Indepedent's Day

Hopefully I just invented that word. It would rank right up there with the banana sandwich, as far as my contributions to popular culture go.

Not a lot of people know that I invented the banana sandwich, but it’s true. You can ask my mum. I was four. She asked me what I wanted for lunch. And, for reasons I don’t quite understand, although it may have had something to do with the bunch of Carnavon’s finest in the fruit basket, I blurted out “banana sandwich!” She was as surprised as I and asked how she should make one. Proof there was no reference point for this particular sandwich at that point in history (not even in the CWA cookbook). And right there, on the spot, I improv-ed the banana sandwich. Just like that.

I also invented a very famous “Anne Frank” joke, but it’s not really appropriate material for this venue.

Enonymous is a word (adjective, postpositive) that defines the 21^st century habit of hiding behind ones computer (or mobile device). And the increased confidence and self-righteousness that comes with an obscured, virtual identity.

This is not necessarily a bad thing. It’s good for buying stuff, enonymously.

Online shopping is beyond a growing concern. It’s massive. Not quite at the critical mass stage. But it won’t be long until you can buy critical mass online too.

It’s great for buying “stuff”. But not so great for buying perishables, like food. Or children. Or clothes. Except for fetish outfits. There’s something about the enonymity of an online transaction that makes buying gimp costumes and sex toys so much easier for all involved, when the consumer-merchant interface is, well, faceless

I recently had a good experience buying some stuff online. A poster. No, really. A limited edition print for the office wall.

Upon delivery, however, I noticed that the reproduction quality was not as sharp as it should’ve been for a graphic print. And by graphic I mean it had graphic elements like a circle, not pornographic.

Being Australian, I’m not happy unless I’ve got something to complain about. So this flaw was actually cause for great celebration in my cubicle. Macchiatos for all my friends!

This is another thing I like about online shopping. Complaining.

If I’m on the phone or at the retail coalface, things can quickly escalate to DefCon 1. Online, however, everything stays at a nice, cozy DefCon 5, with an occasional DefCon 3 thrown in for dramatic effect. I take my time. Measure my tone. Choose my words. And find that everyone is more receptive and eager to please, mano e mano. As opposed to the Scorched Earth policy I seem to adopt when performing Live! On stage!

Of course, this is not everyone’s way. Many feel empowered by the enonymity. And see it as an opportunity to wage war from their iBunker

A friend of mine (yes Neil, you) was trying to engage an airline in a conversation. On the telephone. Probably his first mistake, but sometimes you have no other recourse. Needless to say, it was becoming a tad frustrating. So he moved the dialog to speaker’s corner and, by his own admission, shouted at them on Facebook and/or Twitter. This probably means TYPING ABRASIVE LANGUAGE IN CAPS, if the way he declared SOCIAL MEDIA FAIL! is anything to go by.

But was it?

I often think that taking a business transaction into the social sphere is a bit of a fail in itself. Or, at the very least, setting you up for one. And isn’t shouting, in any environment, somewhat anti-social to start with?

My point – and I do get around to making one, eventually – is that many people (i.e. brands, companies and agencies – traditional and digital) can’t seem to get their head around the social part of social media.

Social means communal and collective. Civil. Recreational. Amusement. Gregarious. Organized. A party, celebration or jamboree even.

A business transaction can and often does start in a social environment, but rarely ends or is resolved there. Not without drinks being spilled, punches thrown and/or underwear lost. (The latter, by the way, is the sequel to Milton’s Paradise Lost that I have just invented. It even has the same opening. Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit of that forbidden tree… hilarity ensues).

Social media, by its definition and function, is a public dialog. Conversational. Of the moment. Relaxed and more intense at the same time. Infused with spontaneity. Tone and language adopted as appropriate to the moment, the demographic, and/or the sourced crowd.

