I am about to use a word I've never used before.
Narrative.
There, I've typed it.
I don't use words like narrative because they have become the domain of candy-assed jargon slingers. But I'm using it today because I am so incensed about the up-coming Presidential election in America and what I believe are the lessons that we in marketing could learn.
President Obama--silver-tongued President Obama--has had almost four years in office and he's failed, utterly and miserably failed to articulate a narrative about what he's done, what he's going to do and where the country is going.
As the eastern portion of America slowly recovers from a storm of Biblical proportions, it would be easy to creative a narrative about the important and necessary role of government in our lives.
But an American brand story is missing.
A story about noble aims.
A story about opportunity.
A story about fairness and equality despite inculcated unfairness and inequality.
All of this is missing in our election discourse.
No story-line has emerged.
There are about five or ten brands in America that have a story-line.
That have a creation myth that people believe in and admire.
The rest throw out websites, commercials, tweets and horseshit randomly and willy-nilly.
Take a company like Verizon.
They spend nearly $2 billion a year on marketing.
And each expenditure only reaffirms how hated they are.
They have no core.
No ethos.
No founding story.
All they have is $49.99 deals.
Brands, Presidential or not, need to do three things.
I call it the 3 D's:
1. They need to define who they are.
2. They need to demonstrate what they do.
3. They need to disseminate their story so it becomes word of mouth.
Of course there's a fourth D.
It's called dicking around.
That's what most of us will wind up doing.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
The calm after the storm.
Most people when they think of Manhattan don't think of it as a place that had at any time a natural topography. We think of Manhattan as flat, or better, as flattened, as paved over and even as a pool table. That's not true, of course, nature is more powerful even than New York realtors and there are still rises and dips throughout the island.
The highest point in Manhattan is Hudson Heights, located in Bennett park not far from Pinehurst Avenue and 183rd Street. It's 265 feet above sea level and it's from that modest aerie that George Washington built a camp from which he was routed by British red coats and Hessian mercenaries.
My section of Manhattan is significantly lower than that perch. We sit about 50 feet above the waters of the East River, though last night we were about 10 or 15 feet closer to the sea.
The storm at least in New York City has subsided though it will be days, some say, or even weeks before electricity is restored to the lower half of the island and for the life of me I can't conceive how the city will ever restore subway service. Most stations, the underground ones, I mean, were inundated and are literally under feet of water. Who knows what's happened to those subway denizens, rats, who have thus far survived every threat to their existence.
Tonight Whiskey and I walked to the river just to see what we could see. The water was flat and glassy, the lights on half of Roosevelt Island--the high-priced condo half were lit and things looked normal. The other half, the asylum and hospital part was still dark. There weren't even flashing lights from emergency vehicles. Even the lighthouse which stands at the northernmost tip of the island is dark. The water, however, has subsided. The sea wall once again holds back the sea.
Tomorrow people will begin making their way to work.
We will reconnect with friends and trade war stories.
Slowly, slowly and damply, life will return to normal.
The highest point in Manhattan is Hudson Heights, located in Bennett park not far from Pinehurst Avenue and 183rd Street. It's 265 feet above sea level and it's from that modest aerie that George Washington built a camp from which he was routed by British red coats and Hessian mercenaries.
My section of Manhattan is significantly lower than that perch. We sit about 50 feet above the waters of the East River, though last night we were about 10 or 15 feet closer to the sea.
The storm at least in New York City has subsided though it will be days, some say, or even weeks before electricity is restored to the lower half of the island and for the life of me I can't conceive how the city will ever restore subway service. Most stations, the underground ones, I mean, were inundated and are literally under feet of water. Who knows what's happened to those subway denizens, rats, who have thus far survived every threat to their existence.
Tomorrow people will begin making their way to work.
We will reconnect with friends and trade war stories.
Slowly, slowly and damply, life will return to normal.
A lesson from my butcher.
Diagonally across the street from my apartment house sits a butcher's shop, Ottomanelli's, that has occupied their corner since 1900. It's a throwback of a shop. A place where the owners actually work behind the counter and they greet you by name.
