Post-modern headline goes here.

  By definition, anything post-modern summons up a modern movement or style that it intends to make "post." If, say, the original modern movement is about design and impressionism, the post-modern version would be about collage and consumerism. If we're talking about, say, family life, we could kitsch up "Leave It To Beaver" to display ridiculous dysfunction, version 2012. There's the "modern" part and the "post" part; the subject (family) and the technique (kitsch). Obviously, style has a lot of sway here. Nevertheless, going from a still-life of Picasso's guitar to Warhol's soup can is fun and clever in its criticism of modern life.

  Well, I know that there's an increasing amount of kitsch, absurdism or whatever you want to call it, and it's supposed to be cool and sooo Brooklyn, but I'm bored with it. Juniors want to do Skitttles for American Express, except there's no point. It's just style. Yeah, yeah, yeah, there's no such thing as originality, so why try to be original when we can be silly, ironical and gestural for the sake of it – I get it. You give up and...'Whatever.'

  But I recently saw a campaign from Sao Paulo for Mitsubishi that alluded to something modern without crossing the line into kitsch.

  When I turned page 31 of my Archive Magazine and saw this ad, I was at first jarred by its datedness – like, 'Was this an old issue?' It reminded me of an old BMW or Volvo ad, just slightly off and dare I say, subtle. The headline read, "Unfortunately, over the years the landscape has weathered more than the car." It's referring to the advertising landscape, but it's also referring to the automobile landscape. The art direction isn't so campy that I remain grounded to the literal; it becomes a metaphor for how other cars are stuck in the past.

  The ad won't win at Cannes or anything, it's not that good, but I found it effective and refreshing to see some restraint from kitschiness. In the wrong hands, style could have easily distracted from the substance and the benefits. In the right hands, Mitsubishi got the balance right, a little bit of craftsmanship enabling a smidgen of sincerity to come through.

  I guess I'm so entrenched in the cynicism of the day that it felt ironic to play off the current trend. I was surprised. Maybe this is post post modernism. Whatever.

Is Bill Bernbach Really Dead?

    I generally don’t interview a junior unless there’s an open position or some extraordinary reason, such as the kid is the son of the holding company’s CEO. But a recruiter friend told me about a VCU grad who had a “writer’s writer book” and “a very interesting story.” The way she said “a very interesting story” intrigued me enough to schedule him in.
       I met Bob, and he actually appeared quite normal – on the thin side, plaid shirt, chinos, and presumably into vinyl. His story began simply enough, too. Since graduating in June, Bob hadn’t yet found a job, having spent many hours working LinkedIn and pounding the pavement until one day, exhausted and discouraged, he sought solace in the New York Public Library. On the third floor’s main reading room, way in the back of the south hall, he found a spot with only one other person at the table. And that’s where Bob saw him – saw, and spoke to Bill Bernbach, the Bill Bernbach.

         “So you’re saying, you had the equivalent of an Elvis sighting with Bill Bernbach? In the Public Library?” I said, with one eyebrow on the top of my head.

         But the kid was serious; he swore he had seen the legend himself. Mr. Bernbach was wearing a gray suit with a white shirt and dark tie – just like he does in old photos and on YouTube. “Hey, no ad guy dresses like that unless they’re in the cast of Mad Men or they’ve been transported from the 1960s,” Bob reasoned.

         Ahh, youth. I remembered one time, in high school, I thought I spotted Bigfoot, but it was only a nightmare in which Cousin Itt attacked me for hitting on Morticia Addams.

         “Bill told me that he had to come back to Earth, said there are so many possibilities these days for creativity that he could not contain himself, even in heaven.”

         “I suppose it must have been difficult for Bill to be in a place where no one has to try harder.” I then glanced at my watch and wondered why I get all the nut jobs.

         Bob continued. He reported that Bill wanted to take a risk and open a new agency…

         “Because ‘the riskiest thing we can do is not take a risk’? I know.”

         “Exactly. So Bill began to network and meet a lot of influential people. The first person he met was a CFO.”

         “A CFO?”

