One of my two or three devoted blog readers wants to know why I don’t post more often. She’s probably just asking to be nice, but I’ll answer anyway. First of all, I roll around in bed ten hours a night trying to sleep, then another three or four hours during the day trying to nap. That doesn’t leave much time for writing. Second, I never learned to type. Instead of a typing speed of, say, eighty words per minute, mine is calculated backwards—eighty minutes per word.
Now that I’m a professional blogger, I can afford a professional typist. Her name is Tinky, and I will dictate this blog post to her. From this point on, she will type. Rigggghhht NOW. OK now it’s her typing and me talking so blame any typos or stupid comments on her. Yes that is fair, Tinky.
This is my introduction so start a new paragraph, OK? Thanks. This summer, our city school district (you know who you are) fired a whole bunch of teachers, and then, at the last second, and after many of them had made other plans, hired them back again. I’m one of those parents with both a lot of time on my hands and also a pathological determination to right my parent’s wrongs. Yes, I’m in the PTA. The last second changes at my school were inconvenient to me, so I demanded an explanation from the new school principal. Here it is: the school district—indeed, the entire government—has a money problem.
I don’t pay taxes myself, except for the sales tax on my ruinously expensive JC Penney shirts, but my wife does. I wasn’t gonna tell them how much money you make, just how much taxes you paid. Then don’t type it. When you married me you should have known I might write a blog some day. Wait, what are you typing? Fine, we’ll just say you paid $5000 in taxes last year—they’ll believe that. My wife paid $5000 in taxes last year. By my calculations, if every family in the USA paid $5000 in taxes, and if there are a 100 million families, the government would get $5000 times 100 million in money each year. That should be more than enough to run the government. Thanks, that was a good point.
It’s a shame our leaders weren’t raised by my Dad. Whenever I asked for something extravagant as a child, like a football or a book, he would point to the back yard and yell, “Do you see a money tree in the back yard?” Every time he asked I would dutifully peer through the blinds and look, and every time I would sheepishly have to answer, “No.” I kept hoping, though. What do you need a break for? We just started, and I’m on a roll! Our leaders see trees—taxes and bonds—but they overestimate the size of the forest. I don’t overestimate it, so it’s up to me to alert the President and my local representatives (either Shift or Dryer, according to some political lady I talked to at the Farmer’s Market), who can, in turn, alert all the other important decision-makers whose names I don’t know. There’s probably dozens of them. Tinky, you’ve been married to me long enough to know how great my ideas are. They’ll want to read my letter. Why? Because our government needs to bring in more money and I have the solution.
Dear President Obama, who I’ve heard of, and Representatives Shift or Dryer, whichever one of you who represents Sparr Heights, just south of Montrose, zip code 91208,
Our government needs to bring in more money and I have the solution. It’s not delusional if I can back it up—just keep typing. Recently venerable electronics retailer Radio Shack announced plans to re-brand itself, to change its name to “The Shack.” The YMCA followed suit, and now it is simply, “The Y.” I heard a rumor that GM and GE are suing each other over who gets to be “G” and that our neighboring town La Canada-Flintridge will finally decide between La Canada or Flintridge, and make everyone’s lives a lot easier.
Some business article I might have read reported that Radio Shack will spend millions of dollars to make this change. There must be big money in it for them and big money in it for whomever they’re paying to help them make this change. That got me to thinking, which is what I do best. That, and getting every little bit of peanut butter out of the peanut butter jar. It is worth it, it will probably save us $100 over the next 40 years. You’re interrupting my flow. If a single electronics retailer can change its name and bring about millions of dollars of economic activity, what would happen if all 50 states did the same? If we re-brand our states, tax revenues would soar, billions of dollars would be spent repainting U-Haul trucks and so on, and people all over our great nation would be happy again. You could also sell a whole new set of collectible quarters with each of the 50 states on the back. Remember those? That must have been a big money maker for the government.