My neighborhood is very far east and unlike so many areas of Manhattan, it's not dotted by retail stores and restaurants. In fact, the butcher shares its block only with a nail salon and a dry cleaner.
Over the years as people's tastes and habits have changed the butcher has changed to keep pace. They still sell meat in great bloody hunks, but now they also sell prepared foods, sandwiches and they do a lively breakfast business with freshly baked muffins ($1.25) and coffee. At 7 in the morning it seems that every doorman and porter in a ten-block radius is there getting their morning Joe.
After a lifetime in the city one thing I've learned is this. If firefighters stop at a place to buy their meals or food supplies, the place is legit. On Saturday's there's often a hook and ladder in front of Otto's.
Yesterday as the storm bore down on New York I stopped in Ottomanelli's around 11. I bought a loaf of bread, a caesar salad, two orders of their famous "steakhouse" chili and eight of their really superior "Coney Island" frankfurters. At that hour they were all out of bread and had just a few quarts of milk left.
Otto's closed at three yesterday. The butchers who work there live on Long Island and needed to get out before the bridges and tunnels were closed for the storm.
This morning, however, Ottos was open once again, serving the neighborhood, its green neon signs a beacon saying "all is ok."
It occurred to me that we in the advertising industry could learn a bit from Ottomanelli's. The importance of being there. The importance of personal service. The importance of being important to their clients.
Woody Allen once famously said "80% of life is showing up." I think most agencies and agency people ignore that wisdom.
They aren't there and working for their clients. When the roof needs repair they talk about plumbing.
11 years ago when the city was attacked on 9/11, Ottomanelli's stayed open. They were there for their clients and their neighborhood.
Recently a newer, better store opened not far from Otto's. My wife is ready to switch our business to this new place.
I can't do it.
I know who will be there when I need them.
My neighborhood is very far east and unlike so many areas of Manhattan, it's not dotted by retail stores and restaurants. In fact, the butcher shares its block only with a nail salon and a dry cleaner.
Over the years as people's tastes and habits have changed the butcher has changed to keep pace. They still sell meat in great bloody hunks, but now they also sell prepared foods, sandwiches and they do a lively breakfast business with freshly baked muffins ($1.25) and coffee. At 7 in the morning it seems that every doorman and porter in a ten-block radius is there getting their morning Joe.
Yesterday as the storm bore down on New York I stopped in Ottomanelli's around 11. I bought a loaf of bread, a caesar salad, two orders of their famous "steakhouse" chili and eight of their really superior "Coney Island" frankfurters. At that hour they were all out of bread and had just a few quarts of milk left.
Otto's closed at three yesterday. The butchers who work there live on Long Island and needed to get out before the bridges and tunnels were closed for the storm.
This morning, however, Ottos was open once again, serving the neighborhood, its green neon signs a beacon saying "all is ok."
It occurred to me that we in the advertising industry could learn a bit from Ottomanelli's. The importance of being there. The importance of personal service. The importance of being important to their clients.
Woody Allen once famously said "80% of life is showing up." I think most agencies and agency people ignore that wisdom.
They aren't there and working for their clients. When the roof needs repair they talk about plumbing.
11 years ago when the city was attacked on 9/11, Ottomanelli's stayed open. They were there for their clients and their neighborhood.
Recently a newer, better store opened not far from Otto's. My wife is ready to switch our business to this new place.
I can't do it.
I know who will be there when I need them.
The storm.
Last night amid the latest storm of the century, was no time for a long, meandering walk through the city. The winds were fierce, others who were out would fall into the wind and the wind would keep them standing. The rain was steady and strong. And everywhere there were large fallen branches and yellow police tape warning people away. In fact, East 82nd Street, the home of several old London Plane trees which, I guess, are fragile due to their age, was taped off completely. There was to be no traffic, pedestrian or vehicular on that street.
Nevertheless, Whiskey's needs and my curiosity took me outside at precisely the hour of high tide. I wanted to see the storm at its worst. I wanted to see "special effects" not in a movie, but in real life.
Whiskey and I walked due east down 83rd Street to the park that runs alongside and over the river. The wind delayed our progress and swept back Whiskey's long ears. She looked at me as if to say "what's happening. I don't like this." But we kept moving ahead anyway. I worried as we walked under the trees that line our street and had to choose which was more dangerous, walking under trees or walking under a construction scaffold. I worried about being impaled by a branch or sliced in half by a corrugated sheet of aluminum.
