Yesterday I patronized their Las Olas establishment on Ft. Lauderdale Beach and saw their new souvenir cups that feature their Facebook and Twitter accounts. Being the inveterate Tweeter that I am, sent off a post:

Little did I know that @quarterdeck is some squatter named “AJ” and that the Quarterdeck I know and love is actually @Qdeck, so some dude I don’t know, and that has never made me a tasty burger, got some props off me today. Yikes. Talk about a Tweet wasted. When I got home, I looked up their account. 170 followers. Uh, oh.

Their Facebook page has 415 fans. That’s not so bad. But there were at least that many people in their Ft. Lauderdale Beach location when I was there yesterday.

I applaud your efforts,  but you could be doing so much better!

My weapon of choice was a 1980 Buick Regal. I was fortunate on two counts. One, because it was essentially a free car, a hand-me-down from my dad. Two, because it had been my dad’s car. My father, one of the most responsible and orderly people on the planet, handed me the keys to what was essentially a new car with 55,000 very law-abiding miles on it. The two-tone copper and brown paint still gleamed, the tan interior, unsullied by stray french fries, sand, or bio-matter of any sort, had no visible signs of wear. The vinyl bench seats shined from weekly Pledge furniture-polish treatments. The stock, chromed “mags” were free of road tar and brake dust. Only white-wall tires blemished its appearance.The tires had to go, so I dedicated myself to wearing those out as soon as possible. My method was to throw the car into violent left and right turns whenever traffic permitted it, whitewalls screaming in terror. This was more difficult than it sounds, and what I lacked in finesse and smoothness I more than made up for with the isometric maneuvers required to remain stationary behind the tiller, the seats being nothing more than a tuck-and-roll Slip n’ Slide. In short order, the tires offered prima facie evidence that they were indeed steel-belted, and my panic-stricken father escorted me to the local Goodyear outlet—stat.

So it was that the “Regal Beagle” now sported 205/70R14 Eagle STs. With those nice, white-lettered tires the car had now acquired—in my innocent estimation—street cred. And, pedestrian though they were, the tires were a quantum leap in performance from the expired footwear.  I was unleashed.

Regardless of the creeping red mist, here my Speed-Racer fantasies hit a bit of a snag. For the uninitiated, let me bring you up to speed on the state of mainstream American performance around the late seventies to early eighties. A 1980 Corvette with the hottest powerplant available had 235 bhp. An IROC Camaro had 190; the Mustang 5.0 GT, about the same. The proud Yankee performance heritage of the sixties and very early seventies was a quaint memory. At least by then the Mustang II had been relegated to history but the legacy of two oil crises and the declaration of Earth Day meant that all engines were smothered by the still-unperfected emissions control technology of the time.

The Regal, a would-be personal pseudo-near-luxury coupe, was a particularly good example. Its 3.8 liter pushrod V-6 (variants of which GM still foists upon twenty-first century motorists) generated 90 bhp. This is when it was new, and at the flywheel. With its approximately 3,800 lb. mass, that meant that every bowlegged, asthmatic pony was saddled with about 42 pounds. Acceleration was best timed with a sundial. Where was my street cred now?

This would not do.

But my dad, so quick to make sure that I had solid rubber under the chassis, wasn’t about to bankroll my J.C. Whitney-catalog fantasies, and my meager after-school wages were somewhat inadequate. So a little ingenuity was in order—an uninformed, foolhardy sort of ingenuity.

What do engines need? They need air, right? Let’s loosen up the bronchial passages! So it was that I spent a Saturday ripping out the cold-air induction ducting and sawing off the strangely inverted-megaphone horn on the air-cleaner housing. I also eliminated the “excess” metal from the lid, exposing the paper on a brand-new, five-dollar filter.

Total power gain: .000001 bhp.

Afterwards, I swore I could feel a more urgent tendency to rev. The sundial, however, was unimpressed.

