In 1968, the established culture packaged and neutered a revolutionary movement known as Hippies. HAIR opened in lower Manhattan, and long-haired freaks were transported off the squalid streets and mattress-clogged floors of the East Village and onto the stage of the Public Theater, singing and dancing.   He who would blunt the ferocity of a social movement would turn it into a Broadway musical.

So, HAIR was a subversive cultural movement tamed into art. But, at the same time, it was a tame art form transformed into explosive art.  Broadway musical theater had never seen the crazy spontaneity of a Happening break the fourth wall of a theater. It had never sung and danced its way through a story without a “book” or logical story line. It had never filled a stage with explosions of four-letter words, unclothed bodies, hallucinations and anti-government slogans. Sociology was tamed, but art was energized.

Now we are forty years on, in the time of another unpopular war, and HAIR has been revived.  And it offers to one-hundred-dollars-a-ticket audiences all the revolutionary fervor of an American Idol show. Meaning, it is an act of cultural karaoke. Breaking fourth walls, sex talk and hints of nudity shock no more. The virulent anti-government rhetoric of the Viet Nam era and any semblance of flag abuse have been carefully scrubbed from the script to guarantee that. And The Hippie, once a walking, talking, drugged-out mockery of bourgeois values, is now a cliché suitable for costume parties, along with pirates and Elvis.

“Look, Maude, look at these wild hippies in the Hirschfeld Theater jumping into the audience and shaking their long hair. Look at the three seconds of nudity. Look at those cute anti-war signs. Look at the hallucinations. Isn’t it cute and zesty?”

HAIR wasn’t cute and zesty when it shattered theatrical convention in 1968.  Hippies weren’t cute and zesty when Rado and Ragni turned them into singing dancing clichés in their iconic show.

Of course, what hippies mostly did while conducting their revolution was smoke cigarettes, take drugs, have sex and listen to records. So maybe permanent enshrinement in Broadway theaters was the least unhealthy fate awaiting them.

Give me a head with hair? Please, take it.

He is the head of General Motors.

He is leading America into “a new economic order, where the bonds of scarcity have been broken, and America is rolling in two-toned splendor to an all- time crest of prosperity.”

This was 1955. Harlow Curtice was head of General Motors and Time magazine’s Man of the Year. The magazine was ebullient. Soon, it gushed, Americans will need to spend “comparatively little time earning a living.”

Well, it is today, and many people actually are “spending comparatively little time earning a living,” But not from the “crest of prosperity” that was promised.

The “two-toned” splendor” of General Motors turned out to be a planned obsolescence in which cars were designed to conveniently break down in three years. It turned out to be a fight to the death against energy standards, a full-scale assault on safety standards, and the destruction of mass transit and trains. It turned out to be about a trillion lousy cars hot off the assembly lines of Michigan.

General Motors went financially bankrupt this week, following a half a century of just about every other kind of bankruptcy. Time magazine isn’t doing too well, either.

The acerbic, brilliant and clearly emotionally-stunted media provocateur, Christopher Hitchens, detonated a little cultural suicide bomb recently. He wrote an essay entitled: “Why women aren’t funny.”

Now, he went off the rails when responding to the obvious response to such a statement. Namely, that there are, well, funny women around — including professional comedians. He answered, in effect: sure, there are, but they’re lesbians (he actually employed a different term) and Jews. Uh, case closed.

But the sturm und drang that inevitably accompanies such incendiary pronouncements, or the incendiary pronouncements would never be pronounced, cloud an interesting truth at the heart of the argument. An evolutionary truth.

The fact is, men are egregiously unattractive when compared to women. And it is only by some ingenious sleight of evolutionary hand that women aren’t compelled  en masse to become gay.

So, the point is not that women aren’t funny. The point is that they don’t need to be. To fulfill their role in the biological imperative, that is, be attractive, all they need to do is show up. It’s wonderful that they do much else. But they don’t need to do much else.

Men, on the other hand, are driven by necessity to become funny. It is often said comedians are insecure, unattractive people who develop wit to compensate for other lacks. Well, men as a species are insecure, unattractive people who must develop wit to compensate for other lacks.

Humor is clearly a form of sexual play, and what is laughter if not an orgasm in the mind? A laugh is a short, surprising, violent overthrow of the stasis and status quo, a momentary release from order and structure.