We finally made it to the promenade above the East River. The river itself was running fast and out to sea. It ran like water through a flood gate. There were no whitecaps. The water was moving too fast for them.
Halfway across the wide water--which was wider now than ever--the Roosevelt Island sea wall, which, depending on tides sits between four and eight feet above the waterline, was breached. The water was lapping against low-lying buildings and the few cars on the island were now sitting in sea water.
Further south, the northbound lane of the FDR was under several feet of water. The path alongside the drive, the domain of so many runners and bikers on a normal day, was covered in inky water. The water flowed westward down 79th Street, flooding some of the old tenements there, at least the basement apartments that house so many.
Whiskey and I turned tail and walked back to our home. We were soaked through, but otherwise none the worse for wear.
Unlike so many in New York, we were safe and dry.
Nevertheless, Whiskey's needs and my curiosity took me outside at precisely the hour of high tide. I wanted to see the storm at its worst. I wanted to see "special effects" not in a movie, but in real life.
Whiskey and I walked due east down 83rd Street to the park that runs alongside and over the river. The wind delayed our progress and swept back Whiskey's long ears. She looked at me as if to say "what's happening. I don't like this." But we kept moving ahead anyway. I worried as we walked under the trees that line our street and had to choose which was more dangerous, walking under trees or walking under a construction scaffold. I worried about being impaled by a branch or sliced in half by a corrugated sheet of aluminum.
We finally made it to the promenade above the East River. The river itself was running fast and out to sea. It ran like water through a flood gate. There were no whitecaps. The water was moving too fast for them.
Halfway across the wide water--which was wider now than ever--the Roosevelt Island sea wall, which, depending on tides sits between four and eight feet above the waterline, was breached. The water was lapping against low-lying buildings and the few cars on the island were now sitting in sea water.
Further south, the northbound lane of the FDR was under several feet of water. The path alongside the drive, the domain of so many runners and bikers on a normal day, was covered in inky water. The water flowed westward down 79th Street, flooding some of the old tenements there, at least the basement apartments that house so many.
Whiskey and I turned tail and walked back to our home. We were soaked through, but otherwise none the worse for wear.
Unlike so many in New York, we were safe and dry.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Storm warnings.
This season's "storm of the Century" is bearing down on New York City and though as of this writing we've had nothing but a light rain and wind gusts merely in the high 30s, the Metropolitan Transit Authority has already stopped subways and buses from running and one half of one level of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge is closed as is the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel.
Apparently the worse is yet to come and the impending deluge and windstorm will be accompanied by a huge storm surge made more severe by the full moon.
Fortunately, though I live just one short block from the East River, I am 50 feet above the water and even those predicting the worst, have not designated my neighborhood an evacuation zone. Centuries ago, before Manhattan was graded and grided, there was a long sloping hill where I now live that rolled down to the side of the water. Archibald Gracie farmed most of the land and his farmhouse, just five blocks away from my condo is still standing. It was built in 1799 with commanding views of the churn of Hell's Gate and since Robert Moses suggested it to Fiorello LaGuardia, it's been the residence of the Mayor of New York since 1942.
Whiskey, my seven-month-old golden retriever and I were up early this morning and walked over to the promenade that runs alongside the river. The wind was ripping and there were whitecaps in the water. The tops of waves were being blown off by the wind--a sure sign of a storm to come.
The northern point of Roosevelt Island is marked a stone lighthouse built by the city in 1872. At that time the island was called Blackwell's Island. The name was then changed to Welfare Island owing to the island housing a "lunatic asylum," a jail, an almshouse and a city hospital for the indigent.
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The lighthouse, over 50 feet tall and built from a sturdy grey Manhattan gneiss, was standing strong and with the river running out was being buffeted by the water. Its light was burning bright.
Whiskey wasn't bothered by either the wind or the rain. She enjoyed the wind and chased fallen branches around like the retriever she is, grabbing branches and shaking them vigorously as if she had caught a rabbit or a squirrel.
