Meet Geoffrey Chaucer.

For the past few years the shibboleth of the pundits and pontificators has been "story-telling." Every time I hear the word I cringe because I always wonder how many of the people who use it have ever actually read a story.

Last night, I picked up a new translation of one of the oldest stories of all. Peter Akcroyd's superb prose translation of Chaucer's "The Canterbury Tales." I haven't read Chaucer since college--I'll admit, he was always my favorite, way moreso than Shakespeare, who everyone takes too seriously.

It's all there. It's as filthy as "Gossip Girl." As wise as a good therapist. And full of strength, humor, battles, intrigues and more. In short, it's pretty damn close to an apotheosis.

Yeah, it's a bear of a book. But, man, it's a beautiful thing.

Once again, the importance of hyphens.

I just came across this headline in The New York Times: "Gene D. Cohen, Geriatric Psychiatrist, Dies at 65". My first reaction when I saw this was that it was unfair to call a man who is 65 a geriatric. Then I realized that Cohen was a psychiatrist for geriatrics not a geriatric psychiatrist. I'm no grammarian but I think the headline should have called him a "Geriatric-Psychiatrist."

MBA = MBA.

For years we unannointed have assumed that the initials MBA stand for Master’s of Business Administration. The more I see the state of business today, the more I contend MBA really stands for Master’s of Bullshit Administration.

Yesterday evening on my way home from work I decided I needed a new pair of jeans, so I headed over to the Gap. To me the Gap seems under the dangerous influence of MBAs. It is all about retail best practices and not at all about the customer.

The Mens' department in my local Gap is downstairs. The MBAs have decided on some sales to square foot ratio that there are no salespeople. There is a counter with three or four cash-registers with people folding clothing behind them. Can I pay here, I ask? No. Upstairs.

I head upstairs. The line is four or five deep and there is only one cashier. The line is piling up because the one customer paying has about ten items (everything in the store is at least 25% off.)

The store itself is as messy as Oscar Madison's closet. Again, no staff. Finally another cashier opens her register. She shouts "Can I help the next guest please?"

That's the line that set me off. Guest. Some MBA read somewhere that they should treat customers like guests. But since that costs money, we'll just call them guests. That's good enough and...it's marvelously cost efficient.

Finally, I'm the next guest. I say to the cashier, if I'm a guest the pants should be free. Otherwise I'm a customer. She looks at me blankly. Her brain registers a gap. Somehow I avoid a Larry David moment.

In a few years or sooner, the Gap will announce it is closing 400 stores or something. We will read about it nearing Chapter 11 and people will rend their cheap Chinese-made garments over it. A CMO will be fired, as will an ad agency or two.

Not a single MBA in their employ will say, our product is the same as any other store; luck in forecasting merchandising trends comes and goes, let's differentiate on service.

Nope. They're Masters of Brain Atrophy.

Reporting on advertising.

Last weekend, uncharacteristically, I watched a bit of football. While watching it occurred to me if we covered either of the two wars we are fight as well as we covered sports, public sentiment would be aware we are fighting them and would be aware of their horror and would likely be against those wars. Likewise, if any of the 35,000 maimed American boys received anything like the coverage we are getting out of Fort Hood, there would be outrage about "Mission Accomplished" and the dupefication we allowed ourselves to be subject to.

It seems to me that the advertising press (such as it is) is similarly feckless and pusillanimous. I have read articles--small ones--about layoffs, but I've yet to read anything about the seismic changes going on in our industry. Usually ad columns talk about "The Hartford's" advertising and the return of antlers on TV. Or some such.

As scions of Madison Avenue have become Detroit-ized, their number of employees dropping by 1/3 or 1/2 (unlike Parker, I won't name names) as the very efficacy of holding companies becomes more and more dubious, our trade press talks about Twitter or a new Christmas campaign from Sofa City.

I know advertising is a pimple on the ass of the news but the larger issue here is the absence of investigation. Truth is to be avoided at all costs. Reporting is something we can't afford.

The lizard that ate the West Village.

In a window looking out on the smallest street in Manhattan, Weehawken St.

The fake boobs of advertising.

A couple of weeks ago the spot posted above made the rounds on the masturbatory advertising "creativity" sites. It's creative. It's beautiful. It's epic.

It's also phony.

Last night, while the TV was on, I saw the "for public consumption" version of this commercial. Horror of horrors, it had copy, supers, a demo. It was commerce not art.
Take a look at the real spot below:



Fake. Real.

Boys and girls, as much as I'm loathe to admit it, commerce is what we do. Seriously, how much do you need to think about the mechanics of skin moisturizing?

I have been banging this drum for a while. Like our society is run by the military-industrial-pharmaceutical-financial complex, our industry is obeisant to the award-show-industrial complex. Agencies, the profit-making awards shows and proto-journalism like Adweek, Adage, Archive and the like are complicit.

If it hasn't run and it won't, it shouldn't be lauded. It's that simple.

Technocrats.

In our corporate state, you can divide the world into two parts.
Lovers and Ledgers.

The lovers are usually people who start businesses.
They and their success are driven by passion.
By doing something that makes them famous.
By doing things they love.

Sooner or later, the lovers sell out to the ledgers.

Ledgers are people who try to build a process around a lover's passion.
They watch timesheets to make sure the passion-people don't go overboard.
They make sure there is optimal profit.
They count everything.

Very seldom can lovers and ledgers co-exist.
Usually the ledgers win.
They have the money.

The skin game.

I do not wish to stop and stare
While you display your underwear.
OK Uncles? OK Aunties?
I have no wish to see your panties.

Please get a belt, and hike your slacks,
Your cosmology, discretion lacks.
And do not let it come to pass,
That your jeans fall down below your ass.

Put away your breasts. This ain't the beach,
Keep them safe and out of reach.
You have two choices when it comes to skin,
Let it out or keep it in.
It would make me happy and so much gladder,
If you would kindly choose the latter.

Karaoke Kreative.

Last night I went to see Berlioz's "Faust" at the Metropolitan Opera. Here, hell, heaven, life, death, temptation were re-created with innovative staging and soaring music. I've seen dozens of operas and their bar is set pretty high. The last thing a producer or director of an opera does is produce something like you've seen before.

This seems in direct contrast to the creativity found in our industry. Now, we have "The Office" rip-off spots. The "eye-brow raiser" spots (boring boring boring joke, raised eyebrow reaction). The ersatz Apple spots (see Blackberry). And so it goes. In fact, I think most creative starts with a statement like, "this will be a lot like ____________."

Of course, this way of working makes everyone comfortable. Clients can say, "I'm getting something like an Apple spot." And they feel good about that. Same for creatives. Some years ago, I created a presentation for an agency I worked at called "Karaoke Kreative," a process on how to assure that you'll create work that's easy to create, sell and produce.

Banality.

There's a new ad campaign for a company called HTC that reminds me a lot of an old ad campaign for a company called HP. But, I guess that's besides the point.

When I stumble across a line like this: "You Don't Need to Get a Phone. You Need a Phone That Gets You" I want to plotz.

Maybe it's my New York, Jewish, aging baby-boomer egocentricity, but my wife and therapist hardly get me, how the heck will a phone.

And what does it mean that a phone gets me, anyway? It blocks calls from my mother? It calls for a well-done meatball pie when I'm hungry.