don't know nothing

See this graphic? I don't know what it means. I don't know what it's trying to illustrate. I don't know what sort of idea it is attempting to explain in simple, easy-to-understand pictures. I just Googled "marketing" and this came up. And that, my friend, pretty much sums up "marketing."

When I'm not drawing pictures of dead people or visiting cemeteries or watching fifty-year-old TV shows or shitting all over Ringo on the internet, I go to an actual job. I work for a large commercial printer that produces thousands upon thousands of circulars for supermarkets and other customer-friendly retail businesses up and down the east coast. I work in a small office with a dozen other graphic designers who, on a daily basis, toil over the whims and nonsensical ideas of any number of individual store owners or "marketing experts" with "a vison." That "vison" translates to every single circular looking exactly the same week after week after week. Despite this, every so often, a completely composed circular is disrupted just hours before it gets sent to press by some yutz with a "brand new idea." Understand that these stores are selling canned vegetables and paper towels and frozen chickens. The same products are included week after week. But, still, they want things to STAND OUT and GET NOTICED. They use phrases like BIG PUSH and BLOWOUT SALE and other meaningless jargon. A circular that should take a few hours to compose, ends up being stretched over several days because someone binge-watched Mad Men this weekend and fancies themselves the Don Draper of the grocery world.

I've been doing this, in one capacity or another, for over forty years. I've seen it all... and most of it has been bullshit. Sure, I have met and worked with genuine "marketing" professionals. These are people with legitimately clever and innovative ideas that have the potential to motivate and inspire customers. But, for the most part, true "marketers" are harder to find than a kosher ham sandwich or an honest politician. Instead the World of Marketing (sounds like a theme park) is filled with spineless, wishy-washy dishrags with no real ideas. I can't figure out how these people (and I have met dozens of them) are able to advance themselves to positions of authority. They get to a corporate level where final decisions are placed in their hands, yet they never want to commit, fearing a wrong decision will result in a dressing down from their boss. Instead, they shoot out monosyllabic emails that read: "Thoughts?," then sit back and wait for their underlings to come up with something. If submitted ideas are good, they will take the credit under the guise of "team leader." If a bad idea is chosen, they are the first ones to point their finger at the source. I saw this practice for the dozen years I worked in the marketing department of a large law firm. I never saw so many useless, lazy people with no original ideas. They just spewed buzz words and asked for "infographics" or some other new trend they just read about in a marketing publication. 

Once I traded in my "business casual" for the "down-and-dirty" world of pre-press (a big room of artists churning out quickly-composed ads for huge print runs. Google it, if you really care), I thought I'd never have to deal with that corporate mumbo-jumbo again.

I was wrong.

One of the companies I create circulars for on a weekly basis is a chain of supermarkets based in New York. They are a family-owned business, with ten stores located in affluent areas of Long Island. I deal with a young lady who is experiencing her first job right out of college. Here, she is able to apply her useless marketing degree for the sole purpose of selling an extra pound of strawberries – just by adding a big red "burst" that says "SWEET!" on top of the picture. My entire interaction with her (and everyone at this company) is via the internet through a collaboration website called Ziflow. All communication is through messaging on this website. Considering that I get the bulk of my instructions from her, she is an inarticulate communicator. She has a very difficult time explaining exactly what it is that she wants. Plus, her spelling is atrocious. Sometimes I have to stare at and reread messages several times before I can understand what I am supposed to do. She has no concept of proportion and sizing, however she uses terms like "lower the opacity" regularly. Oh, when she says "lower the opacity," she really means increase the opacity. But, after three years of doing these circulars, I have come to understand and interpret what is required.

Just this week, while working on this week's circular for this particular supermarket, I started getting messages from someone named "Norman" – a name I had not seen before. Norman instructed me to add a burst here that says "Great For Your Family!" Another message changed a headline that read "CATERING" to "Check Out Our Catering!" The next message asked for my thoughts on – and I quote – "reconfiguring the front page into a graphicly-pleasing hierarchy"... or some such third-year marketing bullshit. I merely replied that my job is to follow the layout with which I am provided. Surprisingly, he didn't press the issue.

I make no design suggestions. Zero. Zilch. Although I have been a graphic designer for over four decades, my role in my current job is not that of a designer. I am a layout artist – pure and simple. I do what I am told by the customer. I do not embellish, nor do I make any suggestions. I was told by my boss on Day One that we, essentially, produce trash. The circulars that we create have a shelf life of one week and are never ever looked at again. In that one week, they are just glanced at by the consumer. The target audience is someone looking for a good price on a box of Cap'n Crunch or a family pack of pork chops. We are not producing great works of art. We produce easy to understand presentations of everyday grocery items. If the consumer wants to see the Mona Lisa, they can go to the fucking Louvre. They are never gonna find it in a supermarket circular.... no matter what a store owner wants.

I Googled "Norman" and discovered that he has recently been hired by this chain of supermarkets with the title of "Merchandising Director" or something corporate-sounding like that. His job description is a run-on sentence of some of the thickest bullshit I have ever laid eyes upon. Immediately, I had flashbacks to my time stuck in marketing meetings at the law firm and watching a bunch of idiots with marketing degrees pat each other on the back while bandying about phrases like "low-hanging fruit" and "vertical juxtaposition" and "let's table that offline, but not until this afternoon, because I'll be out of pocket until 1 o'clock"... whatever that means. Norman, I quickly surmised, was a corporate asshole. And he proved me right after instructing me to add a big red burst to a picture of cherries that screamed "More Fruit, Less Pit!" His next decision was to make sure the words "Veggie Mac Salad" appear on one line, even though those words appeared on two lines in a featured block of various deli salads for over a year. Once I adjusted the size of the text to get "veggie" to drop down to the next line, Norman went home to tell his family that he made a crucial corporate decision at work today that will net the company untold profits. Later the same day, he indicated several places where he wanted the word "WOW!" to appear in a big red burst.

