#92 - Confessions of a Copywriter

Confessions of a Copywriter

8/7/06 (#92)

Have you seen the Dr. Scholls' ads for gel shoe inserts? Perhaps this will ring a bell: "Gellin' like Magellan"? I'm sure you've seen them---and for that, I apologize. Despite the embrace that the concept received from my employer, and the personal accolades that it has brought my way, I am renouncing that campaign.

Confession: I wrote the entire thing on the train one morning. (Some of you suspected, no?) And it's a fast train ride. And I was flirting with a beautiful Puerto Rican woman who was getting her masters in Pacific maritime history, writing her thesis on a new examination of Magellan's journals. (Apparently there's a possibility that his descriptions of Cebu Island were in fact of Macatan, and that the record of the ensuing battle of Macatan might possibly be the exact opposite of what actually happened. But I didn't care---I just watched her lips form the various vowels and consonants, her tongue appearing momentarily to gently lengthen the word "island" and simultaneously send my thoughts on libidinous tangents.) She got off at 8^th Avenue, and I suddenly had sixteen blocks to change my blank pad into a campaign plan or my boss would likely fulfill his oft-made promise to "chew my ass like a brisket from Sizzler"---and I had nothing. I pondered whether I should have jumped from the train with the grad student when I realized that she had left me with more than just fodder for lusty daydreams: Magellan.

I scribbled rhymes as I navigated the sidewalk, scrawling all the way up the elevator, sculpting my pitch while hoping that all of the other suits in the lift had to get off on a floor before mine. My "notes" looked like a cheat sheet for a test on the rhyming dictionary. As pitches go, this one was in the dirt (frankly, unhittable)--- not even as good as my quickly-dismissed "Gel-atin" story boards, featuring the downtown with Jell-o streets.

Yet somehow, everyone loved the Magellan idea. Atta boys from the gaggle of middle managers; handshakes from my neighboring cube denizens; work propositions from other creative team's graphic designers. It felt like an episode of The Twilight Zone, the office rabidly enthralled with an obviously mediocre idea. Within weeks, there wasn't a football game in America that wasn't interrupted by a bunch of Dockers-wearing nobodies bellowing across a backyard barbeque about the quality of their cushioned insoles. "Gellin' like Magellan", the man enthuses.

Question: What does that mean? I wrote it and I don't know. It's a nonsense phrase, a Dr.Seussian non sequitur that has as its only asset the ridiculously pitiful strength of vaguely rhyming. Of course it rhymes---it's the exact same phonic! Forget simple rhymes like moon and June----this is moon and moon. And why would Magellan require padded insoles? Does sailing around the world take its toll on your feet? How can this utterly vacant catch phrase motivate a person to buy our product?

I'm particularly embarrassed by the non-ironic inclusion of the rejoinder, "I'm gellin' like a felon"? A felon? Is that the demographic we seek? How do you rob a convenience store? Well, first, you need comfortable feet. I have to take the blame for that, too, though I presented it as a joke---"and to reach that lucrative Cops demographic, 'Gellin' like a felon.'" Apparently, nobody realized it was a joke---instead concentrating on the possibility that felons are a lucrative untapped market.

I apologize for wasting so much of people's time, albeit it in 20-second intervals. When I wrote it, I was young, smoking a lot of pot and kinda dating a bartender, so I had a Guinness I.V. for the better part of a year---the applicable adjective is stunted. Fortunately, folks at the office don't really get my sense of humor, so for most jobs I could cobble together some grossly pedestrian treatments at the last minute and when it was dismissed, indignantly moan, "Y'all just don't get me." I was throwing darts at newspaper articles, scribbling concepts into the dirt on the side of my dingy Toyota, taking pictures of them with my cell phone and calling them story boards---that's how hard I wasn't working. None of my last-minute ideas ever saw the light of day, and I didn't think this one would, either.

But the damn thing emerged, Dr. Scholl's version of the Frankenstein monster, refusing to obey its creator. It grew into print ads and direct mail cards, web banner pop-ups and bus stop billboards. I felt no pride---just a low, sinking feeling that my parents might find out that I was the one who wrote it.

I finally cornered my boss in his office, explaining my concern. "It's memorable, " he attested, "it keeps our gel insoles in the forefront of people's minds." These assurances didn't help, they merely confirmed that he didn't know what "Gellin' like Magellan" meant either. Besides, when it comes to insoles, aren't we already in the forefront of people's minds? Who else are they going think of---we've got something like 94% of the cushioned insert market share, and 97% of the odor control insert market. Our racks are ubiquitous in every department store in the nation. I'm surprised the government hasn't investigated us as an unfair monopoly.

I have sent a memo to management requesting that the campaign be terminated. It's older now, and can be retired quietly, replaced with something less insipid; something that promotes the product in a positive, creative light. I've even asked them to reconsider my "Gel-atin" concept. See, there's the whole spongy angle, the streets no longer hard and fatiguing. It's a much more cohesive campaign---though I admit, we're probably going to lose some popularity with the felons.

©2006 wpreagan