A Target State of Mind

I’ve watched, and admired, Target Store’s advertising for years. Not just because it’s good advertising, which it is. And not just because it has managed to maintain a consistent design ethic and tonal quality in a world where marketers hop between brand identities like coked-up frogs with ADD. I dig it because Target made their advertising a key component in their battle to differentiate themselves from, and survive against, Wal-Mart. Something many discount, big box retailers have failed to do. (Venture Stores, anyone?) They’ve done so well that K-Mart, in an attempt to avoid bankruptcy yet again, has basically ripped off Target’s aesthetic. And if anyone out there has actually been to a K-Mart in the last three years, please let me know how that’s working out in-store.

I liked Target’s advertising so much that I once harassed one of their agencies, Peterson Milla Hooks, about joining them. They were polite, yet somehow unimpressed by my Swan Lake Barbie TV spot for Wal-Mart. Whatever.

On Sunday night, during the Emmy Awards, Target had at least one spot in every commercial pod. Mostly new and none older than a couple of weeks. A few featured their brand name designers: Michael Graves, Isaac Mizrahi, Mossimo, Chef Boyardee. Others were those stylized montages of pretty people with products gyrating about on colorful backgrounds. All very well done. All very much in keeping with Target’s raison d'etre for advertising. I probably saw a dozen or more spots in the space of three hours.

Which is when it hit me: Target advertising is pure associative advertising. (Which is phrase I just coined for lack of a better term.) The only point of Target ads is to say, “If you like this style, this feeling, this image then shop here.” Period. No product benefits. No prices. No talking head trying to tell you how to feel about the great values you’ll find. Nothing about how their stores are less cluttered than Wal-Mart’s. In fact, the advertising is fairly disconnected from the shopping experience. You don’t go to Target to browse. You go buy toilet paper. And if you happen to see a cool clock or t-shirt, you buy it. You don’t really feel all warm and tingly while you’re there. But you *do* feel better when you mention that you went shopping at Target last night instead of the big W.

Target advertising advertises the soul of the brand. Which is why most companies stick to price/item and testimonials. After all, you have to have a soul in order to share it.

Later,

Fox

Death of the J-Fro

So yeah. This happened:




I blame Texas. We'll see if it grows back.

Later,

Fox

Return of the Blowing

I was feeling uppity this morning, so I penned an even shorter creative philosophy. This is not groundbreaking, but often ignored:

Advertising that works entertains and informs. In that order.

Later,

Fox

I Create, Therefore, I Blow

I penned this creative philosophy last week. It was summarily rejected without discussion by someone who shall remain, hopefully, ignorant of this blog. Feel free to tell me why this sucks (aside from still being too long):

Here we are now, infotain us.
People want to be entertained. Advertisers want to inform. Great advertising - the stuff that actually works - does both. It has to. Because an ad with no entertainment will be ignored. And an ad without a message does nothing for the brand. So if you want to move the needle, move the heart. Or make 'em laugh. Maybe even shed a tear. Just make sure they remember who did it. When that happens, everybody wins.

Later,

Fox

The Flowers Died

It took them almost a week, but McSweeneys.net has rejected my list from a couple of blogs ago.

I shall not be defeated.

But I shall be, in about 10 seconds, too sleepy to compose a new list.

Later,

Fox

Like a Bowling Ball Through My Urethra...

...so was the birth of my agency'’s website. And by "my agency," I mean, "one owned by someone not named Jason Fox." Anyway, Firehouse finally has a website that makes us look like we know what we're doing. Go. Be amazed. Or confused. And thanks to my AD partner James over at Yonder Ponder for already doing a sweet screen cap for me to pilfer.

And when in doubt -– CLICK ON THE WHITE SPACE!

On a more personal level, the July update to whoisjasonfox.com is up for those who care. According to my page counter, there are 46 of you. Awesome.

Later,

Fox

Rocking Denied!

Only scant hours after submitting my list, McSweeneys.net has declared my comedic gold nothing more than borscht belt pyrite. Such is life. However, they did make the fatal mistake of inviting me to submit more lists.

And so it begins.

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

• Bowling
• To see a guy about, you know, some stuff. So don’t wait up.
• South Padre
• To see Fountains of Wayne at the Roxy
• On a three-hour tour
• To pick up a carton of Merit 100’s
• Over the river and through the woods
• To a Tony Robbins seminar

Later,

Fox

To Those About to Rock...

I’m compiling a list for McSweeney’s Big Honkin’ Page o’ Lists That You Waste An Entire Fortnight Reading (my title).

As I have no idea what my chances of actually getting posted on McSweeneys.net are, I’ll post my list here for your amusement and possible discomfort.

The Ways In Which I, Jason Fox, Rock

Hard.
Like a hurricane.
All night.
Til we pop.
Inside out.
Like the Rock of Ages.
In the U.S.A.
Around the clock tonight.
In the free world.
At the casbah.
On.

