Am I Crazy?

I was watching TV recently, when a commercial came on for Bowling Green State University. They ran the ad during Jeopardy, presumably because that’s when smart people are watching. I mean, the ones who don’t get PBS stations or the Discovery Channel or the History Channel, etc., etc.

To be fair, I watch Jeopardy myself. If I’m home at the time. And if I’m not writing. And if there’s nothing I want to see on all those other channels I mentioned.

This commercial for BGSU featured a talking head – a student, maybe, or a young prof. I didn’t catch the name because I only started paying attention when I heard a line that went something like: "The Renaissance began with a single brushstroke and a single note of music." And then, I didn’t hear what came after that because I got stuck pondering that weird and wrong concept.

Or am I mistaken about that? Maybe you didn’t realize how the Renaissance actually started. I guess it happened like this:

1470; Florence. Leonardo da Vinci walks into his studio, opens the windows, picks up his palette, goes over to his empty canvas, applies one brushstroke to it, pumps his fist and says, “Yesss! I’ve begun the Renaissance!” Then he stops and says, "I’ll get back to this painting later. First I’ve gotta go tell Dufray."

He runs over to Dufray’s house (in Belgium), barges in and says, "Hey, Bill – play a note on your harpsichord."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

"Okay. There. Now what?"

"Yay! Now the Renaissance is in full swing! Okay – finish that piece you just started."

"What piece? I didn’t start a piece …"

"Hey – you want me to tell Obrecht, and let him get the credit instead of you?"

"Uhh … maybe."

And so on. And that’s how the Renaissance began. Apparently.

And whether or not we’re talking about the Renaissance, could there be anyone over the age of, say, nine who believes that a piece of music is written starting with one note? Pretend that you’re Mozart, or George Gershwin, or Paul McCartney or Billy Joe Armstrong or even you, and you decide to write a piece of music. I guess this how it goes: You sit down and play one note, a C, and you say, "Whoa – that was great. A terrific start. I think this piece is really gonna be good. Now, where should it go from there? How about this note? [You play a G#.] Oops. That’s not gonna work. How ‘bout this note. [You try an F#.] Hmm – better, but still not great. [Then you hit an E.] Say, that sounds pretty good. Okay. Now I have two notes. Going pretty well, so far…"

I mean, even if you’re not a musician, you can figure out that no one starts writing a piece of music by playing one note. There are many ways that composers and songwriters begin writing, but not by playing one note. Playing one note, in relation to nothing else, is like playing no note.

Okay. Let’s leave that for a while and get back to it later. Here's an oddly related thing that happened to me a few weeks ago. Or maybe I happened to it. Either way, a strangely dressed, weird-acting middle-aged woman approached me in a restaurant parking lot in University Heights. She started her story with, "Excuse me. I hate to bother you, but – this is so embarrassing – I’m really very wealthy, and this has never happened to me before, but I …"

And I said, "Stop right there. I’m not giving you any money, but I’ll give you something more valuable: I can give you some advice that will help you make more money than you do now." I didn’t give her the option of refusing my offer; I just launched into my speech.

I said, "There are at least two ways that I know you’re lying. First, you’ve come up to me twice before with the same story."

She said, "No, I haven’t. I’ve never been around here before."

I said, "Not right here, but other places near here."

She said, "No, I’ve never been anywhere around here before."

I said, "I can not only tell you where, but I can tell you exactly when. The first time was at the corner of Coventry and Hampshire in Cleveland Heights, on Sunday, August 20th, at 4:30 in the afternoon." (I remember because I had just come out of Mint Café carrying a large, hot pan of food the restaurant had donated to the Friends of Cain Park benefit, and even if the woman’s story had been at all believable, I still wouldn’t have wanted to stop to talk to her at that moment.)

"The second time," I continued, "was in the parking lot of Zagara’s grocery store on Lee Road in Cleveland Heights, at 2:30 on October 31st." (I remember because I was picking up some extra Halloween candy.) She didn’t exactly argue with that data, but she didn’t seem happy about it. But she also didn’t walk away. So I went on.

"So that’s one way I can tell you’re lying. Another way is that you said you were wealthy, and wealthy people don’t go around telling people – strangers – that they’re wealthy. So when you say to me "I’m wealthy," I know that what that really means is 'I’m not wealthy.' And if you were wealthy, you would have several other ways to get yourself out of whatever predicament you’re in. You could call someone, you could write a check in one of these stores you’re always in front of. You could use a credit card. Even if your purse was stolen and you had nothing with you, you could use one of these business’s phones to call someone. There are a lot of things you would know how to do, if you really were wealthy, or even just a normal member of society.

