Mad, Mad, Madison Avenue

AD BIZ: THE ANCIENT WISDOM

                   Free Advice from Dean Christopher

   Hey, interested in a glamorous career in advertising? Here, in a nutshell, are some important basics; the distilled wisdom of my twenty years among the Ad Biggies.  This briefing accurately reflects the most widely accepted views on the principal job categories in Ad Biz. Once you understand these few simple facts you’ll be on your way!

·      Creative people are interchangable, dispensable hacks. Copywriters and Art Directors are loony irresponsible showoffs who want to embarrass the agency and make the client a laughing stock. Their clothes are no damn good. They like to wear beards or handlebar moustaches, especially the men. Their offices are cluttered with cutesy props like barber chairs, old banjos, and gas masks. Ha ha ha. They put clever graphics on their walls to show how “creative” they are; but don’t be fooled—they are all burnt-out grinds. Creatives are seditious, drunken punsters who will surely lose the account for us and end up as murderers, suicides or worse.

·      Account people are bootlicking politicos in empty suits with inflated salaries and understaffed imaginations, who exist mainly to play golf and eat costly meals with the client. They write long memos choked with statistics and nonspecific exhortations to do better. They are like used car salesmen who dress well and know when to use the subjunctive mood. Account People surely coined indispensable Ad Biz phrases like “Could work if properly handled,” “Is this okay with Legal?” and “What do you think, Dick?” Because of this intellectual clout, Account People end up with all the top-level jobs, except for one token Executive Creative Director whom they allow on the Executive Committee so they can tell prospective clients that the agency is “really creative.”

·      Media people are number-crunching sluts who read everything out of Meeting Books prepared by researchers. They never smile during conferences. They breakfast, lunch, and sup with clients and with hucksters from broadcast and print media who pretend that their medium is the best deal in history for the agency’s client. The Media sluts keep right on chewing and pretend to believe this claptrap. It doesn’t matter, as long as the meal is paid for by the huckster, which it always is. Unlike Account People,  Media folks never buy anything for anyone, not even on their expense account. They also enjoy freebie trips to adorable warm places and try in vain to get laid under the palm fronds. Nobody knows exactly what it is they do for a living, but they are ashamed to admit it.

·      Research geeks sit around all day processing mounds of high-brained psycho-babble. They claim to know the exact location of consumers’ “hot buttons.” When no one is looking they lick their computers. Their bookshelves bulge with volumes with titles like “Grapho-Graphic Sub-Strata Analysis” and “Evaluating Consumer Paratrends.” At night they slip into black hoods, sift through goat entrails, and inhale strange fumes. This methodology results in reports that convince the client that the agency’s strategy is brilliant and 100% certain to triple his profits by sundown. Research proves that the Creative is wrong, wrong, all wrong. Research people always have pasty flesh and teeny privates and wear undershirts. They grind their teeth in their sleep.

·      Agency Producers are to commercials what Scotch Tape is to the Space Shuttle. Their job is to remind the client that making commercials is a superhumanly difficult task, never to be entrusted to unshepherded film companies. Producers therefore endure travel, posh hotels, and long long hours casting for gorgeous actresses who must be, um, validated over dinner. You know, to make sure that the chemistry is, uh, just right. Producers always have their picture taken with the client on the set, often seated together smiling astride a Mitchell crane. They eventually leave the agency to become movie directors because advertising just isn’t challenging enough any more.

·      Clients are arrogant fools without a brain in their heads or the faintest idea of what makes good advertising—or  why. They want their company logo larger, ever larger in the ads, much larger. They say things like “Could we lose that humor? There’s nothing funny about selling this product, you know.” Clients exist mainly to cause huge running sores in the stomach linings of ad people, and to make sure that the agency wins no Clio Awards. Clients have ugly wives or weasely little husbands, sometimes both. They are much richer than ad people. Clients always beat agency people at golf and everything else, but never ever suspect why.

   Sometimes the abovementioned Wisdom isn’t properly absorbed and the odd—usually the very odd—advertising person therefore blunders into self-destruction. Newcomers often fail to appreciate that everyone outside their department (and most within their department) is either an actual or a potential enemy, and therefore naively associate with people in disciplines other than their own. Some misguided neophytes stray from the path and actually cooperate with colleagues rather than competing with them! Can you imagine? Others are foolish enough to offer assistance—real, not feigned assistance—to their fellows in their agencies’ sister offices. Still others commit egregious no-no’s like expressing their true opinions, or working overtime without first making sure that the Executive Committee is aware of it.

   Fortunately for advertising, these goofballs are few and far between—and getting even fewer and farther as the business shrivels. They are the first to be weeded out and returned to the street, to “the beach,” or to the sad grey world of penny journalism.

   Don’t let that happen to you! If you hanker for a long, happy, safe safe  SAFE  SAFE   S A F E   career in advertising, re-read these pages and take their content to heart. Remember, your fate is in your own hands—and those of the client. And your bosses. And everybody else. So take no chances. Cover your ass. Volunteer for nothing.  Point out the mistakes of your equals and inferiors, but ignore the mistakes of your superiors. Better yet, praise them. And when they finally get around to firing you, which they will, don’t forget to take the Rolodex. You’ll need it.

Quaker Commandos in Action !

QUAKER  SUICIDE  SQUADS  DEMOLISH  AL QAEDA  STRONGHOLDS

                              Battlefield Reportage by Dean Christopher

In a shocking series of surprise attacks, platoons of suicide commandos from a previously unknown group called The International Amish Peace Offensive have infiltrated Al Qaeda and Taliban positions throughout the Middle East. Sowing death and destruction among battle-hardened Islamic terror cells, the black-hatted, buckle-booted warriors have detonated suspender-bombs inside fundamentalist strongholds, killing themselves along with hundreds – possibly thousands – of enemy fighters.

Their dark beards and unfashionable, colorless clothing apparently made it easy for them to blend in among their targets – unlike expensively trained Western special forces, who stick out like sore thumbs anywhere east of Weehawken, NJ or west of Santa Monica, CA. 

The extent of the damage wrought by these Amish martyrs is still being analyzed by astonished U.S. and Allied intelligence services, who admit to their surprise at this sudden – and impressive – new addition to the military equation. The Society of Friends, universally considered a pacifist organization, has apparently long maintained a secret military capability.

“Peace is fine, ja, ja, ja. But enough, already. Verily, it was time to act,” said

Yoder “Yoda” Lamm, commander of the ultra-militant John Woolman Brigade, a clandestine Quaker death squad. “God is love, but He also wreaketh His vengeance,” he explained in his secret command silo somewhere between Ephrata and Reamstown, PA.

What about the centuries-old Quaker commitment to non-violence; to turning the other cheek? Was that a ruse designed to lull the world into overlooking Amish toughness? After all, these are rugged folk, accustomed to life unadorned by electricity, plumbing or e-mail; sinewy men able to raise a barn in a single afternoon. “Ach, we are indeed a gentle folk. But that meaneth not that we are wusses. I guess we finally ran out of cheeks to turn.”