         “Actually, Bill was supposed to meet the head of the network, but the head of the network passed him off, joking that the CFO made all the decisions anyway. Bill described him as having a square forehead, square shoulders and square legs, a very no-nonsense CFO. And while Bill tried to talk about ‘properly practiced creativity,’ the CFO thought he was talking about getting creative people to increase both their workload and their billable hours – being very determined to get those damned round pegs into square holes.

         I knew the type well. For guys like that, a big idea is allowing creatives to make bathroom time billable to food and beverage accounts. “Perhaps that is the new creativity,” I commented.

         “Yeah, it was discouraging for Bill. The second person he met was a CEO. And this CEO started off by testing Bill. Imagine testing Bill Bernbach? He asked, ‘Who, so far, has made the best use of Pinterest?’”

         “How did Bill do?”

         “Having been up in heaven, Bill had a truly global view, so it was easy, and he cited a campaign for UNICEF, where users click on photos from a 13-year old girl in Sierra Leone to see what she needs to live.”

         “How’d that go over?”

         “The CEO complimented him and emphasized how important it was to innovate.”
         “What happened next?”

         “Bill said we shouldn’t be so concerned about being the first to do something, otherwise we get caught up in a race for the next technique, where we’re so anxious to do things differently and do them better and more technologically innovative than the next agency that that becomes the goal of the ad, instead of the selling of the merchandise.”

         “And how’d that go over?”

         “Like a good ad in a focus group – the CEO got all huffy – “You calling me a loser? If there’s a race, Mr. Think Small, then I’m going to be in it – and in it to win big.’ Naturally, Bill moved on.”               

          “Naturally.”
          “And this time he met a CCO who claimed that advertising was dead. Advertising was dead, print was dead and TV was dying, he claimed.”

          “I wonder if he exhibited goth-like tendencies when he was younger.”

         “Could be.”

         Now personally, I don’t think that the death of print is an entirely bad thing. I once had to pick up the September issue of Vogue magazine for my wife and suffered a hernia, so I was curious how Bill would react.

         “Bill asked him if clients aren’t paying us to sell things anymore.”

          I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised that Bill wouldn’t make this a media issue, but I was surprised that Bill’s comment sounded a little smart-assy. “Was Bill losing patience?” I asked.

         ‘“Look,’ Bill said, ‘it comes down to what it has always come down to: The truth isn’t the truth until people believe you, and they can’t believe you if they don’t know what you’re saying, and they can’t know what you’re saying if they don’t listen to you, and they won’t listen to you if you’re not interesting, and you won’t be interesting unless you say things imaginatively, originally, freshly. Seriously,’ Bill concluded, ‘Is that dead?’ To which the creative director responded, ‘Bill, you’re over thinking it. There’s a 12-year old mentality in this country and every 18- to 40- year-old has one.’”

         “Bill didn’t like that, huh?”

         “Fortunately, there was a small patch of common ground. The creative director told Bill that it’s all about conversations and Bill agreed, ‘Word of mouth is the best medium of all.’”

         “That’s hopeful.”

         “But, you know Bill – he had to get to the bottom of it:  ‘Word of mouth may be great, but at some point we have to make sure the words are right, define the terms and adapt our techniques to an idea, not an idea to our techniques.”

         “Yeah, well, most conversations are boring. Have you listened to the dialogue on Jersey Shore? I suspect that Snooki’s baby is already speaking at a higher grade level than his mother.”

         “Bill told him, ‘The difference between the forgettable and the enduring is artistry – and there’s no long-lasting persuasion without it. The essence of impact is saying things the way they’ve never been said before.’”

         “Who could disagree with that?”

         “The creative director did sort of agree, insomuch that we establish a point of view and it has the kind of impact that creates an open conversation. And Bill agreed – sort of – if we don’t merely establish chatter about a product but are intentional about revealing part of the persuasive argument in the conversation.”

This was beginning to remind me of a girlfriend I had in my twenties. She was gorgeous and had an incredible body and I so wanted to make it work, but every time she opened her mouth, I was disappointed and only reminded that there was no veering off the path to a breakup.

