Suresh Dinakaran's Blog

 

What’s in a brand name? Especially when its bullshit?

 

Let’s begin with a grenade, gently lobbed by the immortal George Bernard Shaw: “The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place.”

 

Please hold that thought. In fact, I encourage you to let it simmer. Because nowhere is this illusion more artfully constructed, more blatantly weaponized, or more tragically hilarious than in the hallowed, often hollow, act of naming a brand.

 

We are storytelling animals. We see a name, and our brains, desperate for pattern, for meaning, instantly begin weaving a narrative. A brand name is not a label; it’s a promise, a personality, a prejudice—all packaged into a few syllables. It is the first contract, signed not in ink, but in perception.

 

But what happens when that contract is written in invisible ink? When the promise is puff, the personality a puppet, and the prejudice entirely unearned? Welcome to the glorious, gory world of Bullshit Brand Names.

 

The Shaw Bombshell: Names as Loaded Guns

 

George Bernard Shaw nailed it in 1912: “If you can’t get the right word for a thing, leave it unnamed.” Boom. Shaw wasn’t just a playwright; he was a branding prophet. Get the name wrong, and you’re not just unnamed—you’re unremembered. A killer name doesn’t describe; it evokes. It hijacks your lizard brain, plants a flag, and dares you to forget. But bullshit names? They promise the moon, deliver a mud pie, and leave you feeling played. Let’s dissect the carnage.

 

From Poetry to Puffery

 

A great name is a poem. It condenses a universe into a word. Think of Apple. Simple, universal, suggestive of knowledge (Newton), of simplicity, of a bite of something desirable. It wasn’t descriptive; it was evocative. It created a curiosity loop: “A computer named Apple? Interesting. Tell me more.

 

”A bullshit name, however, is a failed magic trick. You see the smoke, but the rabbit never appears. It tries to shortcut the story, to under-cut reality, to mislead with linguistic sleight of hand. It doesn’t open a loop; it slams a door labeled “Trust Here,” behind which is a broom closet.

 

Hall of Shame: Bullshit Names That Shortchanged the World

 

These flops didn’t just miss; they lied. They teased transcendence but peddled pedestrian. From the Swinging Sixties to your Insta feed, here’s the rap sheet—brands that undercut dreams with dictionary drivel or deceptive dazzle.

 

• McRib (McDonald’s, 1981): Sounds like a rib-rattling BBQ orgy, right? Nope—mystery meat molded into “rib” shape, reeking of processed regret. It flopped, revived as a cult zombie, but the name? Pure bait-and-switch, luring BBQ lovers into a soy-protein trap.
• KFC’s FCK Business (2018 global rebrand tease): Okay, not the full name, but their “FCK” bucket stunt post-chicken shortage? Genius troll or epic fail? It screamed rebellion but masked supply-chain fuckups. Shortchanged trust for shock value—classic misfire.
• Vitaminwater (Glacéau, 1996; Coke buyout 2007): “Vitamins + water = health elixir!” Bullshit. It’s sugar water with trace vitamins, outselling soda until lawsuits exposed the scam. Named like a miracle cure, it undercut real wellness while fattening Coke’s wallet.
• New Coke (1985): Coca-Cola’s “revolutionary” rename for a sweeter formula. Disaster—sales tanked 20%. It wasn’t new; it was a desperate pivot from Pepsi fear. Misled loyalists into thinking evolution, delivered betrayal.
• Indian Hall of Infamy: HDFC Bank’s ‘PayZapp’ (2014): “Pay” + “Zapp” = instant magic? Nah, clunky app riddled with glitches, buried under forgettable zing. Meanwhile, global peers like Paytm nailed simplicity.
• Back to the ’60s: Fabergé’s Brut (1964): “Brutal” aftershave for macho men? It sold pheromones in a bottle to dudes, but the name undercut sophistication—pure caveman bait in a disco era.

 

These aren’t accidents. Bullshit names mislead by overpromising (QuantumLeap = disruption? Try mediocrity), shortchange by underselling soul (PayZapp = utility? Yawn), and undercut by aping trends without earning them. Result? Billions flushed, trust torched.

 

The SOHHBM (State Of The Heart & Head Branding Mantra)

 

A bullshit name is a brand on borrowed time. In the age of radical transparency—where a consumer is three clicks away from your ingredient list, your factory conditions, or your founder’s questionable tweet—the gap between name and reality is a chasm that will swallow you whole.

 

Your brand name is not a mask. It is a mirror. It should reflect the true state of your brand’s heart—its core, its intent, its substance.If the name has to do the heavy lifting your product cannot, you are building on quicksand. If your story is all hook and no book, the audience will walk out.

 

The Anatomy of a Brand Name Lie

 

Can we start with a simple premise? Your brand name should not be a felony.

 

It shouldn’t mislead. It shouldn’t deceive. It shouldn’t make promises your product can’t keep, or invent virtues that exist only in the fever dreams of your marketing department.

 

And yet.

 

The corporate world is littered with names that do exactly that—brand names that function less like communication and more like elaborate cons, dressed up in focus groups and million-dollar logos.

