A different perspective.

It's been said that "a different perspective is worth 100 points of I.Q."

Not long ago I had a wonderful email exchange with an internet friend who shall remain nameless. We were talking about the motherfuckers who seem, these days, to do so well in our business. Mind you, these people never produce work, never win business, never raise the bar. However, they're always first in line to grab credit and self-promote.

He's weathered more than a few storms in his life and career. Here's his perspective:

"The problem also proceeds from the spread of what I see as the American style of "managing upwards".

"I always thought that managers looked downwards and their first responsibility was to the people who reported to them i.e. they knew a) who was working for them, b) what they were doing, c) whether they had time and resources to do it and d) when to step in and help them complete the task.

"Management upwards is, however, a very different approach.  This demands that the manager's first priority is to manage the experience and expectations of the person above them.  This means that they spend most of their time ensuring that their boss remains untouched and untroubled by the day-to-day functioning of the business.

"They, themselves, rise and fall not by their ability to ensure that it functions productively ( As you and I know, productivity is best achieved by a happy and engaged workforce.)

"On the contrary, their destiny is shaped by their ability to manipulate information and practice politics in order to (that dreaded phrase,) "raise their profile".

"Which means that aspirant middle managers (who want to escape the squeezed middle) are complicit and, indeed, try to become junior partners in the C - level carve up."

Long live.

Lately two commercials have swept Facebook feeds and spread through at least our industry like gossip at an all-girls' school.

First there was the "Mom" effort by Weiden + Kennedy for Old Spice. And then, also by W + K, there was the Olympic "Mom" spot for Proctor and Gamble.

Both of these spots fly in the face of the trite and specious proclamation that TV is dead.

What we should be declaring dead is "boredom."

Consumers, truth be told, will tolerate anything but being bored.

In fact, last week when "Wired" magazine featured an interactive push-button print ad by Motorola, people ripped it out of the magazine and shared it around the office.

Maybe print isn't dead if it's interesting.

Next, maybe we'll even stumble upon a radio campaign that excites us.

Before the recent spate of TV dramas of the "Orange is the New Black"-ilk emerged, there were oh-so-many people writing off the very notion of TV viewing. Reality isn't following that story line. People will watch--and probably "lean back" while doing so, if you give them something good.

Forty-five years ago, Howard Luck Gossage said "People read what interests them. Sometimes it's an ad."

I think we can expand on Gossage's wisdom.

People watch, read, share, laugh-about, comment upon what interests them. Therefore youu'd better make your creative interesting.

--

BTW, Part II of the creative revolution at least in the States, was led not by Bill Bernbach and his spawn but, I think, by Phil Dusenberry and his. Dusenberry had the simple notion that TV spots have to be better than the programming they are running on. Better written. Better scored. Better directed.

As the quality of TV shows has improved of late, think "Breaking Bad," or "Downton Abbey," the bar for our industry has been raised. It's our job the make something better. Otherwise we're an interruption and an annoyance, rather than something interesting and entertaining.

Tricks.

As the last remaining old folks (like myself) are wrung out of a declining or dying industry, it might be a good time to think about what we're losing along with grey hair.

When I came along in the business, printing was about 500 years old, and over that half a millennium, publishers had learned a lot of craft and a lot of tricks.

They learned, to keep this really simple, how to set copy so it gets read. They learned techniques like having large-font-sentence leading into a copy block with smaller type to draw readers in. They understood that placing a caption underneath a picture was a way to get things read. They realized that things like side-bars and boxes within or alongside a column of type also increased readability.

They understood the importance of
widows
and short paragraphs.

All these tricks are lost on the new breed of copywriters and designers. All that knowledge, knowledge gained as I said over the course of five centuries seems to have disappeared. People write type and "set" type to fit. Not to have it read. And brevity, by the way, is not the only thing that leads to readability.

This is hard to pass-over.

Often I'm called in when there's a problem with a piece. I talk about it with young folks and I realize that they've never looked at type. They've read writing but never looked at it. If they have a bag of tricks it's holding nothing but dust.

