Monday, December 11, 2023

Aversion Therapy.


A couple of week-ends ago, my wife flew up to Toronto and drove to the countryside to pick up our new golden retriever, Sparkle.

I know there are those among the tin-foil hat wearers who believe that George Soros, Bill Gates, Lex Luther and Alger Hiss are implanting subcutaneous sensors inside us so the same government that needs six months to issue a passport can monitor us with Staasi-like efficiency 24/7 and subject us to all sorts of mind-control, so we willingly follow the corrupt precepts of Big Brother. 

Somehow this would be worse than how most people today voluntarily behave. They watch 44 hours of football a week, eat 44 pounds of new nacho-cheesier Doritos, drink 44 cans of piss-water Budweiser and get their news from blonde readers who sole journalistic capability is nice breasts.

I don't have the data to support this, but I'd wager that a good percentage of people who buy pure-bred dogs these days get a pup that has had a microchip implanted. If the dog ever runs- away, its provenance can be traced and its owner can be found.

Believe me, if you have a puppy, you know they ain't being mind controlled. 

There are other people who have stopped vaccinating their pets because they hold the unfounded belief that vaccinations--the human development that's probably saved one-billion lives--will result in canine autism or early death or barking at cats that the neighbors let run free. Despite that, I've yet to hear of an anti-chipping movement, but I suppose that's because I remain firmly in the thrall of the reality-based community.

Over on musk's naXi-obeisant website, my former agency Schmoe-gilvy keeps posting quotations by the old white scion of the patriarchy who happens to be their founder. These quotations--though old--remain seminal. Many people of my vintage in advertising, particularly those lucky-enough to have worked at Ogilvy, have committed many of them to memory.

But here's where the topic of chips comes in.

Just as I recoil when the republicans today refer to their mutant politics as "The Party of Lincoln," I get nauseated when I see the current rendition of Ogilvy quoting the old man. It's sinful. It's the appropriation of the spirit of his words when, as an institution, David would be disgusted by his anonymously eponymous organization today.

Today's Ogilvy is as far from traditional Ogilvy as the Party of Lincoln from the golden showers of trump.

Mr. Ogilvy would be disgusted by the slavish trend-chasing. The even-more avid awards-mania. And the derogation of all people who don't fit this week's definition of human as propagated by this week's effluence of DEI people. How any agency could bang its DEI chops while systematically firing everyone over 45 is beyond me. It is the height (or depth) or Orwellian New Speak. 

He would be disgusted by the whole kettle of rotten mackeral.


"Diversity is Exclusion," seems to be Ogilvy's "War is Peace.  Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.’

And here's where I close the loop.

We are entering "Prognostication Season." Every agency, every pundit, every tech company, every creative director, every planner, every agency executive will soon be issuing and publishing some blather on what we are to expect in 2024. 

Soon, if not already, we will be besieged by articles with titles like: 

"2024, the Year AI Becomes Simply I." 
"Top Media Trends in 2024 that Will Still Be Trending in 2025."
"2024 Tech Trends that Will Change Everything. And Nothing."
"In 2024, Comedy Will Return--That's Nothing to Laugh About."
"Gartner on Navigating the Future and the Plu Perfect in 2024."
"16 Major Trends of 2024."
"McKinsey on 2024 Trends that Will Trend in a Trendy Way."

I've circled the sun enough times to know that these sorts of articles have been around since time begun. As it was writ by some goat-herder in Ecclesiastes some millennia ago, "There's nothing new under the sun." But saying there's something new gets you business.

The worst thing about all this blather is that it is all made utterly without consequence.

Ogilvy sullies its founder by coopting and mis-using his words.
Prognosticators are usually wrong.
Politicians are always wrong.

And here's where we need chips implanted.

I may be Draconian, but the world would be better off if all these cosmic spouters got zapped with 19,000 volts every time they issue one of these asinine "I can see the future statements."

Or the one that really gets me, the phrase "future proofing." In a country that falls apart in a heavy rain, when no one knows what the future is we're ostensibly capable of proofing against.

