Project Mayhem

C’mon, for all the whining that goes on about how steroids is cheating and ruins the integrity of sports, has anyone stopped to consider that they just might be good for athletics?  Indeed, there’s a whole new niche just waiting to be discovered: The Supplemental Games, the ultimate extreme sports.

Don’t be naïve; regulators are never going to stop athletes from juicing anyway, given that blood doping is often undetectable.  And even if they do, somebody somewhere will come up with a way to beat it, so why not just legalize it? Under strict supervision of the American Medical Association, the MLB, NFL and NBA create spin-off leagues where “juicing” is an integral part of game strategy.

The Supplemental Games is the chance in a lifetime for average players who don’t have Shaq’s power, Reggie Bush’s speed or the endurance of Greg Maddux.  Now, no-name players like Domenik Hixon of the Giants, Brad Snyder of the Indians and Jason Maxiell of the Pistons can begin snagging multi-million-dollar endorsement deals, too, for brands like the Milk Advisory Board, because, of course, “It Does a Body Good.”

Seriously, aren’t you a bit tired of hearing about Kobe, A-Rod, Tom Brady and the likes?  Wouldn’t it be great to finally root for somebody other than the typical cast of stars who were dealt a winning genetic hand at birth?  Yes, The Supplemental Games would be a victory for Average Joe’s everywhere.  Steroids would do for the average guy in sports what Viagra did for the average guy in bed.  Now everyone’s a hero. Grab your bats, gentlemen, and let’s play ball!

In an industry where careers have such short lifespans, it’s time to move over and give average guys a chance.  Average guys like me, for instance…  I was always good in sports, but not great; good enough to make the team, but not good enough to start.  While the stars got all the glory – and the girls – all I managed to pick up was eight stitches on my lip while serving as a tackling dummy. (Till today, I swear I got them while scoring the game-winning touchdown.)

Now, instead of sitting on the sidelines for a good part of their careers, average players become superstars — or supped-up stars — with advanced abilities, bigger paychecks, more fame, and the admiration of fans.

And the athletes aren’t the only winners.  Brands that had no place in sports are now center stage.  Instead of Gatorade Jugs on the sidelines, the multi-billion-dollar steroid industry has its own “Juicing Stations.” Take a little hit; hop back on the mound and fire a 108 MPH fastball … in the eighth inning!   And because of the juiced-up nature of the games, entire new structures will need to be built to house the required new stadium dimensions: 140-yard football fields, 13-foot-high basketball rims, 110-feet gaps between bases, titanium bats, etc.  That puts even more people to work.

New sponsors will undoubtedly sprout up to proudly display their names on the side of buildings, such as Anabolic Park and BALCO Field. And ad-income will soar with the influx of creative new advertisers: “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up … but as long as I’m down here I’m cranking out 20!”

That all sounds good, you say, but what about the record books and the embarrassing disclaimers next to the athletic accomplishments?  No worries.  After all, it’s the Supplemental Games, we embrace our heritage.  Our noted Hall of Fame building would be called “The Asterisk” and would be an extension to the Cleveland Clinic, just down the road from Canton.  And speaking of the Hall of Fame, steroids would even give us back our favorite retired athletes.  Cal Ripken, Joe Montana, Larry Bird, all the babies who cried during their retirement speeches can now come back to shatter their own records.  Imagine the turnout on game day!

Hmmmm … this sounds so good that maybe even I’ll come out of retirement.

So here it is my first blog. Or maybe flog as it’s about fashion and the art (or not) of selling things. The Project Mayhem boys said they thought a female voice would be a good addition so I’m gonna break up all the talk of football and online dating with the serious stuff, like shopping. In January this year £4.5 billion was spent online shopping in the UK. Now I don’t know how much of that was on fashion but what I do know is that online clothes shopping is a whole lot more fun that trudging around the shops. A visit to the much-hyped new 17,000 square ft Banana Republic Store on Regent Street last week reminded me why I hate shopping for clothes on the high street so much. It shouldn’t be this difficult to buy a pair of basic black trousers. The store superficially looks good – it’s built in the old Dickens and Jones store and is airy with a great central staircase - but no-one appears to have actually  considered what the shopping and brand experience might be like for a customer. The sizing’s invisible – after checking the labels in the back of 15 pairs of trousers for some in my size (none, they had sizes 0-8 ) I had a minor strop and left them all in a pile. A dress that looked promising was available in only 2 sizes. Ditto 15  shirts in small or er, extra small. Goodie. There are few mirrors anywhere to do the  ‘holding it up to your face thing’ we women like doing and not a salesperson in sight. I gave up and walked out, feeling disappointed and more than a bit annoyed. I was surprised to discover that Banana Republic is owned by Gap who has suffered dwindling sales in recent years – the distinctly un-user friendly design of the Regent Street store is not going to help customers part with their cash. Most of the problems are really not difficult to fix, it just seems that no-one bothered to take a walk in the customer’s shoes.