Undeterred, I decided the exhaust end of the equation had to be altered. Another few Saturdays under the car and it was freed from its catalytic converter, its muffler and, for good measure, its EGR pump. Now, as an added bonus, I could run the Regal on cheaper, leaded gas. But, at my next fill-up I discovered that—those nasty, buzz-kill Buick bastards!—the regular gas nozzle would not fit in the hole conveniently located behind the license plate. I drove home with a nearly empty tank that was nonetheless filled with gasoline vapors and, hammer and chisel in hand, proceeded to punch out the offending metal. The fact that I am writing these words at all is ample evidence that there is some degree of benevolence to this universe.

Total power gain: 1 bhp.

As an additional benefit, the Regal now had the throaty, mellifluous exhaust note of an overloaded UPS truck. The sound alone was enough to convince anyone that I—or their consignment of sweaters from L.L. Bean—had arrived. Still, there was no getting around the fact that the Regal wasn’t getting around any faster. I could elicit tire smoke only by flat-spotting my tires. Clearly, some creativity of technique was in order. And you can probably guess what sort of creativity that was.

Lo and behold, I discovered that, if I revved the engine in neutral and then slammed the column shifter into first, the car would forcefully spin the right rear and produce suitably acrid fumes. This was a revelation, and I indulged in it whenever the opportunity presented itself, much to the amusement of my buddies. I expanded my repertoire with diligent explorations of the car’s performance envelope, using empty parking lots and deserted service roads as my test tracks. I began to experiment with low-adhesion surfaces and would revel in the summer-afternoon South Florida rains to perfect my burgeoning car-control skills. Steering with my right hand—because my left arm was out the window clamped on the door so as to stay in the Teflon-coated seat—I began to develop an understanding of the classic racing line, driving the same back-road circuit over and over, clipping apexes with varying degrees of accuracy. I learned about oversteer and understeer, four-wheel drifts and cadence braking. I learned how it feels when a car spins. Nearly two tons of inadequately insured metal, that had to get me to school and back, pirouetted off the road in slow motion. I came to rest on the shoulder, engine off, hyperventilating and chastened. For the next five miles or so.

And I would of course let loose a cloud of smoke when it struck my fancy.

It was during this journey of self-discovery that I happened upon a much more efficient method of smoke generation. Under hard cornering in tight turns, I noticed that the inside rear wheel would become unloaded and spin under power.  Armed with this data, I proceeded to one of my favorite empty parking lots for a little test. I drove the car in a circle at full lock, pedal to carpet. The inside rear spun and billowing clouds of Akron’s finest filled the air as I went round and round. It was sort of like a doughnut for the “short-bus” crowd.  I had discovered my trademark move.

It was a hit. I attained near-deity status among my cohorts, and I gave many command performances. One afternoon I was hanging out in the school parking lot with my pals. The crowd had thinned, and my buddies and I were doing a little bench racing when one of them mentions “the move.” This particular group was somewhat more diverse than my usual crowd, and it was clear they had to see it to believe it, so I decided to put on a demonstration. With an observer on board, I drove out of the main parking lot towards a set of rarely used, asphalt-surfaced basketball courts behind the gym and across from the girls’ softball field, on which practice was in progress. Once there, I stopped, cranked the wheel to full lock, and floored it. The car went round and round, and the inside rear began to spin. Huge, glorious clouds were spawned. They grew and formed an impenetrable ring obscuring the world—and in turn the Buick—from view. I kept this up longer than I ever had before and then released the wheel and the car bolted out of the cloud, trailing smoke behind. I drove back and parked just in time to see my cloud bank drift across the field lazily, enveloping the girl’s softball team in mid-play. Only then did it dawn me that maybe that hadn’t been the smartest thing to do on the premises of a Catholic high school. Luckily, I managed a hasty, yet low-key, exit. I didn’t even have time to bask in the afterglow.

This is how it came to pass that, in what remains a personal best, I dispatched a set of Goodyear Eagles in 9,000 miles. My father was not amused. It was decreed that, from that day forward, I would have to pony up for my own rubber. I couldn’t afford Goodyears, so I bought what my buddy Jorge referred to as “Scumball GTs,” basically generic tires in a hefty, 235/60R14 size. And before I could really enjoy my new investment, the Regal’s Turbo-Hydramatic three-speed expired, rather spectacularly, in an explosion of oily black smoke. They found a good half-cup of metal shavings loose in the pan. When my dad wondered how such a thing could have happened, I simply said, “Who knew Buick made such crap?”

