*Adapted from Charles Dickens’ “Bill-Sticking,” first published in Household Words on March 2, 1851*
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If I had an enemy whom I hated – which heaven forbid! – and if I knew of something which sat heavily on his conscience, I think I would introduce that something into an advertising campaign and place control of the campaign in the hands of a skilled adman. The advertiser I would employee must be formidably talented, possessing the skills to demand public attention regardless of the content of the message entrusted to him.
I can scarcely imagine a more terrible revenge on my enemy. I should haunt him, by this means, night and day. I do not mean to say that I would publish his secret in red letters twenty feet high for all the town to read: I would instead darkly refer to it. It should be between him and me and the advertisement. The adman himself would not necessarily have to be privy to my enemy’s grievous secret.
Say my enemy’s secret was concerning the theft of investment returns from a long list of his firm’s wealthy clients. I would embark my capital in the bankruptcy business, specifically bankruptcy caused by dishonest and unsound investments, and I would conduct that business on the advertising principle. On billboards, radio commercials, great outdoor screens and banners, even chalked on the sidewalk itself I would constantly refer obliquely to this fellow’s culpability, and thusly I would affect his torture. The man would see his fault written in the stars and following him home at night. It would eat at him, until, having gradually grown thinner and paler, and having at last totally rejected food, he would miserably perish, and I should be revenged.
These thoughts came to mind as I was walking through Times Square where the breadth of human greed is on display for all to see. Billboards and flashing lights spread the messages of countless companies and impress the logos of these ubiquitous brands in the consciences of the passersby. Lights attach to every possible surface, so much so that I began to think on the wall to which they are fixed. New LEDs were plastered over old fluorescents over older incandescents. The cement and brick available for anchor must surely be retreating into oblivion, leaving the media companies nothing but old lights to fix their news lights onto. Surely no mortar remained, and the walls’ mass is now composed completely of light.
These lights shine out in the midst of the city from which the darkness has been chased out of to the rivers and oceans and mountains. The darkness of the city is simply less bright than the brightness of the city. Everything is illuminated down to its core, below the surface, under the skin. Nothing is hidden. This my enemy would realize if I were to pursue such a route of revenge.
Likewise, what if someone had slighted Walt Disney or John Pemberton or Phil Knight. How would such a person ever be free of his faults with the omnipresence of these men’s brands haunting his every step? If true remorse resulted from his mistakes, could we expect this man to thrive, or even survive, in such an inhospitably unforgiving world of Disney, Coke, and Nike? I fear not.
I was considering this in Midtown when I looked up and saw a procession coming toward me. It was a parade of three vehicles. Vehicles, I say because I could not classify them into any neat category. Leading the pack was mobile billboard, or billboard truck, the variety of vehicle with the front of a truck and a narrow bed in the back that stood straight up, acting as a billboard. The available space was washed with advertising for The New York Times. The billboard was an example of humorously abbreviated newspaper articles on the political strife in DC. There were also stories about the city’s high-profile crimes and the likelihood of corruption and graft in the mayor’s office. Doom and gloom and fear-mongering, with the NYT logo plastered on every open surface of the vehicle.
The third in the procession was a flatbed truck, the back of which was laden with beautiful dancers in fashionably skimpy attire clearly meant to do no more than gain the attention of every person on the street and sidewalk. It’s a wonder that everywhere these vehicles went they did not leave a wake of fender benders behind them. The parade was a great distraction for all those on the road, especially the men.
It is important to tell my reader that although these vehicles may have origins in the common commercial truck, all three of the cars were now of the highest quality. This was most clear in the limousine that took center stage in this cavalcade. It appeared to be a stretch limousine with a body which may have started as a Ford F350, but was crafted into a frankenstein of high-class luxury. The colorful LEDs under the vehicle and the luminescent gleam from the highly waxed body made the limo stand out more than either of the loud and colorful vehicles in front and back.
The ladies on the back of the rear truck held their pleasant composure and beamed with energy, but the drivers of each vehicle could not share their enthusiasm. Even through the windshields their indifference was clear. The three vehicles stopped, hardly having pulled out of the lane they were now blocking, and the three drivers walked in together to a shabby liquor store with a small, poorly-lit interior. It was at this moment that I realized that the limousine was not for show only. A small-looking man leaned out of the window in the very back of the truck and screamed “and the screwball. Don’t forget it this time.”