“Bill told him that being provocative is a good thing, as long as we are sure our provocativeness stems from our product. The creative director became defensive and, as proof of his work’s effectiveness, boasted about the number of ‘hits’ that it always sparks. Well, Bill brought up the whole Pepsi Refresh thing that involved 60 million people but lost 5% of business and told him, ‘You can say the right thing about a product, or a friend can tweet the right thing about a product, and nobody will listen. You’ve got to say it in such a way that people will feel it in their gut. Because if they don’t feel it, nothing will happen.’”

         “I suppose the guy didn’t ‘like’ that. (Get it?) So, forget all those people – why can’t Bill get an account and start something on his own?”

         “He said that Sir Martin threatened him with a machete.”

         “Oh my. What’s Bill going to do now?”

         “He said he would return to heaven via Smith & Wollensky’s, wanting first to grab a single malt scotch with Bob Levenson for old times’ sake. In heaven, he said, he could always hang out with Aristotle and talk rhetoric. In heaven, it’s impossible to ignore what we know to be true.”

         The story being over, Bob leaned in and abruptly hit me with, “So, do you have a job for me here?”

         I was impressed. “First of all,” I said, “I liked everything except one thing: C’mon, Sir Martin with a machete? A :45 with a silencer, maybe. Anyway, why’d you make all that up?”

         “Because it was fun. And I wanted to put my thoughts into a story,” Bob answered.

         He was a smart kid, Bob. And after I looked at his book, I told him that, too. “You’re a smart kid, Bob,” I said. “You understand what an idea is. You also understand that ‘Nothing,’ as the great man once said, ‘is so powerful as an insight into human nature,” because your little story managed to hit on a lot of my problems with the current state of the business.”

         Bob’s eyebrows fell a notch – I think he could hear a “but” coming.

         “But,” I said, “I don’t have anything right now for you, unfortunately. The holding company keeps tight reins on our budget, so all I can do is bookmark your site.” Bob seemed to understand. I did ask that he keep in touch, however, and I sincerely hoped that he would. I also advised him to keep his options open. I told him that I would do the same, especially the part about keeping options open. 

A budding planner

In college, my friend Mitch and I would get stoned, make that trek to a frat party across the quad that seemed to go on and on, and play a fun game we called Back Story. I realize now that it’s not a very clever name, but we probably thought it was clever enough, everything being slightly enhanced and all.

Here’s how it worked. First thing was to wend our way to the bar, grab a plastic cup and get a beer. Then we’d locate a spot against a wall that would provide a good vantage point to scope and study the crowd for unsuspecting victims. Of course, given the hazy circumstances, I don’t remember the specifics of any of the games, but I do remember the gist of them. Let’s say, for instance, we spotted a nerd.

“See that guy?” I’d say, “his name’s Elmer.” Elmer was not his real name, of course, but since he looked to be a forerunner of today’s computer geek – which meant, at Lafayette College, that he was an engineer major – he looked like an Elmer.

“Before he went out tonight, he called his mom to ask what he should wear,” Mitch would say.

“Definitely an engineer.” And then, partially because we were in a delusion of increased perception and partially because it was just more fun, we’d add something loopy. “He’s got a twin sister named Edith – Edith and Elmer…uh…

“Norbertwinckle,” Mitch would say.

Now, if you ever got stoned in college you know how important it was to find occasion to giggle at dumb things. “Norbertwinckle” would have satisfied that need.

In terms of the game, whoever would riff the loopiest lines, the whacked-out clincher that could not (no way!) be topped, would win the round and force the loser to fetch more beer.

“Yeah, and Edith and Elmer Norbertwincle are twins. When they were in fourth grade, they had matching pocket protectors.”

                “Nice. You know, just yesterday, I saw Elmer riding across the quad on a brand new bicycle.”

                “Really now?” I’d say with a stupid grin, meaning that, as long as my reality was suspended, I was going to enjoy suspending disbelief.

                “Really. Rumor has it that one night he was walking back to his dorm and a beautiful cheerleader rode up to him on that bicycle. She threw the bike to the ground, took off all her clothes and said, ‘Take what you want!’ So he took the bike, figuring her clothes wouldn’t fit him. Really.”

                Bang zoom! Mitch did it again.

                The interesting thing was that while we usually began a round by playing into a stereotype, the subsequent lines, admittedly aided by the cannabinoids, demanded an increased dosage of imagination. The victims became real. Sort of.