We live in a world where nothing happens when you make a false statement, when you lie. Sometimes companies like WPP pay $19 million fines for bribery, but "admit no wrong-doing."

Let's zap people.

Aversion therapy.

Next time someone at Ogilvy or any other agency blathers on about hiring malcontents and the irreverent to mask what's really the wholesale droneification of their workforce, it would be nice if someone in the C-suite got a jolt of electricity. Say ten volts for every thousand dollars of bonus money. They'd quickly stfu and the world would be a better place, certainly quieter.

Maybe then we can re-introduce the notion of doing some thinking before we start spouting.




Friday, December 8, 2023

Sometimes I Cry.

I'm just about to start my fourth year of running GeorgeCo., LLC, a Delaware Company.

While my business is better--more spiritually and financially rewarding--than I ever imagined, it's lonelier, too. 

While I have an Account Director I work with daily, bonafide decent people as clients, and the occasional art-director, producer or planner to interact with, most of my days and nights I'm alone. Digging ditches. 

There's no pals a couple of desks over. No people to kibbitz with in the elevators. No hijinx to engage.

It's me and my shovel for the most part.

There's also a certain degree of relentlessness to my life now. Though I still harken back to the 80s, I maintain the energy to field new business requests, write proposals, sell the proposals, do the work, revise the work, send my invoices and actually collect my money. All while getting more business.

The worst part about project-based work is that there's no annuity aspect to it. The work doesn't keep paying--like an AOR relationship. When you're done, and the client's happy, your revenue stream dries up.

Of course, I get a lot of referrals from clients current or past. And a lot of new assignments from existing clients. But you have to keep your ear to the ground and listen for the far-off rumble of new business, then go and get it.

There's no smooth sailing in life. No coasting.

I heard through the grapevine that when Sisyphus is frustrated he says he's engaged in a Tannenbaumian Task.

There's more. 

Some of it good.

Some of it less-than-good.

Because my brain and typing fingers and, I guess, age-old-old-age wisdom is so prized by clients, I am paid well by clients. Touch wood. 


With all that remuneration comes a ton of responsibility. I'm not just writing ads for people--I'm helping company owners shape their companies. Without a lot of direction from them other than, 'I wish we could give you more help.'

That's tough like you can't imagine.

Did you ever see the great French movie directed by Jacques Becker, 'Le Trou'? It's three cons escaping from an unescapable French prison, essentially with nothing but their wits and a spoon.

A true story.

Life is like that sometimes.


There are times when a meeting is over and I have just been handed the advertising equivalent of the riddle of the Sphinx that I go off and find some place where no one can disturb me, where no one can see me and I cry. 

I cry and I scream. Sometimes I dream and I scream.

BTW, all the holding company bushwa about treating diverse populations with equity and respect doesn't add up to a hill of beans if you're not the right kind of diverse. Or you're outspoken. Or you're old and fat. Or you make a high five-figure, or even six-figure salary.

That hurts. Yes, it does. And it's not something you'll 'get over,' or have to accept or anything else. When you give your life to a company and they toss you away to the ravenous gulls of ageism like you're fish-offal, it's awful. It's doesn't matter much that you're happier now. Jilting sucks. (How's that for a t-shirt?)

There are many times during my nearly 66 years when I've felt the weight of the world on my arthritic and torn-rotatored shoulders.

Like Atlas, I sometimes feel I am at the center of every battle, and in the words of Stephen Fry in his great book, "Mythos," 

Atlas had been "rousing his fellow Titans into combat, shouting for one last supreme effort even as the Hecatonchires were battering them into submission. As punishment for his enmity, Zeus sentenced him to hold up the sky for eternity. This killed two birds with one stone. 