Lamm will not elaborate on the recent assault. “We never comment on security matters. Military prattle availeth us not,” he continued, thoughtfully twirling and un-twirling his black beard. “Yea, better to be thought gentle as the dove than deadly as the serpent.”

He poured us a second lemonade.

When asked about his people’s traditional rejection of modern technology, the Commander offered no details on the ordnance used in the attacks. At our canny suggestion that nobody knows more than the Amish about cow manure and other barnyard explosives, he just puffed away on his corncob pipe, a silent twinkle in his bright blue eyes.

                                                                  ***

Bitch Goddess Advertising

THAT BITCH GODDESS, ADVERTISING

                                          Reminiscence by Dean Christopher

    Advertising is a profession in which smart people hire other smart people to do some very stupid things. One of the more infuriating of these is the use of patriotism to sell soap suds or beer or automobiles. It seems that whenever sales go down, the flag goes up; Old Glory is unfurled to succeed where the product, the marketing or the advertising have failed.

   This appeal to nationalistic fervor is cheap, unimaginative and irrelevant. It is misleading and dishonest.  But since when did that ever stop advertisers? If they could get away with it, most admen would claim that God Almighty endorses their client’s brand. The only reason they don’t is probably because Research learned that 61.2% of the 18-49 market thinks that the Lord is neutral when it comes to purchases—at least, in their client’s category.  Besides that, the agency knows that the public knows that Universal Muffin or Acme Urinal Discs could never afford the endorsement fee of the Ruler of the Universe.

   So their next best ploy is to state that America loves their client’s brand; that the product is “America’s” product; better yet, that the product somehow represents America itself. Thus they attempt to pre-empt for their deodorant or cereal or underpants the one thing no decent flag-fearing American can resist: Our Country.

   Virtually every kind of company, at one time or another, has cringed behind the sheltering skirts of Mom America. If they can’t say anything good about themselves they grind out meaningless but impressive-sounding slogans like “We’re America’s Corkscrew,” or “DiGiovanni & Epstein Yeast: An American Tradition,” or “Whiff-o: The Great American Anti-Perspirant.”

   One big league baseball club and one football organization simulataneously billed  themselves as “America’s Team.” Why are they any more “American” than their competitors? And who are we supposed to think the other teams in their leagues represent? Peru? Sri Lanka? Burkina Faso?

   A nationwide hotel chain claims to be “as individual as America itself.”  A famous beer recently boasted of being “brewed the American way.” To my way of thinking, that’s about as persuasive as crowing about computer chips that are “Built the Paraguayan way.” Beer lovers want beer that’s brewed the German way, don’t they? But since Americans know lots more about America than we do about beer, who knows? the slogan probably worked. 

   During the 1974 oil crisis I worked on an ad campaign for a Detroit client whose claim was that their cars “make sense for America.” In those days most of the Motor City’s output still consisted of big block-long gas-thirsty hulks. Huge iron things built for Sumo wrestler car pools. Zero to sixty by next Wednesday. The loudest sound in the passenger cabin: the fuel guage sucking quickly down to “E.” Our client’s product was no worse, but surely no better than the others.

   With this in mind I went to our ad agency’s company picnic wearing a joke tee shirt on which I had screened the slogan that the client’s cars “make sense for OPEC.” Nobody laughed, not even my friends. People shied away from me. Nobody offered me seconds on the potato salad. A few months later I didn’t work there any more. So much for the Great American Sense of Humor.

   I guess if I had any brains I’d learn to keep my mouth shut so my bank account can stay open. Sooner or later I’ll catch on. But enough of this gloomy reminiscence.  Look—my favorite TV commercial is just coming on, the one that makes me feel so good about myself.  It extols the benefits of Ameri-Cat, “America’s Kitty Litter”—made the American way for America’s all-American kitty-cats and their 100% American doo-doo.  Cats who use this brand are up to 99.9% happier than all those backwards un-American cats who still hunker down outside to poop—presumably polluting America’s amber waves of grain. I’ll buy some Ameri-Cat today. And I plan to get me a cat, too, real soon.  Advertising makes it happen.

                                                  ***                                             

Copyright © 1994, 2009 by Dean Christopher

Bluffer's Guide to Art Galleries

A Bluffer’s Guide to Art Galleries

Brotherly Advice from Dean Christopher

    We men are hunters by nature. It’s in our genes and it’s in our jeans. But since we rarely get all the hunting wisdom we need from tribal elders, I occasionally offer practical tips – gained by my own long and sometimes sad experience – for tracking women, food, trendy hangouts, cool stuff and other necessaries that real men are obliged to hunt.

   Today’s hunt is for women who visit art galleries and museums. They are higher class than females at tractor pulls, trout fishing contests or lumberjack bars. They have more money and more teeth and fewer mis-spellings on their tee shirts. They are desirable partners. You can take them almost anywhere. One drawback: they’re harder to bluff, since art lovers tend to be fairly sophisticated. This means that your opening salvo must be somewhat loftier than “Hey, how’s about a shot and a beer before we hit the rack?”

   If you are not as sophisticated as your prey, you have little choice but to use cunning to bag your quarry. You must be crafty enough to bluff the babe. These hints will help you convert a casual art gallery encounter into a memorable and pleasantly exhausting weekend at her place.

   All good hunters must learn to distinguish good targets from bad ones.

Bad target: Woman with a huge cruel-looking man whom she regularly gropes intimately. Good target: Gorgeous lone woman strolling reflectively among the artworks, smiling wistfully to herself, jotting observations in a notebook from her Louis Vuitton overnight bag, in which you spot a bottle of iced Veuve Cliquot 1947, a velvet sack of clinking Krugerrands, and a dark silken see-through garment that warrants further investigation.

   Strategy: Impress her quickly, devastatingly. Tactic: Reveal yourself as a sensitive, worldly, exciting man—the very embodiment of everything that draws her so irresistibly to art. These simple steps will instantly transform you into a piece of living art.

   1. Women who like art are by definition impressed by culture. Show your cultural breadth with references to the arts, sciences and literature. NEVER EVER use a sports metaphor. Comparing a Tintoretto canvas to sunset at Mile High Stadium, or a swan-necked Modigliani portrait to a graceful pick-and-roll by the Chicago Bulls, will make her suddenly remember her mother’s 109° fever, or that she’s double-parked in a red zone and simply must go.

   Fools bluff with Cliff’s Notes from Art History 101: predictable pap about brush technique, color, form, subject matter. They’re brushed off in nanoseconds. You plunge bravely beyond the obvious. Your target loves fancy words heavy with sophistication, so go straight for dazzling openers like “What gorgeous architectonic echoes—like Eero Saarinen’s best moments,” or “Slender and fluted as a Corinthian column, yet it still communicates a subtext of post modern neo-nonconstructionist depressionism, don’t you agree?”