Let’s start at the right tippy-top of the country, Maine. Is there a more boring state name ever? It’s just the word Main with an “e” at the end. I’m gonna change Maine to Lobstertaile, letting them keep the “e” at the end. Moving left we come to New Hampshire, which for the longest time I thought was New Hamster, until a college professor rudely corrected me in front of the whole class, bringing much mirth and merriment to all the snobby teacher’s pets. Of course that’s not true, but people reading this blog will believe it, ‘cause they think I’m stupid. To get back at my professor, you should change New Hampshire to New Hamster. Hamsters are cool little animals, but they have a life expectancy of about a week. Then they eat each other, get sick, and die a stinky death. How about Dead Hamster instead? Yeah, Dead Hamster it is. They can still have the first primary. I think you did well there, Mr. President, but I don’t know for sure ‘cause I don’t follow politics.
Next to Dead Hamster is Vermont. I don’t know anything about Vermont, so how about Pietown as its new moniker? I like pie, and so do lots of other folks. That’s good for tourism. I think Germans like pies, or maybe it’s the Danes. In any case, more Euros are on the way, Pietowners. I went to college in Massachusetts, and the name is just too damned hard to spell. People there deserve spelling relief, so Massachusetts is now “The.” Yes, Tinky, “The.” ‘Cause it’s one of the first words kids learn to spell—if you don’t like it, you can write your own letter. I’m from Chicago, and I had 30 unique visitors to my blog last week, so there’s a better chance Obama will read my letter.
Connecticut will change to “And” and Rhode Island will just drop the Island part of its name, because it doesn’t look like an island on my map. If I’m wrong about that, we can add back the “Island” later. New York is easy. Being raised in Chicago, I was always jealous of New York City being New York, New York. Man how I wished I could live in Chicago, Chicago, or even Illinois, Illinois. What could be cooler? I’ll tell you what—New York, New York, New York. We’ll add an extra New York to the state name.
So far we’ve got:
Maine = Lobstertaile
New Hampshire = Dead Hamster
Vermont = Pietown
Massa…whatever = The
Connecti… = And
Rhode Island = Rhode
New York = New York, New York
Good start. Maybe we should take a pie break. Can’t you go get one at Vons? Cherry or rhubarb. Isn’t it weird how good rhubard pie tastes and how bad actual rhubarb is? Yuck. Can you please go get it while I take a nap? I’ll wash the dishes later. Why are you still typing?
New Jersey doesn’t make sense, since as far as I know there’s no Old Jersey. I know there’s a York because of that song, “The Grand Old Duke of York,” so that’s OK. Well even if there is a Jersey in England, what’s it to us? Most people use the word Uniform instead of Jersey nowadays anyway, and if we call it New Uniform, what happens when the state uniform gets old? Uniform it is.
Pennsylvania is an interesting case. I recall from high school history class that it was named after some long-forgotten guy named Penn (not Sean Penn or the guy who’s with Teller—they’re not forgotten yet). I’m assuming this Penn guy is dead, so he won’t mind if we change the name to something I like. I’m thinking Cabbage. I like cabbage when it has that sauce on it. What’s it called? Really? That’s a weird name. The kids like it too. Yeah they do—I’ll ask them. HEY GUYS, DO YOU LIKE THAT SAUCE MOM PUTS ON CABBAGE? How could they not hear that? Now I like how Pennsylvania borrowed the “Vania” from Transylvania, probably to scare people, and to attract vampire fans, so they can keep that, and we end up with “Cabbagevania.”
Delaware’s a tough one. What’s it known for? I don’t know. How about Smellaware? It’s a funny-sounding name that will get people talking. Maryland was apparently named after someone named Mary, but why? There have been millions of them. How do we know which one? Might as well call it Jimland.
The name Virginia makes me blush for some reason, so it’s gotta go. My sister lives there and she reads my blog so I’ll name the state after her, Carolyn. I’ve always wondered how come the people in West Virginia didn’t come up with a more creative name when they broke off from Virginia. I considered giving them a really creative name like LoopyDoopyZow, but I’m sorry, they just don’t deserve it. Blame your state’s founders. We’ll go with West Carolyn for now, but we’ll revisit the matter later if West Carolynians show me some pizzazz. Maybe you can leverage the issue to get some votes there, Mr. President.
