Pleeease, tell me what I got for Christmas.

I want to know what my wife got me for Christmas. I ask her for hints, but she shrugs me off as if I asked her something preposterous. I search throughout the house for a package with my name on it––under the bed, in the spare room, in the basement, in the cabinet above the refrigerator. Over and over I wonder, "Now where would she figure I'd never find it?" I dig through the zillion shoes in her closet. I grope behind the shelves of books. I beam the flashlight across the rafters in the attic. And if I find a treasure, I will consider carefully its shape; I will shake it, hold it up to the light to see if I can decipher any printing through the wrapping paper and I will ask myself, "What would Sherlock Holmes do?" My wife thinks I'm silly, but sometimes, I swear, she has Scrooge-like tendencies.

It's the fun of it, I suppose. It's the fun of a surprise. Even after twenty-somethng years of marriage, neither can I predict what my wife will get me, nor can my wife be totally certain that it will be the next best thing since Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots.  That's the creativity of it.

I think about this because maybe during the rest of the year, we can learn something from the holidays, learn to enjoy the gift of a great idea, the surprise and the delight of it. We can do our research, resort to all the predicting of consumer behavior that we have at our disposal, but we can also appreciate that the circumstances of the moment can never be entirely predicted.

I read this poem the other night by Wislawa Szymborska. It's called, "A Contribution To Statistics."

Out of a hundred people

Those who always know better

––fifty-two,

doubting every step

––nearly all the rest,

glad to lend a hand

if it doesn't take too long

––four, well, maybe five,

able to admire without envy

––eighteen,

living in constant fear

of someone or something

––seventy-seven

capable of happiness

––twenty-something tops,

harmless singly,

savage in crowds

––half at least,

cruel

when forced by circumstances

––better not to know

even ballpark figures,

wise after the fact

––just a couple more

than wise before it,

taking only things from life

––forty

(I wish I were wrong),

hunched in pain,

no flashlight in the dark

––eighty-three

sooner or later,

worthy of compassion

––ninety-nine,

mortal

––a hundred out of a hundred.

Thus far this figure still remains unchanged.

Fine. Then here's to more unpredictable little presents in the new year.

"Lisa Rinna admits to having too much plastic surgery." -Daily News

Animals don't even try to look any different from what nature intended. They accept whatever shells, scales, plumes, pelts, and prickly spines they are given. The armadillo gives no thought to his long nose; the manatee doesn't care about a few extra pounds; the gopher cares less about his overbite. And, when the deer's fur changes automatically with the season, it's fine with the deer. When the tree frog fades from grass green to stone grey, no one hears a ribbit out of him. The conscious impulse to change one's appearance is found only among humans; the impulse to advertise oneself is, I suppose, part of who we are. Obviously, there is a point at which we get carried away with this advertising, when cheek lifts, bubble lips, bubble boobs and waxed eyebrows deviate too far from what nature intended. Where's the limit? In the current state of advertising, vain, me-me-me communication is becoming less effective and marketers look increasingly for something a little more humble, a little more "authentic." Maybe some of that will rub off on us, because whether it's Billy Mays or Joan Rivers, it's just advertising that is, well, poorly constructed and I can't imagine it working beyond a superficial level. So I say, bring on the authenticity. The fact is, a smiling, tail-wagging Labrador can persuade me to throw a stick around the yard any day, for hours.

Ugh, change.

These are indeed amazing times we live in, what with the new president, France liking us again, and...all the great new shows on TV this fall, right? I know, could they be any worse? Oh sure, we'll get a chuckle from Kath and Kim, maybe half a grin out of Life on Mars and that's it. It's a fall season like every other fall season, so––no disrespect to Mr. Dylan––but the times they are only a changin' a wee little bit at time.

That's because change is hard. My mother-in-law came oh so close to voting for Barack Obama. She went on a right wing diet, cut out Fox News and everything, but then, in the final days before election Tuesday, the urge to find the best answer succumbed to the reinforcement of old beliefs, and she clicked back to the meat and potato excesses of Bill O'Reilly.