 

Consider the McRib.

 

Here’s a product that contains no ribs. Zero. Not even the skeletal memory of a rib. It’s restructured pork shoulder—meat slurry, if we’re being honest—pressed into the vague shape of something that once lived near ribs. The name is a lie so audacious it loops back around to being almost admirable. Almost. McDonald’s built an entire mythology around this non-rib: limited-time scarcity, cult followings, farewell tours that rival Cher’s. But strip away the theatre, and you’re left with a question: if it’s not a rib, why call it one?

 

Because calling it the McPressedMeatPattyVaguelyShapedLikeRibs doesn’t have quite the same ring.

 

Then there’s Vitamin Water.

 

Ah, Vitamin Water. The poster child for nutritional gaslighting. A bottle that whispers “health” while shouting “sugar.” Created by Glacéau and later acquired by Coca-Cola for a staggering $4.1 billion, this beverage positioned itself as the thinking person’s hydration—water, but elevated. Vitamins! Electrolytes! Wellness in a bottle!

 

Except it contained as much sugar as a can of Coke. When sued for deceptive marketing, Coca-Cola’s lawyers argued—and I’m not making this up—that “no consumer could reasonably be misled into thinking Vitamin Water was a healthy beverage.”

 

Read that again. Their defense was essentially: “Only an idiot would believe our marketing.”

 

The judge disagreed. The case settled. The name remained. And millions of people continued buying sugar water, convinced they were making a healthy choice.

 

The Hall of Shame: A Global Tour of Nominal Nonsense

 

Let’s expand our taxonomy of lies, shall we?

 

KFC (1991-Present): The Great Fried Lie

 

Once upon a time, KFC stood for Kentucky Fried Chicken. Then, in 1991, they rebranded to just “KFC.” The official story? Modernization. Shorter, punchier, more contemporary.

 

The whispered truth? Growing health concerns about fried food. By abbreviating, they could distance themselves from the word “fried” while still serving the exact same product. It’s the corporate equivalent of changing your name on Tinder after a string of bad dates. Same person. Same baggage. New initials.

 

Häagen-Dazs (1961): The Scandinavian Scam

 

Nothing says “premium European ice cream” quite like… a completely made-up, gibberish Scandinavian-ish name created by two Jewish immigrants in the Bronx, New York.

 

Reuben and Rose Mattus invented the name Häagen-Dazs in 1961 to evoke Danish sophistication and Old World craftsmanship. There is no such word in Danish. Or Swedish. Or Norwegian. Or any human language. The umlaut? Pure decoration. It doesn’t even appear in Danish.

 

But it worked. Because sometimes, perception isn’t just reality—it’s more profitable than reality.

 

Lean Cuisine (1981): The Accidental Truth-Teller

 

Here’s a rare example of a name that’s technically honest while being spiritually dishonest. Yes, these frozen meals are “lean” in the sense that they’re low in calories. But they’re also lean in flavor, satisfaction, portion size, and any resemblance to actual cuisine.

 

The name promises French culinary elegance. The product delivers sadness in a plastic tray.

 

Pret A Manger (1983): Fake French, Real Profit

 

Founded in London by two college friends, “Pret A Manger” (Ready to Eat) sounds charmingly Parisian. The founder, Julian Metcalfe, later admitted they chose a French name simply because it sounded better than “Ready to Eat Sandwiches, Mate.”

 

Fair enough. But when your entire brand identity is built on an affectation—when you’re cosplaying as a French café while being as British as queuing and complaining about the weather—you’re trading authenticity for aesthetics.

 

Kingfisher (India, 2005-2012): The Airline That Flew Too Close to the Sun

 

Vijay Mallya’s Kingfisher Airlines promised luxury, glamour, and “fly the good times.” The name evoked elegance, the beer brand’s success, aspirational living.

 

The reality? Unpaid staff, grounded planes, and one of the most spectacular corporate collapses in Indian aviation history. The brand name became a punchline, a cautionary tale, a synonym for hubris.

 

Here’s the thing: you can’t name your way out of operational incompetence. You can’t brand your way past bankruptcy. Eventually, the product has to deliver on the promise—or the name becomes a monument to your failure.

 

The Ones Who Got It Right: When Names Deliver

 

Not all brand names are lies. Some are truth-tellers, promise-keepers, bridges between intention and reality.

 

Google (1998): Friendly, Curious, Infinite

 

Originally a misspelling of “googol” (10^100), the name perfectly captured the company’s mission: organizing infinite information. It’s playful, memorable, verb-able (“just Google it”), and doesn’t oversell or underwhelm. It promises nothing except scale and availability—and delivers both.

 

Apple (1976): Simple, Human, Revolutionary

 

In a world of International Business Machines and Digital Equipment Corporations, Steve Jobs named his company after a fruit. It was disarming, approachable, and utterly unforgettable. The name said: we’re not like them. We’re not intimidating. We’re for humans.

 

And they were.

