Val Brown2013-05-23T10:24:49-04:00Val Brownhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/index.php?author=val-brownCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Val BrownGood old fashioned elbow grease.Hitting 'Rock' Bottomtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.33080332013-05-21T14:53:43-04:002013-05-21T14:48:04-04:00Val Brownhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/val-brown/Shout. I was on a years-long break between sophomore and junior year of college and had just left my job as a record company receptionist. I wasn't much of a musician and didn't see a future for female A&R execs so I was forced to get my music fix elsewhere. Shout was my gateway drug. I reveled in every detail of Paul and John's first meeting at the local fete, John's group the Quarrymen playing on the back of a flat-bed truck as they rolled through town. Paul showed John how to tune his guitar properly. He'd had it in banjo tuning. The rest, of course, is history.
They say it's the first book that gets you hooked, and I was. Hungry for more salacious minutiae and insider dish, I devoured Robert Greenfield's Stones Touring Party, and the ne plus ultra of rock biog debauchery, Stephen Davis' Led Zeppelin shocker Hammer of the Gods,Its graphic tales of highly imaginative revelry left me a little dazed and confused, but that didn't stop me from going back for more.
I started trying to control my reading, the first sign of a problem. At first, I could keep it to weekends and the odd weekday. Eventually, I couldn't make it through a Monday without using and then it became nightly, reading into the wee hours, Visine at the ready before work so they couldn't tell I'd used. It escalated into daily use, a minute on the subway, a stolen moment on an elevator ride. I was like an alcoholic with an airline miniature vodka in her purse, taking a nip when I thought no one was looking. I had to admit it: I was powerless over sordid tales of life on the road and my literary life had become unmanageable. Taking a book into a bathroom stall at work one day for a quick two pages to see if the protagonist was going to leave his wife for the long-suffering groupie (he didn't), I realized it had become an addiction. But I didn't care.
I read just about every memoir and biography I could get my hands on. My first choices were the highest quality memoirs - the lyrical, evocative, entertaining musings of Sting,Bob Dylan, PattiSmith, and Keith Richards (in which he infamously threw Mick Jagger's genitalia under a bus, so to speak. Though I hear Mick's former paramours can attest to his ample manhood. But I digress.) For variety, I looked west with music journalist and my friend Barney Hoskin's wonderful Hotel California. It eased my craving for sun-dappled, patchouli-scented hippy singer-songwriter tales from the famed 1970's Laurel Canyon-Sunset Strip scene, its gifted musical denizens passing around joints and lovers in an intoxicating cocktail of creative ferment, competitive spirit and romantic betrayal.
Pre-Amazon.com, you had to leave the house to score. When I'd run out of high quality reads, I'd buy street grade books in sketchy neighborhoods by name-dropping B-list rock stars, telling tales on themselves and their mates at the contractual behest of their six and seven-figure book deals (oh yes, these books are big business for publishers and musicians alike), or even, sadly, dog-eared, oil-stained paperbacks with sticky pages by hack biographers who know there are people out there like me
Nothing shocks me now. Jack and Coke-fueled sexploits with 13-year old groupies, septums disintegrated by cocaine use, and the infamous Led Zeppelin red snapper erotica (not a mud shark as long rumored), have inured me to behavior considered outré by the common man. They are all in a day's read for me.
For those of you not acquainted with this genre, let me walk you through a typical book, including some alternative scenarios.
The protagonist....
• Grows up in a middle class English home in London suburb, though in a curious bit of revisionism becomes working class by the time he needs some cred for the liner notes. Or, he grows up in New Jersey.
• Gets first guitar from high street for 20 quid (£), sits in front room of his two up two down, practicing endlessly and listening to American blues and rockabilly.
• Worships Elvis and Chuck Berry; or Robert Johnson and Leadbelly; or Woody Guthrie.
• Plays at schools and village fetes. Leaves school at 16 after his O levels (or, attends art college for one year before dropping out).
• Moves to London with his band mates, makes the rounds of small clubs until they hit it big sometime in the 60s.
• Suddenly rich, famous and fawned over, the bacchanalia begins.
• Gets addicted to pot, pills, booze, smack, coke, sex or some combination thereof.
• Marries at least twice; miscellaneous children appear from road exploits.
• Band breaks up acrimoniously. Our hero's solo career is great; or, an embarrassment.
• Everyone in the band gets clean. Or, enough do.
• After many years, band attends their induction into the Rock Roll Hall of Fame. After jamming at the show, they decide to tour for old time's sake and cash, which the bass player really needs.
• Their label makes them release yet another greatest hits album, including two mediocre new songs. Or, they do a duet with a country singer.
• Our hero, the lead singer, and his lead guitarist get book deals. As usual, the drummer gets nothing.
Knowing what will happen doesn't deter me. I go back to the trough again and again, picking up that next book. I buy hard cover; cost loses all meaning. I find a friend, Jenny, with the same addiction. I think she's even worse than me, which momentarily lulls me into thinking I'm not so bad after all. We share our drugs with one another, passing books back and forth, pushing our books on others, trying to get them hooked.
Neither of us is ready to get clean.
I can't quit yet. I live in hope that there'll be some new drugs to try, something to repeat the lovely madness of, say, Steven Tyler'sDoes the NoiseInside My Head Bother You?? Life will not be complete without memoirs from Bowie, Macca, Bruce, Joni. Alas, I fear Mick Jagger will never write one, nor Robert Plant. They're famously unsentimental about the past. But one can dream.
My loved ones call in an interventionist. I admit to them that it's out of control. Maybe I'll go on the wagon for a bit. I'll even read Ulysses, will that make you happy? But I'm in the middle of my mate Barney's illuminating Led Zeppelin: The Oral History of the World's Greatest Rock Band, and I'm only up to 1970!! And Rod Stewart is sitting sultrily next to my bed, beckoning me forth into tartan tales of multiple blond wives and tow-headed children.
I promise I'll quit after Rod. I really, really mean it this time.]]>Brand Mascots Speak in Social Mediatag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.14152392012-04-10T16:20:18-04:002012-06-10T05:12:01-04:00Val Brownhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/val-brown/ Facebook and Twitter have created a new paradigm in which brands are obliged to speak, whether through their mascots or not. There is, however, risk associated with giving voice to a mascot. Those that make public appearances have traditionally been (creepily) mute, presumably for fear that the out of work actor inside the 120F suit might say something "off brand." Fortunately, you've got control over a social media voice, assuming you trust the wool-capped intern charged with bringing daily life to your hallowed icon. And this new "voice" creates an opportunity to build direct relationships with consumers, collectively and individually, interacting as a human would to entertain, inform, connect, console.
But like a movie star who is much shorter when you finally meet him, brands run the risk of disappointing fans and lessening their mascots' mystique by opening their mouths. It's an endeavor I trust brand managers are undertaking very carefully, with much attention paid to a newly elaborate definition of the mascot personality to ensure consistency with the larger brand identity.
So, how're the mascots doing so far?