It also has an often ignored listening component that can really elevate things. If you (literally and metaphorically) shout at people in this space, you shouldn’t be surprised if you get barred from subsequent engagements. Like a bouncer at a nightclub, the host has the right to refuse entry. Or eject unruly guests. It’s not our party, it’s theirs. We were invited, or chose to gatecrash. You can do whatever you like in your own blogyard, but when taking a punt elsewhere, the house usually wins. Netiquette respects that. Common sense suggests we play to that. Or form our own little breakaway factions.

Likewise, when roping off a corner of the digisphere, or setting up a virtual booth at the social expo, dress appropriate. Don’t be the guy in the suit at the fancy dress party who couldn’t be bothered making the effort. Who talks shop all night. You need to do a little bit more than transpose the content of your website. Or reformat it to fit Facebook. And hammer in your identity.

Show a side of you that is entertaining. Engaging. Informed (not the same thing as informative). Be relevant (or irreverant). Not only to the audience but also to the occasion and the space. Engage in a social context, not a corporate manner. Find a work-life balance and all that. Just because US politics no longer believes in the separation of church and state, doesn’t mean we on the 8^th continent* have to follow suit. Oh, and bring something to the party, apart from pictures of your kids. Trifle anyone? It’s not enough to just be there. Participate.

The episode with my poster started with a “like”. We took that to the Champagne Room out the back, for a private dance. After my 20 minutes was up, I took it back to my place. Performance anxiety resulted in a little dissatisfaction

I wasn’t sure if the problem was with the file, or the output. So I sent a polite but firm email to the artist, and the gallery.

Within an hour (across a dozen time zones) the artist replied. Apologetically informing me they hadn’t received orders for iterations of that size and weren’t aware of the imperfection in the details. He proclaimed to have fixed the file and resent it to the gallery for output.

The gallery was a bit slower off the mark, but no less contrite. They requested close-up pics of the offending aberrations.

I had already done this, in my initial missive.

Now, in person, this kind of oversight would have lit my fuse and started a land war. But, because I was writing, instead of shouting like I do at the bank, I was able to gleefully inform them that I’d already spoken with the artist. And if they checked their dropbox they’d find an amended file awaiting their action. To which they replied by thanking me for my understanding. And dispatching a new and improved print, by surface mail. They said I could keep the flawed merchandise as well. It might make a nice gift for someone who doesn’t quite have the same eye, or care, for detail.

So, who wants a slightly defective electronic butt-plug?

I mean poster.

*8^th continent. A great phrase, like the 4^th estate, that I wish I had invented. But it’s actually one of Neil’s. So please refrain from posting a shouty, abusive comment below. I’ll just delete it anyway.

When most people arrive in a foreign country, unless they’re part of a military incursion, they usually seek to integrate and ingratiate themselves with the local community. Embrace the culture. Learn the language. Drink the beer. Breed with the women. And, in time, differences are forgotten.

Not at ANZ, it seems.

There’s an arrogance and elitism in the headline that’s almost jingoistic. Yes, they’ve got what it takes. Unfortunately, they’ve also put the got in bigot.

I’m sure that wasn’t the intention. Just as I’m sure it’s based on a compelling insight. There might even be some truth in it. But the way it’s expressed leaves it on the other side of confidence. It’s kind of brash, patronizing and smug (certainly the qualities I look for in a bank). It might even be racist. Actually, they’re Australian, so it probably is.

(Some insights and generalizations are better left unspoken, aren’t they?)

This year, ANZ has spent a lot of money increasing its presence in the region, trying to convince us they’re one of us. We live in your world, proclaims the tagline.

Based on this execution, they seem to live in ye olde colonial world of yore. Where expatriates live in gated communities, are ferried around in sedan chairs, sport white linen suits, funny hats, and only come down from their ivory towers to visit the shoppes, quaff gin at The Club, or transfer money to off-shore accounts located in the post offices and newsagents of outback Cock Wash, Burrumbuttock, Mount Buggery and Chinaman’s Knob*.

(Not always a good idea to leverage outdated perceptions and stereotypes, is it?)