Later,

Fox

Stickin' It to the ACLU

Time to get your shorts in a wad, hippies:

Later,

Fox

Slackin’ to the Oldies

Yes, I’ve been slacking off of late. I should’ve done something about the whole Lindsay “I’m a professional actress/Tara Reid impersonator” Lohan studio head smackdown. I could’ve proferred indepth analysis of the Israeli/Hezbollah fracas. I would’ve linked to this sweet clip of an insane Britney, but I was too sleepy. Or was I?

Anyway, here’s an old bit of writing I did back in the day. You know, the day. Don’t ask which day, you uppity punk, it’s just the day. Yeeesh. Yes, it’s very Onion-esque. That was the job at the time. You know, the time back in the day.


Sheboygan, WI--In what one eyewitness described as "the greatest miracle since Jesus smote the hippies," local man Bart Shebangski, 43, walked away from what should have been a tragic end to his weekly poker game.

At approximately 9:42 p.m. last evening, Mr. Shebangski was engaged in a game of five-card draw (jokers wild) at the home of long-time friend Bill "Stinkbomb" Berkowitz, 44. Also in attendance were Charles Nelson Reilly ("No relation."), 39, and Hank Bunko, 41.

Unconfirmed sources report a dog of unidentifiable breed may also have been present.

According to Mr. Reilly, the foursome were "on our fourth or fifth hand and third 12-pack of Hamm's. Stinkbomb had just trumped Bart's two pair with a full house. Boy howdy, Bart almost choked on his pork rinds right then and there. But, you know, he cracked open another Hamm's and everything seemed A-OK."

Mr. Berkowitz continued, "I don't know how it happened. Hank was dealing a new hand and we was all jawing about whether or not you can train monkeys to do your yard work. Chuck says he saw it on an old "That's Incredible!" he saw on Nick at Nite, but even so, I ain't letting no flippin' Chim-Chim within 10 feet of my John Deere. Anyway, I cracked open another Hamm's when I spotted something out of the corner of my lazy eye. Sure enough, there was Bart just sitting there and counting his money as if Kenny Rogers had never been born."

Mr. Shebangski's friends leapt to action. "Yeah, Stinkbomb grabbed the money from him – which was really Pringles and jerky chips since our wives don't let us bet real money – and Hank called 911," stated an emotionally shaken Mr. Reilly. "I cracked open another Hamm's."

EMTs Rick Majors and Eileen O'Nannan responded to the scene and discovered "complete chaos," in the words of EMT Majors. "We found four guys reeking of buck-fifty Macanudos and drunk off their [bottoms] on Hamm's. Hamm's, dontchaknow. Two guys are yelling at each other over how much jerky they should pay the orangutan weed-whackers. One guy's just sitting there cracking open another Hamm's. And the alleged victim's lying on the ground with some sort of dog or opossum getting all carnal with his artificial leg."

"So we left," stated EMT O'Nannan.

"Them ambulance people wasn't too happy with us," recalled Mr. Berkowitz. "So we all drug Bart into my F150, grabbed the rest of the Hamm's and headed for the VA hospital. Bart gets to go to the VA 'cause he was in Grenada."

When asked if Mr. Shebangski lost his leg serving in Grenada, Mr. Reilly stated, "He likes to tell the chicks that, but he really lost it in a wicked Ultimate Frisbee accident."

No one really knows what motivated Mr. Shebangski to count his money while still sitting at the table – a move clearly declared off limits in Kenny Rogers' classic country hit "The Gambler."

"Our investigation could not determine a modus operandi, or motive, in layman's terms," declared Sheboygan police chief Clive Smeggers. "I think it's just a case of temporary insanity. I mean, they made what, four or five of them "Gambler" TV movies? Sure, the ones with Bruce Boxleitner didn't have much of a dramatic arc, but really, Mr. Shebangski had ample warning to not do what he is alleged to have may or may not perpetrated at a certain time prior to now."

"It ain't like he's ignorant or nothing," interjected Mr. Bunko. "Hell, I saw him sing 'The Gambler' once at karaoke night at the Elks lodge. Sounded like the time I snagged my neighbor's cat with my snow blower, but still, he knew the words. He knew what he was doing."

"I don't know what I was doing," claimed Mr. Shebangski after being checked over at the local VA hospital. "My wife collects Kenny Rogers commemorative plates, for cryin' out loud. The one's with 18-karat gold trim, not 10-karat like Stinkbomb's got. I eat at Kenny Rodger's Roasters every Tuesday and Friday. A number three, all white with an extra biscuit. Sweet jeepers. I'm lucky to be alive. I guess Kenny was watching over me."

When asked what the usual consequences were for his actions, Mr. Shebangski muttered something unintelligible about dwarves and genital herpes before hopping into his 1981 Pontiac Trans Am to avoid further questioning.

When asked to comment on the near-fatal gambling maneuver, songwriter/restaurateur/beard connoisseur Kenny Rogers simply stated, "That's got to be the greatest miracle since Jesus smote the hippies. Would you mind shaving my back?"

Anyone?

Hey, who wants to talk about Mel Gibson? Me neither.

Fox