It's not lousy advertising. It's...

I have to believe that knowing how advertising uses language makes it possible for us to make better, more informed and honest advertising. Now I don't usually get political but I recently found something offensive that was, essentially, not good advertising.

House Republicans last week promised to drop a provision in their No Taxpayer Funding for Abortion Act that would redefine rape. With this qualification, financial help would only be granted to those who had been "forcibly raped." This would add layers of gibberish and semantics, layers of testimony and bureaucracy to the court system that would frustrate

enough victims to save valuable tax dollars.

Yes, the effort was dropped and no doubt that was a good outcome. I just find it appalling that "forcible rape" was even considered.

I suppose this sort of thinking is not uncommon. We advertisers do it all the time. We say that a TV channel isn't a number on your remote, we say it's HBO; we call a used car previously owned; and we call a large coffee a Venti. We create shades of gray, split hairs, craft our connotations and our euphemisms to play off subjective tastes. When we hype our claims, we try to do it with a qualifying wink. And let's face it, most of our work doesn't really involve ethical considerations. There may be more nourishing cereals but Cap'n Crunch is not the devil incarnate.

"Forcible rape" however is gross. I remember having the same reaction to "free fire zone," a phrase first used during the Vietnam War, which makes blowing everything away in a certain area sound like free stuff is being given away after a store has burned down. "Free fire zone" and "rape" are never good. They are never even not-so bad. There are ethical considerations involved.

Webster's says "rape" is "sexual intercourse with a woman by a man without her consent and chiefly by force or deception." Oxford says it is a, "violation of a woman." So "forcible rape" is still "rape," meaning that someone is attempting to hide what is meant.

I don't want to hide what is meant. Deception is deception. Lying is lying. "Forcible rape" is fallacious advertising.

Good feels a whole lot gooder after a lot of bad.

Chicken soup. Turkey broth with pastina. Tea. Crackers. Ginger ale. Toast. Pills. Nose spray. Wooly blankets and piles of pillows, all warm and fluffy. That was my week, largely spent sick in bed. Then there was my wife who said, “Oh, poor baby.” It’s almost a shame to feel better.

This morning, as if being jarred from a dream, she said, “You’re feeling better –– go get the newspaper and, while you’re out, pick up some lettuce at the market." As I said, it’s almost a shame to feel better.

But then on TV and online, I witness the Egyptians who succeeded in liberating themselves. Peaceably. If real joy is best appreciated when it is relative to its opposite, Egyptians are experiencing something truly wonderful.

And it makes me feel good to feel better.

This post has no pictures.

How do you get people’s mouths watering? How do you get them salivating? Flipping the stations recently, I realized that PBS's Lidia Bastianich always does it for me. There's something about her auntly appearance and her genuine Italian-ness that I trust. I can see visiting her, gorging myself at her country table and then waddling to her living room to nod off in her La-Z Boy, completely content. (I don’t know why exactly she would decorate her house with a recliner a la Frasier Crane’s dad, but she’s all about comfort so it seems fitting.) Lidia, oh Lidia... 

And this reminds me of a night on vacation in Mexico a few months ago. My wife and I were out to dinner at a new restaurant and we struck up a conversation with the maitre d’. It being new and all, we were curious. And being just before the rush of reservations, the room wasn’t too busy for him to chat with the friendly Americanos.

 We asked what he was doing to get the word out. I mean, we had just had a scrumptious, lovely meal––people should know about this place. 

 He said he was relying a lot on word of mouth. To spark some buzz, he was doing various things, like collecting email addresses and inviting hotel managers in with the hopes that they would recommend it to guests. He qualified, however, that he didn't feel comfortable with advertising. An ad agency would presumably want to photograph the food, and the chef would never allow that. The chef wanted his guests to be “surprised” by how good the food tasted and that photography would set up “false expectations.” The chef was firm about this.