Zeus’s predecessors, Kronos and Ouranos, had been forced to waste much of their energy in separating heaven from earth. At a stroke Zeus relieved himself of that draining burden and placed it, quite literally, on the shoulders of his most dangerous enemy. At the junction of what we would call Africa and Europe the Titan strained, the whole weight of the sky bearing down upon him.... In time he solidified into the Atlas Mountains that shoulder the skies of North Africa to this day. His straining, squatting image is to be found on copies of the very first maps of the world, which in his honor we still call “atlases.” To one side of him lies the Mediterranean and to the other the ocean still named “the Atlantic” after him, where the mysterious island kingdom of Atlantis is said to have flourished.

That's a helluva row to hoe. 

When I first started emerging as a baseball player, I was two-times the youngest player on my team, or even youngest in the league. That was an Atlas-like weight, too, for a guy who takes even dumb games seriously. First when I made my high school varsity at just 14. The second time when I played for the Seraperos de Saltillo when I was just 17. In both instances, I felt over my head.

There's a certain heavy psycho-analyzed bit of my psyche that feels always like Moses' son, Gershon, a "stranger in a strange land." 

That unstrange stranger feeling, that sense of un-belonging, however, could be a weakness--a liability--unless you have the wherewithal to turn it into a strength.

Strangeness becomes a strength when you can use your outsiderness, your differentness as a perspective from which you can view with heightened awareness your surroundings. 

You have to do that, maybe, when you feel screaming and crying.

The most awarded film-maker in American movie-making is probably Billy Wilder, a hero of mine. Wilder was born in Galicia, in what was Austro-Hungary. Such a strange land that it's been wiped off of virtually all maps. Wilder emigrated to the United States during early Nazidom, in 1934.

Wilder spoke no English when he came to America. But as he learned the language, he saw the language as an outsider. He saw the foibles, comedies and idiosyncrasies of his adopted land, as only an outsider can. 

By 1938, his outsiderness helped him become one of Hollywood's top writers. He went on to amass twenty-one Academy Award nominations--thirteen as a writer and eight as a director. He won six Oscars. I remember seeing a portrait of him many years ago on the TV show "60 Minutes." He was using one of his Oscar statuettes as a doorstop.

What's more he created great movies in more different genres than I can even name. Rom-Com (Sabrina.) Noir (Double Indemnity.) Black Comedy (The Apartment.) Comedy (Some Like it Hot.) War. (Stalag 17.) Mystery (A Foreign Affair.) Social Cause (Lost Weekend.) Movie-making itself (Sunset Boulevard.) And if you stretch a bit, even a western (Ace in the Hole.)

Listen to the language in the clip above. Wilder, a non-native speaker, hears things, like a bat or a dolphin, that you and I can't. 

More than just hearing them, Wilder was able to turn his outsiderness into a career.

I miss having people around to work with. People to joke with or flirt with during the day. Someone to bounce and idea off of or, rarely, get some reassurance from.

It's hard playing solo.

Sometimes, the loneliness of the long-distance writer makes me lachrymose. Even lugubrious, I'll admit.

Oh well.

It leaves me time to write.

And be me.

Such as I am.







Thursday, December 7, 2023

Happiness.

My friend and fellow advertising denizen, Rich Siegel, has a blog he calls Round Seventeen. Rich's title is a reference to the creative constipation and nitpicking that goes on at virtually every business, virtually every day, virtually forever. 

It's a funny name for a blog, but only because it's not funny. Only because Rich says aloud what the rest of us are retching over.



Just a few minutes ago, I read the article above in The Wall Street Journal. The Journal is a great newspaper if you can ignore its politics and get over sending money to the WSJ--some of the leading lights of crypto-fascism.

I'll make this simple: Work sucks.

And: When work sucks, the work sucks.

It only takes watching about four-minutes of television a night to see the parlous state of advertising creativity. About 50% of commercials seem to have been shot on a discount iPhone. With badly lit bad actors screaming bad copy. 95% seem to be an assault on viewers' senses. And virtually all of them seem to have forgotten the old gendered Ogilvy-ism, "the consumer isn't a moron; she's your wife."

Nah. Treat everyone like an idiot.

It tested well.