Change is really hard. I keep thinking I'm going to meditate every day, you know, to avert the same stressful whirlwinds that I have been sucked into in the past, and yet I struggle with the discipline. I think I need Vince Lombardi to follow me around for an entire week and bark out orders to stick with my regimen. Yes, that would do it. But that's not likely to happen now, is it. How convenient to feel only a dead coach would keep me in line.

And in the ad world, as much as the industry has evolved, we still have Billy Mays. You know Billy Mays. He's the seemingly ubiquitous pitch guy, that incessant, grating pitch guy for Oxy Clean and Orange Glow that yells and sells, "It works!" in the same way that salesmen sold snake oil 150 years ago. Yes, change doesn't come easily.

I recently read The Happiness Hypothesis, a book by Jonathan Haidt that explains how difficult it is for people to change and do the things that make them happy. How difficult it is to cure hypocrisy because we can rarely convince ourselves that there is a problem. How we are vulnerable to scandals and gossip because they make us feel––let's face it––morally superior. How difficult it is to simply see something new as something good because our brains are sensitized to react to new sensations as violations and threats. It's nearly impossible to change our tendencies by sheer force of will. 

So it makes me appreciate the election results even more. It shouldn't be surprising that it took relentless focus, demanding of the Obama team that they never veer from one theme, one idea to turn the tide. We ad people yammer on about sticking to one idea all the time––we know how tough it can be when you're tempted to react to every offensive launched by the competition and every little sales blip. Contrast that to Obama, who, over and over again, harped on "change" because that's what it took to make a majority hopeful.

It also took something else––optimism. Inherently, I think, people know––or at least want to believe––that hope and positivity and goodness is the best way to go. Cognitive psychology tells us that negativity is often the result of distortions. Surely when the negativity was in full mud swing, how many people began to wonder about McCain's agenda? On the other hand, optimism is purity and clarity. Obama's confidence was therefore unaffected.

It was remarkable. Regardless of whether you believe in Obama's politics, you have to believe that his effectiveness is enviable and truly inspiring.

Dumbing down or just plain dumb?

No offense to Joe Sixpack, Joe the Plumber and Joe Schmo, but why do republicans pander only to them? I'm sure there are a lot of other people across the nation who would like to be pandered to. And that takes us to my point. If John McCain and Sarah Palin didn't dumb down so much, they could, I think, connect to more people. They could even connect to more regular Joes, since a lot of them are actually intelligent. The strategy is flawed. It's all dumbing down and no refuting up, doggone it.

Not that I want to give the GOP's a hand or anything, it's just that I can't help notice the compromised quality of their approach. What's wrong with a little technical back up once in awhile, even if it goes over a few heads. Don't people earn some respect when they talk about things beyond our grasp? I think Stephen Hawking is a genius, I can't explain exactly why, as there is nothing he says that I understand, but I am absolutely convinced that the guy is really, really smart.

Complexity can be a critical part of an argument. If nothing else, it portrays the big issues––like our economy or the tribal entanglement in Afghanistan and Pakistan––more honestly. The truth is that common sense alone won't solve these problems.

I'm not suggesting that a candidate forgo any ranting and rousing for the boredom of a 6th grade social studies class; neither am I saying that conclusions shouldn't be made simple. I merely believe that the importance and complexity of the subject, and the depth of treatment we choose to give it, should be dictated by an appropriate amount of detail. Without it, no one's going to be completely swayed of anything––not really. This is basic rhetoric.

