Of late Ad Aged has been subjected to an onslaught of bot-generated comments proffering everything from Chinese porn to Chinese porn. Lest you think I am censoring negative remarks, I am not. I get so frustrated by the very idea that spammers would find the meager readership of Ad Aged worthy of spamming, that I try to remove these comments right away.
Some of the other comments I get are equally annoying.
They're from "anonymous." And they almost invariably confuse me simply because they seem to so widely miss the mark of what I was writing about.
I'm not really sure what motivates someone to write anonymously.
I don't have a magical taser that can take them down.
And besides, there is no shortage of advertising blogs, so if you don't like mine, don't fucking read it.
Some people, I suppose, just like to nettle me.
That's ok.
I don't mind being nettled and probably deserve it.
Not much to say today.
We've been working all weekend, and today, on six new spots for a new client.
And I'm trying to both listen to Obama's inauguration on the radio and think about Dr. King.
I'll write better later.
If I have the time.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Friday, January 18, 2013
Bob Levenson. Copy. And letter-writing.
It's late on a Friday afternoon and as Holden Caulfield might say,
"It's cold as a witch's tit" outside. Much of the New York ad world
is thinking of leaving the office for the long Martin Luther King day weekend.
There's the faint clack and click of computer keyboards, some account people laughing
in the distance, but all in all, people are getting ready to shut down.
I don't blame them.
That said, I think Friday afternoon can also be the perfect time for a simple, brilliant
lesson in copywriting. That is if you find the right inspiration.
I found it today in "The New York Times" obituary of
Bob Levenson, who died last Wednesday at the age of 83, after 30+ years in the
business and countless great ads.
You can read his obit here: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/01/18/business/media/robert-h-levenson-a-visionary-adman-dies-at-83.html?smid=fb-share
The copywriting lesson comes at the end of the obituary.
Dominik Imseng who wrote a book on DDB’s great VW ads asked Levenson about his approach to writing copy. Levenson replied:
“I always started by writing Dear Charlie, like
writing to a friend. And then I would say what I had to say, and at the end I
would cross out Dear Charlie, and I was all right. ”
Some thoughts for the disconsolate.
There comes a time in everyone's career when they feel like shit.
Shit.
Crap.
Lower than low.
They're treated badly.
They're working harder than those around them.
And being treated worse.
Their bosses are fuckheads.
Their clients are worse.
And it seems, there's no way out.
Everyone, everyone I've ever met anyway, feels this way at times.
What do you do when it strikes you, as it inevitably will?
Hunker down.
Remind yourself what you do well.
Breathe deep.
Show some courage.
And do what you do.
Ignore the bullies, the brow beaters, the damners and the doubters.
Ignore the bullshit, the politics, the volume of vomitous venom.
And be who you are.
Remind yourself of all you've accomplished.
The accounts you have won.
The businesses you have helped to grow.
The accolades you have received.
Like a basketball coach whose team goes 60-22 one year
and 22-60 the next, remind yourself that that coach is the same coach,
the same person.
As are you.
Your past successes were not a fluke.
You are you.
If you're wearing pants, hike them up.
Be you.
Keep your head up.
And your pencil down.
Do your job as only you can do it.
That's how you survive.
No.
That's how you thrive.
Shit.
Crap.
Lower than low.
They're treated badly.
They're working harder than those around them.
And being treated worse.
Their bosses are fuckheads.
Their clients are worse.
And it seems, there's no way out.
Everyone, everyone I've ever met anyway, feels this way at times.
What do you do when it strikes you, as it inevitably will?
Hunker down.
Remind yourself what you do well.
Breathe deep.
Show some courage.
And do what you do.
Ignore the bullies, the brow beaters, the damners and the doubters.
Ignore the bullshit, the politics, the volume of vomitous venom.
And be who you are.
Remind yourself of all you've accomplished.
The accounts you have won.
The businesses you have helped to grow.
The accolades you have received.
Like a basketball coach whose team goes 60-22 one year
and 22-60 the next, remind yourself that that coach is the same coach,
the same person.
As are you.
Your past successes were not a fluke.
You are you.
If you're wearing pants, hike them up.
Be you.
Keep your head up.