When Monday rolls around, I will be treated to another barrage of Norman's genius. Noman will pose passive-aggressive scenarios regarding whether a headline should say "Meat Sale" or "Sale on Meat." Norman will wait until an hour before press deadline to rearrange the placement of wedges of cheese or to question the height of a dollar sign.

To borrow a line from Ursula, the Sea Witch: "It's what I live for."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it's obvious

Twelve years ago, I was working in the marketing department in the main office of a national chain of an after-market auto parts supplier. I worked in a large room with a dozen other graphic designers, pumping out full-color newspaper circulars. It was a grueling process. We had to keep up with the various price changes and product switches from category leaders, along with the whims and fancies of several vice-presidents in charge of  "something or other." These guys would wander through the department and peer over the shoulders of my colleagues and me as we worked diligently on our computers, moving and adjusting our circulars, as per instructions determined in a weekly marketing meeting. In an effort to justify their jobs, a VP would — on the spot — instruct a particular artist to "change that block from red to yellow" ...only switch it back to red an hour later. This would occur on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis, forcing an artist to make a pointless change and carry said change across a dozen different demographic-specific versions. Things like changing the width of a dotted line around a coupon or flipping the positions of adjacent items in an ad were regular and anticipated changes... often made as the print deadline loomed closer. They were changes for the sake of change, mainly to reinforce the ego and control of upper management.

One day, one of my coworkers brought in a microwaveable meal for consuming in the noon hour. In the meantime, the package sat on his desk. It was a quick-serve bowl of pasta that had newly been introduced to the market. As artists often do, some of us assessed the package design and surmised a scenario for how it was created. The first thing that was noticed was a large out-of-place block on the otherwise well-designed package front that read "GREAT FOR LUNCH" in big, gaudy yellow type. The rest of the package featured a nicely-placed logo, a "beauty shot" of the fully-cooked product and a few small pictures of other available varieties of the same line. As a group, familiar with the modus operandi of a controlling VP — one who perceives himself as a "marketing genius," we figured that the design department at this particular company had just finished the final version of the packaging. Then, one of these VPs came by and insisted on the inclusion of the "GREAT FOR LUNCH" callout, reasoning that how else would anyone know it could be eaten for lunch. The designers had to scramble to change the design, staying late at the office to redo the design of every package in the line. Meanwhile, the VP went home at a normal hour and told his family: "I did marketing today!"

A dozen years later, I came across a similar scenario, leading me to believe...  nay, confirm... that some things never change and people "in charge" like to be in charge and like to let everyone know they are in charge. I ordered a box of foil wrapped, pre-moistened wipes to clean my glasses. After a few days, the package arrived. The box featured a clean, white design with the essential information presented plainly and pleasingly across the front of the box. The logo, the name of the product, how many wipes the box contained and a small row of icons indicating the various items on which the wipes could be used, besides eyeglasses. However, in capital letters in a spot of white space, were the words "IT REALLY CLEANS!" This was obviously the last-minute work of some corporate stooge who felt compelled to exercise his superior position over the lowly designers in the company's marketing department. "How will anyone know that this cleaning product really cleans unless we put it on the box?," he thought and, channeling Pharaoh in The Ten Commandments, he proclaimed "So let it be  written and so let it be done." Once again, a group of designers had to stay late at the office to implement ridiculous changes made by someone who has no business in the field of marketing.

Look, I don't claim to be an expert in marketing. I have, however, been exposed to bad marketing for over forty years. (To be fair, I've seen good marketing, too.) But, it seems that bad marketing is more wide spread. Hell, I worked in a marketing department for ten years under someone who didn't know shit from shit, yet she kept her job when I got let go.

I think that all of these so-called, self-proclaimed "marketing geniuses" should all meet for dinner at this place to discuss their various strategies.

After all, they must have the best food in town. The sign says so! Otherwise, how would people know?

Genius!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I don't remember, I can't recall

For around a thousand years, my wife's family owned and operated a stand in a once-thriving farmers market just outside of Philadelphia. Its humble beginnings were actually rooted in another man's business. My father-in-law was reeling from a devastating fire that wiped out his own hardware business that he ran in a building across the street. In an effort to generate some income while he rebuilt his business, my father-in-law bought out an older man who owned a little hardware store in Zern's Farmers Market. In addition to the man's unusual and mismatched inventory, my father-in-law brought in newer merchandise as well as a few items that were able to be salvaged from the fire.

Over the years, more merchandise was brought in and more space was secured to accommodate the expanding inventory. We busted through to the next stand and, with the addition of some second-hand shelving and creative merchandising, turned "Larry's Hardware" into everyone's first stop upon arrival at Zern's.

In reality, Mrs. Pincus was responsible for Larry's Hardware's popularity. Working at the store (sometimes unwillingly) from a very young age, Mrs. P began to bring in unusual items. Specifically, she sought out pop culture kitsch and collectibles that appealed to our fellow collectors — and other folks with disposable income. With our own Disney collection as a jumping off point, Mrs. P created eye-catching displays of Coca-Cola memorabilia (both new and antique), sought -after metal lunchboxes, superhero and rock & roll items, ephemera related to long-forgotten TV shows and movies and hundreds of corporate promo items. There was something for everyone, no matter what sort of collection you had... or wanted to start.

Word began to spread and each weekend (the market was only open on Fridays and Saturdays), the aisles were jammed with curious shoppers out to marvel at the childhood memories that dotted our shelves, as well as hardcore collectors seeking out that one elusive piece that'll complete their collection. Mrs. P, our son and I would offer assistance to several customers simultaneously — giving advice, explanations, prices — hoping that each bit of information we gave would result in a sale. We had regular customers and we would regularly supply their collections. After a while, Mrs. P would look for items for specific collectors. She knew what they liked and she knew what they would pay for things. Her uncanny sense of shrewd business acumen was unmatched. The best salespeople make it appear as though they aren't selling. And Mrs. P was one of the best. She could sell a drippy popsicle to a man in a white suit.

