Jim Nolan's Blog

Bannerman Knights Cartoon

This week's beautifully drawn Isabella Bannerman "Six Chix" cartoon. 

"Raisin Bran" Piece in July Issue of Funny Times

Always exciting to be in the Funny Times! And Isabella had two cartoons in the same issue. Click to enlarge.

The 1950’s Rulebook for Mad Men and Women

The Better Business Bureau’s “Do’s and Don’ts in Advertising Copy” Binder

Every rule and regulation you needed to break, updated yearly.

No one considers the 1950’s a golden age in advertising, except perhaps for the salaries (if you were the right gender, religion, and color to work in the industry). TV was new and money flooded into agencies trying to reach Americans glued to the three networks.

The real creative revolution began in the 1960s. All the rules were broken.

I know because I have the rulebook.

When one of the big agencies I used to work for was moving offices, lots of decades-old artifacts ended up in the trash. That’s where I fished out a thick, three-ring binder, the cover embossed with “Do’s and Don’ts in Advertising Copy: A Looseleaf Service for Advertisers, Advertising Agencies, Broadcasters and Printed Media.”

It was published by the National Better Business Bureau from the early 1950's to the mid-‘60s.

Meant to keep advertisers honest, it lays out the rules for every imaginable product and condition from Abscessed ear (“It is prohibited to represent symptoms result from Vitamin A deficiency”) to Zirconium anti-perspirants (“Must bear warning: If a rash develops, discontinue use”).

There is a special section on “Sensitive Products.” It includes laxatives, toilet tissue, and foundation garments. To protect the public from being offended, “a special sub-committee of the Television Code Review Board has made a report summarizing its initial findings. It has compiled a set of guideposts as techniques to avoid in television commercials and those to seek.”

The sub-committee’s work on laxatives is especially noteworthy. Here is their counsel:

“AVOID — Techniques which over-dramatize the discomforts of requiring a laxative, which emphasize the speed or efficiency or a laxative, which duplicate the mechanics of elimination by charts or props.” (I just have to say that I think this is one of the funniest sentences ever written by a committee, or by anybody, for that matter.)

“SEEK — Techniques which demonstrate the pleasant after effects of the product, and dramatic settings connected with places other than the family bathroom.”

I’m not sure how you’d demonstrate the pleasant “after” effects they mention in bold italic, but it sounds hilarious. “Hey Mom, Grampa’s not grumpy anymore!” My friend Mike had a genius idea for a laxative commercial. It was simple visually, cutting from one closed bathroom door to another to another. To this he wanted to add the music and refrain from The Drifters’ “This Magic Moment,” and then reveal the Ex-Lax logo at the end. It would have been a memorable spot, but you’d never hear the song quite the same way again.

Later in the binder, there are seven more pages of laxative do’s and don’ts.

In the “Drugs and Devices” section, we are told that “Smoking mentholated cigarettes will have no beneficial effect on colds or coughs.” Good to know. Also, “the advertising of cigarettes should not be presented in a manner to convey the impression that cigarette smoking is important to the development of the youth of our country.”

Also:

“The sale of dental plates by mail is neither a practical nor safe procedure, such offers should not be advertised to the public.”

“Despite all claims to the contrary, no preparation or treatment has yet been discovered which will revive hair color once the pigment is gone.”

“Radioactive Waters: A product that does contain any appreciable amount of radium is extremely dangerous to use except under the care of a competent physician.”

“Turtle oil creams process no rejuvenating or other special qualities.”

“Ozone generators should not be advertised as effective germicides.”

“Devices resembling fountain pens or pencils but designed to expel tear gas have been advertised to the public to afford harmless protection against holdups, vicious dogs, etc. The advertising has neglected to state that purchasers of such devices may automatically become lawbreakers in many parts of the country.”

“Kelp is worthless in the treatment of obesity.”

“Although the purpose of using seat belts is to help protect against injury or death, seat belt advertising shall project their advantages in protecting against injury without resulting to purely “scare” type advertising.”

That last directive is insane — choosing “decorum” over saving lives. But the networks probably didn’t want anybody harshing their “Beverly Hillbillies” vibe. And their biggest advertisers, car manufacturers, didn’t want to remind people that in 1966, 50,894 people died in traffic accidents.

The binder was meant to be updated with new pages as best practices changed. And it was hoped that this new-found effort to tell the truth would “stimulate an improvement in relations between advertising and the public,” an ambitious goal not fully realized.

