Last week, we American taxpayers bought ourselves AIG. I’ve never owned an insurance company, but I do have a few proposals about running our new enterprise:
Let’s outsource for cheap labor in China and India.
Let’s not insure any high risk people.
Let’s continually raise premiums.
If there are claims, let’s dispute them.
Let’s hire an army of lobbyists to get politicians passing laws that favor us.
Let’s pay ourselves great big paychecks with huge stock options and bonuses.
If we do happen to get into financial trouble, let’s have some government bail us out.
Don't get headaches, learn the secrets from a pro!
David Ogilvy (a Brit who did some ‘adverts’) once said, “If you can’t say it, sing it, dude. Sing it loud, sing it proud.” I believe he said this nugget at Woodstock when he sat in with Canned Heat for a set, then wailed like a banshee on fire as Hendrix burned his guitar. David wasn’t just an ad guru, he was also a monster singer and cowbell player. And a hell of a strip backgammon player.
The point is, if you don’t have much to write about, write lyrics because when you marry them with music they tend to eat up a lot of time–– which means you write less but make the same amount of money so you make more per word. In the future, this will be how writers are paid. Art directors will be paid by the tonnage of foamcore they generate for client meetings (yes, there will be more incidents of bleeding hearts hugging foamcore trees in the future). Anyway, the fact is most copywriters are afraid to write jingles because they are ignorant swine who have rhyming problems. Not to worry, inksters, here’s all you need to know.
First, write something directed at the listener. A grabber that reaches out, yanks the listener by his or her ear, and burrows into their brains like a tranquilizer dart into Wayne Newton’s fleshy haunch. Your opening line should be empathetic to the listener. Here are some excellent examples of opening lines: You’re working harder than ever, umm, yes you are… You don’t like headaches and nausea, you’re not too keen on diarrhea and vomiting either… You expect precision engineering these days from auto manufacturers in a large Michigan city we’ve come to call ‘Detroit’… You’re about the best human being ever… You won’t fall for just anything because you’re savvy as all get out… you love a candy bar with chewy nougat and nuts galore drenched in creamy milk chocolate and relatively no asbestos fibers or rat feces…
You get the drift.
Now you have listeners hooked. Now that people know you understand them, they are ripe to be slipped a sales message. So, give it to them. How? In rhymes, of course. Watch: You’re working harder than ever/ you’re never ever gonna stop/ you know whatever the endeavor (PRODUCT NAME) will help you reach the top!!!(NOTE: three exclamation points mean you really, really, really mean it– and people love that kind of sincerity thing).
There you go. Now, find a singer who sounds like Bob Seger after guzzling four pints of bourbon, smoking three packs of Luckies, and clearing his throat with steel wool. Marry these insightful lyrics with some scorching guitar licks, booming drumbeats, pounding bass, maybe a bit of the ol’ David Ogilvy cowbell, and you’ve got a hit that’s sure to get the client’s toes a-tapping (“Hey, I dig the beat! Do you think we can do a version about value–no, wait, I got it— the value of our product reflects genuine American values! Hey–I really like that! See if you can jimmy that message in there!”)
Of course, if you don’t want to go to all the bother of writing your own lyrics, you can always just take a rock classic and rewrite its lyrics. Like so: (To the tune of the Rolling Stones classic “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction”):
SING: I can’t get no good traction/ I can’t get no gripping action/ ’til I tried smoother ride/ I tried Goodyear pride/ now I get some/ Goodyear sticky traction/ said I get me some/ Goodyear gripping action…ANNOUNCER VOICEOVER: When the rubber hits the road, nothing beats Goodyear tires. Goodyear, the tires that are round so they roll better most all the time… SING: Now I get more smooth riding traction/ said I get more/ sweet driving satisfaction/ cause I tried/ Goodyear pride/ have a Goodyear ride on my side… oh I can get more/ Goodyear sweet driving satisfaction/ said I get me more/ Goodyear smooth handling all weather gripping the road traction… (FADE OUT)
You dig, right? I’m currently working on a version of Iron Butterfly’s “Inagada Davida” for Contadina sauces. “Ina Contadina sauces are big mushrooms/ Ina Contadina sauces are spices that go boom…”
The only problem I’m having is that, apparently it’s almost impossible to buy 18 solid minutes of commercial time, and I’d hate to ruin the integrity of the original song.
Here’s hoping this has been helpful. Next time, we’ll look at “Bite & Smile: The Importance of Putting Some Teeth Into Your Commercials.”
I was ecstatic to see this picture from a zoo in Thailand, which is just east of Delaware, west of Iceland, this side of paradise.
It has bothered me for a long time that so many monkeys are living together in sin. While zookeepers may look the other way and ignore their morals with a blind eye, I have never been able to.
Sin is sin is sin, and monkey flesh is weak. Maybe I’m a prude, but I think if you’re going to share a cage you should have a legally binding document that says you’re a couple and entitled to engage in shenanigans (if both parties agree).
