According to a recent article in Business Digest Daily, which I read religiously — and by that I mean that I read it dressed as a priest — one of the nation’s most influential businessmen “is not Elon Musk of Tesla or Jeff Bezos of Amazon.com or even Bill Gates of Microsoft, but a man that few have even heard of: Walter Lomonaco, President of DTR Inc., a privately-held company that specializes in hard-to-find seals and gaskets.” I was pleased to see the name but also displeased. Have you heard of Walter Lomonaco? What I mean is, had you heard of him before his mention in the previous paragraph? If you closed your eyes right now, could you summon up the name “Walter Lomonaco”? You could not. And who can blame you? Your experience is the same as that of most Americans. My experience, on the other hand, is different. As different as an apple from an orange, or a fire hydrant from another fire hydrant uprooted from its station on the curb, turned upside-down, painted a color it had not previously been painted, and thrown into the center of the forest. I have not only heard of Walter Lomonaco, but have spent dozens of hours thinking about him, have in fact been preoccupied with his career ever since I ran across a piece in the Southeast Business Chronicle that disclosed Mr. Lomonaco’s nickname (The Sultan of Seal) and discussed the innovative way in which he had transitioned to the mobile sector. “He,” the piece said, “sells to hospitals for their hydraulically operated beds. He sells to soda companies for their bottles. He sells to dentists for their drills. Everything needs to be sealed, and he’s the man to do it.” Lomonaco also revealed the slogan he had invented when he was twenty-nine years old and a fledgling businessman: “My products have my seal of approval.” Something about the Southeast Business Chronicle opened my eyes to the importance of seals in the world, and from that moment on I thought of little else. My daily behavior, I came to understand, depended in large part upon them. I drank soda from bottle filled by machines that required seals. I ate jelly from jars that had been filled with the aid of seals and then sealed themselves. When I would mention Walter Lomonaco at parties or to colleagues, they would stare at me dumbly. I felt that I was the only man on earth who passed his days consumed with the everpresent utility of seals and gaskets. Then one morning I put on my priest’s outfit to read American Business Weekly and found him there again, Walter Lomonaco, The Sultan of Seal. The article concluded with a plaintive quote in which he lamented that he was not better known in the business community or the population at large. “There must be some way to get into people’s heads,” he said. There is, of course, and I thought I knew what it was. Brands, you see, can be based on simple visuals, such as logos or recognizable corporate representatives—who can forget Olson Fertilizer’s “viny O” or Lawrence Beckel’s bald scalp and sideburns?—but just as often they can be reinforced by memorable jingles. Who would remember Sturdy Dog Food if not for the infectious “Any dog can be a winner / If he eats his Sturdy dinner”? And does anyone really think that they would give a second thought to Microsoft if not for the company’s delightful theme song: “Microsoft / They all scoffed / When we started up in a garage / But look at us now / Milking our giant cash cow / Our billions and billions of dollars are no mirage”? Moreover, some of the best jingles in the history of advertising have been written by people who are not professional jingle-writers. Throughout the years, major companies have used songs penned by drivers, secretaries, electricians, and other somewhat musically talented staffers. The day after I read about Mr. Lomonaco in Business Wire, I decided to try to repair his image problem, and so I sat down with a box of cereal, a book of nursery-rhymes, a bottle of spirit-gum, and a bruised cassette copy of an old Hank Williams album. These were to be my tools: the cereal for visual inspiration, the nursery rhymes for verbal stimulation, and the Hank Williams for melodic inducement. (The spirit-gum I had in case my eyebrows fell off. It has never happened, but you never know.) “If You’ll Be a Baby To Me” was playing on the stereo when suddenly it hit me: a jingle for King Seal and his kingdom. “A-tisket, a-tasket / If you blow a gasket / Don’t give in to your worries or your strife / Just pick up the phone / You’re never alone / We will help you / Seal the deal for life.” I sang it once, and it sounded like a perfect fit. I typed it up and mailed it. Mr. Lomonaco is now in possession of my jingle, with which I intend to make him an internationally known celebrity and generally raise the profile of the gasket and seal industry. I am certain that the campaign will be a hit. I have tested the jingle on several friends and acquaintances. Like my dentist, who is, by pure coincidence, also named Hank Williams, although he goes by Henry. I went to see Dr. Williams yesterday—crown—and told him all about Mr. Lomonaco, and e-commerce, and how the Sultan of Seal and his products were responsible for the proper operation of nearly everything in his office. He nodded and made noises of assent, as dentists tend to do, but when I confronted him afterwards admitted that he had not heard a word. “I just pretend,” he said. “That’s condescending,” I said. “Still not listening,” he said. “Hard habit to break.” But when I sang him the jingle, the habit was not hard to break at all. “That’s fiercely catchy,” he said, tapping his foot. “Really has a nice thing going. Duh dah duh dah duh dah. You might be on to something.” “Could you stop tapping your foot?” I said. “It’s on the pedal for the chair, and I’m getting dizzy.” He rolled his eyes. I went him one better and rolled my nose. Then we sang the jingle together, me and Hank Williams. We sealed the deal for life.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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