Technology: A Love Story

Interestingly, I have had sackfuls of letters from Advertising Out Of It readers recently asking me––begging me––to put technology in some perspective. That's right, letters. About technology. And boatloads of them, too.

I have two pieces of advice for all you inquiring advertising people: While  you try to keep up with the microblogs, cool new shit out of Sweden and Ashton Kushner, surround yourself with people who know their technology, especially if you are insecure about your own technological prowess. (I'm assuming that's just about everybody.)

Secondly, surround yourself with people who know how to persuade other people to do stuff. I'm talking idea people.

Some people make it sound like an either/or choice we have. It's not. You need both.

Let me illustrate.

When I was in my senior year of high school, I had a crush on a girl who one day seemed to come out of nowhere. How could this happen? I was a senior and I thought I knew or certainly knew of everyone. I asked around. The girl was new to our school, so meeting her would be a challenge.

We ran in different circles and I couldn't manage to arrange a party or find a party to attend in which we both would find ourselves. The challenge was to find a way of meeting that would appear accidental, because that's the key, isn't it––making it happen naturally, staging serendipity, trying to find a place where one could suavely approach your object of desire as if it was kismet. Standing near her locker and beating my chest probably wouldn't win her affection.

It turned out that I had a friend who knew her cousin, and he was able to find out where she had a couple of her classes. With that information, I could deduce which hallways she walked down to get to them. Mind you, other than gawking, I hadn't a clue what I would do once I saw her. All I knew was that I needed to see her more often, this would help me see her more often, and that seemed like progress.

Funny thing: sometimes you just have to be present. If you are present enough, some communication simply happens. One day you're standing there and smiling like a totally awkward asshole, desperately trying to be aw-shucks about stalking someone, and the next day you seem to have something to talk about, even if it is only about you having been so awkward and aw-shucks about stalking her.

Now, in advertising, you also have to figure out how to be where your target is. You're going to have to know the many hallways of technology. The thing is, in advertising, there is no succeeding without an idea. You're going to have to appear smart, otherwise, one of two things will happen: your target concludes that you are a totally annoying asshole or worse–-you remain invisible. No matter how good looking or clever or cool you think your product is, no one is going to care. In fact, some people will resent being doggedly pursued and there is no getting away with being adorable.

You see, way back then, there was no explaining why the girl actually talked to me––I was a bumbling idiot. Nevertheless, I ended up marrying the girl. I got lucky.

Learning about advertising in the shop around the corner.

Across the street from my favorite movie theater, there is a little bookstore. Inside, not too far from the entrance, there is a table on which the owner places new releases, both fiction and non-fiction, and that's where I spotted Juliet, Naked. Now having previously read About a Boy, Hi Fidelity and Slam, I wasn't immediately sure whether I wanted to read another Nick Hornby story. But then I saw a tab sticking out from it. It was a homemade book marker, a thin strip of cardboard that someone had cut out with a pair of scissors and left peeking out from the pages to arouse curiosity. Of course I picked up the book. The subtlety of the device was masterful.

Hmmm. Could it be clever salesmanship? No way, not in my quaint village bookstore.

Upon inspection (and sorry about the poor quality of my photo), the book marker had been part of some product's packaging, a section of it that had plenty of white space to write a prospective buyer a short note. 

The delivery was effective. The medium was perfect. It wasn't written on an index card or piece of paper, something that the author, Kristen, would have had to seek out. No, I imagine she had finished the book, simply had to share her thoughts, grabbed whatever was handy and let her enthusiasm rip.

I loved the little indications of emotion–-the caps on letters that don't call for caps, and the exclamation points after each of the two sentences. Nice touches. It was perfectly imperfect. It was authentic. Clearly there wasn't a company behind this note––this was personal. It wasn't advertising; it was communication. It was too good to be advertising.

I became curious about the author. How old was Kristen? She couldn't have been too old––she was in college or had recently graduated, that was my guess. Her enthusiasm was young-ish, sort of like when kids tell their friends about a cool new band that they just "LOVE," but revealed enough experience to know something about "Relationships." Oh well, there wasn't enough information there for me to say if I liked Kristen, but I certainly didn't resent her and her testimonial.

Needless to say, I succumbed. I bought the book.

Did I like it? It doesn't much matter if I liked it, does it. I was sold.

Part of me suspects that she's a very, very crafty manipulator, this Kristen.

Buying into all that holiday stuff.

"Love the giver more than the gift." 

