An Ass from the Past

Today's post revisits us from March of 2009. It's about advertising, which I don't write about much these days. What is there to say that hasn't been said about the sorry state of our business by Professor Tannenbaum, he of the well-researched blog post.

Also, it's no coincidence that last night while speed watching the entire Mad Men opus, I came upon an episode in Season 7, the last. Don Draper has landed in Purgatory for some off color remarks he made to the Hershey client and now finds himself in a career slide. My vocational circumstances and perhaps yours if you were a boatrocker, were a little different but similar. The details don't matter.

But it did harken back to those youthful crazy times when copywriters copywrote. Enjoy.

Spankers Hours

Kudos to the copywriter who penned a new radio commercial for Chase Bank.

The spot isn’t great by any means. It attempts to compare the joy of the new car smell with the “supposed” joy of a new checking account smell. A reach, at best.

But the writer ended the spot with, “that's the smell of brand spanking new banking.” He managed to join the word spank with bank. IFYKYK.

And that is no small feat in our current risk-averse environment of hyper-analysis. 

Nor is that rhythmic choice of words an accident. They were chosen by a sly copywriter looking for a cheap laugh. That's what we copywriters do. After all, we're talented enough to make a living, but not talented enough to make art.

I was reminded of another lifetime. When I was hired to write copy for Lexus, this despite the fact that what I knew about Japanese luxury automobiles could not fill the bottom of a sake cup.

The dirty little secret about copywriters is that as much as we want to make our clients happy, what we really want is to make other copywriters jealous. By winning awards, securing better offices and sneaking double entendres into our work.

To that end, one of the Creative Directors -- it could have been my friend Stan Toyama -- had devised a game that allocated points to writers who could worm a certain word or phrase into a Lexus ad. For instance:

cockroach…………...4 points
diarrhea……………...6 points
transsexual………....3 points
Manzanar…………...9 points

So today I tip my hat to you, Mr. Spanking New Banking Phrase Inserter. You have earned yourself 5 points.

But I still long for the day when some copywriting savant can tell me all about the new Lexus LS 460 and work in a mention of the Enola Gay (10 points.)

In memory of Andy Rooney

Like you, I don't read many magazines these days, suffice for the ones that are laying around my dentist's office. Or, if my bronchitis dictates it, at my doctor's office. 

Though I have a "Concierge Doctor" and rarely spend more than 5 minutes in the waiting room. They have efficiency down to a science. I push a button on the sign-in desk and moments later I'm alerted to the doctor's availability.

Not sure they even print magazines today. Newsstands have gone the way of the parking lot PhotoMatts where you could get your film developed in less than 30 minutes. Film? I keep aging myself, forgetting that many people did not experience the Death of the Analog world as well as the infernal birth of the Digital world. 

Nevertheless, and at the risk of covering ground that already been worked over like the 38 hairs remaining on Trump's fetid scalp, I'd like to say in the most unequivocal manner, "There's too much feckin' technology."

I parked the car the other day in Old Town Pasadena and reached for a credit card to pay the unarmed thief we call a parking meter. That's where I was blindsided by the blinking meter telling me to download an app. 

I don't want to download a stinkin' app. I'm late for this lunch appointment and my bladder has quickly reached Hindenberg DefCon 1. Yes, I'm thankful I don't have to dig into the Marianna Trench of my car seats to dig for errant quarters, but someone has already solved this problem with the credit card slot. 

Done. 

Why can't we leave it at that? Like reflecting pools, we never can leave well enough alone.

The irony here is that years ago, I had the idea for a Parking Meter app. Ideally, one that could add an hours worth of time via one's smartphone. Only to find out that some 12 year old from Taiwan had already earned a patent for their Parking Mobile iPhone app.

The titanium, micro-chip encrusted bone that sticks in my craw is that as 68 year old man in a rush, and desperately seeking urinary relief, the last thing I want to do is fumble around for my App Store icon, which seems to move around on my home screen like a coked up PacMan. 

And then work my way through the digital instructions written in a font that goes beyond my prescription glasses' paygrade.

And then create a new password, this time with 12 units including a capital letter, a number and my favorite blue emoji.

Between this, navigating the refrigerator, dishwasher and microwave maintenance via texts and links, there's just too much damn technology. If only there were a way to reduce it all.

Where's the app for that?

Tip of the hat

This is my father's Don Draper hat. It's been with me since 1989, when he passed away at 57 years of age, way, way too young. Especially since we were just making steps towards repairing a very erratic, troublesome and sometimes violent relationship.

The hat is too small for my beachball-sized noggin, in the same way the role of fatherhood did not fit my rough and tumble Bronx-born dad. He was rough around the edges. He could be brusk. And intimidating. Most importantly, he could be misunderstood.