“But he made me laugh.” It is a common phrase uttered by women about men otherwise deficient. And a statement never, ever employed by men when speaking about women.

So women aren’t funny, or at least they don’t need to be.

Dorothy Parker

But then along comes Dorothy Parker:

I like to have a Martini,
Two at the very most.
Three, I’m under the table.
Four I’m under my host.

The Native American died twice, first by genocide and then by brandcide.

Pontiac is gone. The sinking ship of General Motors threw the old Indian overboard, just weeks after their own Captain Ahab sailed off the deck and disappeared into the briny deep.

The noble savage who represented a purity corrupted by the Puritans was once a proud hood ornament. He cut through wind on America’s back roads and all up and down Eisenhower’s Interstate. On the 1951 Pontiac Chieftan, he actually lit up.

But the Indian was already gone from the hood when Pontiac reached its glory days. DeLorean’s team squeezed an oversized V8 into an undersized car, stole a name from Ferrari and turned Gran Turismo Omologato into GTO, and a rocket for the nuclear family was born.

The muscle car was the last time an emanation from Detroit actually reached the imagination. Wide track, dual exhaust, triple carburetor, it drank gas stations under the table and spoke of a brawny, horse-powered America until a failure of vision and a succession of government mandates sent the muscle car into muscle memory.

Pontiac meant excitement after that. But it was a Pontiac kind of excitement, which meant driving a hundred miles an hour through the trailer park.

There was not much brand left to die, when it finally died.

A brand is a story. Sometimes the brand ends and the story is over, and sometimes the story ends and the brand is over.

As poet Muriel Rukeyser said: “The universe is composed of stories, not atoms.”

Or as Ronny and the Daytonas sang: “C’mon and turn it on, wind it up, blow it out, GTO.”

Funny is distance. To be funny, you must have distance on yourself and the whole creaking project of your personal vanity. You also must have distance on the clichéd mental machinery of our daily narrative.

Funny is Woody Allen saying: “I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it by not dying.”

Funny is Steven Wright saying: “I have large collection of seashells. I keep it on beaches all over the world. Maybe you’ve seen it.”

Funny is Calvin Klein’s daughter saying: “How come every time I have sex, I have to read my father’s name?”

Funny is a young Larry David saying: “I want to break up with my girl friend but I don’t want to hurt her feelings, so I’m waiting till she dies.”

Celebrated people who aren’t funny lack such distance. They are just too busy being themselves. So when one of the famous but unfunny utters something amazingly witty, it is a moment worth celebrating.

Howard Stern isn’t funny. Howard Stern is a fourteen-year-old-in- Queens operating in a fifty-five year old body. I know what this means because I was once a fourteen-year old in Queens. But that changed. It changed when I turned fifteen. But for Howard Stern, it never changed, and he has turned the unfunny adolescent vulgarity of fourteen year olds in Queens into pure gold. But he did once make an enormously funny observation about rock n roll musicians.

He said bass players only have to play four strings, but they get laid just as much as guitar players.

Tina Brown isn’t funny. She’s simply not brilliant enough, beautiful enough or dazzling enough to become what she so desperately aspires to be: the wow girl at the throbbing heart of the media universe. She began as a hyper-ambitious British gossip girl who married well and stormed New York in the eighties. She successfully elevated Vanity Fair to a niche in the buzz pantheon and managed a controversial but not unsuccessful stint as editor of the hallowed New Yorker magazine, eventually leaving that mecca of wit and writing panache without having permanently damaged it. Then she floundered, and is floundering still, trying digitally and desperately to be the “innest” of them all. Desperation is not funny, especially British desperation. But she did say something funny once.

George W. S. Trow, author of a bizarre and quirky cultural commentary called In the Context of No Context (which is an inspiration to this column) was one of the posse of posh and precious writers around the New Yorker who saw her celebrity-obsessed ascendancy as the death knell of The New Yorker. So he quit. Whereupon Tina Brown sent Trow a note: “I am distraught at your defection, but since you never actually write anything, I should say I am notionally distraught.”

Frank Sinatra wasn’t funny. His swinging songs and “Ring-a-ding-you-bet-your-bippie-send-in-the-broads” swagger was a million miles from genuine humor. But once, as a young architect working on a casino in Atlantic City, I heard his performance at Resorts International and he told the following joke.

