MY ALL-TIME CHRISTMAS LIST GREATEST HITS

Hey, we've seen compilations of everything else over the last twenty-five years.  Why not a look at my all-time favorite childhood Christmas gifts-presents from Santa, family and friends?  In no particular order, here goes ten contenders from the ghost of Christmas past:

Hoppity-Hop

 (Snuck out of bed early, then woke my parents up hopping around the house on this thing!  'Didn't stop riding for most of the year, until I hopped it over a nail that took it's life.)

Hot Wheels Mongoose & Snake

(all the Hot Wheels stuff was killer in the 70's, but the original Mongoose & Snake combo was the ultimate.  I was a Mongoose man.)

Los Angeles Rams Football Uniforms

(Yeah, mine was old enough to be blue and white, not blue and gold.  With me, Roman Gabriel & Deacon Jones playing for'em the Rams won a lot of Super Bowls in my backyard in those days.)

Tonka Trucks

 (Real metal Tonka Trucks - big and tough and bad, complete with sharp edges!  We moved a lot of dirt around the yard.  Plus fresh cut grass did double duty as hay for the farm we were operating.)

Mousetrap

(Not too many board games would make this list, even though I like games.  But anyone who knows me well knows I have a lifelong love affair with Rube Goldberg devices.  This game is a big reason why.)

Tinker Toys 

(I was definitely a builder as a kid.  I liked putting things together.  This is a classic kids toy that I loved, and I kept asking for more and more sets, just to put them all together and build huge, monsterous things.)

Lincoln Logs

(Along the same lines as Tinker Toys, but I actually liked these even more.  Something about the rustic look of them.  I wish I still had some Lincoln Logs.)

Stereo Tuner/Record Player/8-Track Player & Recorder

(How cool?  Making my own pirated eight-tracks!  I got this and a pair of headphones one year.  I think Santa knew I'd be blasting music in the wee hours, hence the headphones.)

Bicycle with a Banana Seat

(Nothing could be hipper than a sleek, blue bike with a banana seat.  I ruled Broad Street on this thing!)

G.I. Joe

(The ultimate tough guy.  GI Joe was indestructible...okay, actually, it eventually turned out that gasoline and a match could do a pretty good number on him...but even then, he went out valiently.  Go get'em soldier!)

AND FOR A BONUS, TWO OF MY ALL-TIME FAVORITE STOCKING STUFFER TOYS - THE SLINKY (None of these cheesy plastic slinkys.  Only metal for me, thank-you very much) AND SILLY PUTTY (Merely the coolest, most versatile substance in all the universe)

  

 

 

 

 

 

PORK CHOPS AT PRINCESS PAMELA'S

I grew up in the rural south and have carried a deep-seated affection for southern culture with me all my days.  Finding my life unfolding in Connecticut, I took some solace in exploring the soul food joints of New York City - afterall, soul food and southern food are largely one and the same.

My best friend at the time, the best man at my wedding and a guy who, unfortunately, I've let time and miles come between, having lost touch with him years ago, - anyway, my best friend at the time was a Columbian-born, Florida-raised guy named Charley, who'd also lived down in Nashville before relocating to Manhattan.  Like me, he had a passion for southern cooking and soul food, and he did a nice job of scouting out various places for us to eat.

One summer night we're on the prowl, in the city, looking for dinner and craving some down-home cooking.  Charley tells me he wants me to try Princess Pamela's.  Time had taught me that Charley was a capable frontman in the ongoing Soul Food sojurns, so I was easily convinced.  Off to Greenwich Village we headed.

We're walking down this nondescript block in the village, passing pedestrians, yellow cabs, the occasional street person, when we come across this unmarked doorway on some grey building.  Charley raps on the door, waits a few second, and it opens about three inches to reveal a chain lock still in place, and a youthful, pretty, dark-skinned girl peering out at us asking "what'd you want?".  "We want to eat", Charley says.  The door closes for a second, then opens wide, the chain lock finally unsecured.  Wordlessly, the young lady lets us in, and leads us to a table, then retreats behind an open counter into the kitchen.  