Compare this with the anticipation of an online order and then the delicious delivery of clothes in your size, delivered 2 days later, beautifully wrapped where you can mess about at home to your heart’s content deciding whether to keep them or not. I live by the 2 week rule – if I haven’t worn it in that time then it’s likely I’m not going to and back it goes. Best of the bunch in my opinion are figleaves.com, net-a-porter.com and ASOS.com.  A lot has been made of the future of (fashion) retail and giving the customer a  brand experience but no stroppy sales girl, badly lit changing room and 10-deep queue can ever compare with ordering swimwear from the comfort of your sofa. Whilst eating a biscuit.

Until next time.

 Claire

If you’ve read this author’s posts with any regularity (and for a moment, let’s just humor me, shall we?), you know that I’m a big fan of research.  Love it, love it, love it.  Research drives insight and strategy.  Research informs and illuminates.  Research clarifies and coalesces.  But research doesn’t replace your gut.  I’ve said it many times –  Numbers are like people: Torture them enough and they’ll tell you anything you want.  For all the good that research does, research can also be limiting.  Take a look at the video below.  Yeah, laughed my ass off when I first saw it – but holy cow, it was spot-on.  How many great ideas have gone into the circular file because the research – focus groups or otherwise – made the decisions for us? 

Listen, I understand that in business, you never want to make a decision without having all the information.  You not only want to make an informed call, but you want – and often need – to cover your ass in case things go south.  But – and this is a salient point – it’s YOUR call.  Not the research, not the focus group, not the numbers.  YOU.  The research is awesome – but its not smarter than you.  You need to own the research, not vice-versa.  We all need to get all the research we can get our hands on, weigh the pros & cons and ask the advice and opinions of trusted colleagues – but we also need to trust in ourselves and in others. 

xoxo
Marc

…in the series of “the coolest things that marc has ever seen”…

Before I begin, you have to remember that my partner in crime, Jeremy, is a lot older than me.  A LOT.  Jeremy was alive when the Dead Sea was just sick.  I’ve seen younger faces on money.  And me?  Well, I’m a spry late-thirty-ish kid – albeit with the body of a 55-year-old and the sexual maturity of a Bar Mitzvah boy.  OK, now that the stage is set, let’s get to the heart of the matter, shall we…?

As I age – and in this industry, its blatantly obvious with all the whipper-snappers roaming the halls – I’ve begun to wonder how my lifestage will impact my creativity.  There are two sides to the argument (well, more than two, I’m sure, but hey – we’ve got bandwidth issues):

We Get Less Creative As We Age.  Someone much smarter than me once said that every kid gets a box of crayons, and slowly loses them over time.  The older we get, the more cynical we become.  As the realities of the “real world” descend upon us, our imagination shrinks.  Our ability to suspend disbelief is diminished.  Every “no,” every “can’t,” every “impossible” contributes to casting a longer, darker shadow over our creativity.  And it doesn’t stop there.   Too often, our clients construct a bubble of “never-woulds” from which we constantly try to escape.  As David Byrne once said, “I can feel my lifetime piling up.”  How could we NOT become less creative?

We Get More Creative As We Age.  Oliver Wendal Holmes said, “A mind, stretched by a new idea, never returns to its original dimensions.” The key to creativity is inspiration, and the older we get, the more inspiration sources become available to us.  Exposure to travel, art, literature, science, communities – these can each inspire creativity.  New landscapes, new horizons.  Every interaction, every engagement.  Each challenge, each accomplishment.  They’re all opportunities to be inspired, and to inspire others.  And hey – let’s not forget the failures (in my case, it would be nearly impossible, but try to stay with me).  The more we learn, the more we’re exposed to the new, the more we embrace the unexpected – the more creative we become.  Nothing’s better than a well of inspiration filled to the brim.

