Building a good website, cutting good hair
When I take on a new project, I tend to take the tack of "I'm going to give you a good website, whether you like it or not." This usually happens when the client can't really articulate his needs anyway, and my team is pretty much expected to take control and make everything look good. (Ok, it's probably also symptomatic of the journalist in me for whom "client" is still a nasty word.)
However, a recent trip to a new hair stylist has had me evaluating client relationships and questioning my methodology. On a friend's recommendation, I landed at the mercy of Sally*, who explained to me that her job was to give me the best haircut for my face, but she wanted to hear my perspective first. Here’s a sampling of our exchange:
Despite my feeble protests, Sally gave me the haircut that she wanted. I admit that it looks good, but it looks anchorwoman good; I can see that it's flattering, but it's not a reflection of my personality. Plus, I feel bullied into acquiescing to her scissors. I vacillate between complacency and tears, and I feel that there's no way that I can return to Sally's salon.
I'm left to marvel at Sally's client relationship techniques. She's willing to bank on her results speaking for themselves, which is not so different from my approach to Web strategy. Still, the key is how you get there. Genuinely hearing out other ideas and taking the time to work out mutually agreeable solutions can do wonders for a client's ultimate satisfaction, and the final result will certainly be more Frédéric Fekkai than Supercuts.
*name changed.
However, a recent trip to a new hair stylist has had me evaluating client relationships and questioning my methodology. On a friend's recommendation, I landed at the mercy of Sally*, who explained to me that her job was to give me the best haircut for my face, but she wanted to hear my perspective first. Here’s a sampling of our exchange:
Me: I really love having bangs and a middle part; I never gotten so many compliments. This is the haircut I want.
Sally: That's gonna draw attention right to the center of your face. You have a big nose.
Despite my feeble protests, Sally gave me the haircut that she wanted. I admit that it looks good, but it looks anchorwoman good; I can see that it's flattering, but it's not a reflection of my personality. Plus, I feel bullied into acquiescing to her scissors. I vacillate between complacency and tears, and I feel that there's no way that I can return to Sally's salon.
I'm left to marvel at Sally's client relationship techniques. She's willing to bank on her results speaking for themselves, which is not so different from my approach to Web strategy. Still, the key is how you get there. Genuinely hearing out other ideas and taking the time to work out mutually agreeable solutions can do wonders for a client's ultimate satisfaction, and the final result will certainly be more Frédéric Fekkai than Supercuts.
*name changed.
Religious profiling on facebook?
On no part of my facebook profile do I specify religion. Yet, this ad greeted me this morning when I logged on:
How does this happen? Are the ads targeting specific last names? Did they somehow trace my lone attempt at a viral video? I'm half-expecting to get suggestions to call my mother on my next sign-in.
How does this happen? Are the ads targeting specific last names? Did they somehow trace my lone attempt at a viral video? I'm half-expecting to get suggestions to call my mother on my next sign-in.
I am, like, so not buying that
Retailer Urban Outfitters has made the Facebook Like button central to the way the company is marketing its products online. Visitors to the Urban Outfitters web site are now greeting [sic] by a large thumbs up asking them to "See our most Liked items."-- "Urban Outfitters Makes Facebook Likes Featured Items"
No word yet on whether Urban Outfitters will also group likes by location. I mean, if I see that 50 people in my 4-block radius "like" the same slouchy cardigan, I'm sure as hell not buying it. The horror!
Evolution of a content strategist
Fifth grade: For the first time, I answer "writer" when asked what I want to be when I grow up. My best narratives include hot dogs.
High school sophomore: I sign my parents up for AOL and get my first email address.
High school junior: I am a JERE (Junior English Review Exercises) master, which is a good thing, because my teacher rarely grades a paper above a B+.
High school senior: I read Hamlet. I score a 5 on the AP English exam. Iwoo sit next to boys in the library while using Netscape.
College freshman: I join the daily newspaper and the school's telnet.
College sophomore: I take Computing on the Internet and build my first webpage via the my free student access. My content is 95% devoted to my time on the Florida Panthers rat patrol.
College junior: My Writer's London instructor is appalled to hear that I'm a psych major. I switch to English when I return from abroad.
First job: I push content from a weekly newspaper to its website. I surf the Web, start a blog, and join Friendster. I master the peculiarities of a new CMS. I publish my first story and email the online version to my parents.
Second job: I help build websites to accompany long-form news documentaries, learn volumes about storytelling and current events while embracing impeccable standards, and contribute promotional ideas that stick. I know the AP stylebook cover to cover, but I remain loyal to the Oxford comma in my personal life.
Third job: I provide editorial oversight for the website of an educational institution. I exercise diplomacy in office politics and preach about the good of the whole. Not just writing and editing, I weigh in on design and information architecture decisions. I attend An Event Apart 2009 and hear Kristina Halvorson speak. She shows the diagram of all of the jobs that touch on content strategy, and I think, "Holy crap, that’s me!"
