Truth in Advertising

IT’S INCREDIBLY STUPID. I LOVE IT.


Fin. How nice.” It’s Martin’s assistant, Emma, whom he brought with him from London. She’s called and asked if I could stop by Martin’s office. He’d like a word.

Martin’s office sits in a corner of the building with spectacular views of Bryant Park. I wait in an anteroom. I hear voices from his office and recognize them as the soda guys, Glen and Barry. They are brothers, twins from Florida. They went to school for advertising, received actual degrees, apparently. I would think advertising would be more of a course than a degree, more like a week’s bartending program or CPR or omelet-making. The twins were recruited to work here, having come from a far superior agency known for its award-winning work. They love advertising. They study the business, read the industry periodicals, know the names of the best copywriters and art directors, the best agencies, which account has moved where. They know the directors. They watch reels of commercials from around the world for hours at a time. They are true believers and they will one day run this place. Or someplace like it. They bear an uncanny resemblance to Elmer Fudd.

They run the fizzy orange drink account. The fizzy orange drink is preferred by the African-American community. The fizzy orange drink is very important to the agency. The agency hopes to parlay our success (as-yet unproved) to the fizzy orange drink’s parent company, based in Atlanta. From the sound of it, Glen and Barry are very excited about their idea.

Glen (or maybe Barry) says, “Youth-oriented. Hip. Street.”

The other one says, “Jay-Z, Young Jeezy, Lil Wayne.”

Which is when they say their idea is a small black doll that talks.

I peek my head in and see that Barry and Glen are each holding a rubber doll about a foot high, presenting it to Martin and a few others.

Babs Moss, management supervisor on the account, says, “Do the thing, guys. Talk like them.”

Glen talks as if he were the doll. “What up, yo?”

Babs says, “No, the other thing. The funny thing.”

Glen says, “Blast is so right, yo. Fresh.” Blast is the fizzy orange drink.

Babs squeals with delight.

Barry says, “I find it quite refreshing.” He says this in a posh English accent.

Martin sits, hands in a contemplative tent over his nose, a deep thinker, a man listening to a new idea for peace in the Middle East.

Martin says, “So they’re two puppets who talk.”

Glen and Barry nod.

Babs says, “I think that’s right, Martin. I think that’s exactly right.”

Martin says, “Aren’t they similar to what Nike did some time ago with Lil Penny?”

Nike used Chris Rock as the voice for an inanimate little doll that was former NBA great Penny Hardaway’s alter ego. It was funny, in no small part because it was Chris Rock and not Glen and Barry.

Babs says, “They most certainly did, Martin. But we feel this idea is very different.”

Martin says, “How is it different?”

Glen says, “We have two, not one.”

Babs says, “I think that’s a crucial difference. Also one’s white.”

Martin says, “Why is one English?”

Barry says, “It’s just funny.”

Martin says, “Is it?”

Babs says, “It’s certainly not classically funny, Martin. Not laugh loud funny. It’s a chuckle. A smile. A half grin.” Babs makes a half-grin face.

Martin turns to Glen and Barry. “Did you do two because you’re twins and they’re twins?”

Glen says, “That was part of it.”

Babs jumps in with the intensity of a hostage negotiator. “Martin, the target is African-American teens, thirteen to seventeen, hip-hop culture, NBA-focused, single-parent homes, at-risk kids who consume on average two to three bottles of our product a day. Our projections want that closer to seven to ten bottles a day. We think the doll will reach them, and the client is putting major money behind it. NBA playoffs, MTV Music Awards, and Bling Thing.”

Martin says, “Bling Thing?”

Babs doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s the inner-city anti-violence initiative sponsored by Iced La-Táy, the rap star who was shot two weeks ago.”

Martin says, “Interesting. Part of me thinks it’s funny. Part of me thinks it’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever seen.”

Babs says, “That was the brief exactly. It almost makes you wish you were African-American. Not literally African-American, of course, but you know what I mean.”

Barry says, “It’s stupid, right? That’s what I love about it. It’s just so stupid.”

Martin says, “I love their pants. They’re very baggy.”

Babs says, “Should they have little belts?”

Glen says, “That wouldn’t be true to street.”