And your pencil down.
Do your job as only you can do it.
That's how you survive.
No.
That's how you thrive.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Phonetics, swimming and the modern world.
One of the many pejorative things I've taken to saying about clients is that they don't know how to read.
I don't mean they can't read a stop sign or microwave cooking instructions, but that they don't know how to fathom thoughts and stories in a sequential way.
For instance, if you wrote the words "Don't worry" in copy, chances are they would ask you to re-write it without the word "Don't." Don't they regard as a "negative."
What occurs to me is that clients--and most people--don't know how to handle things sequentially. To break them down into component parts and add them up again.
Here's a for instance I remember from more than 20 years ago.
My daughter was in summer camp. She was just five years old and she was afraid she would be unable to complete the seven swimming laps she needed to swim in order to be allowed to go into the deep-end of the lake.
"Dad," she said, holding back tears, "I can't swim seven laps."
"Sarah, you don't have to swim seven laps. Swim one lap, breathe, then swim another. Then when you're done with that lap, breathe and swim another."
Of course, she passed her test with flying colors.
Fifty some years ago when I learned to read, we learned phonetics.
We didn't read all at once.
We broke things down into pieces.
And then we put them back together.
This breaking down and assembling is lost today.
We stop at the first syllable and say "that doesn't make sense."
Communicating, understanding, comprehending demands the ability to break things apart and put them back together again.
Get it?
I don't mean they can't read a stop sign or microwave cooking instructions, but that they don't know how to fathom thoughts and stories in a sequential way.
For instance, if you wrote the words "Don't worry" in copy, chances are they would ask you to re-write it without the word "Don't." Don't they regard as a "negative."
What occurs to me is that clients--and most people--don't know how to handle things sequentially. To break them down into component parts and add them up again.
Here's a for instance I remember from more than 20 years ago.
My daughter was in summer camp. She was just five years old and she was afraid she would be unable to complete the seven swimming laps she needed to swim in order to be allowed to go into the deep-end of the lake.
"Dad," she said, holding back tears, "I can't swim seven laps."
"Sarah, you don't have to swim seven laps. Swim one lap, breathe, then swim another. Then when you're done with that lap, breathe and swim another."
Of course, she passed her test with flying colors.
Fifty some years ago when I learned to read, we learned phonetics.
We didn't read all at once.
We broke things down into pieces.
And then we put them back together.
This breaking down and assembling is lost today.
We stop at the first syllable and say "that doesn't make sense."
Communicating, understanding, comprehending demands the ability to break things apart and put them back together again.
Get it?
Fear eats your soul.
Every day, I'm sad to say, I deal with people who are scared out of their wits.
They're scared of the meeting they're in.
They're scared of the next meeting they have to rush to.
They're scared of the meeting after that.
And meetings that haven't been scheduled yet.
They're scared to have an opinion.
They're scared not to have an opinion.
They get scared when they see a closed door.
And they're scared when doors are open.
They're afraid their boss will find out about them.
They're afraid their subordinates will undercut them.
They are folded, spindled and mutilated by fear.
They are consumed by fear like an alcoholic is consumed by drink.
They can no longer think straight.
They no longer relate to their spouse.
Or their kids.
Their weekends are spent cowering.
As are their nights.
There is fear of showing that you disagree.
Fear of saying something is good.
I am sad for these people.
They are afraid to laugh at jokes.
They are afraid to be themselves.
They are afraid to speak their minds.
They have no self, no minds.
They've been eaten, Zombie-like, by fear.
They're scared of the meeting they're in.
They're scared of the next meeting they have to rush to.
They're scared of the meeting after that.
And meetings that haven't been scheduled yet.
They're scared to have an opinion.
They're scared not to have an opinion.
They get scared when they see a closed door.
And they're scared when doors are open.
They're afraid their boss will find out about them.
They're afraid their subordinates will undercut them.
They are folded, spindled and mutilated by fear.
They are consumed by fear like an alcoholic is consumed by drink.
They can no longer think straight.
They no longer relate to their spouse.
Or their kids.
Their weekends are spent cowering.
As are their nights.
There is fear of showing that you disagree.
Fear of saying something is good.