-Brigham Young

I don't get excited about the holidays the way some people do. Jingle Bells over the mall loudspeakers is little more than a nice din. But this holiday season there was indeed "something special" in the air and part of that was, unfortunately, caused by my dear old aunt who passed gas on Christmas Eve.

I thought about this flatulence. I haven't thought deeply about flatulence in awhile, not since reading The Miller's Tale in college, but this must have been interesting enough to take notice. It was sort of trumpet-like, a tat-a-tat-tat-tat. It curled up, grabbed my ear and I thought about how unabashed my aunt had let them rip––"them," plural, since the flatulence occurred with regularity before and during dinner.

I wondered how certain illness affect one's faculties of self-awareness. The first blast I attributed to absentmindedness of old-age, my aunt being 89. Then I realized that Auntie had been recently in the hospital and hypothesized, "What? Did the doctor accidentally abstract her sense of smell?" But then I wondered if you just reach a point when such things aren't such a big deal. Maybe you just start paying more attention to things that really matter.

My aunt has had a rough go of it. A couple of years ago, her husband died. Hers had been an old-fashioned marriage, one in which she was dependent on him for everything, and that left her not knowing  much about getting around or how to balance a checkbook. Every so often you see her mind drift and she'll blurt out something sad. It tells me that depression always hovers. Though no amount of understanding could make her "something special" pleasant, I did conclude that if her being there with us, her family, was worth hanging in there for, then I could, I suppose, get over it.

That was the kind of holiday it was.

My parents are getting old, as well. My mom is growing shorter. She still has her spry moments, but her maternal authority has been replaced with cuteness. She'd probably remind an outsider of David Letterman's mom, cute but just around the bend from forgetting whether she just made an apple pie or a pumpkin pie. And my dad...he's lost some weight. After a couple of heart attacks, several angioplasties and a hip replacement, he huffs and puffs to rise from his comfortable chair and walk to the bathroom. He now accepts that he needs a wheel chair to get through an airport.

And then there are my other two aunts. A year ago, the eldest of the two sisters had heart failure, leaving her hunched over and frail. In her younger days, she was a teacher, a great teacher, and the reason I once became one. She's my godmother and I have always felt a special connection to her, so it kills me to see her hunched over, her head practically horizontal with the floor. Her sister, my third aunt at the table, worries about her and loses a lot of sleep. She has bags under her eyes and her hair is a little out of place.

Anyway, at some point during Christmas Eve dinner, which is a big deal in my family because that's when we have all the fish, the calamari and the baccala that is our way of continuing Italian tradition, a wash of sentimentality came over me. I began to appreciate our time together. I mean, my parents and my aunts won't live forever. Life is indeed short. We should savor these moments, the good and the bad of these moments. And I know that that must sound like a Hallmark card, but that's what I felt. Yeah, something special was in the air.

Sometimes the truth is so typical it takes something surprising to get you to appreciate it. Sometimes it takes something like a trumpet to wake you up.

Talking To Myself. And A Few Others.

True story: A recent incident at the office reminded me of an episode of Mad Men. When I confronted the plotting self-promoter, I became convinced that said person was not enlightened by my concern for the conditions that would create better work. Now, as this is a blog about communication, and not a dumping ground for whining about the advertising business, I wonder how I could have gotten through to this person.

Well, I haven't a fucking clue how to get through to this person. Once again, I've been reminded that, like any effective communication, we have to have realistic expectations of our subjects and know them well enough to know what will move them. In this instance, I have no idea what I could have said to attract her (or his) self-interest. And damn, how I grapple with being patient.

Managers in this business should be focused on managing creative people, and if everyone isn't creative, then you can't talk about building a culture that would thrive, at least not effectively, to people who take pride in other things. Right? The harsh reality is that someone hired the wrong square on the Myers Briggs chart. The person isn't evil, though sometimes––I admit it––my emotions might give the contrary impression––the person is simply the wrong person for the job.

Look, I'm tired. This piece is tired. I'm tired of dealing with people who shouldn't be in a place that is now striving to build a culture for greatness. I'm tired of wasting my communication skills.

Is it me? Do I have a problem accepting the ad game for what it is? And does that explain why I can't bring myself to watch every episode of Mad Men––because I don't want to deal with the truth, because, no, I can't always handle the truth?

I guess this turned out to be a whiny post, huh? Did I say that I'm tired of whining. I'm sooo tired of whining. But sometimes you just need a place to vent. 