A junior account guy says, “That’s true. I’ve seen them. Always pulling up their pants.”

It dawns on me that everyone in the room is white.

Martin says, “When’s the meeting?”

Babs says, “Thursday in Atlanta.”

Martin says, “Knock ’em dead. If you don’t come back having sold it, kill yourself.”

Babs laughs, but she’s not entirely sure Martin is joking.

“Fin!” Babs says as she walks out of Martin’s office smiling, her lips disappearing. I heard a rumor that her husband left her recently. Three children.

“Hey, Babs. How are you?”

Babs begins crying for no reason I can discern.

I say, “Are you okay?”

And just as quickly she stops crying. Eyes wide, lunatic smile. “Sure am, Fin.” Machine-gun laugh out of nowhere, then gone.

Babs says, “Did you hear we’re trying to get the Dalai Lama for Crest White Strips?”

“Wow. Does he do advertising?”

“Who the f*ck knows?!” she says, a giant smile still plastered on her face. I feel like she might explode.

“Sounds like a great meeting in there.”

Babs says, “A great meeting. A great meeting. Leaving for Atlanta in about an hour. Hotlanta, they call it down there. More like Shitlanta. What a dump. Need to talk with you first thing after the New Year about the Doodles thing.” Her cell phone is ringing and she’s readjusting the folio she is holding to her birdlike chest in order to answer it.

“Barbara Moss,” she says into the phone, nodding to me, smiling.

I nod and smile.

Merry Christmas, she mouths, and she’s off, a trauma surgeon heading toward the ER.

“Good luck,” I shout, and see her bony arm come up and wave as she disappears down the hallway. God love her.

“Fin,” Martin says, from inside his office.

There’s a Christmas morning atmosphere in Martin’s office. Boughs with white lights adorn his window with a view to Bryant Park and the skating rink below. Gifts from clients, vendors, editorial companies, music companies, production companies. New Patagonia jackets here, an engraved bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label there. This is my future. This office. This is what I’ve been working for. Though the chances of me ever getting here are comically slim. The simple truth is that there are far more talented people all around me. They possess a drive and passion for advertising that I lack. It’s not that I don’t work hard. I do. I enjoy work, enjoy accomplishing something, solving a problem, completing a thing. It’s just that, for me, lately (and more and more often) there is always another voice competing with my own internal monologue. One that questions and laughs a lot and makes comical grimacing faces at the work, the gravitas, the inanity of it. Take Glen and Barry’s idea, for example. I like it. It’s something I couldn’t come up with. It’s exactly the kind of thing—done right—that will garner five million hits on YouTube in a two-week span. It’s the kind of idea I used to get very excited about. But then the voice creeps in and says, “Psst. Hey, pal. Are you out of your f*cking mind? That’s the dumbest idea since the Chia Pet.” Cynicism is very dangerous in advertising. You must be a believer. If you stray, if you start questioning its worth and validity, its credibility, you are in for a very long day.

This voice is not present, I am sure of it, in the heads of the other creatives who’ve achieved far more than I have. Take the team that just launched the “What’s the Question Because the Answer Is Soup” campaign for Campbell’s. The client called it “breathtaking.” I happen to know that each team member received a bonus and an expensive, handmade Italian bicycle. When I talk with them, when I run into them in the hallway or the cafeteria or at a company event, they speak with great intensity about their work, an intensity and intelligence I admire, as well as their wardrobes and hair. I feel inferior to them and their awards, their quiet cool. Inevitably they ask about my work in voices of thinly veiled condescension. “Missed you at Cannes this year,” they say, referring to the French city where the premiere annual advertising award show takes place. I often have a remarkably cutting comeback, such as, “Oh, yeah? Well . . . that’s because I wasn’t there.”

There are bookshelves in Martin’s office holding an impressive array of books, some on advertising, some on writing, and several volumes of the OED, which look to be quite old. Also a collection by Philip Larkin and three by Seamus Heaney. Mostly there are awards, dozens and dozens of awards, oddly shaped things, blocks of Lucite, gold-colored pencils, a winged lady, Greek-inspired surely, holding a globe overhead. Clios, Effies, Andys, Chuckies, Chippies. (I made up the last two.) The Clio is the big one. The name comes by way of Greek mythology, which seems right to me, as the essence of what we do is create and foster myth.

