The world, upside down.

Macbeth

ACT I  SCENE I	A desert place.
[Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches]
First Witch	When shall we three meet again
	In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
Second Witch	When the hurlyburly's done,
	When the battle's lost and won.
Third Witch	That will be ere the set of sun.
First Witch	Where the place?
Second Witch	Upon the heath.
Third Witch	There to meet with Macbeth.
First Witch	I come, graymalkin!
Second Witch	Paddock calls.
Third Witch	Anon!
ALL	Fair is foul, and foul is fair:
	Hover through the fog and filthy air.

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We are living in the world of Macbeth. Where fair is foul and foul is fair. Where everything, in other words, is backwards and upside down. Where the prevailing order, is no order.

We have an uneducated, uncouth letch as president. And are about to elect an even worse example of the human species as Senator in Alabama. We pretend more guns will bring us more safety--ignoring all facts and figures to the contrary.

We tax the poor to lavish the rich. We eviscerate education and the environment, and all other social welfare expenditure because we can no longer afford them, though we add nearly two-trillion to the deficit and pour a trillion a year into unwinnable wars that cause unspeakable carnage.

Even our business, we eradicate experience, we ignore truisms that have worked in the marketing industry since merchants sold figs in ancient Sumeria. We pretend and grin fuck in meetings that people don't or can't read, though "content is king," and more books are published each year than ever before in history.

Most of all, we upside-down, topsy-turvy Bernbach and Gossage and Ogilvy, ignoring simplicity, ignoring in more cases than I care to, or can enumerate, ignore what's worked, what's common-sense, how people think, act, consume, learn, buy.

Then we wonder why things don't work. We issue specious and unfounded proclamations about audiences, based on anecdotes at best, and when, once again, things don't work,
we wonder, once again, why.

One night in the Tempus Fugit. A repost.

My wife, who just on Tuesday had her hip bionically replaced, returned home from the hospital yesterday afternoon. Though I consider myself a decent person and a more than moderate husband, I'll admit, I am not the most solicitous of people. I'd rather be waited on than wait on. Alas, now, I have no choice. Though my wife is no termagant, I am fairly at her whim and caprice.

Naturally amid all this turmoil, insomnia chose that very moment to strike. So, at approximately 2:47 in the morning, Whiskey and I made our way through the city to the invitingly dim incandescence of the Tempus Fugit.

"Did I ever tell you," the bartender began, as usual, without any pre-mumble or salutation. "Did I ever tell you of the haunt that haunts these latitudes?" He swung gingerly around the bar and placed a small wooden bowl of cold water in front of Whiskey. Then, back behind the mahogany, he pulled me a Pike's Ale (the ALE that won for YALE) filling the requisite six-ounce juice glass.

"Haunts," I said, with my typical sagacity.

Violet Klotz, 1903-1930. Photo taken shortly before her murder.

"Haunts," he repeated. "Haunts that to me, resemble one Violet Klotz, the hatcheck girl in 1930 when the Tempus Fugit was still a speakeasy."

"A hatcheck girl. The place had class, huh?"

Ignoring my feint at cynicism, he continued on his way.

Hymie "Iambic" Goldstein. An artist's rendering by Patrick Hamou.

"Klotz was a looker, and the inamorata of one Hymie "Iambic" Goldstein. Goldstein was one of the roughest muggs in the Jewish mob."

"Iambic?" I asked.

"He spoke, believe it or not, Hymie did, in perfect iambic pentameter. It was the most uncanny thing I ever saw."

"Short syllable then long syllable. Uncanny to say the least."

"Iambic made fortune for the mob, stealing cars and losing them. The gang would collect $100 insurance per, and Iambic would make $10 of that. Things went along fine until he got too clever by half."

"A stressed syllable that should have remained unstressed," I added.

"You could say that. Iambic, instead of ditching those cars, he brought them to a junk dealer. Together they stripped the cars and Iambic made another $10 bucks."

"You can't blame him," I offered, "it was the Depression. Who didn't need the extra scratch."

"Well the mob didn't see it that way. They pushed Iambic off the roof of a 17 story building."

