Stories of the Oak

I visited South Park Mall yesterday to buy a collared shirt.  I went straight to the men’s department at Belk and found a nice black Polo shirt.  Well, it was nice until I saw the price:  $95 dollars. 

I thought that was kind of pricey, so I decided to look for some other options.  I found a black shirt that looked exactly like the Polo shirt.  The only difference was it didn’t have a Polo logo on it.  Oh wait, there was another difference:  The plain black shirt was only $20 dollars.

It’s the power of branding.  People are happy to pay extra for name brand logos on their clothes.  In this case, a little red man riding a little red horse adds $75 to the price of a plain cotton shirt.

None of this is really new news.  So why am I writing about it?  Because last night I wore my logo-less black shirt to a neighborhood pool party.  There I saw quite a few guys wearing Polo shirts.  But one stood out so much I had to take a picture.

This Polo shirt must have had over 100 stitched Polo logos on it.  It was like nothing I had ever seen.  Claire declared that it must be part of “The Herd” collection.  This made me laugh.  Hard. 

Then I thought to myself.  I wonder how much this guy paid for his shirt.  So I did a little calculation in my head.  100 Polo logos at $75 each.  That's $7500.  Plus $20 for the shirt.  $7520. 

That dude was wearing the world’s most expensive shirt. 

I found something special in our attic tonight:  An old spiral-bound UNC notebook.  It instantly took me back to a time when I was obsessed with getting my first job as an advertising copywriter. 

Inside were two dozen white-out dotted letters that I had typed on my Smith-Corona.  I had painstakingly pecked each one out a quarter century ago, to creative directors at the best agencies in the country:  Young & Rubicam, The Martin Agency, Lawler Ballard, Ford & Westbrook, Fallon McElligott, Ogilvy & Mather, Phillips-Ramsey, Leo Burnett and even Chiat/Day.

Reading them for the first time in a quarter century, I was particularly impressed by my poignant letter to Lee Clow. 

That is, until I noticed how I spelled his name.  

Well, at least now I know why he never wrote back.

Every March, a few buddies and I make the pilgrimage to Las Vegas for March Madness.  My friends and I call it March Badness.  It’s a four-day orgy of beer, basketball and blackjack.  We always come back with a lot of stories.  Normally, I stick to the “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” rule, but I think it’s OK to share this one.   

When we arrived at our hotel, Kurt Kitterman, gave each of the guys a special good luck charm.  It was a one-inch-tall Julius Caesar Lego toy.  Kurt instructed us to put Caesar in front of us on the blackjack table and it would surely bode well for us.  This was genius.  Why?  Because we were staying at Caesar’s Palace and how could you not win with Caesar on your side?

By 2:00 am on the third day, I’d kind of forgotten about mini Caesar. 

I was playing blackjack at Caesar’s, and I was kind of treading water, which means that I was winning a hand, then losing a hand, then winning, then losing.  Not making any dough.  But not really losing either.  Just drinking beer and laughing with Kurt and an attorney from Chicago, who was sharing a table with us and betting like he was representing Al Capone. 

Suddenly, I had a moment of clarity and realized something was missing:  Caesar.  I asked Kurt where his Caesar was and he said he left his in his room.  I reached into my front pocket and dug around for a minute.  Buried deep under two $1 Flamingo chips, a Bally’s chip, four Corona caps and a worthless NC State -4 betting ticket, I found my little plastic Roman Emperor.    

I pulled him out and placed him right beside my then dwindling stack of chips.  The dealer laughed and asked where I got it.  She’d never seen a Lego Caesar.  I told her that it was Kurt’s idea.  She dealt another hand.  I had a 14 and dealer was showing a 6.  Everyone at the table stayed.  Before she dealt herself another card, I bowed to mini Caesar and loudly chanted, “Hail Caesar!”  She dealt herself a King and busted.  Everyone at the table cheered.

The table had turned.  Now each time before the dealer dealt, I bowed to mini Caesar and chanted “Hail Caesar!” The dealer proceeded to bust 6 hands in a row.  We were on a roll. 

The attorney from Chicago was enjoying it as well.  He looked at me and said, “I want Caesar.”   I looked over at him, and he repeated, “I want Caesar.”  “What do you mean you want Caesar?” I said back to him. 