In America today everyone is treated rudely. Customer service, brand communications, instructions, websites, the inundation of black Friday emails or whatever show absolutely no care, consideration or kindness. You are just a pocket to be picked. A bank account to be raided. An email list to bludgeon with.

To steal from Arthur Miller, to America's monopolies (ie all of America) you are just a piece of fruit. Once the orange is eaten, that is, your money is extracted, the peel is tossed away.

Years ago, Robert Townsend was the CEO of Avis Rental Cars. When he was choosing an agency he'd ask a question of agency leaders. 

"My competitor has five times the cars, five times the counters and five times the money I have. How can I get advertising that's five times as effective."

Reportedly, Bill Bernbach replied with this advice. "If you approve, disapprove but don't try to improve work, everyone in the agency will want to work on your brand. And will work weekends and nights for the chance to."

Approve. Disapprove. Don't try to Improve.

Today agencies do the opposite.
And clients might be even worse.

They disapprove.
Redirect.
Reredirect.
Rereredirect.
Then full-on wreck.
Dreck.
What did you expect?
Here's your last check.


The article I cited above included this graph. And my guess is that is exaggerates the amount of employee satisfaction. I doubt there's an agency anywhere where 36.5% of people are satisfied. 

That seems very high to me. 

It ain't nice furniture, or ping-pong, or stale bagels on Wednesday that will improve work and work conditions. Consistent raises might help. Job security might help. Treating people as partners--and as valuable might help.

Every once in a while a large employer will threaten to leave a community because that community makes it hard for its employees to live there. They'll say things like, fix the trains or face an exodus of tax-payers. Occasionally some change will occur.

OK. I lied.

But at least we could try Improve. Disapprove. But don't try to improve.

It doesn't get much better than that.

And work doesn't get much worse than it is today.



Wednesday, December 6, 2023

Rhyme and Tide.

When I was a little boy, the world was a different place.

My late friend of fifty years, Fred, disagreed with me on this, but I think it was a better educated place. Maybe a smarter world. 


For instance, Life magazine, one of the best selling magazines of it day, once had an entire issue devoted to the Baltimore Colts football team with short funny poems of the type he was famous for by Ogden Nash. 

Nash also wrote this baseball poem. As a boy with pine-tar and horsehide in his veins, not ichor, it taught me a lot.
When my tilted New York neighborhood was making the shift from vinyl to cassette tapes, my father, for my tenth birthday bought me a small Bell & Howell cassette player/recorder. The first cassette I bought was of Ogden Nash reading his poems.

I loved poems like these. They've informed me for more than half a century, even if they ain't Elizabeth Barrett Browning or Gerald Manley Hopkins. They make me snort.

The turtle lives 'twixt plated decks
Which practically conceal its sex.
I think it clever of the turtle
In such a fix to be so fertile.

Adam
Had'em

My wife, who is also a copywriter and I were talking this morning. When both in a couple are copywriters, one or the other or both usually has a manifesto hanging over their Mac and screaming to be written. Writing a manifesto is a bit like visiting your in laws. Driving there, you don't want to be stuck in traffic. But you don't want to get there too fast, either.

Manifestos today are like old gum on the underside of seats in a decrepit movie theatre. They're everywhere. They're usually disgusting. And you need to wash your hands if you come into contact with one.


I mentioned to my wife, with more of a dose of my usual pedagogy, that the greatest manifesto I've ever heard was by 
W. H. Auden. A poem called "This is the Night Mail." It was later, in 1988, turned into an actual manifesto for British Rail.

During my last twenty years in the business, manifestos have proliferated even more rapidly than Starbucks or CVS drug stores. And most of them are as predictable as travel delays. They are meant to inspire and uplift--to get a viewers' ass lifted off her chair, but so many seem to be laden with baggage of every manifesto that ever went before. So it's uninteresting. Tired. Not inspired.

I remember once twenty-five years ago being with a bunch of fellow creatives and being dressed-down by our ECD, Chris Wall. I will never forget his two sentences of all-purpose creative guidance.

