Showing posts with label copywriting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label copywriting. Show all posts

May 6, 2015

ADVERTISING, RESTRAINTS & THE TOOTH FAIRY


     I left the field of advertising (I was a copywriter) when I determined that wracking my brain to come up with catchy names for lard and tampons was one of the most ridiculous things a grown-up person can do for a living. 


 Here’s a small vignette, by way of demonstration:

HE:  How was work today, dear?  What did you do?

SHE:  Oh, I spent two hours of my finite existence naming toilet bowl cleaner.  How does “Flushy Brushy” grab you?

HE:  I don’t really understand it.  I think it needs revision. (“HE” peels off his human facemask revealing . . . gasp . . . the client!)

SHE:  You!

HE:  Yes!  Yes, it’s me!  And I’ll keep on throwing this copy back in your teeth until I get what I want!  I don’t know what I want, but this isn’t it!  “Flushy Brushy” is way too cerebral!  The average consumer will never understand it.

SHE:  What about “Potty Clean”?

HE:  Where do you get your ideas, anyway?  The city dump?  That stinks!  (HE pauses)  Hey!  I’ve got it!  “Stink-Away”!  Whaddya think?

SHE:  Yeah, boy.  That sure has class-A mass-market appeal.


The product is released and consumers go wild, snatching up every tin of Stink-Away they can find.  Then they all run, with pitchforks and torches, to sprinkle it all over their local advertising agency.

         That’s pretty much the way things go.  The real payoff was that I was continually subjected to copy direction from a man who thought “comma” was spelled “coma.” (a state into which he would have fallen, had idle wishing proved productive).

The funniest thing that ever occurred during my tenure was the company picnic, attended by two dozen advertising executives standing around, trying to figure out how to have a good time at a function that they couldn’t bill to the clients. 

Should any of you still be considering a career in the field of advertising, even after reading this far, I shall now include the first six lessons from The Ad Man’s Primer (which I just made up).

LESSON #1 – The Ad Man

See the Ad Man

See him thinking.

Think, Ad Man, think,

See him get nervous.

He chews his nails.

He tears his hair.

He gulps Maalox.

And it’s only 8:00 in the morning!


LESSON #2 – New Employees

See the New Employee.

See her smiling face.

She is happy.

This will not last.

She does not chew her nails.

She does not tear her hair.

She does not gulp Maalox.

The other employees are not sure

Whether she is dead

Or on drugs.


LESSON #3 – The Art Director

See the Art Director

He flits from here to there.

He worries about color

And amount of copy.

He talks funny.

He adores antiques.

He wears tight silk pants.

He works part time

For the Tooth Fairy.


LESSON #4 – The Account Executive

See the man panic.

Panic, man, panic.

This is the Account Executive.

He is called “A.E.” for short,

Though others have four-letter names for him, too.

He browbeats The Copywriter.

He makes The Art Director cry.

He “suggests” changes

While he holds a stick

With a nail in it.

He “points things out.”

He “asks for clarification.”

He never comes right out

And says, “Change this!”

He doesn’t want to stifle

Your creativity!



LESSON #5 – The Client and The Agency

The Client is who

The Agency depends on to survive.

The Agency is the parasite.

The Client is the host.

Or vice-versa.

The Agency does everything

To please The Client

No matter what!

Want to be the smartest person in the world?

Become The Client.

The Agency will treat you just like Einstein,

Even if you can’t add, write, or tie your shoes.

Think of all the money you’ll save.

Now you don’t have to go to college

        Or even finish high school!



LESSON #6 --THE CLIENT


        See The Client.

        Demand, Client, demand!

        He is unreasonable.

        He makes Donald Trump

        Look like Tinkerbell.

        He will draw all over original artwork.

        The Art Director will hang himself in the Ladies Room.

        He will rewrite award-winning copy.

        The Copywriter will be taken away in restraints.

        He will tell The Account Executive how to do his job.

        The Account Executive will toss him out the nearest open window.

        The Client learns a hard lesson as he hurtles toward the ground.

        You don’t screw with salesmen on commission.

