Big Mouth Blues

Gather round, ladies, as I take yet another journey into the minds of men everywhere and expose some of my gender’s dirty little secrets. Please use this powerful information responsibly. My goal is merely to enhance understanding between the sexes and I do so at great personal risk.

With baseball season underway, hockey and basketball heading to the playoffs and the so-called March Madness coming to an end (thankfully), you may find yourself overwhelmed at home and at the office with endless sports chatter. Perhaps you’re feeling excluded or ignored. Maybe you’d like to join the conversation but are afraid of saying the wrong thing.

Fear Not! For the truth is that men don’t really know anything about sports! It’s all just a clever ruse designed to drive women away from the conversation. And then we talk about clothing and celebrities and food – the exact same things that you talk about!

See, following professional sports is really just a soap opera for men (with beer). We talk about which players we like and which players we don’t like. We talk about who’s fighting with whom and why. It’s completely personality-driven and has nothing to do with the actual intricacies of the game.

Most men stopped playing sports in middle school. Some played in high school. Hardly any played in college. And while men pretend to be experts in sports they’re absolutely not! The typical man’s sports knowledge is a mile wide and an inch deep.

Think about it. If you were in a play in middle school do you think that would qualify you to be an expert on Broadway? Of course not! Yet these overgrown little leaguers try to pass themselves off as baseball savants all summer long.

A man’s sports knowledge actually comes from reading blogs, listening to sports chat radio and watching SportsCenter. They take all of that secondhand data, rehash it into ‘original thinking’ and make generic observations or idiotic predictions.

You could easily do the same thing (and don’t forget about wiki for the basics). The key is to talk about sports with authority…like you really believe what you’re saying!

Here’s a personal example. Matt Light is an offensive lineman for the Patriots. His job is to protect the quarterback (Mr. Dreamy himself, Tom Brady). Light is a decent but not great player. A few years ago I heard a lineman described as a “turnstile”. I liked the line so I filed it away for future use. This year whenever Light had a bad game I’d come into work the next day and start spouting off to the boys about how much Matt Light sucked and how he was a ‘turnstile’. I didn’t even know what it meant! But it was funny, it sounded good and I said it with conviction. Game, set, match!

If you’d like to destroy the frail egos of the men around you by embarrassing them with your superior sports knowledge, there are a couple of options for you to consider:

An effective (yet work-intensive) approach is to focus on one sport or one team and really study up. Lay low for a while, wait until the office big mouth is in front of a big crowd and spouting off some generic nonsense (i.e. Matt Light is a turnstile) and publicly challenge him with some real facts and data. Did somebody say humiliation?

The second (and much easier) option is to just be like the average guy. Occasionally read a few sports blogs, every now and again watch a few minutes of SportsCenter and just start saying the same hollow platitudes as everyone else. No one will challenge you on it because they don’t really know any more than you do. Believe you me, I’ve been doing this for years and I rarely get busted! Next thing you know, you’re in the club.

I have one final warning for you, though. Stay far, far away from anyone that is involved with “fantasy” sports. Most likely, the fantasy sports guy in your office is married or far too nervous to talk to you, but he’s very, very dangerous. The fantasy sports guy is obsessed with statistics and really knows his stuff. That’s a no-win situation for you and me both. Always avoid fantasy sports guy.

Ladies, men are simple creatures. They like girls, sitting around, drinking beer and talking about things that they don’t really understand. So don’t be intimidated when the conversation turns to sports. With few exceptions men are no smarter about sports then they are about any other subject.

You can thank me later.

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When I spot a businessman with a metal attaché case I’m immediately thinking one of two things: that dude is a spy or that dude wants to look like a spy.  Either way, I’m hooked.

If that metal attaché case is handcuffed to his wrist then I’m thinking that that dude has got the nuclear codes.  Unfortunately I have yet to run into handcuffed metal attaché guy.  There’s still time, though, and I haven’t given up hope yet.