What if we hold back the viewpoints and partisan punch lines for a few moments and we start out with a brief history of how we got into this mess. I know this would be hard for politicians, who all seem to have a secret desire to be Reverend Jesse Jackson as soon as they get behind the podium, but when emotions are running high, as they are these days, it may be the wisest strategy. Look: reminding an audience of an opposing argument at the outset, may so confirm the audience in their prejudices that they would shut down and not lend an ear to our view. Under those circumstances, why not take them along a line of logic that gradually opens to our refutation. The ultimate objective should be enlightenment, as opposed to what we have here––a response that can be summed up in one word" "Rah!"

Here, a candidate relies on only the intensity of his or her beliefs. So when a speech lacks content, we shouldn't be surprised if a mob starts spewing  hatred and racism. Yes, candidates have a responsibility. They should control things by trying to change people's minds, as well as their hearts. It could get more votes too.

I hate all this dumbing down. As the candidates dumb down, I have this fear that maybe––is it possible?––he and she is only as smart as me? And does that scare the crap out of me? You betcha.

"Don't Do Anything" by Sam Phillips

If someone had told me that this was a love song, I admit that I would have been disinclined to like it. Years of accidental exposure to radio waves from the right side of the dial have left my ears perked to shut down at the first note of any warbly melodrama. 

But I love this song. (You can listen to it below.) And no, I am not getting sentimental. This is a long way from Barry Manilow or Coldplay, because, hey, I do have my pop pride, you know. My love of music kicked in with punk. In 1978, I considered "Sheena Is a Punk Rocker" a love song. You don't consider "Sheena Is a Punk Rocker" much of a love song? How about "I Just Wanna Be Your Dog?" No? Well, fuck you. But then punk cleared the way for other music about which I could be passionate and, yes, belligerent. So while I eventually mined Joni Mitchell, Dylan, Randy Newman, Van Morrison and Tom Waits, mellowed a tad and lightened up a little as a snob, it's never been as if my softer side was an open wound. You know that Billy Joel song, "Just the Way You Are?" Its theme is similar to the Sam Phillips song, only it is my opinion that "Just the Way You Are" is a better emetic than it is a song. So there.

Now, "Don't Do Anything"  probably won't be a classic. Desert island discs tend to feel bigger and more declarative. But it doesn't matter. I don't care. This is personal. That's the beauty of a pop song––you don't have to be a musician to feel that you understand the intention of every note, every word and every chord change to say, "Yes, this is what I feel."

It opens with this rumble, a fuzzy chord slowly strummed. It's like My Bloody Valentine on 16 rpm. I like that sound. Sam knew I'd like that sound. She knew I'd stick around after that, too, grabbing me with something I'd recognize, though not quite the way I had heard it before.

Then she lets out the lyrics, sparingly.

I...

She pauses.

I LOVE YOU.

Okay, she may have just sang the three sappiest words on the planet but because of the fuzzy guitar and her careful pacing, you go with her. It's clear that she won't be pining any time soon.

Then come 3 more words.

WHEN YOU DON'T...

Huh?

WHEN YOU DON'T DO ANYTHING.

"I love you when you don't do anything?" Was that sarcasm I detected in there? Is she saying, "I love you despite the fact that, well, sometimes, you sit on your ass and do absolutely nothing?"

WHEN YOU'RE USELESS

I LOVE YOU MORE,

WHEN YOU DON'T DO ANYTHING,

WHEN YOU DON'T MOVE

WHEN YOU DON'T TRY

WHEN YO DON'T SAY ANYTHING

WHEN YOU DON'T MOVE

WHEN YOU DON'T WIN

WHEN YOU DON'T MAKE ANYTHING WORK.

I'm still thinking it's funny––kind of, sort of––though something in the song is telling me not to laugh. I suppose it would be funnier, if that had been her intention. She'd be singing, "I love you when you don't put up the toilet seat,"or something, but that's not where she's going, is it. Sure enough, when she pauses again, a single violin enters to signal something heartfelt and sincere.

WHEN YOU DON'T WANT

WHEN YOU DON'T LIE

WHEN YOU DON'T MAKE ANY SENSE

WHEN YOU DON'T GO

WHEN YOU DON'T HIDE

WHEN YOU DON'T THINK ANYTHING.

