Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor...or maybe not. →

Give me your tired your poor …. well not really.

Earlier this week, due to an executive order by our new president, one of my freelance jobs, to create an identity for a refugee resettlement initiative, was put on hold, maybe indefinitely. It has hit home in a very real way.  Since then, it has only gotten worse.  An order was made to ban entry into the United States for citizens from seven Muslim-majority countries.  Families who had waited over a decade to gain entry and had all the proper documentation were turned away or sent back. 

Our country is definitely in a state. Filled with legitimately extreme feelings. Fear, confusion, disgust, and despair.  But at the same time there is a new intensity and solidarity filled with a sense of urgency, hope, inspiration and motivation. This country may be divided but within those divisions lives the need for belonging and the drive to make things better. To hold onto the rights and values that make us the advanced beings we are…human beings.

People are showing up, coming out, and taking a stand. In ways they never have before. I know this because I am one of them.

Never having marched in a protest before, (I should be embarrassed to admit) I was out the day after inauguration at the Women’s March. It was so peaceful and friendly and the signs being carried were brilliant and even funny. The day, the experience and the speakers were moving. What I have noticed most was our young population. They are passionate. Their hearts are open. It is wonderful to see.

This week there was a protest outside the hotel where the GOP was having a leadership retreat, to peacefully communicate uneasiness with this new administration on many levels. The streets outside were filled with peaceful crowds. Only days later 1000's boarded trains and airport shuttles to protest the detention and rejection of immigrants who hold current visas and green cards. 

But what next? What do we do next? 

I have called my senators asking them not to confirm cabinet nominees who are frightfully unqualified and I will send or share emails and letters and messages to convey that freedom of speech, civil rights, racial equality, and women’s and LGBT rights still matter and always will and that generations have fought for these rights to be upheld. 

But it doesn’t seem like enough.  With each passing day, the headlines, the executive orders, the alternate facts coming at us with rapid fire and the promise of more and more of this type of behavior in the oval office is beyond unsettling.

So what can we do? What must we do? We mustn’t be quiet or complacent. We can’t just go back to our day-to-day lives hoping it will all settle down. Of course, we have to put one foot in front of the other, go to work, go to school, love our families and friends and support differences of opinion and diversity in all areas of our lives. But most of all we have to hold onto hope to remain strong and active.

I read a book once, called the Audacity of Hope written by someone who inherited a big mess in a big job and despite relentless resistance did his best to clean it up. He is now on a much needed vacation but I HOPE he resurfaces soon in a capacity to share more of his wisdom and lead again.

For now, we must stand together, holding hands, heads held high, and move forward… keep moving forward.

Is a little bit of fit better than none?

On the eve of resolutions, I misplaced my second fitbit. I should say lost because I’ve looked everywhere and it is never to be found again. It was a holiday gift, undeserving I suppose, since I couldn’t seem to hold onto it. While it was in my possession, however, I truly enjoyed it. Initially it surprised me to discover I was on the move more than I thought. My gym visits had diminished from 4 or 5 a week to 2 and my binge watching of mini-series had increased along with the requisite snacking. So the fitbit was affirming and motivating.

I have always preferred individual sports with one opponent; me. So I started keeping track and trying to outdo myself, ever so slightly, on a regular basis. And it worked. Eventually I was up from 10,000 steps to 12,000, and then 15 and was feeling very proud. My dog was happier because he came along on those counting step walks and I had less time to binge watch and binge eat. All good.

Needless to say, I didn’t use the fitbit for the umpteen applications offered other than  notification I was receiving a call and yet I was checking it 5 or 600 times a day. I did feel it was becoming another tech distraction from more important things in life.

Alas, it matters not. I am now without it. Back to my old ways. Trying to stay active in this sedentary screen-seductive society.

And I wonder. Does standing while you watch “The Crown” count? Does balancing on one foot as you peruse the pantry or frig for something to eat get you any points? Does wearing workout attire while you sit at the kitchen table surfing sales accrue at least a little credit?