No real point today. Except this. When you throw out the old, you throw out a lot.

A lot of type that invites you to browse.

This was designed by Milton Glaser. There are a lot of words. A lot you want to read.

This is by Tibor Kalman. Also eminently readable.

There's a lot here to admire.

Welcome to now.

I just got another one of those e-mails--you know the ones--the emails that proclaim the world as you know it is irrevocably changed, that advertising and communications are dead, that brands will adjust by being benevolent because the consumer is in control.

With all that in mind, I started thinking about how out of control consumers really are.

1. You can't return anything. Once it's bought, you're doomed to a world where you have to go to the post office.
2. You can't find anything or anyone who knows anything. People who work in bookstores don't read. People in Home Depot don't have homes to repair. Certainly people in Staples have never run a business or worked in an office.
3. There's no legroom. Next time you think the consumer is in control, ride coach. Or ride Amtrak.
4. You're charged twice. You pay for your Yankee tickets then are besieged by ads at every possible point. Or you buy tickets only to hear the event you paid for is brought to you by Pepsi.
5. You can't complain. There's no one at the other end of the line.
6. You can't even get off of email lists. Unsubscribe all you like, once they have you, they have you.
7. You've given away all your personal information and the ability to track your every move in return for free email and Facebook.
8. You can barely find a brand that doesn't destroy the environment.
9. Or pay slave wages.
10. Or fail to pay taxes.
11. Much less "put you in control."
12. It's all worse when it rains.

Weather report.

You would think the Earth had spun off its axis and was hurtling through outer space away from the sun, growing colder colder colder with each blink of the eye. Americans had learned a new phrase over the past couple of days, "polar vortex," hyperbolic meteorology for what used to be seasonable cold weather.

The radio said the temperature was about 10-degrees Fahrenheit this morning, and thanks to a gusty wind the wind-chill was 20 or 30 below. Buses decided not to run and cabs were as scarce as teeth in a hen or a spine in an account guy.

The weather is Topic A in the chatter that fills our lives, as if the Mastodons were returning and we should be swathing ourselves with animal skins for warmth. Yesterday, the conferencinistas (those who spend the better part of the next few months going to conferences about who-knows-what) had taken to Facebook and Twitter and more to herald their own personal arrival at the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas. They had suffered travails and indignities to get there--similar to what Stanley and Livingston went through, or Aguirre as he mosquito-raped the Amazon.

But they're there! Hurrah! And soon we'll hear more about wearable computers, refrigerators that talk to watches and curved glass devices that are "cool."

What any of this means to the communications business, I can't fathom.

But no one wants to be in the communications business anymore. That's so yesterday. They want to be in the business transformations business. They want to create new models and new ecosystems. So conference they must for a better world. Soon, page after page of powerpoint decks will be regaled with ideas that have no practical application, based on spurious sound-bites overheard from some windbag who's never had to make a dime the hard way.

That's our business today.

Instead of focusing on our jobs...defining, demonstrating and disseminating brands, we dilettante ourselves into spheres we know nothing about. We tighten our belts another notch, stand up straight and spout. And others, other spouters, that is, hear that spouting and re-spout. We create a tsunami of bullshit and it levels everything in its path.

It's 8AM in my office.

The cool kids are in Las Vegas.

Most everyone else is home--it's early yet.

And a good portion will be working from home--claiming it's too cold to come in.

I'm at my desk.

I have work to do.

A world without leaders.

Though the so-called leaders of the advertising industry have no qualms accepting the multi-million dollar paydays they allocate to themselves, they are not leaders, really, in anything other than money. The same can be said about other high-priced moguls at the television networks and cable stations.

It only takes an afternoon of watching television to realize that the balance between programming and commercials is all out of whack. Whatever regulation used to be in place which determined how many commercials could be shown each hour, has disappeared. On some cable channels, during football, it seems as if there's a 50-50-split between programming and advertising.

This is obviously bad for everybody all around. The viewer turns off. The clients' commercials don't get seen. The programming sucks. And everybody turns off and declares the medium dead--choked to death by too much advertising.