Years ago, I read Life in America: A Journey with My Father. It was written by Dr. Sherwin Nuland, born  Shepsel Ber Nudelman. 

A name like that could scar any kid. 

It is not an easy book to read. And not because Dr. Nuland, a surgeon, medical historian and Clinical Professor at Yale University, has made it too erudite or unapproachable. The book, by design, asks us to re-examine our own relationships with our fathers (and mothers) keeping in mind that those roles were only a portion of the persons we called mom and dad.

They were humans, who had dreams that never came to fruition, hopes dashed by finances or the circumstances of the times, damage left by their parents, and challenges neither you nor I could imagine or appreciate. 

My father, in particular, had an unusually bumpy start in life in that he spent a year in the brig at the Army's Ft. Cooper in Georgia for the "crime" of smoking weed. 

A "crime" that no longer merits a second glance, as the smell of cannabis is a welcome relief in downtown urban areas that partially masks the omnipresent aroma of urine.

No point in all this other than to lament the fact that I'm currently on the last season of Mad Men, a show I should not have overlooked when it came out. Apart from the adultery, the day drinking and the cigarette smoking, the Don Draper character resonates. Just as Dr. Nudelman's.

On a recent visit from NYC, my friend Jim tried on my dad's Dobb's chapeau...

...the 7 & 1/4 hat fit perfectly. And complimented his lanky 6'3" frame.

I insisted he take it. He demurred and said, "You don't have much to remember your father by, no gold watches, no cuff links, not even his CPA certificate, keep his hat. Display it in your office. And put that flask next to it."

If my friend Jim hadn't spent so much time in Catholic school, followed by a stint at Notre Dame, he would have made a fine rabbi.

Me and global warming

I'm no scientician, but sometimes I play one on the interwebs. That is to say, I was fairly good student of biology, chemistry and calculus, and had I been more ambitious, or even just a little ambitious, I could have pursued this path and found a way to make some sheckels. Perhaps even getting a white lab coat.

But I was more of a wiseass B+ student and tended to skate by with wisecracks. A longwinded way of saying that I know nothing , or very little, about global warming.

However I did hang out with a bunch of science-y/hippie guys who went to ESF, the Environmental School of Forestry, which was part of the SUNY system and sat adjacent to Syracuse University. These were all very brainy guys who could look at a mushroom growing off a fallen tree limb and know in an instant if it was edible. Or hallucinogenic.

The point is, they knew their stuff. And so I developed this habit of listening to experts. The ones who studied, excelled and mastered their field of scientific inquiry and never stopped.

Folks like Dr. Fauci, who understand virology. 

And not some small town politician from Idaho claiming it's all part of some scheme cooked up by the Cabal (Joos, as they cleverly disguise their antisemitism.)

Nevertheless I have a natural streak of skepticism, and though the vast majority of climate experts concurred about the harmful effects of global warming, it wasn't until recently that I jumped on board.

As some of you may know, I recently moved from my home in very temperate Culver City (just 4+ miles from the beach) to the foothills of Pasadena (considerably further from the beach.) My new house and driveway have considerable Southern Exposure.

Last week I got in my car (pictured above) and the onboard computer informed me it was 122 degrees inside the car. I could've baked chocolate chip cookies on the dashboard. I got a serious first degree burn on my fingertip when I went to start the vehicle.

And so I did what I'd never thought I'd do and bought one of those sun shades for the car. I never thought I'd do it because...well... I'm one of those people who are willing to put up with the discomforts of life. Adversity builds character, or so I was told growing up. Niceties were for other folks. This is what happens when your parents grew up in the immediate post-Depression era.

The naysayers out there will say weather and climate are two different animals. I understand that Professor Red Hat. What I don't understand is how to fold this damn shade back up and fit it in its little pouch!

TDS Part II

Before we begin, allow me to apologize. I've taken a momentary inventory and now realize this is the third post in a row about our Dear Leader.

Well, almost.

It's not so much about him as it is about the mindless lemmings who support him. The ones I pointed out yesterday who are truly deranged. At this writing (on Sunday morning, 81 years and one day since we dropped an atomic bomb on Japan) there are reports floating around that Trump is so tired of the Iranian War -- the one he started -- he is willing to walk away from negotiations without a nuclear deal.

In other words, the Iranians have us just where they want us. On our knees.

This is where the cognitive dissonance shines so bright. Ever since the first shot was fired (on February 28th, my 68th birthday) we have been told the the shock and awe effort (if I may borrow the vernacular of another GOP military genius) has been so successful.

"The Iranians have been decimated. Obliterated. Masticated. A total and decisive victory."