"I'm not pissed," he said, "that the work sucks. I'm pissed that our level of ambition has started to drop."

If you spend a minute thinking about that, you'll realize it's a lesson for the ages. Like wise people say about fishing, "The fishing's always good; it's the catching that varies." I think we should think somewhat the same about our efforts. "Our work varies, but our drive to do something special never changes."

Before I'd build a wall, I'd ask what I was walling in or walling out, as Robert Frost wrote.

Before I'd write a manifesto, an email, a banner ad, a blog post or a simple joke, I'd ask if someone had seen it before. If I had something to say. And if I said it in a memorable way that made a promise and asked the viewer to do something or made them feel something.

Really, the struggle of life is a struggle against boredom. It's not just an unexamined life that's not worth living; a boring one ain't worth much either.

For no particular reason other than I love it, I'll end with another poem, this time by a guy I know nothing about called David McCord. It's as deep as a well.

Epitaph on a Waiter

By and by
God caught his eye.

If you want to catch someone's eye--which is much of the purpose behind advertising and marketing communications, try something different, funny, rude, thoughtful.  Actually, that too would make a good epitath, maybe for me.

Epitaph on a George

 Different, funny, 
 Rude, thoughtful.

--











Tuesday, December 5, 2023

Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow.

It's a beautiful fall day, the day after Thanksgiving as I type this post. It's still not 'overcoat cold,' though it's late November. And some of the stouthearted denizens of the seaside town my wife and I bought a cottage in and then impoverished ourselves renovating have either the temerity or stupidity to walk around in shorts. 

To everything there is a season.
Except football and shortpants.


From about 1,200 AD to 1,850 AD, most of the recorded world endured a period that today we call 'The Little Ice Age.' Temperatures were colder than they were during the peak of Pax Romana (and maybe an underlying cause of Pax Romana.) Food was hard to grow. It was hard to stay alive. And most European forests were cut down for heating, building and shipping. 

It's thought by some (the rare historian who thinks in terms of millennia, not years, decades or even centuries) that the Little Ice Age spurred on the great period (or awful period) of global exploration. Mankind was looking for better places to live. When you're cold and your animals die and your crops won't grow and there's no water to drink, you migrate.

Think Genghis Khan. Or Atilla. Or Columbus.

Who knows what havoc will follow along in the wake of our current climate catastrophe. Such occurrences are impossible to foretell. But you can be sure nothing tomorrow will be like it is today.

Just now, returning from a four-mile seaside walk, the dying sea glimmering with life, my wife and I saw a disgusted neighbor doing what people do outside of the city. They have time in exurbia to do these things. After all, they're freed from fending off rabies-afflicted rodents the size of republicans congressmen and fund-raising congressmen the size of rodents. They rake free from leaves a world that wants to be full of leaves. 

Fallen leaves of our natural deciduous state. So of course we abjure it.

I had a professor in graduate school who asserted with a jocular seriousness that all of Western thought could be summed up by one line from the John Huston movie, "The African Queen," starring Katherine Hepburn (who lived about a mile from where I type this) and Humphrey Bogart. Bogart says to Hepburn, "Oh, Miss, that ain't natural." Hepburn replies, "Nature, Mr. Allnut, is what we all must rise above."

That's it, I said, when I heard that. My formal education is done. Between knowing that Shakespeare is about order and when kings are killed, chaos occurs, and mans' reputed dominion over the earth, as a scholar, you can bluff your way through anything.

Back to my raking neighbor, I said to him as he stopped to say 'hi,' "I hear next year, the leaves will be RFID-tagged and through the internet of leaves you'll be able to program them to rake themselves."

Like most people in dealing with me, he laughed through his nose while his eyes gave off a look of incomprehension, as in, 'what the fuck are you prattling on about?' Damned if I know would have been my response. But then I got to thinking.