    If she asks you to elaborate, answer with something even more mysterious. Women love mystery. With an amused half-smile, explain “Why, I only meant that his structural functionalism—with that retro dollop of Kitsch for condiment— implies a motif so powerful that actually painting the subject was redundant!” or “Perhaps it’s clearer to describe this painting as ‘visual Mahler’…or simply that it projects the autumnal inner resonance of a late Browning sonnet.”

   If you see that she likes abstract painting, you’re in luck. Say anything you want about abstract art, because nobody can ever prove anything about it—that’s the whole idea! Challenge her opinions. Attack boldly with “I admit his chilling sense of hyper-nonobjectivity, bundled with post-cybernetic angst, does have potential—but sadly it isn’t justified by that schwach color sense. Ultimately unsatisfying. Fey. Pure dairy.”

2.  Women who like art also like sensitivity. Show that you’re moved by subtleties that other slug-sensed dullards never notice. “What interesting inner work! It’s the message he’s sending between the brush strokes that speaks to me.” Occasionally turn abruptly around as if stung by the canvas. (Weeping quietly to yourself is a delightful, but risky, option, recommended only for experienced bluffers.) Stand perfectly still. Gaze into the middle distance, at everything, at nothing, at the Universe Itself. When she asks what’s the matter, which she will, murmur “I’m…I’m not sure how to say this. But this painting revives feelings I thought I’d never ever have again,” or “Sorry. I was ambushed by the balance of color and structure. So painfully keen. Reminds me of the development section of one of my early string quartets—does that make any sense?”

3. Confident dismissals of artwork are impressive bluffs. Here your pithy comments must seem irrefutable, rendering further discussion irrelevant.

   Effective one and two-word dismissals are: Derivative. Heavy-handed.

Non-essential. Overly percussive. Treacly. Embarrassing. Fraudulent emotion. Counterfeit undercurrents. Wearisome.  If pressed for explanation, say loftily, “Well. I find this work aimed more at the limbic system than at the cerebrum; perhaps it’s best appreciated on the endocrine level.”

4. Combine commentary with action: women love men of action. No gentleman damages artwork, but he may express distaste or amusement. Do the unexpected: burst out laughing at the most morose, depressing painting there (e.g., babies being immolated, shriveled widows starving in a blizzard, etc.). Address the gallery at large, booming out, “Can’t anyone here see the element of parody in this hilarious work?” This will reveal you as (a) capable of seeing beyond the obvious and (b) courageous enough to take an artistic stand in public. The hunt is nearly over. You’re practically tying her to your fender.

Copyright © 2008 Dean Christopher

Is All Food Italian Food?

IS ALL FOOD REALLY ITALIAN FOOD?

Culinary History examined by Dean Christopher

   In 1271 Marco Polo went out for Chinese. He didn’t get back to Venice until 1295, which shows how bad the take-out situation was in those days. On the brighter side, when he returned, Marco did have spaghetti with him. Ever since then, pasta has been the central premise of Italian cookery.

   But many “Italian” dishes started out as something else, becoming Italian somewhere along the way. That’s because food, just like the people who eat it, can get naturalized.

The master chefs of Tuscany, Emilia-Romagna and Sicily have transformed endless foreign foods into Italian delights.

    Consider polenta, the hearty cornmeal side-dish of northern Italy. We can trace its deepest roots all the way back to the humble Aztec staple, the tortilla.  Here’s how it was.

In the mid-1500’s,  Norm “The Sword” Polenta, gadabout Genovese adventurer and flavor maven, launched his own personal reconquista in Mexico,  struggling singlehandedly against impossible odds to recapture it from the Spaniards. As history records, his plan bore no fruit. But it did bear grain, inasmuch as Norm met—and was conquered by—corn, particularly corn in its conveniently portable tortilla form. Truly smitten, Norm crammed hundreds of piping hot tortillas into his sea-trunk for the long voyage home.  But months of heavy seas not only cooled off the tortillas but also decomposed them. At dockside in Genoa, all Norm could show for his Mesoamerican caprice were dozens of tiny mounds of corn meal nubbies.

   Luckily, he had arrived at dinner time, so  the mounds were immediately heaped onto waiting plates as a kind of Mediterranean grits. Thus is brave Polenta’s name forever enshrined—thanks to an anonymous Aztec chef and the heaving blue sea.

   From the steppes of Central Asia comes a little-known Italian delicacy—meatballs tartare. This taste thrill is rare in every sense of the word, and was discovered by Biff “Ghengis Cane” DiPietro, an accordionist on the caravan circuit not far from Marco Polo’s route. Biff didn’t get the press coverage that Marco did, so meatballs tartare never achieved the widespread popularity of its cooked equivalent, meatballs. The tartare version did, however, become required eating among the “in” crowd, who have plenty of leisure time for chewing, and who often serve the tangy raw meat patties with unboiled cappellini.

   The original roving barbarian recipe called for the curing of meatballs tartare for several months in a bouncing saddle bag, but today’s urbanized Italians omit this step for the sake of hygiene. Another refinement: they make the meatballs from beef, not from prisoners as Attila’s boys did.

   Few gourmets recognize the origin of tofutti in the Japanese tofu, the bafflingly tasteless bean gack that has become the inescapable darling of the anti-meat, anti-flavor lobby.

Tofu was brought from Japan by the man history remembers only as “Nunzio the Mistaken,” perhaps a cleric or a merchant; certainly no cook.  It is likely that he expected tofu to be a culinary coup as great as Marco’s. But upon presenting his discovery he was widely rebuffed. This was perhaps to be expected, since Italians traditionally demand that their food consist of food, not mere tessitura.

   However, even so bland a hoax as tofu did not long stump Italy’s master chefs. They simply eliminated the bean curd element and substituted ice cream ingredients, froze it, and presto!—an exciting new dessert item was born—tofutti.  But the practical Italiani didn’t waste the rejected tofu. Instead of eating it, they used it as shoulder padding for designer jackets, covering for open wounds and soundproofing for Roman recording studios.

   So great is the influence of la cucina italiana  that it is safe to say that most, if not all, of the famous specialties of other cultures are really just Italian dishes—original or improved—in disguise!

   One example is sashimi, the elegantly simple raw fish dish which the uninformed believe to be a Japanese invention. What – is one so dense as to believe that fish appear raw only in the seas and rivers of Japan? Do they perhaps come already broiled or poached in other nations’ waters? Further, does one not sense an Italian name lurking behind the purported Japanese word? Our research shows that sashimi  was introduced to 16th Century shoguns by Ramone “Raw Man” Saccimi. “Sashimi” is simply the Japanese pronunciation of “Saccimi.” Sashimi is the seaside equivalent of an earlier creation by “Fast Bob” Carpaccio, the notorious “Lazy Chef of Firenze,” who refused to roast meat because it delayed dinner. This led to the breakthrough recipe that now bears his surname, carpaccio, paper-thin slices of raw beef.  It was child’s play for “Raw Man” Saccimi to apply Carpaccio’s idea to sea food, thus immortalizing his own name as well.