He pulled me another amber and offered me a bowl of salted Spanish peanuts. As always, I dismissed the goobers and drained the suds.

"Violet was checking coats when the boys that pushed Iambic came in. They were feeling good and laughing. One guy--I can't remember his name--kept repeating 'He got metrical feet, but he ain't got no wings.'"

"Quite a mouthful," I said, starting on Pike's number three.

"Violet got wise. She realized Iambic was no more and she pulled a small pearl-handled on the guys who offed her man. They beat Violet to the draw and gunned her down right over there, next to where there was a signed photo from Gene Tunney wishing me all the best. It was a veritable fusillade that did Violet in."

Gene Tunney, World Heavyweight Champion, 1926-1928.

"Wow," I said. "So now she haunts the place."

"She died amid the chinchillas and minks. And comes back every Halloween looking for Iambic. The holes in her corpus whistling in the wind."

"Grisly," I said getting up to leave. I slipped the leash on Whiskey and slid two twenties across the bar.

He pushed them back my way. "Happy All Hallow's Eve to you, says I."

All in perfect iambic pentameter. 

Truth.

About a month ago, I attended a panel discussion during "The New Yorker Festival" called "All the President's Reporters." 

It was an august panel, featuring four Pulitzer-Prize winners, Jo Becker of "The New York Times," Jane Meyer of "The New Yorker," and Greg Miller of "The Washington Post." The old man on the panel was the legendary Carl Bernstein (also of the Post) whose investigation into Watergate helped bring down Richard Nixon in 1974.

The audience smelled blood. We spent the 90 minutes waiting for some revelation about Trump, some "insider" knowledge that would finally bring our tinpot tyrant down.

Then, Bernstein, who had 20 years on the rest of the panel, took over the discussion.

"Look," he said, "Journalism won't bring down Trump. Journalism can only uncover the truth. And the truth will bring down Trump."

I've been thinking about Bernstein's wisdom since I heard him say it. What is truth? Truth in our business?

Too many people, in our industry and others, are rapid-fire quick in telling you how great they are, how much they do, and all about their general magnificence.

They're quick to talk about everything but actual work. 

I tend to take self-promotion and personal branding with a grain of salt the size of the Hoover Dam. 

As the oldest-working-copywriter in the formerly-free world, I can say the secret of longevity is not self-promotion. It is truth: the truth of your work. The truth of your dedication. The truth of giving credit to others. The truth of doing the little things. The truth of trying to be generous and kind.

There was a time in our business when agencies were judged by the brands they built, judged by the work they actually did.

DDB--Volkswagen.
Ammirati--BMW.
Scali--Volvo.
Ally--Fed Ex.
TBWA--Absolut.
Ogilvy--IBM.
Wieden--Nike.
Chiat--Apple.
BBDO--Pepsi.

Those agencies were built, in other words, on truth. On what they actually did. Not just their own press-releases. I find it hard, today, to find a similar relationship of consequence in the ad industry.

In other words, it seems to me there is more Vayner-like self-aggrandizement that Bernbach-like substance.

I'm old-fashioned, I know. And I'll steal a line from Lady Gaga, I was born this way.

And, I prefer it.

Advertising today in two charts.

The "Quote-o-Matic."

With Ad Aged's "Quote-O-Matic," you can be instantly interesting and quotable in the advertising trade-press. Be ready for any question incisive reporters throw your way about virtually anything. Never be at a loss for words again.

Try these: 