Of course, the typical Zern's customer wasn't typical. They were extremely discerning, very suspicious and not always willing to part with their hard-earned money. Mrs. P became their friend... and your friend wouldn't steer you wrong. She developed a trusting bond with a lot of her regular customers and they kept coming back for more. Some of them, however, weren't even sure what exactly it was that they collected.

Dough Kid

One older woman would come in almost every weekend and ask if we had anything with the Dough Kid. It took us a little while to understand that this woman collected items related to The Pillsbury Doughboy. She never referred to the character by his correct name. She'd point to things in our glass-front showcase and say "There's the Dough Kid!" When corrected, she wave us off dismissively and say "Well, I call him the Dough Kid." We, of course, got used to her pet name for a nationally-known and recognizable advertising mascot. I wonder if other dealers were as accommodating Eh... what am I thinking...? This woman didn't shop anywhere else.

Is that Elvis?

Another man would come in a lot, though not as often as the "Dough Kid" lady. This man was usually dressed in nothing more formal that a threadbare athletic shirt and torn, paint-splattered work pants. His hair was combed into a slicked-back close approximation of a pompadour and ducktail. Fittingly, this guy collected Elvis memorabilia. Y'know... Elvis. Presley. Elvis Presley. The King of Rock & Roll. Just making sure we know who we are talking about, because I'm not too sure this guy did. When he would make an appearance in the store, he'd start things off by asking, "Got anything Elvis?" One of us would lead him to a showcase and begin point out and extracting items emblazoned with Mr. Presley's familiar visage. Paperweights, serving trays, wristwatches, salt & pepper shakers  — all indelibly branded with some sort of Elvis logo, guitar, profile or silhouette. The man would squint at the particular item, lean back, stare down his nose and mumble, "Is that Elvis?" That was his lead-off question. Even after a brief explanation  — "This metal ashtray features graphics from the movie poster for Harum Scarum" — he'd stare in bewilderment and ask, "Is that Elvis?" Sometimes, it took all the willpower I could muster to keep myself from shouting "Do you even know who the fuck Elvis is???"

Ooger Booger

When Disney released Tim Burton's holiday-clashing animated film The Nightmare Before Christmas, Mrs. Pincus brought in loads and loads of related merchandise to cash in on the sudden interest and budding collections of a certain faction of our customer base. In its initial run, Disney didn't do much merchandising for the film, but as the cult audience grew, more and more items were produced, even though it was years after it had vacated theaters. The most popular character from the film was tall, lanky Jack Skellington. His love interest, the demure rag doll Sally, was very popular among the female goth teens. The villainous Oogie Boogie, not surprisingly, had his share of fans, too. One such customer had a certain affinity for the bug-stuffed burlap sack bad guy — we think. The fellow who come in and ask if we had anything depicting "Ooger Booger." At first, we all just stared blankly at the customer while our brains made internal "clickity-clack" sounds as our collective memory databanks scanned for a close match. "Y'know... from the Nightmare movie." "Ooooooohhhhhh! Ooogie Boogie!," none of us said, so as not to embarrass this idiot. He came in fairly often and still never got the name right.

My father-in-law closed up his store in Zern's in 2007, but Mrs. Pincus kept the collectibles business going online — to this day. An online business presents a whole new set of frustrations, but, at least mispronunciations aren't among them.

However, some people still don't know what they want.

www.jopshpincusiscrying.com

let it go! let it go!

I love Disney.

For those of you that didn't groan and click to another website, begrudging another rambling post about my love for the multimedia giant, let me further explain. I don't especially like everything specifically Disney. I dislike the majority of the programming on The Disney Channel and their cable offshoot Freeform. Those teen-angst-y, overly hip dramas and overly precocious family comedies, of course, are not geared to me. Although I am a fan of iCarly, Sam & Cat and Victorious (Nickelodeon, in my opinion, have achieved a better result with their writing and casting), Disney's shows have only accomplished a pattern of sameness. Again, I know I am not the target audience, but Disney knows who is... and they constantly and consistently hit their mark.

I don't love every film that the Disney company has produced. Sure, I have my favorites, animated classics like Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland and Sleeping Beauty. I really like the productions from Disney-owned Pixar Studios, like the Toy Story franchise and Ratatouille. But, Disney's recent acquisitions of the Marvel Comics and Star Wars intellectual properties do absolutely nothing for me. But Disney knows what fans of those particular genres like and they are only too happy to give them what they want... or at least tell them what it is that they want.

My real love is the Disney theme parks. I have been to Walt Disney World and Disneyland countless times. I am never bored, never disappointed and always joyful (That's right! I am capable of joy!) during every minute I spend in a Disney theme park... with the possible exception of Disney's Animal Kingdom. (Oh, I don't care what they say — it's a zoo.) My family and I regularly marvel at the attention to detail Disney has applied to the immersive theme park experience. They set the standard and continue to maintain and even become the standard by which all other theme parks are measured. If not for the concept that Walt Disney thought up as he sat on a bench eating peanuts while his daughters rode a simple merry-go-round, no other theme parks would exist. (For those of you who hate Disney, but decided to stick around past the first sentence — there is where you can direct your disdain.)

But, love them or not, there is no denying Disney's mastery of marketing. I can think of no other company that can dictate, influence and manipulate its customers like Disney. While Apple Computers has a cult-like grip on its loyal users, they are still a niche business as compared to the widespread number of ventures in which Disney has an interest.

Not them. They're too happy... and clean.
The families on either side of them. They're the typical ones.

