Every so often you have one of those days.
You feel like saying fuck you.
Fuck you to your partner who always comes in late.
Fuck you to account who's a little too diffident.
To the planners who are so good at insisting their gut is better than yours.
Fuck you to the clients who are thinking politics.
Fuck you to your boss who shows no appreciation.
Fuck you to your agency who isn't supportive.
To your holding company who takes without giving.
To everyone and everything.
Fuck you.
I think it's normal to have days like this.
We put our heart and our soul into our jobs
and sometimes it feels like running headlong
into a brick wall.
There's not much you can do about these days.
Hope they pass.
Curse under your breath.
"Work from home."
Fighting your way through it is usually the best
way to handle it.
You know, 'the best revenge is a better ad' and all that.
Yesterday I had one of those days.
Nothing awful happened it was just one of those days.
When I got home I saw a commercial that started,
"A new era in toilet cleaning is here."
Sometimes all it takes is a bit of perspective.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Thunder.
I am reading a book right now--an 800-pager--called "The German Genius. Europe's Third Renaissance, The Second Scientific Revolution, and the Twentieth Century" by the great writer/historian/thinker, Peter Watson.
A chapter I read last night was on George Buchner, who was born in 1813 and died 24-years later in 1837. In that short time, he studied medicine, fought for the poor and became full professor of anatomy at the University of Zurich. He also wrote like a sonofabitch, writing plays and novels with dizzying speed.
His most famous work, thanks to Alban Berg's opera was "Woyzeck." The story of a common soldier driven mad and to suicide by unyielding military discipline and the strict hierarchy of German society.
That description in and of itself reminded me of advertising. But these two clips really got me: "Man's an abyss; you get dizzy when you look down." And this one, by a poor character in Woyzeck: "I think that if we went to heaven, we'd have to help make the thunder."
Have a nice day. :)
A chapter I read last night was on George Buchner, who was born in 1813 and died 24-years later in 1837. In that short time, he studied medicine, fought for the poor and became full professor of anatomy at the University of Zurich. He also wrote like a sonofabitch, writing plays and novels with dizzying speed.
His most famous work, thanks to Alban Berg's opera was "Woyzeck." The story of a common soldier driven mad and to suicide by unyielding military discipline and the strict hierarchy of German society.
That description in and of itself reminded me of advertising. But these two clips really got me: "Man's an abyss; you get dizzy when you look down." And this one, by a poor character in Woyzeck: "I think that if we went to heaven, we'd have to help make the thunder."
Have a nice day. :)
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Minneapolis.
They have a sign as you enter the Minneapolis airport.
MSP, it says, going your way.
I've been here an hour and it hasn't budged.
MSP, it says, going your way.
I've been here an hour and it hasn't budged.
A bit more on the river.
It occurred to me as I ran along the river this morning that people like to proclaim things "dead."
Over the past decade we've heard that television is dead, print is dead, radio, of course, is dead. Didn't Prince recently say the internet is dead?
Not long ago, people used to say the East River was so polluted is was dead.
Saying something is dead increases the sayers importance. He or she is greater or smarter than that which is dead. And is great and smart enough to issue proclamations.
The thing is, it takes a long time for things to die.
And usually the evolve or shape-change rather than simply perish.
The East River isn't a clear, flowing thing of beauty. It's still pretty gnarly.
But people are kayaking in it, and jet ski-ing. And of course there are the Puerto Rican fishermen.
It's not dead.
Over the past decade we've heard that television is dead, print is dead, radio, of course, is dead. Didn't Prince recently say the internet is dead?
Not long ago, people used to say the East River was so polluted is was dead.
Saying something is dead increases the sayers importance. He or she is greater or smarter than that which is dead. And is great and smart enough to issue proclamations.
The thing is, it takes a long time for things to die.
And usually the evolve or shape-change rather than simply perish.
The East River isn't a clear, flowing thing of beauty. It's still pretty gnarly.
But people are kayaking in it, and jet ski-ing. And of course there are the Puerto Rican fishermen.
It's not dead.
Listen.
