C
Gimme the Bohr radius..............A
Gimme the gravitational constant....G
Gimme the additive identity of a non-trivial group...O
What's that spell? ...............CHICAGO!
(if you said CHICAGO, you are a true Maroon)
ARHYTHMIC CHEER (MM. = 72)
Largo, lento, adagio, andante,
Allegro con brio,
Presto, presto, presto!
LAW SCHOOL CHEER (apocryphal)
Wall Street, Law Review,
Contingent fees, all right!
To get an A from Levi,
We'll study all the night.
Rules of law and bar exams,
They can go to h---;
It's economic theory,
For which we're goin' to yell.
SO GO, GO, EFFICIENCY,
GILBERT'S ALL THE WAY.
Learned Hand and U of C
Are going to win this day.
GO, MAROONS!
SCHOLARLY YELLS
Logarithm, biorhythm,
Entropy, kinetics,
MPC, GNP, bioenergetics!
Maximize and integrate,
Titrate and Equilibrate--
GO, MAROONS!
Maximize our GNP,
Titrate their solution;
Calculate their MPC,
Crush their revolution!
GO, MAROONS!
What really got me in the article however was the University's football cheer--a cheer that was more about the school asceticism than its love of the game:
Themistocles, Thucydides
The Peloponnesian War
X-squared, y-squared
H2SO4
Who for? What for?
Who we gonna yell for?
Go Maroons!
That of course made me think of the cheers Philip Roth recounted in "Portnoy's Complaint."
Give a yell, Give a yell,
A good, substantial yell
And when we yell, we yell like hell
And this is what we yell.
Ikey, Mikey, Jake, and Sam,
We're the boys who eat no ham
We play football, baseball, soccer
We keep matzohs in our locker.
Aye, aye, aye, Weequahic High!
-
White bread, rye bread,
Pumpernickel, challah,
All for Weequahic,
Stand up and hollah!
-
Then I did a bit of research and came upon a few more University of Chicago cheers.
CHICAGO CHEER
C-H . . . Chicago!
C-H . . . Chicago!
C-H . . . Chicago!
What is C H for?
METHANE!
-
PHYSICAL CONSTANT CHEER
Gimme the speed of light ......C
Gimme Planck's constant.........H
Gimme root negative one..........I
Gimme carbon......................C
Gimme the Bohr radius..............A
Gimme the gravitational constant....G
Gimme the additive identity of a non-trivial group...O
What's that spell? ...............CHICAGO!
(if you said CHICAGO, you are a true Maroon)
ARHYTHMIC CHEER (MM. = 72)
Largo, lento, adagio, andante,
Allegro con brio,
Presto, presto, presto!
LAW SCHOOL CHEER (apocryphal)
Wall Street, Law Review,
Contingent fees, all right!
To get an A from Levi,
We'll study all the night.
Rules of law and bar exams,
They can go to h---;
It's economic theory,
For which we're goin' to yell.
SO GO, GO, EFFICIENCY,
GILBERT'S ALL THE WAY.
Learned Hand and U of C
Are going to win this day.
GO, MAROONS!
SCHOLARLY YELLS
Logarithm, biorhythm,
Entropy, kinetics,
MPC, GNP, bioenergetics!
Maximize and integrate,
Titrate and Equilibrate--
GO, MAROONS!
Maximize our GNP,
Titrate their solution;
Calculate their MPC,
Crush their revolution!
GO, MAROONS!
New York City on a beautiful pre-Autumn Saturday.
It's a beautiful pre-Autumn Saturday here in New York city. The sky is deep blue punctuated by billowy cumulus. The temperature is in the low-60s. Though the leaves haven't turned yet, the inevitability of Fall is evident. The tourists who it seems flock to New York in ever-greater numbers are bundled up against the chill that isn't here yet. Even the Muslim hotdog vendors are rushing the season. They're out with hot chestnuts already.