Disney knows their customer and they market directly to them the kind of enticement they know their customer wants to hear. The interesting thing — and what makes their marketing prowess so admirable — is there is a wide variety of people that make up the "Disney customer." The most obvious one is the "family." Mom, Dad and their 2.5 children. If you look around at the crowds in Walt Disney World, you will see an overwhelming amount of families that fit this description. Mom, with the unfolded guide map, busily checking off each attraction the family has experienced and noting which ones they've yet to conquer. Dad, silently calculating in his head how much this vacation is costing him per minute and how much overtime he'll have to work to make up for it when they return to the "real world." Brother, sister and baby, whose collective heads are about to explode amid an overload of familiar characters, eleven dollar caramel apples, twenty-two dollar popcorn in a commemorative bucket themed to the latest film release and a barrage of questions regarding the origins of Splash Mountain. This is Disney's prime target, their "bread & butter." The ones who have no problem being coaxed out of their hard-earned money to become the proud owners of a two-foot tall Sorcerer's Apprentice hat that will never ever be worn again once they leave the Orlando Airport. They're the ones who — on Day One — grumble about having to feed a family of five for $125 per meal and — by Day Three — don't bat an eye as they wave their magical Magic Band at the restaurant cashier, where Disney has allowed them to be shielded from the sight of any actual money exchanging hands. These families aren't quite sure why they want to go to Disney World, they just do. Perhaps it's because their neighbor or a guy at work or a well-to-do brother-in-law is taking his family to Disney World. It's the thing to do, you know... go "down to Disney" as they say in my part of the country. Even the most rural-dwelling families — those who wouldn't dare set foot outside of their cocoon-like community — will venture to the "big city" airport to walk down a little tunnel, sit is a padded seat for two hours, walk down another tunnel and — poof! — they are in Florida, just a short shuttle ride to the Most Magical Place on Earth.

That is genius marketing.

Disney's other key target audience are the die-hard Disney "purists." These are the folks who know (or sort-of know) the history of Disney World, revealing trivial bits of Disney lore and pointing out hidden secrets to the uninitiated — whether they asked or not. This group will buy nearly anything that has Mickey Mouse or the iconic Disney logo emblazoned upon it. They happily pay the exorbitant food prices on Day One, because they know that's the "Disney Way." They also feel slighted when the Disney company doesn't consult with them before a change is made to a ride or attraction. When Walt Disney spoke the line "Disneyland is your land." in the opening day speech at his California theme park, some people took that literally.

Disney changes things constantly. They make changes for many reasons — advancements in technology, regular maintenance and upkeep, popularity of a particular film, character or property, even reasons they don't reveal because they really don't have to. Surprisingly (or unsurprisingly), both of these groups — vacationing families and Disney purists — hate change. What's interesting is — there are some changes that one group hates, the other is indifferent to. 

Just last week, a popular restaurant in Disney's Polynesian Resort called Ohana's removed a beloved item from their menu. The dish, Pineapple Stir-Fried Noodles, was a secret, go-to concoction that was spoken about in hushed tones by those "in the know." (In reality, it was on the regular menu and could easily be ordered without a secret handshake or a covert nod to the chef.) The internet Disney community called the menu deletion "an outrage," "a disgrace," "a poor business decision," "a big disappointment" and a number of other derisions. After a week or so of angry commentary, an announcement was made informing the noodle-loving world that their precious noodles would be back. (Granted, Ohana's has not yet reopened since the beginning of the global pandemic that shuttered numerous restaurants across the country, not just Disney World. No one has had these noodles since March 2020. No one.) That buzz among potential and return customers is Disney's brilliant marketing at work. Get people talking. That's good marketing strategy.

A few days ago, several theme park guests realized that Walt Disney World had altered the familiar, pre-recorded announcement that precedes the nightly fireworks display in The Magic Kingdom. The words "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls" had been excised, leaving the introduction to begin with "Good evening, dreamers of all ages." A Disney spokesperson explained to a network news source that the decision was made in a broader effort to be more inclusive regarding their guests. The amount of backlash was astounding. Fraught with blatant anti-gay sentiment, the comments posted to official and unofficial Disney websites expressed anger and disappointment. "Who is this offending?" said one person who this decision did not affect. "Disney has gone too far! I will never go there again!," said another person who will surely go to Disney World again, once they have forgotten the reason they said they weren't going. Disney, however, did not back down on this decision and the crowds at subsequent fireworks shows were just as large as they've even been.

Every year, Walt Disney World begins decorating The Magic Kingdom for Christmas during the first week of November. Seven percent of the US population does not celebrate Christmas. Although I include myself among that small percentage, I enjoy seeing the unique decorations. I am not offended by the decorations. To accompany those decorations, Disney releases a sleigh-full of Christmas themed merchandise. I like seeing the merchandise, too. When I collected Disney memorabilia, I purchased a respectable amount of Disney Christmas items to put on display. After a while, Disney mixed in some Hanukkah merchandise with the standard Christmas articles. The stuff was cute, but it appeared (to me) to be a placating afterthought. But to the average Hanukkah-celebrating Disney Fan (I don't consider myself in that group either.), this was a noble and welcome effort on Disney's part to be all-inclusive. In stores in Walt Disney World, however, I have witnessed people pointing and scoffing at the Hanukkah merchandise, some of them holding an armload of red and green colored items and sporting holly-appointed mouse ears. A larger percentage (40%) of Americans do not celebrate St. Patrick's Day. But every year, Disney stocks their gift shop shelves with Irish-themed items to entice those who do celebrate their affinity for the Emerald Isle. I am not offended by these items either, nor to I begrudge anyone who celebrates. In an all-inclusive attempt to be all-inclusive, Disney began offering rainbow-themed merchandise to celebrate Pride Month in June, specifically "Gay Day," an acknowledged, but unofficially sanctioned, event held in Walt Disney World. Disney knows that the LGBTQ community is known as a statistically affluent group with a high percentage of expendable income. "Expendable income" are two words — in that particular order — that Disney loves.