Hong Kong, today, is the #1 financial city on the planet, according to the World Economic Forum. Superior to New York, London, Tokyo and, hard as it may be to believe, even Sydney. It’s a monetary mélange, to invoke a metaphor, where currencies of all denominations quite readily and successfully get down to business on a regular basis. To suggest otherwise is somewhat startling in its naivety.

For the record, the last time I was in a bank downunder, I was told I couldn’t exchange any money because, fair dinkum, “the guy that does that isn’t back from lunch yet”.

More than half the expatriates I showed this ad to objected to being associated with that it takes one to know one attitude (admittedly the sample size probably wasn’t enough to be statistically relevant).

Tone of voice, as ever, is everything. Get that right and you can pretty much get away with anything. It’s not what you say but how you say it, as they, er, say.

(To be fair, the bodycopy states its case quite pleasantly, with sensitivity and intelligence. But I’ve been told no one reads bodycopy any more. In fact, anything longer than 140 characters and you’re pretty much screwed.)

With this, ANZ comes off as one of those well-meaning golden retrievers that galumph into the room with a big grin on its face, willing to please, and unashamedly sniffing everyone’s crotch. Meanwhile, its gleefully wagging tail knocks all the drinks off the table and leaves the host wondering How did that get in here?

Merry Christmas, one and all. Long may your tonic effervesce. And, as I’m sure they still say in the antipodes, ‘avagoodweegend.

*Towns in rural Australia. No, really.

America’s “other white meat” of broadcasting has given us The Simpsons, Family Guy and Arrested Development. The X-Files. 24. And, er, Fox News. It has a strong pedigree of well-written, tightly constructed, good-humored television.

The same cannot be said of Fox’s latest promos.

Last night they were heralding the finale of The Killing with the line “the truth will come out of the closet”. To make it more dramatic, it was delivered like this:

The TRUTH… will COME OUT… of THE CLOSET.

The caps are mine, by the way. But the cadence and syncopation is theirs. Likewise the insinuation that the truth is, apparently, gay.

Never mind finding out whom killed Laura Palmer. Tomorrow night, the truth will be truly out there. It’s finally going to declare its homosexuality. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a gay truth. Some of my favorite facts have been corroborated. And I know a lot of verbs that have been conjugated. Regardless of sexual orientation, principles should be allowed to serve in the military. I support the right for two certitudes to be married. I just worry that the announcement will overshadow any revelations pertaining to The Killer in The Killing.

(I’m pretty sure, btw, it’s not Richmond. Or Campbell. Or the gay one. I’m also pretty sure we won’t actually find out who the killer is. That would kill Season 2 before it even got started.)

Last week, they were promoting the launch of Terra Nova as “the most expensive TV series ever”. This is one of the peculiarities of contemporary marketing – divulging how much something cost. There was a time when bragging about such things was considered quite vulgar. Now it usually means they don’t really have anything superlative or positive to say. (Kermode has written an excellent piece on this somewhere. But I can’t find the link.)

Still, it wasn’t as vulgar as the puerile promotion for Terra Nova, which might’ve well had Tera Patrick in it. And been directed by the Wayans brothers.

A pneumatic, moist mermaiden rises from a Sentosa cess pool. She is ogled by someone who probably hasn’t been to the beach since the internet was invented. She even squeezes her breasts together, like a Japanese gravure model, to remind him of home. All that’s missing is for Quint to stroll by and sing here’s to swimmin’ with bowlegged women. Instead, their lurid expressions transform to abject horror when giant, thunderous footsteps pound the imported sands. No, it’s not the peranakan porn police. It’s a dinosaur.

In Jurassic Park, when the T-Rex approached, Spielberg cut away to a glass of water. The vibrations evident in the ripples pulsating on the surface tension.