Planters: A brand exemplified by the venerable Mr. Peanut, sophisticated, debonair, and just a little jaunty. Planters has orchestrated a brilliant transition from the can to the status update. Mr. P. has nearly half a millions fans, most of whom seem a little nutty, too. He's witty, irreverent, and I'll bet you didn't know, very athletic for someone who can't jump more than an inch. A pick-up game of b-ball or a (jaunty) jog in the park are among his myriad activities. He was all over March Madness.
Michelin: Just as ocean swimming lost its appeal after I saw Jaws, so too did Ghostbusters damage my relationship with the Michelin Man. His muteness was always a little suspect, too. Happily, he's found his voice on Facebook -- cheerful, friendly, helpful. And he knows more about tires than anyone would care too. Michelin, you could flesh him out a bit more and build those 'likes' beyond 20,000. He's got what it takes.
Green Giant: The Jolly Green Giant hasn't really gotten past "Ho ho ho." Extremely non-threatening as giants go -- though apparently Jolly Green Giant billboards have caused accidents when unsuspecting motorists suddenly came upon a giant peaking through the trees on the highway -- I think there is an opportunity to run with the Giant. I mean, there must be some great vegetable jokes out there, right? And who doesn't need to know 100 things to do with corn?
Tony the Tiger: Well, what I mostly know from your FB page is that he's gggreeeeaaaat! That, really, everything is grrrreeeeaaaaatttt! Cute animal videos are everywhere we look nowadays -- maybe build some of that in. And give Tony a little more to say.
Other opportunities: KFC, you're missing a trick with the Colonel. Your page has tons of "likes" but why not some Mark Twain style wisdom and wit, updated for an urban crowd? Pillsbury Doughboy, do more than giggle. Aunt Jemima, give me some life lessons in your cozy kitchen. Quaker Oats Pilgrim, give me some health tips and Farmer's Almanac horse sense.
Toucan Sam, Cap'n Crunch, Count Chocula. The possibilities are endless.
Yes, it's just the beginning of a new era for our animated friends. I smell a new cyber category at the advertising industry's prestigious Lions Awards next year. It will be ggrreeeeaaattt! Mr. Peanut would be the perfect MC. Or, Lifetime Achievement Award recipient. What can I say, I'm partial to peanuts.]]>9 Irreverent Tips for Surviving the Dormtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.9403842011-08-30T10:33:07-04:002011-10-30T05:12:02-04:00Val Brownhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/val-brown/
So I struck a Faustian bargain and sold my soul at registration to get a single room. It was worth it. College freshman, maybe it's good to have a roommate for the first year, but go for a single the second. And since I found that not much has changed in dorm amenities over the decades, I can offer these handy tips to make that first year away from a home a little easier to maneuver.
1) Bring quarters. You will never have too many. It took 16 to wash and dry one load of laundry. I imagine some enterprising students even have a quarter distribution business, since quarter dispensing machines usually shoot back your dollar, over and over, no matter how much you iron out that tiny crease in one corner. Or consider this as a side business for yourself. You could probably get a buck for 3 quarters, a very good margin, with little overhead. You'll be very popular and meet young people who like clean clothes. You may be lucky and be in one of the dorms where the laundry and vending machines accept plastic. Bring a credit card, of course one that bills directly to your mother (she'll want to make sure your clothes are clean, your father won't care as much).
2) More on laundry. Don't bring any red, purple or black clothes. This way, you can wash the whites and colors together in cold water. I just did it, and hey, it worked. It cuts down on time and quarters. I know this is laundry sacrilege. Please don't tell my mother, who actually looks forward to doing her laundry every week. She'd do yours, too, if you lived nearby. That's how much she likes it.
3) Bring things to decorate the walls. Apparently, dormitory walls are still made of cinder blocks, giving my less than 100sq foot room a distinct cell-like quality. While I assume that universities simply want to save on the dry wall, I think it's also to prevent you from using thumb tacks to hang stuff. Bring the absolutely stickiest tape you can find, only the kind that will peel off the paint at the end of the semester will do.
4) Think strategically about what to hang on the walls. This is your personal brand, your introduction to your classmates. Mine was a centerfold from High Times magazine (DON'T DO THIS, AND NEVER EVER TAKE DRUGS) and various rock 'n roll posters, plus a precious poster of a black and white baby playing together. I'll bet Anne Geddes saw this poster and decided on her life's work. Anyway, it was in the south in the mid 70s so I guess I wanted to make a a statement. My boyfriend for two weeks, Randy from Virginia, was unmoved. But at least he knew where I stood on the issue.
5) Moms: Send food and money. There's never enough of either.
6) Rent a refrigerator. Of course, this is not to chill beverages that you are you not allowed to buy at 18, but it's good to have anyway.
7) Don't leave hair in the communal sinks. Ladies, who does this?! Apparently many, because it's always there. All colors, all textures. I'm not sure why it's so gross to see this. It is, after all, only hair. But please don't do this anywhere, in any sink that's not your own private sink, for the rest of your life. Of course, this goes for peeing on the seat as well.
8) Bring clothes one size too big. You will gain 5-10 pounds by Christmas break.
9) Refrain from smoking anything illegal. See #8.
Have fun, study hard and if I can speak for all the Moms in the world, be careful. These are not mutually exclusive. And call home every now and then on the cell phone your parents are footing the bill for. Good luck!
]]>Being Creative: The Pain of Discipline Trumps the Pain of Regrettag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8820702011-06-22T15:35:00-04:002011-08-22T05:12:02-04:00Val Brownhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/val-brown/
Whether you're sitting in front of a blank page, a newly-prepared canvas or a PowerPoint that awaits your bullets, the beginning of any creative or business project can be daunting and anxiety-ridden, though many of us may not be aware of it. It may manifest as procrastination. But in my case, and I think with most workers, it's not laziness, but fear.
What's the root of this fear? It may be that it won't be good (even though all our other work has been), or that we won't finish on time (even though we always do). But in a word, it's fear of judgment of our work -- by our peers, our boss or the public. And worst of all, by ourselves.
Of course, if we're in business and have bosses we are risking judgment with every new piece of work we create. If we're running the place, we may have fear of our employees' opinions, and our customers pass judgment with each purchase they do or don't make. As a brand development consultant, I risk it with each proposal, business plan or project result. As a writer, it's worse. It's just me out there. And with the internet, it's me out there, forever. I recently begged The Huffington Post to remove a piece I wrote. I was young and foolish when I started blogging -- all those four years ago -- and hadn't fully appreciated the permanency of the Internet.
My most recent paralysis? The piece I'm writing here was originally intended to be about some very different aspect of productivity and creativity. But my delaying techniques were out in full force this morning, mostly because I hadn't had what I thought was the "big idea." So I actually sat down at my computer three times before typing the first word.
What were my thoughts and actions in between? "Did I leave a light on in the bedroom? I'd better make a cup of tea. Need to check the weather. Those earrings sitting on my desk are going to annoy me, I'd better move them. Oh, I heard the dryer stop, better fold the clothes."
I regained my sanity momentarily and did not pick up a phone call that could've wasted 20 minutes.
