dear jen, let me first say that while i made a joke at your expense on my homepage, i think you might be ready to hear what i have to say. you may be rich and skinny but no one’s “just fine” all the time, no matter how many magazines you try to convince otherwise (lindsay and britney, i’m looking in your direction). i bet i’d like you a little more if you dropped the fembot act and admitted that you spent last weekend binging on pizza and ring dings while indulging in a molly ringwald film fest and petting your cat. it would make you real, and i wouldn’t feel so weird for doing it, too (note to self: buy more hot fudge).

sure, you had your heart broken while the world watched, your career goes up and down more than a playground teeter totter at recess and we still have to witness the effects of that stupid “rachel” haircut. i’m betting that a well-meaning publicist told you to put on a happy face and focus on your triumphs rather than your slumps but sister, listen up. this mama suggests you drop the bs and come down to non-hollywood, regular gal level.

i have seen my friends freak out after a dude screws them over (and guess what; none of those dudes even come close to looking like brad pitt, john mayer or gerard butler). i have ridden shotgun while they stalked their ex’s facebook profile for any photographic evidence of the chick he’s now “involved” with. i have stood by their side as we trashed, mocked and hurled voodoo curses towards girlfriend 2.0. we were not kind. we did not smile graciously. we did not pretend to be happy about it. we wanted vengeance, but due to the fact that we are civilians with nothing more than a few social network followers and a bad attitude rather than being international stars of stage and screen, we didn’t experience any sense of accomplishment or closure. you, on the other hand, have the media on speed dial. you, my dear, could be the voice of bitter women everywhere.

we’re a gigantic population, you know. we buy overpriced organic foods in pretty packages, drink plenty of moderately-priced wine (also in pretty packages) and spontaneously purchase a lot of random, unnecessary stuff (look in my closet and you’ll see what i mean). if you shelved the “i’m a strong woman who doesn’t let anything get me down” act, everyone with a product aimed at women our age would be beating down your door with an endorsement deal. yeah, yeah…i know you did a vitamin water campaign a while back, but i’ve certainly never met anyone who drinks that stuff. slap your mug on something a little more exciting, though, and i’m gonna pay attention.

but please…less “love happens” and “he’s just not that into you” and more “friends with money” and “the good girl.” after all, quality really does attract quality…unless you’re not looking for mr. prince charming and you really are just fine – if that’s the case, then you should probably just put the kibosh on answering relationship questions. that whole pollyanna attitude is so not hot.

your pal,
carrie

It’s no secret that I’m more than a little obsessed with pop culture. I’m ok with the fact that I can spout off the names of all the Jolie/Pitt babies but I don’t know my kid’s social security number. I don’t mind that I can sing most any pop song recorded from 1974-2000 but I can’t remember what I wore yesterday. However, there are a few things I’d like to purge from my brain, including but not limited to every tune from the “Cocktail” soundtrack, a few tipsy evenings over the years and the entire existence of Jon and Kate Gosselin.

Hey! Have you heard that Jon and Kate have onetwothreefourfivesixsevenEIGHT kids? Didja know that Kate is super bitchy and has a reverse mullet? Maybe you’ve read that Jon is a cheater, cheater birthday cake eater…how does this enhance our lives at all? I’m putting my money on the fact that it doesn’t. Not even a teeny tiny bit. In fact, I can feel my brain cells committing suicide as I write this.

So nobody was surprised when the Gosselins announced that they would be divorcing. The mister had already been photographed a few dozen times with his young lady friend, and had even jetted away to Utah for a weekend of skiing and who knows what else, where he was-you guessed it-snapped sitting in the VIP area of a media-covered event with “the other woman.” On his wife’s birthday. Not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.

I read over the weekend that Ed Hardy designer Christian Audigier was now Jon’s BFF and they had met up on Audigier’s yacht in St. Tropez in the French Riviera to discuss a possible children’s clothing line (the new girlfriend was along for the ride; she’s the daughter of the doc that did dear ol’ Kate’s tummy tuck). According to People Magazine: “Audigier tells PEOPLE that he approached Gosselin with the idea after noticing that the reality show dad often wore his tattoo-inspired T-shirts on Jon and Kate Plus Eight. “He’s huge,” says the French designer, who may also collaborate with Gosselin on a specialty motorcycle collection. “Everyone knows this family. And everyone will know our clothes. They’ll be fun, easy clothes for kids.”

I would like to go on record saying that this is a really, really dumb idea.

The dude has no apparel experience other than wearing clothes. He’s not plugged into the world of childrenswear (last time I checked the children were ALWAYS dressed alike, mostly courtesy of Gymboree, which is about as far from Ed Hardy as you can get). He’s dopey and mumbly. And he has very questionable taste, to say the least.