   [Editor's Note: Carpaccio's great patron, Edgardo, the dreaded “Frothing Duke of Palermo,” insisted upon well done carpaccio. This presented a dilemma until Carpaccio hit upon the notion of sun-dried carpaccio, thereby saving his skin as well as his reputation. He later applied sun-drying to tomatoes.]

   Similarly, kreplach, that indispensable staple of Jewish fressery, was introduced into the Holy Land during the infamous Low Sodium Crusade of the 14th Century. This event is widely attributed to Dick “Dumpling” Crepalacchi, the warrior-chef of Abruzzi, whose surname the locals pronounced “Kreplach.” Origin of the delicacy: Crepalacchi’s rawboned missus, Big Giulia, was a militant vegetarian. A woman of fierce ways, she was unrelenting in her persecution of meat-eaters. This prompted Dick to leave Italy so he could plunder other countries and eat meat on a regular basis. It also spurred him to invent ways to conceal his favorite food—clumps of seasoned ground beef—when at home. Fortunately, the signora was allergic to dumplings, so that’s where Dick cunningly hid the naughty ingredient! Kreplach was born. Apparently Big Giulia never discovered his trick, because Crepalacchi lived to advanced age and, according to legend, was buried in a large dumpling of his own creation.

   Examples are as numerous as basil leaves at a Calabrian greengrocer. But there are space considerations, and your time is limited. It is easier to list the few dishes that were not discovered, invented, or improved upon by the Italians; treats like hot dogs, corned beef and cabbage, pralines and burritos. But then, any of those would be greatly enhanced by a little white clam sauce; some escarole with roasted garlic cloves; or maybe some farfalle arrabiata washed down with a litre of mature Barolo. Viva Italia! 

“PRIMITIVE ART”?— PUH-LEEEZ!

Unfashionable Opinion from Dean Christopher

“When I hear the word ‘culture’ I reach for my revolver,” is a quip often incorrectly attributed to that witty wag Joseph Goebbels. It is history’s only known Nazi punch line. I can only suppose that he must have been thinking about primitive culture when he said that.

After all, primitive culture—particularly primitive “art”—is simply too awful to be taken seriously, even by non-Nazis.

Yet millions of people are regularly hoodwinked by primitive gobbledygook. They read about it. They discuss it. They buy it. They even hang it on their own walls, where people who know them can see it!

There’s altogether too much of this “primitive art” around, masquerading as real art. It’s time to fight back. Here I intend to strike a blow for artistic integrity with a realistic reflection upon the pathetic emptiness of “primitive art”—despite the shrill protestations sure to come from its Politically Correct fans.

By Their Fruits Shall Ye Know Them

Primitive peoples still exist on Earth. Indeed there are far more backward societies than even anthropologists may wish to admit. But there’s no such thing as a primitive civilization; that’s a contradiction in terms. Undeveloped people may have tribal groupings or even rudimentary societies, never civilizations.

That’s because a “civilization” is by definition an evolved society that has developed an urbanized life with civic services such as sanitation, health care and education. A civilization is literate, with widespread knowledge of science, technology, statecraft and indoor plumbing. It has architecture, agriculture and dry cleaning. Civilized people use credit cards, room service and fax machines. They fly in airplanes and know how to parallel park. A civilization has a rich intellectual life and the ongoing group awareness we call “recorded history.” Most germane to this essay, civilizations produce highly refined arts. Any society lacking the abovementioned attributes—especially the arts—is not a “civilization.” It’s just a bunch of folks.

Primitive people have only a sketchy grasp of abstractions, and little ability to convert abstractions into anything useful. So they remain becalmed among their roots and berries, their backwoods mutilation rituals, their gawking masks and fearsome mud-gods. The poor creatures slumber on in ignorance and superstition. They live in poverty and illness, swallowed up by flies and by fear; helpless pawns of blind circumstance. They are incapable of improving their lives because they don’t have the physical, mental or social tools necessary for advancing into civilization. They live in an endless summer camp for underachievers.

Art…Or Stuff?

Because they are not civilized, primitive people do not make art, they make stuff. They don’t have the understanding or the skills required to create real art. Perhaps they feel the urge to express themselves. But express what? What on earth do savages have to express that could possibly interest anyone but another savage? The content of our expression is what we know and feel. What do primitives know and feel? Ignorance, fear, helplessness and the need to go potty. That’s what primitives have to express. And because they themselves are so unformed and so uninformed, their “self-expression” inevitably emerges as clunky statues, misshapen mud things, grotesque masks or monotonous chants and log-whacking. Primitive culture isn’t in fact “culture” at all—it’s only behavior.

Any civilized person who is not taste-impaired or in denial will recognize primitives’ diddlings for what they are: Primoridal attempts at art. Repeat, attempts. But they are not art any more than lobbing yak poo at a bird’s nest is NBA-level basketball.

Still, some civilized people actually claim to like this gack! Of course most of them are simply lying. Their fondness for “primitive art” isn’t based on artistic criteria; it’s a political statement. It’s wishful thinking at its most dishonest: they so desperately want savages to be better than they really are, that they are willing to pretend that the savages’ art is better than it really is! These warmhearted fellows claim to believe that anything created by any person (no matter how unskillful) is “art.” Thus the merest stone age construct or artifact—simply because it resulted from human effort—is a cultural achievement to rival Beethoven’s Eroica, Van Gogh’s Starry Night or Chartres Cathedral.

To them I say, poppycock! I say it louder, and in boldface,  poppycock! The spewings and doings of brutes, no matter how sincerely they may reflect primitive terror, confusion or fertility fun, are not “art” or “literature” or “music” any more than the barking of hyenas or the ribbiting of tree frogs are sonnets or sonatas. They are silly, incompetent trifles that ought to evoke honest pity, perhaps even derision, but certainly not praise.

Real Art Isn’t Easy

The queer notion that any self-expression is art; that artistic genius resides in every human is simply dead wrong. Fine art is a great miracle, achieved only rarely and with great difficulty. Some artists are more sensitive, more imaginative, better educated, harder working and more skillful than others; therefore some art is better than other art. Civilized art is better than primitive art because civilization provides a better cultural environment for creating fine art than does the rainforest.

Few would deny the “natural human impulse” to make art. But when fine art results from that “natural human impulse,” it is in fact the very opposite of “natural.” There is nothing automatic about art. Art is the deliberate, intelligent reworking of reality. Art is artifice, designed to add to and thereby surpass ordinary reality. It improves upon the natural to create something timeless and emblematic. Art defies death by overcoming the merely natural; it connects all humankind by tapping into subtle essences underlying apparent differences. Thus it bridges the centuries. “Primitive art” is lucky to bridge the next shrub.

Cultural Denial Is Still Denial

Still, primitivophiliacs pay big bucks for homely statues or clumsy clay pots that might fetch mild praise for an eager pre-schooler. Sophisticated urbanites who really ought to know better ooh-and-aah over root-mash splashed on hemp; over low-fidelity wire-recordings of savannah grunting; over bad indigenous weaving badly dyed. “It’s so deliciously…primitive!” they gush, spreading more pesto brie onto their stone ground multi-grain crackers.