A man enters a monastery where he must take a vow of silence, but every seven years he’s allowed to say two words. So he labors silently in the garden for seven years, whereupon they tell him he can say two words. “Bed hard,” he says. They nod and he returns to work, another silent seven years and they tell him he can say two words. “Food stinks,” he says. They nod and back he goes for another seven years of silent labor. Finally they say he can say two words, and he says: “I quit.” “We’re not surprised,” they tell him. “You’ve done nothing but complain for 21 years.”

Donald Trump isn’t funny. Only in America could a real estate developer become a cultural celebrity, and not a good real estate developer at that. After all, he never masterminded a Rockefeller Center or a United Nations or a Central Park, or even a South Street Seaport. He never built a building of any architectural distinction or helped an iconic architect plant a treasure in the skyline of New York. He simply made his name and made money. Some even dispute that, but figuring out Donald Trump’s pay grade is way beyond mine.

But Donald Trump did say something funny once….wait a minute. He never said anything funny. Sorry.

Where else could flabby white guys in their forties be considered supreme athletes?

Golf is either a sport, a game, boredom framed in green, or as close to religion as it gets for secular guys with bad fashion sense.

We do know golf is the official pastime of the White Anglo-Saxon Ascendancy. Ironically, it is now dominated, as is America, by a semi-black man of near superhuman talents.

A New Age guru once spoke of golf. He said life is a game and in order to have a game, something has to be more important than something else. A golf course is just a field. So in order to create a game, you have say that mound is more important than this mound. Now, you could throw the ball over there, or simply walk over and drop it, but that wouldn’t be fun. So you hit the ball to the mound with a stick, because that’s fun. Except the guy who has the most fun loses.

Anyway, this is a column about meanings, not birdies, bogies and paunches. So I go for the idea of golf as a re-enactment of the primordial archetype of hunting. A group of men go off together into the woods of a beautiful morning. There is camaraderie and healthy masculine competition. The women have been happily and safely left behind in the cave (or split-level). The men carry their clubs on their backs and venture out with a single-minded fervor to hunt the prey. The clubs are gleaming metal (or forged from space-age composites) and the prey is nothing but a series of holes with flags sticking out. But the archetype holds. Men wouldn’t devote so much time, energy, money and vanished family time chasing a white ball unless an archetype was involved.

I have always found golf annoyingly hard. After all, there is so much world and so little hole.

Apparently, Mark Twain agreed. He called the sport — or game — of golf: “A good walk spoiled.”

It is a rite of passage.

It is a rite of Spring.

It is a right of college students to debauch en masse in sleepy beach towns.

I am thinking of Spring Break, as the plane noses down into Fort Lauderdale. Fort Lauderdale, where the boys are. Fort Lauderdale, where post-adolescent livers have marinated yearly in alcohol since the Thirties.

I myself have never partaken in the explosion of sand, sun, sex and hangovers known as Spring Break. But I wrote a commercial for it once. Actually, it was a commercial for Volvo. (See Paul’s Work at paulwolfeideas.com to view the commercial) The commercial was created to begin elevating the legendary Swedish bastion of safety and solidity up the ladder of sex and luxury.

Granted, this was no easy task. Volvos were boxier than a cardboard carton and as sexy as colon therapist.

But one day, in the charming old Swedish town of Gothenburg, the captains of Volvo woke up and realized safety only got you so far. To be precise, it got you to $30,000. Above that, you had to be sexy. You had to circumvent the cerebral cortex. You had to offer something far more ephemeral and mysterious than a good, solid car that saved your life. You had to seize people in the depths of their reptilian brains, where the alchemy of dream and desire mixes with strange, invisible passions and moves people to spend more than they should.

So where do you begin such an evolution? Volvo began it with a sedan called the Volvo 850. Dowdy by today’s standards, it was nevertheless a streamlining of the bunker on wheels college professors and proto-environmentalists had been driving around in since the 60’s.

So that was the car. What was the idea?  This is where Spring Break reared its crazy, youthful head. How better to change perceptions of a boring car for older people than for four strapping youths to motor it into the maw of  Spring Break?  A young man  forced to transport his buddies to the Dionysian Dreamland in his mother’s Volvo. Would it be a fiasco? Would the girls be turned off? Or would Volvo, and these healthy young men, triumph? Stay tuned.