This man caught me staring and invited me over to the car. I could see that the inside of the car was well furnished with no less than a kitchen at the front, behind the driver’s seat. The man was lounging on a ridiculously lush mountain of pillows.
“You seem to have some interest in all this, no? Is there something that you’d like to ask?”
He was bold and forthright and caught me a little off guard. I did my best to orient myself amidst the splendor and said, “Excuse my curiosity, which I inherit from my mother – do you live here?” and he said, “That’s a good one.” To which I responded, “So you don’t live here?” And he calmly said that this was his ride. “When things are flat, I take a ride sometimes, and enjoy myself. I am the inventor of this caravan.”
I stood in awe of his work and felt myself leafing through a long list of details that I would like him to speak on. I found him to be a good-looking little man of about fifty, with a shining face, a tight head, a bright eye, and moist wink, a quick speech, and a ready air. He had something of a sporting way with him.
The driver of the limousine returned with the others and handed a bagged bottle of liquor, as well as a loose brown paper bag, through the window. The brief punctuation in our conversation allowed me to admire the idea of the caravan, and I asked, “Might I be permitted to inscribe your name upon the tablets of my memory?”
The man stated, “I am the King of the Advertisers.”
At this he invited me into the car. I was taken aback by his hospitality and asked the driver if he would not mind returning into the store. I insisted on buying the man whatever liquor he preferred before we moved on, so I handed some cash to the driver who returned shortly with a bottle of Hennessy. I stepped into the back of the limousine, and off we went.
Before we began to talk, the small man downed half the bottle and snorted half of his screwball, thoughtfully offering me the rest, which I hesitated to accept.
He went on, without properly reintroducing the topic, about his ascendency to the high throne of advertising. “Of course there was not a formal crowing, but I have been acknowledged as such by anyone whose opinion is worth the utterance. Of course individual cities have their own Mayor of the Advertisers. In fact, New York’s Mayor shares Madison Avenue with His Majesty the King, but would not be so rude to challenge His rule.”
His Majesty went on give his personal history. His father had been an advertiser in Chicago for few years before the 1968 Democratic National Convention. At the historic riots that happened that August, The King’s father was able to whet his skills on protest signs and even some graffiti in support of this and that and decrying those and the others. He became a great guerilla advertiser over time, at least in part because of his experience in Chicago.
I remarked, “You must be acquainted with the whole subject of advertising, from that time to the present!”
“Pretty well so,” was the answer.
“Excuse me,” said I, “but I am a sort of collector.”
“Not income tax?” cried His Majesty.
“No, no. You misunderstand me. Not that sort of collector at all: a collector of facts.”
“Oh, if it’s only facts, you are welcome! If it had been income, I think I should have kicked you out of the car.”
Again the King offered me the remainder of the screwball and asked, “Do you take it dry or do you moisten it?” motioning to the liquor. I answered “Dry” because I was not sure that I could tolerate even that. I have not handled drugs well when I have occasioned to partake.
Riding in the limo was a great delight because I am very fond of novelty, and it was a new sensation to be jolting through the tumult of the city within that secluded temple, partly open to the sky, surrounded by the roar without, and seeing nothing but bright clouds through the abnormally large sun roof. We heard people without yelling at the car to get out of the way, and we could see their hands hit the glass, but we relaxed serenely within. I was enchanted by the contrast between the freezing nature of the external mission of our caravan on the blood of the populace, and the perfect composure reigning within this sacred precinct, where His Majesty, reclining easily on his left arm, snorted his powder and drank his cognac.
“So this is where you relax and think?”
“And think,” said he, “of screens – billboards – mixed media marketing and air time.”
He went on, “And so it’s facts you collect?”
“Facts,” said I.
He returned, “The facts of advertising, as known to myself, are as follows.”
He went on for a better part of an hour starting at the bill-stickers of the early 19th century to the evolution of newspaper advertising which morphed into radio and TV ads. He spoke at length on the value of street advertising, including billboards, bus shelters, and various forms of guerilla marketing. He emphasized the importance of continuity in the message to form a brand as well as create a compelling campaign that targeted every aspect of a consumer’s life and encompassed all of that consumer’s various interests.