So, the answer:  Well, I believe we get more creative as we age.  I understand, of course, that this conclusion may seem self-serving.  But personally, I’m a lot more creative than I was last year.  Or last month.  Or yesterday.  But the secret is ALWAYS striving for better creative work.  Because you DO have to fight cynicism and negativity.  You DO have to battle mediocrity and complacency.  And you don’t have to journey far – but you DO have to constantly view the world through new eyes.  And that, my friends, is the heart and soul of creativity.

xoxo

Marc

I am 47 years old. I have never been married. I have never lived with a girl. I am not gay. What I am is a human oddity, a drooling side-show freak in the relationship circus.

“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen; see the human azygos, the mateless mutant of more than 40 years! See the relationship reject as he caroms from female to female; dumping those who love him and being dumped by those he loves. Listen in horror as he describes his tragic love tales like never before unveiled. Tell your married friends! It is an experience They. Will. Never. Forget.”

“What’s wrong?” people ask innocently upon discovering my still-single status. “I mean, you’re such a great guy,” they quickly add, catching themselves.

I used to be embarrassed by the question, stumbling through the answer. “Well, you know, I’ve dated a lot, you know, but it’s just never worked out, you know.”

No, they don’t.

Single year after single year, I have slowly devolved into the relationship equivalent of the Elephant Boy. People at dinner parties whisper and stare when I enter. They turn their heads when I glance their way, avoiding eye contact for fear this socially paralyzed form might approach them. I proclaim my normalcy as I slog my way toward their frightened cliques, howling indignantly, “I … am not … an animal!”

Okay, so given that playing field, where does one 47-year-old guy with a 30-year-old attitude go to find a woman? If you say, “online dating services,” I will club a baby seal, I swear. Online dating is like eating a T.V. dinner; the box has this awesome photo on it along with masterful descriptions: “country-style gravy and tender meat morsels.” But, when you open it up, it’s nothing like you imagined. It’s cold, frozen … ordinary. You try to heat it up, stir it around, add a little this, add a little that, but it’s still freeze-dried, preprocessed wannabe food.

Same with online dating.

Because there are no regulations when it comes to online dating services, the participants are free to place whatever photo and corresponding description they so choose. A colleague of mine went out with a guy once that she met through Match.com and she said the only similarity he had with his photo was that he was male … she thinks. When it comes to online dating services, there are more men and women filling out false reports than steroid-using ballplayers. Where’s the regulation, man?

Online services should do what baseball-card manufacturer Upper Deck did years ago. To prove the authenticity of each piece of its memorabilia, the company places a hologram seal on the item which certifies that Upper Deck personally investigated and confirmed its authenticity. The only way you get the hologram is if Upper Deck’s people approve it. They should do the same for online dating services.

You say you’re only 39? Cool - we’ll just have our investigation team confirm that information and slap a hologram on your profile. Oooops, whoa, sorry, dude, there’s a problem here. Yes, your age is correct … eight years ago! No hologram for you, gramps. And stay away from the college campus!

Oh, I see, miss, you say that photo is a recent one? Excellent. Waaiiiit a minute, honey, it appears that photo was taken before you started hijacking shipments of Haagen Dazs. No hologram for you either.

C’mon, online dating world, help us thwart online dating fraud. I’m tired of frozen dinners.

My name is Jeremy Baka and I approved this message.

I hate the word creative. In fact, I hate people who say they’re creative. Okay, hate’s a strong word; I abhor people who say they’re creative.

So many people are touting creativity these days that saying “I’m creative,” is like saying, “I have a lung.” The word creative has been so thoroughly beaten it means about as much as “hero” or “green.” Media tag people as heroes for doing everything from picking up trash in their neighborhood to returning a wallet to its rightful owner. [Note: That is not being a hero that is being a citizen.]

The 60s, man, now those were creative days. (Watch the series Madmen. Crazy mothers. No-holds-barred creative.) What I like best about that era was that the creative was so, so … simple. No fancy tech-gadget-this, or wireless-that, just … simple. Twister: That was creative. But it took Eva Gabor playing it against Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show for it to really take off. Chia Pet was cool … and Rockem Sockem Robots … and my Uncle Joe.