She loves this person when he really doesn't do anything? She loves this person because he doesn't lie? Or conceal? She loves this person even when he's silent? Even when he's unclear?

The other day, my wife had fallen asleep in front of the television. She had had a tough day and I knew she wouldn't make it through the program. I watched her sleeping, her head tilted, nearly off the arm of the couch. She wasn't drooling, or anything, but she wasn't posed for a fashion spread either. Yet in that moment, watching her, I couldn't have loved her more. I can't explain why. She couldn't have been doing less.

Then there's this one line refrain that makes it clear that what the narrator is experiencing is new to her.

EVERYTHING I KNOW IS RUNNING BACKWARDS WITH YOU.

She just experienced one of life's rug pulls––everything wasn't really running the way it used to––she wrote a song about it and captured the misdirection. She loves this guy when he doesn't do the things that all the schmucks that came before him did. She thought that there was something to fix, but there was nothing to fix. As a listener, it's nice to know exactly what that's like.

Proof that even the most timeless message merely needs an execution that draws you in and sets it up in such a way that you feel it as if for the first time. And yet how often do we get stuck trying to mirror life as it typically happens, as if for the 2nd or zillionth time. How often do we add the familiar because it is believed it will resonate better with our target? Without something interesting, something unpredictable, something unfamiliar, whether it's a rug pull or an unusual metaphor, the message will never make it past our personal prejudices, never become our own, never hit us with the intensity of an important moment.

Once, when I was in college and playing guitar in the coffee houses, I wrote a love song. This was in my Loudon Wainwright III stage. It was called "Ugly Toes." It was my version of the 'warts and all' idea. At the time, I was probably hoping––who am I kidding? I was definitely hoping that some art major would swoon upon hearing me, instantly charmed by my humor and then reeled in by such magnanimous sensitivity that it would get me laid. It didn't work. It was probably too derivative, too Wainright-ish, whereas "Don't Do Anything would have been more effective. Sam Phillips expressed myself a lot better.

Road signs below.

 

I sometimes wish that every communication could be as simple as road signs. I realized this as I was heading up the New England Thruway toward Rhode Island, where my wife and I were going on vacation. I'm talking about the simple signs that proffer a location and tell you where it will be. "Wilton 1 mile," "Merritt Pkwy Right Lane," "Detour Ahead"–these are the beautiful expressions of an uncommodotized geography.

Yes, there are other kinds of road signs. There are exceptions with verbs in them. But those aren't what I'm talking about. Those signs belong along the Autobahn, they're so German and bossy. They tell us to "Get off here," "Buckle Up," "Left Lane Must Turn Left" or "Stay in the left lane if you want to end up in Hartford, Connecticut, you dumb ass!" I resent the tone.

But the simple ones I like as if they are the unattainable ideal for all marketing. Do I love them because our world is chock full of desperate attempts to differentiate? For whatever reason, I just love, "Hartford 11 miles."

So, unless absolutely necessary, forget the descriptors. Who needs "Historical Hartford," "Scenic Hartford" or "Hearty Har Hartford 11 miles." In Connecticut, there's only one Hartford and it is what it is.

Forget the euphemisms, too. Did you know that Hartford has been the Insurance Capital of the World? Imagine if it said, "Hartford, Insurance Capital of the World 11 miles." This might have meant something at one time but it can no longer be a source of pride for everyone in Hartford nor would it appeal to every visitor from out of state. I mean, I think it was during the 70's when there were more insurance jokes than lawyer jokes, if you could believe it. The sign might as well read, "A New England town where people love to hear about other people's operations, where everything's done the hard way and everyone sings along with elevator music...11 miles." Personally, "Clothes Ironing Capital of the World" sounds more inviting. But that's just me.