January 10, 2014

JOB INTERVIEWS, SNAKE-HANDLERS AND ADVERTISING


As the Arizona winter moves into spring and grass and trees surround us, I can't help but focus on the color green--mainly because I don't have any.

Money, that is.

I finally decided, after years of self-employment, that I'd better get my butt back into the mainstream before bank officials showed up at the door with howitzers in hand and a song in their hearts.

Now, I've been out of the job interview scene--that uplifting, make you glad you're a human being scene--for quite a while.  Having worked the past few hundred years as a freelance writer, I had completely forgotten what it was like. 

Well, let me amend that.

 Not only had I forgotten what it was like, but it  had changed and gotten worse while my back was turned.

By the time my first foray into this wonderland was over, I was fully prepared to fling myself into the nearest wood chipper.  The advertised job was for a copywriter at a local advertising agency (read that: "equine manure pit").  With a score of years writing ad copy freelance, I was reasonably confident about my chances and strolled into the office at the appointed hour with a gentle smile plastered across my mug.

Then, I got my first clue.

The receptionist had neon pink hair, a live python draped around her shoulders, and a tattoo of either Satan or Tony Danza that spread across her entire face!  She was also puffing so hard on a stogie that area Indian tribes had responded to the smoke by leaving the casinos and assembling in the agency lobby.

"Whatcha need, hon?" she inquired professionally, holding aloft a live rat, presumably for her snake, but at that point, I was unprepared to make such assumptions.  A coffee break is a coffee break, I guess, and who am I to judge?

"Uh, I have a ten o'clock with Mr. Remson."

"'Kay."  She punched a few numbers on her console, then leaned back and grinned at me, revealing a mouth full of dentition that had been filed down to lethal points.  I considered running; but then remembered reading somewhere that if you show fear, they attack, so I stayed put.

"Ah, you must be Carson," observed a tall person type as he stepped out of the inner sanctum.  "I'm Bill Remson, the Creative Director."

Oh, he was creative, all right.  He had on a suit that Spike Jones would have given a cocktail or two for, facial hair that ZZ Top would have given their shades for, and a three-foot earring that I didn't give a hoot for.

"Walk this way."

Resisting the urge to perpetuate that old joke just one more time, I followed him to his office.

Boys and girls, I want to tell you that creativity has really taken a nasty turn since I was last in the old nine-to-five.  This "Director's" office was festooned with the following:

          A silver service for eight

          A service revolver

          A poster of Wally Cox

          One fuzzy die

          A plastic turkey
 
          Four blonde wigs
        
          A disconnected toilet
 
          Six stuffed and mounted gerbils doing the Can-Can

          Fifty-two copies of Erich Fromme's The Anatomy of Human Destructiveness

          And a partridge in a pear tree…really.

"Wow," I remarked, surveying the premises.  "You must be in the middle of some campaign!"

"No, actually we're rather slow at the moment."

I sat down in an oversize pair of red lips which I hoped and prayed was actually a chair, and unzipped my portfolio.

"A portmanteau!  How very quaint," he exclaimed.

Oh, God.

For the next twenty minutes, I displayed my award-winning work, which he flipped through quickly, looking only at the pictures therein.  This is a phenomenon I can never understand and more conventional people that this Hottentot do it.  They're interviewing a writer, but don't read one word the writer has written.

It was the only normal thing he did for the entire interview.

"Hmmm.  Seems as though you've been unemployed for quite some time," he mused.

"No, I've been self-employed."

"Same difference," he concluded, waving a dismissive hand.  "Now, let's see, you're…um…(he referred to my application)…what?  48?  Hmmmm.  I'm 50.  Hmmmm," he said, appraising me with a gimlet eye.  "Okay!  You're hired!"

"What?"

"But lose the business suit!  I bet you'd look great in really tight jeans, underwear optional."

By now the interview had morphed into a Salvatore Dali painting.

As I ran past the Dawn of the Dead snake handler at the front desk, I decided that there were worse things than not having any money.

Much worse.

Interviews, for instance. 

I have another one this Friday.