To further upset expectations, we chose as director of the film, not an expected earnest, talented commercial director who would capture happy people and shoot the sheet metal in the gleaming liquid light that sends car clients into ecstasy.

We chose Bruce Weber, the famous fashion photographer.  Bruce Weber had made a name for himself capturing young people (well, mainly handsome young men) in intriguing, candid, spontaneous black and white moments. He had only dipped his toe into the film arena, with a few black and white documentaries, notably a cool capture of the jazz trumpeter and heroin addict Chet Baker.

The challenge, of course, was that Weber, as talented and unique as he was, had never done a commercial for a real product. In fashion, there is no product, except your imagination. In fashion, it really doesn’t matter what happens on the screen. You like it. That’s enough. It’s cool. That’s enough. It’s weird. That’s enough.

Fashion is the implication of a secret world far cooler and sexier than the one you inhabit.  Of course, look at a model on the subway without her makeup, or speak to one of Bruce Weber’s handsome young men, and you will see immediately, there is no such secret world. And if there were, it is not any cooler than the one you live in.  The illusion of fashion is a flimsy one indeed.

Oscar Wilde said: “We must forgive fashion everything, for it dies so young.”
But I digress.

So we had to move sheet metal. Selling a car involves engines and transmissions and side impact protection systems and warranties and leasing rates.

Bruce Weber would make the boys and girls look good in black and white. What would he do for Volvo?

Ultimately, the spot was successful. But not before some dramatic speed bumps on the Volvo trail. Hundreds of LA’s choicest specimens lined up in bathing suits along the streets of Newport Beach (an expensive resort masquerading as a cheap one) and four young men drove a white Volvo 850  past the gauntlet of smiling girls.

Then an instruction came down from the Volvo client: “Don’t show the kid’s tattoo on camera.” The comment wasn’t necessary. We were shooting about a thousand miles of film, and it would be easy to edit out any shot of the tattoo. No director likes client instructions. Unfortunately, Bruce Weber didn’t only dislike it. He freaked out. He considered the anti-tattoo injunction “homophobic”. How you conflate a family car not wanting to show a tattoo in a TV commercial with prejudice against homosexuals is anybody’s guess, but it was enough, as they say in the lurid parlance of show business, for Bruce Weber to storm off the set.  Cameras, grips, hundreds of nubile girls and a concerned band of advertising people stood on the streets of Newport Beach, wondering.

Of course, he returned, but the stage was set for upset.  The blow-up came in a conference room that night at the hotel in Laguna Beach after a simple request for more collaboration on the shoot. He had, frankly, a tantrum that was scary to anyone outside the medical profession. He finished the shoot, but there was little communication, and for a while, he actually refused to turn over the film.

Finally, he presented his edit, and the difference between the world of fashion and the world of ideas was laid bare. The commercial as finally edited would be a story, with a point and with humor. The boys’ wildest fantasy is enacted, the mother’s Volvo is a hit, and each step of the way, as youths mob the car, standing on the trunk and roof, necking and hula hooping, the driver’s mother calls to make sure they’re taking care of the car. At the end, on a cell phone on the beach surrounded by dozens of girls, Adam says into the phone: “Hi, Mom. Yeh, I’m wearing sun block.”

In Bruce Weber’s cut, there was no story, no arc, no humor and no point. He had taken his beautiful film and made a rock video. The kind of montage of images with no point that might run on a monitor in Banana Republic and be ignored by shoppers.

It was the beginning of Volvo’s ascent into luxury status, the end of Bruce Weber’s forays into real products, a lesson in the limits of fashion, and a memorialization of youth binging on the fruits of, well, youth. All in thirty seconds.

They were simple times. At least that’s the way they seem, now that they’re gone. They probably weren’t simple for those called upon to live them, but let’s agree, shall we, they were simple times. The war was over, prosperity lay like a ribboned highway curving endlessly into the future, men were men, women were women, and Cadillac was luxury. Cadillacs had traversed America’s roads since the dawn of the Twentieth Century, of course, but it was only postwar that they emerged, tail-finned and gunned by humongous V8s, as the pinnacle of American luxury. It was a vision of luxury very long on car and very soft on seat.

Oh, but things change.