Remember not too long ago how the internet of things was supposed to change everything by connecting 22 billion wireless devices from refrigerators to doorbells to refrigerators to washer-dryers to alarm systems to nose-hair-trimmers and more. This was supposed to give us power, control and convenience the aforementioned Romans could never have dreamed of. 

Vaclav Smil, in his book "How the World Really Works," said "...Within a lifetime of people born just after the Second World War the rate had more than tripled, from about 10 to 34 GJ [gigajoules]/capita between 1950 and 2020. Translating the last rate into more readily imaginable equivalents, it is as if an average Earthling has every year at their personal disposal about 800 kilograms (0.8 tons, or nearly six barrels) of crude oil, or about 1.5 tons of good bituminous coal. And when put in terms of physical labor, it is as if 60 adults would be working non-stop, day and night, for each average person;"

But, I asked myself, what happened to the Internet of Things? Has anything gotten easier? What's better today than it was yesterday? And if it is better--for a time or a moment--does its betterness compensate for the badness you feel when the wireless goes out because the power is out because the monopolies that control what used to be public trusts haven't invested in infrastructure since the first interstates were built. Does convenience 85% of the time make up for complete immobility 15% of the time? 

Who cares? 

Not the trillionaire monopolists, their billionaire board of directors, their multi-millionaire lawyers or their millionaire lobbyists. Or the millionaire politicians they bought at knock down prices.


Just now I saw some FCB-derived stunt on AI-assisted Pitch Decks. Oh, blow it out your Interpublicked-Ass, with your AI-Assistance. It takes you 12 weeks to produce a tweet for a client. AI-assist common sense, first. Then worry about chazarai.

Frankly, I'd rather have George Lois, dead one year, or Bill Bernbach, dead 41 years working on a pitch deck than any choreographed banality of ones and zeroes trying to be creative when they were born without creativity, the bastard, wicked spawn of boredom and impecunious.

There's an A/B test for living. I don't understand why more people don't adopt or even understand it .

Use it as a guide for client presentations, for creative, for copy and yes, when your AI-assisted Pitch Deck withers like donald drump's penis will in when wrapped inside an air-fryer inside a desert inside of hell.

  • What can I do better today than I could yesterday?
  • What can I do today that I couldn't do yesterday?
  • What tastes better today than it did yesterday?
  • What pollutes less today than it did yesterday?
  • What helps more people today than we could yesterday?
  • What delivers more now than it costs?
There's very little progress that I've seen that can close to answering those questions. Maybe we should stop trying to be cool by saying we've jumped on the latest over-inflated banal bandwagon.

And try to have an idea instead.
At the least try to make someone laugh, cry or think.

There are worser ways to end this than e.e.

anyone lived in a pretty how town

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anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain





Monday, December 4, 2023

Umwelt. And Neil Drossman. And Effective Advertising.

There's a centuries-old concept propagated by two German scientists, Jakob von Uexküll and Thomas A. Sebeok, called umwelt. The plural is umwelten. I learned about it from Pulitzer-Prize-winner Ed Yong's recent book "An Immense World." You can read the New York Times' review of Yong's book here. And you can order it from an independent book-seller here.

Umwelt has a complicated definition: "The biological foundations that lie at the very center of both communication and signification in the human and non-human animal." For my simple brain, I've simplified the definition to how animals, fish, birds, mammals, marsupials, bugs, etc. see and adapt to their surroundings so they can live.

You can try to think about unwelt based on a quotation attributed to German-born scientist Albert Einstein who reportedly said, “Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”

In their own environment, on their home turf, just about every creature is smarter than you or I. Sparkle, my puppy, is just eleven-weeks-old and has been living with us in Connecticut for just two weeks. Already she can navigate about her territory using her intelligent ears and nose. She senses things I never would in a million years. Same thing with the small fish swimming in the Long Island Sound not one-hundred yards from where I type this. They understand sounds, currents, patterns in the rocky bottom of the sea that make as much sense to me as Cuneiform. Here's a recent article that gives a good example of Umwelt in hairy-mouthed dolphins.

Now, as perhaps you've come to expect, there's an advertising point in all this.