Here’s a simple reality check for “primitive art” buyers: would they demand a refund if, through some mixup, their “primitive masterwork from India” turned out instead to be the work of a 7-year-old from Indiana? If so, then their decision to buy the piece was political, maybe even financial—but certainly not an artistic decision. Otherwise they’d keep it and still consider their money well spent.

Relativism has no place in art. There’s a limit to how much we can “grade on a curve.” The unadorned fact is that in the real world some things—including art—are better than other things. The more we educate our taste, the less easily we can be fooled. Civilized people learn to distinguish the authentic from the counterfeit, the superior from the inferior. They ought to be honest enough to admit that “primitive art” is a baby step for people bumbling through social and artistic toddlerhood.

Does this mean that “primitive art” is worthless? Of course not. It is occasionally moving, charming, even instructive—just as a baby’s finger paintings or mud pies can move or amuse indulgent, loving parents. But that does not mean that it should be ranked with the evolved, civilized art born of educated sensibilities working with determination and discipline.

The act of nailing a frame around a canvas splattered with paint does not automatically make it “art,” much less a masterwork. The mere process of recording sounds does not magically convert those sounds into fine music. Finally, no purchase price is extravagant enough to transform clumsy wood hackings into “statues.”

Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but if it isn’t in the art as well, we’re just kidding ourselves.

***

Copyright © 1998 Dean Christopher

Primitive Art?

If We Are What We Eat,

What Does Nouvelle Cuisine Say About Us?

by Dean Christopher

Once I doubted, but now I believe: California really is the seedpod for virtually every major aspect of current and nifty things in this country.

Whatever happens, whatever makes it in California, for better or worse eventually works its way into the American Life Style. Consider these hot cultural indispensables, then judge if I lie: Health/Fitness; Hot Tubs/Jaccuzzis; Sushi/Tofu; Jojoba/Kelp/Mink Oil/Raspberry-Chamomile Shampoos; Roots Shoes; Non-Lawn Ground Covers; Kiwi Fruit/Sprouts Garnish; His/Hers (or His/His, Hers/Hers, His/His/Hers, Hers/Hers/Hers/His/Bob’s, Ours/Fido’s) Matched Robes/Jogging Suits…and even more. If it wasn’t invented or developed or discovered or imported here first, at least it was perfected and successfully marketed here first. And used with a vengeance.

Consider dune buggies. There are dunes in dozens of sandy states. But where is the greatest concentration of dune buggies? In California. There is air virtually everywhere in America. But where are all the hang gliders? Right again. There are mouths from coast to coast, and I believe I can prove that.

But where are the taste buds keenest, most adventurous, most welcoming of new taste shudders? Where are the submaxillary glands pumping to the max? You said it.

Still, just because California leads the way in all these categories and more, don’t think for a moment that I automatically approve. There are certain dopey elitist cultural geysers that I, for one, am eager to cap before they become a real menace to the nation’s heartland.

Take, for example, the kitchen’s answer to high fashion—“Nouvelle Cuisine.” Do angels burp? Can the Muses fart? If so, nouvelle cuisine is just their ticket.

I’ll Have The Squab Brains, Please,

And Easy On The Leek

Picture the latest shriek in hi-dec ambience: a hushed and chi-chi eatery where furnishings and ferns compete with the customers for haut soigné. The requisite mix of bucks-up achievers, nose jobs, confused first-timers from out of town, blinking at all that smog and seated wealth. Music oozes across muted but glittering tables as the worthy bend close to exchange bons mots and complaints abut their help. Headwaiters glide among the tables with the grace of schooners.

And the waiters! There is a widespread notion in my town that for food to be worth the detour, it must be presented to you by pert-buttocked waiters of indeterminate national origin, enthusiastic androgyny, and a sensitivity so profound that they need but close their eyes to feel the Continental Drift.

You may be wondering about the food itself. How very crass of you. Please be informed that in Los Angeles, a nouvelle cuisine meal is much too important to depend on anything as lowly as food. Does Indianapolis base its glory on gasoline? My dear, it’s the event, the Gestalt, the experience that matters!

But since you insist. In a word, the food is fine. Period. It really is. Trust me, you’d love most nouvelle dinners…if they’d only be honest enough to call them hors d’oeuvres. We’re talking dainty portions here, folks. This is the art of taste at the molecular level. Servings so carefully measured that you can actually count the peas, treasure both of your shrimp, appreciate the, um, spacing of the items on your plate. Because what nouvelle cuisine dishes consist of mainly, is space.

I have enjoyed, or at least paid for, nouvelle cuisine that looked more like flower arrangements than food. A platter of petunias might have been more satisfying, and at least would not have attained the same level of presumption. Let me describe one plate, for it was lovely to behold.

A marigold-sized plop of mashed—sorry, puréed—turnip lay odalisque alongside a medallion of presumably womb-fed veal; for balance up at the northwest corner of the overlarge dish (they love to rub it in!) was a dash of zucchini dust. On the medallion, an unexpected flourish: one carefully selected truffle perhaps 20 microns in diameter.

Let me be honest. I truly wished at that moment that my mouth were small enough to do justice to the Master Chef’s creation. But I will also admit to a flush of honest anger: here I am, paying about 30 bucks a plate for this tommyrot, and I just know that the exquisite flavor will pass in a matter of nanoseconds. I am not a stingy man, but I am not a rich one, either; and you may call me a sentimental old fool, but I cling to the archaic notion that you probably shouldn’t be hungry at the end of your dinner.

So if you wish to have the experience, now you will know what to expect in terms of quantity. You will not cry out, “Hey, where’s my food?” That would only show what a churl you are. Remember—all those other people sitting near you just love this shit, and they’re more important than you are. So take your lumps like a grownup.

America tends to (pardon the verb) swallow almost everything California popularizes. Still, I wonder what will happen when this cutesy culinary craze finally trickles down to, say, Papillion, Nebraska, a town where I have joyously eaten some terrific big hot steaks floated down with cold, cold beer.

Imagine the expectant family of strong-spined Cornhuskers. Their faces beam as the waiter approaches. It’s been a long, hard day, and they are hungry for some of that hearty heartland beef. Saliva wells up. Pupils dilate slightly as the waiter nears, his tray brimming with dishes. Now you and I cut away to a Tight Shot of the tray. Here are plates tickled by sleek scraps of steaklike substance, lovingly prepared in their individual thimbles by Monsieur François de Lyon (formerly Frankie of Akron). These meat slivers are artfully framed by nubbies of cauliflower and shreds of Swiss chard. A separate tureenlet features a nimble and probably very perishable sauce. There is no hint of A-1 Sauce or ketchup. The waiter reaches the table. He knows these people don’t buy $400 silk ties, but he’s paid to take his chances.