 

Nirma (India, 1969): The People’s Detergent

 

Karsanbhai Patel named his low-cost detergent after his daughter, Nirupama. “Nirma” became synonymous with affordable cleanliness, democratizing hygiene for millions of Indian households. The name was personal, human, and carried the weight of genuine intention.

 

It wasn’t trying to be European. It wasn’t pretending to be premium. It was honest, accessible, and transformative.

 

Tata (India, 1868-Present): Legacy as Promise

 

Sometimes, a surname is the most powerful brand name of all. “Tata” carries 150+ years of trust, ethics, and nation-building. When you see that name on steel, software, or salt, you know what you’re getting: reliability, integrity, quality.

 

The name doesn’t make false promises because it doesn’t need to. It’s earned its reputation one product, one generation, one act of corporate responsibility at a time.

 

Amul (India, 1946): Cooperative Truth

 

“Amul” stands for Anand Milk Union Limited. It also means invaluable; in Sanskrit. But it means so much more: India’s white revolution, farmer empowerment, the taste of childhood. The brand never pretended to be anything other than what it was—a cooperative, by farmers, for farmers.

 

And that honesty made it iconic.

 

The Bullshit Spectrum: From White Lies to Corporate Fraud

 

Not all naming sins are created equal. Let’s map the territory:

 

Level 1: Harmless Exaggeration Example: Red Bull(“Gives you wings”).

 

We all know it’s hyperbole. Nobody’s suing because they can’t fly. It’s advertising, not aviation.

 

Level 2: Strategic Ambiguity Example: Subway (“Eat Fresh”) Fresh-ish. Fresh-adjacent. Fresh compared to what, exactly? The bread that’s been sitting there since last week?

 

Level 3: Deliberate Misdirection Example: Vitamin Water, Lean Cuisine Health-washing. Making junk food sound nutritious through clever nomenclature.

 

Level 4: Outright Deception Example: “Blueberry” cereals with no actual blueberries, “Maple” syrups with no maple This is where naming crosses from marketing into moral bankruptcy.

 

Level 5: Fraud Example: Theranos When the name promises revolutionary blood testing and the product is… not that. Not even close. Prison follows.

 

The Cost of Bullshit: What Happens When Brand Names Lie

 

Here’s what you lose when your brand name is a beautiful lie:

Trust (The Only Currency That Matters)

 

Once broken, trust is nearly impossible to rebuild. Ask Volkswagen about “Clean Diesel.” Ask Nestle about infant formula. Ask anyone who bought a “diamond” at Tiffany’s that turned out to be cubic zirconia.

 

When your name promises one thing and delivers another, customers don’t just leave—they become evangelists of your awfulness.

 

Talent

 

The best people don’t want to work for companies that lie. They want meaning, purpose, alignment between values and actions. A bullshit brand name is a red flag visible from orbit.

 

Long-Term Viability

You can fool some people for a while. You cannot fool all people forever. Eventually, reality catches up. The internet remembers. Whistleblowers speak. Journalists investigate.

 

And when they do, your clever name becomes an albatross.

 

The Way Forward: Principles for Honest Naming of Brands

 

So how do you name a brand with integrity? Here are some principles:

1. Promise Only What You Can Deliver

Your name is a contract. If you can’t keep the promise, don’t make it.

2. Embrace Your Truth

Sometimes the best names are the most honest ones. “Cheap Tickets” doesn’t pretend to be luxurious. “No Frills” grocery stores don’t oversell. Honesty can be a competitive advantage.

3. Let the Product Speak

A great product can carry a mediocre name. A terrible product will poison even the most beautiful name. Focus on substance over semantics.

4. Test for the “Grandma Rule”

If you’d be embarrassed to explain your brand name to your grandmother, it’s probably bullshit.

5. Remember: Brand Names Are Destiny

Whatever you call yourself, you’ll spend years living up to—or running from. Choose wisely.

 

The Takeaway: In Branding, As In Life, Truth Wins

George Bernard Shaw was right. Communication isn’t what you say—it’s what’s understood. And if what’s understood is that you’re full of shit, no amount of clever naming will save you.

 

The greatest brands in history— Apple, Google, Tata, Amul—succeeded not because they had perfect names, but because their names reflected genuine intentions, delivered on promises, and built trust over time.

 

The worst brands—the McRibs, the Vitamin Waters, the Kingfisher Airlines—failed not because their names were bad, but because their names were lies.

 

In the end, a rose by any other name would indeed smell as sweet.

 

But bullshit, my friends, smells like bullshit no matter what you call it.

 

And customers, eventually, always know the difference.

 

You can rename a product. You can refresh a logo. You can even reboot a category.

 

But the heart keeps score.

 

And the fastest way to lose it is to promise one thing and name another.

 

For all ( or a lot of) my Malayalee brethren, who prefer to call it humour sense, and not sense of humour, my apologies.

 

Humour is the only soft power that can punch above its weight.

 

It has toppled tyrants, sold soap, survived WhatsApp uncles, rescued awkward silences, and made hard truths slip past our ego’s security scanner wearing an outdated wig. Yet, in boardrooms, brand decks and “serious conversations,” humour is still treated like that naughty cousin you acknowledge only at weddings.