Humans for too many millennia have been guilty of the citation above by Einstein. We judge fish, so to speak, by their ability to ride ten-speeds.

In advertising--where a premium is placed on youth and coolness--we often judge our audiences and depict them on their ability to thrive in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, or some other super-hipster environment. We seem to not take the time to understand or get to know the umwelt of the lives of our viewers.

Remember, we live in the fattest society in human history. Diseases of despair are epidemic. A sizable proportion of America lives veritably paycheck-to-paycheck. There are more gig-workers than ever, with the insecurity that comes from knowing that an app might tell you 'you have no work today.' Minimum wage doesn't pay a living wage. Most people have no financial provision for their old age. And millions have no health insurance or inadequate coverage.

Yet in the commercial, print or digital advertising worlds, everyone is smiling, high-fiving, dancing or about to. Nearly everyone, even the seriously ill in the blight of pharma ads we're subjected to teeters on the brink of euphoria. In technology ads shapely women lay on the floor with their laptops knees bent somehow typing. (Have you ever tried that? It's like a medieval torture.)

In short, in the commercial, print or digital advertising worlds, empathy, realism, love for the viewer have all but vanished. We create work based on the clients' needs or the needs of the Private-Equity-owned Awards-Industrial-Complex, not the needs of our viewers.

Last week the ad trade press covered the death at 83 of one of the great copywriters of the 70s, 80s, 90s, 00s, 10s and 20s, Neil Drossman. The great Lee Garfinkel wrote a memorial to Neil in Ad Age that because Ad Age is paywalled, I will paste it at the end of this post.

Neil, and so much of the great advertising of the past, show an understanding of the Umwelten of our viewers. Ads depicted a sense of reality. Reality is usually not-rose-colored and saccharine. 

There is sweat, pain, fear and overcoming adversity. Just as there is no true happiness without having had to overcome sadness, no highs without their companion-piece lows, no sunshine without the rain, there's no reality and truth in 99.7-percent of today's advertising because we have no understanding or honesty enough to show the full-spectrum of reality.

This ad below is one of Neil's, maybe is most famous.


This is one of Hall-of-Famer Mike Tesch's.



And one by Hall-of-Famer Ed McCabe's.



And here are a handful more written by Neil for Teacher's Scotch. The goal used to be to make advertising that was better, more fun, informative or interesting than the content around it. I remember sitting with my father, an inveterate New Yorker reader as he read every word of these aloud at breakfast one Sunday morning.

Oh yeah, I know. Nobody reads.

However, there are a lot of advertising and client big wigs who read this blog. I've got a freebie for you. You can pay me back with a nice assignment or an AOR engagement.

Become or hire an Umwelt agency.

Umwelt advertising isn't about awards, or even creativity.

It's about touching people.















REMEMBERING NEIL DROSSMAN, THE ADMAN'S ADMAN

Lee Garfinkel recalls famed copywriter's influence on advertising

    

By Lee Garfinkel. Published on November 30, 2023.


Neil Drossman wrote humorous, thought-provoking ad copy that is remembered decades later.

 

Copywriting legend Neil Drossman died Nov. 25 of cancer at age 83. Drossman, who began his career during the Mad Men era, first earned fame at Della Femina Travisano & Partners before going on to open a number of agencies bearing his name. Here, leading industry creative Lee Garfinkel writes about Drossman’s impact on the ad world and his own career.

Once I read Jerry Della Femina’s book, “From Those Wonderful Folks Who Gave You Pearl Harbor," I knew that I wanted to get into advertising.

After months of working on my portfolio, I decided to finally show my work around. I very naively decided to call Della Femina’s agency. And I remember the conversation I had with the receptionist.

“Hi, can I please speak with a creative director?”

“Which one?” she asked.

“Any of them would be fine.”

I don’t know if she laughed or not, but she did connect me with a creative director named Neil Drossman.

Little did I know that she not only connected me with a creative director, but she connected me with one of the best writers in the business.