A word salad to similar effect.

The high testosterone chest beating was relentless. The president who lamented our past military adventures in Korea and Vietnam and Iraq, who claimed "America had forgotten how to win", had proudly put a W back on the board.

The Strait of Hormuz, which I'm sure he had never heard of prior to this frolicking little excursion, was under our control. And he had confiscated billions of dollars worth of Iranian oil. The spoils of our victory, as it were.

But like the Gash in the Reflecting Pool, none of that was true.

If it were, why are we negotiating with the Iranians? 

Why are we not dictating the terms of their unconditional surrender? 

Why are gas prices at all time highs? 

And why are American soldiers still losing their lives?

Most confounding however, is why are Republicans and Trump supporters still stuffing their jowly pieholes with Trump's bullshit sandwiches?

"Thank you sir, may I have another?"

Allow me to pose one more question: Will these people ever take off the Red Hats and put on their thinking caps?

Happy Monday

This is the current state of my Trump library. One shelf, a little more than a dozen books. It would be twice or maybe even thrice the size, but I have given away many of my other Trump books to interested friends. You might say I'm a Devangelist. 

Others would say I'm Deranged. That I have been afflicted by TDS, Trump Derangement Syndrome. This is always the default argument by those who have no facts. No base of knowledge regarding this evil man. And no ability to exercise logic. What they do have, is zeal. And love. And blind support for a vainglorious, sociopathic politician, the likes of which we have not seen since the 1930's.

I'm deranged?

They're the ones who empty their bank accounts to buy his Temu sneakers, American-inspired phones, worthless NFTs, and shabby watches. Some went so far as to shell out big bucks for a swatch of the blue suit he was wearing during the staged faux-ssination attempt.

I'm deranged? 

When an errant piece of glass shattered from the teleprompter and hit his ear causing a gush of blood, Red Hats throughout the land rushed to buy little maxipads to parade around the streets and show support for the Dear Leader.  

But wait, there's more.

Blood wasn't the only thing leaking from his decrepit, morbidly obese, syphilitic body. When reports leaked (sorry) that he has incontinence problems, perhaps brought on by his exclusive diet of a 13 year old  little boy -- Big Macs, KFC and French fries -- Red Hats rushed back to the local Walmart to load up (sorry, again) on Pampers.

I'm deranged?

After picking fights with the Pope (one of his goons actually told Pope Leo to watch his words), Trump famously posted a picture of himself as Jesus Christ. It is plain to see, even to his most devout followers that he has a bonafide God Complex. Any of this sound familiar?

Thanks to 77 million flag-fetishizing, misguided, misinformed voters we are now living through the most dangerous and consequential period in American history. Facing a threat that does not come from a far away continent, but from folks who are too lazy and too comfortable in their living room theater seats to pick up a book or a newspaper to know any better.

I, and millions like me, do not suffer from any "syndrome." We have a vested and informed interest in this country and its future. 

The fact that so many Americans are NOT angry with the ongoing war, the cratering economy, the open corruption and the current lawless state of our leadership is incomprehensible. 

In fact, I'll go so far as to say it's Deranged.

Where's the gash?

I despise AI. However, given my artistic deficiencies and my inability to wrangle the code for Photoshop or InDesign, I love AI. 

Disclaimer: the photo above is AI generated, prompted by the command to create an image of the Reflecting Pool had someone, someone like former Olympian Daniel Hearn, taken a box cutter and slashed a 300 foot gash through the big, beautiful paint job that cost the US Taxpayer roughly $15 million

Apparently there is a real image of the 300 foot, 400 foot maybe even 500 foot gash, but that photo as well as video imagery of the slashing and gashing taken place is all in the hands of David Shitzenpants.

This is what we've been told. But that doesn't cut the mustard. Or the paint as it were.

By now we all know, at least we should know, that if he had hard evidence in his pocket (let alone anything else hard, rimshot) he'd be the first to unleash it on an understandably skeptical nation. 

He'd schedule an address to the country from the Resolute Desk and using his grubby, vulgar fingers and perhaps a Sharpie™ carefully point out the perpetrators. He'd invent a new Victory Dance for the occasion. We'd be hearing about it until the last ballot in the midterms had been counted.

But he doesn't have it.

In the same way he never had proof of any election fraud in 2020.

Or evidence showing Nancy Pelosi and Democrats staged the January 6th insurrection. (And WHY?)

Or even one document that backs his claim the Chinese interfered with elections.

He never had proof that Obama was born in Kenya.

Or that the Central Park Five were guilty and should be put to death.

He never had the Trump Healthcare Plan, the one that was 10, 13, maybe 18 times better than the Obamacare plan. How many times did he declare the plan was just being polished and would be revealed in two weeks?