He looked straight at me and said, “I’ll give you $100 for Caesar.”  In an instant, I slapped the felt Shania Twain table, pointed at him and yelled, “Sold!  To the lawyer from Chicago for $100.”  He reached into his stack and tossed me a black $100 Caesar’s chip.  I slide Caesar across the table. 

Kurt gave me a look that said how could you possibly sell the gift I gave you?  Hey, it was $100.  And it was my biggest win of the night.    

I felt great about it until the attorney said, “I would have given you $200.” 

That is one of the 10,000 reasons I love Las Vegas. 

Hail Caesar!  

How much is my domain name worth?  I never really thought about it until today.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  I thought about it 3 years ago when I purchased davidoakley.com. 

I’m almost embarrassed to say, but I paid a lot for it.  Ego will make you do some crazy things.  But I guess it’s not that crazy because I was starting a blog and since my name was, and still is David Oakley, I wanted David Oakley to be the URL.

URL is such a strange name.  Isn’t that the noise that you say to the toilet after you drink eight tequila shots?  I promise I wasn’t drinking when I forked over $190 to buy davidoakley.com.  Yes, I paid $190 for my URL. 

I guess I was kind of flattered that someone was squatting on my name.  It made me feel kind of important.  Hey, how cool is this, I said to myself, I’m a semi-famous ad guy, at least here in Charlotte, so $190 for a website of this stature is a steal.  I paid through paypal and voila, I was the proud owner of myname.com.

OK, I just looked up myname.com on Go Daddy and that URL is at auction for $10,000.  Wow.  Now I really feel like I got a bargain.  I own davidoakley.com and that’s my name.  It’s really my name. 

Which brings me to why I’m even writing this drivel in the first place.  I got an e-mail yesterday that said in the subject line, “Want to sell your domain?”  I opened it and all it said was “Want to sell me davidoakley.com???” 

Wow.  There’s another David Oakley out there who also thinks a lot of himself.  Cool.  So what did I do?  Did I immediately write him back?  Of course not.  I immediately went to Go Daddy and purchased oakleydavid.com.  Got that one for $28.34.  Oh yeah, score!  I figured that when I sold davidoakley.com to this other David Oakley, I would just switch my blog to oakleydavid.com.  Smart, eh?

Then I replied to the other David Oakley and said, “Make me an offer.”

Since you’re still reading my blog on davidoakley.com, you can surmise that the other David Oakley hasn’t written me back. 

If on the slight chance that I do get a reply, how much do you think I should charge him for the site?   

 

I’ve been to lots of focus groups over the years and have heard and seen some strange things.  But what happened Wednesday night was the strangest of all.

We were in Greenville, SC with one of our clients and we had just seen a group of women talk about their products for an hour and a half.  We took a break before a group of men was scheduled to come in.

I walked outside to give my wife Claire a quick call.  About 10 minutes later, I walked back into the facility, past a group of men waiting in the lobby.  Outside the door to the room with the two-way mirror was a table filled with food for the folks observing the groups.  I stopped at the table, and looked over the spread.

A guy in his late 50’s walked up to me and said,  “What are you doing?” I thought he said, “How are you doing,” so I replied, “Good, I’m just going to grab a little food before I go in.”

“The food is for clients,” he quickly said.

“Awesome,” I responded and I grabbed a plate and lifted the aluminum foil from the top of a tray full of lasagna.

“The food is for clients,” he said again. 

“OK,” I said as I looked at him and picked up a serving spoon and started to get some lasagna.  Suddenly, the guy grabbed me around the waist from behind and started forcefully pulling me away from the table. 

“Hey, wait… I’m… I’m… I’m a client.” 

“You’re a client?”  He let go of my waist and looked at me in disbelief.  “Who are you with?”

In that moment, I was so stunned that he had grabbed me that I couldn’t even come up with the name of the client that was doing the focus groups.

“Ah… I’m with the agency.”

Luckily, that answer worked. 

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.  I thought you were one of the guys here for the groups,” and he pointed to the guys in the lobby.  They were mostly blue-collar guys who had come straight from their jobs to the focus group.