Like a dog who turns continuously in circles before finally laying down, I eventually settled in. And I had my idea. So maybe my delaying techniques were worthwhile this time, a time for incubation. Or maybe they're just a part of my process.
Excuse me a minute, I'm not sure what to write next. Think I'll file a nail.
As I was saying. All of us engaged in work -- including work we love -- must eventually get down to it. More often than not, I just dive in (especially easy when I have a clear brief and am not creating from "scratch"). But there's another, more insidious delaying when no one is keeping tabs on us. It happens with the "extracurricular," which is often around creative projects we've been threatening to do for months or years or even decades. And we've procrastinated to the point of never picking up our pen or brush or finishing that business plan for our start-up. We never finish the novel. Or we finish it but don't try to get it published. Or we send a few letters to publishers and then give up. Because it wasn't easy. Why do we expect things are supposed to be easy? Really, the first thing we should be taught is that life is work. It can be fun, too, but you're going to have to work hard if you want results, or if you want financial or creative fulfillment.
How do you combat this reluctance to commit to a creative project? With courage, discipline and a willingness to take risks. By taking action despite the fear and by holding yourself accountable. Perhaps the lucky ones are those who like to create just for themselves, who don't seek the approval of others for their work and don't wish to sell or make their work public.
I finally started doing those things I had threatened -- I had a little extra time during the recession. I did not want to turn around in a few decades and feel that I had lived a life, well, un-lived. I decided I preferred the pain of discipline over the pain of regret. With each action I've taken my fear of judgment became weaker than my fear of future disappointment in myself for not having taken risks. Sometimes, I don't even care what people think. Wait, that's going a bit far. But it's better.
So, how do I combat my tendency to delay the inevitable?
I turn off my phone. Of course, this sounds like a no-brainer, but for a lot of people it's putting down the pipe. And if you can't do it because of responsibilities -- such as kids or elderly parents -- be very judicious in the calls you do pick up.
Close my browser. No emails, Facebook or any other attention stealers. You don't need to immediately know who "liked" your clever Facebook comment this morning.
Set either the amount of time I'm going to write or other milestones (number of words, two new scenes, etc.). I do this at the beginning of the week and at the beginning of a day. If I have just an hour before work to write, that's what I'll do.
Set attainable, not insanely-ambitious goals.
I have a "creative partner" -- we speak a few times a week and hold each other accountable. Some people prefer working in writing groups.
Take breaks. After two hours, my mind needs a 15 minute breather.
Reward achievement. When you reach an important milestone, do something nice for yourself.
When you finish it, market it. Being a marketer, you'd think that would come easy, but it's much more difficult doing it for yourself and putting yourself out there.
Amazingly, gradually but surely, my creative projects get done, get edited, move forward and get pitched. And if rejected, they get pitched again. And even if I don't make my fortune through this, I will not have to deal with the pain of regret, or for not having tried. It's definitely not always easy. Writing is sometimes excruciating. As many writers have said, "I don't like to write. I like having written." I hear you.
So, what are you waiting for? Are you struggling with this and, if not, if you joyfully skip to your desk or easel and commence work with wild abandon, what's your secret?
]]>Is Half a Vegan Better Than None?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8550062011-04-29T17:44:00-04:002011-06-29T05:12:01-04:00Val Brownhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/val-brown/
My love for animals led me stop eating meat and poultry 15 years ago, but I've never been able to make the leap to veganism, and I constantly feel guilty about it. Am I weak, cruel, vain? Perhaps. I love ice-cream, omelets, and salmon; shoes, belts and bags. I draw the line at buying leather coats, which is really just to save face -- I don't want what I'm wearing to scream "dead animal carcass." Leather shoes are smaller and less conspicuous.
My friend Kathy Freston, author and conscious eating activist, might cut me some slack. At a recent New York media luncheon hosted by the uber zen Pure Yoga, Freston was quizzed by Gotham's finest health and lifestyle reporters about incorporating veganism into their families' lives. In her latest book, Veganist (her pithy sobriquet courtesy of husband Tom), Freston recommends "leaning in" to a vegan diet by first giving up meat one day a week, substituting it with tasty cruelty-free alternatives that mimic meat. Though clearly she recommends eventually moving to a vegan, whole foods diet, these initial small changes alone can improve your health, the environment, and of course, lessen animal suffering. Her approach is spot on for the American public -- no way are most people going to go from Philly cheese steaks to marinated tofu skewers in 0 to 60.
But I feel like I've been "leaning in" for 15 years and it's high time to take the leap to veganism. I've used little, self-deceptive tricks to hold out this long. For years I blindly (and somewhat intentionally) operated under the incorrect assumption that in buying leather products I was simply utilizing the by-products of meat eaters. I now know that's not true. And while I do seek out 100% man-made shoes -- and there are some stylish ones out there if you know where to look -- if really taken by a pair of leather boots, I will buy them. For the most part, I buy non-leather handbags (ladies, they're also a lot lighter so no shoulder fatigue), and belts if they're decent looking. But again, if I fall in love with something leather, I seem unable to keep myself from buying it.
Wearing leather is perhaps even more egregious than eating meat. We're not even getting nourishment or protein (which you can also get from non-animal sources). It's about vanity. Even worse, much of our leather comes from nations where animals are notoriously badly treated, including India (cows are not sacred everywhere in India) and China where, infamously, they also eat cats and dogs. Have a look at PETA's disturbing information on this.
What about fish? I still eat it, though I stopped with lobster because of the boiling alive thing (especially after having looked one in the beady eyes in the lobby fish tank). But that's about it. With fish, they live in an environment that's foreign to us. They're harder to relate to than furry mammals, our brethren. I justify eating them because fish lead normal lives until they're caught, unlike farm animals who have miserable lives until they're slaughtered.
However, I'm learning that farmed fish are packed in like, well, sardines, and get about a cup of murky, chemical laden water to swim around in. No one should eat them. Perhaps a day on a fishing boat watching nets full of fish squirm and jump and gasp for life might cure me of my fish habit, or seeing the unfortunate sea turtles, dolphins and other lovely aquatic creatures that get caught in the nets.
I thought I was off the hook with eggs. "Free range" was my get out of jail free card. But after finally forcing myself to watch some undercover videos on farmsanctuary.org of the atrocious conditions egg farm chickens live in and how most of the male chicks are killed at birth (ground to death -- talk about grisly), I've had to rethink eggs.
With dairy, you guessed it, you're not just using a cruelty-free by-product. Again, most of the males of the species are disposed of just after birth though some are yanked from their mothers to live short, horrible lives in dark little crates where they are raised for veal. And female dairy cows lead short lives too, just a couple of miserable years being repeatedly impregnated to keep the milk machine going 24/7 before they are worn out and killed for hamburger meat.