 

Big mistake. Because humour is not a garnish. It is the cutlery.

 

Why Your Funny Bone is Your Secret Superpower

 

Winston Churchill, three sheets to the wind, stares down Lady Astor’s barb—“Winston, if you were my husband, I’d poison your whiskey!”—and fires back: “Nancy, if I were your husband, I’d drink it.” Boom. Room erupts. Nazis quake. History pivots on a punchline. Jaw dropped yet? Good. Because humour isn’t just LOLs—it’s the cheat code for conquering chaos. But how? Stick around; we’re trying to decode it.

 

Science Validated Punchline

 

Neuroscientists at Stanford discovered that when humour clicks, your brain lights up like a pinball machine on steroids—activating reward centers, memory hubs, and problem-solving regions simultaneously. Translation? A good laugh doesn’t just feel good. It makes you smarter.

 

Victor Borge called humour “the shortest distance between two people.” I’d add: it’s also the fastest route between confusion and clarity.

 

Circle back in time—when Volkswagen wanted Germans to buckle up in the 1970s, stern safety campaigns flopped. Then they installed a piano keyboard on stairs next to an escalator. People chose stairs. Behaviour changed through play, not preaching. The insight? Humour doesn’t just communicate—it converts.

 

It Takes Two To Tango- Wit and Wisdom

 

Our favourite comedians aren’t just funny—they’re philosophers in disguise. George Carlin dismantled language. Ricky Gervais weaponized awkwardness. Closer home, Vir Das turns cultural contradictions into mirror moments.

 

What’s their secret sauce? They make the familiar strange and the strange familiar. That cognitive whiplash—that sudden shift in perspective—is where both laughter and learning live.

 

Think about it: Every great innovation is essentially a punchline to a problem nobody saw coming. The Post-it Note? A failed adhesive that became a billion-dollar “oops.” Airbnb? “What if we made sleeping in strangers’ homes…aspirational?” The setup is absurd. The punchline is genius.

 

The Irreverent Edge

Here’s where humour becomes strategic dynamite: It punctures pomposity. It cuts through corporate-speak faster than any slide deck. When Elon Musk launched a Tesla into space playing “Space Oddity,” he didn’t just market a car—he made science cool through sheer audacity and wit.

 

Or consider Amul’s ads—decades of turning news into butter-smooth satire. They’ve mastered the art of being topical without being preachy, cheeky without being cheap. That’s high-wire humour with a safety net made of insight.

 

But here’s the double-edged sword: Humour without wisdom is just noise. Wisdom without humour is just tedious. The sweet spot? When your joke lands and leaves a mark.

 

Humour isn’t the opposite of serious. It’s the lubricant of serious.

 

Worth Taking Note

 

Humour isn’t decoration; it’s disruption. It fires up the anterior cingulate cortex—the brain’s “detective” for incongruity—and floods the system with dopamine, the “Remember this!” chemical. A joke is a Trojan horse for wisdom. You let down the drawbridge for a laugh, and in marches a memory, an idea, a connection that sets up camp permanently. Fun, isn’t it?

 

The Art of the Strategic Giggle

Take IKEA. They sell self-assembly frustration in a flat pack. Their genius? Naming a bookshelf “BILLY” and a towel rack “TISKEN.” They weaponise Swedish humility and our shared pain, creating a global inside joke. You’re not just a customer; you’re a co-conspirator in the absurdity of modern life. That’s branding with a wink.

 

Or venture into the hallowed, humourless halls of Central Banking. Enter Mahmoud Mohieldin, former IMF bigwig and UN Special Advocate. In a room choking on jargon, he reframes complex SDG financing as “trying to fit an elephant into a Smart car… and then convincing the elephant it’s a spa day.” Boom. The abstract becomes visceral, memorable, human. He doesn’t dumb it down; he frames it up. That’s the weight of wisdom, delivered with the levity of a feather that somehow tips the scale.

This isn’t about being a clown. It’s about being a conductor. The humour is the melody that makes the heavy bassline of your message travel further.

 

In the close tango of life, where gravity constantly leads, humour is the perfect, spontaneous dip. It’s the flash of insight that makes the whole dance memorable.

 

What If You Were Told Gandhi Weaponised Humour?

 

Look at his quote ” I object to violence because when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary; the evil it does is permanent.” Nah, he’d quip to Brits: “There are only two days in the year you have no control over: yesterday and tomorrow.” Talk about mic drop from a loincloth.

 

An offbeat example if I may— Meet Ignaz Semmelweis, 1840s Hungarian doc who slashed childbirth deaths by mandating handwashing. Colleagues laughed him out of Vienna, called him a nut. He died in an asylum, raving. Fast-forward: Germ theory vindicates him. Moral? Humour could’ve saved him—imagine skewering snobs with: “Pus under nails? Darling, that’s not fashion; it’s a fatality waiting to happen.” Intrigue: Hospitals now train docs in comedy to boost empathy and compliance. Your scalpel? Wit.