• This was a team effort.
• A great creative idea can come from anywhere.
• This one was a labor of love.
• We captured the essential truth of the moment in a unique way.
• The challenge was to show _________ in a whole new light.
• We connected with our audience in a new and unexpected way.
• This is all about storytelling.
• We brought storytelling to a new dimension.
• It made us a little uncomfortable, but that’s the whole point.
• We’re taking the brand to the next level.
• It’s next-generation marketing.
• We’re starting a conversation.
• This campaign will force people to lean in.
• It’s not just a TV advert. We’re starting a movement.
• Millennials aren’t connecting with brands like boomers.
• Boomers don’t connect with brands like millennials.
• It’s all about mobile.
• It’s all about digital.
• It’s all about second-screens.
• We know people have an emotional connection to _________.
• We get thousands of messages a day, we had to make sure ours cut through.
• It’s a tongue-in-cheek approach against brands taking themselves too seriously.
• We used a distinctive film-making style.
• We let the product speak for itself.
• Families today are busy.
• People want a brand that can laugh at itself.
• Our customers aren’t just viewers; they’re engaged with our brand.
• This isn’t just about _______—we’re inspired by the world around us.
• We’re helping people navigate the breakfast process.
• We’re harnessing the power of word-of-mouth.
• We couldn’t have done this spot a year ago.
• It took bravery on the part of the client to run this spot.
• I’m humbled by the attention this spot has received.
• The holidays are a time of family and togetherness.
• There’s no more important message right now.
• The film shows how __________ can enrich our lives.
• We’re giving voice to people without a voice. 

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Five minutes with our CMO.

Ad Aged:  So, you're a CMO. I assume that stands for the venerable title "Chief Marketing Officer."

CMO:  Dude, nothing could be further from reality, bro. Marketing is dead. 

Ad Aged:  I think that may be the subject of another post, after all, you do work at an advertising agency.

CMO:  Brah, it's all about social causes and transparency. I'm only giving this interview because your blog has such a small carbon-footprint.

Ad Aged: Thank you, I think. I wasn't aware I had a carbon-footprint at all. But tell me what CMO stands for.

CMO: Chief Millennial Officer, Bro. I help agencies relate to millennials. They are impervious to modern marketing. We can reach them only by doing things for the betterment of the world.

Ad Aged: An example, please. 

CMO:  Sure, Totino's toaster burritos--a new product. With every purchase, Totino's will donate a dime toward the AAG Foundation.

Ad Aged:  AAG. Who are they?

CMO:  AAG, Brah. Adopt a Goldfish. Thousands of our finny friends were abandoned after the disasters in Puerto Rico and Houston. We find good homes--good bowls--for them. 

It's a little something I call "Causevertising." And millennials eat it up.

Ad Aged: Abandoned goldfish.

CMO: That's not all. Buy a ten-pack of Ticonderoga pencils and we'll donate a nickel to an inner-city program that is really close to my heart. Dude, I grew up in the 'hood.

Ad Aged: And what inner-city program is that?

CMO: Did you know that four out of ten desks in inner-city schools wobble? Millennials everywhere are buying Ticonderoga pencils and eradicating wobbly writing surfaces.

Ad Aged: I wasn't aware this was such a problem.

CMO: I call it 'the silent killer.' Wobbly desks don't actually kill people, but it's a good line.

Ad Aged: Well, our time is just about up for today. Any parting remarks?

CMO: Dude, I wonder if you have any interest in adopting a goldfish. It could do wonders to increase your readership.

Beware of Greeks.

I had a friend many years ago who was toiling, thanklessly, at an agency well-known for its back-stabbing and its politics.

She called me one morning, to gripe, to commiserate, to do what advertising people do as regularly as they exchange dirty air for clean.

"How are things," I asked her, "at Advertising's House of Atreus?"

She laughed and launched into a galloping tirade about this or that.

Just recently I read Colm Toibin's novel, "House of Names," a modern and masterful retelling of the ancient Greek morality tales.

Let's summarize.

1. Agamemnon and his troops are stalled away from Troy due to contrary winds.
2. The gods won't change the winds until Agamemnon sacrifices his eldest daughter, Iphigenia.
3. Agamemnon tells his wife Clytemnestra to bring Iphigenia to the Greek camp where she will marry Achilles.
4. Instead Agamemnon slits Iphigenia's throat as a tribute to the gods.
5. Ten years pass during which time Clytemnestra grows increasingly angry.
6. She takes up with a lover and awaits Agamemnon's return.
7. He returns triumphant. 
8. She gives him a bath and slits his throat.
9. Time passes as Orestes slits his mother's throat.

There might be some bits I missed.

The question is, how do you put all that on your timesheet?

The post-consumer society.

