My Brain Remembers 1983, but Advertising Has Forgotten the Truth

Two things about modern civilization concern me. First, the human brain has apparently decided that information from 1983 deserves permanent storage, while anything useful today can be discarded without warning. Second, advertising has become so detached from reality that I wouldn’t be surprised to see a company market a cardboard box as a luxury residential experience.

Fortunately, I’ve been investigating both problems. Unfortunately, my findings suggest that we’re all idiots.

PART ONE: My Brain Is Running Windows 1983

I can still remember my best friend’s telephone number from 1983... 555-2746. It didn't even require an area code; that's how far back some of us go! I haven’t called that number in more than forty years. For all I know, it now belongs to a dentist, a bowling alley, or a retired woman named Mildred who is sick of hearing from people looking for Kevin. But I remember it. Perfectly. Seven digits, permanently engraved somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind.

Ask me for my current best friend’s number? No idea. My sister’s number? Couldn’t tell you. My doctor’s office? Absolutely not. My own phone number? Well, give me a minute. I think it starts with a four.

We’ve outsourced our memories to little glass rectangles, and now our brains are using the available storage space to preserve information that became irrelevant during the Iran-Contra hearings. I can remember entire television commercials from the 1970s. Not just the slogans. THE MUSIC. Every note. Every ridiculous lyric. Somewhere in my head, an enthusiastic chorus is still singing about a breakfast cereal that hasn’t existed since Gerald Ford was president.

And my brain apparently considers this information priceless. “Sir, we have limited storage capacity. Should we retain your emergency contact information?” “No. Delete that. But make absolutely certain we preserve the complete jingle for a discontinued floor wax.” “Very good, sir.” “Also, keep the telephone number for the pizza place that closed in 1987.” “Excellent choice.”

I can remember the address of my childhood home, the license plate on my mother’s old car, and the exact sound of a television announcer promising that a particular laundry detergent would make whites whiter. Whiter than WHAT? Apparently, we never asked. We just sang along.

Meanwhile, if my smartphone disappeared tomorrow, my ability to communicate with the outside world would collapse faster than a lawn chair under Uncle Pat at a family reunion. Imagine the scene. You’ve lost your phone. You approach a stranger. “Excuse me, could I borrow your phone? I need to call my brother.” “Sure. What’s his number?” Silence. “Well, his name is Mike.” “Okay?” “He’s in my contacts.” “Right.” “Under Mike.” “Sir, I need the number.” “I DON’T HAVE THE NUMBER. THAT’S WHY I NEED MY PHONE!”

The stranger slowly retrieves his device. You attempt to explain that your brother lives somewhere in Ohio, drives a silver SUV, and has a dog named Pickles. None of this helps. You could identify the man’s childhood bicycle, tell stories about the time he broke his arm in 1979, and recite the lyrics to every commercial aired during the Carter administration. But you cannot contact him.

Eventually, the stranger suggests calling someone else. “How about your wife?” “Nope.” “Your parents?” “Nope.” “Your best friend?” “Not since 1983.” “Emergency services?” “THOSE I KNOW!”

We’ve reached a point where the average person can summon a pizza, transfer money internationally, and watch a live video of a penguin in Antarctica using a smartphone. But take away that smartphone, and we’re wandering around civilization like amnesiacs with excellent knowledge of vintage breakfast cereals.

I propose that we begin memorizing telephone numbers again. Just three. One family member. One trusted friend. And one person willing to come get us when we’ve locked ourselves out of our digital lives. Unfortunately, my brain has rejected the proposal. It says there’s no room. Apparently, it’s saving space for the complete theme song from The Love Boat.

PART TWO: The Last Honest Man in Advertising

His name was Leonard B. Crump. Until recently, he was a moderately successful advertising executive with thirty-two years of experience convincing people to buy things they didn’t particularly need. Leonard understood the industry. He knew that ordinary soap could become a “luxurious cleansing experience.” He knew a bottle of water could be “mountain-inspired hydration.” He once helped market a plastic storage container as a “lifestyle organization solution.”

Then, one Tuesday morning, Leonard suffered what his colleagues described as a catastrophic professional breakdown. He began telling the truth.

It started with a meeting about scented garbage bags. The client had developed a new product called Berry Blast. The bags were purple. They smelled vaguely of artificial grapes. The marketing team prepared an elaborate presentation featuring smiling families, fresh fruit, and a kitchen so immaculate it looked like nobody had ever cooked in it. The proposed slogan was: “Transform Your Trash Into a Refreshing Burst of Berry Bliss!”