Gay Day, which began in 1991, now draws 150,000 members of the LGBTQ community (including ally friends and family) to the Orlando area the first week of June. Disney rolls out a slew of rainbow colored items — some subtle, some garish — to the delight of those there for Gay Day as well as those who just like rainbows. For some reason (we know the reason), there is an enormous amount of backlash from certain groups of people who consider themselves righteous Americans living their lives with righteous American values. The same ones who sneer at rainbows, will defend Mickey Mouse's right to wear a Santa hat to their dying breath — no matter how exclusive it is. Their battle cry? "Everyone celebrates Christmas!," they will maintain, because as far as they're concerned, everyone does. Even those who don't.

My point is (Oh... I promise you, there's a point here somewhere...) Disney does what it does to make money for their stockholders, first and foremost. That is the main function. That is why they exist. If they happen to bring happiness to someone along the way, that is just a by-product of their function. Every move, every decision, every assessment they make is calculated to bring the biggest monetary return to the company. They know that their customer is loyal, but will complain about a new policy, will threaten a boycott and promise never to give Disney another single red cent... until the next installment of the Captain America story or the next chapter in the Star Wars saga or the next time a football is tossed on ESPN.

Disney knows. 

Oh boy! do they know.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

living in the past

When my son was little, he loved to go to the supermarket and check out what was new. If any product had a bright "NEW" banner splashed across the front of the package, my son wanted it. He fancied himself the unofficial taste-tester on behalf of the food-consuming public. Whether it was a cereal one week (or even a new variety of a favorite cereal) or a snack or drink the next, he wanted to be the first to sample it. His testing often yielded different results. The more common outcome was that the product was deemed "yucky" and was never to darken our kitchen again. Sometimes, the product in question would receive a favorable rating by my son. He would request a subsequent purchase, even before the initial supply had been depleted. This was often tricky. An immediate return trip to the supermarket to purchase the product would be made... only to be met with a rethinking of the test conclusion, leaving a surplus of said product to go uneaten, then stale, then trashed. Or.... if we delayed our next trip to the market to buy more, the particular item was no longer being manufactured, because of the opinions of other self-appointed taste-testers across the country. Some foods, like the recently reintroduced Dunakroos were winners from the start. A self-contained serving of cookies and frosting in which to dip them...how could you go wrong? But, purple ketchup? What on earth was Heinz thinking?

This ritual was not new to me. I was guilty of putting my mother through the same consumer demands when I was a kid. And the products were just as weird.

In the late 60s through early 70s, I was enrolled in a Philadelphia public school. The student body was culled from surrounding neighborhoods filled with middle-class families who couldn't afford to live in the "ritzier" suburbs. The classroom sizes averaged an overcrowded thirty-five students and each grade was made up of two or three classrooms. Lunchtime was an unruly free-for-all, with exasperated adult "lunchroom monitors" trying their best to wrangle students and maintain something that resembled order. The lunchroom could have easily been mistaken for a rodeo by an unaccustomed visitor. There was an area of the lunchroom where food could be purchased. Each month, a mimeographed menu was sent home, listing the upcoming menu choices. The food prepared by the cranky, hair-netted women who comprised the lunchroom staff, as I recall, was horrible. There were offerings like pizza made from hamburger buns, pre-formed Salisbury steak and something passed off as "shepherd's pie," that presented itself as a pre-digested bolus with stray peas, carrots and mashed potatoes as the only identifiable food components, and those were, at best, iffy. I, along with most of my classmates, brought my lunch, so as not to be subjected to that slop.... and that's being nice.

There were several components of my school lunches that I remember distinctly. There were trendy products that, like my son's enticement in later years, were very irresistible to me. My lunches would usually include a sandwich and two snack-type foods. The sandwich alternated between bologna (usually that assembly-line Oscar Mayer stuff from the yellow plastic "easy seal" package that was never easy to seal) or peanut butter and jelly. When I was 10, the standard, everyday peanut butter was replaced by a new product called Koogle. After being assaulted by commercials between Saturday morning showings of The Funky Phantom and Archie's TV Funnies, I asked — no demanded — my mother to buy Koogle, Kraft's take on peanut butter. It was like regular peanut butter, but it was flavored! How did nobody think of this before? Koogle came in banana, cinnamon, chocolate and vanilla varieties. It was available in jars that were smaller than other peanut butter packages that, I'm sure, was a nightmare for grocery clerks trying to stock shelves. Koogle, if I remember correctly, was awful. But, I ate it because I begged my mother to buy it and television told me it was delicious. I ate it just to hold up my end of the "being a kid" bargain. My lunch would also include a foil-wrapped Drake's Yodel, a chocolate covered cake roll similar to Little Debbie's Swiss Rolls. Yodels were great, but the best part was trying to see who could flatten the foil wrapping the cleanest and bring it back to its most original pristine state, getting out all of the folds and wrinkles, until it looked as though it just came off the roll at the factory. (Hey, we didn't have cellphones or Nintendo Switch.) If I was lucky, my lunch would also include a foil packet of Shake-A-Pudd'n and a plastic cup in which to "shake-a" it. With the simple instruction to "just add water," kids were promised an envy-inducing treat in just a few shakes. Plus, the actual activity of shaking was somehow perceived as fun itself! Again, I remember that no amount of agitation would allow Shake-A-Pudd'n to achieve the consistency of the pudding you'd get to cap off your meal at a diner or off the kid's menu at that fancy restaurant your parents took you to. However, at any given time, there would be a dozen small children scattered throughout the lunchroom, performing their closest approximation of the hula in hopes of creating a restaurant-quality dessert. The real goal — I believe — was to make the pudding-less children jealous.