Marriage is an institution all creatures should abide by, cherish and engage in to enjoy gifts of small appliances for going through the act.
Bully to these monkeys for doing the right thing! We all salute ye of high moral fiber and primate formal wear.
Youngsters these days show no respect for their elders. In my day we knew that those older than us had a little something called ‘wisdom’ and that was the cheese worth hearing, so we’d happily sit at the feet of knowledge, sniff its dirty socks and soak it in. But seems kids these days are too busy smoking their reefer cigarettes and snorting their crack heroin needles up their sniffers and listening to their loud alternative emo rock music to care two figs about the things they could learn from keeping their dadblum ears and minds open. That’s the problem with kids these days— they’re not minding their p’s and q’s from those they could learn a thing or two about a thing or two. Maybe THAT’S why these kids these days can’t read or write diddley-squat and can’t find their own g-d country on a map with two hands and a compass! It’s enough to make Marco Polo blow smoke out his ears!!! In my day we could draw the map with our eyes closed and our hands tied behind our backs after being spun around like a top. Maybe kids should put down their maryjane sticks and turn down the loud alt rock music and give a listen to folks like me who’ve lived and learned and want to do the good Christian thing and share our wealth of knowledge with the g-d ingates who pay us no never no mind any-who. Now that I got that off the old lungcage, where’d I put those spats of mine, dadblammit? I want to step out tonight, consarn it all.
I don’t know about you, but I’m sick and tired of politicians yammering endlessly about what they’re going to do about war, the economy, taxes, the environment, education, oil dependency, spending and so on–– when is someone going to come forward with the Monkey Helmet Laws this nation so desperately needs!
Just look around and you see monkeys and chimps on unicycles, bicycles, trikes, Harleys, sidecars and other wheeled contraptions doing all sorts of dangerous stunts with nothing but a funny hat to protect their braincages. Sure, it’s fun to watch but it’s also criminal––someone’s bound to get hurt.
If Bubbles takes a tumble, his gray matter gets a-jumble. Next thing you know, the poor fellow can’t tell a banana from a knitting needle and he knits a crappy sweater with two bananas. Is this what our forefathers wrote with quill pens on parchment paper for? I think not.
Here’s my five on why we need to get some serious Monkey Helmet Laws on the books:
Monkeys are not good drivers
Monkeys are their own worst enemy
Monkeys are too proud to ask for our help
Ever seen “The Wizard of Oz”? We don’t need flying monkey attacks!
Charles Darwin Fan Club membership will plummet
Then again, there’s the “Planet of the Apes” defense for keeping things just the way they are. I think I know what Charlton Heston would want us to do.
"The Rat Pack"? That's not what we called ourselves.
I first met him backstage at the Flamingo Hotel in Vegas. I was involved in a hotsy-totsy, topsy-turvy lovefest with a little lady who went by the name of Joey Heatherton. Her real name was Jo E. Heatherton but I had wisely advised her to change her name to “Joey” since “Jo E.” sounded awfully funny rolling off the old tongue meat and I felt strongly she would have never made it with a moniker like that.
She was a perky blonde number. The sort of performer who gives 110% or nothing. Joey never fully understood the mathematical principles behind percentages, which was why she was able to give 110%. I tried explaining percentages to her once; she Stooge-slapped me, kneed me in the groin and pulled my eyelids with needle-nosed pliers. I decided then and there maybe she knew enough math to get by.
While she belted-out showtunes on stage, I’d be backstage in her dressing room trying on some of her outfits while no one was looking. I was wearing a black sequin backless number and bright pink pumps when he walked in.
“Well, well, well,” Frank said looking me up and down, “what are you all dolled-up for, kid?”
“None of your bee’s wax,” I retorted laying my feather boa aside. A garter strap cut deeply into my thigh bringing forth a little liquid I call “blood.”
“Hey, you’re quick with the comeback,” he said, “I like your spunk, kid-o, and the cut of your jib ain’t half bad, either!” Then the door flung open and in marched Peter Lawford, Sammy Davis, Jr., Joey Bishop and Dean Martin. And so it was that I, a kid all of 6 years old, would be recruited by Frank Sinatra himself to be a member of his infamous Rat Pack (or, as we liked to call ourselves “The Wanderlust Pioneer Explorers”).
The hurly burly times of the sixties looked pretty distorted from the bottom of a martini glass. Frank, me and the guys were rarely apart, and we were seldom far from the center of a tornado. When the world saw us coming, it took shelter in the root cellar and barred the door. After we’d passed, all that remained were the splinters of our martini toothpicks and spent pimentos.
Although I was only a young kid, I was already working on an adman’s liver. Dino used to shake his head in amazement at my endless capacity for gin ‘n grape Kool-Aids. “How can you drink that stuff, kid?” he’d blurt in his smooth bourbon baritone.
“Hell, Dino,” I’d say polishing off a tall tumbler of the stuff on the rocks, “you should see me workin’ a vodka ‘n Ovaltine.”