The rain came in sheets.
The wind blew hard.
Whiskey chased leaves.
The storm was coming.
Apparently the worse is yet to come and the impending deluge and windstorm will be accompanied by a huge storm surge made more severe by the full moon.
Fortunately, though I live just one short block from the East River, I am 50 feet above the water and even those predicting the worst, have not designated my neighborhood an evacuation zone. Centuries ago, before Manhattan was graded and grided, there was a long sloping hill where I now live that rolled down to the side of the water. Archibald Gracie farmed most of the land and his farmhouse, just five blocks away from my condo is still standing. It was built in 1799 with commanding views of the churn of Hell's Gate and since Robert Moses suggested it to Fiorello LaGuardia, it's been the residence of the Mayor of New York since 1942.
Whiskey, my seven-month-old golden retriever and I were up early this morning and walked over to the promenade that runs alongside the river. The wind was ripping and there were whitecaps in the water. The tops of waves were being blown off by the wind--a sure sign of a storm to come.
The northern point of Roosevelt Island is marked a stone lighthouse built by the city in 1872. At that time the island was called Blackwell's Island. The name was then changed to Welfare Island owing to the island housing a "lunatic asylum," a jail, an almshouse and a city hospital for the indigent.
+copy.jpg)
The lighthouse, over 50 feet tall and built from a sturdy grey Manhattan gneiss, was standing strong and with the river running out was being buffeted by the water. Its light was burning bright.
Whiskey wasn't bothered by either the wind or the rain. She enjoyed the wind and chased fallen branches around like the retriever she is, grabbing branches and shaking them vigorously as if she had caught a rabbit or a squirrel.
The rain came in sheets.
The wind blew hard.
Whiskey chased leaves.
The storm was coming.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
A journey back to 1964.
I spent two weeks in Chicago over the last 48-hours, emptying my mother's apartment of her accumulation of 60 or 70 years of junk.
It's funny how little intrinsic value the things we spend a lifetime acquiring have when we are dead. The paintings on the walls, virtually worthless. The little glass figurines similarly add up to almost nothing. And the furniture which was so precious (don't let the kids on that!) is appraised at Craig's List prices. $175 for a leather sofa.
While my wife meandered through the nearly empty space, I wandered from room to room looking at the books my parents had bought but hadn't gotten around to reading. Mostly big fat histories with their dust covers and bindings virgin.
I found a book that interested me, "The Medium is the Message," in an early edition, hardcover. Inside was a handful of employee appraisals that my father had filled out for people who had worked for him. They were dated June, 1964.
The highest paid of the creatives in the bunch was getting a $1500 raise from $10,500 to an even $12,000. The lowest was a studio artist who had been working at my old man's agency since just after World War II ended having joined in July, 1945. He was getting a $1000 raise. From $5200 to $6200. He'd be making $120/week.
I read these reviews my father had hurriedly written in his down-slanting script in pencil. They were well written and full of praise and requests for big (percentage-wise) increases. Most of them spoke of men who were working 70-80 hours a week.
I thought of my father writing them while on the train to White Plains, my father fighting for their raises. I thought of the young men, thrilled at getting an extra $20 or $30 a week.
They're all gone now, or at least I suspect they are, after all, if my old man were alive today he'd be 84, and that's plenty old enough.
I put the appraisals in my bag, sheathed once again in the book they'd been hiding in. I figured they might make an interesting blog entry someday.
It didn't seem right to just toss them away. And anyway I couldn't do it.
It's funny how little intrinsic value the things we spend a lifetime acquiring have when we are dead. The paintings on the walls, virtually worthless. The little glass figurines similarly add up to almost nothing. And the furniture which was so precious (don't let the kids on that!) is appraised at Craig's List prices. $175 for a leather sofa.
While my wife meandered through the nearly empty space, I wandered from room to room looking at the books my parents had bought but hadn't gotten around to reading. Mostly big fat histories with their dust covers and bindings virgin.
I found a book that interested me, "The Medium is the Message," in an early edition, hardcover. Inside was a handful of employee appraisals that my father had filled out for people who had worked for him. They were dated June, 1964.