The new product appeal was not limited to school lunches. Oh no! My mornings would start with a big bowl of Sir Grapefellow or some other unnaturally-flavored, overly-sweetened breakfast cereal that couldn't possibly have been good for me. When I got home from school, I would plop down in front of the television with a box of Tid-Bits and shovel those cheese-flavored choking hazards into my mouth until dinnertime. If my mom wasn't cooking that night, my evening meal would be one of a selection of Libbyland frozen dinners specifically formulated for kids. That meant I could choose from the "Pirate Picnic," which featured a foil pan that held a mini hot dog in a mini bun, a small serving of dog food that claimed to be "sloppy Joe," French fries, corn and chocolate pudding or a "Safari Supper," offering the main course of fried chicken and a side of spaghetti and mini-meatballs, along with the standard-issue corn, fries and pudding. The problems with these meals were numerous. The hot dog bun became rock hard under the same oven conditions needed to heat the corn and fries. The pudding, which, theoretically, should have been served chilled, was also subjected to the same heat as the rest of the meal's components. Plus, the decision to include corn, potatoes and pasta in the same meal was questionable — both by the Libby Corporation and by responsible parents. The actual appeal of the Libbyland menu wasn't the food (surprise!). It was the activities that were printed on the box that, with a little creative cutting as instructed by directions on a tiny section of the packaging, created a colorful holder for the foil pan once it was removed from the oven. The food was secondary to the minutes of fun provided by that box. Nevertheless, I still forced that pudding down my throat.

Now, I am less discerning about my grocery purchases. We buy what's cheap. We buy store-band equivalents of national brands... except for ketchup. That's still Heinz... although current, healthier-leaning eating habits preclude any food that requires ketchup. But, cereal, crackers, salad dressing.... all store brand. And my "advanced palate" doesn't know the difference, where my wallet does.

Only now do I appreciate and understand my son's interest and excitement in new products. He was just carrying on a family tradition.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it's a man's world

I was in Barnes & Noble yesterday, just to kill some time. Every time I go in to Barnes & Noble, I am surprised that it still exists. It's a big, cavernous maze of a building filled with hundreds and hundreds of books. Actual books in a time when most people a.) don't read. b.) if they do read, they read from a Kindle or some other type of electronic, paperless reading device. The fact that Barnes & Noble maintains a physical inventory, as well as trying to compete with the mighty Amazon with an online presence, is just plain baffling. Just ask Borders or B. Dalton about how futile a task that is. This past holiday season once again showed Barnes & Noble a reason to reassess its business model. Their sales were down considerably. In my stroll through the store, I discovered a glaring display that should make Barnes & Noble rethink more than its lagging income. Or perhaps one of its contributing factors. 

In addition to the numerous shelves of books, Barnes & Noble stocks a wide variety of magazines. Usually situated along the longest, continuously straight wall in the place, the magazine section, called "The Newsstand," features familiar titles like People, Rolling Stone, Us, National Geographic and others that still, inexplicably, print an actual copy in these days of immediate online information sources.

I filed past the in-store cafe, its many tables occupied by folks hunched over a keyboard or a cellphone, taking advantage of the free WiFi. The smell of brewed coffee followed me to the wall of magazines. Adjacent to the longest, multi-shelf magazine rack was a display highlighting a special sponsored issue of Time or Life or some other revered publication. Under the large "Newsstand" sign, the rest of the many magazines were grouped in sections identified by smaller signs printed in the branded colors of deep green and cream. "Current Events," was followed by "Family," where copies of Disney Princess sat cheek-by-jowl with Mad. The next section was labeled "Entertainment," where the latest issue of heavy-metal periodical Kerrang! was placed alongside several titles that sported some unidentifiable teens in torn clothes with glitter splashed across their sneering young faces. Laying on a riser in neatly stacked piles were issues of In Touch and Ok!, their colorful covers boasting someone I can only assume was a Kardashian. The next sections were the ones that made me stare in disbelief and then cringe.

The first section was labeled "Womens' Interests." On these tiered shelves was a collection of magazines whose subjects ranged from cooking to knitting to crafts then back to cooking. The covers showed either meticulously-styled beauty shots of fresh-from-the-oven, restaurant-quality entrees or pink and fuzzy, knotted yarn bunnies. There was pack after pack of similarly-photographed covers until it ended at the next section, one designated with a "Mens' Interests" sign. This section was filled with publications sporting muscular men flexing their rippling bodies in various poses, angry-looking guys tightly gripping a basketball alongside covers with malevolent-looking firearms spattered below matter-of-fact mastheads that read "GUNS." I looked around and I was actually the only person in the store looking at magazines. Surprisingly, there were no crowds of women with cooking utensils, wielding pinking shears trying to get past me. There weren't any buff gentlemen toting free weights and AR-15s, pushing me out of the way of the shelves. There was only me. Standing there. Disgusted.

In these times of equal rights awareness and inclusion and the recent #MeToo movement, aren't these labels a bit... um.... counterproductive? Especially, when this narrow-minded, exclusionary, antiquated mindset is being proliferated by a major retailer. Aren't magazines just magazines? Open to anyone's particular area of interest — regardless of sex, race or society's predetermination. I stood for a few moments — by myself — and shook my head in disappointment. I thought about how other big retailers displayed similar sexist labels. Instantly, the store layout of Toys R Us popped into my mind with its familiar "pink" aisle chock full of Barbie and her pals and accessories, noticeably separated from the thick and stocky action figures of popular wrestlers and rugged GI Joe. I know plenty of boys who have no problem playing with Barbie and GI Joe. I know lots of girls who love watching wrestling on television and enjoy make-believe with the likes of a miniature John Cena, as well as fashion dolls. Sure some Toys R Us stores showed some integration of the "boys" and "girls" toys, but there is a discernible "no man's land" between the two.