I am sad for these people.
They are afraid to laugh at jokes.
They are afraid to be themselves.
They are afraid to speak their minds.
They have no self, no minds.
They've been eaten, Zombie-like, by fear.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
73 days.
It was damp in New York last night, or at least in my little slice of it. The rain, or sleet, or frozen slurry hadn't yet begun, but you could feel the wet and the lethargy in your bones. The Chinese and Puerto Rican delivery men wielded their beaten bikes with their usual bravado, but they were sheathed in bright orange plastic, or black Hefty garbage bags with openings they tore for their head and arms. They outpaced cabs and swerved past pedestrians. They alone are impervious to the weather.
Whiskey was tired still from the weekend. We had traveled to the suburbs with her and found a foggy beach in Rye. She cavorted in the sand and Sound with a dozen other dogs and had come home, well, dog tired.
Though she didn't have her usual bounce, she didn't register even the slightest objection when at 2:17 this morning I slipped on her leash and led her out into the cold.
We walked, as we usually do north, uptown. Where the people are poorer and darker, and I've found through the years, more prone to having a conversation with a stranger and his dog in the early hours of the morning.
Around 104th Street on the East River Esplanade, the river bends and widens. This is mid-Hells Gate, but away from the roil where the Sound collides with the incoming tide. The water last night was glassy. The surface being broken only by the bait of a single Puerto Rican fisherman trying his luck alone.
"Buenos noches," I offered, dropping my esses so I sounded like I speak Spanish better than I do. He greeted me back in Spanish and then began in English.
"I come here every night," he began. "I have seen you and your dog many times before."
"We're out here a lot. I have an issue with insomnia and this is what I do to combat it."
"I too, have insomnia," the old man continued. "Or I used to. Now I fish because I must."
There was a long pause after the word must. I've learned that pauses are precious in these conversations and it's better to wait them out than to try to fill them.
After a minute or two and two or three spits into the water, he continued.
"A fish, I have not caught in 73 days. I must keep coming and fishing until I find my luck."
"There can't be much running now. It's deepest winter."
"It does not matter," he said "A fish I must again catch. That is why every night I am here."
I understood.
Every four minutes or so, with the metronomic precision of a Beethoven etude he would wind in his line and cast it out again. His bait remained where he had hooked it. He was not even getting nibbles.
"73 days." He said again.
Whiskey and I stayed with him for most of one of those days.
I got home just in time to shower and get to work.
Whiskey was tired still from the weekend. We had traveled to the suburbs with her and found a foggy beach in Rye. She cavorted in the sand and Sound with a dozen other dogs and had come home, well, dog tired.
Though she didn't have her usual bounce, she didn't register even the slightest objection when at 2:17 this morning I slipped on her leash and led her out into the cold.
We walked, as we usually do north, uptown. Where the people are poorer and darker, and I've found through the years, more prone to having a conversation with a stranger and his dog in the early hours of the morning.
Around 104th Street on the East River Esplanade, the river bends and widens. This is mid-Hells Gate, but away from the roil where the Sound collides with the incoming tide. The water last night was glassy. The surface being broken only by the bait of a single Puerto Rican fisherman trying his luck alone.
"Buenos noches," I offered, dropping my esses so I sounded like I speak Spanish better than I do. He greeted me back in Spanish and then began in English.
"I come here every night," he began. "I have seen you and your dog many times before."
"We're out here a lot. I have an issue with insomnia and this is what I do to combat it."
"I too, have insomnia," the old man continued. "Or I used to. Now I fish because I must."
There was a long pause after the word must. I've learned that pauses are precious in these conversations and it's better to wait them out than to try to fill them.
After a minute or two and two or three spits into the water, he continued.
"A fish, I have not caught in 73 days. I must keep coming and fishing until I find my luck."
"There can't be much running now. It's deepest winter."
"It does not matter," he said "A fish I must again catch. That is why every night I am here."
I understood.
Every four minutes or so, with the metronomic precision of a Beethoven etude he would wind in his line and cast it out again. His bait remained where he had hooked it. He was not even getting nibbles.
"73 days." He said again.
Whiskey and I stayed with him for most of one of those days.