The latest report from Audigier’s rep says the line isn’t really happening, despite the fact that they seemed pretty cozy just a few days ago. Maybe someone was smart enough to stand up at the Monday morning staff meeting and threaten to go on a hunger strike if they hired a guy who’s biggest claim to fame is that he spawned a bunch of kids and then exploited them on television. Maybe someone realized that having the marble-mouthed public adulterer as a brand ambassador is a no-no. Or maybe Gosselin’s asking price was too high. Who knows. For the love of tattooed-inspired tee shirts, phone accessories, trucker caps and bottled water, keep that man away from the cameras. And your college-age daughters.

The time was 1987. The place; Somerset, KY. I was a 13 year old dork with braces, an Olgilvie Home Perm and a few crazy dreams…

One of my dreams was to marry Ricky Schroder. We’d move to Hollywood and shack up in that swell mansion he lived in on “Silver Spoons.” Another was to publish a best-selling novel. Never mind that I had no idea what I wanted to write about. But the dream that seemed the most doable was the dream of being on the Canadian hit “Degrassi Junior High.”

Degrassi was a soap opera for kids. It was your typical “After School Special” fare, which then spun off into “Degrassi High.” There I learned what to do in case of date rape, teenage pregnancy, parental death and the development of an eating disorder. Thanks, guys!

The thing I liked best about the Degrassi empire (I’m now totally caught up on Degrassi: The Next Generation, now airing on The N) was that they never dumbed it down for teenagers. Young people aren’t dumb; they just act like it sometimes (and uh, so do adults). They can tell when they’re being treated like idiots. Now that I’m a mom I try to take the same approach. My 11 and 8 year olds aren’t ready to hear about abortion but you better believe they know how a baby is made – and how to keep that from happening. The creators and writers of Degrassi respected their audience and as a result, 35 year old chicks such as myself are still watching, all these years later. Their brand works. And yes, I’m still holding out hope that one day I’ll get my showbiz break in the halls of Degrassi Community School. Linda Schuyler and Stephen Stohn, I’m ready for my close up…

Denny’s just launched their new late-night Rockstar Menu. I got pretty excited when I heard that, mainly because I always wondered what Anthony Kiedis from The Red Hot Chili Peppers would taste like, but much to my chagrin, it’s the traditional diner fare that they’re talking about. The menu, which is available from 10 pm to 5 am, boasts such entrees as “The Sumwich,” created by Sum 41, “Band of Burritos,” from Good Charlotte, “After School Special,” courtesy of Gym Class Heroes and “Unstoppable Breakfast,” from Rascal Flatts. OK, so these bands aren’t exactly number one on my hit parade, but I applaud the concept.

Denny’s is even throwing after-show parties for up and coming bands, and pipes in rock and country music during the Rockstar Menu hours. Stereo Skyline, a new act out of Long Island, told the Wall Street Journal that the promotion helped broaden their exposure. After a June 12 performance in Anaheim, Calif., more than 100 fans came to a Denny’s for an after-party. “It’s nice to be able to have an hour or two to sit down and meet with our fans,” says lead singer Kevin Bard, age 18. Next up: Jewel gets creative in the Denny’s kitchen. Till then, I’ll be patiently waiting for my Red Hot Chili (with peppers, of course – and side of Anthony Kiedis, too).

I always thought Billy Mays was cool and kitschy; hey, he was so good at his job that he made me believe I couldn’t live without OxyClean (turns out he was right – that stuff really does work). It wasn’t until my eight year old daughter, Stella, became obsessed with him that I really started paying attention, though. Stella called herself “Billy Mays’ Number One Fan,” and I don’t think she was kidding. She referenced him at least 10 times a day, recorded every episode of “Pitchmen” and did a fantastic impression of him. She thought he was handsome and smart. Billy Mays made my little girl happy, and that made me happy, too.

Last week I wrote about Michael Jackson, the brand. I’m not into re-runs so I’ll spare you the same peptalk on Mr. Mays, but it goes without saying that Billy Mays himself was just as marketable as the products he promoted. His booming voice, enthusiastic delivery and signature dark hair and beard made him the perfect pitchman. He will be dearly missed and my love goes out to his family (I’m connected with his son Billy via Twitter and MySpace) and friends.

Whenever I’m feeling stressed or sad, Stella performs the “Billy Mays Rap” for me. It always, always cheers me up. After the week of tragedy that’s just passed (the deaths of Ed McMahon, Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Philadelphia writer Steven Wells, Philadelphia promoter Rian Thal and avid Tweeter Megan Porter (@MegaPixel), I think we’re all in need of something to put a smile on our face.