Martin is on his iPad. Emma brings in tea.

“Fin. Have a seat. Just finishing something up. Help yourself,” he adds, nodding to the pot of tea. It is a ritual of his, each afternoon around four. He has a large pot of tea and a tray of scones brought in from Tea & Sympathy in the Village.

It has crossed my mind that I may be here to learn the news of my impending (and much sought after) promotion to creative director. Considering the bloodbath of the past year (three rounds of layoffs) and the continued grim economic news, I can’t imagine this chat is about a bonus.

Emma leaves and Martin turns to face me. “Christmas has come early, Fin.”

I smile my fake smile. “Really?”

“Indeed.”

My palms begin to tingle and perspire. I feel my promotion/bonus/life-changing career moment coming, and I believe that I am an exceptional predictor of the future (though empirical data disproves this).

“I’ve just received a call from Brad,” Martin says.

Brad is the CMO of Snugglies, a division of General Corp., makers of baby diapers, adult diapers, soap, shampoo, cereal, candy, car tires, jet engines, diesel locomotives, and guidance systems for Tomahawk missiles.

Maybe Brad called Martin about me. Brad saw—helped Martin see—my worth, my uniqueness, my way not merely with words (“Does your diaper do this?”), but with people, how I inspire them, how, if I died tomorrow, the line for the wake would wrap around the block, the Times would publish the obit, I would be remembered. I mattered. Which is when Terry Gross begins to interview me for the many wondrous achievements of my storied career.

TERRY: This is Fresh Air. I’m Terry Gross. I’m talking with world-famous copywriter and poet Finbar Dolan. Your first book, Me, How Wonderful, a collection of poems and an international bestseller, is being made into a film directed by Ang Lee and starring both Brad Pitt and George Clooney as you at different times in your life. You’ve been asked to act in it and to write the screenplay. Is it hard to write a screenplay for a book of poems?

FIN: It is, Terry. But I was able to do it in a day.

TERRY: You chose to live in Paris for much of the writing. Why was that?

FIN: It’s one of my favorite cities. I bought a home there. And, of course, I speak the language without any trace of an accent.

TERRY: You’re the youngest member ever to be elected to L’Academie française.

FIN: Oui.

TERRY: That’s an incredible accomplishment.

FIN: Thank you, Terry.

TERRY: You once landed a 747 safely after the pilot passed out. How did you know how to do that?

FIN: Luck. And of course a great deal of skill.

TERRY: You’re far better looking in person than on your book jacket photo.

FIN: (embarrassed) That’s very kind.

TERRY: You recently played against Roger Federer in a charity tennis tournament and beat him. Left-handed.

FIN: Roger’s a sweet kid.

TERRY: What’s the capital of Nevada?

FIN: Carson City.

TERRY: At what temperature are Fahrenheit and Celsius exactly the same?

FIN: Minus forty.

TERRY: Marshal Phillipe Pétain oversaw Vichy France during World War Two. What color were his eyes?

FIN: Blue. A startling blue.

TERRY: This is Fresh Air. I’m Terry Gross. If you’re just joining us, my guest is Finbar Dolan, copywriter, poet, hero. You mentioned climbing K2 without pants last year.

FIN: I wanted a challenge.

TERRY: What’s sex like with Miss France?

FIN: Nice. Really pleasant. We had fun.

TERRY: How tall are you?

FIN: I’m six-five.

TERRY: Are most people happy?

FIN: That’s a great question. I don’t think so.

TERRY: Why?

FIN: They lack fulfillment in either love or work.

TERRY: You have a lovely speaking voice. How much can you bench-press?

FIN: Ohhh, I’m not sure, really. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds.

TERRY: You broke your former fiancée’s heart.

FIN: Excuse me?

TERRY: You broke her heart. You embarrassed her and yourself. You called off a wedding with a month to go.

FIN: I . . .

TERRY: Your mother died.

FIN: Please don’t . . .

TERRY: Your mother died when you were young. Tell us about that.

FIN: Please don’t do that.

TERRY: Are you close with your father?

FIN: Why are you . . .