What could anyone possibly have in their attaché that requires it to be encased in metal?  Looking into my bag today (full disclosure: it’s a Tumi knapsack) I spy the following items: banana, apple, iPod, laptop, toothbrush & paste, gum, lipstuff, pencil and a ‘Bart Simpson’ comic book.  Forget the metal attaché case.  Judging by my meager possessions I should probably be downgraded to a plastic Target bag.

You don’t see many traditional attaché cases anymore, probably due to the growing popularity of the messenger bag and the fancy knapsack.  That seems sensible to me.  Both the messenger bag and the knapsack are hands-free options, giving the user two free hands for drinking coffee or crackberrying or smoking or flashing gang signs.  Not only is the old-style attaché clumsy but the metal one is really heavy to boot.  I can’t think of any reason, besides image, to heft around a metal attaché case – hence my suspicion that metal attaché case users are either spies or wannabe spies.

I think lawyers have it the worst when it comes to attaché cases.  They’re always hefting around gigantic piles of papers and files, made worse by their insistence on using that arrogant “legal sized” paper.  Yeah, yeah, I get it.  You’re a fancy lawyer.  Do you really have to use your own special sized paper?

School kids have it the pretty bad too.  They insist on using those cheap character-themed backpacks and then their teachers jam them full of those stupid heavy textbooks.  No wonder they all have scoliosis.  When I was a kid I just left my textbooks in the bottom of my locker along with the uneaten fruit.  And now, I’m 100% scoliosis-free.  Coincidence?  I think not.

One day I might just buy myself a metal attaché case just to see if people treat me differently.  I suspect that a hint of intrigue and danger might suit me just fine.

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The irony of the situation was just perfect for the most ironic duo in rock and roll – Walter Becker and Donald Fagen – better known as Steely Dan.

You see, the acclaimed jazz-rockers retired from the road back in the early ‘70s ostensibly due to Fagen’s stagefright but most likely also due to the difficulty in reproducing their increasingly meticulous studio arrangements live on stage.  And yet three decades later we find this studio band on the Wang Theatre stage in an attempt to recreate their most challenging albums – “Aja”, “Royal Scam” and “Gaucho”.  How perfect.

The Dan actually started slowly returning back to the stage in the ‘90s with Fagen’s incredible Rock and Soul Revue.  A full reunion and two solid albums later they improbably managed to turn themselves into a viable touring act without sullying their sterling reputation as master craftsmen.

“Gaucho” is Dan’s most mellow album, seemingly more suited for a Wednesday show than a Friday nighter (They surprised Wednesday’s crowd with an “Aja”/”Royal Scam” double-header,) but it contains some of the band’s finest songs.

After an opening jam by their excellent 11-piece backing band they launched into “Gaucho” with the familiar strains of ‘Babylon Sisters.’  Fagen’s voice – never the band’s strong suit – had aged noticeably since I last saw them in ’96(?).  He was even more nasaly than I remembered, but nostalgia, interesting vocal phrasings and judicious use of the back-up singers helped him to compensate on the more challenging singing parts.

‘Hey 19’ featured tremendous trombone work by Jim Pugh and was unmarred by Fagen’s lyrical flub at the beginning.  ‘Glamour Profession’ was fine, although it’s one of the weaker tracks on the album.  ‘Gaucho’ showcased the talents of alto saxman Walt Weiskopf and guitarist Jon Herington.  ‘Time out of Mind’ was great but suffered slightly for wont of Michael McDonald’s iconic vocals.  The less said about the dreadful ‘My Rival’ the better.

And of course the album performance closed with one of the greatest songs in their catalog, the subtle and amazing ‘Third World Man’.  “Gaucho” is an album that dates back to my vinyl collecting days and I can still vividly remember my friends and I dissecting ‘Third World Man’ through literally hundreds of spins.  Just hearing ‘Third World Man’ live was well worth the price of admission.