Uncle Joe, that guy had it. He was creative, man. But, he never said he was creative, you just knew it. He was a natural. He ran a photography studio and survived only by the wave of teens coming in during high school picture season. The rest of the time, he invented ways for us to have fun.

One year, he shows up with two dozen M-80s. Hell, just getting his hands on those things was creative … in October(!). The first couple he fired them up, threw them in the air and, BLAM! Cool, but not cool enough.

You could always tell when Uncle Joe was churning something around in his head. While all of us kids were jumping around celebrating the last explosion, he had a glazed look on his face like he had just dropped acid. He was hosting an internal brainstorm. The next thing you know he’s clanking, clinking, clanging around in the basement. Then, suddenly, here he comes with a six-foot-long steal pipe and a sledge hammer. Nice! He pounded that sucker in the ground at about a 45-degree angle, dropped in an M-80 followed by a small stone and – PHOOM-ZING! – a canon. Awesome! But there was more…

Same pipe, drop in an M-80 followed by a drumstick from an old set of drums and – PHOOM-SHOO! – a rocket launcher. Toss a Frisbee with an M-80 firmly Duck Taped to the top and –WHIP-BLAM! – a mid-air collision. Hang an M-80 from a string two inches above a bucket of water and – BALOOOSH! – a humanless cannonball. Place an M-80 under an upside down bowl with a baseball on top and – BOOF-WOOSH! – a sky-high pop up. (He had outfitted three of us with baseball gloves, but we still missed it.) Okay, it’s October, you had to know it was coming: put an M-80 in a pumpkin and – PAHWP! – pumpkin pie! Everywhere.

We worked our way through 18 of the 24 M-80s, but our zealousness for creative blew up in our faces, so to speak, when I convinced him that the doll I handed him was an old one of my sisters that my Mom had already thrown away. With my sister watching in horror from her bedroom window, Chatty Cathy underwent instant open-heart surgery, M-80 style – PHWAP!

That shut us down for the day.

Uncle Joe ultimately replaced the doll, however, bringing it over to the house … along with four balsawood propeller planes and a cache of firecrackers.

– Jeremy

Waiiiit a minute. Hold on. Stop. What the f*&%??!

That’s what I said while watching what turned out to be a commercial for Always minipads or maxipads, or whatever, by Proctor and Gamble. My Tivo was on the blink so I was doing what I always do when commercials come on – reading. Then, suddenly, Boom!, there it was: Have a happy period. I could almost here the crash of the collective number of shoes women were flinging at TV screens all across America. Are you kidding me — a happy period? Whoa! That takes balls. (Pardon the gender jump.)

So, here’s a quiz: Select from the options below the answer that best describes the person responsible for coming up with the idea that a woman’s period is “happy”:

¨ A 90-year-old woman who was so beyond her period she considered it a blessing to have ever of had one … whatever or whenever it was.

¨ An English professor looking to raise awareness about the lost art of punctuation.

¨ A 35-year old creative director at one of the most prestigious ad agencies in the world. (Hint: He is a he.)

For all those who picked the third one, congratulations, you have just won an epidural-free birthing process, complete with your own Bedazzler!

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, from Leo Burnett, the renowned ad agency that brought you the likes of the Marlboro Man, the Pillsbury Doughboy, Tony the Tiger and the Jolly Green Giant comes the happy period, the Jolly Period, if you will.

[Note to creative dude at Leo Barnett: Please read “The Female Brain” by Dr. Louann Brizendine. Okay, at least read Chapter Two: Teen Girl Brain. It’s about what happens to a girl’s entire body when she experiences a period. C’mon, man, if you’re going to promote it, you have to know it. That would be like asking the Pope to write a book on “How to Pick Up Chicks”.]

Yes, I think we’ve all seen the mock letter that some woman supposedly sent to Proctor and Gamble ripping them on their ad, but since this blog is supposed to be about being creative, I chose instead to use this as an opportunity to once again say: Do not force a creative approach or idea. Don’t fall in love with something just because it’s yours or just because it’s different. It has to make sense. Otherwise, what you have is a really cool, innovative, groundbreaking and completely ineffective concept.