 

Anyway, when we pulled off 95 and saw the shoulder of the road dusted with sand and we smelled a hint of sea air, we passed a wooden sign that read, "Bait, Beer & Gear." Imagine if it was, "Le Collage De L'homme." Certainly, by becoming more than facts, a sign limits our audience, in this case to guys who drink beer, like to fish and maintain a fondness for the French. Let's face it, such a man may not exist.

Ah! to dream of seeing only products and labels that differentiate: Men's Clear Stick Deodorant, aisle 4" or "Cheez Whiz at Stop & Shop."

Oh well. But as an ideal of sorts, it's yet another indication that we should probably stick with the facts as much as we can. The more we enhance and try to promise, the greater the chance that someone ends up in a state no better than the one they are already in.

A groan is not a laugh.

 

Don't you hate when you can hear a dumb joke coming from a mile away? A few weeks ago, watching the Olympics, I heard the announcer introduce a trampolinist named Dong Dong. You heard it, Dong Dong. I started to write a bit about Dong Dong, trying to make the point, with a little humor, that if you want to impress someone, it would be advisable to give your product or service a good solid name. But I scrapped it. It started to sound stupid. Dong Dong may be right up there with Moon Unit Zappa, Mike Huckabee and possibly even Dick Hurtz, but it was just 3rd grade name-calling. So I was relieved to see that Dong Dong only won bronze. Had he won gold, too many of the English speaking press, the talk show hosts and the bloggers might have thought it was a win win.

If you want your target to remember something, threaten to punch them.

 I remember the time my parents said that I was now old enough to visit a public restroom all by myself. I was about 4, maybe 5, and we were in a family-style restaurant. I wended my way around a few tables, found the right door without getting lost, did my business like an ace, but when I went to wash my hands, I couldn't reach the handles, even on my tippy toes. Determined to exit the men's room a bigger boy than when I went in, I asked a stranger for some help. The man obliged. He turned the "H" then he turned the "C" but the result was much too hot. So I scolded him for ignoring the obvious: "Hey Mister, don't you know I only have little fingers!"

 To a little kid, the world is big and adults are big and big can be scary. If you want to meet a little kid's approval, this is something to keep in mind.

 On my sixth birthday, my grandparents happened to be taking a cruise and they arranged it for my parents, my sister and me to board with them, all so I could see the big ship on my special day. It was a big deal. And once on deck, we heard that the greatest heavyweight boxer of

all time, Rocky Marciano, was also on board.

"Hey Pop," Pop was my grandfather, "Who's Rocky Marcy Anno?"

My grandfather called me Butch. (I have no idea why my grandfather called me Butch, unless perhaps I reminded him of a masculine lesbian that he knew.) "Well, Butch, let me see if I can track him down so you can find out for yourself." Pop must have been thinking that this would make my birthday extra special.

My grandfather disappeared among the tall crowd and returned a few minutes later. He had found Rocky on the other side of the deck and Rocky said he'd come over to shake the little fella's hand just as soon as he tended to a few fans. This gave my grandfather a moment to set the stage.

 Pop bent down, placed a hand on my shoulder and softly gave me the highlights. Rocky was the greatest. Rocky may not have been very tall, but he was tough and he was all muscle. And in his day, Rocky could have beaten up any one in the world. Anyone.

Then, probably because my grandfather wanted to make certain I would never ever forget this moment, he leaned in a bit further and urged, "And whatever you do, look at his hands. His hands are amazing. Don't ever forget those hands." 

 Now my grandfather may have thought that his words created

a desire to meet the man, but in actuality they scared the crap out of me. I imagined those hands to be like cannonballs, weapons, deadly weapons. As it turned out, I saw the hands, alright–I couldn't take my eyes off of them. Rocky Marciano shook my tiny paw and I didn't know if I'd ever get it back. His hands were like those old baseball gloves, round and stubby, but they were round mitt-like pulverizers of stone. I never once looked at his face. 