I think it's time to bring balance back.

It's time to say, 24-minutes of programming for six minutes of commercial. It's time to say you can't have two or three car commercials in a single pod. Time to bring some exclusivity back.

Were that the case, revenue would remain neutral. There would be fewer but bigger checks. Viewership might even increase, which would further bolster revenue.

But there is no one to speak out about this. No one to take charge. No one to lead.

The "leaders" are too busy counting their ill-gotten money.

Ancient Greece in the Tempus Fugit.

Last night was a bad one. Maybe it was bad because we had gone out to dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant in Astoria, Queens where, frankly, it is impossible not to eat too much. Or it could be because I had a double espresso to cap off the meal. Or, most likely, it could be the spat I had with the missus.

Been there. Done that.

There were no pyrotechnics with the spat. No throwing dishes or being chased around the apartment by a woman wielding a rolling pin. There was nothing like that, no Jiggs and Maggie. But it was enough. Enough to make me question everything, including what am I doing here, can I stand this for the rest of my life, and, even, why am I alive.

We all have fights like that. And it was one of them. And it kept me awake. Awake till 2:15 AM, at which point I gave up the sleeping ghost, got dressed quickly and in the dark like a firefighter, be-leashed Whiskey and walked uptown to the Tempus Fugit.

No matter what happens in the world, the Tempus Fugit remains immemorial. When the columns crack, the rivers run dry and when it begins to rain frogs, it's time to head there. It won't exigent reality but it will provide a necessary stay, a restorative niche until you can fortify yourself against the present.

As usual, the Tempus Fugit was empty when Whiskey and I arrived. The tables along the back was were straight and flush against the liver-colored wall and the 16 or 20 mis-matched chairs that went with those tables were pushed in and in apple-pie-order. The 12 leather-covered stools that lined the teak bar like parapets on a medieval castle were similarly tucked-in and empty. I assumed my
stool--one in from the end, and the bartender pulled me a Pike's Ale (the ALE that won for YALE.)

I sat silently and he stood over me, allowing me my silence to down my first Pike's when I finished and he refilled my glass, he began the evening's dissertation.

"You are in a mood tonight, I see," he began.

"I will play it safe and make no comment. The walls, even walls such as these," I motioned with my head indicating the walls all around us, "have ears."

"Perhaps a little poetry will help."

Anacreon of Teos had good abs.

I gave him my best Yiddish accent, "It couldn't hurt."

"This is from Anacreon of Teos. He wrote is just before I was born, in 546 B.C."

"That pre-dates the advent of Pike's," I answered, sipping at my amber. "And the Tempus Fugit."

I pushed my empty his way and without breaking his oratorical stride, he continued.

"Why I Weep," he said. He picked up his damp white terry and wiped the bar to the anapest of the poem.

"Already my temples are gray

and head white,

graceful youth is no longer

here, but teeth are old,

no longer is much time left

of sweet life.

"Because of these things, I weep,

often afraid of Tartarus;

for the recess of Hades is terrible,

and the descent to it

difficult, and it is certain that

he who has gone down can’t come up."

He finished and filled me a third time. He brought from underneath the bar a bowl of salted Spanish peanuts.

"That's meant to cheer me up?" I asked. 

He laughed at that. I looked to the front doorway, thinking that maybe a hooded man with a scythe would be entering soon. When no one appeared, I turned back to my Pike's.

"Look," he said. He had stopped polishing the already polished bar. He looked dead ahead and continued solemnly.

"The world is getting dumber. I won't argue with you on that. We live in an era of avarice, cruelty and inequity. We're making the Gilded Age look benign."

I nodded in silent agreement.

"The world is heating up. Radiation is in our marrow. Our rivers, lakes and oceans are crowded with billions of tiny plastic pellets--abrasives put into soaps. They are eaten by phytoplankton, which are eaten by fish and so enter our food chain.

"And we're the lucky ones. We have a food chain. One-fifth of the world lives on less than two-dollars a day."

"You're convulsing me," I said.

