Pull up a spindly chair

I know it's late in the game to do a blog post about this logo redesign. The truth is it's not about this Appalachian marketing misstep, it's about the worst new business pitch I ever had the agony of participating in. 

I won't use names with the exception of one, to come later. Mostly because there was career humiliation involved. Moreover, some may not have advanced or evolved as far as I have and come to look at these disastrous events as humorous grist for the mill. As the Stoics have pointed out, it's all so meaningless. 

And funny with the benefit of hindsight.

The pitch took place in Nashville. It was the first and probably only time I've ever set foot in the Volunteer state. I'm convinced the baggage claim people slipped a homing device in my luggage and activated the state's Jew Tracking Alert System -- JTAS, for lack of a better or more creative name that would require me to drink more coffee.

We stayed at the Grand Ole Opry house, which is not a house at all, but a mega complex that housed a hotel, an amusement park, a NASCAR race track and a Buccee's Service Station all under one domed roof.

For three days (it could have been one very long day that felt like 72 hours) we never left the building. We didn't have to. 

We even did the pitch at a business center that was next door to the Grand Ole Opry Orthodontry Center, "Fill that mouth gap while you wait."

There are a thousand ways that pitch could've gone better. And no way it could have gone worse. At one point one our creative leaders stood in front of a horseshoe shaped arrangement of client executives and regional franchise owners. And froze. 

Hint for you kids that are still in this rapidly decaying business, avoid presenting creative work to franchise owners, of any type. 

He had a Mitch McConnell moment where the cerebellum temporarily disconnected from the cerebrum and the medula. If discomfort were a lumpy foul tasting gravy, there was enough in that room to supply the Top Ten Cracker Barrel restaurants in the state.

I know you were wondering how this would get back to CB so I employed what President Trump calls The Weave.

As we departed the abruptly shortened pitch, and stepped outside for some not-so-stale Opry air, our boss Lee Clow, spotted a Cracker Barrel across the street and offered to buy lunch for the team. There, we enjoyed some country fried steak and some far-from-home false camaraderie. 

I have never been back to Tennessee since then. My friend and native son Greg Collins will often share colorful local news that could make Florida gasp. That's all the Tennessee I need.

Similarly, I've never stepped foot in a Cracker Barrel again. And probably won't. 

Brand refresh or not.