The following post was written by a male boomer advertising professional and may therefore only interest male boomer advertising professionals.

In the past year, I've read a few books and seen a few movies in which not one person looks like me. I won't bore you with all of them, but here's a range of what I'm talking about.

I read the sequel to The Woman Who Walked Through Doors by Roddy Doyle. In Paula Spencer, we check in to see how Paula, the once battered house cleaner in Dublin, a widow and alcoholic, is getting on 9 years later. And you know what? She looks nothing like me. She didn't in the original and now, at 48, the dissemblance has not decreased. She is an amazing woman, with an inspiring tenacity and sense of humor, but she doesn't even look like my sister.

Last week I read P.D. James's book, Cover Her Face, the first of the Adam Dalgliesh murder mysteries. And Adam doesn't look like me either. Actually, the way I see Adam, I wish that I resembled him––he's so suave and cool, so much more together than me. 

A couple of months ago, I finally read One Hundred Years of Solitude. Nope––I don't think I look anything like its Juans and Aurelianos. They all have mustaches.

As far as the other books go, they were more of the same–-no one looked like me.

And what about the silver screen? Could I be seen anywhere on that? No, I did not appear there either. I look nothing like the stoners in Pineapple Express, nothing like Batman or the Joker, or the one-eyed blinker in Diving Bell.

Oh it's okay, really. It may come as a surprise to some people that it doesn't bother me, but it really doesn't. I didn't even seem to miss me. The fact is, it's not important. It's about the stories. And in one capacity or another, each of those works moved me. I like being taken away from me.

Now this observation came about as the issue of diversity resurfaced in the trades last week, prompted by the study, "Perspectives on Race and Employment in the Advertising Industry" (Adweek, 1/09/09). Let me say outright that I am not disputing any of it. My commentary is more about a slight omission. I have seen no mention of those client mandates about the target audience being in the commercials and photo shoots, or that scenes reflect perfect percentages––you know, so that every gathering looks like the UN, everyone all toothy, happy and plastic. (I once did a spot for a diner-style chain that started out with one couple and ended up with 3–-one white, one African American and one Asian couple. The setting was Utopian, though the spot turned out cheesy.) It happens all the time. Yes, yes I sympathize with the pressures that HR directors confront and understand that it's all for a good cause––I get that. But given that this effects the work and therefore, potentially, lots of consumers, I am compelled to point out that whether I appear in ads for products I might consider is, also, not important. Should we see more diversity? Absolutely, but we should realize that seeing one's likeness is not the magic key to feeling welcomed to Walmart, and we should stick to what we know about communication that communicates. So, if a story doesn't provide the proper visual, we should probably recommend a different story.

Seriously, was the target for Bugs Bunny silly slavering rabbits that own a television?

I have an inkling that if we focus on touching  people's hearts, speak to people as if they are more than their skin color or gender, diversity––at least in the advertising––would be a non-issue. Either that, or consider reverting to ads with only copy, like this post. Assuming that research indicates that your consumer reads such things. 

50,000,000 music fans can't go wrong.

It didn't cause major pile-ups in Manhattan, but Elvis's photo on the side of a bus did stop me short and send the pedestrian behind me swerving and grumbling to avoid a collision. It was sensational––not the accident, the photo, that is. It was one of those ultra close ups, Elvis's Buddy Holly glasses filling a quarter of the ad space to promote his show, Spectacle. Whoa. Not only is Elvis no Brad Pitt, but, now, having seen the show, I believe the ad is a bit misleading.

The show, which appears on the Sundance Channel, is not, ultimately, about Elvis Costello. You don't have to like Elvis to like the show; his persona is not the reason this may be, right now, the absolutely best thing on TV. Spectacle transcends our expectations of a celebrity hosted chat show, transcending any of Elvis's and any of his guest's accomplishments, which are not insignificant––I mean, so far he's had Elton John, Lou Reed, Bill Clinton and James Taylor.

  Each week one guest appears for the whole hour, and not because he or she is promoting a new release. They are not there to make Elvis look good, either. They are there because at some point Elvis, the fan, was moved by something they composed, or in the case of President Clinton, was curious about Bill's passion for the saxophone. Elvis wants to know how they do it; he's genuinely into them. You can see him stretching. And if you're an Elvis fan, well, you're probably going to have to stretch, too, because––let's face it, Elton John and James Taylor probably don't come up on your Amazon "also recommends" list.

In turn, Elvis interviews them about their inspirations. And you should hear the way Elton John talks about Laura Nyro, David Ackles and Leon Russell, and how Lou Reed goes on about Doc Pomus and how Pomus came to write "Save the Last Dance For Me." (Pomus got the idea at his wedding reception while watching, from his wheel chair, the happy guests dance with his new bride.) James Taylor is still in awe of George Jones, just as he was when starting out as a young picker in North Carolina––he played a few bars of one of Jones' songs, twang and all, and then played a section of one of his own songs that was clearly indebted to the master. And, without the glint of an agenda, Bill Clinton almost boyishly related the time he met the great Al Hirt.

Now this is cool.

In not being about Elvis, but rather Declan Patrick MacManus, and not being about his big headliners, a selflessness comes through. The title of the show, Spectacle, is ironic (Elvis apparently insisted on it, he being a true Brit and loving his irony.) It's about music that inspires. It's a twist on celebrity endorsements, only the guests come off as real people, humbled before the inspirers, and the people are not endorsing anything or anyone specifically, except the wonders of music. It's the gold standard for promoting, isn't it: to convey one's passion for what one does, give others a sample of greatness––no schmooze, no hype or kitsch––just a sense of a real, dare I say, authentic appreciation for a product.

I'd buy one of those any day. I believe there are 9 more episodes, all of which my Tivo is set to record.

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.