High school sophomore: I sign my parents up for AOL and get my first email address.
High school junior: I am a JERE (Junior English Review Exercises) master, which is a good thing, because my teacher rarely grades a paper above a B+.
High school senior: I read Hamlet. I score a 5 on the AP English exam. I
College freshman: I join the daily newspaper and the school's telnet.
College sophomore: I take Computing on the Internet and build my first webpage via the my free student access. My content is 95% devoted to my time on the Florida Panthers rat patrol.
College junior: My Writer's London instructor is appalled to hear that I'm a psych major. I switch to English when I return from abroad.
First job: I push content from a weekly newspaper to its website. I surf the Web, start a blog, and join Friendster. I master the peculiarities of a new CMS. I publish my first story and email the online version to my parents.
Second job: I help build websites to accompany long-form news documentaries, learn volumes about storytelling and current events while embracing impeccable standards, and contribute promotional ideas that stick. I know the AP stylebook cover to cover, but I remain loyal to the Oxford comma in my personal life.
Third job: I provide editorial oversight for the website of an educational institution. I exercise diplomacy in office politics and preach about the good of the whole. Not just writing and editing, I weigh in on design and information architecture decisions. I attend An Event Apart 2009 and hear Kristina Halvorson speak. She shows the diagram of all of the jobs that touch on content strategy, and I think, "Holy crap, that’s me!"
80 Penguins. 80 Personalities. Zero Web Presence
This summer, Boston has been plastered by the New England Aquarium's latest ad campaign, which focuses on their most memorable asset: the penguins that captivate visitors at the entrance level of their facility.
It’s a perfect alignment of sass, cuteness, and the mission of an institution known for its meticulous caretaking of animals. The campaign has appeared in complete subway station buyouts, on billboards, and at bus stops. Only the most oblivious Boston residents have missed it.
However, pay a visit to the aquarium's homepage, and there is zero carryover. Sure, the penguins have a presence, but the tone and imagery from the campaign are nowhere to be seen.
Sadly, I know this struggle all too well. In the non-profit environment, it's a daily challenge to coordinate between the Web and more traditional forms of marketing. Third-party projects are the toughest of all to track, because only the primary agency contacts see the results before they hit the street. Even if the all parties are game for keeping up, they likely lack the bandwidth to handle a coordinated marketing campaign, no matter how brilliant.
However, imagine if they did? Maybe it doesn't require additional resources so much as a plan that anticipates the need. With enough lead time (easier said than done in this world) and buy-in from the right parties (the all-too-rare synergy that we wish we had but traditionally lack), there could be a seamless brand experience, from the street to the Web, and back.
I wonder how often this is taken into consideration when creating a content strategy, to offer the nimbleness necessary to bring a homepage in line with each major ad campaign -- and to have an ad campaign that considers the Web. Building it in from the beginning at least offers a fighting chance that online visitors seeking a continued experience will arrive delighted, rather than disappointed.
It’s a perfect alignment of sass, cuteness, and the mission of an institution known for its meticulous caretaking of animals. The campaign has appeared in complete subway station buyouts, on billboards, and at bus stops. Only the most oblivious Boston residents have missed it.
However, pay a visit to the aquarium's homepage, and there is zero carryover. Sure, the penguins have a presence, but the tone and imagery from the campaign are nowhere to be seen.
Sadly, I know this struggle all too well. In the non-profit environment, it's a daily challenge to coordinate between the Web and more traditional forms of marketing. Third-party projects are the toughest of all to track, because only the primary agency contacts see the results before they hit the street. Even if the all parties are game for keeping up, they likely lack the bandwidth to handle a coordinated marketing campaign, no matter how brilliant.
However, imagine if they did? Maybe it doesn't require additional resources so much as a plan that anticipates the need. With enough lead time (easier said than done in this world) and buy-in from the right parties (the all-too-rare synergy that we wish we had but traditionally lack), there could be a seamless brand experience, from the street to the Web, and back.
I wonder how often this is taken into consideration when creating a content strategy, to offer the nimbleness necessary to bring a homepage in line with each major ad campaign -- and to have an ad campaign that considers the Web. Building it in from the beginning at least offers a fighting chance that online visitors seeking a continued experience will arrive delighted, rather than disappointed.
Re-revisiting Upstairs at Eric's
While poking fun at a '90s cover band at a recent meetup, I tried to gauge the age of the guy with whom I was chatting (btw, so nice to meet you; call me). I alluded to how I attended '80s parties back in my college days, “you know, when it was cool.” I’m not sure the reference hit the mark. This was before the resurgence of booties, goomies, and tunics, when the promise of "Come on, Eileen" and "Bizarre Love Triangle" did not elicit bouts of over-played nausea.