And see, blogs really are good for something. My venting will be safe here. On the web, people only click on the things that interest them most, so I can breathe easy that this article will never strike the eyes of said political monger. Most likely, only the people that agree with me will read it. You see, while I wouldn't be foolish enough to divulge names, I do know who my target is. I'm talking to myself and a few precious others. And right now, as I feel a little better, kind of like a blues singer that has just sublimated some pain, that works for me.

A Cynical Ode To Those Without An Idea

The following is part of "If a Clown," a poem by Stephen Dunn that I saw in The New Yorker. It reminded me of a few clients that come from cultures that don't make it easy to communicate beyond the hard-sell tv spot. Unable to see Importance through the hard-sell trees, they seem to want to push people into doing stuff and reluctantly accept that––damn!––they need a little joke, some levity in a spot. To me, it seems like empty wit.

If a clown came out of the woods,

a standard-looking clown with oversized

polka-dot clothes, floppy shoes,

a red, bulbous nose, and you saw him

on the edge of your property,

there'd be nothing funny about that,

would there? A bear might be preferable,

especially if black and berry-driven.

And if this clown began waving his hands

with those big white gloves

that clowns wear, and you realized

he wanted your attention, had something

apparently urgent to tell you,

would you pivot and run from him,

or stay put, as my friend did, who seemed

to understand here was a clown

who didn't know where he was,

a clown without a context?

What could be sadder, my friend thought,

than a clown in need of a context?...

When brands are either commodities or perceived to be commodities, the thing that can, over time, make a brand important to people is a point of view. Without it, we are, at best, witty communicators making goofy faces to get attention.

October 23, 1940 – August 26, 2009

Imagine if a teen brand could capture teen emotion the way Ellie Greenwich did in her music. If a brand is the feeling a consumer has for a product or service, it would definitely be unique. "Be My Baby," "Leader of the Pack," "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)," "River Deep, Mountain High," "Tell Laura I Love Her," "It's My Party," "Maybe I Know," "Today I Met the Boy I'm Gonna Marry," "Chapel of Love," "Hanky Panky" and so on, they had all the intensity and the melodrama without cliche or Hallmark card sappiness. It's not difficult to imagine those feelings depicted in a Gap or Juicy Couture video...an acne cream, a hair product, a teen site, a back pack, a phone, whatever. And the bonus? It would be a tribute to a woman who wrote some of the greatest songs of our time (!).

Losing the brand by a nose.

One Monday morning, my wife ripped an ad out of a magazine and handed it to me as I was on the way out of the house. It was an ad for the Vera Wang line of Wedgwood china. Being that our agency had just won the Wedgwood/Waterford account, she wanted to make sure I had seen their latest ad. I didn't really have time to look at it, so I folded it up and slipped it into my briefcase for later.

Later was only a few minutes. As I was on the train to work, I unfolded the ad and, for moment, thought about the style of the china. It reminded me of Giorgio Armani. Vera Wang's sensibility is not all that dissimilar to Mr. Armani's. It's a simple design, it's graceful flowing lines were in fact very Armani-ish. 

And then, coincidentally, a man walked down the aisle wearing what I presumed was a Giorgio Armani suit. He sat down one row up and across the aisle from me. He was indeed put together, this guy. He was thin, his hair was neat; he had nice shoes. If Mr. Armani needed a middle-aged model for one of his ads, this guy would fit the bill.

That is, until he started to pick his nose. And this wasn't an attempt to preserve one's dignity by, say, inconspicuously picking with one hand while the opposite hand is cupped over the proboscis. It was completely lacking in nose-picking etiquette. No, Mr. Snazzysuit went digging––first in one nostril and then up the other. If he could have mined his entire finger up there, he would have done so––there was gold up in them thar hills.

As I looked away, I was thinking, "Ugh!"

A moment later, I was thinking, "Ugh!"

My third thought was reassuring. I've never considered myself an Armani kind of guy and darn if that moment didn't spark some pride in me. I concluded that I was much too evolved to ever wear Armani.

I looked back and still (still!) he was picking his nose. "Ugh!"

I began to make assumptions, brand associations based on what I was witnessing. I bet his hair was fake––I bet he wore a rug. I bet he worked as a public relations advisor for Joan Rivers. I bet he had a condo in Palm Beach. I bet his kid had a pet rock. I bet he listens to Celine Dion and drives a Lexus with gold chrome. The guy was gross.

The experience drove home how advertising continues long after the print ad. The world is one big media stage, every single point of contact with a product contributing to our sense of the brand. Obviously, not every consumer makes a good testimonial. And when you think about the web and how things become viral, it simply compounds the fact that we simply do not have have entire control over our brands.