For all the misadventures, these early driving years were quite worthwhile. For one, those 91.000001 bhp were a blessing in disguise; I didn’t have enough power to get myself into really deep trouble. More importantly, I learned real skills in that car, almost in spite of myself. Skills that served me well in the years to come and have saved my life more times than I care to remember.

By the time 1988 had rolled around, the Regal was on its last stumps. Mercilessly flogged, the chassis was more that a little creaky. With rust bubbles here and there, the car seemed intent on biodegrading. The stake through the heart was a gremlin-infested electrical system. I put a “For Sale” sign on it and waited for someone more desperate than I. With my savings, the only new car I could afford was a Hyundai Excel, so I went right out and bought a Mitsubishi Mighty Max truck which I went on to campaign successfully in SCCA Solo II. That, however, is a story for another time.

And, uh, kids, don’t try this at home.

“Would you listen to the Hispanic radio spots we just recorded for Chivas Regal?” they asked.  “Sure, I’d be happy to,” I replied.

I was handed a cassette–yes, it was that long ago–and I made my way back to my cubicle to sit down to get an earful. And, boy, did I.

What I heard was a single radio spot, but read by three different voice talents. One stereotypically Mexican, the other just as “central casting” Puerto Rican and the third labeled as “Cuban” though it was no more than what is known in Hispanic broadcasting parlance as el acento neutro, “the neutral accent.”

What in the name of all that is holy was this?

My first agency job was in the South Korean office of Ogilvy & Mather. There I was brought up on the Ogilvy “Brand Stewardship” model and a central tenet of that model was that a brand has a voice. Literally and figuratively. Why did Chivas have–in the same market–not one, but three voices?

Recording different Spanish accents for this spot made as much sense as recording “general market” Chivas spots with regional accents for different sections of the U.S. Would the voice of Chivas have a “twang” in the South? Of course not.

Fast forward to today and my work in social media. In my opinion, brands need to have a consistent voice online; a voice that belongs to the brand, and not to some appointed–and perhaps temporary–emissary.

Nowhere is this more important than on Twitter. The best brands in this space engage their followers personally, one-on-one. This requires an individual personality. If this role is assigned to someone who tweets under their real name, there is a risk that the network that individual builds will go with them when the time inevitably comes for that person to move on. The “Founder & CEO” can be an exception to this; Tony Hsieh, Founder & CEO of Zappos.com is one notable example.

In most cases though, a brand’s Twitter identities need to be brand properties that can exist in perpetuity with different individuals playing the part over time or even in shifts. McDonald’s didn’t lose Ronald when Willard Scott moved on to greener pastures, did it?

Like many creative executions with marketing purposes, branded Twitter identities should follow a creative brief not unlike the ones art directors and copywriters work from. A brief of this type should outline how the identity manifests itself–is it a “talking logo” a la @starbucks, or a character like Old Navy’s @supermodelquin? What should the tone and manner be? What sort of followers should it actively be seeking? What should the scope of its interaction be? And so on. Like any communication project, a Twitter identity should have a goal, and a plan to achieve it.

I will expand on this in a future post as I delve further into the concept. This is some pretty fertile ground and I’m sure it will lead to 1:00 AM expresso brewing when I can’t get it out of my head.

*The author of this post was born in San Juan, Puerto Rico on October 22nd, 1968.

However, some people just don’t get it. Let’s round up the usual suspects: (Numbers as of this posting.)

News Organizations

CNN: (1,258,000 followers) follows 6

CBS: (192,000) follows 80

Government Officials

Senator John McCain (522,000) follows 42

Senator Claire McCaskill (22,000) follows 1

Celebrities

Ashton Kutcher (1,494,000) follows 132

John Mayer (872,000) follows 30

This is, of course, a small sample. Yet it is representative of the some of the hubris that is alive and well online. The celebrities are one thing. They are inherently self-involved and those that slavishly follow their movements will dream of reciprocation but won’t expect to get it. The newsies and the politicians are another matter altogether: why in the world should I follow you if you won’t reciprocate?