In the lost world of Fox’s creative department, they cut away to the sea-nymph’s ample bosom. And jiggle the camera. Then, just when you think it couldn’t get any more fatuous, they cut from her breasts to, wait for it, a couple of pounds of sago pudding, or some kind of gelatinous almond junket, wobbling on a plate. Try explaining that to your 8 year old daughter, while she’s waiting for The Cleveland Show to start. I think even Peter Griffin would’ve found this old chestnut unnecessarily gratuitous. Most despairingly, the 12 year-olds responsible for the spot would not even have seen the irony in employing the cheapest of visual puns, to sell the most expensive TV series ever. I think I saw the guy from Avatar in it. Which was, like, the most expensive movie ever. So it must be, you know, really expensive. Is it him that drives the cost of these things up?

Perhaps the most excruciating promo of recent memory (not including the ones for ESPN Star Sports or Football Crazy Show) was for Season 8 of NCIS. It featured a chorus of what was probably a bunch of tape loaders on a smoke-break, singing about the NCIS cast. To the tune of YMCA. Yes, NCIS to the tune of YMCA. At least if they’d chosen to murder that other Village People song (In The Navy), or even here’s to swimmin’ with bowlegged women, it might’ve been pardoned as relevant (NCIS = Naval Criminal Investigative Service), instead of guilty of a Grade-A crime against humanity-vee.

Of course, as tragic as all this is, to quote Doctor Hibbert, it’s a small price to pay for countless hours of top-notch entertainment.

On the other hand, to borrow from the man he said to… doh!

A friend once asked: what’s the name of the stuff they use to kill weeds?

Weed killer? I replied, wondering if it could really be that simple.

Weed killer! Yes! Of course! he exclaimed, slapping his forehead as if the secret of life, the universe and everything had been right under his nose the whole time.

Little did I realize then that he was ripe for a career in advertising. And yet, looking at this public notice, he could have indeed found his niche.

I’m not sure what’s more abstract. The visual, or the headline?

Rising with the spirit of lions. LionsRise.

Not really Don Draper’s finest moment. It reminds me of Pointy Birds by John Lillison, England’s greatest one-armed poet. You might remember it from The Man With Two Brains.

O pointy birds, o pointy-pointy

Anoint my head, anointy-nointy

Maybe it inspired the ad. There seems to be a flock of them in the visual.

I mentioned this to a veteran of the ad industry the other day. He was of the opinion that writers were becoming as redundant as LionsRise headlines. And cited a recent Cathay Pacific campaign as an example, where the idea of crafting a headline seemed to have been jettisoned along with advertising’s other item of excess baggage – ideas.

Not every public notice needs a headline, I reminded him. A picture can be worth at least a dozen words.

Yes, he agreed. And, in this case, it made him think of three.

Welcome to Purgatory.

I realize this could limit my chances of experiencing CX Business Class again, he said. But there’s not really a lot about these executions that makes me desire it.

That’s a shame, I replied. On the few occasions I’ve been ensconced in the pointy end, o pointy pointy, it’s been really nice. You know, being treated like a human being and all anointy-nointy, in a space of my own.

Still, maybe leveraging or adding something more emotional might’ve made it more engaging and inviting. Instead of the clinically Kubrickian, detached environment here, where sins are probably expiated with piping-hot towels while you await your final destination.

He then pointed out to me that BA’s parity product eschews the “show-flat” approach and presents a cozy, in-situ image with a line that suggests a superior experience.

The plane doesn’t fly any faster in Club World. It just seems that way.

Of course, like any self-respecting integrated campaign in this part of the world, a TVC or two also heralded Cathay’s new Business Class. And a Bondian figure was employed to flaunt improvements in the hardware.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xu-sWvbpZx4

In the print executions, however, the wafer-thin conceit, playful instruction and international man of mystery are mysteriously absent.

Perhaps Bourne might have been a more operative analogy, remarked my companion. As CX appears to be a brand in search of an identity.

Not that long ago, he pointed out, a series of high-visibility testimonials showed staff at work and play.