It wasn't until years later, after shuffling through a messy drawer in my parent's house–you know the drawer, the one that every family seemed to have, the one in which all the yellow Kodak envelopes accumulated–well, in there, I found a photograph of me and Rocky Marciano. I didn't know such a photo existed. I didn't even remember posing for it. To such a moment, I could attach no face. But there he was. My mom jarred loose enough of the details for me to remember what my grandfather had said, so I figured that I had taken my eyes off Rocky Marciano's hands long enough to pose for this photograph, though I was obviously distracted. If you saw my face, you'd see a little boy who was more than a wee bit worried. I was not in the moment. I was not on that boat. I was somewhere else, in some scary place inside my head. And I looked as if I was about to cry.

My grandfather had given me a pitch, but he didn't really know his target. He didn't know what kind of drama I would spark to. So, despite Pop's good intentions, recall was low.

Oh the ads my relatives talk about around the barbecue.

 At every family gathering I will inevitably hear someone tell me, "You know what commercial I like?" or, "You know what commercial I hate?" If you're in advertising and you have relatives, you know what I'm talking about.

 

 Of course slight variations exist like, "You're in advertising? You know what commercial I absolutely love!" or, "You know what commercial I soooo hate? I hate that Empire carpet commercial–I hate that! That guy's voice is soooo weird!" You get the idea.

 One time–and I swear I'm not making this up–a few of them got into a conversation rating all the commercials of the past 10 years that have had talking or singing animals. I couldn't believe how many were recited and in what detail they were described. Predictably, a few adorable puppies were alluded to. Someone pointed out that the spot in which the dog tears through the house for, "Bacon, bacon, BACON!!! starts out funny but becomes annoying as the dog appears rabid. And, everyone gave a thumbs up to the Jeep commercial, the one where all the animals of the forest sing along to Andy Kim's 70's hit, "Rock Me Gently, Rock Me Slowly."  

 

 The best came from my aunt. She told me that she saw an Eclipse gum commercial which she dislikes so vehemently that, from now on, she will go back to chewing

only her Chowards, a violet scented gum that she's been digging out of her purse for as long as I can remember. I have a feeling she's 

not being entirely objective. It probably has less to do with the quality of the commercial, than the fact that her favorite nephew no longer works at the agency that has Eclipse gum. I love my aunt.

 

 My nephew loves the Apple commercials because the music is cool. He believes that it is the music that makes a commercial and doesn't understand why companies don't "get it" because it seems so simple to him.

 

 And my own father said, "You know what commercial I love? I love that Viagra commercial–you know, the one with the country band?"

 

 "Yes," I say, "I know it. You like the jingle?"

 

 He is unashamed. "What, you don't like that commercial? I love the way that guy sings, "I can't wait, I can't WAIT to get home."

 

 My dad does not understand why this commercial isn't my all-time favorite. So he would certainly not understand why I now suspect that I was adopted.

 

 But recently my niece widened the specs of the conversation. She asked me if I had ever seen the You Tube video for Ray Ban–it's almost a year old now–in which this rather cool guy, from points of varying difficulty, flips a pair of Wayfarers into the air to land perfectly on his friend's nose (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-prfAENSh2k). For my niece, this little product demo sticks to the conversation. As she saw it, we weren't talking about 30-second commercials on TV so much as were just talking about commercials, and about film. Film is magical and film can really make people feel something–regardless of the screen you view it on–and that is something you chit chat about around a barbecue.

 

 Anyway, sometimes I do wish that, after a long week, I didn't have to talk about work-related stuff, but I suppose it doesn't bother me enough to forgo a party or simply tune out. I guess way deep down, when they bring up the subject, it feels partly like a compliment–a backhanded compliment sometimes as in the case of the Viagra commercial, but nevertheless a compliment. Such is, I suppose, the glamour of film. Film is pretty cool.

"Mwa, mwa, mwa," we go.

Last week I went to the emergency room, visibly shivering, not quite with chattering teeth, but had I not been sick it would have been spastic. In the previous 9 hours I had visited the bathroom something like 587 times. 