It was really awkward for a moment and I just said, “No problem…  I guess you don’t feed the participants.”  I laughed it off and then he laughed nervously.  I walked back to the table, filled my plate with food, and went back to my seat in the dark room behind the two-way mirror. 

I looked down at what I was wearing.  Jeans, sneakers, a fleece top and a baseball cap.  As I giggled to myself about the incident, I knew that for once I would leave a focus group with some invaluable learning:  If you are going to be a client, you have to dress like one.

Even if you don’t read the newspaper, you’ve probably seen it.  Ryan Kalil, the all-pro lineman from the Carolina Panthers, purchased a full-page ad in the Charlotte Observer today proclaiming that the Carolina Panthers will win Super Bowl.  It’s a bold statement.

As a Panthers fan, I love it.  I love that Ryan has confidence in his teammates and is willing to speak publically about it.  It’s almost Joe Namathesque.  It makes me want to buy season tickets.  It makes Ryan my favorite Panther.

As an advertising guy, I love it too.  I haven’t seen a print ad in the Charlotte Observer that has captured my attention like this in a long time.  But what’s even better is that it’s all over the internet.  It’s trending on twitter.  It’s on facebook.  They’re talking about it on ESPN and on sports radio.  It has gone viral:  A newspaper ad!  

Last week I attended the Hyper Island master class in New York.  It’s an intensive three-day workshop designed to help marketing professionals learn more about the massive change that’s happening in our world.  One of the major lessons of the program was delivered by one of the moderators, Tim Leake.  ( @tim_leake on twitter ) He said that ad agencies should not be about making ads anymore.  We should make social objects.  A social object is something that people share with their friends.

Ryan Kalil created much more than a newspaper ad.  He created a social object.  It just happened to be a newspaper ad.

And by the way, I agree with Ryan's prognostication. Go Panthers.

Quite possibly, I have seen more dogs take shits than anyone on earth.  I don’t know what it is, but whenever I’m in the presence of a canine, nature calls and the dog always answers with a big fat dump.  I’m not exaggerating. 

 I take our lab Yogi out each morning and he drops a deuce every time.  And he’s not shy about it.  You’d think he’d have the courtesy to hide behind a tree before he squats, but no, he poops right in plain view.  It’s almost as if he’s proud of his production.  “Hey look Dave, I just manufactured another solid Lincoln log.  Now feed me so I can make another.” 

But it’s not just Yogi.  Each day on my drive to the office, I see at least one pooch assume the position.  Shitting Shitzus.  Dumping Dalmations.  Crapping Collies.  They all fertilize lawns as I drive by.  It’s not like I’m looking for them.  Quite the contrary.  I’m convinced they’re looking for me.  Yesterday, I made a point to keep my eyes only on the road. I was so focused on driving down Queens Road West that Brooklyn Decker could’ve jogged by and my head wouldn’t have turned an inch.  I almost made it to work without a shit-sighting when a lady walking her beagle crossed the crosswalk at the intersection of East and Camden.  I am not BS-ing you, the beagle stopped and dropped right in the middle of the road.  And the Poopy Snoopy looked back at me and I swear he winked.  And what’s even worse, the lady didn’t pick up the turd.  So when the light changed I drove over it.  I got to the office and it was stuck to my tire.  You’ve heard of the Horse Whisperer.  I am the Canine Crapperer. 

Maybe they’re just relaxed around me.  That or I literally scare the shit out of them.  Whatever it is, it has long ceased being funny to me. 

What is funny to me is seeing a cow piss. 

When I was growing up, my Aunt Hallie had a funny saying.  Whenever it looked like rain, she’d say, “There’s a cloud coming up.  That rain’s fixing to come down like a cow pissing on a flat rock.”  Then she’d start laughing.  And her laugh is so infectious that I couldn’t help but start laughing too.  I would ask her, “Why is that so funny?,” and she would say, “Have you ever seen a cow piss?”  And I’d say no.  “Well if you had ever seen a cow piss, you’d think it was funny.”  “Why?”  I asked.  “Because cow piss comes out like water shooting out of a firehouse.  And it splatters all over everywhere.  Especially if the cow is standing on a flat rock.”  And then she would crack up again.  And then I would start laughing again.  “Some day David, I’m going to take you to see a cow piss.” 