The line between these two modes became somewhat blurrier with The Rugby Sevens campaign, when work and play were entertainingly combined to bone-crunching effect.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dlSPYkqOccU

Maybe it speaks to the sadomasochist in me, I said, but after watching the team on the field of dreams, I was equal parts aroused and terrified of the hostess with the mostess. The way she sucked up the brutality and gave as good as she got, dispensing her own brand of justice like pre-flight aperitifs and dry-roasted nuts. Fair game indeed.

I also pointed out that, rising to the challenge, HongKongAir has now shown us flight attendants performing wing chun – not to be confused with Wang Chung, although that might also be fun – as if to say you can try it on with their pointy birds at your own peril too.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J2FU4a3IgyE

Cathay’s leisure campaign for Japan, he continued, ignoring my digression, presented illustrations inked upon a canvas of flesh. I was of the opinion it should be applauded for taking the previous demystifying and defrocking of CX staff in a bold new direction.

He said the spurious relationship between graphic and background would even have John Lillison pondering the need for a human element. And wondered why the etchings weren’t allowed to fly on their own.

In an attempt to put my finger on the point of his Cathay Pacific polemic, like all writers, I purloined the words of another.

You’re a woman of many parts, Pussy, James Bond once quipped to the titular leader of Pussy Galore’s Flying Circus, as she deployed his landing gear and upgraded his status.

Multinational brands are equally faceted, I said. And they’re often bedded on mattresses of multiplicity. Necessity calls upon them to be a CEO in the boardroom, a maid in the living room and a mistress in the bedroom.

My friend agreed, but suggested it was important they keep their end up with a consistent tone of voice and character, enabling them to be recognized as the same entity. So everyone would know exactly who they were. And what they stood for.

I remarked that, individually, Cathay’s communications are clean, fresh and frequently fun.

Yes, he countered. But, collectively, it’s a little like wandering around arrivals and wondering which belt your luggage is going to come down.

Some big media events in the last couple of weeks. More interesting is how quickly people move to take ownership of them, in some way or other.

I remember when Baz (as POTUS is codenamed in our house) first tweeted about some troubling information he’d received from Pakistan. It was August last year.

I know, I replied. The match-fixing really throws a cloud of doubt over the results from that test in Australia.

This is a little bigger than cricket, he said. And went on to explain the situation.

Needless to say, I was quite surprised. What did Americans know about cricket? Anyone who’s been to Pakistan will tell you there are few things bigger than the hallowed game. I conceded, however, that this might be one of them. And urged him to think about it for a while, before taking action. Monitor the situation. See what Wolf Blitzer thinks.

Renegade (as he is codenamed by the Secret Service) wrote on my wall again in February.

Now? he asked

Better wait until after the World Cup, I replied. Otherwise you’ll be lucky to make it onto Page 3. You know how big cricket is in that part of the world.

Towards the end of April he was getting a little impatient. He needed a statement of intent to kickstart his campaign for re-election.

Now that I’ve got my citizenship, he texted, I want to do something for my country. I want to be known as the Ameri-CAN President. Not the Ameri-CAN’T, like Tumbler (codename for his predecessor).

Are you sure you want to do this? I cautioned him. It’s a hell of a thing, killing a man. You take away all he’s got and all he’s ever gonna have, I said, borrowing from Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven.

If anything is this life is certain, if history has taught us anything, it is that you can kill anyone, he replied, borrowing from Al Pacino in The Godfather. Keith Richards being the obvious exception to this rule, he added.

Maybe wait until after the Wedding Royale, I suggested. You don’t want to upstage the bride on her big day. Her sister or some 3 year-old is probably going to do that anyway. I just got an e-pistle from Kittyhawk (user-id for HRH). She reminded me how The Firm would not to be amused by such things. I knew she was serious because SHE TYPED IT ALL IN CAPS.

(He apologized for his inconsideration, and confessed he was just feeling a tad miffed at being left off the guest list. Especially once he found out Mugabe and that girl from E! had made it on.)