Why should I follow CNN when the news will probably get to me faster through other–more organic–means on Twitter. The millions of Twitter users outnumber journalists in the service of mass-media outlets. The odds that a lay eyewitness will tweet a big story before any journalist even gets wind of it are increasing every day. Stories like the crash of Turkish Airlines flight 1951, the recent Mumbai terror attacks, and the US Airways Hudson River crash all broke on Twitter.

So, If you won’t follow me, what real benefit is there to following you?

The politicos? As far as most of them are concerned–and there are a few notable exceptions–Twitter is a bullhorn or a bully pulpit from whence they can shower their subjects with their wisdom and eloquence.

So, if you won’t follow me, then why should I follow you, let alone vote for you?

Twitter is a conversation. We put things out there and hopefully connect with people. Or, maybe we connect with organizations or brands. The point is that there is as much (if not more) value in the listening as there is in the speaking. (Or, as the case may be, bloviating.)

If you want to be followed, you need to be willing to follow. Fortunately for you, on Twitter you can do both.

So it is that a constant stream of lame drivel enters our lives. Kind of like an infomercial but without the charm. Suddenly it feels as if you just got a really pushy friend that keeps trying to get you to sell Amway for him. Un-follow and goodbye!

Like many of you, I have a strategic reason to be part of the Twitterverse: I want to find an audience for my inane musings, especially if I ever get around to publishing some of them in bound, dead-tree form. That said, I cannot flood the Twitterverse and my poor followers with incessant pleas for them to engage in some sort of commerce. They call this social media for a reason, and it stands to reason that any behavior that is verboten in a social encounter in meatspace is a faux pas online as well.

You have a business? Great. Welcome to the Twitterhood. We’d all love to interact with you, but please remember that we aren’t here for the sole purpose of being sold to. Socialize. Engage us. You have an offer? Sure, put it out there. Just remember that it’s also important to let us into your world from time to time. Was that Kung Pao dreadful? Let us know. Did your kid do a face plant while trying to ollie the couch? Share it with us. Bonus points for making us laugh.

But, please, pretty please with Splenda on top: don’t be another tool, will ya?

The genesis of this seems simple enough to grasp—that a message not remembered has no power over time. However, creating that very memorability is what makes this principle so easy to understand yet so very difficult to internalize and put into practice.

The human brain develops new connections in response to stimuli. It is these connections that are the basis of what we call memory. In fact, it is the growing inability to form these new pathways that marks the onset of Alzheimer’s Syndrome in the aged.

Contained in the previous paragraph is the key to memorability. New, as in “new connections” and “new pathways.” It stands to reason that the best remembered experiences are, by definition, new ones.

Miami Ad School President Pippa Seichrist has a great way of driving this point home. She’ll ask a class if they remember their first kiss. Invariably, every hand will go up. Everyone will remember when it was, who it was with and will have a very vivid recollection of the event. Then she’ll ask “Does anyone remember their 352nd kiss?” Invariably—again—no one remembers this one. It is the fresh experience that forms the new pathway and therefore creates the most meaningful impression.

In order for your work to be memorable it must provide some measure of that “first kiss” experience. It must create that “never seen/heard before” impression that is present in the best films, the best music, the best art, and the funniest jokes.

Take this example: eleven years ago, a graduating team from the South Beach location had a wonderful campaign for an electric shaver that featured a print ad depicting a Saguaro cactus shorn of it’s needles, ostensibly by the shaver. Within the context of the time, circa 1998, this was original, fresh and memorable. It lives vividly in the synapses of those who saw it then. If you were to see the very same ad for the first time today you would have a very different reaction. Over the years you have been exposed to similar ads using similar visual metaphors many times. Therefore, your “first time” with this genre of ad happened a long time ago. There is no room in your brain for a fresh pathway, only one more connection in the memory bank your brain has assigned to visual ads, which is chock-full of very similar images. In short, the experience is not new to you and therefore does not create a memorable impression. Very much like that 352nd kiss. Well, actually, it’s not as good. Kisses being what they are, each of them is enjoyable in it’s own way. Played-out ads, jokes or songs just make you groan.

In order to be relevant, pertinent and effective, communication needs to give the viewer a first-time experience. That is why this business is so demanding and the job so difficult and so rewarding.

Welcome and please subscribe. I promise to make it at least somewhat enjoyable!