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).