Is a little bit of fit better than none?

Post Mad Men; Pre-Now: The human side of creative.

Growing up in traditional advertising gave me a false sense of what it meant to work. It was too much fun. Sure, there were deadlines to meet and a lot of rejection., internally and by the client. Round one was often dead before you knew it and by the time round three or four was approved, the strongest campaign was often  long gone. But with all the criticism and rushing, there was time. Time to think, time to talk, and time to collaborate. 

Large agencies looked at "Creatives" as the lovable weirdos who produced the product they needed to deliver to the clients. We were protected. Secretaries proofed and typed the final copy and account people acted as a buffer between creative teams and clients until the campaign was cooked enough to present.

 In my experience, advertising  was one of the few businesses that welcomed people with undiagnosed ADD, OCD, and a garden variety of neuroses.  We were known to have to pace, work in different environments, take a lot of breaks, arrive late, and stay late, while using all of life for inspiration. Sporting events, art exhibits, news, public debate, food, travel, a walk in the woods, underwater exploration, wine tastings, bake-offs and takeoffs. Everything was research. Nothing was irrelevant.  

 We were a bunch of chameleons, a club of curious misfits, party animals and malcontents of the best kind.  The ability to empathize with the target audience or, better still, embody that person or group, was key for creatives.  

Once I became an associate creative director the layers of protection thinned and the business side of advertising became more apparent. I had to attend meetings that wasted as much time as they used. Control was the key. With more responsibility came more client contact which meant more massaging and more diplomacy.  I had to push junior creatives to go the extra mile and come up with better ideas, on time. Much of the fun was gone. I guess it was called growing up.

But I'll always have fond memories of that first job as a copywriter at one of the Interpublic Agencies in New York . And I'll always be thankful to my immediate boss, the Irish Poet, Peter Murphy, may he rest in peace, and Andy Langer and Marshall Carp, the agency creative directors, who set the tone and taught me well. 

Print is alive and well.

All I did was stretch.

I looked up from my computer screen to roll my neck and give my eyes a rest and noticed the New York Times pile on the kitchen table. Hanging on my wall straight ahead was a Barnes Museum calendar and to the left was our magnet-covered refrigerator. The Chex Cereal box had been left out, with all its familiar logos, ingredients lists, and that classic photo of a spoonful of Chex with a luscious splash of milk. 

As my eyes moved down the countertop, I saw the usual pile of unopened mail including several promotional postcards, invitations, Sports Illustrated, a brochure from a tree company and the Free People catalogue.

In a three second span I had experienced 12 print exposures and all I had done was stretch. Never even took a step.

Whoever thinks print is dead has got to think again. How many bus shelters and window posters do you pass in one city block? Is the closest park filled with flyers attached to poles and kiosks? Do you ever see people carrying shopping bags or coffee cups? What about real estate signs on buildings, store awnings, movie posters, restaurant menus, political signs, and class schedules? It’s endless.

We are still inundated daily with print messages. Over the last decade and a half, digital and social has made the landscape that much more exciting, complex, and busy for the average consumer. But print healthily marches on. And when it’s allowed to breath free, it can be truly timeless.

Enjoy these exceptional ads. I surely did.

http://www.creativebloq.com/inspiration/print-ads-1233780

Retail with a side of Schmaltz.

When I think about visiting my Grandfather’s hardware store as a kid, with my brother and sisters, it conjures up so many memories. Running in and out the front door, over and over again, to hear the bell marking our entrance and exit. Smelling paint being mixed to match one of hundreds of color swatches displayed on the lit wall. Hearing wood being cut for shelving, furniture, fences, and treehouses. And breathing in the scents of mulch and fertilizer that wafted through the aisles. 