My wife and I ran around the Central Park reservoir this morning then down the Lincoln Center to exchange some opera tickets. We wanted, call it masochism, as much Wagner as we could get, so we swapped some lesser operas out for Die Walkure and Gotterdammerung. While my wife was exchanging the tickets, I traipsed through the excellent Opera gift shop at the Met. Today absolutely everything is merchandised.
There was a small wooden cutting board. The label read "Romeo and Julienne."
I spoke to the lady at the ticket window and told her we were trying to see all of the Rinse Cycle.
You mean the Ring Cycle, sir, she corrected.
No, I mean the Rinse Cycle. Because we have to bring in laundry to afford the tickets.
We walked the three miles home and stopped and watched for a few minutes the Germans in their annual Steuben Day Parade. Their red, black and yellow flag was everywhere, as were oompah bands and lederhosen.
Suddenly they broke into a Neil Diamond song, "Sweet Caroline."
Why are they playing that? my wife asked.
"I don't know," I answered "but it's better than Deutschland uber alles or Horst Wessel lied."
Fifth Avenue was barricaded against crossing. Finally we found an opening manned by two Puerto Rican NYPD cops.
"How come the Germans get to march up to 86th?" I asked, "And the Puerto Ricans have to stop at 79th?"
"I don't know," one of the cops answered, "but I'm issuing a complaint about it."
"I don't blame you," I said, "Now let us across. They killed all my people."
The cop didn't bat an eyelid. "You're the second guy who's said that to me."
My wife and I ran around the Central Park reservoir this morning then down the Lincoln Center to exchange some opera tickets. We wanted, call it masochism, as much Wagner as we could get, so we swapped some lesser operas out for Die Walkure and Gotterdammerung. While my wife was exchanging the tickets, I traipsed through the excellent Opera gift shop at the Met. Today absolutely everything is merchandised.
There was a small wooden cutting board. The label read "Romeo and Julienne."
I spoke to the lady at the ticket window and told her we were trying to see all of the Rinse Cycle.
You mean the Ring Cycle, sir, she corrected.
No, I mean the Rinse Cycle. Because we have to bring in laundry to afford the tickets.
We walked the three miles home and stopped and watched for a few minutes the Germans in their annual Steuben Day Parade. Their red, black and yellow flag was everywhere, as were oompah bands and lederhosen.
Suddenly they broke into a Neil Diamond song, "Sweet Caroline."
Why are they playing that? my wife asked.
"I don't know," I answered "but it's better than Deutschland uber alles or Horst Wessel lied."
Fifth Avenue was barricaded against crossing. Finally we found an opening manned by two Puerto Rican NYPD cops.
"How come the Germans get to march up to 86th?" I asked, "And the Puerto Ricans have to stop at 79th?"
"I don't know," one of the cops answered, "but I'm issuing a complaint about it."
"I don't blame you," I said, "Now let us across. They killed all my people."
The cop didn't bat an eyelid. "You're the second guy who's said that to me."
Friday, September 16, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Bill Mlkvy.
There's a young Polish woman who sits near me at work who, today, brought in a guide, in Polish, of the town in Poland in which she was born. The name of the town looked like a comic strip curse. Something like STKPRRYJ.
It reminded me of my father.
My father grew up poor in Philadelphia and somehow earned a scholarship to Philadelphia's Temple University. One class behind my father who was Temple class of 1951, was the great star of the Temple Owls basketball team. All-American Bill Mlkvy, a 6'4" forward, class of 1952 who was nicknamed, ingeniously, "The Owl without a Vowel."
In one college game, March 3, 1951 to be exact (my father was a few weeks short of graduation) Mlkvy poured in an unheard of 73 points in a game versus Wilkes University, his hands, I can only guess, like wild birds. At the time, it was an NCAA record.
Mlkvy averaged 21 points per game as a collegian and also tallied rebounds in the double digits. (Accurate stats weren't kept for rebounds in those days.) In his junior season, Mlkvy averaged an astounding 29.2 points per game. He was less of a success as a pro, playing one season for the Philadelphia Warriors and averaging just over 3 points per game.
Mlkvy went onto become a dentist (this is all I could find out about him) graduating from Temple University Dental School in 1955.
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