I have a 6AM flight this morning and also a 61-day running streak going, so I got up quite early to have a short run along the river to get my blood flowing.
I have run by the river a thousand times but never at 3:45 in the morning. It's different at that time. You can hear the river. Hear the lapping of the waters and the creak and clank of the barge and tug combos that push past.
It occurred to me that much of life is like that river. We see it but never take the moment needed to hear it. To listen to its quiet.
We do this in advertising. Everyone so type-A that meetings and even discussions become a shooting match. A kids' game of "did not/did too." Much gets said. Little gets heard. Nothing gets done.
As Yogi Berra never said, "You can hear a lot just by listening."
Today I listen.
I have run by the river a thousand times but never at 3:45 in the morning. It's different at that time. You can hear the river. Hear the lapping of the waters and the creak and clank of the barge and tug combos that push past.
It occurred to me that much of life is like that river. We see it but never take the moment needed to hear it. To listen to its quiet.
We do this in advertising. Everyone so type-A that meetings and even discussions become a shooting match. A kids' game of "did not/did too." Much gets said. Little gets heard. Nothing gets done.
As Yogi Berra never said, "You can hear a lot just by listening."
Today I listen.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The wikileak documents.
Of late, in the US, its been exposed that our ability to keep a secret is roughly equal to Paris Hilton's ability to keep her legs crossed. A bunch of Russian interlopers were seized by the FBI and just yesterday something like 92,000 secret documents were published online at a site called http://wikileaks.org/.
It occurs to me that in this plethora of information is a parallel to the advertising industry. The Obama administration was quick to point out that none of the 92,000 documents linked posed a serious security threat to the US or our troops. Andrew Exum in The New York Times said, "I have seen nothing in the documents that has either surprised me or told me anything of significance."
Yet we keep making these communications.
What we have here is a failure to communicate. We have tons of communication but none of it is really that important. None of it matters. But we keep on sending the crap out there.
It seems to me that you shouldn't communicate unless you have something to say. If what you have to say has no significance, why say it?
Why not try to find something unique to say, instead? (Years ago, when 100 millimeter cigarette burst onto the scene, Benson & Hedges made their cigarette 101 millimeters long. Their jingle via Mary Wells, "A silly millimeter longer," at least communicated something different.)
Life would be better if advertisers and National Security people followed this advice on acting from John Wayne: "Talk low. Talk slow. And don't say too much." Unless, that is, unless you have something to say.
It occurs to me that in this plethora of information is a parallel to the advertising industry. The Obama administration was quick to point out that none of the 92,000 documents linked posed a serious security threat to the US or our troops. Andrew Exum in The New York Times said, "I have seen nothing in the documents that has either surprised me or told me anything of significance."
Yet we keep making these communications.
What we have here is a failure to communicate. We have tons of communication but none of it is really that important. None of it matters. But we keep on sending the crap out there.
It seems to me that you shouldn't communicate unless you have something to say. If what you have to say has no significance, why say it?
Why not try to find something unique to say, instead? (Years ago, when 100 millimeter cigarette burst onto the scene, Benson & Hedges made their cigarette 101 millimeters long. Their jingle via Mary Wells, "A silly millimeter longer," at least communicated something different.)
Life would be better if advertisers and National Security people followed this advice on acting from John Wayne: "Talk low. Talk slow. And don't say too much." Unless, that is, unless you have something to say.
Monday, July 26, 2010
What advertising can't do.
I am a believer in advertising. Not because I am in the business but because I've seen it, time and again, shape consumer perceptions and behaviors. I believe the right message delivered to the right audience with the right frequency works.
This morning I heard a short report on credit card issuers (banks) on NPR. Because of the recession, changes in behavior and new legislation, the banks are losing purported billions they used to take for granted.
So, they're introducing something they're calling an "inactivity fee." That is, you get charged extra if you don't use your card.
Surely these banks and credit card companies will send millions or billions showing smiling people using their cards in Rio or in fine restaurants on the sloping hillside of a vineyard somewhere. In your TV induced stupor you'll nod your head and take it all in.