I got home just in time to shower and get to work.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
How to kill an ad.
Killing ideas, whether they're ads, radio or TV commercials, online communications or whatnot, is something that has to be done wisely if it's to be done well.
Whether the killing is warranted or not, that's not my point today.
Today's post is about mercy killing.
It's about killing effectively.
It's about killing with no ambiguity.
It's about killing completely.
That is, not letting things linger and hold onto life like a flounder 45 minutes after you've hooked it.
Not sending the creative team scrambling, looking to make something more "sophisticated," when you, the passive executioner know you will never buy it.
It's not about saying "let's see if we can make it more 'edgy.'
Or 'I like the idea but not the language.'
Or some other such rot.
It's your job, if you are reviewing work--whether you're on the agency or the client side--to wield a cleaver.
It's not about being nice, hoping not to dampen the enthusiasm of the creative teams. Some people think beating around the bush with creative teams is kind.
It's not. It just prolongs things that should be lopped off.
This isn't a popularity contest.
It's about focusing and making decisions.
Which, in sum, is about using resources wisely.
So listen.
Next time you see an ad you don't like, that you know you could never buy,
just say, "I appreciate the effort. But that ad is wrong. I don't think animation is right for this."
Don't keep things alive out of kindness.
When you should be killing them.
Whether the killing is warranted or not, that's not my point today.
Today's post is about mercy killing.
It's about killing effectively.
It's about killing with no ambiguity.
It's about killing completely.
That is, not letting things linger and hold onto life like a flounder 45 minutes after you've hooked it.
Not sending the creative team scrambling, looking to make something more "sophisticated," when you, the passive executioner know you will never buy it.
It's not about saying "let's see if we can make it more 'edgy.'
Or 'I like the idea but not the language.'
Or some other such rot.
It's your job, if you are reviewing work--whether you're on the agency or the client side--to wield a cleaver.
It's not about being nice, hoping not to dampen the enthusiasm of the creative teams. Some people think beating around the bush with creative teams is kind.
It's not. It just prolongs things that should be lopped off.
This isn't a popularity contest.
It's about focusing and making decisions.
Which, in sum, is about using resources wisely.
So listen.
Next time you see an ad you don't like, that you know you could never buy,
just say, "I appreciate the effort. But that ad is wrong. I don't think animation is right for this."
Don't keep things alive out of kindness.
When you should be killing them.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Re-branding for a cause.
Some work I did over the weekend with the brilliant Tore Claesson.
If you like them, please spread the word.
From Ed McCabe.
By way of Sell! Sell!'s marvelous blog. http://sellsellblog.blogspot.com/
|
Friday, January 11, 2013
Limits.
Of the many ways business has changed since the dawn of the digital era, perhaps the most seismic is the "death of the end."
Here's what I mean.
When you grew up in print--which many people of my vintage did--there was a limit to how much copy an ad could handle. A page has finite dimensions. Unlike a website, it has an end. You had to learn to make every word count--because, simply, you didn't get many.
Likewise, content. When you had a prescribed and immutable time limit, you had to excise extraneous thoughts. You had a minute. Or 30 seconds. Not 3:16, or :47. Your time had an end. You had to finish.
Shooting on film also gave you limits. A "mag" lasted just about seven minutes and then the camera had to reload. And film was expensive. You couldn't just let the camera run through rehearsals. You had to find your shot and get it.
All these limits, all these endings demanded stern discipline.
They demanded an editor's eye at the outset.
That's all.
Here's what I mean.
When you grew up in print--which many people of my vintage did--there was a limit to how much copy an ad could handle. A page has finite dimensions. Unlike a website, it has an end. You had to learn to make every word count--because, simply, you didn't get many.
Likewise, content. When you had a prescribed and immutable time limit, you had to excise extraneous thoughts. You had a minute. Or 30 seconds. Not 3:16, or :47. Your time had an end. You had to finish.
Shooting on film also gave you limits. A "mag" lasted just about seven minutes and then the camera had to reload. And film was expensive. You couldn't just let the camera run through rehearsals. You had to find your shot and get it.
All these limits, all these endings demanded stern discipline.
They demanded an editor's eye at the outset.
That's all.
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