 And that reminds me of something I recently read in “I Wonder,” a truly wonderful book by Marian Bantjes. Apparently, in Islam, Muslims have an aversion to the depiction of heavenly or earthly creatures, so as not to challenge God. There’s a desire not to stunt the imagination with the depiction of things; but rather to create amazingly intricate and beautiful ornamentation. The thinking is that the greatest sense of awe and respect comes from the release of the imagination, unrestricted by literal thinking.

 There’s something to that. Done right, it demands the highest level of creativity, which will seem to most people a lot riskier than a nice product shot.

 And the restaurant? As this was an inspiring meal, I am compelled to say that if you ever vacation in Cabo San Lucas, give Casianos in San Jose Del Cabo a try. Call for a reservation at +52 624 142 59 28. I’m hoping it will be very busy.

Deep tissue global advertising

 

A couple of months ago, I was on a much-needed vacation to Mexico. I had been wound pretty tight so I signed up for one of the hotel’s massages. La-di-dah, right?  Well, it was nice, really lovely, and it made me imagine how regularly transforming one’s body into jello might be a healthy thing for me to do.

  Anyway, about halfway through my hour, there came, I sensed, an awkward silence. It felt like I should say something. I mean, it’s sort of like being stuck with someone in an elevator for 20 floors, except that one of those people is completely naked (granted, with a towel draped over his butt) and the other person is dangerously (or wonderfully) close to rubbing someone’s private parts. These are intimate circumstances. Maybe someone should say something.

  I really did want to compliment her, though. Her hands were magical, the way they rubbed out the tension with the oil. Instead of just lying there like a lump, luxuriating in each ooh and ahh, I should make the effort to speak. How selfish and one-way of me. After a deep inhale, I re-entered the world of the social.

 I actually got a little chatty. To no avail, though. She hardly responded. I had forgotten completely that she didn’t speak English very well. Yes, she had greeted me when I entered the spa, directed me to the little room, and I had indeed heard her thick accent. How could I forget that? Albeit only for a moment. Well, for a moment, I assumed we spoke the same language because we had communicated; we covered territory, in fact, that I wouldn’t experience with any other person on the planet except my wife.

Some things are universal, I was reminded. The right touch, the right glance or the right idea translates everywhere, across borders and barriers. I mean, she spoke to me! And I was completely sold on her services. 

Me, me, me.

As a kid, I was obsessed with biographies. While other kids were reading this and that, I was devouring the books on a half a dozen shelves that made up the biography section of the elementary school library. George Washington, Ben Franklin, Jim Thorpe –– I gobbled them up. But then, just like that, I lost interest. A few rows down, I found the Hardy Boys, Treasure Island, Charlotte’s Web and more.

I think biographies became too much about other people. I still read one occasionally –– in fact, Patti Smith’s Just Kids is on my nightstand right now –– but biographies are generally not my thing. Fiction was able to take me to more places that I wanted to visit, places with treasures that were valuable to me.

It’s a pattern.

Just after college I had a girlfriend who accused me of being self-centered. She was probably right. So I moved on, most likely in search of a relationship in which it could be all about me without culpability.

Then I was an early adopter of Twitter. I lost interest, ignored it and eventually dissolved the account. People’s little trivialities weren’t important enough to me.

Ah, but then I re-engaged with it.

Twitter had become something quite different. It could convey something important or potentially important to someone I valued. Currently, Open Culture, Brain Pickings, Mashable and Dave Trott, make it feel like my own personal newspaper. In Conan’s tweets, I even have my own funny pages. It’s been around awhile now, but it feels like it’s been around forever, the way I rely on my little stream of bits and bobs and, often enough, inspiration.

Such are human beings. People want to connect. They are driven to connect. It’s like there’s an automatic yearning, and an implicit standard that pertains to relationships ­–– it says that if the relationship is superficial, press on. So press on we do for something deeper and meaningful. Or we move out. It depends on how much me there is for us.

If brands are like relationships, and I believe they are, this is why social networks are not enough. Commerce and real brand building takes place in communities of interest. And the best communities are communities of importance. That’s where we ultimately find a home in which we can thrive.