"How are you feeling?" asked the nurse at reception.

"Freezing."

"You have a fever?"

I gave a small grunt to indicate, 'Yes.'

"Okay, let's see, " she says, as she pokes an instrument in my ear. Now I don't know why she is poking something in my ear–it's not my ear that hurts–but I don't have the energy to question her. Actually, the way that I feel, I would let her poke me with whatever she wants–she could poke my naval with a lead pipe and I would not squirm. But then she says, "102. Yes, you have a fever." So I guess it was an ear thermometer.

I shiver up and down to indicate that I heard her.

"Have you thrown up?"

I shiver from side to side to indicate, 'No.'

"Do you have diarrhea?"

I shiver from up to down.

"When did you first start having diarrhea?"

"11:00."

"And since then, about how many times have you gone to the bathroom?"

"22."

"22 times?"

I shiver from up to down.

"You counted?"

Because each visit was a memorable experience, I shiver from up to down.

"Thank you," she says.

I shiver from up to down.

"Very good," she says.

I shiver from side to side, because this is NOT good.

"Okay, let's get you to a room with its own bathroom."

I nod to indicate, 'Yes, that is a good idea because even though we are in a hospital, the idea of not making it to a bathroom in time to avoid soiling my adult self frightens me.'

I am escorted to my room, I take off my clothes and put on one of those gowns that tie in the back and I lie down. To keep me warm, I get myself under a thin faded cotton sheet instead of the 8 blankets that I am looking for. After 5 minutes the doctor walks in reading my chart.

"How are you feeling?"

I think, 'What, is he testing me? He has my chart.' But to be civil, I respond, "Freezing." 

"And I see you have diarrhea."

It was reassuring to know that my doctor could read. I shiver from up to down.

He asked a few more questions, but the point is, the dialogue, once again, showed off my eloquence. Then the doctor told me what the prognosis was–that, basically, it was a virus for which I could do very little except let run its course. He expounded on viruses, but I didn't hear much of what he was saying. I was disappointed. To be honest, once he told me that there wasn't a pill he could give me or a miracle he could perform, my mind turned inward. He gave me tips on how to stay hydrated–I remember hearing, "Gatorade" and "water" and thinking, 'Yeah right, doc, like you want me to give this unfriendly alien in my lower intestine something to drink only so it could spit the stuff out, are you kidding!' but mostly, he sounded like an adult in a Charlie Brown cartoon–"Mwa, mwa, mwa."

Looking back on it, I thought about all those people we try to talk to that are in pain, the target of a lot of pharmaceutical advertising. Pain is distracting. Pain is preoccupying. Pain is totally self-centered. And, Pain wears the hell out of us. How do you talk to someone with Pain?" You make one simple point at a time. And keep to short sentences. Even punchy fragments.

Stopping at a light and thinking about creative direction.

I was recently driving along and wondering what the subject of my next post would be, when I was reminded of an article I read a few years ago about how the brain develops. (I don't remember the exact article but I do know that it alluded to research by Dr. Harry T. Chugani, about whom there is lots of related information.)

It seems that our brains have these synapses, junctions between various transmitter cells along which all the information that goes toward stimulating ideas must pass. When we are infants, a new one is established with almost every new idea, but after awhile, we begin to run out of room and a way to organize a whole mess of them, so our brain gets very practical. It cuts down on the number of new pathways and develops the ones that get the most traffic. By the time we reach our early teens, our brains have half as many of these connections that we did when were three. Some of them have atrophied and withered away, while the other pathways become important to us.

These are the roads that receive the most traffic, the ones that develop and become most productive, where information stimulates a receptor, the receptor gets excited, and sparks fly – "Eureka! I have a great idea!" Shakespeare had a language superhighway; Beethoven a music

superhighway. Of course not all roads are superhighways. When information travels along the back roads, these neurotransmitter vehicles don't move as quickly, nor can those pathways carry the same load. But on the highways, well, the highways allow for the big 18-wheeler ideas.