The great state of Ohio can keep its name, which I’ve always admired. No, Tinky, not really. I never liked Ohio. Our family went on a vacation there when I was about 10, and guess what? The pool at our Holiday Inn was shut down. Right after check-in, I rushed outside in my swimming trunks and it was empty. This was in summer! Yeah, maybe it’s been fixed, but I don’t feel like spending brainpower coming up with a new name for the state. You’re typing this? No, just the stuff I want Obama and those other guys to read. It’s common sense. What if someone from Ohio reads this?
Michigan is in desperate need for money, so its naming rights will be auctioned off to the highest corporate bidder. Google would be a cool name. Or Pampers. But please no tobacco or fungus medicine companies.
New Jersey = Uniform
Pennsylvania = Cabbagevania
Delaware = Smellaware
Maryland = Jimland
Virginia = Carolyn
West Virginia = West Carolyn (for now)
Ohio = Ohio
Michigan = To be auctioned
Damn, there’s a lot of states. We could be here all night. You promised you would type the whole thing. Thanks. Next time I’ll type it myself. I think the name Indiana is considered offensive, so it will now be Native Americana. Illinois will change to Chicago. I promised someone from Wisconsin I wouldn’t change its name, but I think we could have done something with the “sin” at the end of “Wisconsin.” Oh well.
If you just typed what you’re supposed to type, we’d probably be done by now. OK, OK, I’ll hurry up. Kansas changes to Cabbage. Missouri, Oklahoma, Colorado, Nebraska, and Iowa change to East Cabbage, South Cabbage, West Cabbage, North Cabbage, and Northwest Cabbage, respectively. That was easy. There’s a state with the 2-letter code AR on the map, but I can’t remember what it is. We’ll skip it.
Indiana = Native Americana
Illinois = Chicago
Wisconsin = Wisconsin
Kansas = Cabbage
Missouri = East Cabbage
Oklahoma = South Cabbage
Colorado = West Cabbage
Nebraska = North Cabbage
Iowa = Northwest Cabbage
AR = AR
Kentucky? I don’t know. Keep it the same. Also Mississippi. I like S’s. I’m not lazy—you’re rushing me. This isn’t easy. It took 183 years to come up with the existing names of all 50 states. I’m trying to do it in an hour. Fine, I’ll ask him. Mr. President, can you please get some White House interns to think of the rest? I’ve done about half. Maybe that Monica girl can do it.
Just a couple suggestions for you before I go. I understand that South Dakota has to change its name, but NORTH DAKOTA STAYS NORTH DAKOTA! One civil war was enough. Also, please keep California as California. It would be a real hassle for me to get new address return stickers. I’m sure other Californians agree with me. I don’t bother to vote myself, but we have lots of what they call electoral votes. Maybe if the CA abbreviation stayed the same it would be OK. Maybe Cacalifornia, or cucumberfornia … no that would be CU. California’s fine.
For the rest of the states, knock yourself out. Go crazy. You could even change the country’s name. Maybe to United States of Bamerica. Just adding the B should bring in all kinds of revenue, and because Bamerica rhymes with America, all our patriotic songs would still work. An added benefit is that when Canadians and South Americans whine, “we’re Americans too, you know,” we can respond, “yes, but you’re not Bamericans.” I anticipate a surge of patriotism. People will fly little flags on their cars again. You’ll be known as the best President since that guy with the hat.
OK read back to me what we’ve got.
Wow, that’s longer than I thought it would be. Let’s finish.
Mr. President, I’ll keep this letter a secret if you want to take credit for my ideas. But just so that I know you like them, please wink at me next time you’re on TV. Thanks.
No, not sincerely—sincerely is boring. Sign it your honorable subject James Albert Schmit. No—‘in humblest gratitude’.
