Did They Really Do That?

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typewriterCantankerously Yours

Did They Really Do That?

By Wendell Abern

Dear Readers,

When I was a senior at the University of Illinois, I attended a talk given by Walter Van Tillburg Clark, a nationally-renowned novelist; his novel, “The Ox-Bow Incident,” had been made into a movie, one of my favorite westerns.

At the time, Clark presided over the writing program at the University of Montana; needless to say, a horde of us wannabes crowded the auditorium. Clark was introduced by one of our professors, and began by saying, “Good morning, and you needn’t worry, I’m not going to pull a Sinclair Lewis on you.”

We had no idea what he was talking about. He explained: “Sinclair Lewis was asked to give a speech at any Ivy League School, and he began by asking how many in the audience wanted to become writers. Many raised their hands, and he said, ‘Then why aren’t you home, writing?’ and walked off the stage.”
Since that time, I have heard that same anecdote attributed to Hemingway, Faulkner, Eugene O’Neill, Max Shulman and Ring Lardner, to name a few. I’ve often wondered if it was just some fable, created to subtly point out how writers will use any excuse to procrastinate, including listening to some other writer talk about his writing.

And I have wondered about stories of other famous writers, also.

Mark Twain.

My favorite tale about Mark Twain (and I still don’t know if it’s true) is his own personal recounting of his reluctant attendance at a local church; the preacher had just returned from a long visit to poverty-riddled areas of Africa, and Twain’s wife insisted they attend. My fragile memory remembers Twain’s account going something like this:

“I knew he was going to be asking for money to help starving multitudes. And I was all for it. After twenty minutes, I had decided to donate one hundred dollars. After forty-five minutes, I had cut my contribution to fifty. When they finally passed around the collection plate an hour and a-half later, I stole twenty dollars.”

Albert Lasker.

If you Google this name, you will discover that Lasker is considered “The father of modern advertising.” His exploits as creative director and president of the Lord & Thomas Advertising Agency in the 30’s and 40’s became legendary.

Many people think Lasker thought “outside the box” before that phrase even existed. But in truth, he simply thought things through. He saw what most of us might overlook and then think, “Of course. How logical.”

The most famous story about Lasker has become mythical in the advertising industry.

It was early in the 30s, and Lasker’s agency had been asked to compete for the Johnson baby powder account.

For those of you unfamiliar with advertising agency operations, a presentation to obtain a new account becomes a dog and pony show worthy of Broadway; Up to a dozen honchos from the agency show up, toting charts, spread sheets, mammoth research studies, hefty marketing reports and scores of ad layouts. (Nowadays, they might bring three thumb drives.)

Lasker showed up at the Johnson offices all alone. No charts. No layouts. Not even a briefcase.

He walked into the board room and was introduced to eight or ten management people by the CEO. As he sat down to sip his coffee, the CEO said, “Mr. Lasker, aren’t the rest of your people coming?”

Lasker said, “No, it’s just me.”

“But you have no charts, no papers, nothing.”

Lasker said, “You want to sell more baby powder, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

Lasker reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small can of their baby powder; he twisted the cap, exposing all the perforations.

“Make the holes bigger,” he said.

To this day, I’m still not sure if that story is actually true. However, it is frequently cited in advertising circles as the first time a marketing concept rather than an advertising idea captured a new account.

Leo Burnett.

When I joined the Leo Burnett Advertising Agency in 1967, it was the biggest agency in Chicago. In fact, it was larger than all of the other agencies in the city put together.

And Mr. Burnett had already become a living legend. The antithesis of the slick, articulate ad guy in an Armani suit and Italian loafers, his tie was forever askew, cigarette ashes frequently adorned his rumpled suit jacket, and his hair was always a curly mess. But at a time when there were fewer professional copywriters in the country than there were neurosurgeons, he was one of the best in the world.

My second day there, I insisted on meeting him personally. My creative director smiled and said, “Ask him if the rumor about Allstate is true.”

I wasn’t about to fall into some rookie trap without knowing what was going on. My CD explained.

“Leo always wanted to do something like Albert Lasker did with the Johnson Baby Powder.

“So when the agency was asked to make a presentation to Allstate early in the 1950s, Leo showed up all alone. When they asked him where everyone else was, Leo reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a rumpled napkin with the Blackhawk Restaurant logo on it. ‘We came up with an idea for you at dinner the other night,’ he said.

“And in his barely legible scrawl, he had scribbled, ‘You’re in good hands with Allstate.’”

When I finally got in to see Leo and asked him if the Allstate rumor was true, he smiled and said, “It’s a good story, isn’t it?”

Much later, I learned that he said that whenever asked. However, when I think about it today – it is now June of 2016 – I realize that Leo wrote that line more than 60 years ago. And it’s as valid today as it was then. Kind of amazing, isn’t it?

Cantankerously Yours,

Wendell Abern