Now, I don't believe that humans were never supposed to have consumed animals or used their by-products. We needed to, for shelter, food, tools, and much more. Some cultures still need to for survival. But I believe that as humans become more humane, and despite all the evil deeds that still go on in the world, we have evolved and it's part of our path to move away from animal products. Maybe we're meant to use some animal by-products -- eggs and milk and wool (though dairy has the protein casein, a proven cancer promoter) -- but to do it without cruelty could perhaps only be accomplished on a small farm. The size and needs of our society make it difficult to meet demand. But still, there are many ways it could be done more humanely, even with mass production, though the agriculture lobby is strong and resistant. And as Mark Bittman explained in his recent New York Times op-ed piece, some states are trying to pass "ag-gag" laws, making it a criminal offense for animal rights activists to make undercover videos of farm animal abuses.
So, I know all of this now, have cringed at the images, and sometimes feel galvanized to cross the bridge to veganism. But I stop short. Why? What do I need to happen? Should I watch a majestic salmon swim upstream or visit a slaughterhouse? Must a magic flying cow talk to me in a dream?
Seriously, all you veganists out there, what made you take the leap? Was it a word, an image, an experience? Or was it just selflessness? And until I "get it," until I surrender my selfishness, is half a vegan better than none?]]>The Perils of Capricorn Birthdaystag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8093492011-02-23T18:44:00-05:002011-11-17T09:02:45-05:00Val Brownhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/val-brown/Capricorns (December 22 to Jan 20) get cheated on our birthdays due to their proximity to the holidays. Always have, always will. We mostly suffer in silence. It's like this: the December Cappies are victims of the "one gift fits all" present, a single, hastily purchased item wrapped in Santa's workshop rather than a pastel confection tied in ribbon curled with a scissor edge. Their birthday parties are slapdash affairs with eggnog and gingerbread in place of champagne and a cake from their favorite bakery. January Goats have it even worse, facing global gift fatigue and general weariness around group conviviality. I know, I know. It gets dark out at five, it's cold, you're all tired. Your favorite TV shows are revving up again after a month of reruns. It's hibernation time, at least until Valentine's Day.
Maybe that's why, as a January Capricorn, I'm notoriously bad about celebrating my birthday. While that has never extended to a refusal of birthday money from my parents, it has resulted in woefully little observance of that moment some decades ago when my mother schlepped through a snowstorm to have me. If only she'd waited nine days -- well, I guess that part was up to me -- I could have been a "friendly, humanitarian" Aquarian, rather than an "ambitious, disciplined" Goat, and been properly feted every year.
I've mostly just stuck to celebrating the big ones -- 20, 30, 40, and.... ahem, etcetera, though I must admit I spent my 30th alone with a bottle of vodka and Joni Mitchell's "Blue" album. Life was, of course, over. But this year was different. I gave like crazy to others, including an ill parent, and I was ready to receive. Well, not gifts exactly, but my friends' presence. And I was able to stand a wee bit of attention. (I secretly want attention, but then when I get it, it makes me a little uncomfortable. What's up with that?) And why no gifts? I've always thought you can't expect people to pay for a birthday dinner and buy a present.
But I took things a step further. My poor friends were dragged to Wollman skating rink in Central Park, to face a dark cold evening, miss their favorite TV shows, and risk possible humiliation and a trip to the osteopath, though we're mostly Northeast bred so we'd been up on a pair of skates before. A little more careful now, this wasn't the hot-toddy'd affair of a long-ago birthday, where one guest ended up needing shoulder surgery and another broke some ribs. No, we were just dodging small children and people who grew up in Southern California.
Now I'm back into many years' birthday hibernation until the next big one, thankfully still many years away, and one I think I won't want to shout about.]]>Fretting Over Internet Privacy? Relax, You Don't Have to Opt-In to Big Brother.tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8177312011-02-02T16:21:04-05:002011-05-25T18:30:24-04:00Val Brownhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/val-brown/
But I'm not being fair, really. The difference in these examples is clear -- one is our choice and one is (sometimes) not. Though it's not in the Constitution, as some believe, the Bill of Rights' 9th Amendment does address our right to privacy. It's part of the DNA in a democracy and really, in every human's DNA. But the internet has made it easy to "invade" privacy, whether it's harmless information collecting -- and information collecting by marketers is not the work of the devil -- or, at the other extreme, identity theft, espionage and, depending on your point of view, WikiLeaks. Like anything, digital information mining can be used for good or evil.
But in the realm of mining for marketing, we need to take a breath and not get our knickers in a twist. This new collection and use of information is necessary to ensure that the internet continues to thrive (I'll explain), and equally to make sure the user experience continually improves. In a roundabout way, the collection of information leads to monetizing content and making sure there is always plenty of useful and useless information and entertainment for you to spend far too much of your day looking at.
I'm not sure all consumers realize what goes on behind their little two dimensional computer screen. There is great cost involved in running these digital content companies that bring you the latest news, cool apps, and rich media. For starters, it requires a huge staff and ginormous servers so that many millions of you can ooh at today's cute pet video all at once. How can these content companies finance this? So far, the only big win has been through selling ads.
It's no different than television. Consumers in essence pay for the shows (content) to be made by buying the products they see advertised. And product owners, seeing that they've sold products through this advertising (though there are many other things that go into marketing, of course), buy more advertising, which in turn supports the creation of more content by financing production companies and broadcasters. The same thing happens on content sites.
Ok, we're coming to the finish line now. The thing is, many advertising supported sites are still trying to turn a profit. Indeed, big smart companies have bought profitless operations with huge users bases and are still trying to make a success of them (hello MySpace). And if they can deliver a better targeted, turnkey product for advertisers, who are plenty frustrated now because media consumptions habits are frightfully fragmented, then they can move towards more effective ads.
So, we marketers need some info from you in order to provide this enhanced way for brands to reach consumers and do what they're here to do: sell more stuff. That's right, marketers shouldn't be shy and neither should companies. Hey, everyone, we admit it, we're here to sell you more stuff.
So brands are collecting information to facilitate this great targeting. And I must say, as a consumer, I don't really mind. If I'm going to have to see ads, and we all will, forever, I'd rather have them be relevant to my life and interests. And as a marketer I hope you, the consumer, don't really mind. Trust me, it will make advertising consumption a kinder, gentler experience, and is guaranteed to bring some product or service to your attention that you'll really like, without besieging you with a bunch of ads that don't interest you. We can do this from collecting a lot of information about you. Just think of it as having a Nielsen box in every room of your house, in your car, at work, at your gym, on vacations, and anywhere else you go with a digital device. Digitally, you'll never walk alone.
Understandably, consumers are all a little nervous about this. People don't like change. And the exponential increase of identity theft via the internet hasn't helped. But don't throw the baby out with the bathwater. And don't worry, marketers are protecting your information. Trust me, they don't want to give it away or have it out and about for all and sundry to see. No, they're going to sell it! See, I'm going for full transparency here.
But I must admit, when things like sharing your FB friends' names is the price of admission to content, I don't like it one bit. But there is a simple solution. As my favorite digital guru Gene De Libero says, "so don't enter the info, idiot!" You don't have to let Big Brother know everything, and you won't die without the "find out who's been looking at your profile" app.
Ok, so have we all calmed down now? Good. Though, I have to say, I do worry about Google taking over the world.