TERRY: You have family. You have a sister and two brothers. Are you close? Do you keep in touch?

FIN: No. We, ahh . . . no. We kind of lost touch and . . .

TERRY: Your brother Eddie called you and asked that you call him back. Your brother. And yet you can’t pick up the phone to call him. That seems sad and pathetic. You make no effort to keep in touch with these people, your siblings, your flesh and blood. Your family. You’re a terrible person. What are your plans for Christmas?

• • •

“Fin?” It’s Martin. “I said, what are your plans for Christmas?”

I’m blinking quickly. I’m touching the scar on my face. I sip tea and spill some on my shirt.

“I’m going to Mexico.” I smile.

“Right. You mentioned that.” Martin leans forward in his chair, looks toward the door as if he is about to share nuclear codes with me. Quieter voice now.

“What if I told you that Snugglies was in possession of the world’s first eco-friendly, one-hundred-percent biodegradable diaper that can be flushed down a toilet, not thrown into a landfill?”

His eyes are wide, his shock a mirror, he palpably hopes, of the shock and facial expression I will soon experience. He lets the news sit in the refined air. Then, right elbow on desk, he separates his thumb and forefinger, slowly rotating his wrist, as if carefully imparting a biblical insight: “Redefining disposable diapers.” Eyebrows still raised (they look stuck up there at this point), Martin sits back and says, “What d’ya think?”

Here is what I think, in an amount of time that perhaps only NASA could measure.

I think, I love when a hockey team pulls its goalie in the final minute of the game, down a goal. I think, I hate the word panty. I think, do I have an average, above average, or below average–sized penis? I think, where’s the punch line to what Martin just said, because there has to be a punch line because I’m pretty sure I’m on a reality TV show and there’s a camera filming my face and somewhere, behind the scenes, people are laughing at me. I think, this is one of those rare occasions where I have let the question, “What do I do for a living?” come to the fore, where I question things, which is never a productive exercise for me. I think, my father’s going to die and none of us care. I think, keep going, keep moving, keep smiling.

I say, “Wow.”

Martin nods slowly and says, “Wow indeed. I’m glad you see it that way. Brad said they’ve reconsidered the launch of this. Had planned on the Academy Awards in March but are excited and worried that Procter & Gamble have an identical product. Corporate espionage, Fin. So I think you know what that means.”

My expression suggests that I have no idea what that means. Is he asking me if I know what corporate espionage means?

Martin says, “It means they want to launch on the Super Bowl.”

“Which Super Bowl?”

“The one in six weeks.”

“You’re talking about the famous one. The football one. With the commercials.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Of course it is,” Martin says. “I told them it is. Which means it is.”

“So, wait. Come up with a Super Bowl–worthy idea. Get it approved. Find a director. Prep it. Shoot it. Edit it. Mix it. Score music to it. Six weeks, with Christmas and New Year’s in between.”

“Exactly.”

I say, “Have I offended you in some way?”

“This is a great opportunity, Fin. I think you’re the right man for the job. Truly.”

“How many other writers did you ask before me?”

“Two.”

“At five I would have been offended. So wait. You’re asking me to cancel another vacation?”

“Absolutely not. How long’s your vacation?”

“Seven days.”

“You should definitely go. Enjoy yourself. Relax. Forget work completely. But only for two days. A long weekend.”

“A regular weekend.”

“Two days. Much deserved. And maybe jot down a few ideas while you’re there and send them to me. Each day. Then hop on a plane, come back, and work the week. What fun. The city’s quiet, so is the office.”

“That’s because everyone’s on vacation.”

Martin says, “We need to show ideas January second, in production first week of January, shooting second week of January. That means working over the break, I’m afraid. Exciting, though, Fin. You and Ian, Stefano and Paulie, Malcolm and Rajit. I chose only the single people. No families.”

“Stefano and Paulie and Rajit are all married,” I say.

“No children, though.”

“Paulie has two children.”

Martin blinks several times. “I wanted to tell you first as I’d like you to lead the charge on this end, as I’ll be away.”

“Where are you going?”

“Vacation. It’s Christmas. Meeting to tell the teams in a bit. More tea?”