A gas crisis gripped the nation. Cars lined up for miles, desperate for re-fuel. And in response, Cadillacs shortened. They went from being gas mass murderers to simply being gas guzzlers, measurable now in miles per gallon rather than gallons per mile.

Oh, but things change.

The 1970s became the 1980s, and a new, more suave notion of automotive luxury took hold. Ocean liner automobiles with miles of Crushed Corinthian Leather suddenly ceased being the epitome of luxury. High performance engines and precision European driving machines were. It was a rethink that catapulted an obscure, spartan little Bavarian soap-bar of a vehicle called BMW into the pantheon of ultimate driving-ness. And it relegated Cadillac to oblivion, an 8-cylinder ghost shadow-boxing in a Crushed Corinthian Palookaville.

Oh, but things change.

An American archetype re-emerged, re-born into a land of malls and suburban streets from sea to shining sea. It was the archetype of the rugged American individual navigating a hostile wilderness in his covered wagon. Cars began to disappear, and in their place came….trucks. Trucks which euphemistically came to be called Sport Utility Vehicles, and euphonically called SUVs. They were suddenly everywhere, massive and indestructible, off-road behemoths safely navigating the hostile wilderness as they pulled up to Starbucks.

Cadillac saw its chance, and in 1999, the Escalade was introduced. Of course, it was based originally on the rather prosaic GMC Yukon Denali, so they had to reconfigure and re-fashion it for Cadillac, and in the process, the luxury SUV was born. The Cadillac of SUVs. It is ironic that by fashioning a truck, Cadillac reclaimed its mantle of luxury, but such is life when you don’t live in simple times. Cadillac scored, and the rappers agreed. They drove Escalades down angry city streets, testing eardrums with sub-woofers and door panels with bullet holes. Even Madonna drives an Escalade to the Torah reading.

Oh, but things change.

The climate is askew, and the planet is threatened. The ravages of petroleum engines on our atmosphere and petroleum countries on our security has changed the vision of automotive luxury yet again. And Cadillac, having had its taste of Palookaville and found it wanting, is ready. Today, the cover of the august Wall Street Journal carried an ad for the new Cadillac Escalade, which proclaimed: “The world’s first full size luxury hybrid SUV.”

In the sheet metal of Cadillac, we read the tortured story of automotive luxury buffeted into contortions by the onrush of history. The mile-long luxury gas guzzler becomes the short luxury gas guzzler becomes the humongous luxury truck becomes “The world’s first full size luxury hybrid SUV”: the world’s first truck that’s also luxurious that’s also humongous that also energy conscious, shedding some of its petroleum to make the planet a better place for our children and our grandchildren.

Oh, but things change, this column predicts.

Soon, the world’s first full size luxury hybrid SUV will go back to its fins. But this time, the Cadillac fins will actually have jet packs in them, for flight not merely along the highways but into the skies and beyond, Cadillac luxury taking us into forever.

And they will be hybrid jet packs, of course.

The photographers are being photographed. Robert Mapplethorpe will soon be dead, but today he basks in the role of subject rather than artist. Norman Parkinson joins him, supremely tall and regal, with signature beanie on his head. The beanie is a Kashmiri wedding hat, one he has worn through decades of photographing the royalty of England and the royalty of fashion.

Behind the camera is Annie Liebovitz. She is disturbed the advertising people are there. They are an extraneous nuisance, and there are so many of them. She does not suffer fools or most others too easily, apparently. She is even snippy. But the advertising people are there because this is an ad, and the three immortals of the darkroom will have to cope.

I try to put her at ease. I say something nice about the rear end of Bruce Springsteen. She has just shot the cover for Born in the USA and the proofs lie on the table. The Boss stands with back to camera in iconic white T-shirt and jeans and red truckers cap jutting from his pocket, set against the red and white stripes of some humongous American flag. It is all icon all the time. “We didn’t really get the shot,” Annie mumbles. It seems more a knee-jerk response to flattery than the photographic truth about Bruce Springsteen’s rear end. She would be intimidating even if she didn’t wish I wasn’t there. Enormously tall, in white jumpsuit and special grey plastic glasses, she is not a woman so much as a mechanic of seeing.

The mission that has brought us here is advertising’s eternal mission: re-enchantment. The product is a stodgy old liquid squeezed from limes: Rose’s Lime Juice. Who would guess a British lime juice of almost negligible interest would become a vehicle for a sea of meanings?