"Here's the thing. At home, at work, with your kids. Lighten up. As Anacreon said, "no longer is much time left/ of sweet life."

I laughed. "Sweet life."

I slid two twenties his way. More to pay for the philosophy than the Pike's.

"On me."

Whiskey and I suited up for the cold and muck and walked home, knowing that he who has gone down can't come up.

Mayor Bloomberg and advertising.

New York inaugurated a new mayor on Wednesday, its first new mayor in a dozen years.

The out-going mayor was the bland, technocratic billionaire, Michael Bloomberg. After 12 years a lot of people turned on Bloomberg and were happy to see him go. But personally, and this is no slight to the new mayor, Bill Di Blasio, I think we're going to miss him.

What Bloomberg did well is the kind of thing we ignore in agencies today. He got the little things done.

Crime dropped precipitously.

Streets were cleaner.

Trains ran more often and they, too, were cleaner.

Trees were planted, bike lanes built, and some new parks opened.

None of these things were bold innovations. None of these things were giant headlines. But over his three terms, things were steady.

I think people got bored with Bloomberg's steadiness.

They forget that the opposite of steadiness is often lurching unpredictability.

I think most brands and most cities would be best served  by Bloomberg's style. Day in and day out you know what they're about.

Rather than being something new every couple of weeks.

I'm not advocating boredom, not for a second.

But getting the basics done, doing things right and predictably makes sense to me.

Kale.

There's an article in today's "New York Times" about kale.

That in and of itself is not unusual.

Over the past year--since kale got "hot," there have been dozens.

Back in September there was an article about a woman who proclaimed herself "The Kale Crusader."

Around Hannukah, there was an article about kale and potato latkes.

Coinciding with the launch of the movie "The Great Gatsby," there was an article about kale being a hit in New York's social circles.

And of recipes, there have been myriad.

Today's article about kale shivered a bunch of timbers.

It postulated that kale isn't that good for you. Something about the thyroid. Something else about tooth decay.

Screams of terror have wailed through my Facebook feed.

The Kalenistas have been going mad.

The 7,000 pounds of kale they konsumed in 2013--in liquid, solid and gaseous forms, might have been for naught.

Here's the thing.

And my wish for 2014.

Moderation.

Kale is probably good for you.

In moderation.

Just as social media is probably important.

In moderation.

Just as certain agencies are so hot they're worth trying to get into.

In moderation.

Just as so-and-so is really talented.

In moderation.

Just as your job sucks and is so horrible you can't stand it another day.

In moderation.

That's it.

Keep calm.

Keep cool.

Don't bet the farm on new foods, new fads, new fortune, new friends, and new fame.

Moderation.

New Year's with Fellini.

My wife and I eschewed the parties we were invited to. We decided to celebrate New Year's alone, just the two of us. Three, if you count Whiskey, who, it must be said, is pretty much the center of things at all times. She's a remarkable pup, and endlessly playful and amusing.

We settled in front of the flatscreen and Laura beckoned me to load the movie I had selected for the evening. I had thought long and hard. What's a good New Year's movie?

I quickly eliminated the 60 or 80 films I rotated among that are about Nazis. I also didn't think film noir would be a good expression for the New Year. And silent movies, while I love them, I didn't think my wife would appreciate. Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd, Charlie Chaplin and Charley Chase all have their charms, but they didn't feel right for celebrating New Year's.

Finally, I settled on "Amarcord," the Oscar-winning film by Federico Fellini and I truly think I could not have made a better choice. In the Italian dialect of Fellini's youth, amarcord means I remember, and this was his look back at a year--a single year--of his adolescence as he was growing up, along with Mussolini's Fascism in 1930s small-town Italy.

It's the lives, the loves, the laughter and the horror we all reckon with, softened by celluloid, spiced with genius. It's a year. A year of beauty, a year of pain, a year of fun, and hijinx, and, again, horror.

It's an amazing movie, Amarcord. One of my favorites of all time. Something as detailed as a great Monet, as real as a Bernini sculpture. As funny as the Marx Brothers. As frightening as death.

It was a perfect way to end one year and begin another.