Old age will get OBL before we do, POTUS grumbled. It’s bad enough we funded him in the beginning. Now it looks like our money built his retirement home.

I urged him to be patient for just a little longer. Go to the Correspondent’s Ball, I said. Unleash some of your frustration on Donald Trump. It’ll make you feel better.

You could see and hear his resolve in the “take no prisoners” manner of the speech he gave that night. This was clearly a man that had decided to do something definitive. If Obama had been sporting a beard… not only would it have confused the hell out of Fox News, you could’ve been forgiven for thinking the crowd was being addressed by Chuck Norris, such was the steel in his spine.

Still, there were many anxious tweets and sleepless nights in the days leading up to Operation Geronimo. Most were about what codename to give it. Others pertained to who should actually lead the mission.

He was disappointed to find out Chuck Norris was unavailable, due to filming commitments on the full-length feature of Walker: Texas Ranger. Likewise, when he learned that Lee Marvin never made it back from that reconnaissance mission in the build up to Desert Storm. Fortunately, Clint Eastwood had just got his helicopter license. Although, in hindsight, perhaps they should’ve let him get a few more hours under his belt before attempting to land inside the walls of the compound.

That’s the commander-in-chief reason the incursion, which was originally scheduled to last just 30 minutes, dragged on for 38.

I told Baz this should not have been totally unexpected. If there’s one thing we’ve learned from watching broadcasts of live television events in America: they always run over.

The anxiety you see on everyone’s face in that mid-operation photo is partly a reflection of this. Along with the uncomfortable realization that their quarry was caught, figuratively speaking, with his pants down. Unarmed. It’s why the release of the video has taken so long. They’re trying to edit out the bit where someone shouts Stand back! He’s got a dialysis machine! And he’s looks like he’s going to use it! They’re also photoshopping the bedside defibrillator to look like a WMD.

In his last SMS, I could tell POTUS was no longer basking in the afterglow of having gazzumped Donald Trump twice in the same week. He was wrestling with the thorny issue of what to do with OBN’s body. What shall I tell the American people? he postulated.

The truth, I replied. They won’t believe a story about a shrine-avoiding burial at sea. Or that the image was too unsavory. Have you seen some of the stuff that’s on the interwebs? It will pale in comparison.

He asked if people would think they’re trying to avoid the dangers and awkwardness of a trial, and the other hidden truths that may be unearthed during that.

It’s 2011, I reminded him. People expect you to do what you always do with unconscionable threats to humanity and public safety.

Evacuate the planet and nuke it from space?

The other thing you do, I reminded him. You’ll secret him away to a bunker, deep beneath the Nevada desert, where you keep all the giant alien robots, and Walt Disney’s head. So you can study him. Learn from him. Find out what makes him tick. And use that to stop the apes from taking over in future.

I think we’re going to go with shrine-avoiding burial at sea, and the too-gruesome thing, he said flatly.

I could tell he was in two minds. He didn’t sign off with #WINNING. Or an emoticon.

Maybe he was thinking of getting another taskforce together. To serve some true justice upon the guys who destroyed the livelihoods of millions of Americans. And are hiding in plain sight, in luxurious compounds. On Wall Street.

NOTE:

@BarackObama, follows @rtbridge, although probably not for much longer.

Oh, and if you use the word “inconceivable” in a tweet, you get this in return.

Which is kinda cool. In a nerdy nerdington way. And quite possibly the real reason the interweb was invented.

I thought April Fools Day had come early. But when you see “Japan” “toilet” and “game” in the same sentence, you know the truth will always be stranger than fiction.

So, scammers, are you ready? On your marks, get set…

TOYLET

In the ongoing quest to convert every space into a form of media, and turn every moment into a commercial opportunity, Sega have come up with a whole new (ahem) stream of revenue.

At the moment, there’s four “point and shoot” RPGs you can play in the little boys room. And they’re based on the strategic placement of sensitive pads (but, like, what isn’t these days?).