‘The Rat Pack’ was not all smiles and whistles though. The public may have thought we were tighter than a virgin’s nylons, but we were not without our petty bickering. In fact, me and Joey B. got into scraps on a fairly regular basis.
See, Joey had always been Frank’s ‘funny boy’–– his personal jester. When I entered the scene, all that changed. I had a wacky sense of humor that The Chairman called “friggin’ brilliant–– a laff riot!” The sounds I made with a cupped hand and armpit kept Frank laughing ‘til his baby blues were red.
Bishop was none too happy being upstaged by a young punk. He’d say, “Hey, Frank– we should pummel the kid’s face with our fists, chop him with a rusty machete into tiny chunks of adolescent flesh and scatter his entrails to hungry rabid dogs.”
Maybe I was over-reacting, but I sensed Joey wasn’t fond of me. I kept my distance from him, not out of fear for what he might do to me, but rather fear of my own rage. You see, the reason I was on the lam in Vegas is I had shot a man in Reno–– just to watch him die. Then, after he died, I figured Vegas might have more in the way of entertainment.
I was right.
In the desert, the greatest stars in the universe burned their brightest. And when it came to cats who were swinging entertainers, none topped Sammy D. Whether wringing every last drop of emotion out of a love ballad, or hoofing tap, Sammy didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘quit.’
“Sammy,” I’d explain to him, “Webster defines quit as tostop!”
“Can’t hear ya, babe!” he’d shout over his tap shoes rat-a-tat-tattin’ like Morse code announcing Armageddon. He had such an infectious happy-go-lucky nature, well, I’d just have to join him hoofing. And when we’d finish, ten or eleven hours later, Sammy would give me a soggy bear hug and say, “I love you, man, I love you!”
“Right back at ya, babe,” I’d say lighting a Lucky and flicking the burning match in the direction of Joey B.
I didn’t know Peter Lawford very well. Oh, we’d snap a towel at one another passing in the sauna, but I think it was Socrates who said you never truly know a man until you spend fourteen, sixteen years together in a squat Turkish prison cell. The old Greek sure knew people!
Lawford did introduce me to Marilyn, the Camelot crowd, and he pulled some strings and got me a gig mowing the White House lawn. Take it from me, that thing’s a lot bigger than it looks.
When I went to get paid, I was ushered into the Oval Office. JFK was in the midst of the Cuban missile crisis or something and seemed distracted. “You’ll, ah, have to excuse me,” he said in his chowder dialect, “I seem to have left my, ah, billfold in my, ah, other trousers.”
He left to go fetch the do ri mi, and I snooped around a bit. I opened a desk drawer and saw the ‘red button’, the one that would send nuclear missiles screaming to Havana. Being quite the joker, I had my finger poised to give the button a poke. “Put this in your cigar and smoke it, you bearded infidel, Fidel!” I said smugly. But my arm was snatched and held firm. I looked up and a tussled JFK said, “Please, ah, leave solving the, ah, world crisis to me.”
“Okee-dokee,” I said. He paid me ($15 was tall green for a kid back then!) and I had a story that tickled Frank and the boys no end.
Soon after that, the Rat Pack began to disband. Dino got belligerent with me when I told him I wouldn’t pair-up with him as a musical comedy duo.
“C’mon, Scoots,” he sobbed pitifully, “I’ll play the geeky spaz, you’ll be the smooth crooner who gets all the dames.” It just wasn’t my scene, I told him, maybe we’d talk after puberty. Dino was crushed. Dino drank. I split.
Joey B.’s jealousy spun out of control. He hired a couple goons to bust my legs, then had me hailed with sniper-fire. I took a couple slugs in the chest and head, but had some clean exit wounds. As the docs wheeled me through the hospital on a gurney, Frank was by my side crying like a baby slicing onions. “You’re gonna be all right, ain’t ya, kid?” he asked. I mustered what little strength I had and cupped my hand under an armpit, giving Frank a taste of his favorite sound in the world. Frank convulsed with laughter. Made me smile.
My parents finally tracked me down at the Vegas hospital and took me back to Ohio. They didn’t like their sweet son hanging around hard drinking entertainers.
Weeks after I returned to the motherland, I got a call from Frank. He and the boys wanted to have one last little bash. I told Frank I couldn’t get away, my parents had grounded me. But Frank had a plan.
And so it came to pass on a warm August night in Hubbard, Ohio, the Rat Pack had one final get together in a pup tent in my back yard. I told my parents I was sleeping out with Kevin Moran and Joey Riccitelli.
I did spend the night with a Joey (she brought some new slinky shear things for me to try on), and a group of guys who were about the best pals a kid could ever hope for.
The Wanderlust Pioneer Explorers would ride into the sunset of memories and opportunistic memoirs. Mine will come out sometime in the near future, if I can ever get off this damned gin and grape Kool-Aid bender.