Well, I think I was 11 when she made that promise and it was 30 years later when she actually fulfilled it.  Claire and the kids and I had driven to Butner to visit Aunt Hallie.  I think Sydney was about 8 and Lucas was 5.  We were trying to think of something to do to pass the time with the kids. Aunt Hallie suggested that we drive over to Stem and see the cows.  Sydney and Lucas were psyched.  We all piled into our Passat wagon.  Even Aunt Hallie’s dog Dutchess came along. 

We parked our car near the gate of the cow pasture where probably a hundred Ben and Jerry’s type cows were grazing.  Claire informed me they were Holsteins.  She went to college in Vermont so she should know.  There wasn’t much for them to graze on since it was mid February and the temperature was in the mid-thirties.  A couple the cows walked over to the fence right beside where we were standing.  Then it happened.  One of the big girl cows started peeing.  She wasn’t just peeing.  She was pissing.  “Look Lucas.  Look David.  Look Sydney.”  Aunt Hallie yelled, “That cow’s pissing.”  And she started laughing.  “It’s pissing on a flat rock.”  “Bah ha ha ha.”  Her laugh rang through the chilly air.  And the more that cow pissed, the more Aunt Hallie laughed. “Bah ha ha ha.” 

Steam rose like a geyser when the cow piss hit the ground.  And then a second cow started pissing.  And then a third.  Before we knew it there must have been 50 cows standing within 20 yards of us pissing and splattering and steaming up the whole field.  The only thing louder than the piss hitting the ground was our symphony of laughter.  Lucas and Sydney were cracking up.  I was crying I was guffawing so hard.  Claire was cackling.  She told me later that she almost peed in her pants.  It was synchronized pissing on a flat rock. “Bah ha ha ha.  Bah ha ha ha.” 

After a couple of minutes, the downpour finally subsided.  I asked Aunt Hallie if she had ever seen this happen before.  She said, “No, I’ve never seen anything like it.”  “Me either.”  I said.  “I’ve never seen a cow piss before.”  And Aunt Hallie replied, “Well, those cows must feel real comfortable around you David.  Bah ha ha ha.  Bah ha ha ha.” 

Since the show was over and the kids were getting cold, we decided to load up the car and head back to Aunt Hallie’s house.  I put the car in reverse, looked behind me and started backing up.  Aunt Hallie said, “Wait, where’s Duchess?”  I put the car back in park and looked out through the windshield and there she was.  Squatting by the fence of the cow pasture.  Taking a dump.

 

Claire surprised me this week with two tickets to see Rosanne Cash.  Rosanne was playing at Spirit Square, a small venue in downtown Charlotte that used to be a church.  It’s an intimate place to see a show.

We had seats on the third row and the show was one of the best I’ve ever seen.  Rosanne performed with her husband John Leventhal, one of the most talented guitarists around.  They played one of my all-time favorite songs, “Long Black Veil,” and did an amazing cover of Bobby Gentry’s “Ode to Billie Joe.” 

This show was especially special to me.  Wait a minute.   Is especially special redundant?  Who cares?  On with the story.  The show was especially special to me for a couple of reasons.  I love Rosanne’s music and I wrote a blog a few months ago about how her album “Black Cadillac” had helped me spiritually in dealing with the passing of my father. 

http://davidoakley.com/the-best-6-character-tweet-ever

After her encore, Rosanne said that she would come out to the lobby to sign copies of her CD’s and her new book, “Composed.”

Claire and I decided to stick around to meet her.  We waited in line for about 20 minutes until it was our turn to say hello.  The final 15 minutes of which was spent waiting for the guy in front of us who asked Rosanne to sign about 25 different CD’s.  Can you say ebay?

When it was our turn, I greeted her with a big, almost stalkeresque grin.  I was psyched to meet her.  “I just want to thank you for coming to play in Charlotte.  It’s a wonderful holiday gift for us.” 

“Thanks, I’m really enjoying it here,” Rosanne replied. 

Then I said, “I just want you to know how great it is to finally meet you.  I wrote a blog a few months back about listening to “Black Cadillac” on a flight…” 

“And then you went to your hotel and saw me.”  She turned and said to her manager, “This is the guy who flew to LA and listened to “Black Cadillac” the whole flight, landed and went to his hotel and there I was in the hotel lobby.” 