Michael Jackson was one of the most important men in my life from the time I was 8 until I was about 13. The “Thriller” video came out on December 2, 1983, almost a month before I turned 10, and I would sit in front of the TV for hours, waiting for MTV to play it again so I could memorize the zombie dance. We played the entire album at my birthday party; imagine 20 4th graders invading a pizza parlor and belting out the hits at the top of their lungs. I even saved up to buy a pair of red parachute pants because my mom thought they were tacky. His later behavior was absolutely strange and questionable, and even though my taste in tunes (and fashion) evolved, I always found joy in his music…

Whether you liked his music or not, or despite the fact that he was a tragic, possibly criminal, figure, Michael Jackson transcended being a person and became a brand. When people heard his name, they immediately drew a connection, recalled a memory (like I do of my birthday pizza party) or had a reaction. Sure, many people have a strong negative reaction, but that’s not necessarily the point. The brand recognition that Michael Jackson attained is rare; most companies or personalities would be thrilled to achieve a smidge of his profile level. On a personal level, I feel such sadness for the turmoil he must have felt from a young age. From a marketing perspective, I’m impressed at his reach, consumer base and accomplishments. And the publicist in me is just relieved I never had to do that kind of damage control.

I know millions of people around the world are thinking about Michael Jackson today. I choose to remember his amazing contributions to pop culture rather than judge his later personal life, of which I have no firsthand knowledge. Say what you will, but less than 24 hours after his last breath I’d like to do my part to help him finally rest in peace. After all, I’m a brand loyalist.

PS. DJ DeeJay, my dear friend and occasional personal advisor, is probably the biggest Michael Jackson fan I know. His legendary MMP (Michael Madonna Prince) parties consistently draw a sold out crowd, and he always knows just the right song to play at just the right time. Tonight he’s spinning MJ at The Barbary, and it’s going to be epic. If I weren’t 12 hours away I would be the first in line. Get on the list to receive reduced admission; doors open at 9 and drinks and PBRs are just $1 until 11 pm.

It’s a terribly long, dull drive down I-95 from Philadelphia to Murrells Inlet, SC. A “let’s leave at 5:30 am and drive all day by myself with my two kids,” kind of drive. The landscape is dotted by countless Cracker Barrels, truck stops, surly State Troopers and the occasional outlet mall. Oh, and a couple of billboards for this low-key joint called “South of the Border” that’s totally trying to fly under the radar…

Those guys at South of the Border must have really taken the whole Rule of Repetition Marketing to heart. Never heard of South of the Border, which lies right on the North Carolina/South Carolina line? Then clearly you’ve never made the trip down to what has been occasionally referred to as “The Redneck Riviera.” (See, my parents live down here so I can joke about that. It’s like someone insulting your spouse; you can say whatever you want but a pox upon anyone who dares to utter an unkind word about your lovie. But I digress…)

Starting about 175 miles away, strange and slightly surreal neon-colored billboards dominate the sides of 95 advertising a mini universe of tacky tee-shirt shacks, an ice cream parlor, restaurants, gas stations and my favorite, “The Dirty Old Man Shop.” The fictitious host of this mish-moshed place is a character called Pedro, who, up until 1997, was such a racist stereotype that I’m amazed that they were allowed to remain as long as they did. In 1993, the Mexican Embassy complained about the billboards in a letter to South of the Border owner Alan Schafer. His response was to suggest the embassy consider the $1.5 million in merchandise he imports from Mexico each year. In a statement to The Raleigh News and Observer, Schafer stated “We have to communicate with the present generation — these baby boomers do not have a sense of humor.” You stay classy, Mr. Schafer!

Our pal Pedro is still the affable guide to all the tourist poo you’ll ever need, but he’s a kinder, more sensitive Pedro than he was before. With taglines such as “Pedro’s Weather Forecast: Chili today, hot tamale!” and “You Never Sausage a Place! (You’re Always a Wiener at Pedro’s!),” these ads aren’t exactly going to win you over based on their original copy or groundbreaking delivery methods. However, you sure as hell aren’t going to drive by Exit 1 without noticing the 165-ft. tall Sombrero Tower, and I’d bet my allowance on the fact that they don’t get everyone in the car assessing their need for fireworks and tequila. Are the South of the Border billboards annoying? Oh yeah. Did they achieve what they set out to do, which, I’m assuming, is build brand recognition?

Pedro and I both agree: without a doubt, the answer is sí.

Repetition works for them, but does it work for your brand? Are your customers tuning your message out unless you slap them in the head with it at least 100 times, or will they slap you if you even think of trying? Unless you’re paying close attention to exactly what people are saying about the way you speak to them, you have no serious way of knowing if all those ad dollars are being well spent. Statistics and impressions are one thing, but nothing will ever take the place of getting the scoop straight from the source. And what’s a solid way to find out what the word on the street is? Social media monitoring.

But we’ll get to that later. These Roman Candles and sparklers aren’t going to light themselves.