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At a restaurant the other day I overheard a woman paraphrase the famous Andy Warhol quote, “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes.” She was referring to a video her son recently posted on You Tube. She told her rapt friends it had “hundreds of views!” For her, and likely her boy, that meant fame.

But is that what Andy Warhol meant? Yes and no. Remember, he was looking at fame through the lens of mass media. Warhol and his Factory defined popular culture, essentially creating it. Before him fame via artistic creation (be it painting, literature, photography or films) was the providence of a precious few, those who earned it with their talents and/or exquisite connections. After Warhol, fame could mean anything from getting a bad haircut to getting arrested.

I won’t belabor the obvious. The Internet and social media have made getting famous a whole lot easier for the rest of us. In this sense Andy was a prophet.

And yet.

In a world where everyone and their teenaged sons are famous for a few minutes, what exactly does “fame” mean? Are there a certain number of views, likes and followers that can deliver one into fame? Surely, it’s more than several hundred. But even gaining many thousands of online friends can’t equal the popularity of the most random of reality TV stars. And, in turn, can one honestly compare a reality TV celebrity with, say, Audrey Hepburn or Jack Nickolson?

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For 15 minutes…

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Forever…

As more people become sort of what is considered the pinnacle and whom would we find there? George Clooney? Bono? Ghandi?

Hard to say. But surely Joe the Plumber (remember him?) or some opera-singing five-year old wouldn’t be there. Or might they? After all, aren’t those the knuckleheads Andy Warhol was talking about when he said his famous bit about fame? And besides, wasn’t Justin Bieber just a Canadian falsetto on You Tube?

I wonder. If everyone today is capable of being famous can fame even exist anymore? By definition don’t we need lots more un-famous people in order to appreciate the ones that already are? Remember your Dr. Seuss. As soon as all those Sneetches finally got stars on their bellies the stars lost all of their meaning.

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Back in the day my father said his 15 minutes came when the Wall Street Journal rendered his portrait in those iconic black dots. That trumped merely just getting his picture in the paper, which, by the way, used to be the quintessential determiner of fame.

I recently read a blog post talking about “access” being the new standard for wealth. In other words, one doesn’t need to own things in order to be considered wealthy -just have access to them. Is fame like that, too?

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They all look alike. Not!

Upon leaving the new Godzilla movie, my wife and I found ourselves walking behind a couple young boys, perhaps 15 or 16 years old, and we could easily hear their conversation. Excitedly, they were discussing the pros and cons of the film we all just saw. One lamented how relatively little of the monsters actually comprised the movie. “I would have been happy if they spent more time on Godzilla and less time on the father-son stuff,” he said. (Which, by the way, is a fair assessment.) What I loved was his friend’s reply: “Well,” he said, “there’s only so much of the Godzilla story you can tell.”

Indeed.

I remarked to my wife that his was a surprisingly articulate and even witty reply. As they were just steps ahead of us, I could easily discern the Led Zeppelin tour shirt, circa 1977, he was wearing. (How pleasing to know Zep is timeless, like Godzilla.) Unruly long brown hair flowed over the boy’s shoulders. Along with his black concert tee shirt, he had on the obligatory pair of blue jeans and converse sneakers.

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I was so there…

That’s when it hit me. I was that kid once! I had that tee shirt. I had that hair. And most importantly I had those opinions. When I was a kid his age I too was first in line for the latest Godzilla movie. I can recall walking with a buddy up Clark Street in Chicago, dissecting the film we just saw. Maybe it was Destroy all Monsters. A classic. We analyzed the plot, giving thoughtful consideration to the many (I supposed) understandable holes in the story. Of course I knew Godzilla was fake, especially the campy Godzilla of my youth. I wasn’t delusional. Far from it. However, I still wanted the movie to be plausible. Or said another way, to not be ridiculous. I was interested in the film’s craft, the special effects, and the ways in which the monsters behaved. Their hierarchy. If there was a “Monster Island” I needed to know how it worked.

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What did the creatures eat for example, if not each other? To this day I can’t recall seeing a single Japanese movie monster (called Kaiju) actually eating another one, let alone a person. How could that be? What sustained them? In the current reboot they provide a somewhat plausible explanation. But back then? I could go on forever…

Revelation number two (which will come as no surprise to anyone reading this), I was a nerd. Like the boy in front of me, I’d been captivated by these monsters (however silly they were), and was determined to make sense of their universe. At 15, I certainly didn’t understand mine. What with gas rationing, The Ayatollah and the haunting specter of g-g-girls. I needed that dark theater more than it needed me.