“I remember you telling me about that,” her manager replied.  

Rosanne then looked back at me and said, “You listened to my music and then you conjured me up.  You just conjured me up,” she smiled and said. 

I just stood there grinning I guess, because I couldn’t believe she remembered it.  And then I said.  “It’s an awesome album.  It made me feel really close with my dad.  And thanks for reading my blog.” 

“Oh, I love your blog.  Keep writing.”

Claire and I then asked her if we could get a photo together and she said sure.  The three of us got together and the next person in line took our picture.  We said goodbye to Rosanne and thanked her again for coming to Charlotte. 

As we were leaving, I thanked Claire for surprising me with such an awesome present.  And then I thought about Rosanne’s words.  “You just conjured me up.”

I haven’t heard anyone say those words since my dad Sid died.  Sid used to sit in his pottery studio and say, “C’mon, Dave, we need to sell some pots.  Conjure us up some customers.”

Somehow Rosanne knew.

I got a potato gun a couple of weeks ago.  It’s really cool and it shoots real potatoes.  It’s made of PVC pipe and powered by hairspray.  When you press the igniter, a small explosion occurs inside the gun, blasting the potato several hundred yards. 

I didn’t actually buy the potato gun.  It just showed up.  It came to my office at BooneOakley via FedEx in a big brown box.  I opened the box and had no idea what it was.  It looked like a bunch of plumbing supplies.  I reached inside for the instruction manual, opened it and what did I find?  A copywriter’s portfolio.  Yes, a writer actually thought he could get me to look at his book if he bribed me with a potato gun.  You know what?  He was right.  Not only did I look at his book, (which by the way, was very good) I invited him to come to BO to show me how to operate the potato gun. 

It really got me to thinking.  What was the best stunt a writer or art director had done to get me to look at their work?  The worst was easy.  Easy to remember because it was so bad.  Someone sent a mannequin leg from the knee down wearing a Chuck Taylor sneaker and it said something about wanting to get a foot in the door at BO.  His portfolio was even worse.  But I want to talk about the best and most memorable thing a creative has ever done to get our attention.

Without question, the most unforgettable stunt was engineered by Lauren Greer.  Lauren was a junior writer, who at the time was working at a small agency in Texas.  She sent her work to me in a brown envelope.  Her work was nice and for some reason I called her.  We talked about what was working and what wasn’t in her book.  I told her that we didn’t have any openings right then, but she should stay in touch. 

She did.  Every few months, Lauren would send her latest work to me.  Some of it was produced.  Some of it was spec.  Not all of it was good.  Some of it was great.  But the best part was her persistence. 

During an e-mail conversation, she told me that she was very excited because she was going to California to produce a couple of TV spots.  I congratulated her and asked when she was going.  Coincidently, John Boone and I were going to be out there at the same time.

We exchanged phone numbers and she said she would call us the following Tuesday, which was an off day for both of our productions. 

Just as we had planned, Lauren called me on Tuesday.

“Where do you want to meet?”  I asked. 

“I don’t know.  How about a bar in Santa Monica?” 

“I don’t know the names of any.” 

“How ‘bout we just meet on the 3^rd Street Promenade?  Then we could find a place together to grab a beer.”  Lauren replied.

“Sounds good to me.  So where exactly?” 

“In front of Anthropologie” 

“What time?” 

“7:00 tonight.”

“But how will we know it’s you?  We don’t know what you look like.”  I asked.

“I know what you and John look like.  I’ve seen your picture on your website.”

“Cool.  See you there.”

We finished shooting that day and John Boone and I went to Santa Monica to meet Lauren.  We got to Anthropologie right at 7 o’clock.  We stood there looking around for Lauren.  Every girl that walked by, we wondered if it was Lauren.

Then an unkept, slightly smelly homeless woman walked up beside us pushing a grocery cart full of blankets, cans and plastic bottles.  She looked toward us and stuck out her hand.  I looked down and reached in my pocket to get some change to give her.  Then she made eye contact with John and said, “Hi are you John?”  John didn’t say anything and looked at me. 

The woman then looked at me and said, “Are you David?” 

“Yes,” I said totally astounded. 