In Humblest Gratitude,
James Albert Schmit
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Marketing Dynamics
[Part 1 of 1 probably]
In my prior blog posts I whined about such trivial matters as poor urine flow, a hair dye calamity, and a doctor not sticking her finger in my rectum. Important members of the community have let me know in somewhat uncertain terms that the real purpose of blogs is to spread propaganda about vital community issues. I should be pissed off about something, and convince you to be pissed off too.
The title of this post, Marketing Dynamics, should show you how serious I am. I don’t know what “Marketing Dynamics” means, and I don’t think it has much to do with this blog post, but if my title made you read this far, it did its job. I started with just the single word, “marketing,” but then I added the word “dynamics” to sound esoteric. I added the word “esoteric” in the prior sentence to sound intelligent. For the same reason, I promise not to talk about people sticking things in sensitive parts of my body unless it’s truly necessary.
Something’s been bugging me since I was a towheaded, bell-bottom-wearing toddler in the Roaring 80s, watching a young Oprah from my crib as my Mom smoked a cigarette on a nearby sofa. One day, I think it was a Tuesday, Oprah signed off, my Mom fell asleep, and the Channel 2 News came on. Hearing about mob killings and corruption scandals didn’t faze me. That’s just Chicago. No, something much worse was reported—the Coca Cola corporation announced that it would start selling Coca Cola branded clothing from specialty Coca Cola apparel stores. I recall shaking my rattle with indignation and spitting up a few cigarette butts.
Now it’s 25 years later, and I wonder, is this something I just imagined? Like when I accuse my wife Tinky of poisoning my food? Or like when I tell the cops that Orville Redenbacher is alive and living in my crawlspace? So I did some actual research worthy of a blog … according to the book For God, Country, and Coca-Cola by Mark Pendergrast, the Coca Cola clothing scam really happened. He quotes a company trademark lawyer as bragging, “Suddenly people are like walking billboards for the product.” And that’s what pisses me off. In one of the nerviest corporate schemes ever, Coca Cola was hoping to con people into paying Coca Cola to advertise Coca Cola’s soft drinks, or “pop” as I called it back then.
I haven’t seen anyone wearing a Coca Cola t-shirt in years, so I think that crisis has passed. But whenever one crisis fades away, another crisis has an opportunity to emerge. The new crisis was and is named Tommy Hilfiger.
About ten or fifteen years ago I first noticed “cool” people wearing shirts with this guy’s name on it. I thought to myself, and this is an exact quote, “This Tommy feller thinks highly of himself, but at least he’s helping the poor teenagers of the Western world.” I assumed, as probably most of you do, that Mr. Hilfiger is a German industrial tycoon hoping for a Nobel peace prize, or at least the key to the city of Hamburg, by giving out free crappy t-shirts. WRONG.
A couple weeks ago I went with my wife Tinky to the beloved Glendale Galleria to get new shirts. Big deal, you say. Well it is a big deal because I haven’t bought any new shirts in maybe 7 years. I hate shopping, and I especially hate shopping for shirts. My shirtophobia centers on two evils, and I think this explains why so many men are content to continue wearing t-shirts long after holes and stains start appearing:
(1) There are too many tags and stickers on new shirts. I get laughed at way too much already for my funny looks—walking around with a price tag hanging off my collar is adding insult to embarrassment. Damn you, van Heusen, whoever you are, for putting two stickers and a price tag on one shirt. And damn you also for exploiting van Halen’s good name.
(2) I can’t tell the difference between men’s and women’s shirts. Funny looks, a price tag, and a woman’s shirt is fine for Halloween in Nashville (a Minnie Pearl costume), but not appropriate for work, otherwise known as dropping off my kids at school. I have to ask my wife twice if she’s certain a particular shirt is for men, and still I’m not convinced. Since I don’t trust my wife (she sometimes tries to poison me), I ask the salesperson, too, and still I have doubts. Wouldn’t it be easier if all shirts were either pink or blue? Yeah, but that would be boring. How about each shirt is clearly labeled “For a Man” or “For a Woman?” Shirt sales would skyrocket. Teasing of Jim Schmit for wearing girl’s clothes would cease.