 

Mark Twain said, “Humor is mankind’s greatest blessing.” I’d argue it’s also our sneakiest teacher.

 

Three’s Company and Good To Takeaway

 

Start with self-deprecation. Nobody trusts perfect. When Howard Schultz admitted Starbucks initially served terrible coffee, he didn’t lose credibility—he gained humanity. As Groucho Marx said, “I don’t want to belong to any club that would accept me as a member.” Self-awareness is comedy. Comedy is connection.

 

Use the “callback” technique. Comedians circle back to earlier jokes. In presentations, referencing your opening hook at the close creates satisfying symmetry. Memory loves patterns wrapped in laughter. It’s the mental equivalent of: “Wait, didn’t he mention that CEO and the window earlier? Oh, I see what he did there…”

 

Find the “Benign Violation.” Psychologist Peter McGraw‘s theory: Humour happens when something is simultaneously wrong yet okay. That’s why we laugh at slipping on banana peels but not broken bones. Navigate this space, and you’ve found comedic—and creative—gold.

 

The Last Laugh

 

Steve Martin once said, “Comedy is not pretty.” He’s right. It’s messy, risky, and often born from pain disguised as play.

 

But here’s something worth worth embracing: The people who understand the gravity of things are often the ones who use levity most effectively. Churchill led Britain through hell with wit as his weapon. “I may be drunk, Miss, but in the morning I will be sober and you will still be ugly.” Savage? Yes. Memorable? Forever.

 

Life’s absurd enough without us taking ourselves too seriously. Charlie Chaplin knew that when he said: “A day without laughter is a day wasted.”

 

We can argue a strategy without humour is similarly squandered.

 

The brands, leaders and cultures that will endure are not the loudest or the cleverest. They will be the ones brave enough to smile at themselves, sharp enough to smile at the world, and wise enough to know when silence needs a punchline.

In an age drowning in opinions, humour still cuts through because it respects the audience’s mind while disarming their defences.

 

So go ahead—make ’em laugh. But more importantly, make ’em think while they’re laughing.

 

Because in the end, the best ideas don’t just change minds. They tickle them first.

 

And isn’t that a better way to start a revolution?

 

 

Let’s start with the obvious, shall we?

 

In India, love doesn’t come with a box of chocolates. It comes with a calibrated, unsolicited diagnosis of your BMI, melanin levels, and general physical presence. “Arre, you’ve become so thin!” isn’t concern—it’s a tactical opening gambit. “Beta, you’re looking…healthy,” isn’t a compliment—it’s a coded missile launched across the dining table. We are a culture where “You look tired” means “You look like hell,” and “Have you been out in the sun?” is just passive-aggressive poetry for “You’ve achieved a new shade of dusk.”

 

Welcome to the grand, chaotic, deeply irritating ecosystem where affection and audit are locked in a close, sweaty tango. And here I am, your irreverent guide(unappointed of course), weighing in (see what I did there?) with all the weight, wisdom, and weightage I can muster—which, according to at least one reel-a-tive last Diwali, is “a little more than advisable, but your face is so shiny!”

 

What if every time someone “lovingly” pointed out your body, you sent them an invoice for emotional labour and gym membership? They’d stop. Or you’d be rich. Either way, you win.

 

At every Indian Wedding Ever:

 

Aunty emerges from the samosa queue like a heat-seeking missile. Target acquired: You. Her opening gambit? “Arrey, you’ve become SO thin! Are you eating properly? What will people say?”

 

Rewind a bit: Last year, she said you were “putting on weight” and should “control.”

 

Welcome to the Indian Body Commentary Olympics, where everyone’s a judge, nobody asked for their opinion, and the scores are wildly inconsistent.

 

Question is: Is it Love, Concern, or Casual Cruelty?

 

A sneak peek at Indian “concern“—it wears the mask of affection while delivering precision strikes to your self-esteem.

 

We’ve somehow convinced ourselves that commenting on someone’s physical appearance is not just acceptable but mandatory. It’s the conversational equivalent of a handshake. “Hello, you look darker. What happened?” is considered small talk, not psychological warfare.

 

The Greatest Hits Collection( coming soon to Spotify | Apple | Amazon):

 

“You’ve become so dark! Stop roaming in the sun.”

“Arrey, why so thin? Eat something, will you?”

“You’re putting on weight, no? Better watch it before marriage.”

“Fair-skinned girls have better prospects.” (If you read between the lines, it means: You don’t.)

 

And the sucker punch? All delivered with a smile, often while shoving another ladoo into your hand.

 

Love, But Make It Violent

Indian body shaming is rarely loud.
It arrives smiling.
Wrapped in affection.
Delivered as “concern”.

It never says, “I judge you.”
It says, “I care.” As if you care!

And that’s the genius of it.

Because when cruelty dresses up as care, the victim is left with no rebuttal.
You can’t protest without sounding ungrateful.
You can’t object without appearing oversensitive.
You’re expected to accept the wound and thank the weapon.

The Real Damage Is Not on the Body

Let’s be precise.
Body shaming doesn’t hurt bodies.
It colonises self-worth.