The rest of the setlist contained more tracks that only Dan nerds could love: “Daddy Don’t Live…” featuring lead vocals by Walter Becker; “Godwhacker”, “I’ve Got the News”, “Home at Last” with some excellent lead guitar work by Becker; a new arrangement of “Show Biz Kids”; a beautiful version of “Parker’s Band” with only the three female singers on lead vocals and “Deacon Blues”.  After the band intros Jon Herington shone once again on ‘Peg’; ‘Josie’ opened with a great keyboard intro by Jim Beard and more tasteful lead work by Becker.  The set closed with the upbeat “My Old School.”

After a brief break, the band returned for a triple-shot encore: “Kid Charlemagne” (oh, how I wish we saw “Royal Scam” with Larry Carlton on guitar), a fan pleaser in ‘Reelin’ in the Years’ and finally, a fun, cheesy version of ‘Dirty Water’ to stroke the Bostonians.

All in all, Steely Dan puts on an excellent show that plays to their core fanbase.  Casual fans need not apply.  Sure, Fagen’s voice struggles but his keyboard and melodica work is brilliant.  Becker’s guitar playing, always overshadowed by Denny Dias and Larry Carlton back in the day, is amazing.  And the band is perfect, with drummer Keith Carlock, alto sax Weiskopf and guitarist Herington deserving special attention.

The only downside was the geriatric crowd that remained seated throughout most of the performance.  Let’s just say that if you were under 40 or female, you probably weren’t at the Wang Center last night.

 NERDS ROCK!

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One of the most difficult challenges for account service professionals in the agency world is how to deliver effective creative feedback.  Or, put another way, how can an account service person give feedback that the creatives will actually listen to?

Today I’m going to give you the keys to the kingdom.  I’m going to let you in on the secret of how to force the creatives to listen to you.  It’s taken me over 16 years to figure this out but I’m going to give it to you for free. 

The key for account people to give creative feedback that can’t be ignored is…

Don’t.  That’s not your job.

(I’m sorry.  I know that’s not the answer you were hoping for.)

Here’s the thing.  As an account service professional your job is to make sure that the creative concepts that you present to the client are on strategy.  That’s it.  It is not your job to decide if you personally like the work.  It is not your job to provide feedback on the creative concept or execution.

That’s what creative directors do and they do it much better than you ever could.

The absolute worst thing that you can do as an account service professional is to presume what the client will think and then fight for concept changes based on those presumptions.  That’s an insult to both the client and the creatives.

Be strategic.  Assess whether the work truly pays off the brief.  Judge whether the work is appropriate for the brand’s voice.  Determine whether the work fulfills the assignment.  But don’t give “creative” feedback.

The truth is that the most innovative creative work can be a little unsettling.  The best work is often original and different.  It could make people nervous.  It might make the client nervous.  The prospect of a nervous client definitely makes account people nervous.  That’s okay.  If the work is on strategy and on brand then a little nervousness might be a good sign.

Over time, if you successfully establish yourself as a strategic thinker that respects boundaries, your creative team might actually solicit your opinion on the work.  If that’s the case then by all means offer it respectfully and thoughtfully.

But then again, they might never ask for your opinion on creative.  That’s okay, too.

Junior account people: always strive to be brilliant strategists rather than crappy creative directors.  Don’t worry – in about 16 years you’ll thank me.

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Book Review: “Soul for Sale” by Jay Williams (2009)

The natural temptation, especially if you were a part of the Boston ad scene at the turn of the century, is to read Jay Williams’ novel “Soul for Sale” as a Primary Colors for the ad set.  And while there’s certainly some enjoyment in playing the “who’s that character based on” game, it’s ultimately a disservice to the book to read it solely on those terms.

“Soul for Sale” is a well crafted tale that excels at creating a compelling and mostly believable world populated by a cast of classic ad agency archetypes: the egotistical creative, the fatalist account guy, the overly-optimistic executive, etc.  It’s a sign of Mr. Williams’ skill as a writer that he can successfully have it both ways with his characters: they’re clichés as well as real people that you care about.  Even more impressive is how he manages to pull this off with a minimum of words.  There’s no flab here.  He deftly forges meaningful relationships and fosters dramatic tension through a series of taut chapters that compel you to keep reading, pulling you deeper and deeper into the life of the protagonist, creative director Terry Wilson, and his eccentric peers. 