Splashing Battle – measure your stream against previous users and become King Of The Urinal!

The North Wind: blow the skirt up on a digital dame. The strength of your stream determines what’s seen!

Mannekin Pis: a volume-based game. You’ve seen the statue in Brussels, now test your bladder’s muscles!

Graffitti Eraser: the stronger the stream, the more walls you clean!

Samurai’s Lament: time is the enemy. How quickly can you unleash the fury of your blade?*

Toys for boys indeed. Tap into now.

* Okay. I made this last one up. But it didn’t seem out of place, did it?

If the first rule of comedy is be funny, the first rule of restaurant advertising is probably be tempting. Or be appetizing. Be inviting. Be appealing. Or be toothsome, even.

It’s hard to imagine what maxim the noshery below was operating under when they concocted this dish.

All the ingredients are there. Understated headline. Product. Context. Cleavage. And yet (ahem) this soufflé has fallen flat.

As with many public notices in the comestibles caper, the problem isn’t what they’re saying… it’s how they’re saying it.

Is she eating the fettuccine, or regurgitating it? Why is there no cutlery at this restaurant? Did she use her hands? If so, where is the napkin she cleaned them with? And, if this is the best shot on the roll, what was wrong with the other ones?

I used to wonder why the first rule of courtship was never do Italian on your first date. Now I know. It’s hard to look sexy and sophisticated when eating pasta. Likewise, it’s probably why one of the golden rules of food advertising is don’t show people mid-mastication. Or is that one of the hard and fast rules of soft-porn?

Anyway, there are, of course, exceptions to every rule. And biting, licking or sucking something is not the same as chewing or eating it, when it comes to photography. I said photography. Get your mind out of the gutter.

It’s a bit like Nouvelle Cuisine.

It’s been said that Nouvelle Cuisine (New Cuisine or New Food, as those of us who don’t speak French know it), was so specifically French that is was, and still is, misunderstood in the rest of the world. You have to be dominated by Escoffier before rejecting him and his rules becomes meaningful.

The weeks around Christmas and Lunar New Year see a rise in the number public notices competing for celebratory dollars.

At least this one doesn’t make a complete meal of it.

It’s obviously leveraging some local insight. Having said that, it’s one of those propositions that doesn’t really tell me anything about the product that makes me want to go there. All I know is that it’s not fake.

Authenticity on it’s own is not really a USP. It needs a qualifier. Authentic Tuscan. Authentic Japanese. Authentic Sichuan.

Here, I’m in for authentic Harlan apparently. Is that somewhere between Harbin and Henan, or Hunan?

Okay, I’m being facetious. I know that Harlan is a chef in Hong Kong. And he is no longer associated with the restaurant/s that bear his name.

Yet, even if someone were to tell me I was going to get the real Ramsay experience, I still wouldn’t know what to expect in terms of food. Only thing I could be sure of is that someone will probably spend a lot of time shouting at me, quite possibly until I burst into tears and/or I stick my head in the oven.

I guess that’s kind of the point. This proclamation isn’t telling anything new to those in-the-know, or offering illumination to those in-the-dark.

Is he so famous he has become ubiquitous? An adjective? A lifestyle?

Still, cynicism aside, the ad is intriguing because it makes me wonder which restaurants in Hong Kong are fake. Or are trading off a faux Harlan experiences. It makes me curious as to what that experience involves. Will there be shouting? I guess I’ll have to make a reservation to find out.

See. They got me. And people say traditional advertising has lost its effectiveness.

Mind you, it’s also possible this is more of a back-handed brand positioning statement, intended for a niche audience of one or two.

In which case, perhaps it’s more a case of sour grapes.

Although, I thought the first rule of revenge was it’s a dish that’s best served cold.

Sublime and ridiculous at the same time.

pink ponies

I’m not sure if it’s with us or against us – mocking or genuine, pandering or patronizing – which probably means it’s genius.