The cash register drawer would ding upon closing and we’d look up. There she was, smiling down at us. Our real Russian Polish Jewish Grandma, Yiddish accent and all, behind the checkout counter with her perfectly polished long red nails and stiffly teased hair as if she’d just come from the beauty parlor. She would motion to us to come closer, reaching over the counter with a fistful of butterscotch hard candies or lollipops. Then she would send us on our way, warning “Don’t with those in your mouths.”

And then there were the warm greetings from everyone who worked there. Smiles, one armed hugs, pats on the head, as we made our way toward the back of the store.

The staff knew us from photos in my grandfather’s office, even if we didn’t know them. It made us feel like royalty. 

Most of the older sales women wore shoes with slanted laces and thicker than thick soles, the likes of which I’d never seen before. They squeaked with each step on the immaculately shiny linoleum tile floor. I loved to walk behind them, timing my steps with theirs, counting the squeaks.

This was not your typical down and dirty, saw dusty hardware store. My grandfather had had one of those first. I loved visiting that one too. But here, the aisles were long and gleaming, the shelves impeccably tidy and organized. This one was a state of the art modern version, long before giants like Home Depot and Loews came on the scene. Still, with all the newness, it had a warm family feel to it.

Good service was paramount to my Grandfather. If a customer couldn’t find what they needed he would get it by the next day and make sure it was delivered to their door. He’d constantly remind us, “The customer is always right. It’s up to us to give them a reason to come back here instead of going somewhere else.”

 The people who worked for him stayed for years and years. Even their kids came to work for him. He considered the staff his extended family, listening to their problems, offering help whenever possible. As long as they were honest and hard working, he would support them. He took many of them under his wing to teach them how to run a department or a business.

Trudy wore those cool squeaky shoes. She had worked there forever. Inevitably she would be the one to round us up and whisper, “Your grandfather is waiting for you. You know where he is.”

And we knew just what to do. Head for the inner sanctum. This was by far the best part. There was a secret door in the back of the store, cut into a pegboard wall that was filled with tools. It was the gateway to heaven. Behind it was a secret set of stairs leading up to a long hallway of offices that overlooked the selling floor. Only certain people were allowed up there, at least that’s what our grandfather told us. You had to be in the inner circle and we definitely were. Talk about special. 

Before reaching the top of the stairs, we could smell the half sour pickles, pastrami, corned beef and turkey specials on rye with cole slaw and russian dressing. And of course the knishes. Just in case there wasn’t enough food, there were also kosher knockwurst smeared with Guldens spicy mustard, piled high with sour kraut, all ordered in from Katz’s for our special private lunch.

My grandfather never ate more than half a sandwich. “You can’t think when you’re too full”, he’d say. Meanwhile each half was the size a cow. We felt like we were breaking our jaws biting into them. Before we could make a dent in them, he’d say said, “Okay, you finished? Save it for later. We have work to do!”, shooing us back downstairs but never before he gave us each a squeeze. We would be sent off to “help out” on the floor, each to a different department. “Now pay attention, I’ll be asking you questions later,” he’d instruct. “Oh no, a test,” I’d think to myself. And off we would go.

I still miss him. I miss my grandmother’s amazing warmth, delicious cooking, and soft touch. In fact I have often missed that wonderful feeling that came with being their grandchild. But I am so glad my first exposure to retail was through those   visits to my grandfather’s store. So simple, yet so layered in messages and memories.

And always with a side of chicken fat and a lot of love.

Insta-Christmas

Ready in ten.

Recently, I visited the Good Tidings showroom filled with glittering Christmas trees of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some were pine coned and berried, others were snow dusted, still others stood in pots or urns, perfect for your table top or entryway.

I had no idea there were so many different types of artificial trees. And no idea how real they could look. Most were the classic “A” shape, but there were also slims and indexed shaped (with branches further apart for easier ornamentation) trees. There were even some without backs for small spaces or to put against a wall.