I leave the gentle reader to imagine the awful outcome. In any case, all this writing has made me hungry. Guess I’ll motor on over to Paco and Seiji’s—the Teriyaki Taco’s on special tonight. I may be a Californian, but I’m no fool when it comes to grub.

CORRUPTION ON EARTH

Some Countries Are Naughty and Some Are Nice … Sort Of.

by Dean Christopher

The 2002 Time Almanac lists “The 2001 Transparency International Corruption Perceptions Index,” a rottenness ranking of 91 world governments, according to Berlin-based Transparency International (TI).

This non-governmental organization (NGO) operates in big famous countries as well as understated ones like Azerbaijan; Burkina Faso; Cameroon (those exotic stamps with shirtless locals!); Gambia; Georgia (Tbilisi, not Atlanta); Kyrgyz Republic (office in downtown Bishkek); Mauretania (not the ship); Mauritius (not Mauretania); Niger and Nigeria; Trinidad & Tobago; Vanuatu; Yemen; Zimbabwe. They have people in Washington, and also a Palestinian office – although the way Israel is knocking down West Bank buildings, they’d probably be happier renting in Tel Aviv.

TI claims to be the only NGO devoted to combatting international corruption. Their sunny goal is to “bring civil society, business and governments together in a powerful global coalition.” Well, fine. Some 80-odd chapters strive “to curb both the supply and demand of corruption,” a challenge only slightly more difficult than curbing teenage demand for sex.

What does their survey reveal?

As expected, most of the world’s governments are seen as corrupt. On a scale from 10.0 (squeaky-clean) down to 0.0 (satanically decadent), about 2/3 of all countries surveyed lean seriously toward corruption. Malasia, at 5.0, maintains a curious yin-yang balance on the issue. (One might expect such moral equilibrium from neutral Switzerland (8.4) or Sweden (9.0).) There were many ties, especially among the lower scores. But not exclusively: Iceland and Singapore tied at 9.2; the U.S. and Israel at 7.6; Chile and Ireland at 7.5.

No “Axis of Evil” countries appear on the list. Perhaps TI feared that their evil would throw the marking curve off its axis. More likely, Iraq, Iran and North Korea discourage the presence of corruption-hunters.

So, who comes across as wonderful, and who gets the raspberry? Hats and earmuffs off to honorable little Finland, at 9.9 the least corrupt of all 91 countries surveyed! At the murky end of the spectrum is Bangladesh, with an almost supernaturally low 0.2, giving them the sad distinction of being perceived as the most corrupt nation on earth.

But not so fast, reader! Rush not to judgment. Easy enough to go “nyah nyah nyah” or make cruel jests like “How many Bangladeshis does it take to corrupt one Finn?”

Statistics never tell the whole story. TI studied 91 nations, at a time when the United Nations listed 189 member states – and some countries are not even in the U.N. Consequently, the Corruption Perceptions Index covers fewer than half the nations on the globe (albeit the half with most of Earth’s population, corrupt or otherwise).

Let’s be fair to Bangladesh. How would the 90-odd unlisted states have fared in the survey? Is it not possible that one, or some, or even all of them may have scored lower than Bangladesh – even conceivably an Absolute Zero (not one single uncorrupted soul in government)? In fact, who can say that, in an infinite universe, there cannot be a country so degenerate that it actually scores a negative number? (Of course, one could theoretically score higher than Finland, but it’s more fun to focus on moral decay.)

* * *

 Ah, if only we could see ourselves as others see us! How does Bangladesh see itself? For the answer, we turn to the official Bangladesh government website, last revised on June 30, 1999. (We surmise that their webmaster has relocated and not been replaced.) The site depicts Bangladesh as a subtropical paradise for tourists, culture aficionados and investors; a cheery, happy land of handsome heroes developing the world’s next superpower.

They make no mention of the typhoons, floods, plagues and other disasters that sweep through the country every few hours, killing hundreds of thousands, overturning ferries, wiping out crops, floating oxen out to sea, leaving millions homeless, leveling the pest-tormented landscape to a mud-flatness that makes the Dead Sea look like the Bavarian Alps. They do not speak of flies the size of Springer Spaniels and crawling things that feed on Japanese compact cars.

Nor is there any hyperlink labeled Governmental Corruption, or National Bribery and Graft Statistics. Clearly, we must work for this story.

Very well, let’s begin with a peek at the government, and the juicy economy that supposedly spawns all this alleged corruption. We check out Prime Minister’s Office, click on Board of Investment. We are forwarded to a page that says only: “This domain is for sale. Please contact: info@ zedandzed .com .” For sale, eh? Hmmm.

Next we try Industrial Policy and find “This page is under construction.” So, presumably, is their industrial policy. At last we strike pay dirt at Ministry of Commerce, Export Promotion Bureau. Among their many exported products and commodities, we see:

“Fish, Shrimps, Sharkfins & Fishmaws, Animal Casings, Betel Leaves, Cotton Waste, Black Cumin Seed, Crude Fertilizer, Raw Jute … Tortoise & Turtles, Crabs, Duck Chest Feather, Crude drugs, Bamboo Poles, Rattans, Beeswax, Coir & Coir-Products, Human Hair, Hukka Nali, Horns & Hooves…”

Now we’re getting somewhere! The excitement of the chase builds. Like all cunning detectives, we ask ourselves the tough questions:

How does corruption affect the Fishmaw business, or traffic in Horns & Hooves? Who chooses which horns and hooves to harvest – and from which animals or devils? What backroom shennanigans corrupt the Duck Chest Feather trade? How are contracts really awarded for Animal Casings and Raw Jute? Did the Vegetable Casings people forget to bribe someone at the Ministry of Casings? Is there a Cooked Jute lobby? Who gets to handle Human Hair – and whose? Does Bangladesh export blonde hair? Leg hair? Nose hair? Finally, is Hukka Nali a product or a typographical error?

The website maintains a chilly silence on these issues, so we turn to Transparency International’s website for help. TI has a Bangladesh site, but it gives no details on the mechanics of in-country corruption. Perhaps their researchers value their lives. The site has a Corruption Hotline to report bribes and irregularities. Does anyone ever use it?

Elsewhere, TI’s Chairman, Peter Eigen, writes “The scale of bribe-paying by international corporations in the developing countries of the world is massive. Actions by the majority of governments of the leading industrial countries to curb international corruption are modest.”

Well, as it happens, TI’s donors include many of those “international corporations” and “governments of the leading industrial countries.” Right near the top of the alphabetical list is Arthur Andersen, the international accounting firm currently under criminal indictment for, um, corruption. A little farther down comes Enron Corporation, the former energy giant (and current energy dwarf) that was until recently entwined with Arthur Andersen. Uh-oh.

A partial list of other major donors: Bank of America; Bechtel; Boeing; BP Amoco; Bristol-Myers Squibb; Exxon-Mobil; Ford; General Electric; General Motors; Honeywell; IBM; Lockheed Martin; Merck; Motorola; PricewaterhouseCoopers LLP; Reliant Energy; Rockwell; Texaco and United Technologies.