Having worked as an advertising copywriter for years, I can say that we are never asked to say anything untrue, nor do we want to. Clients don’t want to make one sale to a customer, but many, over many years. Telling people the truth is the most powerful way we have of doing that.

That insight came from 1960s ad folks presenting the truth in fresh, witty, and meaningful ways that respected the intelligence of the viewer. Bill Bernbach, George Lois, and Shirley Polykoff weren’t leafing through this binder looking for ideas.

In any case it seems like this “Do’s and Don’t’s” was put on a shelf and never looked at again. The last of the updates was added in 1966. The pages are unmarked, with no underlining, dog ears, or marginalia. Decades old, they look fresh off the printer.

Anyway, if you have any questions about “Fiber Content Disclosure in Hosiery,” “so-called miracle Socket TV Antennas,” or “describing a non-lumber product as wood,” feel free to reach out. I have the information you need. And it’s been waiting 60 years for you.

Let “The Repair Shop” Mend Our World

A British TV show has a fix for everything.

Steve Fletcher (clocks), Will Kirk (cabinets), Kirsten Ramsay (ceramics), Jay Blades (host, furniture), Lucia Scalisi (paintings). Photo credit: Weald & Downland Living Museum

It’s the office we’d all like to go to. In an historic, thatched-roof barn in bucolic West Sussex, England, a team of expert restorers fixes beloved family heirlooms. Is their work appreciated? Typically, the customers burst into tears when they see the restorations.

The sounds of a music box, unheard for decades, recalls time spent with a grandmother as a child.

A precious antique vase, passed through five generations, accidentally smashed into a dozen pieces, is fitted together as good — or better — than before.

A teddy bear, a comforting companion through a difficult childhood, is given back its button eyes and missing ears, shampooed and re-stuffed, reborn and ready to be passed on to a grandchild, complete with new red bow.

Furniture restorer Jay Blades greets the customers when they come in, and matches them up with the craftspeople who are going to do the work. They are all wickedly competent, and the program shows how they approach each project and overcome the unexpected challenges it brings with it.

Often, they have to figure out something new, even with their years of experience. And if they want to run something by another master restorer, they simply ask one of the team to come over to their desk to have a look. They collaborate. They joke. They praise one another. And we look on and marvel at their good humor and abilities honed from years of practice.

Philosophically, they all promote the idea of reusing objects, rather than throwing them away. And surely these restored treasures will be passed down through many more generations.

One expert in particular amazes me, the clock restorer, Steve Fletcher. How anyone can take apart a contraption with hundreds of small parts, clean and repair them, and put it all back together is astounding. And if Steve finds himself missing a gear or spring or some other part, he just makes one. He’s been practicing his craft for over 45 years.

The narrator has a thick Scots accent (later, a different narrator is Welsh), and each line is written cleverly enough to bring a smile.

Of course, one wonders what object you yourself would want to bring in to be repaired. A painting with an unfortunate tear? A beat-up old violin? A steam-driven toy boat? They’ve all been featured on the show.

How about the world? I’m pretty sure this talented group of individuals could fix it, too. Set them to work on healthcare for all. Racial equality. Peace and harmony between nations.

It might take them a whole season, but I’m pretty sure they’d get the job done with the same professionalism, camaraderie, and good humor they exhibit fixing everything else.

The first two seasons of The Repair Shop are available for streaming on Netflix.

Monday Bannerman Cartoon

Today's Six Chix cartoon by Isabella Bannerman. The hermit crab version of a McMansion.

New Robe, New Man

There's nothing like a new robe.

Mom, circa 1973, Buffalo, NY.

Some things are sacred to a man.

His brand of potato chips. His James Brown Live at the Apollo LP. The inviolability of his shaving razor. And, to be protected at any cost, his robe.

My flannel robe had been under attack by my wife for over a decade, possibly two. I could never really understand why. It was a “black watch” tartan pattern, soft as a misty day in the Scottish highlands, and I laundered it frequently, at least twice a year.

Actually, my wife had one main issue with it. The sleeves tended to droop down into my breakfast. They seem to be especially attracted to eggs.

I don’t see a big problem with this, gravity is gravity. If the sleeves got jam on them, it would serve as a pleasant reminder of a happy meal. And the longest it was going to stay on there was, as I indicated earlier, six months.

I loved that robe with a love that surpasseth spousal understanding. I swore I would never give it up.

Then, one morning, out of the blue, I ordered a new terry cloth robe. Maybe being home for months during the virus quarantine had something to do with it—I’ve been wearing a robe a lot. It seemed like an easy way to surprise and delight my wife.