Back to the Glendale Galleria, where I’m leaving JC Penney’s with a shopping bag full of shirts that may or may not be gender appropriate, a teenage girl walks by holding up a Tommy Hilfiger shirt with a price tag attached (I didn’t see any stickers). Actually the shirt just had the one name “Hilfiger” printed on it, but I’m guessing it’s the same guy. He probably figures that by now he’s so famous, he can go by just one name, like Cher, Elmo, Jim, and Bozo.
My first thought is that some creep is taking free shirts from this German industrial magnate and re-selling them to America’s middle class. I decide as the proprietor of a newly serious blog to investigate. I notice that the teenager had pulled the shirt from a Macy’s bag, and being a pretty sharp guy, I conclude that she had bought the shirt at Macy’s. We head to Macy’s.
[On the way, we pass by a Sweet Factory that is adjacent to Haagen-Dazs. No, actually it’s next to Wetzel’s Pretzels. Wait…no, I’m pretty sure it’s by Haagen-Dazs. Anyway, two police officers and three security guards are questioning a woman with an infant in her arms and a baby in her stroller at the entrance to the Sweet Factory. They’re all pointing to one of the candy bins, and I’m thinking, “Where’s the Cops on TV camera crew when you need them?” This would have made for a riveting episode: the police dispatcher gets a call … “Hurry to the Sweet Factory, a 2-year-old Caucasian female, about 30 inches tall, has stolen some Gummi Bears… Security needs back-up…” I don’t mean to demean the mall cop profession, but this seems like overkill. (To be fair, I recently saw a documentary about this mall security guard named Paul Blart, and the job is way more dangerous than you would imagine).]
At Macy’s I confirm that this department store conglomerate is in fact selling the t-shirts, as well as other Hilfiger-wear, and lots of it. Not only that, they’re paying Tommy Hilfiger for his merchandise. Turns out he’s some kind of fashion designer, and people pay him for the privilege of wearing his name. What I don’t get is why. His clothing doesn’t look any different from anyone else’s clothes, and his name is OK, but nothing spectacular. If his name were Topper Foxwillingnoodle, he’d be worthy of a shirt. If his name were Orville Redenbacher, he’d be worthy of a popcorn company. But the name Tommy Hilfiger is only worthy of maybe some kind of cement bag, and even then you’d have to change Tommy to Tom. What’s especially puzzling is that companies have tried to pay car owners big money to paint their cars with a company or brand logo, and the car owners refuse. But when a company or designer demands money from these same people for the privilege of wearing advertising logos across their chest, that’s fine.
It’s not fine by me. JC Penney has a much better name than “Hilfiger,” and apparently also thinks highly of himself—his name is on all the stores—but he doesn’t put his name on all the shirts he sells. That’s why I leave the Galleria with 8 shirts from JC Penney, at prices ranging from $9.99 to $14.99, and zero shirts from Mr. Hilfiger. With shirt prices that high these days, I’ll be damned if I’m gonna help shirt-makers advertise their goods. (Full disclosure: I could have had 15% off at JC Penney had I remembered my coupon, and the shirts did have collars on them).
You’re probably thinking, “Why pick on this Tommy guy? He’s not the only one who does this.” And you’re right to think that. It’s a much bigger problem, with many other megalomaniacal designers and shameless corporations playing this game too. The reason I pick on Mr. Hilfiger is because four or five years ago I bought my wallet at some harmless, generic department store thinking it was some harmless, generic wallet. It wasn’t. A rectangular piece of plastic stamped with the name “Tommy Hilfiger” is glued to it. I’m tempted to throw out my wallet and get a new one, but then I’d lose my driver’s license, my credit cards, and at least three dollars in cash. I’ll just have to live with Tommy for a while and vent my anger via the Internet.
Coming next week in the “My Thoughts are So Important, I Write Them Down” blog: How to Be Cool (hint…by wearing one of my new line of “Jim” shirts, unless your name is also Jim, since then it would look like your shirt is a nametag).