For a creative director–for any manager, for that matter–the implications, I think, are pretty clear.

The only way to assume someone is working at full capacity is to make sure she is working on her four-lane highways. If we could direct a creative person down one of those highways, she would have a good chance at flourishing. On the other hand, what if we directed her according to our own tastes, the way we would do it, or according to the creative-award-style du jour? And wouldn't it be tragic if someone got fired without us knowing what that person was really good at or what would have really inspired her?

I've heard of (we've all heard of) creative directors that are like traffic cops. They give the red light to those ideas they dislike and the green light to those they approve. And that's the extent of it, which is to say that the creative director doesn't really direct much creative.

To be an effective creative director, one has to really know a person, know the person so well that you know what her extraordinary talent is and at what she is just so-so. You can't be a great creative director, or be relied upon to provide great creative direction on a regular basis, unless you do. Only then can the creative director apply the right tools of teaching, inspiring, bolstering and setting expectations.

Anyway, that's the gist of it. And off I drove, I believe it was down a two-lane thoroughfare. 

It's not 'New Yorker' readers Obama team should be worried about.

The Obama team was not happy with The New Yorker folks. And while I don't think this cover will do much harm to their campaign, and I do think that they should probably lighten up a bit, maybe they have a point.

Had it been inside the magazine, they probably wouldn't have had a problem. It would communicate with New Yorker readers who would get the joke, understand that it pokes fun at the suspicion that Obama may be a scary Muslim. It's an ongoing bit on The Daily Show.

 

But what if on the newsstand it catches the eye of some burly racist? In that half-second, the cover reinforces his prejudice. If you've ever sat in focus groups you know that there are a whole lot of literal people in the world and someone is going to say, "So Obama IS Muslim! That sum-bitch!"

 

Fortunately, its placement is not next to Guns and Ammo, where more burly racists would see it than next to The Atlantic Monthly. Even still, if you're on the Obama team and thinking that every single solitary vote counts, then you might get a little testy.

 

So I wonder about our responsibility to those outside a target audience. What about an ad for Grand Theft Auto that adults find disturbing? What if an ad is loved by the consumer, but stockholders detest it?

I suppose there are times when we should simply try to find another solution, however tempting it would be to go forward with something that we're almost certain would meet our primary objective. No doubt it would be a tough decision. Like, what if you're the illustrator and you're an Obama supporter? Do you pass on the opportunity to be on the cover of The New Yorker?

Communication from the grave.

Recently I saw a cartoon by Harry Bliss. A mother and daughter stand at a grave site–the daughter sadly holding the flowers, the mother looking at the ground before the headstone with her mouth agape in disbelief. A bony hand is reaching out from the dirt. The caption reads, "Oh, that's just great. Now you want to reach out to us!" Timing is absolutely everything.

The hack in the backseat.

 So I'm in this cab. On the front dashboard, the taxi license says the driver was Sikh.

 A few moments after I told him my destination, he started to speak some Middle Eastern language. I figured there must have been a little English strewn in there somewhere but had missed it. No matter. Cleverly, I pretended I hadn't heard him.

 

 After a few seconds, he started talking again. Damn, I thought. Not that I had anything against him, I just hate being in a conversation where I can discern only one in 10 words and have to nod as if I know exactly what he's talking about.

 

 "Excuse me?" I asked.

 

 He didn't respond.

 Then he started up again. I still had no idea what he was talking about.

 

 "Excuse me?" I said at a level he might actually hear.

 This time, he turned and looked in the direction of my utterance. And that's when I saw his phone. He was talking on the phone. He had Bluetooth technology. He wasn't talking to me.

 

 Oh.

 

 Reflecting on this moment, I thought it was kinda like the one-way conversation that some advertisers have with young people who've grown up with computers.