Hey – they’re all companies that sell things to foreign governments. Could any of those be on the corruption list?

The following countries also contribute substantially to TI. Let’s check their Corruption Perception scores: Australia (8.5); Canada (8.9); Denmark (9.5); the United Kingdom (8.3); the Netherlands (8.8); Finland (9.9); France (6.7); Germany (7.4); Norway (8.6); Sweden (9.0); and Switzerland (8.4).

Wow! TI donor nations average 8.5 on the decency scale! Coincidence? Who can say? Who dares imply? Admittedly some of this seems a bit suspicious – but that could just be your reporter’s natural wariness kicking in. Decide for yourself.

But stay alert. If General Electric suddenly corners the world market on Horns & Hooves; if Bechtel gets heavily into Bangladeshi Hair or if you hear of a public offering on Transparency Hakka Nali, think it over. But be open-minded. The world is aflood with circumstantial evidence.

Come to think of it, that’s usually the only kind of evidence there is.

Footnote: There is no Finnish embassy in Dahka and no Bangladeshi embassy in Helsinki. What should we conclude from that?

* * *

YOU ARE WHAT YOU JOIN

Commentary by Dean Christopher

We humans are remarkable animals. We think, dream, love, and build; we distinguish among objects and abstractions. We are the naked ape; or at least the badly dressed ape.

We can speak more or less clearly; plan for the future; use charge cards; and visit crowded national parks in RVs brimming with recently-minted humans with strawberry jam on their faces, loud rock music in their earphones and backwards baseball caps on their heads.

One of the enduring, endearing traits of homo sapiens is our propensity for highly specialized enthusiasms – hobbies or passions or peculiar interests that unite us in groups small or large.

Intrigued by this typically human quirk, several years ago I paged through the Encyclopedia of Associations. There I discovered, among many thousands listed, about 100 or so which I deemed unusual enough to be worthy of further investigation. So I wrote and asked them to tell me about themselves.

I never heard back from the Confederate Air Force, the Deciduous Tree Fruit Disease Workers or The Gorilla Foundation. But many others did respond, and here are some honest-to-goodness quotes – mis-spellings, weird punctuation and all – harvested verbatim from their replies:

   1. Friends of the Tango. [sic] “…yourlet 2/1 is unsigned Please send us a copy duly signed and we will answer all your questions. Also send us free of charge a copy of your magazine Thank you” (NOTE: The Director has been trying since 1984 to get New York City to erect a public statue of Carlos Gardel, the great Argentine tango star who died in a plane crash back in the ‘30’s.)

   2. Marx Brothers Study Unit: Most Complete Marx Bros. Research Facility On This Planet. [From their newsletter] “We realized from the start that our group had a lot to share with the rest of the planet….A self-appointed moderator (i.e., a dictator) served as clearinghouse for information….In theory the magazine is published semi-annually, but because of the informal nature and volunteer staff, deadlines are nonexistant and issues are predictably late.” [From their magazine Freedonia Gazette, named after the mythical country where Groucho reigned in Duck Soup] “The entire contents of this issue are copyrighted….We’ve been filing copyright registrations for 11 years and we’d like to be able to sue someone and make it worth our while.”

    3. Cast Iron Seat Collectors’ Association. [From their brochure] “The seat club was formed in 1973, by a few people that had a few seats…The first book on cast iron seats was written by Donald Sites of Grinnell, Kansas. He wrote three books on cast seats, each one was bigger than the one before, because of more seats that had been found….The club meets once a year in the summer in conjunction with a threshing show…[The club] isn’t only for seat collectors. We have many members that collect cast iron corn planter lids, tool boxes and covers. We have members that collect windmill weights and drill box ends and tools of all kinds.”

    4. The Elvish Linguistic Fellowship. “The ELF publishes two journals: Vinyar Tengwar (which in Quenya, one of the several languages invented by Tolkien, means “News Letters”)…and Parma Eldalamberon (“Book of Elven-Tongues”), an annual…Our main function as a society involves writing articles and letters for the above two publications…Various members of the ELF…are also working on what we feel will be the definitive descriptive grammar of Tolkien’s languages…”

    5. Hispanic Energy Forum. [From a FAX dated 2/29/92] “The Hispanic Energy Forum is DEFUNCT! No longer exists. Thx, LT.”

    6. American Quilt Study Group. “AQSG was founded in 1980…and has been bequeathed [an] extensive library of quilt and textile publications. To recruit new members, we distribute our flyer at various quilt events, seminars, shops, and guilds…[papers] are later compiled into our annual pubication, Uncoverings….We also publish a quarterly newsletter, Blanket Statements….Please send us a copy of your write-up for approval before publication.”

    7. Vampire Information Exchange. “Please excuse the delay in getting back to you, but I have been quite busy here of late.”

    8. A California-based high IQ organization that prefers not to be named. [From a greeting-less letter which I here quote in full] “Re: Enthusiast organizations. We are a society of intellectually gifted persons, sort of a ‘Mensa’s Mensa.’ Most know they belong before they even hear of us; we do not want publicity: it is distracting. Very truly yours, [Signature].”

     9. American Bamboo Society. “Also enclosed is a source list describing available species and where they may be purchased….We do not aggressively solicit members. Rather people infected with a curious affinity for bamboo seem to find us.”

    10. American Fancy Rat & Mouse Association. “We have shows every other month, displays several times a year, and an annual picnic/bbq for the members…” [From their brochure] “Our membership cuts across all ages, occupations and sexes, bringing together people who truly enjoy each others’ rats and mice….We were privileged to have the Secretary of the Swedish Rat Society here to judge the pet rat class at one of our shows.”

    11. Friends Of Terra Cotta. “We emphasize the value of and challenges associated with the preservation of terra cotta. The organization provides information and resources for those seeking assistance in understanding terra cotta buildings…”

    12. Flat Earth Society International. [Sic from letter]  “You folks must not keep up with events and things too well…Have been on front page of Examnior, many articles in La Times, front page Valley News in most newspapers of USA Newsweek, TV News,  REAL PEOPLE et  c etc known nationwide and even worldwide. Strange, you dident know anythinaboutit!”

    13. The Antique Stove Association. “In the words of the constitution, our purpose is ‘to form a bond between people interested in antique stoves and related items, and to support their interest in any reasonable way…’ However, these benefits are for members only….we do not extend the benefits of membership to non-members….Parts rescue and parts identification are two subjects of special concern…”

    14. Emil Verban Memorial Society. “We are the Chicago Cubs fan club of Washington, D.C. [Our purpose is] to root for the Cubs. [Meetings?] None. A lunch is held every two years. [From their newsletter] …mark your calendars for…the Society’s 7th Biennial Luncheon….Customarily, the Society hosts former Cubs stars…during the action-filled, two-hour luncheons. So reserve the date now.”

