Advertising According to Flashman: Or, How Good Advertising Might Get You Laid

After reading a couple of serious books, I told a friend of mine that I could really go for a dose of some intelligent silliness. He seemed to know what that meant and suggested I try the Flashman series by George MacDonald Fraser. In the past, my friend had expressed good taste; he also mentioned that those books were a secret pleasure of Christopher Hitchens. Perfect.

The opening book was hysterical. Harry Flashman is a cad, a rogue, a scoundrel, a British soldier in 1839 who lies and steals and whores his way to Afghanistan and somehow returns to England a hero of the realm. We sympathize and find ourselves rooting for Flashy, because, for one thing, Flashman is no idiot. He cuts to the quick of a situation and, whenever his life is in danger, Flashman seeks what is best for Flashman, knowing that if he sticks to the straight and narrow for the sake of queen and country, it usually means obeying the orders of a bunch of dunderheads. And, you know, he kind of has a point.

At the end of the first book, everybody wants to know about Flashy’s gallantry and glory and Flashy doesn’t mind indulging them – especially when his audience includes a scrumptious tart or two. He reflects about how to effectively trumpet one’s successes, offering the reader some valuable insight:

It calls for nice judgement, this art of bragging: you 
must be plain, but not too plain, and you must smile
only rarely. Letting them guess more than you say
is the kernel of it, and looking uncomfortable when 
they compliment you.

This is good advice for advertisers, who essentially have to brag without appearing like blowhards.

I took “It calls for nice judgement” to mean that the product satisfies a very real need. This applies to how we demonstrate the product, as well. Is it simple? Is it logical? Our thinking has to come off clear-headed and our actions intentional. 

“…you must be plain, but not too plain” means, I think, that we must speak to the consumer honestly and directly and yet still manage to  position ourselves as an expert. We don’t want to pander; we don’t want to condescend.

“…you must smile only rarely” recommends that we not enjoy talking about ourselves too much. Bragging is, let’s face it, self-serving, so the trick is to seem considerate.

“…letting them guess more than you say” goes to the art of our communication, which is as much about what we incorporate into the story as it is about what we leave out. If we tell it artfully, we will conjure the consumer’s imagination and perhaps even inspire.

Finally, “looking uncomfortable when they compliment you” is about showing some humility, about the character of the advertiser, not seeming overly desperate and pushy or confident and presumptuous.

Yes, Flashman is a smart guy. And reading this book as a mature-ish guy, I couldn’t help wishing I had read his memoirs long ago, when I was single and carousing the clubs and could have applied some of its inspiration, when being a scoundrel could have been excused by my immaturity.

As soon as he spins his tales and feeds the golden opinions of him, Flashy reaps the rewards:

                That night was memorable for one thing – I had my 
                first woman for months, for Avitabile (an Italian 
               guard and fellow rascal) had in a couple of lively Afghan 
               wenches, and we made splendid beasts of ourselves.

Flashman got results.

    

Attack the artists!

     So many artists suffered during their lives. Their stories are sad, so incredibly heart-wrenching they could make Hannibal Lecter weep. Van Gogh died penniless and by his own hand. Monet, the founder of Impressionism, lived most of his 86 years in poverty, and with a family to support. Mathew Brady, the great photojournalist who recorded the bloody horror of the Civil War battlefield, died a bankrupt alcoholic. William Blake, Edgar Allen Poe, Vermeer, Dylan Thomas, had they lived in another era, they would have been blues singers in the Mississippi Delta. So you could imagine why I’d be a little disturbed about The Starving Artists Sale coming to the Westchester Marriott in a couple of weeks. I mean, do they have to call it The Starving Artist’s Sale?

     It says, ‘Hey, everyone, now you can get 80% off a beautiful oil painting the size of a sofa and – AND! exploit some poor bastard! Don’t miss this opportunity. Their brushes are worn, their paints depleted, their spirit sunk and their strength exhausted, so ACT NOW!’

     Maybe they're thinking that if they can make us delight in feeling like a dumb predator they will sell lots of canvasses. All I know is, if the sale draws a big crowd, I sure hope no one gets trampled at the door, because, god knows, they’ll get kicked and plundered when they’re down. 

Mr. Mark and Me

Some people are driven by inspiration, others by provocation, still others by desperation. In this instance, I was driven by Manny the snowplow guy. Manny is the Guatemalan version of Mr. Magoo. He's not near-sighted, like the character, but he's an easily distracted, jolly sort of bungler who, quite appropriately, doesn’t get my name right. During this terrible snowstorm, Senor Magoo cheerfully gave me a ride in his truck to the train station. We arrived safely, too.

"Thanks for the ride, Manny."
                "You are welcome, Mr. Mark."

On that snowy day, “Mr. Mark” echoed. I remembered when I first met Manny to talk about regularly cutting my grass. I introduced myself  and while his English wasn't great, we managed to agree on a price and a few additional landscaping jobs. I immediately liked him. We shook hands and when he left he said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Mark.” I wasn’t quite sure I heard it right – 'Did he just call me Mr. Mark?'

Is there something about Guatemalan Spanish that makes "Marty" tough to pronounce? I've no idea. I’ve known Manny now for 12 years, during which time the landscaping job led to the snowplowing job and his reliability extended to him always calling me Mr. Mark. Once, I tactfully corrected him but he bungled his way back to his boisterous, “Hi, Mr. Mark,” “Thank you, Mr. Mark,” “We need to fertilize, Mr. Mark,”  as if I had never said a word. My wife, Felicia, corrected him as well, but that also went nowhere. He probably uses the language barrier as an excuse to avoid saying things that don’t roll off his tongue. Regardless, as far as Manny goes, I am Mr. Mark; and as far as I’m concerned, I’m okay with that.

Hmmm. Did you ever meet someone who seemed to speak a different language and no matter how you tried, it was clear you were from different planets? For some reason, this Mr. Mark thing reminded me of the often unbridgeable gap between account people and creative people. I say one thing and they hear something else. And vice-versa. Sometimes there’s a comical absurdity to it that is similar to Manny’s always calling me Mr. Mark:

Account Person: I think that idea is off strategy.

Me: What idea?

A psychologist friend of mine says that creative people are motivated by visions and feelings, while account people are driven by results. I buy that. It’s why creative shops and creative cultures aren’t likely to be led by account guys. Results are pre-determined and great work can’t quite be predicted. For me, it’s perfectly clear.

           Sure, if some people want to call me Mr. Mark, fine. I’m used to it. But this year, as I venture into a new life, I need to be sure to let them know that I hear something slightly different and that I should hold on to whatever it is that really drives me, on that crooked road to a cool place.