During this time, I bought Yaz's Upstairs at Erics, much to the befuddlement of my internship boss, who remembered it from high school. The album includes the hit, "Only You," which I knew as a camp song tune, but there's also the timeless "Bad Connection" and synth-heavy melodrama of "Goodbye Seventies." As I listen again, 10 years later, I hear shades of Discovery, MGMT, and Passion Pit, and the album is as relevant as ever. The '90s covers, on the other hand, could have stayed where they were.
goodbye and thank you, Senator Byrd
On a hot day in late July 2004, I saw Sen. Ted Kennedy introduce Sen. Robert Byrd in an overstuffed church in Cambridge.
It was convention week, and I remember spending each day out around town with my friends, soaking up the atmosphere as hoards of Democrats converged on Boston. We were tepidly hopeful, knowing even before his official nomination that Kerry was a weak horse to back. Still, in this church, for a brief moment, Robert Byrd transported us to more idealistic times, even as he pulled no punches in criticizing the current presidency:
On the mention of the second book, he took a worn copy of the Constitution from his breast pocket, a gesture that I later learned was one of his trademarks. I had the vague sense that I was catching a sliver of democracy amidst all of our cynicism and detachment, and I was grateful.
Read the full speech.
It was convention week, and I remember spending each day out around town with my friends, soaking up the atmosphere as hoards of Democrats converged on Boston. We were tepidly hopeful, knowing even before his official nomination that Kerry was a weak horse to back. Still, in this church, for a brief moment, Robert Byrd transported us to more idealistic times, even as he pulled no punches in criticizing the current presidency:
It is the Constitution of the United States that has been undermined, undercut, and is under attack. It is the American people's liberties that is in jeopardy. That is why I wrote Losing America. I wrote this book to save this book.
On the mention of the second book, he took a worn copy of the Constitution from his breast pocket, a gesture that I later learned was one of his trademarks. I had the vague sense that I was catching a sliver of democracy amidst all of our cynicism and detachment, and I was grateful.
Read the full speech.
oh, did it rain?
For the past 24 hours, local meteorologists have been a frenzy over the unique weather pattern that was headed in our direction. Part cautionary, part giddy, they speculated micro-bursts, hail, even a tornado. This morning I armed myself with an umbrella and cast a wary eye to the (sunny) sky. Fearing the worst this evening when the sky turned apocalyptic, I tucked into the BPL for an author talk by David Herlihy regarding his latest, The Lost Cyclist.
As Herlihy detailed the timeline of 19th century bicycle enthusiast Frank Lenz and his ill-fated determination to ride around the world, we could hear the rain faintly tapping outside the library's sturdy facade. Through the ornate window slats of the Abbey room -- gorgeous with dark paneling and stunning Sargent murals -- I glimpsed flags flapping in the vicious wind. With each photo from Herlihy's powerpoint, I sank deeper into Lunz's improbable story, crossing the U.S. before hopping a boat to Hawaii, then Japan, then China. He was repairing flats on tires he had barely seen before ("safety" bikes had just been introduced as an alternative to high-wheels). He carried wheel covers that said something to the effect of "bicycle tourist riding around the world" translated into several different languages.
Around the point when Herlihy explained how Lenz disappeared somewhere in Turkey, the skies brightened. Soon after, I stepped back outside onto sidewalks newly cleansed by rain, and then sun.
As Herlihy detailed the timeline of 19th century bicycle enthusiast Frank Lenz and his ill-fated determination to ride around the world, we could hear the rain faintly tapping outside the library's sturdy facade. Through the ornate window slats of the Abbey room -- gorgeous with dark paneling and stunning Sargent murals -- I glimpsed flags flapping in the vicious wind. With each photo from Herlihy's powerpoint, I sank deeper into Lunz's improbable story, crossing the U.S. before hopping a boat to Hawaii, then Japan, then China. He was repairing flats on tires he had barely seen before ("safety" bikes had just been introduced as an alternative to high-wheels). He carried wheel covers that said something to the effect of "bicycle tourist riding around the world" translated into several different languages.
Around the point when Herlihy explained how Lenz disappeared somewhere in Turkey, the skies brightened. Soon after, I stepped back outside onto sidewalks newly cleansed by rain, and then sun.
tell your friends, warn the neighbors
same blog, new look, a new outlook.
my tax dollars, hard at work
sarcastically: the local tennis court is sloped, worn to asphalt, gum-ridden, and smells like piss.
literally: while the greater Boston area deals with a boil-water order thanks to a "catastrophic" broken water main, the People's Republic enjoys fresh, clean water from its own untainted supply.
literally: while the greater Boston area deals with a boil-water order thanks to a "catastrophic" broken water main, the People's Republic enjoys fresh, clean water from its own untainted supply.