In my prior blog posts I whined about such trivial matters as poor urine flow, a hair dye calamity, and a doctor not sticking her finger in my rectum. Important members of the community have let me know in somewhat uncertain terms that the real purpose of blogs is to spread propaganda about vital community issues. I should be pissed off about something, and convince you to be pissed off too.
The title of this post, Marketing Dynamics, should show you how serious I am. I don’t know what “Marketing Dynamics” means, and I don’t think it has much to do with this blog post, but if my title made you read this far, it did its job. I started with just the single word, “marketing,” but then I added the word “dynamics” to sound esoteric. I added the word “esoteric” in the prior sentence to sound intelligent. For the same reason, I promise not to talk about people sticking things in sensitive parts of my body unless it’s truly necessary.
Something’s been bugging me since I was a towheaded, bell-bottom-wearing toddler in the Roaring 80s, watching a young Oprah from my crib as my Mom smoked a cigarette on a nearby sofa. One day, I think it was a Tuesday, Oprah signed off, my Mom fell asleep, and the Channel 2 News came on. Hearing about mob killings and corruption scandals didn’t faze me. That’s just Chicago. No, something much worse was reported—the Coca Cola corporation announced that it would start selling Coca Cola branded clothing from specialty Coca Cola apparel stores. I recall shaking my rattle with indignation and spitting up a few cigarette butts.
Now it’s 25 years later, and I wonder, is this something I just imagined? Like when I accuse my wife Tinky of poisoning my food? Or like when I tell the cops that Orville Redenbacher is alive and living in my crawlspace? So I did some actual research worthy of a blog … according to the book For God, Country, and Coca-Cola by Mark Pendergrast, the Coca Cola clothing scam really happened. He quotes a company trademark lawyer as bragging, “Suddenly people are like walking billboards for the product.” And that’s what pisses me off. In one of the nerviest corporate schemes ever, Coca Cola was hoping to con people into paying Coca Cola to advertise Coca Cola’s soft drinks, or “pop” as I called it back then.
I haven’t seen anyone wearing a Coca Cola t-shirt in years, so I think that crisis has passed. But whenever one crisis fades away, another crisis has an opportunity to emerge. The new crisis was and is named Tommy Hilfiger.
About ten or fifteen years ago I first noticed “cool” people wearing shirts with this guy’s name on it. I thought to myself, and this is an exact quote, “This Tommy feller thinks highly of himself, but at least he’s helping the poor teenagers of the Western world.” I assumed, as probably most of you do, that Mr. Hilfiger is a German industrial tycoon hoping for a Nobel peace prize, or at least the key to the city of Hamburg, by giving out free crappy t-shirts. WRONG.
A couple weeks ago I went with my wife Tinky to the beloved Glendale Galleria to get new shirts. Big deal, you say. Well it is a big deal because I haven’t bought any new shirts in maybe 7 years. I hate shopping, and I especially hate shopping for shirts. My shirtophobia centers on two evils, and I think this explains why so many men are content to continue wearing t-shirts long after holes and stains start appearing:
(1) There are too many tags and stickers on new shirts. I get laughed at way too much already for my funny looks—walking around with a price tag hanging off my collar is adding insult to embarrassment. Damn you, van Heusen, whoever you are, for putting two stickers and a price tag on one shirt. And damn you also for exploiting van Halen’s good name.
(2) I can’t tell the difference between men’s and women’s shirts. Funny looks, a price tag, and a woman’s shirt is fine for Halloween in Nashville (a Minnie Pearl costume), but not appropriate for work, otherwise known as dropping off my kids at school. I have to ask my wife twice if she’s certain a particular shirt is for men, and still I’m not convinced. Since I don’t trust my wife (she sometimes tries to poison me), I ask the salesperson, too, and still I have doubts. Wouldn’t it be easier if all shirts were either pink or blue? Yeah, but that would be boring. How about each shirt is clearly labeled “For a Man” or “For a Woman?” Shirt sales would skyrocket. Teasing of Jim Schmit for wearing girl’s clothes would cease.