The highest paid of the creatives in the bunch was getting a $1500 raise from $10,500 to an even $12,000. The lowest was a studio artist who had been working at my old man's agency since just after World War II ended having joined in July, 1945. He was getting a $1000 raise. From $5200 to $6200. He'd be making $120/week.
I read these reviews my father had hurriedly written in his down-slanting script in pencil. They were well written and full of praise and requests for big (percentage-wise) increases. Most of them spoke of men who were working 70-80 hours a week.
I thought of my father writing them while on the train to White Plains, my father fighting for their raises. I thought of the young men, thrilled at getting an extra $20 or $30 a week.
They're all gone now, or at least I suspect they are, after all, if my old man were alive today he'd be 84, and that's plenty old enough.
I put the appraisals in my bag, sheathed once again in the book they'd been hiding in. I figured they might make an interesting blog entry someday.
It didn't seem right to just toss them away. And anyway I couldn't do it.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Uncle Slappy and Benny the Bum.
Uncle Slappy called.
Before I even returned his "Boychick," he was running at full throttle into a story. It was late and I was tired and I didn't have the moxie needed to slow him down.
"You remember Saul Himowitz, yeah. The guy who raised birds in his spare room, married to Tillie for 44 years then left her for the girl at the Shop-Rite?"
I grunted a "yes."
"Well Saul, as you may or may not remember was best friends with Benny the Bum Bernstein. They shared a common interest in all things avian. That is Benny raced pigeons, kept his coop in his backyard in Queens."
"OK," I mumbled, making a motion with my hand, hoping Uncle Slappy would hurry things along.
"Benny the Bum was heading out of town for the weekend and needed someone to watch his dog, Little Benny the Bum. The dog was old and nasty and no kennel would take the mutt."
"Benny the Bum and his dog had the same name?"
"Don't interrupt. That's a really long story.
"So Saul agrees to house sit and dog sit Benny the Bum's dog and he takes the Flushing line and walks from the station to Benny the Bum's house. Saul doesn't drive, never has, never will.
"Everything is going along fine for a day until Saul wakes up Sunday morning and Little Benny the Bum doesn't. The dog is dead. It had to be 200 years old in dog years already.
"Saul calls the vet whose number Benny the Bum had left and the vet wants $200 to pick up Little Bennny the Bum and dispose of the remains. Well Saul tosses nickels around like manhole covers and no way he can spend $200 on a mongrel like Little Benny the Bum, so he puts the dog in a brief case, one of those expandable cases you can carry a laptop computer in.
"Then Saul walks to the 7-train to go to the vet's office because disposing of Little Benny the Bum costs just $100 if you deliver the dog to the vet.
"Saul has the dog in this black brief case and rests it on the floor of the 7 train. Unfortunately as the doors open at 111th Street, three schvartzas run onto the train, see Saul's bag and thinking it's a computer ripe for the taking grab it and get off the train just as the doors shut."
"Never to be seen again, I presume."
"That's right, Einstein. Saul's lost a dead Little Benny the Bum and three black guys are running through Queens looking for a fence to get some money for a dead dog they think is a computer."
"What happened then, Uncle Slappy?"
"I don't have time for this," the old man snapped. "I gotta go."
Before I even returned his "Boychick," he was running at full throttle into a story. It was late and I was tired and I didn't have the moxie needed to slow him down.
"You remember Saul Himowitz, yeah. The guy who raised birds in his spare room, married to Tillie for 44 years then left her for the girl at the Shop-Rite?"
I grunted a "yes."
"Well Saul, as you may or may not remember was best friends with Benny the Bum Bernstein. They shared a common interest in all things avian. That is Benny raced pigeons, kept his coop in his backyard in Queens."
"OK," I mumbled, making a motion with my hand, hoping Uncle Slappy would hurry things along.
"Benny the Bum was heading out of town for the weekend and needed someone to watch his dog, Little Benny the Bum. The dog was old and nasty and no kennel would take the mutt."
"Benny the Bum and his dog had the same name?"
"Don't interrupt. That's a really long story.
"So Saul agrees to house sit and dog sit Benny the Bum's dog and he takes the Flushing line and walks from the station to Benny the Bum's house. Saul doesn't drive, never has, never will.