The lucky ones have a passion. The other ninety-eight percent of us end up doing something we kind-of, sort-of like-ish. The place where you show up for work each day for five, ten, twenty years is who you are. Isn’t it? And yet, from time to time, there is that small voice that screams, “Leave. Go. This isn’t what you want.” Except that other voice, the one that calls you Gary, whispers, “But where would you go? And what would you do?”

• • •

Two and a half hours later, two days before Christmas, one day before the agency closes until the day after New Year’s, fourteen people sit grim-faced in a conference room ready to be briefed on a revolutionary diaper.

Ian, myself, Malcolm and Raj, Stefano and Paulie, Pam, Jill, Alan, Martin, and four people I’ve never seen before in my life, all of whom appear to be twenty-eight and taking notes, despite the fact that the meeting hasn’t started. All have beautiful hair and sparkling white teeth.

One of the perfect-hair people hands out copies of the assignment, or what we call the “brief.” Despite its name, it is six pages long, single-spaced, twelve-point Futura (the agency’s typeface). Every brief aspires to answer the same questions: background, challenge, marketplace, problem we are solving for.

Alan says, “Okay. Everyone? Let’s get started, please. I know this is not what any of us had in mind for the holidays, but I think you’ll see, after we’ve gone over the brief, that this is a special product and a special chance to make a difference.”

There are groans, almost exclusively from the creatives.

Paulie says, “Like the Peace Corps.”

Everyone laughs. Except Martin.

Martin’s voice is never loud. He has the ability to break through noise and be heard.

Martin says, “The average baby goes through five thousand diapers before being potty-trained. Because ninety-five percent of these diaper changes are disposable diapers, most of them end up in landfills. Fifty million of them get thrown away each day. Each one takes up to five hundred years to biodegrade.”

Everyone is listening. He is looking around the room, making eye contact. He’s talking without notes.

He says, “Disposable diapers are the third largest contributors to landfills in the world and yet only five percent of the population uses them. Diapers in landfills in underdeveloped countries are especially problematic because they often aren’t properly disposed, and excrement leaks into the local water supply. No diaper—not even biodegradable ones—can break down in an airtight landfill. How many people in this room have children?” Forty percent of the room raises its hand. “How many of you plan to have children?” Another forty percent goes up.

Martin says, “Diapers? Soda? Candy? Toilet paper? Disparage it, make fun of it, call it dull, but never, ever say the products that touch the lives of billions of people every day don’t make a difference. And what we’re asking of you here today is to speak to the world. There are worse ways to make a living.”

He lets the silence play out and then turns back to Alan. “Alan. You were saying?”

Alan continues. “Okay. What business problem-slash-opportunity is the campaign designed to address?”

He walks through the document, Jill jumping in to help. They read almost word for word what’s on the page, skipping parts that are included on every Snugglies brief, such as “Tone and Manner” (fun, informative, positive, upbeat, inspirational, unique, hopeful, anthemic, breakthrough).

Martin’s phone rings and he steps out of the room.

Jill says, “The point we’re trying to communicate: New Snugglies Planet Changers are the first one-hundred-percent biodegradable, flushable diapers.”

Alan says, “This is nothing short of a revolution in disposable diapers. It is a breakthrough of epic proportions. It could change the world. And no, we can’t use the Beatles song ‘Revolution’ because it costs too much and because the mayonnaise group used it last year for their new low-calorie mayo launch.”

Raj says something. Malcolm says, “He says what do you mean by the word toxic on the last page?”

I hadn’t seen it, as I hadn’t really been paying attention. But there, on the last page, at the bottom, in smaller type, is a paragraph with the word toxic. In fact, the word toxic appears several times in the paragraph.

Ian says, “Oh, goody. The fun part.”

Alan says, “Malcolm, thank you for pointing that out. I was coming to that.”

Jill smiles. “Good catch.”

Alan says, “Let’s talk about the mechanics of the diaper for a second. What makes them work is super-absorbent polymers.”

Raj says, “SAP.”

Malcolm says, “SAP.”

Alan says, “SAP is the gel you find in disposable diapers and it’s a miracle. It can absorb something like three hundred times its own weight. Chemicals, polymers, the genius of American innovation, right?”

No one so much as nods. Jill says, “Absolutely.”