Then if you're paying attention, you'll see an inactivity fee on your bill.
All the advertising in the world won't/can't make you feel good about a brand with behavior like that.
Advertising can do a lot of things. But it can't erase the smell of shit when the shit is sent to your mailbox once a month.
Like me you'll want to throw a brick through some bank's plate glass.
I've got a can of beans and Quaker Quick Oats in my kitchen that have been sitting in the cabinets since the late 90s. They haven't charged me extra. Yet.
This morning I heard a short report on credit card issuers (banks) on NPR. Because of the recession, changes in behavior and new legislation, the banks are losing purported billions they used to take for granted.
So, they're introducing something they're calling an "inactivity fee." That is, you get charged extra if you don't use your card.
Surely these banks and credit card companies will send millions or billions showing smiling people using their cards in Rio or in fine restaurants on the sloping hillside of a vineyard somewhere. In your TV induced stupor you'll nod your head and take it all in.
Then if you're paying attention, you'll see an inactivity fee on your bill.
All the advertising in the world won't/can't make you feel good about a brand with behavior like that.
Advertising can do a lot of things. But it can't erase the smell of shit when the shit is sent to your mailbox once a month.
Like me you'll want to throw a brick through some bank's plate glass.
I've got a can of beans and Quaker Quick Oats in my kitchen that have been sitting in the cabinets since the late 90s. They haven't charged me extra. Yet.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Time waits for Norman.
As a society, as an industry we have been saturated with the idea that instantaneous is good. Let's think about food (for an instant.) We've grown up with meals that can be cooked and consumed in fifteen minutes. No one thinks about the flavors and the savors that have been lost as we've accelerated.
We have adulterated joy by making it a function of time.
What we do, understanding the soul of a company or the essence of a product (or the benefit it delivers) takes time.
Yet time is laughed at.
We have conquered it.
And replaced it with mediocrity.
(I had no time this morning to write anything good.)
We have adulterated joy by making it a function of time.
What we do, understanding the soul of a company or the essence of a product (or the benefit it delivers) takes time.
Yet time is laughed at.
We have conquered it.
And replaced it with mediocrity.
(I had no time this morning to write anything good.)
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The East River.
Early in the morning at the time when the milkman used to deliver, when we had milkmen, I go for a run along the East River. The East River, despite its name, isn't a river. It's a strait that connects the New York Bay with the Long Island Sound.
The river has different moods, different tones of voice. Today it was running fast upstream, with dozens of swirling eddys. Other mornings the river is furious, with waves and churning current where outflow from the Sound meets inflow from the Bay.
Occasionally, even early in the morning, there is ship traffic on the river. A lonely sailboat, a speeding yacht. More often there are tug-pushed barges slowly chugging or large industrial Department of Environmental Protection ships--200-footers--heading out somewhere, or in, to do whatever it is they do.
For as long as I've been in advertising I've been regarded as fast. Not fast as a runner, fast as a writer. But the truth is, I write fast because I run slow. On my runs I try to unravel the assignments I have. When I have copy to write, I write it, or at the least, block it out in my head.
Nothing right or wrong about this, nothing good or bad, just how I handle things. How I work.
And it's impossible to put on my timesheet.
The river has different moods, different tones of voice. Today it was running fast upstream, with dozens of swirling eddys. Other mornings the river is furious, with waves and churning current where outflow from the Sound meets inflow from the Bay.
Occasionally, even early in the morning, there is ship traffic on the river. A lonely sailboat, a speeding yacht. More often there are tug-pushed barges slowly chugging or large industrial Department of Environmental Protection ships--200-footers--heading out somewhere, or in, to do whatever it is they do.
For as long as I've been in advertising I've been regarded as fast. Not fast as a runner, fast as a writer. But the truth is, I write fast because I run slow. On my runs I try to unravel the assignments I have. When I have copy to write, I write it, or at the least, block it out in my head.
Nothing right or wrong about this, nothing good or bad, just how I handle things. How I work.
And it's impossible to put on my timesheet.
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