The novel can also be appreciated as a wonderful window into the culture of the advertising industry.  Then again, I’m not sure if the book will actually burnish the reputation of the industry, as it largely reinforces the notion of ad people being charismatic yet narcissistic wankers, but, well, it is what it is.

Underneath the surface of “Soul for Soul”, however, lies a much more profound meditation on art and the commercialization of creativity.  And this is where the book transcends mere page-turner status.

Advertising often appears to be a dream job.  In many ways it is.  There are few corporate career options for writers and artists.  Advertising allows people to sell their ideas in exchange for a comfortable existence.  And as the book frequently demonstrates, advertising people are almost universally entertaining and fun to hang out with.

Unfortunately, the price of patronage is the loss of control over your art.  So instead of directing a film or writing a novel, you’re sweating over a TV spot for a packaged-goods line extension.  And even if you manage to tell a compelling story or strike an emotional chord within the context of the assignment, odds are that your idea will be slowly and painful destroyed before your eyes as it travels through the endless layers of the approval and production process.

Over time, this process can have a corrosive effect on even the most confident of individuals.  This tension – between art and commerce, between purity and security – and what it does to a person, is at the heart of “Soul for Sale.”

Terry’s struggles – foremost among them his struggle for identity and self-value – are universal.  Are we, as individuals, better represented by our actions or by our intentions?   

If you must, read “Soul for Sale” in an attempt to find a dashingly handsome young management supervisor that somehow championed creative while wielding his superlative client handling skills.  Or better yet, dig a little deeper and you might just find some keen observations on the human condition.  Either way, you’re sure to enjoy it.

Buy “Soul for Sale” here.

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Please make sure that you visit The Hub Magazine to read my article on private label vs. national brands and then come back here if you have any comments or questions.  Here’s a preview:

When it comes to cultural trends, the only thing that Americans love more than embracing new ones is declaring the death of old ones. I’d use the wonderful phrase “jumped the shark” to describe this phenomenon (John Hein’s term for identifying the point where things pass their peak, named after the Happy Days episode in which a leather-jacket-clad Fonzie water skied over a shark), but in all honesty, “jumped the shark” itself jumped the shark quite a few years ago.

This phenomenon, however, isn’t just limited to cultural trends and television shows. Everything from political parties to media vehicles are constantly being declared “over.” Eight years ago, the Democrats were deemed irrelevant while today the Republicans are being declared D.O.A. Television was supposed to replace radio, while the internet was going to kill off newspapers. (Okay, that last one might still turn out to be true.)

One of the more notable occurrences during our Great Recession has been the explosive growth of private labels. Sales and purchase intent of private labels have been growing exponentially, with no end in sight. The temptation, naturally, is to seize upon this latest trend as a sign of the end of brands.

It’s a new era! Brands are dead! The age of brands is over!

I’m not so sure about that.

As a small child I would watch my father gather up a pile of dress shirts every weekend to drop-off at the dry cleaners.  They would return a few days later, neatly pressed, lightly starched, bagged and boxed.  It was magical.  Or so I thought.

As an adult I quickly embraced the dry cleaning culture.  Although I own an iron I’ve never actually used it at home (no ironing board, no desire).  Sometimes I use the iron in a hotel room, though.  I like to get my money’s worth (ironing boards are free in hotels).

Everyone already knows that dry cleaners rip-off women by charging them 5 times as much as men for cleaning their shirts.  Allegedly they “dry clean” female shirts which is more expensive than “laundering” men’s shirts – even though they’re made of the same material (cotton) and cut in the same shape.  Yeah, right.