]]>MadWomen of Madison Avenue Convene for Kudostag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2010:/theblog//3.7166732010-09-14T11:49:31-04:002011-05-25T17:40:20-04:00Val Brownhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/val-brown/Advertising Age's annual Women to Watch luncheon, held in partnership with Advertising Women of New York (AWNY). There were fabulous women being honored, star performers from both client and agency sides -- talented professionals who haven't faced quite the uphill battle of Mad Men's Peggy Olsen, and some -- division Presidents, CMOs and COOs -- who appear to have prevailed over the dapper Draper's in their paths.
The afternoon's opening remarks included a rumination on whether it's still necessary or appropriate to celebrate women. Is it anachronistic? Does it ghettoize? Female songwriters and authors have often complained about being on "best of" lists for women in their fields -- why not just be considered among all authors and musicians? And while 40% of AWNY's members are men (who knew? I would've worn contacts and had my hair blown out) the conclusion was that we still need to single out female over-achievers. Among the many wonders of Mad Men, it reminds us of how far we have come. If our current Mad Women lived in the age of cigarettes, scotch, and unassailable ass-pinching in the office, there would be no one to celebrate at this luncheon. Poor Peggy, in last week's episode, didn't even get invited to the CLIOs for the campaign she created, nor was she cited or thanked when her agency won. But despite the difference 45 years make, females are still woefully underrepresented in the management and creative stratospheres of the advertising industry.
So, it's OK to single ourselves out. We're still a minority. Minorities celebrate themselves, they need to. Of course, we'd have a cow if there was a "Men to Watch" luncheon. Rightly, we'd rail at the iniquity and shout to be included. But then, men have always been in the majority, so I guess they forfeit the right to complain?
I found I behaved differently at this event than I would at a male dominated event, which most business events are. I would never introduce myself by going up to a man and telling him I liked his suit. I'd say hello, extend my hand, say my name, what I do, yada yada. Yet at this event my opening salvo was several times "I LOVE your dress." And I wasn't lying, there were some fabulous dresses. It is indeed a great ice-breaker -- who doesn't like a compliment? -- and we went on to discuss business.
I thought about this later. Had I been sexist, unprofessional? Was I denigrating my own kind by reverting to girly stuff? Maybe. But maybe it's just the natural introductory shorthand one has with one's own kind. Not that all women like talking about clothes, but maybe it's the equivalent of men small talking sports. Or humans talking about the weather. But it was a win-win. I made some good contacts and found out where to buy a certain dress I must have.
I was surprised to hear one of the celebrants talk about the importance of female intuition, a hidden strength she believes women have. Are we allowed to say that? Isn't that sexist? It was a Brit who said it -- I don't think an American would've ventured into those un-PC waters. And is it true? I'm sure men would not like to think that we're more perceptive than they are. Anyway, long before Malcolm Gladwell'sBlink theory of rapid cognition in decision making it was opined that there's no such thing as "divined" intuition - it is just careful observation and attention to detail, a certain sensitivity to others and what's going on around you. And a subconscious processing of the information ending in a "feeling," a hunch. A covert intellectual exercise. So is one sex better at "Blinking" than another? Heresy!
On the business side of things, there was little predicting and, thankfully, little talk of last year's blood bath. The honorees spoke more on strategy and tactics -- the overriding theme was about the ever increasing importance of integration -- cross-platform marketing, no more working in silos -- and of course, social media. The creatives spoke of the evergreen need to connect emotionally with people and to make their lives better. An account exec said the account side needs to market itself better. Yes, they do need some PR help, don't they? Admit it, when you meet someone in the industry your next question is "creative or account?" and when they say "account," you're disappointed. You just say, "oh, that's nice," and then drum up enough interest to ask what accounts they handle. Unfair, I'm sure.
Despite the dismal past year there were, of course, successes. The fast food chain marketer who turned around her company's business with the addition of cappuccinos to the menu. The cinema ad sales exec -- possibly the only really happy media sales person in the room -- because movie attendance has been buoyant throughout the recession. It's cheap, it's local, it's hyper targeted. And a slew of 3D cinema ads are on the way to accompany the scores of 3D films being produced. I also spoke with a chemical engineer working on a top secret project that will add another ad space to supermarkets. After this, only the floor will be left unbranded, though I'm sure not for long. Women still rule the supermarket, and many family buying decisions. It only makes sense that they should rule the advertising industry, too.
]]>Baby Boomer Brands: A Sniff Down Memory Lanetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2010:/theblog//3.6498402010-07-20T11:49:00-04:002011-11-17T09:02:45-05:00Val Brownhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/val-brown/Coppertone display caught my eye. Or rather, my nose. I opened a bottle and inhaled deeply, the once familiar scent provoking a crashing wave of happy beach memories -- the seedy boardwalk in Seaside Heights, NJ, the cute lifeguard from Red Bank and that wonderful dreamy state when you're half asleep on the beach, the sun's rays beating down, with peals of children's laughter, the lap of gentle waves and a far-off transistor radio as muffled crunchy footsteps pass by your towel, a little sand hitting your leg. I've always wondered at the olfactory sense and its ability to unleash long ago experiences in kaleidoscopic detail. I've actually done the Coppertone sniff in years past, so pleasant and visceral was the experience.
Of course, back in the 60s and 70s, before the happy advent of Bain de Soleil orange tanning gel (part tan, part stain), all we had was Coppertone. In fact, it was like "kleenex" then -- brand name as generic product name: "Pass the Coppertone." I used to get mightily sunburned back then, so I don't know if it actually contained sunscreen. If it did, it wasn't much, and "SPF" was far from the R&D horizon. Who uses Coppertone now? Apparently many, but I abandoned it long ago. They were late to the game in advanced sun protection and now compete mightily with Neutrogena. Their SPF race has them now both offering factor 100, which is maybe not so smart as they have nowhere else to go save creating a sun deflecting hazmat suit. But I digress.
I had other memories to evoke. I twisted open a jar of Noxzema -- mildly medicinal, but fresh and minty. The scent was high school personified, but with memories leaning towards the unpleasant; it was definitely not one of the best times of my life. Gangly and with braces (twice!), anxious about being accepted, shy around boys and resentful that I always seemed to be in ballet class -- decidedly not cool back then -- while my friends were having fun. Everyone else seemed to have an instruction book for life that I lacked. Thank God for small favors; I had good skin. I don't think it was really due to washing my face with Noxzema, but I did then. We used it on sunburns, too, which I think is a little like putting butter on a burn. I abandoned it for soap and water when I went off to college and never returned. Of course, now I need something with bells and whistles and maximum miraculous anti-aging properties.
I found a dusty bottle of Prell Shampoo in a shop a few years back. A quick sniff brought back visions of their TV ad: a well manicured hand -- grownup ladies had pointy, claw-like fingernails back then -- dropped a pearl into the bottle, which slowly and gracefully made its way to the bottom through the emerald green goo. "Thick" was its selling point, though I'm not sure how that related to its cleaning properties. I'd wash with it just once (I had a friend who actually followed the instructions to "wash-rinse-repeat") and then use my Breck conditioner.