Barnes & Noble should take a hard look at their labels and a harder look at Toys R Us.... 'cause we now know where Toys R Us is headed.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

glad all over

While watching a DVRed episode of Jeopardy! a few evenings ago, my wife pointed out an ad for Glad® trash bags as I fast-forwarded through the commercial breaks. I stopped and backed the programming up to the beginning of the commercial to watch.

A man is sitting alongside a trash can in, what appears to be, his house. He explains to the viewing audience, in a very serious tone, that his wife has convinced him to become a devout vegetarian. Then a sly smile spreads across his lips and he arches one eyebrow. "Except on Ladies' Night.," he adds. He is then shown dumping the remains of a barbecue dinner into a Glad® "ForceFlex trash bag. There are dozens of long rib bones — browned, cleaned of meat and glistening with bits of red barbecue sauce, followed by several paper plates — greasy and stained with the same sauce. Finally, the last items into the bag are scads of crumpled paper napkins, all smeared with more sauce. It is implied that when this man's wife goes out with her friends on "Ladies' Night," he sneaks in a large mess o' ribs, disposing of the evidence in an opaque trash bag before she discovers his charade. She believes he is maintaining his aforementioned "vegetarian status," and, thanks to the good folks at Glad®, she's none the wiser. The commercial ends with the man dropping the tied-up bag into the outside trash receptacle as his wife pulls up in the car, the headlights illuminating the bag, but the incriminating contents remaining hidden.

While I certainly understand the gist of this ad, I didn't like its "humorous" approach at the expense of faithful husbands and vegetarians everywhere. So, I did what every outraged consumer does in this era of technology, convenience and laziness. I took to Twitter. I whipped out my phone, opened up the Twitter app and punched this message to the Glad® company:

I was careful to note that I was offended by the ad apparently condoning deceptive behavior and lying to one's spouse, as well as the not-so-subtle dig at vegetarians. All that and the fact that Glad® was offering its product as an accessory to the "crime." Of course, my "anger" was exaggerated, but, still, I wanted Glad® to know how misguided I felt their message was.

The next morning, I got this reply from the Glad® Twitter account:

Really? They needed me to send them a link to their own commercial?  I suppose the Twitter account at Glad® is manned by some college intern following detailed instruction in standard, generic customer service procedure. A quick search of YouTube resulted in a truncated version of the thirty second TV spot, but the sentiment was the same. I replied:

Soon, I received this reply to my reply:

What? That's how you handle a customer who has been offended by your company's advertising message? It wasn't over, as far as I was concerned. I shot back with this:

I received no further response from Glad®. I'm still waiting.

I don't really buy Glad® trash bags anyway. I'm just a troublemaker.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

big bottom

All this and candles, too.

After seeing countless commercials for the casual dining chain restaurant Red Robin (yummmmm!), Mrs. Pincus and I got the opportunity to dine at one of their 538 locations on our most recent trip to Virginia Beach. Earlier in the day, Mrs. P's cousin Juniper chauffeured us around nearby Williamsburg with our actual destinations being several local wineries. The penultimate stop on our whirlwind tour of the historic city (of which we saw no sites of any historic significance) was a Yankee Candle® store of theme-park proportions. (Oh, you read that right! It's an enormous building that resembles a hotel, jam-packed with display after fragrant display of the stout, glass-potted, wax-'n-wick beauties. The multi-room complex is supplemented with cookware, handbags, candy and other unrelated, non-candle items — just to fill the place out.)

We'll meet 'neath that giant Red Robin sign
that brings this fair city light.

As the sun set and our thoughts turned to dinner options, we surveyed the landscape. I am convinced that the geographic area known as the Eastern Shore of Virginia has more fast food and chain restaurants per square foot than any other place on earth. Along both sides of Interstate 64, some of America's favorite restaurants can be spotted. National heavyweight advertisers like Outback Steakhouse, Carraba's Italian Grill, Olive Garden, TGI Friday's and hundreds of Starbucks, along with regional entries like Smokey Griddle Pancake House and Southern Pancake & Waffle House (the South sure loves them some pancakes!) were among the wide array of evening meal choices. Juniper suggested Red Robin (yummmmm!) and said there was one just ahead. I checked the GPS on my phone and — sure enough — 100 or so feet ahead, in a shopping center that looked just like a dozen shopping centers we already passed, was a Red Robin (yummmmm!), its channel-lettered logo glowing bright red, reflecting off the adjacent Dick's Sporting Goods. We found a parking spot, then entered the restaurant. We joined a fairly large group of hungry patrons, all gripping now-silent pagers, poised for a vibrating explosion of LED lights informing the holder that seating and menus were mere moments away. 

Objects may appear larger
in our commercials.

Soon, our pager's lights began blinking and a young lady in a popped collar, logoed polo shirt led us through a maze of booths and bistro tables to a semi-circular booth in the far corner of a room that boasted three gigantic screen televisions as its main decor. We all slid awkwardly into our booth and perused the menu. Now, I'll be the first one to admit that my silly, self-imposed dietary restrictions severely limits my choices in most restaurants, but, rest assured, I can always find something to eat on nearly every menu. And Red Robin (yummmmm!) would be no exception. I settled on the vegetarian-friendly version of their signature Banzai burger, piled high with grilled pineapple, cheddar cheese and a thick teriyaki sauce, in addition to lettuce and mayo. This, as are all entrees, was accompanied by the highly-touted "bottomless" fries. Oh yeah! The centerpiece of Red Robin's (yummmmm!) advertising is their promise of an endless supply of generously-cut steak fries, always available and always plentiful, even long after you've gobbled up the last of your burger. The implication was that fries could continue to be delivered through dessert and coffee, as long as the customer desired.

Really? REALLY??