The tagline of Roses is The Uncommon Denominator. The target of the campaign is the avant garde art and gay communities. It is an old mixer for new drinks, so the campaign mixes two cultural celebrities, one old and one new. One established and one avant garde, One Parkinson and one Mapplethorpe.

I tell Robert I read an essay about his work in a magazine and couldn’t understand a word of it. “The ouvre of Robert Mapplethorpe reflects an is-ness and not-isness where the shifting visual field recapitulates the identity, where the forbidden counterposes itself with the permissible, and subject and field reverse themselves.” This is not what the article said at all. It’s not even close to what it said. But this is my impersonation of my memory of what the article said. Robert pauses, surprised I would even want to understand it. “It did its job,” he says, laconically. That is all he says.

“It did its job.” That said it all. It was about career, not art. Or, art was a career. Or, career was art. Whatever the case, the job of the essay was simply to be there, to represent “scholarly article,” rather than to actually be a scholarly article. Maybe the writer didn’t even understand it. The article was an artifact of meaning, not an evaluation of photography. The existence of the article signified Robert Mapplethorpe was an artist of a certain stature, with all the rights and profits accruing to an artist of that stature. Period. Reading over.

It is like the business books handed around by executives who write them (or have someone write it for them.) The mere existence of a book conveys a meaning and a stature, and the last thing that is expected of you is to read it. It is there to mean, and that is enough. It did its job.

Mapplethorpe is handsome, swaggering. A rock star in the older sense of the word, more like James Dean than what rock stars eventually became. He is ineffably cool. But he is sick, and not long after the shoot, it is announced he has AIDS.

For marketers, the challenge of a personality-based campaign is that it rises and falls on the back of a personality. It is not likely that anytime soon, a copywriter working on Hertz will walk into his creative director’s office and suggest: “Hey, why don’t we bring back OJ?”

The Roses Lime Juice client faced the cruel, almost unspeakable decision of associating her brand or not with someone tragically passing from disease, a tainted disease at that particular point in time. It is cruel, but that’s what marketing people discuss in the privacy of their office. Mapplethorpe’s ambition, his careering, his prolific output and classical renderings of rather un-classical subjects, from almost pornographic close-ups of flowers to actual pornographic renderings of a bull whip up the ass, made him an artist of stature. But inhabiting the gay S & M demimonde of the 1980’s made him an almost inevitable victim of his generation’s plague.

In the Annie Liebovitz photograph selected for the ad, Robert Mapplethorpe and Norman Parkinson pose by a white human statue against the quaintly artificial backdrop of a Nineteenth Century garden. Another mix: a contemporary photographer’s wink to an old photographic tradition. The client eventually decided to run the ad and nobody’s life was changed by it, not the photographers’, not the ad people, and not the Roses Lime Juice people.

I saw Robert for the last time at the Robert Miller Gallery on 57th Street. It was his final opening. The rock star swagger was gone. The virus had ravaged his body. He shuffled slowly in the velvet monogrammed bedroom slippers of a prince, supporting himself on a pearl-topped cane. I wondered if he wore his disease as a final artistic flaunt to his Catholic childhood in Our Lady of the Snows Parish in Floral Park, Long Island.

The demimonde from which he had risen taxied uptown to pay their respects. Grace Jones was dressed as a policeman and carried a gun. But the soul of the event seemed to be Andy Warhol, no longer existing in flesh, staring down beatifically in two-dimensions from a photograph on the wall. In the portrait, Mapplethorpe had placed a halo behind Warhol’s face and printed the photograph in a lush silver process on canvas, like a classical painting.

What was the meaning of the deification of the Prince of False? Had Warhol’s artistic celebration of the images of mass production been social commentary? An ironic comment on the debasement of a culture bereft of any meaning save those of commerce? Or was the message of the Campbell’s soup can simply that you don’t need to render Italian landscapes, that if you knew how to look, there was beauty in even our most mundane everyday objects?

Was Robert Mapplethorpe’s final beatification of Andy Warhol yet one more level of meaning added to the artist who epitomized the Marketplace of Meanings?

Or was I thinking too much?

Maybe the photograph was just doing its job.

(This is an excerpt from the forthcoming book The Marketplace of Meanings. Adventures in the hallucination of culture.
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