"Everything is going along fine for a day until Saul wakes up Sunday morning and Little Benny the Bum doesn't. The dog is dead. It had to be 200 years old in dog years already.
"Saul calls the vet whose number Benny the Bum had left and the vet wants $200 to pick up Little Bennny the Bum and dispose of the remains. Well Saul tosses nickels around like manhole covers and no way he can spend $200 on a mongrel like Little Benny the Bum, so he puts the dog in a brief case, one of those expandable cases you can carry a laptop computer in.
"Then Saul walks to the 7-train to go to the vet's office because disposing of Little Benny the Bum costs just $100 if you deliver the dog to the vet.
"Saul has the dog in this black brief case and rests it on the floor of the 7 train. Unfortunately as the doors open at 111th Street, three schvartzas run onto the train, see Saul's bag and thinking it's a computer ripe for the taking grab it and get off the train just as the doors shut."
"Never to be seen again, I presume."
"That's right, Einstein. Saul's lost a dead Little Benny the Bum and three black guys are running through Queens looking for a fence to get some money for a dead dog they think is a computer."
"What happened then, Uncle Slappy?"
"I don't have time for this," the old man snapped. "I gotta go."
Org. Charts.
Yesterday, replete with emoticons :-) I got an email forwarding to me my client's marketing "org charts." It was suggested I file these away for my reference.
I opened the attached powerpoint and expected to see three pages or maybe four. What I got were 25 pages (I'm not exaggerating) of everyone in their marketing organization and how they are connected to everyone else, all the way up to the cock of the walk, the CMO.
25 pages of org charts.
These charts arrived as if by magic on the eve of having to show three levels of clients a handful of rough cuts. Assuming that viewing goes well, we have another level of rough cuts showing on Monday and another one on Thursday.
We talk about gridlock in Washington. We bemoan the bureaucracy in institutions like the military and entities like the Department of Motor Vehicles.
But we replicate these bureaucracies in our own businesses.
Even our internal reviews are as onerous as a caravan across the Sahara or, better, the Bataan Death March.
I suppose what's happened is this. As manufacturing and agriculture jobs have disappeared, more and more people have found work in "management" and "administration."
That's fine. For the most part those are good-paying jobs.
But unfortunately, they are "make work." Really, can someone tell me what they do all day besides attend meetings and prepare for meetings. What do they do and think and make that makes a difference to the success of the organization.
It doesn't take 30 people to approve advertising. Or to write a presentation. Or critique a brochure no consumer will actually ever read.
It takes one.
But as a society we have embraced gridlock.
It keeps us busy.
I opened the attached powerpoint and expected to see three pages or maybe four. What I got were 25 pages (I'm not exaggerating) of everyone in their marketing organization and how they are connected to everyone else, all the way up to the cock of the walk, the CMO.
25 pages of org charts.
These charts arrived as if by magic on the eve of having to show three levels of clients a handful of rough cuts. Assuming that viewing goes well, we have another level of rough cuts showing on Monday and another one on Thursday.
We talk about gridlock in Washington. We bemoan the bureaucracy in institutions like the military and entities like the Department of Motor Vehicles.
But we replicate these bureaucracies in our own businesses.
Even our internal reviews are as onerous as a caravan across the Sahara or, better, the Bataan Death March.
I suppose what's happened is this. As manufacturing and agriculture jobs have disappeared, more and more people have found work in "management" and "administration."
That's fine. For the most part those are good-paying jobs.
But unfortunately, they are "make work." Really, can someone tell me what they do all day besides attend meetings and prepare for meetings. What do they do and think and make that makes a difference to the success of the organization.
It doesn't take 30 people to approve advertising. Or to write a presentation. Or critique a brochure no consumer will actually ever read.
It takes one.
But as a society we have embraced gridlock.
It keeps us busy.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Barack Obama and Rosser Reeves.
I am seldom startled by the stupidity of people who are charged with marketing a product, service or idea. In fact for about two decades now I've been repeating this line: "We keep idiot-proofing our work, they keep making better idiots."
A little more than a month ago at the Democratic convention someone uttered a line that I thought could win Barack Obama the election. It pointed out the difference between he and Romney. It was catchy. And it raised the spectre of a return to the Bush-caused depression we are currently mired in.