Our conversation was short, but he agreed to look at my portfolio.

On the day of our meeting, I had two interviews lined up. One was with a well-known creative director from a big agency who hated my work.

The second was with Neil, who also didn’t like most of my ads. But Neil’s comments were the exact opposite of the first guy and I really liked his point of view.

Probably feeling sorry for me, Neil took a couple of award show books off his shelf to show me what good advertising looked like.

The books were filled with Neil’s ads.

Seeing his work transformed my views of what advertising could be. Each headline was smart, funny, insightful, unexpected and thought-provoking.

I didn’t know that advertising could be so clever and feel so fresh.

Neil’s Teacher’s Scotch ads written in the voice of famous comedians were simply brilliant. They were so good that people like Groucho Marx, Mel Brooks, Tommy Smothers and Zero Mostel never changed a line of Neil’s copy.

For Mel Brooks (dressed as a caveman holding a glass of scotch while sitting on boulders), Neil wrote “2,000 years ago when you had a scotch on the rocks, you really had a scotch on the rocks.”

For Groucho, Neil’s headline read “Whenever I think of Scotch, I recall the immortal words of my brother Harpo.”

The body copy for all of these ads was equally brilliant. Imagine long copy ads that people actually enjoyed reading.

Neil also wrote ingenious headlines for Emery Air Freight. Over a photo of the world-traveling Henry Kissinger exiting an airplane, Neil’s headline simply read, “Emery flies to more places than he does.” Another lesson learned. Using current events to make your advertising relevant and fresh.

When Purina introduced a new cat food called “Meow Mix,” Neil wrote the great tagline, “The Cat Food Cats Ask For By Name.” A turn of a phrase, a twist on a cliché, a wordplay, a pun. Neil could take anything and make it fresh and provocative.

His headline for Chemical Bank’s local branches read, “Flatbush Isn’t Flushing.” How do you read that headline and not want to read the body copy?

At the end of my interview with Neil, he said, “Now go home, write some more ads. When you have 12 that you like, come back and show them to me. If I like them, I’ll recommend you to a few people.”

That short time with Neil changed everything. It was the best advertising lesson I ever had. It changed my perception of what advertising could be and just as importantly, it gave me hope.

True to his word, Neil met with me again a few months later. He looked at my work and occasionally banged his fist on his desk. I realized much later on that when Neil banged his fist, it usually meant he liked something.

Finally, he closed my portfolio and said “Here’s a name. Call this guy.”

Luckily for me, that guy was the super talented John Russo. And thanks to Neil, John hired me at Levine, Huntley, Schmidt, Plapler and Beaver. Which was one of the best creative shops in New York.

Once I started working, I never stopped looking out for the latest Neil Drossman ad. The list of his groundbreaking work is limitless. 

One piece that many copywriters say is their favorite Neil ad is for Goodwill Industries. The visual shows a man in a wheelchair fixing a TV set. The headline reads, “What you see here is a TV set repairing a man.”

I always looked forward to his weekly Einstein Moomjy carpet store ads in the New York Times. Imagine looking forward to reading advertising? For a carpet store?

But that’s part of what made Neil’s work so special. It didn’t really feel like you were reading advertising. Neil’s work not only sold, it enticed and entertained you. His ads made you smile.

Once when I was at Lowe and Partners, I needed to hire a freelance writer. I called Neil who was working at his new agency, Ryan Drossman. Neil said as a partner in a new agency, he couldn’t freelance. So I did exactly what you would expect, I hired his entire agency.

Years later, when I was chairman of the Andy Awards, I asked Neil to be a judge. At the judges’ dinner, I thanked Neil for helping me out and for changing my life. He seemed a little shy and maybe perplexed by how important he was to me. 

Over the years, we had become friends and perhaps he even forgot about those first two times we met. Which in retrospect makes sense. Neil has helped and inspired so many great creative people, how could he possibly remember every person or moment.

But I for one, will always be thankful to this brilliant genius and the time he spent with a naïve guy from the Bronx.