                “Oh look, there’s Huxley,” Mitch said to kick off Round 2. Huxley wore a striped rugby shirt, khakis, topsiders, had blond hair – you get the picture: Huxly was a prepster.

                “I heard Huxley sends his rugby shirts to the dry cleaner and has the collar starched permanently up.”

                “I heard that when he was an infant he had baby penny loafers.”

                “I heard he has a plaid bong.”

                “No way – he doesn’t get high.”

                “Fine. I heard his family has a summer house and all the curtains are seersucker.”

                Obviously this could go on forever, but Mitch had a talent for this sort of thing.

                “I heard he formed his own glee club that only sings songs from Frampton Comes Alive,” he’d say.

                Yes, it was a cruel game. I am not proud of it. I even thought twice about admitting to it here, but, hey, this was college and our maturity was up in smoke. I brought it up because I’ve been wondering what happened to Mitch, and, as I reminisce, I think Mitch would make a good planner. He found it fun to put himself in other people’s shoes; he’d be good at bringing the consumer to the forefront of the process and our imaginations. And it would be fun to work on a project together. If I found he wasn’t so good at it, or was just a little rusty, I think I’d know how to loosen him up. And if that didn’t work out, he could always go back to the medical profession. Yes, I heard Mitch became a doctor.

Mark Zuckerberg has over 1 billion friends! What a guy!

I loved eavesdropping on my niece and her friend. I imagine it’s how anthropologists feel when they listen in on strange tribes. Sixteen-year-old girls are a fascinating species.

“You know who became a friend of mine?” my niece’s friend said, kind of excited. It seemed a mutual acquaintance befriended her on Facebook.

What struck me was how casually she was referring to someone she had just met online. ‘Hold on a second, girls,’ I thought to myself, not to give away my stealth, ‘she’s not a friend.’ Maybe I’m making a big deal of this, but if we keep using the term “friend” like that, will we begin to believe that that’s what a friend is? 

What's a friend? A friend shares one’s pleasure in One Direction as well as one’s pain when Casey, your dog, dies. A friend considers sensitivity about what you’re wearing to be a good trait, even when you don’t have the latest pair of Uggs; she considers bullying to be a bad trait; and generally the same kind of people to be friends and the same kind of people to be jerks. A friend is someone who has stood by you or by those you cherish. A friend respects your stuff and doesn’t mooch off your friends. A friend is a friend of your friends and wants the same people to be your friends. A friend considers your feelings and knows how disastrous it would be to cry in the middle of the hallway outside of chemistry class. A friend is someone with whom it can be fun to hang out in your bedroom for a whole afternoon. A friend is pretty easy-going and not too critical of your faults and not always looking for an argument the way your brother does. A friend praises one’s good features, especially those features that one thinks aren’t so evident. A friend is there for you when it isn’t convenient for her, even when she’s with a group of kids and one of the guys there is gorgeous. A friend knows that texting you is too impersonal for certain gossip.  Even though we’re talking about girls and a lot of girls tend to bear grudges, a friend doesn’t bear grudges for too long, nor keeps count of your screw-ups. A friend is someone who is important, in some way seriously disposed towards you, seriously connected with things about which you most wish to be admired. A friend is keen for the same things in which you can do together, even when those things are a little weird for girls, like going to hockey games to see skaters slam against the wall and punch each other like crazy people. A friend is someone who isn’t ashamed by certain things that affect your reputation. A friend is someone who loves the present as well as the absent friend. A friend does not desert you. A friend does not put on adult airs with you. A friend encourages you. In other words, a friend has to be all those things that don’t really come instantly with a click.

I think we should all protest Facebook and get Mark Zuckerberg to change “friend” to “contact.” Or “chum.” Or something. There’s no way that all those people even like Mr. Zuckerberg. Or that all our “friends” are friends.

I love the quote by Neitzche, “It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.” It implies that to be a friend takes work, just as marriages do. It says that words are symbols and some symbols suggest more possibilities than others – and won't we limit our chances of finding true relationships, if the symbols don’t stand for as much as they used to?

Even in advertising, while we shouldn't settle for Facebook friendship, or even a thumbs up, we shouldn't expect quite the real thing, either.