Leonard studied the presentation. Then he raised his hand. “May I ask a question?” The room fell silent. “Has anybody actually put garbage in one of these?” The account manager blinked. “Well, Leonard, the product is designed to create a more pleasant waste-disposal experience.” “Yes, but has anybody put a rotting chicken thigh in one?” Nobody answered. Leonard continued. “Because I did. Yesterday. And I can tell you exactly what happens.” He leaned forward. “Your garbage still smells like rotting chicken. Except now it smells like somebody spilled grape jelly on the corpse.”

A horrified silence descended over the conference table. Leonard nodded. “Still heinous. But with grapes.”

The client demanded a new slogan. Leonard supplied one. “BERRY BLAST GARBAGE BAGS: YOUR TRASH STILL STINKS, BUT AT LEAST IT HAS BERRIES!”

The client immediately removed him from the account. But something extraordinary happened. Sales increased. Customers loved the honesty. Within weeks, Leonard had become the most sought-after, and most feared, advertising executive in America.

His next assignment involved breakfast cereal. The company wanted a campaign emphasizing nutrition, energy, and family togetherness. Leonard tasted the product. He examined the ingredients. Then he unveiled his proposal. “NOW WITH LESS SUGAR THAN THE ORIGINAL! STILL MORE THAN YOU’D PUT IN COFFEE!” The executives objected. Leonard shrugged. “Would you prefer I mention that the box is forty percent air?” Sales increased again.

A luxury cologne manufacturer hired him to promote its newest fragrance. The original campaign featured a handsome man emerging from the ocean while three beautiful women stared at him with expressions of overwhelming romantic interest. Leonard watched the commercial. “Does the cologne do that?” “Do what?” “Make three women appear on a beach?” “Of course not.” “Then why are we showing it?” He replaced the entire campaign. “SMELLS LIKE PINE TREES, LEATHER, AND A MAN WHO SPENT TOO MUCH MONEY AT THE MALL.” Another success.

A furniture company approached Leonard with a new line of premium mattresses. Their advertising promised the greatest sleep experience in human history. Leonard tested one. “It’s comfortable,” he admitted. The executives smiled. “But it’s not three thousand dollars comfortable.” The smiles disappeared. His proposed slogan: “YOU’LL STILL WAKE UP AT 3 A.M. TO USE THE BATHROOM. AT LEAST THE MATTRESS IS NICE.” Sales increased.

By now, Leonard’s reputation had become legendary. Companies were terrified of hiring him. They were even more terrified of hiring somebody else. His greatest achievement came when an automobile manufacturer asked him to promote a luxury SUV with forty-seven advanced features. The marketing department wanted to emphasize sophistication, performance, and technological innovation. Leonard examined the vehicle. He pressed several buttons. The dashboard lit up like a casino. “What’s this one do?” “That adjusts the ambient lighting.” “And this?” “Changes the digital instrument display.” “And this?” “Activates the personalized driving environment.” Leonard paused. “How do I turn on the windshield wipers?” Nobody knew. His campaign launched the following month. “THE NEW LUXURY SUV. IT HAS EVERYTHING EXCEPT A BUTTON YOU CAN FIND.” It became the company’s most successful advertisement in years.

Leonard was eventually summoned before the National Association of Advertising Professionals, accused of undermining the fundamental principles of modern marketing. “Mr. Crump,” the chairman demanded, “do you understand what would happen if every advertisement simply told consumers the truth?” Leonard considered the question. “People might know what they’re buying?” The chairman required medical attention.

Today, Leonard continues his work from a modest office above a dry cleaner. His waiting room contains no inspirational posters. His business cards simply read: LEONARD B. CRUMP - ADVERTISING. SOMETIMES IT WORKS.

Somewhere in America, a marketing executive desperately tries to convince consumers that a garbage bag smelling like grape-flavored decomposition represents a breakthrough in household freshness. Leonard knows better. So do we.

Which brings me back to my original concern. Our brains can remember useless information from forty years ago, while modern advertising desperately tries to make us forget what we already know. Perhaps the two problems are related. Maybe the human brain is simply protecting itself. After all, when you’ve spent decades listening to companies describe garbage bags as aromatic lifestyle accessories, perhaps remembering a floor-wax jingle from 1978 isn’t such a bad use of storage space. At least the jingle was honest about one thing. It was trying to sell us floor wax.