We find ourselves sitting, back to the counter that seperates us from the kitchen, at a small table with a white linen tablecloth spread on it, plus a paper napkin and silverware, and nothing else.  It's one of about seven tables crowded into a rectangular dining room about the size of an automatic car wash.   Plus, in the front, to the left of the doorway, sits an upright bass, a drum set and a piano, wedged together in an incredibly small amount of space, the property of a jazz trio that plays every Sunday...a jazz trio who must double as contortionist to work in the confines Princess Pamela's presents them with.

There's a yuppie couple at the table in front of us, talking and talking about their travels, their exploits, their general cleverness and grooviness.  At the table to our left sits a large, (I'm sure well over 300 pounds) middle-aged black lady with a southern accent and a sassy voice, counting money and holding court, engaging Charley and me, the yuppie couple, and the young lady who let us in in a conversation whether we wanted in or not.  This, I realized, was the immortal Princess Pamela!     

There were no menus at Princess Pamela's.  Every night they prepared a soul food dinner and you either ate it or you didn't.  Yuppie girl found that out the hard way.  That young lady who let us in...she did all the heavy lifting.  She not only served as doorman, but she was the cook, the waitress and the bus boy, all in one.  She meanders over to the yuppie table to announce what's for dinner..."Tonight at Princess Pamela's we're serving fried pork chops, macaroni and cheese, collard greens..." when yuppie girl interrupts to blurt out, "Oh, that won't do.  I don't eat meat.". Our African-Americna superwoman responds without missing a beat "well, you better carry your a-- somewhere else then."  Startled, the yuppie retreats.  And, yes, that night, she did eat meat.  I know, I kept an eye on her to see.  She was diggin' that pork chop!  

Our food arrives.  Soul Food joints generally believe in quality and quantity, and Princess Pamela's was no exception.  The meal came on these large oval-shaped dishes, actually over-flowing the dishes.  A couple nice, fat chops, a nice mound of homemade macaroni and cheese, a healthy serving of greens, some green beans, a tossed salad right on the plate, some corn and a big chuk of hot cornbread.  It was fantastic!

So fantastic that I didn't even mind the self-absorbed yuppie couple yammering on and on.  Charley and I were much more interested in what Princess Pamela had to say - she was quick-witted, sarcastic, observant and funnier than most stand-up comedians dream about.  But it was hard to miss our couple's boast of their world travels on a dime.  Something about freight airliners getting some kind of tax break for carrying passengers and freight.  Supposedly some of them have one seat on board for a passenger.  They'll sell you a ticket for next to nothing and you can see the world for cheap.  Princess Pamela kept asking how they could afford to travel so much and they just kept smuggly repeating that story - because they were smarter than any of us, you see?  

Anyway, we're eating, jabber-jawing with the Princess, watching that young lady that ran the kitchen hussle, and keeping an eye on the pork chops disappearing from our yuppie-vegetarian friend's plate, having a good ol' time and ruling the universe, when the couple finishes, says thanks to the Princess, gets up and, once that young lady in the kitchen comes and unlatches the door, head out into the Greenwich Village night.

On her way back from the front door to the kitchen, Superwoman stops to bus the departed yuppies' table.  She's gathering plates, silverware and glasses in one hand when she pauses, gets a slightly disgusted look on her face, scoops some money off the table and heads back to the kitchen.  On her way she stops at Princess Pamela's table, where the mystery of the evening is about to be solved.

Without saying a word, the young lady holds out her right hand and the tip contained within. Princess Pamela takes one look at her outstretched palm and says knowingly, like a grandmother who's just caught a kid reaching into the cookie jar,  "Uh-huh, now I see how they can afford all them trips to Europe." 