Now, I’m sure the good folks at Leo focus tested the crap out of this ad and had good cause to run with it, so I only have one comment and it goes out to the ladies in the focus groups: In the words of Jay Leno, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING??? My God, if we let creative run irrelevantly rampant like this, think about what other erroneous tag lines we could soon be forced to endure:

Charmin: Have a great one.

Imodium D: Shit happens.

Preparation H: For Hemorrhoids on Steroids.

Exlax: Life is a bowl

Compound W: Beauty is only skin deep.

Pampers: Good things come in small packages.

– Jeremy

I received absolutely devastating news via email last night. I mean, devastating news – the kind of crushing information that makes you sit and ponder how cruel the world can be; questioning our very own chance for survival. This news came in the form of e-vite to my 30^th–year class reunion. Are you kidding me? I have officially been out of high school longer than nearly everyone with whom I work has been on Earth. And that, I tell you, is major suckage. “So, you graduated in 1978?” mused one of the 20-somethings at work, “Huh, that’s the year my parents got married.” Bitch.I am mixed about going back. Do I really want to see 47-year old versions of the young, vibrant, hopeful souls I knew back in the day? And think about the posturing… “I don’t want to go back, “said, my buddy, Jeff, a twice divorced high school friend of mine who has filed for bankruptcy two times in his life. “I, mean, I’m actually worse off than I was in high school.” When trying to console him about his many accomplishments, Jeff countered, “Thanks, dude, but at my age Lincoln was holding the Union together.”I am one of the people who make up the 75 million Baby Boomers in the U.S and 375 million more around the world. Every 7.5 seconds, a Boomer turns 50. If the purchasing power of this group in the U.S. alone were a GNP, it would be the size of Spain. But, there’s a problem, I am a Boomer only by birth. Here’s why:

The point is, you can’t just market to a group. (You can, but then you’re missing guys like me. And I spend.) In today’s marketing, a one-size-fit-all approach is best left for the spandex shorts section at WallMart. Successful marketers will be those who go beyond carpet-bombing communications and orchestrate a more laser-guided approach to audience dialogue.

In other words, that beer-drinkin’, bar brawlin’ good ole boy in the South might have the same political and philosophical beliefs as the Crystal drinkin’, thousand-dollar-dinner-a-night Wall Street boy, but try talking to them the same way and they’ll shut you down faster than my response to my 30-year class reunion invite.

– Jeremy

I’ve just invented my own word: dodzi. Well, actually, my nephew created it. One of the first words he learned was doggie, but it came out “dodzi.” Unfortunately, however, his limited vocabulary ensured that everything was a dodzi: a horse was a dodzi, a car was a dodzi, his brother was a dodzi, his … well, you know, was a dodzi. Anything and everything was a dodzi.

Dodzi, therefore, means, “Anything that is overused, generic or familiar to the point of being meaningless.” Consider dodzi my one-word expression of things that have jumped the shark … twice.

The word “creative,” for example, is dodzi, so is “unique.” Quoting Einstein, Aristotle, Roosevelt or Churchill is dodzi. Producing a colored bracelet or ribbon to represent your social cause is dodzi. Reality TV: definitely dodzi. Images of politicians attending a religious service: dodzi. The latest food, pill, beverage, herb, commodity, chemical or behavior that now causes (or prevents) cancer is dodzi. Athletes on steroids is dodzi. Celebrities in rehab is dodzi. Celebrities involved in the latest causes are dodzi. Award shows: dodzi. MySpace is dodzi. Corrupt CEOs (Redundant?) are dodzi. U.S. automakers complaining about fair trade is dodzi. The Clintons and Bushs: dodzi. Stories about clever Super Bowl ads are dodzi. OJ is dodzi. Hearing about the space station is dodzi. Evoking JFK comparisons during every election is dodzi. In fact, books about JFK are dodzi. Lying under oath is dodzi. Harry Potter is dodzi. Car chases on the news are dodzi. The world “like” is a dodzi. American Idol and stories about the winners and loser is dodzi. Diet books, drinks, pills, food are dodzi. Boxing is dodzi. Energy-saving light bulbs are dodzi, as is “Green living.” Sports analysts are dodzi. Hot teachers sleeping with their students: dodzi. Starbucks is dodzi. “The Simpsons” is dodzi. China is dodzi. SUVs are dodzi.

At this point, dodzi is getting dodzi. Anybody got any others?

– Jeremy