"But that’s not even the most important part of what I’m going to tell you. Here’s where I can really help you make money: Don’t tell people you’re wealthy; tell people you’re poor. I mean who wants to give money to a wealthy person? Especially here in Cleveland Heights – the most liberal community on the planet – people here actually want to give money to people in need. You’d do much better to just be honest."

I’d like to say that she looked me in the eye and thanked me and said that she understood and that she was going to set about to change her ways. But she didn’t. She looked at me like I was crazy, and then she hurried off to hit up more people.

This story came up when I was advising a friend who runs a small social service agency in Cleveland about the organization’s annual-fund letter. I said, "Don’t make it look too fancy. Don’t make it sound like you’re a bigger organization than you are or that you accomplish more than you do. I just got 35 of those letters, everyone’s year-end fund-raising pitches. Just tell the truth: that you’re a small struggling agency that does good work, you have a two-person office and a small volunteer board of trustees, and that you’re asking for money because you really need it so you can do more good work."

This person did understand. She still kind of looked at me like I was crazy, but I’m beginning to realize that most people look at me like I’m crazy. Maybe I should think more about why that might be. But I can’t right now – I have to concentrate on my job: giving advice to people who didn’t ask for it.

Here’s another one: I recently attended what was billed as a musical program, sponsored by a museum, that turned out to be people talking endlessly – supposedly about the music, but really mostly about themselves – and then, finally, playing some music. The big problem, other than the fact that it took about an hour to actually hear any music, was that these particular people were lousy public speakers – plus they had little to say, which compounded the torture. If it had been billed as a lecture, with some music, well, two-thirds of the people who came would have done something else instead, but at least it wouldn’t have been disappointing to the ones who did show up.

The people who put this show together – all of them terrific musicians – could have, maybe, opened the program with some music, and then launched into the boring blather. And possibly punctuated the meanderings with some more music. Or maybe found people who know how to talk to a group. Or at least told jokes. Or kept the talking to a minimum, and played more music, more often.

The mostly older audience kind of seemed to enjoy it, when the music finally started. But, even so, the problem will come later, the next time that museum offers a show; I’m guessing that many of the people who attended this one will decide that it’s not going to be worth the money and the time it takes to go to it. They may not even remember exactly why; they’ll just say no. And you can do that only so many times before there’s no one left who’s willing to give you another chance.

So how do the university’s advertisement, the weird panhandler, the fund-raising letters and the museum’s musical program fit together? I guess the word is “marketing.” Everything is “marketed” today, because everyone is competing for people’s time and money. Especially money. But the marketing is being done by people who don’t necessarily understand how to do it – people who may be experts at other things, but not marketing.

So, this is just my opinion and I could be wrong, but I think that if you’re trying to raise money – whether you’re a panhandler or a major nonprofit organization – you should not tell people that you’re already rich. And I think that if you’re trying to get people to attend your university to become intelligent, you should not run ads that most people will think are stupid. And if you’re going to present a musical program that you want people to attend and enjoy, and come back for your next program, you should try not to put on a bad show. These are just my opinions.

And while I’m at it, I’ll add this, too: If you’re creating political ads, you should try to do them in ways that don’t make people hate your candidate. This year, I didn’t even believe the ads for the candidates I was planning to vote for. Some ads, for my candidates, made me consider not voting for them. Luckily for them, their opponents’ ads were even worse.

Is this how they’re teaching marketing in college? Did Bowling Green marketing students create the school’s ad? I’ve heard that BGSU is a very good school. And I know they have one of the top pop culture departments in the country, which I think is a great thing. I suppose the statement about the Renaissance wasn’t meant to be taken literally, though they didn’t make a case for it, either way. But their big mistake? They didn’t run their ad past me before they aired it. And that’s the thing – I can’t understand why everyone doesn’t run everything past me before they mail it, broadcast it, put it on stage, take it to the streets – whatever. I suppose they realize how busy I’d be if they all did that, and, well, you can’t fault them for being considerate of my time.

Anyway, I’m guessing that even if I’d had the opportunity to tell BGSU what I thought about their ad – and everybody else about their projects -- they’d just look at me like I was crazy.

From Cool Cleveland contributor David Budin popcyclesATsbcglobal.net
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