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Me at 16, the earliest pic on my hard drive…

To a certain extent, I actually appreciated my glimpse at these two lads more than the movie itself, which, though it had its virtues, was frankly a let down. I was reminded of the strange circle of life and how true that old cliché really is: the more things change the more they stay the same. For one thing, I am still a nerd -even if my wardrobe choices are suh-weet!

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Never goes out of style…

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What lights up the world?

One can measure the passage of time by stringing together mega-trending items, those huge cultural conversations that seemingly light up the media. Such events are like Chinese lanterns illuminating our culture and society. I don’t necessarily like the strategy, as these cultural illuminations tend to represent our darkest moments as well.

For example, last week’s shit storm regarding Donald Sterling, the racist owner of the Los Angeles Clippers. Before that sad, taped conversation blew up the world, we were all gripped by the vanishing of Malaysian Airlines flight 370. Prior to that what was it? The crippling winter back east? The stifling drought out west? Profound climatic events are always fair game. As are their close cousins, natural disasters. Can you say mudslide?

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Tragedy is pop culture…

Whether a sicko opens fire at a bunch of children in a suburban high school or a freak avalanche buries dozens of others in a sleepy town… Humanity, the collective ‘We,’ can and is defined by BIG MOMENTS and our responses to them.

Thank God, not all BIG MOMENTS are shocking, terrible or unexpected. Huge sporting events like the Superbowl or World Cup have long stopped traffic on a global scale. As have certain concerts, telecasts and elections.

Either way, I’ve long thought about how various phenomena can galvanize nations and even the world. As a copywriter and writer in general, I’ve always been very curious as to what captures attention on a large scale. Though it’s not possible or even appropriate for many briefs, I want my work to do that. We all do.

Call it astute or call it cynical, but in Adland we are asked to create campaigns that deliver BIG results, be it at the cash register or on You Tube. Generating buzz to the point of “trending” are no longer new criteria for measuring success. These days, clients demand water-cooler worthy conversations from seemingly every banner we produce. I’m only half kidding. The pressure to succeed has never been greater. Therefore, creepy as it may sound, can you blame me for secretly envying all the attention Don Sterling got for whining about his mistress cavorting with black people?

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A disruptive blockbuster…

Before you get in my grill for “going there” bear in mind this article is not about Sterling or race (my last post was). This is about getting attention in a world where everyone is trying. I can’t help but ponder the good, bad and ugly things that actually succeed.

In many ways it is the ultimate declaration that most BIG IDEAS result from intuitive, right brain stimuli. Take Don Sterling (Please). For years he was known to be a proven slumlord, driven by racist opinions. Yet few took notice. Sterling only trended when a sleazy recording of an intimate conversation he had with his mistress came to light. That, coupled with an exciting start to the NBA playoffs featuring Sterling’s team, created a perfect storm for the resulting pop culture explosion.

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Attention gobbler…

Last week I wrote about Burger King’s Subservient Chicken campaign, how ten years ago it too became part of the conversation, both negatively and positively. Good or bad, the campaign generated opinions, which is now the standard for measuring success in Adland.

In this albeit crude way, Donald Sterling and the Subservient Chicken have something in common. They broke through. As the ad agency, CP&B has masterfully proved over the years, and Doyly Dane Bernbach well before them, disrupting the status quo works.

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A classic “conversation” starter from Doyle Dane Bernbach

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Forgive me for I have hated…

Since I began Gods of Advertising almost a decade ago (!), I’ve carefully avoided demonstrating hatred of any kind to persons, places or things. When I was critical, say of an ad campaign, I tried to look at it from all angles, positing why, perhaps, an advertiser or agency would put something so questionable into the cosmos. Most of the time I have succeeded in being personally true to my feelings while maintaining respect for other points-of-view. (My last post bemoaning Selfies is a good example.)

When I’ve (perhaps) crossed a line you let me know. And I’ve published virtually every comment to that effect, unless they were patently offensive or obscene. Take a look at a piece I wrote about an ad campaign for Walgreens, featuring the cloying (in my opinion) voice-over talents of John Corbett. 62 people came to John’s defense, condemning me for being rude, cynical and worse. Precious few take my side. Either way, a new comment to this post shows up in my inbox every month or so. I publish all of them.