It’s also why creativity is so important. Because nothing can communicate real love like something that has been supremely crafted, and nothing can communicate real love more than mediums like film and installations. Those things can become personal. They speak directly to me, with deep emotion, just like the best fiction engages me and allows me to discover stuff, all on my own. Conversations are a good starting place. Biographical facts about what I do and about what you do are necessary to gather information and establish common ground. But art –– or even something with a little art in it –– speaks to me like nothing else.

I was never interested in advertising, not really. But communication and the power of ideas – that’s been my obsession. I’ve remained, and will probably remain, obsessed with how to really move people, compel them. For me, nothing is more fascinating. And I will find out ways to do that – Wherever. And if Wherever can’t do it for me, I will go elsewhere.

Don't hate them because they're beautiful.

The other night at a restaurant, a gorgeous couple, the kind of absolutely gorgeous couple you’d see in a Paul Mitchell commercial, was sitting behind my wife and I. The guy was ripped and pony-tailed and totally inked. He was a hunk. She was also a hard body, which included her boobs, and she had a really short white-and-black-striped knit dress to showcase her tanned legs. She was blond.

  Naturally, I made some assumptions about them, though this couple proved me wrong. That’s not to say I discovered they were in the Peace Corps or were professors from the mid-west or poets specializing in the Victorians or something. No, they were sort of what I imagined, just way more extreme. They were beyond what any researcher could have profiled about the stereotypical LA-type Adonis.

  I know, I know, it’s sort of desperate and elitist and judgmental to eavesdrop like that but I honestly couldn’t help it. Believe me, if you were there, you wouldn’t have been able to help yourself, either. You’d find yourself presuming that they were a bit Fabio and Anna Nicole, and then you’d be drawn to the details, too. First of all, they weren't from LA; they were from Chicago. Go figure. These people were fascinating and became more so as dinner progressed.

  I was all ears. Here's the thing: they seemed to be reflecting about the burdens of having a perfect body. It was tough, apparently, to be so perfect. I had no idea! I was unaware that such perfection could be stressful like that. Mind you, I have no reference point for such thinking. If you know me, and have seen me, you understand that I have little in common with these people. So I was fascinated.

  She said, “I don’t feel insecure about my body.” It was like she was saying that she doesn’t let it get to her, though the potential for psychological turmoil is always looming.

  He confided that he struggled with it sometimes, that he wasn’t always, “comfortable that everybody wants a body like mine.” Now, to be fair, maybe he was wondering if everyone believed they should be muscle-bound like him and he wasn’t explaining himself very well, but it sounded to me like he believed his pulchritude was universally admirable and he was struggling with that.

  She assured him, “Oh, but you seem to handle it very well, “ as if he was truly courageous for braving the pressure.

  To each our own burden, I guess. Personally, while I more often than not don’t like what I see in the mirror and while I can euphemize those things below my ribs as love handles all I want, they are excess fat and, I guess, that’s my burden.

  I have to say, I enjoyed learning about a new point of view. This is one of the things I continue to enjoy about the business of advertising. With every new assignment, I get to put myself in another’s shoes, or alligator cowboy boots, as the case may be. I like that. I still like that.

  And it’s good to be surprised at the endless variety of characters out there. At the outset of every new challenge, it’s healthy to assume one doesn’t know the target. Even if that target turns out to be a little fucked up.

Rocks In Your Head

Recently on vacation, just barely awake on my lounge chair beside the pool, I rolled over and noticed a wall. I was still in one of those sunny hazes, when it caught my eye. What struck me about it was the detail. Between the large rocks, there were slivers of little stones in a shape that, had I been on the beach, would have made them perfect for skimming. Each one was meticulously inserted between the larger rocks to create these capillaries, flowing around and about the blocks. I thought about the people who took the time to do this. I imagined their pride. I wondered if they took a picture of it after they set the last rock in place. I wondered if one or two of the guys took their spouses to the site to show off. I wondered if they took pictures of their section. It was pretty cool. I mean, the hotel didn’t have to build the wall like this. But these guys graced it with details -- a wall, a wall that would ordinarily just separate us, but in the end, a wall that gives something to connect us.