It teaches people to:

• Shrink before they speak
• Laugh off insults to stay lovable
• Measure confidence in inches and shades
• Apologise for occupying space

It turns mirrors into interrogation rooms.
And compliments into suspicious events.

Worst of all, it trains victims to become future perpetrators, passing the same comments down like family silver.

Ever noticed how the loudest body comments come from people who’ve made peace with none of their own mirrors?

Classic Examples That Permeate This Ecosystem (A Short, Infuriating List):

The Wedding Waistline Watch: The marriage mandap isn’t just a sacred canopy; it’s a forensic lab. Every auntie is a scientist examining the specimen. “You’ve lost weight for the wedding? Good, good.” (Implied: You were substandard before.) Or the classic, “She’s such a pretty face. If only…” (The sentence trails off, but the ghost of the unfinished clause—“if only she dropped 15 kilos”—hovers over the gulab jamun tray.)

 

The Sunlight Conspiracy Theory: My personal favourite. As if darkness is not a pigment but a moral failing, a result of reckless cavorting in daylight. “You’ve become so dark!” is delivered with the gravitas of announcing a terminal illness. The prescribed cure? A slurry of ubtan, avoidance of the nearest star, and a side order of internalized shame.

 

The Backhanded Buffet of Concern: It’s a masterpiece of doublespeak. “You’re looking too thin, are you eating?” swiftly followed by, “But don’t eat too much maida, you’ll get fat.” You are Schrödinger’s cat—simultaneously too much and not enough, locked in a box of someone else’s making.

 

This isn’t affection. This is performance art in projection. It’s a societal tick, a conversational filler more reflexive than asking about the weather. It fills awkward silences by creating far more profound, awkward silences within the recipient.

 

Dear Victim, This Is Not a Pep Talk

You are not “too sensitive.”
You are too aware.

You are not overreacting.
You are finally reacting at the correct volume.

And no, you don’t owe politeness to people who mistake proximity for permission.

Here’s the truth they won’t tell you:

Your body is not a topic.
It’s not a before-after slide.
It’s not a community project.
It’s not an emotional punching bag dressed as affection.

Your silence was never grace.
It was conditioning.

But Why Though?

 

Because we’ve confused surveillance with love.

 

Because controlling someone else’s body gives us the illusion of control in our own messy lives.

 

Because colorism, fatphobia, and patriarchal beauty standards didn’t just permeate our society—they threw a house party and never left. Talk about trespassing!

 

And because—let’s be honest—we’re terrified of actual vulnerability. Easier to comment on someone’s waistline than ask, “How’s your heart doing?”

 

The Inspiration Bit (For the Victims, Warriors, Survivors)

Listen up:

 

Your body is not a conversation starter. It’s not a democracy. It doesn’t require a consensus.

 

The same people monitoring your weight aren’t paying your bills, fighting your battles, or living your life. Their commentary has an expiration date of exactly zero seconds.

 

Here’s your new script(remember I am a budding scriptwriter too):

 

Reframe the Narrative: That comment says precisely nothing about your worth and everything about the commentator’s limited imagination. Their vocabulary of care is impoverished. You are not the problem; their outdated dictionary is.

 

Master the Deflective Art of the Witty Retort: You don’t need aggression. You need audacity. To “You’ve become so dark!” try a pondering, “Yes, I’m charging my solar panels. The coal crisis, you know.” To “You’ve gained weight!” a cheerful, “Thank you! I’ve been working hard on my gravitational pull. It’s for science.” Watch them sputter. It’s therapeutic.

 

Claim Your Body as a Non-Negotiable Sovereign State: Your body is not up for public debate in the parliament of random relatives. It is the vessel that carries your genius, your kindness, your dreams. Its job is to function, not to decorate someone else’s narrow fantasy. The only weight you need to drop is the weight of their opinion.

 

This tango needs a new rhythm. One where we step on the toes of outdated norms and dance to a tune of unapologetic self-possession.

 

Remember: Every minute spent defending your body to someone else is a minute stolen from actually living in it.

 

The Final Word | The Last Laugh

 

The next time someone tries to gift-wrap their body shaming as concern, remember—you’re under no obligation to accept deliveries you didn’t order.

 

Your body is yours. Their opinions are theirs. Never confuse the two. They are mutually exclusive.

 

Now go forth and exist gloriously, unapologetically, exactly as you are. The aunties will talk anyway. Might as well give them something real to discuss.

 

Like your absolute refusal to care.

 

 

 

Welcome to the Republic Of Not Enough. Where Citizenship is automatic. While exit is optional.

 

We live in a republic with a motto we pretend to admire: progress. We post about growth, upgrades, and the next big thing. But beneath the glossy surface oozes a quiet, stubborn truth: we’re citizens of a Republic Of Not Enough. We vote with our wallets, our screens, and our carefully curated personas, all in search of solace and status. And somehow, even victory feels like borrowing against tomorrow.