That line was: "Don't double-down on trickle-down."
Since that line was uttered thousands of gallons of ink and billions of pixels have been expended covering our Presidential race.
The Obama campaign seems to be going out of its way to be un-memorable in its speeches and ads.
I grew up in an advertising era in which the thinking of Rosser Reeves still held sway. He believed in a unique selling proposition. A memorable line. And repetition.
Most of the taglines we remember today come from this era.
I think because they worked.
A little more than a month ago at the Democratic convention someone uttered a line that I thought could win Barack Obama the election. It pointed out the difference between he and Romney. It was catchy. And it raised the spectre of a return to the Bush-caused depression we are currently mired in.
That line was: "Don't double-down on trickle-down."
Since that line was uttered thousands of gallons of ink and billions of pixels have been expended covering our Presidential race.
The Obama campaign seems to be going out of its way to be un-memorable in its speeches and ads.
I grew up in an advertising era in which the thinking of Rosser Reeves still held sway. He believed in a unique selling proposition. A memorable line. And repetition.
Most of the taglines we remember today come from this era.
I think because they worked.
Baseball and marketing.
Years ago, when I was in the full and strapping bloom of youth, I was a mediocre baseball player on a skein of mediocre baseball teams. There's nothing like being mediocre at something you love to inspire you to work harder. Or to find something else you love that you're actually good at. Or both.
In any event, me and my team-mates would often find ourselves down by seven runs with but one inning left to play. The coach, at that point, would invariably tell us as we approached the plate for our "last licks," to not worry about winning the game with one swing. Instead, we should just try to put the bat on the ball, get on base and slowly from there get hit after hit and that way try to claw our way back into the game.
I think that counts as a sound strategy.
Today, however, our "coaches," that is the ideologues, strategists, administrators and technocrats that run advertising agencies, approach such dilemmas with a different, less realistic sort of strategy.
They say the equivalent of, "you hit a double. You, a triple. You, a double." And so on.
In other words, they look at the variables of life and marketing as if all the lights will turn green on demand.
Unfortunately, best case scenarios seldom happen.
You seldom, if ever, go viral.
If you work on a toilet paper account, people will rarely start a conversation about your brand. No matter the cleverness of your "hash tag."
What seems to be missing, as it's missing in my double-triple-double baseball strategy above is a heaping teaspoon of reality.
That is reality based marketing.
Marketing that doesn't magically rely on the ephemeral promise of "earned" media.
Marketing takes work. And costs money.
It should not include fairy tales and fantasy.
--
To that end, my friends at Sell! Sell! had this Venn Diagram on their blog yesterday. http://sellsellblog.blogspot.com/ I don't generally steal things from other blogs, but this was way too good to pass over.
In any event, me and my team-mates would often find ourselves down by seven runs with but one inning left to play. The coach, at that point, would invariably tell us as we approached the plate for our "last licks," to not worry about winning the game with one swing. Instead, we should just try to put the bat on the ball, get on base and slowly from there get hit after hit and that way try to claw our way back into the game.
I think that counts as a sound strategy.
Today, however, our "coaches," that is the ideologues, strategists, administrators and technocrats that run advertising agencies, approach such dilemmas with a different, less realistic sort of strategy.
They say the equivalent of, "you hit a double. You, a triple. You, a double." And so on.
In other words, they look at the variables of life and marketing as if all the lights will turn green on demand.
Unfortunately, best case scenarios seldom happen.
You seldom, if ever, go viral.
If you work on a toilet paper account, people will rarely start a conversation about your brand. No matter the cleverness of your "hash tag."
What seems to be missing, as it's missing in my double-triple-double baseball strategy above is a heaping teaspoon of reality.
That is reality based marketing.
Marketing that doesn't magically rely on the ephemeral promise of "earned" media.
Marketing takes work. And costs money.
It should not include fairy tales and fantasy.
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To that end, my friends at Sell! Sell! had this Venn Diagram on their blog yesterday. http://sellsellblog.blogspot.com/ I don't generally steal things from other blogs, but this was way too good to pass over.
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