Back to the Glendale Galleria, where I’m leaving JC Penney’s with a shopping bag full of shirts that may or may not be gender appropriate, a teenage girl walks by holding up a Tommy Hilfiger shirt with a price tag attached (I didn’t see any stickers). Actually the shirt just had the one name “Hilfiger” printed on it, but I’m guessing it’s the same guy. He probably figures that by now he’s so famous, he can go by just one name, like Cher, Elmo, Jim, and Bozo.
My first thought is that some creep is taking free shirts from this German industrial magnate and re-selling them to America’s middle class. I decide as the proprietor of a newly serious blog to investigate. I notice that the teenager had pulled the shirt from a Macy’s bag, and being a pretty sharp guy, I conclude that she had bought the shirt at Macy’s. We head to Macy’s.
[On the way, we pass by a Sweet Factory that is adjacent to Haagen-Dazs. No, actually it’s next to Wetzel’s Pretzels. Wait…no, I’m pretty sure it’s by Haagen-Dazs. Anyway, two police officers and three security guards are questioning a woman with an infant in her arms and a baby in her stroller at the entrance to the Sweet Factory. They’re all pointing to one of the candy bins, and I’m thinking, “Where’s the Cops on TV camera crew when you need them?” This would have made for a riveting episode: the police dispatcher gets a call … “Hurry to the Sweet Factory, a 2-year-old Caucasian female, about 30 inches tall, has stolen some Gummi Bears… Security needs back-up…” I don’t mean to demean the mall cop profession, but this seems like overkill. (To be fair, I recently saw a documentary about this mall security guard named Paul Blart, and the job is way more dangerous than you would imagine).]
At Macy’s I confirm that this department store conglomerate is in fact selling the t-shirts, as well as other Hilfiger-wear, and lots of it. Not only that, they’re paying Tommy Hilfiger for his merchandise. Turns out he’s some kind of fashion designer, and people pay him for the privilege of wearing his name. What I don’t get is why. His clothing doesn’t look any different from anyone else’s clothes, and his name is OK, but nothing spectacular. If his name were Topper Foxwillingnoodle, he’d be worthy of a shirt. If his name were Orville Redenbacher, he’d be worthy of a popcorn company. But the name Tommy Hilfiger is only worthy of maybe some kind of cement bag, and even then you’d have to change Tommy to Tom. What’s especially puzzling is that companies have tried to pay car owners big money to paint their cars with a company or brand logo, and the car owners refuse. But when a company or designer demands money from these same people for the privilege of wearing advertising logos across their chest, that’s fine.
It’s not fine by me. JC Penney has a much better name than “Hilfiger,” and apparently also thinks highly of himself—his name is on all the stores—but he doesn’t put his name on all the shirts he sells. That’s why I leave the Galleria with 8 shirts from JC Penney, at prices ranging from $9.99 to $14.99, and zero shirts from Mr. Hilfiger. With shirt prices that high these days, I’ll be damned if I’m gonna help shirt-makers advertise their goods. (Full disclosure: I could have had 15% off at JC Penney had I remembered my coupon, and the shirts did have collars on them).
You’re probably thinking, “Why pick on this Tommy guy? He’s not the only one who does this.” And you’re right to think that. It’s a much bigger problem, with many other megalomaniacal designers and shameless corporations playing this game too. The reason I pick on Mr. Hilfiger is because four or five years ago I bought my wallet at some harmless, generic department store thinking it was some harmless, generic wallet. It wasn’t. A rectangular piece of plastic stamped with the name “Tommy Hilfiger” is glued to it. I’m tempted to throw out my wallet and get a new one, but then I’d lose my driver’s license, my credit cards, and at least three dollars in cash. I’ll just have to live with Tommy for a while and vent my anger via the Internet.
Coming next week in the “My Thoughts are So Important, I Write Them Down” blog: How to Be Cool (hint…by wearing one of my new line of “Jim” shirts, unless your name is also Jim, since then it would look like your shirt is a nametag).
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