 

Put your ear to the ground; listen closely: you’ll hear the nervous laughter of a culture that equates more with better, and better with enough. We chase “enough” like a mirage that keeps moving farther away the moment we think we’ve caught it. The result? A society that’s forever busy, yet permanently unsettled. A culture that treats quiet contentment as suspiciously passive, while loud ambition is worshipped as virtue. Welcome to the republic where the only thing truly universal is the sense that we’re running out of something—time, meaning, breath, or perhaps all three.

 

On the surface, it looks like a simple arithmetic problem: enough plus more equals happiness. But the more you add, the more noise you accumulate. The more you chase, the more elusive the target becomes. And in this ledger( of lack), we start marking debts not just in dollars, but in attention, energy, and the unnameable currency of inner peace. We’re told to “scale up,” to “disrupt,” to “innovate” until we’re exhausted by the act of innovating. And yet, the moment we pause, we glimpse a counterintuitive truth: the most radical act may be declaring what is truly enough for you.

 

The Warmth Migration

 

When you stop participating in the competitive accumulation Olympics, something unexpected happens—other people relax around you.

 

Choosing your enough is contagious. It’s a warmth that spreads. When you stop performing insufficiency, you give everyone around you permission to stop performing too.

 

Enough is a permission slip you write for yourself that others photocopy.

 

The Enough Paradox

 

Here’s the whip lash: the moment you decide what your enough is, you often end up with more of what matters.

 

Not more stuff. More presence. More satisfaction. More actual enjoyment of what you have. More energy for the things that feed you rather than the things that feed on you.

 

A friend of mine knows a couple who capped their wedding guest list at thirty people despite family pressure for three hundred. “We wanted to actually talk to everyone there,” they said. The intimacy they created became the story everyone told. People still mention that wedding five years later—not for its size, but for its warmth.

 

Compare that to every massive wedding most of us have attended where the couple is exhausted, stressed, and barely remembers speaking to anyone because they were too busy performing sufficiency for an audience that will forget about it by next Tuesday.

 

The Republic sells you the idea that more is always better. But “better” is doing some heavy lifting there. Better for whom? Better by what measure? Better toward what end?

 

The Citizenship You Didn’t Know You Had

 

Truth be told: you already have dual citizenship. One foot in the Republic Of Not Enough, one foot in the Kingdom Of Actually Pretty Great Already.

 

The Kingdom is smaller. Quieter. Fewer parades. No fireworks. The streets aren’t paved with gold—they’re paved with the same concrete everyone else walks on, but you’ve stopped looking down at your shoes wondering if they’re good enough and started looking around at the trees.

 

In the Kingdom, you have exactly the number of friends you can actually be a friend to. You own the things you use. You pursue the goals that are yours, not the ones that look good in a LinkedIn headline. You’re busy, but not “humble brag busy.” You rest without guilt. You enjoy without performing enjoyment.

 

The Kingdom has terrible PR because contentment doesn’t photograph well. It doesn’t trend. There’s no “crushing it” in the Kingdom—just consistent, quiet presence. It’s the difference between a firework and a candle. Guess which one lasts longer?

 

The Great Unsubscribing

 

So how do you defect? How do you choose your enough in a world designed to make enough feel like failure?

 

You start by asking different questions.

 

Not “Is this enough?” but “Enough for what? Enough for whom?”

 

Not “Do I have what everyone else has?” but “Do I have what I actually need and want?”

 

Not “What will people think?” but “What do I think?”

 

You practice the sacred art of unsubscribing. From email lists, yes, but also from expectations. From keeping up. From the exhausting performance of being someone you’re not.

 

You get radically honest about your actual desires versus your borrowed desires. That dream of starting a podcast—is it yours or is it something you think successful people do? That gym membership you never use—are you actually a gym person or did you just buy citizenship in the Republic Of Fit People?

 

You notice what you do on your free day with no agenda. That’s your real enough. Everything else is overhead.

 

The Rebellion Is Quiet

 

The revolution against the Republic Of Not Enough won’t be televised( it won’t gather TRPs you see) because revolutions need to be dramatic to be televised, and this one is the opposite of dramatic. It’s quiet. It’s personal. It’s individual.

 

It’s you deciding that your one-bedroom apartment is enough because it’s close to work and has good morning light.

 

It’s you finishing the books you have before buying new ones.

 

It’s you cultivating three deep friendships instead of three hundred shallow connections.

 

It’s you leaving the party early because you’re tired and you’ve stopped apologizing for your capacity.

 

It’s you saying “no” without a follow-up explanation, because “no” is a complete sentence in the Kingdom.

 

The Republic will send emissaries. They’ll come as ads, as social pressure, as that voice in your head at 2 AM wondering if you’re missing out. They’ll offer you citizenship upgrades. Premium memberships. Exclusive access to feeling inadequate in new and innovative ways.

 

And you’ll smile and say, “No thank you. I’ve already got enough.”

And you’ll mean it.

And it will be true.

And the warmth will spread.

 

Takeaways That Jolt

 

1. The Republic Of Not Enough is sustained by your participation. Every anxious scroll, every comparison, every “I should have” is a vote to stay. Stop voting.