Happy New Year blogren. I see the industry’s first shot across the bow of SS Resolution was fired by the Hong Kong Art Director’s Club. They hung their shingle out on the delightfully binarific 01 01 11.

This sounds like a good thing. Particularly as there is an obvious void in the market for the encouragement and provocation of creativity. The documentation part of their mission is also a worthy pursuit. Although the “by invitation only” caveat is a bit of a brow-raiser.

Don’t make it too exclusive.

It could end up being one of those clubs that exist because its members feel unloved (i.e. The National Rifle Association; The First Wives Club). Or because they think everyone else is stupid (i.e. The National Rifle Association; Mensa. Although, in the context of the latter, the eggheads probably have a point).

Personally, I’d like to think hkADC would consider inviting a copywriter or two into the fold. This epistle will no doubt limit my chances of indoctrination as Master Ad Vitam. Still, it might be worth it, even if only to resolve the issue of whether or not, as a plural possessive noun, it should be ART DIRECTORS CLUB or ART DIRECTORS’ CLUB. I’m pretty sure it’s not ART DIRECTOR’S CLUB, as the current singular possessive tends to suggest it is the dominion of one art director, rather than an aquelarre of art directors. And, yes, I’ve just decided the collective term for art directors is aquelarre. (See, we’re adding value already.)

Will it spawn the obligatory gong show?

Hopefully they’ll avoid the pitfall of providing another back-slapping venue for under-achievers, or a back-stabbing forum for the disgruntled. The current slate of bestivals creates more than enough delusional behavior, and distractions from the day-job. Not to mention the dent in profitability from entry fees and gallah dinners.

It sometimes strikes me as a bit of a back-handed compliment that the Effies were considered necessary. As if we’d strayed so far from the path we needed to convene a separate congregation to flout the fact that, contrary to unpopular opinion, we can indeed perform our most core of functions and raison d’être. You know, sell stuff. Effectively. It’s kind of like being voted Best Team Man, or Miss Congeniality. I wonder if The ‘Berg hands out Employee of the Month certificates at Facebook…

(Did you know medals were originally given out to make footsoldiers feel better about the fact they would no longer get a percentage of the spoils of war? Of course you did, you’re Master of the Brazen Serpent & Patriarch Noachite of the Historical Society.)

Maybe hkADC could instigate a progressive education program. Our generation has been quite bad at passing on the craft and effective communication aspect of public notices, leaving it all to the anarchy of the interweb and YouTube to provide creative mentorship.

It’s an angle to consider. Make it purely a celebration of craft and inventiveness. That’s probably what those adshows where all about in the first place, before they were hijacked by insecurity, guilt and the need to justify one’s existence to a procurement department.

Art for art’s sake doesn’t have to be the philosophy of the well fed. It could be the cause célèbre that restores balance to ad-verse.

The briefest of encounters with a Bentley on the voyage of life will tell you the captains who command these luxury landliners live and drive by their own rules.

There’s one charter for them, so to speak, and one for everyone else.

Those who doubt the existence of these noble and aspirational double standards need look no further than the public notices peddling them.

Why have one rubbish headline, when you can have two? In fact, why have two headlines when you can typeset the same headline twice, in different fonts? Or, to look at it another way, why get twelve miles to the gallon when you can get six?

Refined by the past, inspired by the future and, apparently, written by the planner, it truly puts Bentley in a class of its own.

Power with refinement. Racing with style. Copy without meaning… this is clearly a refined vehicle. You can tell because that’s the word they use to describe it in four of the first five phrases.

IT’S JUST LIKE DÉJÀ VU.

Regular readers – all one of you – might recall a similar post back in May this year.

That’s because it’s 2010. And, for the next 24hrs, repetition is the new profound.

IT’S JUST LIKE DÉJÀ VU.

http://blog.campaignasia.com/richardtunbridge/roadkill-aka-two-heads-better-than-one/ also echoes another recent post. The one about question marks.

Who could forget that (sic)