We ordered. When our meals arrived, I scrutinized the tiny chrome-plated cup that stood in the shadow of my burger in the corner of my plate. Eight, maybe nine, broad steak fries stood upended in the confines of the scant metal container. I thought about the images I had seen in Red Robin's (yummmmm!) effective advertising campaign. Visions of fresh-cut potatoes, mounds of golden-brown fries fanned out and overflowing from the blond-wood cutting board — far, far too many for one person to consume, but readily available for the taking. The puny cupful of fries next to my burger? Damn! I could down them in one, fairly effortless gulp. Between bites of my burger (which, I will admit, was pretty good) I finished my fries. I looked around the bustling eatery for our server, but he was nowhere to be found. (In all fairness, the servers — with their gelled-up hair and shirt collars standing at attention — all resembled one another.) I finally picked out our guy (Chip or Dave or Bruce or something) and requested another round of fries. Chip (or whoever) winked and shot me a "thumbs up" sign, then disappeared into the crowd. A few minutes went by. Then a few more. Then a few more. I slurped at my water glass and poked around at the crumbs and sauce remnants on my mostly-empty plate. Juniper and Mrs. P, both normal-paced eaters (I am a particularly fast eater), were still enjoying their dinner. Each still had plenty of fries left in their initial order. I was craning my neck and diligently scanning the place for a sign of our server and my second round of supposedly "bottomless" fries. More and more time passed before Chip finally arrived to place a plate of fries before me. There were approximately twice the amount of my first order, this time arranged on a plate instead of in a little cup. I tried my very best to leisurely devour the fries, but I could not. My lightning-fast eating habits, coupled with my lack of patience, had me wolfing down this supplemental portion in record time. Of course, I wanted more. After all, they — not me — made the "bottomless" offer first. But, now I was wise to their game. They were a bunch of "fry-teasers," weren't they?!? Those potato-tempting bastards! They were worse than drug dealers! They get you hooked, then they take their sweet time bringing out more, forcing you to be too embarrassed to order a third round, daring you to risk eating them while the custodial staff is mopping the floor and stacking the chairs on the tables.

I reminded my wife of the time we went to an all-you-can eat Dim Sum night at a Philadelphia Chinese restaurant. We ordered the special and our waiter brought out a considerable selection of vegetarian dim sum (traditional Chinese food served in bite-size portions). We ate the first round and ordered more. Round number two was equally as tasty, but half the amount was offered. The third round was brought to us on two small saucers, a size usually reserved for a tea cup or after-dinner mints. The fourth round was the check. It was determined for us that we had had all we could eat. It seems that Red Robin (yummmmm!) had taken a page from that Chinese restaurant's playbook.

I don't think I will go out of my way to find a Red Robin (yummmmm!) closer to home. The bottomless fries may not have a bottom, but they sure have a catch.

(yummmmm!)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

stop making sense

Você tem alguma idéia do que eu estou dizendo?

I entered the corporate world in the middle 90s when I took a job designing and composing newsletters for a large legal publisher. My background in newspaper composition coupled with my newly-gained experience in Pagemaker 4.0 made me a natural for the position. Prior to this job, I had worked in small businesses of not more than 10 or 15 employees. 

Within a few years, I grew bored and decided to move on. I became the art director for a Philadelphia-based chain of floor-covering stores. Here, I designed daily ads and weekly circulars. I knew nothing about carpet and yet, I managed to produce successful advertising during the three years of my employ. It was also during my tenure there that I was first exposed to the inane corporate jargon that is so prevalent in conference rooms and offices today. My boss — a shrewd, deceptive and despicable businessman — would regularly spew buzzwords at meetings. His favorite was "smartbombs." While discussing which lines of carpeting should be featured on the front of a four-page newspaper insert, he'd veer off course and say "We need to drop some smartbombs. That's what customers respond to — smartbombs!" I worked for him fifteen years ago and I still have no idea what a fucking smartbomb is.

Once again, I grew bored with my job and sought employment elsewhere. This time, I ended up in the marketing department of a national after-market auto parts supplier. Here's where the real corporate bullshit was. Advertising meetings were packed to standing-room. Executive Vice-Presidents in charge of who-knows-what would erupt in phrases like "low-hanging fruit" and "vertical thinking" and "tuna and bananas." Tuna and bananas? I thought we sold auto parts.

At my current employer (a job I have had for nearly ten years, and after this blog post, I hope to still have), every day is a new lesson in the business world lexicon. I have scratched my head trying to figure out what some of my co-workers are saying. It sounds like English. I have heard those words before, just not in that order or in that context. When I started out in the field of graphic design, I used to make these things called "brochures." Now, they have become "deliverables." People "used" things. Now, they "utilize" them, Co-workers would "call" each other. Now, they "reach out" to one another. We no longer "talk about it later." Now, we must "take it offline." Unless, of course, you are "off reservation," though I honestly don't know what that one means. Not content with the already-confusing clichés, someone decided to start mixing them up, like a big, interchangeable, corporate Mad-Libs. I once had someone tell me that a specific task was "in my wagon wheel." Later that same day, in a meeting, someone said "let's get our cats in a row" followed two sentences later by "that's like herding ducks." I wanted to stand up and interrupt the proceedings by asking, "What the actual fuck are you talking about?" I often wonder if they spoke this way only when dressed in freshly-pressed Dockers and a button-down Oxford. 

I believe that the proliferation of this overly flowery, often nonsensical code-language attempts — over anything else — to make the user sound more intelligent. Often, these words are being used incorrectly (as is the mistaken synonymy of "use" and "utilize"), along with incorrect grammar ("me and him" or "contact Joe and I") for added effect. In reality, "corporate-speak" only serves to make the user look the opposite of intelligent. There's a word for that, but it eludes me at the moment.

You wanna come off as "intelligent" to your superiors and subordinates alike? Concentrate more on the substance of your ideas and less on how you talk about them.

Also, you could try using the word "proliferation" more, 'cause that's a cool word.

(That illustration at the top of this post entry is called a "word cloud." Another "buzzword." It makes for a great design, but it's total bullshit.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com