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I’m just not that into you…

While I seldom defend myself I don’t freak out either. We have a conversation. I’ve written far more interesting pieces. Yet precious few engender as much feedback as the Corbett story. Proving, yet again, everyone loves or hates a critic.

As an experiment, I tried come up with three things I hate unequivocally. My one criterion (or do you say “criteria?”) was to limit selections to only matters germane to advertising and popular culture. God forbid, I drift into politics or anything particularly important.

As cynical as I am it was harder than I thought. I came up with three.

1. Laugh tracks. Oh my God, how I loathe laugh tracks. A remnant of the Golden Age of Television, the laugh track is, for me, an utter and complete turnoff. Now mainly a staple of kid’s TV, they elicit the exact opposite effect in me: one of utter and complete revulsion. I find all programs that use them guilty by association. A pass is given to the many inane sitcoms of ancient times, like Green Acres or Gilligan’s Island. That shit’s funny.

2. Auto Tune is to popular music what the laugh track is to TV. Why this dopey audio implant isn’t as reviled as lip-synching I’ll never know. A million years ago Peter Frampton Comes Alive came out to boffo reviews and went mega-platinum, largely because of his “Wa-Wa” infused number, Do You Feel Like I Do. I hated it then and make-out nostalgia aside I still do now.

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Is Auto Tune his fault?

3. My most controversial and final selection is the current spate of faux premium lagers, like Bud Light Platinum or Miller Fortune. Who’s kidding whom? These variations on a theme are nothing more than marketing ploys to upsell customers, who are dumb enough to fall for them. Like the so-called Ice beers of yore, they come in gaudy bottles that supposedly evoke class and distinction. They are anything but. I consider these brand extensions the Ed Hardy of beers. A badge for douche bags.

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#douche-y

4. Honorable mention goes to Reality TV. This much-reviled yet inexplicably popular genre is far too low hanging fruit to make my list. None of these shows are real. They’re just shitty.

So, that’s my hater blog for 2014. I hope you liked it, or hated it, as the case may be. If you have something to add, this is the time and this is the place.

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“Two Miller Fortunes…and a f–king lime.”

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Yes, the New Yorker.

While traveling these holidays I found myself on a 3-hour flight with only a copy of the latest New Yorker magazine. Only? I ended up reading the thing cover to cover (and not just the cartoons). It didn’t take long before I realized what a bunch of dumb fucks we’d become. Nobody reads poetry anymore, let alone essays about it. And who cares for long-form film and food criticism? Why bother with all that reading when you can just Yelp or check the meter on Rotten Tomatoes?

God bless The New Yorker. For it has staunchly stayed about important and interesting things even if much of the world, myself included, has not.

I’m a pretty smart guy. But sometimes I think I used to be smarter. And that perhaps I’ve been dropping IQ points every year starting, let’s say in 1994, around the time the Internet began changing everything. I am not alone. Perhaps this is the first great irony of the 21st century: that instead of providing people with untold knowledge the World Wide Web has merely flooded people with content. And because this creates competition for our attention all that information had to become entertaining. Ergo Infotainment. So videos instead of words… instead of even films. A whole lot of instead…

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Theory of stupidity: We are getting dumber by the link.

I know. They warned us about TV when it became massively popular. “The Vast Wasteland,” one critic famously stated. What did our parents call television? The Idiot Box. The point is we got stupid long before the Internet. Still, the chasm seems so obvious and wide after reading that issue of The New Yorker. Shame crept over me as I digested an essay about the American poet, Marianne Moore. Or Patti Smith’s sincere tribute to her departed friend and sometimes critic, the rock legend, Lou Reed. Shame because while I thoroughly appreciated these finely observed and written pieces I couldn’t help but think how many years I had devoted to not, well, learning. I still devour novels and biographies, thank God. And I’ll always love movies. But like most everyone, I’ve become an eater of junk content: GIFS, Memes, Vines, Fail Videos, Funny or Die, and versions of advertisements and countless other useless links.

I tell myself I do this in order to stay relevant. After all, I’m a copywriter and a creative director. I sell this shit to my clients. But an ever-growing part of me also likes noshing on useless infotainment. Scrolling through Facebook is a bit like chewing on Kat, that leafy stimulant the wretchedly poor use to block out pain and pass the time. It’s addictive. And these days everyone (rich, poor, young, old) is chewing content. I’ve said it before. We are content zombies, recklessly biting bits and pieces of this and that, digesting little and seldom satisfied…

…until being sobered up by the New Yorker.

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