Well, I’m here to call BS – but not just on the unfair female mark-up.  Here’s today’s not-so-crazy theory:

The unfair female mark-up at dry cleaners is a red herring.  The evil dry cleaning cabal created the female mark-up precisely to distract people from the real truth, which is:

There’s no such thing as dry cleaning.  It’s a myth.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  Those really are dry cleaning stores that you see littered all over the country.  And they really are taking your money for “cleaning” your clothes.  But they’re not actually cleaning them.  All they are doing is pressing them and putting them into toxic little bags.

Think about it.  The whole idea of cleaning is predicated on the idea that soap plus water equals clean.  The soap does the cleaning and the water gets rid of the soap.  Take the water out of that equation and you can’t rinse out the soap.  Take the soap out and you’re not actually cleaning anything.

So in effect, we pay people for plastic bags and cheap metal hangars.  It’s a pretty good scam.

In summary, there is no such thing as dry cleaning.  Perhaps if you’re looking to save a few bucks during these tough times might I recommend that you cut out your imaginary dry cleaning habit and just bring your wrinkled shirts to the nearest hotel for ironing?

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It occurred to me this weekend, after watching the film Music & Lyrics, that I have seen more Hugh Grant movies than any man rightfully should.  What makes this development particularly concerning is that I have watched hardly any movies in the last eight years since becoming a parent.  And yet, without even trying, I have absorbed most of Hugh’s oeuvre.

In fact, I’d estimate that between 10% and 20% of the movies that I’ve watched over the last eight years have involved Hugh Grant in some way shape or form.  There’s probably an outside chance that I am the foremost living expert on Hugh Grant.  And sometimes, late at night, when the rest of the world is fast asleep, I lie in bed and wonder what this says about me. 

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As a movie critic, I like to assess movies a simple rating based on their relative value.  Stars and numbers are far too arbitrary for a critic of my discerning tastes. 

Great movies are deemed theatre-worthy.  They are well worth the cost of entry plus the cost of refreshments and the cost of the babysitter.  For example, The Godfather is obviously theatre-worthy.  Citizen Kane is definitely theatre-worthy.  In Grantian terms, the sweet and delightful About a Boy is clearly theatre-worthy.

Good movies are deemed rental-worthy.  It’s much less of an investment, both in time and money, to truck down to your local rental store and pick up a movie.  I’ve even heard that people can now use the magic typing box to order rental movies that magically appear in your mailbox.  Hugh’s spot on portrayal of Daniel Cleaver in the Bridget Jones’s Diary film adaptation (first one only) is a good example of a movie that isn’t good enough to watch in the theatres but is good enough to spend $5 (plus late fees) on.

Most movies fall into the average category, otherwise known as the cable-worthy class.  Yes, you’re paying extra each month for HBO or Starz or Showtime but the cost is minimal and it’s built in to your cable bill.  Movies on pay seem free even though you are paying extra for them.  The nice thing about movies on pay cable is that they preserve the gratuitous cursing and nudity.  The aforementioned Music & Lyrics falls into this category, although it sadly did not include any gratuitous nudity from Drew Barrymore.

Bad movies are considered free TV-worthy, although the endless Frank TV commercials and on-screen graphics tend to spoil any minor pleasure that one might receive from free sub-par entertainment on TBS.  Even an actor as magnificent as Hugh Grant has worked on a few turkeys in his day.  The execrable Nine Months is a prime example of a Hugh Grant film that you wouldn’t want to pay anything to watch but might catch on the TV.  In fairness to Hugh, though, Tom Arnold was also in Nine Months and everyone knows that Tom Arnold is the kiss of death for any film.

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I’m puzzled why Hugh Grant isn’t a bigger star.  In my estimation he should probably be the biggest movie star living today.  He’s British, he’s handsome, he’s in great shape, he doesn’t look his 48 years, he can play funny or jerky and he can even sing a little.  He’s been in a ton of good to great movies and probably only 2 or 3 bombs.

Seriously, how could Elizabeth Hurley let a catch like Hugh Grant get away?  I can’t think of one bad thing, not a single misstep in the divine career of Hugh Grant.

I guess the ways of Hollywood will always remain a mystery to me, Hugh Grant’s #1 unintentional fanboy.

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