My hair was the bane of my existence. Long, frizzy and unmanageable, there were no "products" back then. We didn't know not to comb frizzy hair between washings, which just made it worse. Brushing your hair 100 times a night was the prevailing wisdom of the day. Think Monica in the Friends episode when they were in the super humid Caribbean. I exacerbated the problem by getting a shag haircut in eighth grade -- the short, curly top layer taking until junior year to grow out. I was not a boy magnet.
In the perfume aisle, a whiff of Charlie perfume reminded me why I didn't wear it. Jovan Musk, a smell I still like and which spoke to my inner-hippie rather than Charlie's carefree sophisticate, brought back parties in the woods with guys who could by booze, scrambling for rides home and crushes on boys who didn't crush back. You have to take the good with the bad when it comes to olfactory recall.
I stopped into a liquor store to see if they still carried the Boomer brands. I found Boone's Farm, which was a popular tipple among teenage girls, and now apparently a minor cultural icon. It has a fan appreciation site and has been memorialized in song, verse and on screen. There's even a Boone's Farm cake, (click here for recipe!). But my favorite was the higher test Tango, a curious mix of flat orange soda and vodka favored by teenagers and skid row drunks. It was sure to get you drunk, and almost as sure to make you throw up, particularly mixed with beer, Cheez Doodles and a joint.
These days, a nice run in the park or a little mediation are more likely to calm me down. But I'm considering keeping a bottle of Coppertone handy for when I'm feeling blue. Directions for use: "Smell-rhapsodize-repeat."]]>High-End Matchmakers Dish on Datingtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2010:/theblog//3.5972882010-06-04T12:04:00-04:002011-11-17T09:02:45-05:00Val Brownhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/val-brown/
By "they," I mean men. Men make up the majority of a high end matchmaker's clients. Women are generally not the clients but potential matches for the men; and in most cases, they simply pay an application or interview fee. I don't think this is any sexist plot by the modern day Dolly Levi's, only a reflection of a dating dynamic that is still alive and well -- at least where well-to-do men are concerned.
I spoke recently with three matchmakers, Richard Easton, Janis Spindel and Samantha Daniels. Though New York based, all work with clients across the country (and internationally), and Daniels keeps an LA office as well. All offer a unique perspective and approach to their services, and all have toe-curling prices.
How much will this set a guy back? From $25,000-$100,000, depending on the matchmaker and your deal. This will give you a year to 18 months of matches. Matchmaker Richard Easton, new to the New York market and an anomaly among matchmakers -- most are women -- says he challenges the price resistance he sometimes encounters with a car analogy. "I'm working with guys who pay $150 grand for a car without the blink of an eye. So I ask them, 'What's 50K to find your life partner?'" Fair point. He does offer a $10K starter rate for young Wall St. and Silicon Alley/Valley types as well.
A personable former head of his own boutique M&A firm, Easton has parlayed his expertise in marrying companies into the more rewarding realm of marrying hearts and minds. He says he offers a different perspective on the art cum science. "Men feel more comfortable with me, they will say things to me that they won't say to a woman, about what they're looking for, what works and doesn't." Putting on my marketing hat, it does make sense that that his branding appeals to masculine sensibilities, with nary a heart or pink flower in sight.
Janis Spindel, the doyenne of New York matchmaking, might disagree. A smart, sassy tsunami of self-confidence, Spindel has the chutzpa and sixth sense needed to ferret out the perfect match for her clients . She'll approach anyone woman who fits the bill -- in gyms, Barneys, a parking garage, on the street. A former fashion sales director, she boasts an uncanny ability to know who is right for whom. With hundreds of marriages and countless relationships in her 17 year career, her combination of intuition, persuasion, and calculation -- a quick up and down glance can tell her a lot -- are her stock in trade. And she gets results.
"You get invited, you go." So said Samantha Daniel's grandmother when she was a girl, and she's been going ever since, attending events, fundraisers, dinners, reunions -- not to directly sell or recruit, but to network. She takes a soft sell approach to her metier. A former divorce attorney, Daniels traded acrimony for harmony, deciding she'd rather bring people together than break them apart. She launched her agency in New York 11 years ago, then set up an office in L.A. after going there to produce the TV show based on her life, "Miss Match." Very social in both cities, she takes on high profile women as paying clients as well -- studio heads, CEO's, and other successful women who need equally successful -- or incredibly well- adjusted -- men who will not be intimidated by their success. And Daniel's former career gives her great insight into what breaks couples up (number one: poor communication), so she can offer clear-headed advice as clients embark upon relationships or marriage.
With all the matchmakers I couldn't help but think that there are some real sad sacks on their books, but they all insist their clients are actually quite social, popular -- but just haven't found the right person.
And while the price of admission is high for men, money will get you in regardless of your age, height, or attractiveness (though I'm assured that the overly odious are turned down). And if you're not looking your best, you'll be sent off to an image consultant for a male makeover.
In order to get on the "roster," women must be very attractive, fit, be either book smart or street smart, and have a successful career of some sort. "Ivy league educated" gets thrown around a lot in describing both the men and women on the matchmakers' books. Most women are under 40, with some exceptions. (How old are the men? 27 to 78.) They don't accept many short women, though they do keep a small pool for very short men. They ask for "natural beauty", so presumably those botoxed into a state of forehead catatonia or sporting impossibly perky triple D's are less desirable.
I am curious about how they weed out the gold diggers -- why would a beautiful, Ivy League educated 25 year old woman need a dating service to find a man? Spindel assures me she can spot them a mile away, and they won't get on her roster. Perhaps it's just time management for these 25 year olds -- better to shoot gilded fish in a barrel than trawl through the charity, club or Hamptons circuit for five years.
Whether it was to butter me up to write a positive article, or there was some genuine interest, they all said they may have some guys for me. "How old will you go?" Janis inquired.
"Well, if they're youthful and in shape, 60. 65 in a pinch." She seemed surprised. I am way over 40, but I know from internet dating that 45 or 50 year old guys are generally not looking for women their age. You have to go older. And anyway, I've always liked older men. And younger, come to think of it.
Daniels asks if I would be willing to relocate? Hmm. L.A., London, Paris...? Sure. A zillion acre ranch in Montana? No.
I'm a little trepidatious. I've made a good living and have never targeted wealthy men as suitors. I've mostly gone for the starving artists. They suited my creative sensibilities, and I've also thought that if I were with someone wealthy I would give up some of my power. I've never understood how people can marry for money, not love. That would be torture for me -- a waste of good years of my life.
So we'll see if these matchmakers come up with the goods. I'll keep you posted. If you see me in a restaurant with a 78-year-old, you'll know it was a set-up.]]>Coca-Cola Gets Small with Precious Packagingtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2010:/theblog//3.4903792010-03-08T17:47:18-05:002011-05-25T15:45:22-04:00Val Brownhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/val-brown/
Visually, both the can and bottle are strong on uninterrupted swaths of color. The mini bottle is encircled by the logo but devoid of any other text save what's required by law. The logo takes a back seat on the can which, in a brilliant bit of whimsy, features a drop shadow image of the iconic contour bottle -- the diminutive logo on it is almost not needed, so recognizable is the shape.