    15. Exotic Dancers’ League Of North America. [From a letter written on a manual typewriter that had no “E,” which was in each case handwritten in red ball point pen: ] “We have 613 members, some are active, most are distant, and can not always attend the meeting, that are held four times a year…We provide the T.V. shows with material on “Nostalgia” information….We furnished much of the information for the motion picture “BLAZ” also the up and coming movie “RUBY””…Farraha Fawasett, is makeing the life story of another one of our members Candy Barr, we will be very concerened how Miss Fawassett portrays Miss Barr….The motion picture star “Cher” is playing Gypsy, in a new movie…and I will invite them to visit Exotic World….Please  feel free to visit anytime, thanking you.”

    16. Circus Fans’ Association Of America. [From their brochure] “Do you get a kick out of clowns and elephants and finely groomed horses? So do we….Do you thrill to the sound of a calliope or a brassy galop as straining steeds race around the hippodrome track?…Does your pulse quicken at the very names and phrases of circusdom…? …We’ve pictured on our cover first lady Barbara Bush holding up a White House puppy so it can touch noses with a clown, all in the interest of promoting reading among young people.”

    17. The Fiber Society. [From their brochure] “Membership is by nomination only and requires evidence of significant contributions and commitment to the field of fiber science. The annual cost of membership is kept nominal.”

    Well! It’s taken me most of the morning to sift through all this material, and today’s mail should arrive any second. I’m hoping for more replies from great enthusiast organizations such as the following, which I swear I did not make up:

 The Melvil Dui Marching & Chowder Society; Save Our Barns Committee; American Toy Goat Association; Intelligent Buildings Institute; Mexican Epigraphic Society; Whirly Girls; International Barbed Wire Collectors’ Association; National Clogging & Hoedown Council; American Collectors of Infant Feeders; Library Cat Society; Accordion Federation of America; Association for Gravestone Studies; International Chinese Snuff Bottle Society; Classical Bicycle & Whizzer Club of America; Occupied Japan Club; and Sons and Daughters of the Soddies.

    If you hear from them before I do, please forward any useful info to me as quickly as possible. We are here to learn from each other.

                                           ***

Copyright  © 2009 by Dean Christopher

The Marketing Corner

SORRY, HE’S IN A MEETING

 Of course he is. He’s always in a meeting. After all, he’s in advertising, isn’t he? He’ll get back to you.

 But don’t hold your breath. It may be a long meeting. Or worse yet, a long series of meetings.

 In any collaborative business, meetings are unavoidable. And since few businesses are as collaborative as marketing and advertising, ours is a meeting-intensive environment.

 Meetings exist to exchange information, to brainstorm and to review work in progress. But sometimes they also exist for their own sake, out of pure habit. Unless consciously brought under control, they chew up huge slabs of time. How often have you burned up two hours of your life in a meeting, only to realize that the only decision made was the time of the next meeting? Oh sure, clever things were said. Everybody was smart. Coffee and designer water were sipped. Issues raised. Points made. Clients dissed. Project statuses discussed – all or most of them “ongoing.”

 So, how did that make the company’s work any better, or improve your day?

The two basic species of meetings are (1) Internal, with colleagues and/or clients attending; and (2) External, at the client’s office or pitching a new business prospect. These vary in size from one-on-one to dozens of people, depending on circumstances. But they don’t have to be endless windbag sessions that yield dinky results or no results at all.

Nobody here but us employees.

 We don’t expect you to be a drill sergeant. But don’t let attendees get too comfortable. (One best-selling business guru suggested providing no place to sit in the meeting area. We stop short of such showboating. Nor do we endorse waterboarding to get ideas out of your personnel.)

On the other hand, it’s better not to serve refreshments. This is not a party, and besides, they’re your own people. No need to impress them! Discourage note taking. The physical process of writing distracts from the mental process of listening. Anything worth writing down should be memorable enough to write down after the meeting.

 If the meeting is to disseminate information (statistics, budgets, production schedules, etc.), prepare a page or two – the less verbage the better – to hand out at the end of the meeting. It’s a good idea to distribute that information by e-mail before the meeting. That way you don’t have to waste time writing stuff on a display board so everyone can waste more time copying it down.

 Nobody should be allowed to get away with saying twice, about the same assignment, “I’m working on it” or “It’s still in the pipeline.” Pipes are only so long, and deadlines are real. By meeting #2, “it” must be finished.

Realistically, revisions are necessary, but impose a cutoff point. Broadway shows go through revisions during rehearsal. But eventually the producers simply must “freeze the script.” No new lines. No new bits of business. No plot switcheroos. No new songs. Here’s the show we’re presenting on opening night, so get it straight.

 Client or prospective client meetings.

 Never waste time meeting with anyone – at your office or outside – who can’t sign a check or generate a purchase order for anything grander than a box of staples. Better no meeting at all than a wasted meeting charming some executive’s underlings, who are (like script readers at film studios) typically empowered only to say “no,” but not “go.” They can’t initiate projects or approve budgets. They know the political risk of recommending anything that might not excite their Higher-Ups. It’s career-threatening. Far safer for them to turn your proposal down than to espouse it and risk the scorn of their Betters.

It bears repeating: subordinates at client meetings are there to filter out unwanted advances, but have no authority to advance the flirtation. At best they can arrange a follow-up meeting – the one you should be having in the first place. The common practice of pre-meeting meetings, in one piquant Polish folk saying, is called “chewing the same cabbage twice.”

 Make meetings meatier.

 Whatever the purpose of your meeting is, whether with clients or your own people, just get into it. Executives and subordinates alike will appreciate your appreciation of the value of their time. A strict agenda and time limit will help you control the meeting. Be sure to limit the meeting only to people directly involved with agenda items. And end the meeting as close as possible to the pre-agreed time.

 This will take some practice, but you’ll find it’s worth the effort.

 It’s all about discipline. Time management means you manage time, it doesn’t manage you.

Keep an eye on the stall indicator.

 If you’ve ever been in a courtroom, you know how often the outcome of a hearing is a “continuance” – the legal term for stalling.

 Don’t let your meeting stall, marooned on some detail that can be assigned for someone to work out later, at latest, by the next meeting. One sign that the meeting is floundering is when you notice several people saying the same thing in different words. Or worse yet, saying different things with the same words – a symptom of imprecise definitions of the problem. 

 Some companies employ a secret code word to be used to inform the attendees that it’s time to wrap tings up. This is particularly useful when clients are present – unless, of course, they have broken your company code.

But cut people some slack.

 In the case of brainstorming meetings, there are always some people whose best work is not spontaneous. They like to ruminate for a few hours or days. Wise managers take that into consideration, and allow for post-meeting responses. After all, taking the time to think things over isn’t such a bad idea.

Just like meetings, advice about meetings should be brief.

The best meeting is the briefest meeting possible that can end with decisive actions taken. By the time everyone leaves the room, at least one cake should be baked.  

 One efficient executive told me that if 12 people meet for one hour, but accomplish less than 24 man-hours of work, they have wasted time that could have been much better spent over martinis and dinner.  

 End of column. Time for a martini.

 ***