He never got a check from Mexico.

The lack of logic, so apparently obvious, has no impact with his supporters. It's like that part of their brain doesn't work. 

And it doesn't speak well about the other parts either.

 

One Mad Man

About 25 years ago, I was the Group Creative Director at Y&R/Irvine (Young & Rubicam) tasked with overseeing the creative work for Jaguar Automobiles. This feels like it was in another lifetime. Or even two. 

One of the things I remember was a quote from one the many books we had accumulated about the storied English brand. 

It was from one of their Head Designers. William T. Wentworth or Clyde Higgenbotham or Sir Lord Kensington of Thatcherston -- I'm officially British, I can make these jokes. He (sorry ladies this was scribbled in the early 20th century) said, " If you can't tell it's a Jaguar from 100 feet away, we have failed to do our job."

That squire is no doubt rotating in his final resting place and furiously tilling the soil until it has reached a liquified state. I believe that's how peat bog is made, I could be wrong.

Have you seen the current line up of Jaguar automobiles? I'll give you a hint, you have. You just haven't noticed them because what were once the sexiest vehicles to ever grace the road are now nothing more than 4000  lbs of visual banality. So watered down that many Jaguar vehicles don't even require the stewardship of a skilled driver behind the wheel. I'm looking at you Waymo.

The Jaguar SUV is no different looking than the Bentley SUV or the Lamborghini SUV or the Ferrari SUV.

I bring this up because I have just concluded watching season 5 of Mad Men. Wherein they have just secured the Jaguar account, through some nefarious methods, and have begun suffering the consequences of that tainted victory. 

Spoiler Alert: One of the partners commits suicide.

I know I'm extremely late to the Mad Men party. Let's just say that while the show was commanding everyone's attention, the team and I were trying to scare up some interest in the fledgling X-type available for $199 a month. 

Make no mistake the X-type was hardly a Jaguar. The genii in Coventry simply took a Ford Mondeo, a mid-priced cubicle monkey's automobile, and slapped a cheap chrome plated leaper on the bonnet.

Jaguar isn't the first to abandon craftsmanship and pride in order to make a quick money grab. And they won't be the last. In today's shareholder economy, shrinkflation or some version of it, is the currency of the realm. It's across the board in every industry.

Which reminds me of a more current maxim you may be familiar with, "It's our responsibility to leave the world better than the way we found it."

Take a look around you. What's better?

"Damn Communists!"

"Strike 3. You're outtahere."

"Not so fast Buck Rogers. The Red Sox have challenged the call at the plate."

What the hell is this, I thought quietly. 

What the hell is this, mused loudly Ms. Muse. 

Our questions were answered by the Dodger Stadium announcer who said the last pitch was under dispute. No sooner had my jaw been picked up off the plastic seat below my in the Reserved Section, Row 35 Seat K, at about 1000 feet above sea level, where you can smell the burning jet fuel from jets making their landing approach turn to LAX, our questions had been answered.

"After AI review, brought to you by Palantir.  Palantir, the good side of Fascism, the pitch call was overturned."

With that, the Jumbotron replayed the pitch showing the ball did indeed miss the lower right corner by half an inch. The hitter was rejuvenated. The umpire was humiliated.

Again.

Again.

Again.

And again.

In what might have been the worst baseball game we have ever witnessed in a pro stadium (Ms. Muse called it Lazyball) the Boston manager challenged 5 calls by the umpire. And prevailed on each one. Begging the question, why do we even need umpires?

Well, I'll tell you. 

Because it's baseball, our national pastime. The egalitarian game that occasionally brings us all together. Black and white. Old and young. Rich and poor. Though at the stadium, any stadium, it's mostly rich people. Who else wants to shell out 45 bucks to park the car. Or 10 bucks for a variety of shredded meats and gizzards and stuffed into a glutinous semi-edible membrane. Or the privilege eating soft serve ice cream out of a plastic replica of a batting helmet.

Baseball is what made America. It's as indigenous to our culture, like Jazz, Movies and unfathomable political ignorance in the face of hypocrisy.

We've already corrupted the game with designated hitters, one pitch relievers, and the ten second rule. Not to mention the in-stadium experience with the inane Cap Shuffle, the furry mascot races and captive ads disguised as "fan participation experiences" that make a Chuck E Cheese seem quiet as a morgue.

And now we're going to remove the human element to the game to turn it over to a bunch of greedy, nerdy technocrats who always got picked last in school for the PE softball game? 

What is wrong with this world?

I blame Trump. I know that's baseless and without any evidence whatsoever. But if it's good enough for him it's good enough for this radical leftist commie.