Strategically, I imagine Coke is trying, like many food brands before them, to offer a low calorie alternative to their normal products. And also like others, instead of changing their product they are reducing portion size. The bottle seems destined for a nightclub or spa crowd, the cans for kids, women and the diet conscious man who prefers regular Coke (though Diet Coke is also housed in these gems). And for the refrigerators of design obsessed people like me.
As a brand marketer, I appreciate Coke's newest effort to stand out in the highly competitive beverage sector. Though the Coca-Cola company boasts a lot of billion dollar brands, the market has grown increasingly competitive in recent years, with new products coming to market with amazing speed. Gone are the days when Coke just had to worry about Perrier (the first fancy water we ever drank); the cola wars of the 80s and 90s may now seem like kinder, gentler times.
A trip to the refrigerated beverage section can now produce choice anxiety: waters -- plain old spring, fizzy, flavored, oxygenated, caffeinated, coconut; energy drinks; fruit based drinks; iced teas -- black, green, kombucha; and the hard to classify aloe. It is a constantly churning market, and though many of these products launch as small local and regional players with weak distribution, some gain momentum and are snapped up by the big boys, where wide distribution and key placement in national chain supermarkets can pose a threat to many of Coca-Cola's products.
So these bottles and cans are a very good move. They'll join the list of other soft drinks that please my my eye -- San Pellegrino's Limonata with its country lemon motif and delightful foil cover; Fuji water's little trip to the islands whenever I buy one; Martinelli's old time apple juice bottle.
So along with body lotion that makes me itch (housed in a marvelous bottle I must dust occasionally), and a unique, beat-up biscotti tin that holds odds and ends, there now sit inside my refrigerator a few jewel-like cans and bottles of Coke.
]]>The Ascendance of Quinoa and Other Tasty Tales from the Roadtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2010:/theblog//3.4746492010-02-24T11:34:04-05:002011-11-17T09:02:45-05:00Val Brownhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/val-brown/
I may be temporarily moving back to London for a project, so I like to know what's new to eat over there, but really it's just part of a bigger preoccupation with the things I look forward to eating when I travel internationally. I'm not talking about Michelin-starred restaurants, or under the radar family owned places. My tastes are quirkier. My trip went like this:
After dropping off my bags in London, I proceed immediately to a newsagent, where I find an array of "flapjacks" with a diverse choice of toppings. These are not pancakes, but a granola-ish bar made of oats (good), vegetable fat (medium), and "inverted sugar syrup", which Wikipedia warns me is 1.3 times sweeter than sucrose (very, very bad.) Calorie count: 500. They are phenomenally delicious and I don't know why they've never been brought over here, though I've never seen an English person actually eat one. I buy the one with "yoghurt-flavoured" topping, which is a hard-to-place flavor, other than that it tastes like something white. Flapjacks weigh about a pound each, so you don't want to go filling your suitcase with too many.
I stop for lunch at Pret-a-Manger - a great, fresh, fast food place which has a few outposts in New York - for the crayfish and avocado salad. I used to think crayfish was a poor man's lobster, a junk fish - we had them in a muddy stream at the end of the road where I grew up. I've never seen them in any store or on any menu in America (at least up North). But they are tasty indeed, and the English love and respect them.
Over to the Marks and Spencer Food Hall for the Country Vegetable Soup, which I store in my friend's fridge. I eat it later, cold (and out of the carton). It tastes creamier this way, fattier. I love fat. I discovered my version of the soup during an uncharacteristically warm summer in London.
In Paris, I concentrate on consuming things I don't normally eat: butter, bread, bread, butter. Yes, I am an embarrassing American who asks for butter (the French only use it on their morning tartine). A trip is not complete without a stop at Angelina for their African chocolat chaud, the best hot chocolate that exists on earth. I dare anyone to find better. An added benefit is that it gets you high. Following my giddy energy surge, I spin around the Tuileries a while, then experience a plunge that forces me back to my hotel for a nap. I awaken with a sugar hangover and cranky temper that lasts the rest of the day.
In an effort to improve my mood, I have a crepe on the street, filled with crème de marron (chestnut). The French are wild for chestnuts, but you can't give them away here. I only eat half the crepe and throw the rest away. That's sometimes how I eat fattening stuff --- enjoy a little, then throw it in the nearest garbage can. People look at me funny, but it's an effective, if wasteful, weight control technique. Admittedly, I'm a little odd when it comes to food.
I arrive back in New York, satiated, jeans a little tighter, but nothing a few days' quinoa and willpower won't cure.
What are your traveling food fetishes (or foods you can't leave home without)?
]]>Mickey Mans Up: Is It A Disney Trend?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2009:/theblog//3.3605222009-11-17T10:45:31-05:002011-05-25T14:40:23-04:00Val Brownhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/val-brown/
While this new development doesn't necessarily fit with the Disney mission "To Make People Happy," (a great mission, actually), I'm hopeful that it is part of a larger strategic shift that Disney is considering, where Disney dust is not sprinkled on everything they do.
And they could start at their subsidiary ABC. I called someone at ABC News the other day; he wasn't there so the operator took a message, ending the call with a syrupy "and you have a magical day, now". It wasn't in response to some impatience or sarcasm on my part - she meant it. Clearly, this was her standard goodbye, delivered in a folksy, southern lilt.
This seemed inappropriate. The morning news had been full of the shootings at army base Ft. Hood, reporters somberly recounting the harrowing details and morning show hosts dressed in their funereal best, behaving less annoyingly ebullient than normal.
Of course, it wasn't just the other day that ABC started having a magical day. I would imagine in started shortly after Disney bought it in 1995, a takeover that might've stirred some mousy grousing in the newsroom at first, but was apparently quelled soon after by the meteoric rise in the stock value. But a news station is not a place to carry through the Disney mission with a kind of "aural" branding.
It may be because I don't have kids but I've never been a huge Disney fan, except for a couple of years around 1964. I made my parents wait on line repeatedly so I could go on the "It's a Small World" ride at the World's Fair just one more time, pleeeze. It was my first exposure to foreign cultures in festive costumes, and may have provided me early inspiration to explore distant shores. Others were inspired to go to Epcot. But aside from Sunday nights and the Wonderful World of Disney, I was never interested in Mickey and his mates, or the Mickey Mouse Club - tween star machine, then and now - which I found to be, well, goofy. And to be seen in Mickey ears? I'd rather live on Pluto.
I actually did go to Epcot once, with a colleague. My employer was based in Orlando so I had to go there often, and let me tell you, you are guaranteed a flight with crying kids coming and going. Anyway, things were getting a little raucous at Epcot one Friday night. I saw a Belgian Waffle come flying our way and I said to my friend, "Donald, duck!" He did and it flew right by him, grazing a gondolier, just missing a guy in lederhosen, and finally landing on an unsuspecting couple from Iowa sitting in a Japanese tea house.
I never made it to Celebration (Disney's pre-fab Americana town) though I was horrified by the concept. They could do a Real Housewives of Celebration, a Stepford kind of thing, though maybe it's all normal now, just like a real town, with garbage collection strikes and listless kids hanging out at the strip mall 7-Eleven trying to get somebody legal to buy them beer.