Last Saturday, because I knew I was having my oldest pals coming over the following Monday, I went to a big discount liquor and wine store in the Bronx and bought a sizeable bottle of expensive single-malt whiskey.

As a child raised by wolves, I was a voracious drinker starting about age 15. Drinking age in New York in those days was 18, and with my older brother's draft card, and my naturally Promethean size, I could pass for older and buy beer or be served beer with hardly a ripple.

What's more, my old man who was also in advertising, had the Pabst beer account (before drinking Pabst was ironic) and a small well-brand of liquor called Old Mr. Boston. As a consequence, the basement of the tilted little house I grew up in was fairly stuffed to the rafters with all manner of intoxicants.

My parents, who were largely absent, correctly assumed that getting drunk was a part of growing up, and I'd be safer doing it at home than on the road somewhere. So my friends and I would congregate at my parents' house and kill a case or a bottle and be, really, none the worse for wear.

That said, by the time I hit 18 or so, I had gotten getting drunk out of my system. And since I reach my "maturity," I've barely even had a drink. 

My feeling about booze is thus: when I'm in a good mood (those rare occasions) I don't need it. And when I'm in a bad mood, it doesn't help. 

So, back to the Bronx and the bottle of single-malt. "This," I said to myself while justifying the expenditure at the check-out, "will be the last bottle of single-malt whiskey I ever buy."
It will likely, I thought, last through to my demise. In fact, I pictured my older daughter after my death, seeing the nearly full bottle and saying "I'll take that: it's 40-year-old booze."

It's occurred to me as I am nearing the gravitational pull of my dotage, that I might, outside of food and the occasional seltzer water, never again buy anything for the rest of my days. There is absolutely nothing, besides books and music and videos and fountain pens, nothing I pine for.

When I was a kid in New York, and New York was in its darkest days, I would often on a Sunday look in the real estate section and find an open house on West End Avenue and look at a Classic 6-room apartment that was selling for $189K.

Many of these places hadn't been redecorated since the early 1930s, and had the old-style push-button light switches, cloth-corded phone lines, brown carpet that had fused into the hardwood floors all topped off by the antediluvian aroma of well-seasoned mothballs.

I often look at my apartment, which somewhat sparkles and is clean and relatively well-decorated. Chances are I will do nothing more to it for the rest of my life. And it will look as dated to prospective buyers when my time comes as those old social-security-widow apartments looked to me way back in 1977.

Sans the mothballs.

A warning about talking to me.

A warning:

If you have words with me over the next couple of decades or so and you mention the word "disruption," there's a better than average chance that you'll get something of a tirade from me.

I have a personal predilection that with disruption, with the embrace of the new, new models, new approaches, new ways of doing things often comes a throwing out of the old and valuable.

My two cents says this, in our modern era--our modern ADD era, we have tossed away a lot of what makes us human. We have thrown away, in fact, two of the things that make us most human.

Here's an example of one of those things.

Yesterday, I had just finished a script--in a rush, under duress--for an internal award video. I did what I do when I finish something. I pushed myself back from my desk and looked for a distraction, a song on my iPod, some item of news, a note from a friend. 

Immediately a very good project manager who sits near me homed in on me goofing off.

"Are you done with that script?" she barked.

I looked at her and slowly said, "I pushing away from it for ten minutes, then coming back to it. That's how I work. I work with distance. You'll have it soon."

We don't work for the electric company. You can't flick a switch and make creativity come out. And we would all do well to take a walk around the block, or read something by Updike before we hand in an assignment.

Today, that's looked upon as an assault against timesheets, a monkey-wrench thrown into the great productivity machine.

Maybe someday, maybe someday soon, a machine will be able to read a folder of 79 images and 91 pages of random text and from all that data coalesce a communication.

Said machine won't be a moody, grumpy, obstreperous sonofabitch who reads Thomas Wolfe, Joseph Mitchell, Homer and John Updike when he needs to center himself creatively.

That machine will disrupt our industry, and productivity will soar through our unfinished ceilings and holding company share-prices and the compensation packages of the oligarchs at the top will puff up even more than they already have.

But I warn you.

Everything will suck.