I always thought artificial trees were a travesty. How could anyone use such a thing? What about choosing the outdoor tree, strapping it to the roof of your car, scratching your floor with it, watering it as the needles fall off, dragging it outside to dispose of it at the end of the season. What about all that? Once I opened my eyes, I began to understand the appeal of the manmade tree. They are truly environmentally responsible. Think of all the millions of trees that have been spared? And, the fact that they can be stored and reused, year after year, saves families around the world a lot of money. Money that can be spent on a turkey and gifts for the kids.  

Most trees come in two or three pieces, all tidy and pre-lit in a recyclable box. It only takes five or ten minutes to snap them together. Do a little fluffing, throw on some fun ornaments, add the aromatic pine sticks and voilá, you are good to go. It’s an insta- hypoallergenic magical miracle.

Ready to capture on instagram.

I was now a believer.

Grace after Halloween

Grace after Halloween.  A telemarketing trick or treat?  

Still in that foggy stupor from eating too much of the “extra so we won’t run out” candy we bought, I answered the phone, even though I didn’t recognize the number. My judgment was off.  I should’ve known better. Especially since it was the eve of election day, when campaign calls come in one after another.

But I said hello and a very nice woman asked me if I had enjoyed the showing of Speed and Precision by the Pennsylvania Ballet Company last weekend. Without hesitation I answered enthusiastically “Yes! Very much so. The company looked really great.” 

She responded, ”Well if you liked that, they’re only going to get better and we have a wonderful deal for you so you can enjoy more performances throughout the year.” Normally, at that point, I would have said,” thanks, but no thanks”, and hung up but instead I embarked on a lively conversation with Grace. Yes, she told me her name and that she was from New York but had been to Philadelphia many times and to the Barnes Foundation at its original location. “We used to live right near there I told my new stranger friend.”

We went on to discuss the new artistic director, Angel Corella, and his ABT influence, the upcoming Don Quixote, the Balanchine pieces, so rarely seen, and the Jerome Robbins show. “Didn’t he choreograph West Side Story?” I asked. “Of course!” answered Grace and then offered me the best seats in the house, to any three performances of my choice. I felt so lucky.

I had been entertaining buying season tickets this year but hadn’t gotten around to it. And here she was, doing all the work and research for me. So, I chose. I even added on so my kids could join us at Don Quixote. It was at that point I remembered I was cooking striped bass on the grill and exclaimed, “Oh no! My fish!” Grace was nice enough to wait for me to flip my fish. She even put up with the dog playing with his loud squeaky toy in the background. So patient. Through all of this, never once did I wonder how Grace knew I had been to the Pennsylvania Ballet Company last weekend.

And suddenly it was done. I was now a season ticket holder with excellent seats to three upcoming ballets at two different theatres.  When the sugar worked its way out of my system, I thought, “ What happened? Who is Grace?”  It all seemed like a dream. Hopefully our tickets will arrive as promised and the pricey ballets will seem like a dream come true. 

Count the ways?

How can I contact you, let me count the ways?

Better yet, you count.

There are so many ways to get in touch, to be in touch, to stay in touch. Is it possible we are losing touch ­­­­­— with ourselves, with others? In marketing and our personal lives. I know I’m not the first to be asking. 

Countless social media platforms offer endless ways for marketers to disseminate information, speak to, and guide potential consumers. But how much of the growth of social media and use of it over the last decade has been proven to be good? Forcommerce? For humanity. Clearly two different questions.

Will the viral spread of sound, word and picture nibbles, in such shorthand, ultimately interfere with all human ability to focus and take thoughtful action? Will it cause a paralyzing state of confusion and distraction? What is it doing to brand loyalty? Are we spiraling out of control?

Just wondering.

An article caught my attention yesterday titled “Top 52 Social Media Platforms Every Marketer Should Know”. They are broken into 3 categories–platforms for networking, platforms for promoting, and platforms that help you share.  

Here’s the link: Take a look. See what you think. 
http://60secondmarketer.com/blog/2010/04/09/top-52-social-media-platforms/

In the meantime, I’m going to lie down.