I'm not sure why I've always had this jaded view about the Mouse House; maybe it was the hint of Big Brother about it, starting with the byzantine grooming codes for theme park staff. But I suppose I must admit, it does make a lot of people happy, if only for a little bit, and it's done a lot to help the reputation of mice, an unfairly maligned species.
So maybe I should put my cynicism aside and give it another chance. They do make some good movies sometimes. And really, we could all use a little fairy dust about now. Do they have an employment fairy? Why don't their Imagineers (yes, that's what they call their creative types) send in a few job creation ideas to Obama? Now that would be a good use of their creative talents.
]]>Narcissism, Key Ingredient in Success of Social Mediatag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2009:/theblog//3.2620722009-08-18T11:56:27-04:002011-05-25T13:50:23-04:00Val Brownhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/val-brown/The Onion.
We hear more about the new paradigm in human communication that social media has spawned than about the real driver in the phenomenal growth of these sites: basic human narcissism. You know what the sites are: Facebook (FB), Twitter, YouTube, My Space, Flickr, etc. Certainly they do feed a need for communication and interaction, albeit of a different variety than dinner and a movie with a friend or that ribald college reunion that ended in Grey Goose-fueled embarrassment for one formerly uptight poli-sci major. You just can't get that experience on FB, though you can catch the instant replay, kindly shared in Technicolor by one of your "friends".
But these sites have allowed our narcissism -- inordinate fascination with oneself -- to be unleashed. That monster who craves attention -- or the child in us that didn't get the attention deserved -- is having its moment in the sun. The beauty in this new outlet for attention-seeking is that we can now get it without having to ask for it. We just believe that we are getting it, living in the fantasy that our blog posts are widely read (and funny!), our status updates of national importance and our Tweets breathlessly awaited. (We now pause for a short grammar break. Is it already "tweets", with a small "t"? Has the "T" in "Tweets" followed the path to fame of the "g" in "googling"?).
We are all published now. We all have a presence. We all matter. Social media allows us to express ourselves, show our accomplishments, applaud ourselves. This is done in a relatively safe environment where we don't risk negative feedback, unless of course you've allowed people into your network indiscriminately or just have really mean friends. We want to be known, and it's easier to risk this online, somehow. To allow ourselves to be truly known is the biggest risk we take in friendships and romance, fearing that we will be rejected once people see who we really are. But we tell you, fearlessly, in our blogs, tweets, status updates and emails with an openness many of us do not practice in our offline relationships. It's the digital equivalent of telling a stranger on a plane your deepest, darkest secrets.
I was a reluctant narcissist, but I'm getting the hang of it. An "early adopter" of FB, it was at first difficult for me to be self-promoting, having always looked down on those that engaged in rhapsodizing about self as lacking in humility. But there is a difference between healthy self-esteem -- and wanting to share information about your views, passions, and what makes you laugh -- and inordinate fascination with oneself. Hopefully I don't cross that line.
I've also realized that during these tough economic times I need to use social networks as tools for networking and to talk about both my marketing work and my writing. And I've shifted my thinking about FB being an exclusive enclave for friends. I've started searching for past contacts and work colleagues, though I still draw the line at "friending" people I've never met.
With anything that grows to immense popularity so quickly there is a tendency to pass it off as a fad. Though MySpace seems to be losing popularity -- and I believe some of that is due to migration to FB -- I think FB is here to stay, though daily usage may diminish in direct proportion to the lowering of the unemployment rate. But FB can still rest easy as there are new narcissists being born every day, taking their first wobbly steps into self-disclosure before blossoming into full-on self-obsession. That notwithstanding, FB and its brethren better figure out how to make more money, because they really haven't cracked that yet. And it better not be by starting to charge subscribers, a state of affairs that could instigate mass uprisings with global geo-political ramifications, so strong is the FB addiction for many.
So, Facebook friends, please stop me if I am going over the top, giving TMI, or just simply wasting your time. Or you can be kind and just "hide" me. I will be none the wiser.
]]>Duane Reade Rebrands. New Yorkers Rejoice.tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2009:/theblog//3.2427822009-07-22T11:52:28-04:002011-05-25T13:40:22-04:00Val Brownhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/val-brown/
As a marketer I know that aesthetically pleasing branding and advertising doesn't necessarily sell products, but I have always believed that the two need not be mutually exclusive. You can get someone's attention without shouting. Brand owners, be respectful of your customer; don't design to the lowest common denominator; don't under-estimate the intelligence of the consumer. Challenge conventional practices.
While Duane Reade stores are indeed convenient and partially fill the void left by the demise of Woolworth's and the old five and dime, their branding never hinted at "wellness" to me. It said "sell". I think this is where brands often go wrong, local and regional brands in particular. They associate low prices with a certain design ethos. They think they can't look "aspirational" if their products are bargains. But this isn't necessary. Target is just one brilliant example of a brand that has made an art of marketing their lower priced goods without compromising on high quality, clever design and advertising. Of course, they can afford top talent. But there are a plethora of gifted free-lancers and smaller agencies out there just dying for work.
Duane Reade has done a lot of the right things with their rebrand. In addition to a contemporary logo with unadorned font and palatable color palette, their store design is more spacious, with aisles you can see over and attractive, helpful signage just slightly above eye level. They're also updating their product offering, starting with the addition of fresh food daily, mostly salads, yogurt and sandwiches - a nice alternative to their splendid aisles full of every junk food imaginable. Though there was still a special promotion on beef jerky (teriyaki-flavored, for the discerning palate).
Hopefully for them, they have not started on this new course too late. I assume they will be retro-fitting all stores. But with CVS already on their heels and now huge national player Walgreens expanding in the market with a bang (including a huge billboard in Times Square), something's got to give. One two block stretch on the Upper West Side boasts all three stores.
How can they differentiate themselves from their competitors? Certainly through branding and store design. The CVS brand identity is modern and clean; Walgreen looks dowdy and outdated. I have not done a price comparison but imagine there is relative parity on pricing among all three so they won't be able to stand out on price. But I think where any of them can make their mark is through (improved) customer service. I might be tempted by the one who has the most cashiers so I can avoid long lines - these places can be notoriously understaffed behind the counter.
Personalized service at the pharmacy is one area where they can really differentiate. Henry, the pharmacist at my neighborhood CVS, gives me the kind of caring service I was used to from "mom and pop" pharmacies. He remembers what I'm taking, what I've had a bad reaction to. Henry is worth walking the extra two blocks.
But I do bemoan the closing of neighborhood pharmacies. They carry funky old brands you never see anywhere else (remember Yardley?), human sized bottles of shampoo and single bars of soap, and they deliver Nyquil and tissues when you can't get out of bed. But of course they can't compete on price with these regional and national brands, and fall prey to rent increases when their leases expire. Is it too much to hope that landlords, facing an increasing number of empty storefronts, will make life easier for these and other small businesses? It could be a little step back in time for our neighborhood streets. Fingers crossed.