Alan says, “Of course, no product is perfect. In certain studies, SAP has been linked to an increase in childhood asthma and a decrease in sperm count among boys.”

Stefano says, “Unfortunate.”

Alan says, “Most of you are too young to remember this, but SAP was removed from tampons in 1985 because of its link to toxic shock syndrome.”

Paulie says, “Can we mention that in the spot?”

Alan ignores him. “The industry did studies and found no connection to toxic shock in outerwear, including diapers, incontinence products, and feminine napkins, which all contain SAP.”

Ian says, “The industry study found it was safe?”

Alan says, “They hired independent researchers.”

Paulie says, “I’m sure it was completely unbiased.”

Alan says, “Am I sensing sarcasm within the ranks?”

Ian says, “Alan. Light of my life, fire of my loins. You just told us Christmas is canceled for a world-beating product that lowers sperm count. I think we’re all just processing this information.”

Alan says, “Totally understood. And we’re here to help.”

Paulie slips a piece of paper in front of me. It says, Know what’d be a good name for a TV show? My Dad Is the Pope.

My cell phone rings. The screen reads Unknown. I’m eager to step out of the briefing, so I answer as I get up and walk out of the room.

“Fin. It’s Eddie.” My brother. Shit.

“Eddie. Hey.” I’m not sure when we last spoke. Three years? More?

“I called you a few times, left messages,” he says, sounding annoyed.

“I’m sorry. Completely my fault. Work’s been busy.”

“Yeah.”

I say, “So how are you?”

Eddie has no time or interest in answering. “I got a call two days ago. He’s in a hospital on the Cape.” Cape Cod. Last I’d heard he was in Florida.

Eddie says, “You there?”

“Yeah.”

“Apparently it’s bad.”

His voice is flat, cold, distant. He’s been waiting to deliver this news his whole life but it’s just not coming out like he’s imagined. I think of my green bike. It appears with startling force. I see it, lying on its side on the grass in the yard by the back stairs. No kickstand. It had been Eddie’s and then Kevin’s, and there was no mud flap fender and when it rained there was always a stain from the muddy water along the back of your shirt.

I say, “How did they find you? I mean, what made them contact you?”

“He’s been in a nursing home. Gave them my name, apparently.”

How strange to think of him so close to Boston. How strange to think of him at all.

Eddie says, “Anyway. Thought you’d want to know. I talked with Maura. Left a message for Kevin.” Our sister and brother. We share a last name, the four of us. We share a history. We share this dying man. But we share almost nothing else, not, say, the names of our friends and coworkers, details of our last vacations, the funny thing that happened the other day at the dry cleaner/the gym/Starbucks. We don’t call to check in, to say hi. Eddie knows nothing of my day-to-day life, of who I’ve become. I know nothing about him, very little about his children. I’m not quite sure how it came to be that way. But I do know that once it happened it was far too easy to let it continue, to drift further and further away. You change what you want to change.

But here’s the thing: The way I see it, there are maybe five or six really important things that happen in your life. Big things, I mean. Five or six things that define you, that stay with you. You were teased mercilessly in third grade because of a stutter, say; you had an uncontrollable erection (hypothetically) at age fourteen on a bus and had to go five stops past your stop before it was safe to alight; you were witness to an act of violence that never leaves you. Events that act as markers along the way, that change you, that may not appear so obviously each day but that inform your actions, your outlook, your narrative. To date, for me, Eddie has been there with me for almost every one.

“Are you going?” I ask, knowing the answer.

“No.”

“Are you asking me to go?”

Silence. He was my best friend once.

He says, “Look. Okay. I can’t go. I’ve got . . . things. The kids. I’m just saying, all right? He’s in the hospital.”

“Okay, then,” I say.

“Yeah,” Eddie says.

I hang up.

I go back into the room, take my seat. Jill’s still talking about the brief. I can see that people are fading, doodling, texting. I also notice that someone has defaced a small corner of the large, expensive conference table. Someone has drawn a tiny picture of a turd. He is a turd man, with eyes and arms and little legs. Steam comes off his little turd head. He leans forward, as if atop a precipice, and from his little turd fist drops smaller turds—several of them are in mid-flight—into a basket below marked IDEAS.