 

A RELUCTANT LESSON ON BRANDING FROM SPARKY ANDERSON

I love baseball.  Not just baseball games, but everything about the sport (except the designated hitter, but that's for another blog).  I love its history, its characters, the freshly cut and well-manicured fields, peanuts and popcorn, the crack of the bat, the uniforms, the very fiber of the game.  So while I was never a fan of the Reds or the Tigers I was sad to see the legendary old manager, Sparky Anderson, leave us this week.

I was watching ESPN pay homage to Sparky this morning.  As they recounted his career they talked about how, in his fifties, he asked sportswriters to begin referring to him by his real name, George Anderson.  He believed no man in his fifties wanted to be called "Sparky".  Of course, the writers, fans and public at large didn't honor this plea.  He was, is, and will always be Sparky Anderson.

That got me to thinking about nicknames, and I realized nicknames, in essence, teach us a lot about branding.  Now, let's start by returning to the original Ries & Trout definition of the marketing term they coined, branding.  It's not just getting your name out there.  (If you've got marketing people on payroll who think getting your name out there is branding, fire them!  They're incompetant.)  Branding is taking ownership of a word (or concept or attribute) in your customers mind.  Coca-Cola isn't a brand because we see their logo everywhere.  Coca-Cola is a brand (a great brand) because they own the entire cola category.  Play word association all day long.  You say cola, most people will say "Coke" (a nickname, by the way, like "Sparky")  Hamburgers...McDonalds.  Beer...Budweiser.  Brands!   

Now, not every brand can take ownership of a whole category.  But every brand stands for some graspable thing.  The uncola?...Seven-Up.  Having it (your burger) your way?...Burger King.  That's the key to a brand.  If you don't own a word in the customers mind, you aren't a brand.  But that's not the point of this blog, either.

You see, you can't get to that point without a memorable name.  Lawyers always advise companies to use made-up, meaningless names.  They're particularly fond of initials.  EMC, B&Q, 3M, ALZA, ATI, DEC, JAL.  How the heck are you going to brand that?  How's anyone going to remember it.  Lawyers also hate it when you allow your company name to become synonymous with the product category. They think it's bad that people say "Coke" when they mean Cola and refer to every photocopy as a "Zerox".  This goes to show that all those years of law school don't help you understand marketing and branding at all. 

Generic, forgettable names are an albatross around any company's neck.  Sure, some have overcome it (AT&T, GMC) but why handicap yourself? Meanwhile, becoming synonymous with the product line (while it may have some potential for copyright issues) is priceless!  It's the ultimate extension of successful branding!

Which brings me to George Lee Anderson, late manager of the Cincinnati Reds and Detroit Tigers.  George Lee Anderson had not one, not two, but three very forgettable, very typical names. It's the kind of name about which we say, years after somone's heyday, "hey, that guy who managed the Reds in the seventies...I can't remember his name, but that guy was a good manager."   But Sparky Anderson!  What a great name!  

It's unique, (especially when hung on a man in his fifties!), it's catchy, it's memorable, and now it's synonymous forever more with the skipper of Cincinnati's Big Red Machine (another brand!)

The reality is, every good nickname is the beginning of a personal brand.  I rarely forget a person's nickname.  I mean a real nickname, the kind that gets hung on someone (usually against their will) and really becomes what people call them.  Of course, if you have a unique name in the first place, the nickname isn't needed for the effect.  Growing up in a small, rural southern town in the 1970's where everyone's first name was Tom or Bob or John and every last name was Smith or White or Jones, I will never forget a kid a few years younger than me named Giacamo.  Or a guy several years older than me who was named Jegade.  Brands!

Now the point of this isn't for you to go out and get yourself a nickname (you generally can't, anyway.  They're always hung on you).  The point is, in business or your personal life, the combination of a memorable name and something meaningful to hang it on is priceless.  And that, my friend, is how you get yourself (or your company) branded!