The Promotional Idea Showcase - Summer 2002
- Updated
Quarterly
|
From The Inside |
| If you’re a regular
reader, you know I use the first person infrequently; an editorial
should focus on its subject, not its writer. But every tenet has an
exception ... Having written about them almost 18 years, I’m one of logoed products’ biggest proponents. I honestly, wholly believe in – and will tell whoever asks — their effectiveness (cost and otherwise), PR-generating power, practicality, longevity, ability to accomplish numerous business goals and overall superiority to certain other ad media. What you read between these covers is nothing I don’t accept myself. As a journalist, that is. The flipside of the die-cast medallion is that, being in a position where you hear about, see, touch and discuss promotional products on a daily basis, you tend to become somewhat — what’s the word? Jaded; that’s it – about them on a personal level. While I’m certain of all they can achieve, I’m just as sure that, because I know so much about why and how they work, that they could never work on me. I’d analyze the situation too much. Or so I thought. On January 19, my mom passed away. If you’ve never experienced losing a parent, two things happen. First, you realize that it didn’t matter how old they were, it’s not old enough. And second, no matter how old you are, you’re still, somewhere way far down, the child who once knew no other world beyond them. The initial shockwave of cold, bleak loss that hits is staggering in its depth, intensity and reach, despite how much you think you’re prepared for or can deal with it. For the first few weeks, it’s damn near paralyzing. I’m an only child (unspoiled; trust me). My dad’s been in a nursing home (physically, not mentally) since October. And I very quickly discovered there weren’t a hell of a lot of friends or family I could depend on. Still, things had to be done. Not that I remember much; making arrangements with the funeral director was a gray blur. Fortunately, the funeral home was ultra-professional. Every detail was handled to the utmost, from the viewing to the church to the cemetery. Nothing was forgotten. Nothing was rushed. The staff went beyond out of its way to ensure this. As close to perfect as I could conceive. Unfortunately, with my mind racing in 24,673 different directions, I never noticed one iota of this. Even when I was handed two heavy plastic totebags filled with funeral paraphernalia, I just tossed them in the trunk. Days later, sorting through the sympathy cards and papers, I noticed other things. The bags themselves, a calming charcoal shade, were discreetly logoed with the funeral parlor’s info — readable, but not glaring; you’d never hesitate to re-use them. Inside the guest book, also discreetly imprinted, were several pockets. One held 20 laminated prayer cards, along with a personal note from the director expressing his sympathy. These were, in turn, inside a quietly logoed vinyl card holder. The boxes of thank-you cards – even the extras I eventually needed — included an attractive pen, again subtly imprinted. Finally, there was a tasteful, logoed calendar with another note of thanks. All told, these items might represent $10 to $12 worth of merchandise. But – to paraphrase a certain credit-card commercial – the warm feelings they created inside me were priceless. The convenience of the pens. The thoughtfulness of the cards and holder. The handiness of the calendar. And those feelings were intensified two weeks later when I received yet another note of thanks, a survey and another pen. The products? Nothing special in and of themselves. But in that context, they made me – Mr. Jaded – not only appreciate the funeral home, but remember it. In fact, if anyone ever asks me to recommend one, (a bizarre but necessary inquiry) guess who gets my vote? Funny; that’s just what promotional products are supposed to do. So once again I can say – from personal experience — they work. Believe it. Thanks for reading. Arn Bernstein |