But the real surprise was on me. I loved it. There was something about its plush look that made me feel royal, like the Cowardly Lion singing “If I Were King of the Forest.” I couldn’t have felt more kingly if the robe came with an ermine collar.

Now I understand why New York crime boss Vincent “the Chin” Gigante wandered Greenwich Village in his bathrobe and slippers. Maybe it wasn’t to bolster future insanity pleas. Maybe he was just proud of his robe. He wanted it to be admired, not only by his wife, but the whole neighborhood.

My mother had a quilted robe in the 1970s. A Christmas present from my father, it was orange and yellow, and had what appears to be a lace collar. Mom liked her robe, and what Buffalonian wouldn’t? It was warm. And that is ultimately what a robe is all about. Something to keep your fingers from freezing before you can wrap them around a mug of coffee.

I should have listened to my wife years ago. She’s right about these things 99% of the time.

So, thank you, old robe. I’ll always remember you with fondness.

That said, I’m going to enjoy my cushy new robe.

Best of all, at least for my wife?

The sleeves cling tightly to my wrists.

Getting Ghosted

In my family, the paranormal is normal.

My grandfather, Bengt Paul, was a graphologist, read the future in cards, and practiced automatic handwriting. He also liked an expensive cigar.

Do you believe in ghosts? I don’t. But I admire the people who make a living in paranormal professions. My grandfather dabbled in them.

This might explain my love for any show about ghosts or aliens, or alien ghosts. I will also watch any program about Alaska or ancient Egypt. Recently there was documentary series called “Alaska Haunting” about ghostly visitations. Had they discovered a pharaoh’s tomb on the Chilkoot Trail it would have hit the trifecta for me.

And when I say documentary series, that’s how the show is listed. But Ken Burns isn’t shooting it. It’s a documentary in the sense that ET was a documentary.

Many of these shows punctuate their stories with interviews of “experts” in their chosen field, be it alien abduction, alien communication through the pyramids, alien fast food preferences, or alien podiatry. When you call yourself a “paranormal investigator,” there isn’t a big vetting process that goes along with it. It’s kinda like being nominated to a position in the current administration. You’re not being chosen for your command of actual facts.

Still, they pontificate with great authority, as if they’re chaired MIT professors, or have anything approaching believable evidence to support their claims. Even their speculation is speculative. But it’s highly enjoyable. These people are on TV talking nonsense—they know it, we know it—and we’re eating it up. There’s nothing more American.

Or European. My Swedish grandfather Bengt was born too soon, and could have been on one of these programs. He practiced automatic writing. That’s when you hold the pen, and the pen writes by itself, as if it’s controlled by an unseen hand. Once the pen wrote, “Do not speak to those without names.” Even as a skeptic, I would have had a hard time sleeping that night.

Grandfather was also known for reading the future in cards. He was like Solitaire in “Live and Let Die,” only not as attractive. He sometimes read cards for his good friends Sofie and Hans Gabler, who believed he received intuitions. In March, 1946 he “saw” Hans in a strange house with Hans’ mother and sister. Six weeks later Hans unexpectedly had to go to Hamburg to live with them for three years.

Once Sofie and Hans asked Bengt about their son’s upcoming marriage. “He will marry a blond woman,” my grandfather read in the cards. “No, no,” the Gablers said, “he is engaged to a brunette.” A week before the scheduled wedding, his fiancée cancelled. When the son came with his new bride-to-be, she was indeed blond.

Given my grandfather’s astounding psychic abilities, I know what you’re thinking.

“Jim, you may have paranormal powers yourself.”

Look, it’s possible. Perhaps my talents lie buried deep within me, waiting to erupt, Carrie-like, if someone dumps pig’s blood on me. That would be cool. It’s almost worth doing the experiment. Maybe on TikTok.

Until that happens, if there are any paranormal show producers out there who need a host or an expert, I’m genetically qualified. I can read cards on CNBC and intuit which way certain stocks are headed. It could be a segment on Jim Cramer’s “Mad Money.” I’m certain my predictions would be no less accurate than any other stock pickers’. In many ways, that profession shares a certain strain of bloviation in common with ghost hunters, with even less accountability.

Like ghostly apparitions, there is much that is unexplainable about the stock market. For example, current market evaluations in the face of 16% unemployment. One in six people can’t find work.

Now that’s scary. Ghosts in Alaska? Not so much.