“My name’s Lauren.  Nice to meet you.”  I shook her hand and replied, “The pleasure’s all mine.”  John stood there stunned, with his mouth open so wide you could have stuck a cantaloupe in it.

Talk about an awkward moment.  Lauren the copywriter was homeless.  The three of us just stood there, staring at each other. 

From behind us, we then heard another voice.  “Betty, I see that you met John and David.” 

Lauren the homeless lady looked at us and said, “Guys, I’m not Lauren.  I’m Betty.  She pointed at a young blond women in her mid twenties standing behind us.  “That’s the real Lauren.”  Then Betty started laughing and said, “We got you.  We got you two good.” 

The new Lauren then said to Betty, “Thank you so much for helping me with my introduction.” 

“You’re welcome, Lauren.  See you later,” and she pushed her shopping cart away and disappeared into the night.

“So I’m the real Lauren Greer,” the real Lauren Greer said. 

“Lauren Greer.  Let’s get a beer,” I said and the three of us went to Yankee Doodles. 

I’ll never forget that introduction.  Lauren had a great book.  But her personality was even better.  Her ability to think on her feet and orchestrate that deceptive introduction was absolutely brilliant.  We loved it.

Did we hire Lauren?  No.  But we really should have. 

A couple of years later, Lauren Greer got married to Bill Bayne.  So now her name is Lauren Bayne.  She went on to become one of the best creative recruiters in the country.  Recently, she started a company called TX M.I.L.K., which is all about inspiring conversations with Texas' most fascinating moms.  Check it out at http://txmilk.com  Even though she's no longer a "headhunter", if you're looking for a job in advertising, you should still talk with Lauren.  She knows how to get noticed.

We got one of those calls today.  One of those phone calls that’s awesome until the person on the other end speaks the most telling word in the English language:  “Unfortunately.”  Nothing good comes after someone utters those five syllables.

In this case, these words followed unfortunately:  “We’re awarding our business to another agency.” 

Five seconds earlier we were talking about the Panther game, full of hope about the young season and eagerly looking forward to working with a new client.  “It was a really hard choice and it came down to you guys and another group," he said, “We thought you guys were great, but we decided that we should go with an agency that has more category experience.”

I’m surprised I remembered a single word after unfortunately.  We didn’t win the pitch.  It doesn’t matter whether we came in 2nd or 102^nd, we still didn’t win.  As they say in NASCAR, second place is first loser.

I’m a competitive person.  I absolutely hate losing.  And this one stung more than most.  The entire agency had worked endlessly and it was one of the best new business presentations that we had ever made. 

But we came in second.  “You guys were a close runner-up,” the voice on the other end said continued, “It was a hard choice.  It was like picking between apples and oranges.  You guys are about the big idea.  But the other agency had more specific category experience.”

Then I completely tuned out and started thinking about something that John Adams, the CEO at The Martin Agency, said to me years ago after we had made a big new business presentation to Alamo Rent-A-Car.  We were packing up the room right after we made our pitch, and I found a leave-behind from FCB, the agency that presented before us.  It contained all their creative work and I couldn’t wait to see what it was.  What it was, was terrible.  Their big idea was to have Bobby McFerran sing his hit song, “Don’t worry, be happy.”  But the twist was that they would change the lyrics to “Don’t worry, drive happy.”  I almost puked when I read this.

I was incensed.  There was no way we would be beaten by this work.  It was horrible.  I would be mortified if they picked this campaign over our work. 

On the way to the airport, John Adams said to me, “David, I won’t be upset if we lose this pitch to FCB.” 

“What?  Are you kidding me?  You’ll be pissed.” 

“No, I’ll be disappointed that we put all this work into it and didn’t win, but I won’t be upset.” 

I totally didn’t get it. 

He went on, “I’d be completely pissed if we lost to an agency whose work I respected.  Like Goody or Wieden or Chiat.  But there’s no shame in losing if Alamo picks FCB.  If they pick FCB, then they aren’t the right client for us.  They don’t want what we do.” 

That made sense.

It’s the same thing here.  The client we heard from today really didn’t want what we do.  It’s as simple as that.

I’m disappointed.  But it’s probably for the best.  That doesn’t make it any easier to accept. 

We’re in another pitch next week.  This time, we’re competing against four really good agencies.  Hopefully, all four will come in second.