He spoke on about how as the country came out of the Great Depression, the 50s in America offered a great opportunity for mass consumption of commodity goods, which eased the process of advertising in a wide world of countless companies. Nowadays, a marketer only has to compete with a handful of serious competitors. And if his skill can outshine that of a rival advertising firm, work will never be in short supply.
His Majesty did seem to lament a lost time. A time that there was respect among advertisers. A time when it was considered impolite to try to undercut a firm that had a contract with any given company. A time when advertisers did not compete so very hard to grab up every last shred of media for their own ads. A time when you didn’t have to waste half of your marketing budget on just making your message the biggest, most expensive thing out there.
The King emphasized the impact that presidential elections had on the profitability of advertising every four years. And with the profitability came a new wave of upstarts excited to try innovative new ideas. Of course, in the year following, all of the novelty became commonplace as rivals unashamedly stole their enemy’s tactics.
What never lost its novel glimmer was sex. Sex could sell anything, even microwave dinners. The King made it very clear that any advertiser must be quite comfortable with sex and the female body if he expected to succeed at all. Without sex, an adman hobbled himself and almost certainly destined his business for failure.
He went on to lament that now, to the shame of the industry, every advertising firm must employ or contract with lawyers to ensure that their very particular rights are respected. No longer could two admen meet in an alley to settle their differences. That method would only lead to a greater need for lawyers. The turf wars cannot even be called fights anymore because advertisers are too scared to push limits for fear that they will be sued out of their suit. In New York, the Grissell and Peto firms keep themselves busy by suing the other’s clients. The lawyers are paradoxically always assured more business than the advertisers that they represent.
Shifting the topic and addressing my questions, His Majesty spoke to the general quality of advertisements in today’s world. Although many admen lack quality educations or any culture, he has not seen so many ads with big thematic or grammatical mistakes. Firms are too big with too many proofreaders to let that happen often. But sometimes it does, and at those moments The King loves to relish in his rivals’ missteps.
The King also reflected, not infrequently in his ramblings, on his own successes and contributions to the art of advertising. He touched on his idea to put ad screens in the back of cabs to speak to that captive audience. I had to admire his creativity on this point.
His Majesty also spoke about how it is best to just own or lease media space long-term in today’s world. Instead of fighting for every spot on the best shows, why not make shows that people want to watch and own all of the advertising space in that media, like the Disney Channel and its advertising partners do. Or advertisers should buy or erect their own billboards to circumvent the ridiculous rents that vendors will try to charge. He even recommended working out leases with building owners to use their blank walls in the city. Some of the brick and mortar facades in the city are far larger than any billboard that you will see on the highway, with a much wider audience to boot.
Considering all this, His Majesty remarked, with some approach to severity, on the neglect of delicacy and taste, gradually introduced into the trade by the new school: a profligate and inferior race of impostors who took jobs at almost any price, to the detriment of the old school, and the confusion of their own misguided employers. He considered that the trade was overdone with competition, and observed, speaking of his subjects, ‘There are too many of ‘em.’ He believed, still, that things were a little better than they had been; adducing, as a proof, the fact that particular ad placements were now reserved, by common consent, for particular advertisers; those placed, however, must be regularly occupied by the poster, or, they lapsed and fell into other opportunistic hands.
Wrapping up his remarks, His Majesty said that you could hardly put too little in an ad; what you wanted was one or two good catch-lines for the eye to rest on – then, leave it alone – and there you were! – A great advertisement!
Upon reflection, I would say that the manner of the King was frank in the extreme; and he seemed to me to avoid, at once, that tendency to repetition which may have been observed in the conversation of Barack Obama and that slight undercurrent of egotism which the curious observer may perhaps detect in the statements of Donald Trump.
Finally, I must do the King justice to say that it was I, and not he, who closed the dialogue. At this juncture, I became the subject of remarkable optical delusion; the car appeared to spin round and round with great violence; and a mist began to arise between myself and His Majesty. In addition to these sensations, I felt extremely unwell. I refer these unpleasant effects either to the drugs which I had consumed or to the poisons floating in the air of the back of the limo. I was assisted out of the vehicle in a state of mind which I have only experienced at two other times, and I sat upon a door-step until I recovered. The procession had then disappeared. I have since looked anxiously for the King in several other cars, but I have not yet had the happiness of seeing His Majesty again.