 

2. Enough is not a number—it’s a decision. No amount of stuff will tell you when you’ve arrived. You have to decide the destination first, then stop the car.

 

3. Your enough gives others permission to find theirs. Contentment is contagious. Be patient zero.

 

4. The things you don’t buy, don’t pursue, don’t optimize—those absences create presence. Space is a luxury. Margin is wealth.

 

5. The Republic sells transformation. The Kingdom offers presence. You can’t be present in a place you’re constantly trying to leave.

 

6. Warmth beats wow every time. The impressive is momentary. The present is permanent.

 

7. Your unread books, unworn clothes, unused subscriptions—they’re not assets. They’re the border tax you paid to the Republic. Stop paying it.

 

Before Business Schools, There Were Backstages!

Long before the corporate zeitgeist worshipped “disruption,” well before consultants coined “brand architecture,” before authenticity became an overused buzzword—there were four kids in garages with guitars, audacity, and zero respect for how things were “supposed” to be done. They didn’t have focus groups. They had feedback: the primal roar of crowds or the deafening silence of empty rooms. They didn’t have brand guidelines. They had instinct, integrity, and the intoxicating freedom of not knowing the rules they were breaking.

 

Rock bands built empires on gut feelings that MBAs would later package into frameworks. They created tribal loyalty before “community management” existed. They understood scarcity economics while selling out stadiums. They weaponized mystique when transparency was gospel. They made volatility into virtue, danger into differentiation, and vulnerability into invincibility.

 

A one-legged flutist in a codpiece (Jethro Tull) understood positioning better than most Fortune 500 CMOs. A band that encouraged bootlegging (Grateful Dead) grasped lifetime customer value before CRM software existed. Four guys who refused to put their name on an album cover(Led Zeppelin) knew more about brand equity than agencies billing millions to plaster logos everywhere.

 

This isn’t nostalgia. This is a field guide to the principles that precede the PowerPoints—the raw, unfiltered DNA of brands that don’t just survive trend cycles, but define eras. These bands didn’t build brands. They built belief systems. And belief, as it turns out, is the only moat that compounds.

 

So turn it up to eleven. Class is in session.

 

When Amplifiers Taught Us About Authenticity

 

1.JETHRO TULL: The Art of Theatrical Contrarianism

The Core Story: While prog-rock peers built castles of complexity, Ian Anderson stood on one leg with a flute, dressed as a medieval minstrel, making classical instruments cool in the age of electric rebellion.

UFP (Unique Feelings Proposition): “You can be intellectual without being inaccessible, eccentric without being exclusive.” Jethro Tull made you feel like the smartest person in the room who could still have fun.

Counter-Intuitive Strategy: They zigged when everyone zagged—bringing folk instrumentation to hard rock, rejecting the “rock god” archetype for theatrical absurdism, and famously winning the first-ever Heavy Metal Grammy (for Crest of a Knave) despite not being metal at all.

The Outlier Moment: Thick as a Brick (1972)—a single 43-minute song presented as a newspaper. They literally wrapped their product in editorial commentary, creating meta-branding before the internet made everyone a critic.

Inspiring Takeaway: Don’t fight for a seat at the table; bring your own furniture. Jethro Tull proved that category creation beats category domination.

Application Across Industries: Like Tesla ignoring auto industry playbooks or Patagonia telling customers not to buy their products, the lesson is simple: conviction in your weirdness creates magnetic differentiation.

 

2.DEEP PURPLE: The Power of Creative Tension

The Core Story: Built on the volatile chemistry between Ritchie Blackmore‘s neoclassical precision and Ian Gillan’s blues-rock spontaneity, Deep Purple turned internal conflict into sonic gold.

UFP(Unique Feelings Proposition): “Excellence emerges from constructive friction.” They made you feel the electricity of barely-controlled chaos, the thrill of virtuosos pushing each other to the edge.

Counter-Intuitive Strategy: They embraced instability as a feature, not a bug. Multiple lineup changes (Mark I, II, III, IV) didn’t dilute the brand—each became a distinct “product line” with loyal followers. They productized volatility.

The Outlier Moment: Recording Machine Head at the Montreux Casino when it literally burned down during a Frank Zappa concert, inspiring “Smoke on the Water“—the most recognizable guitar riff ever. They turned disaster into their signature.

Inspiring Takeaway: Your brand doesn’t need perfect harmony; it needs productive tension. The Beatles had Lennon-McCartney creative friction; Apple had Jobs-Ive design tension. Conflict, managed well, forges diamonds.

Application Across Industries: Think Google’s “organized chaos” or Amazon’s “disagree and commit” culture. Deep Purple proved that creative abrasion, when channeled properly, produces heat that forges legendary work. For agencies and startups: diverse perspectives in tension often beat comfortable consensus.

 

3.LED ZEPPELIN: Mystique as Marketing

The Core Story: Four musicians who rarely gave interviews, avoided singles, refused TV appearances, and built the biggest rock empire of the ’70s purely on album sales and live mythology.

UFP(Unique Feelings Proposition): “You want us more because you can’t have us.” Led Zeppelin made you feel like an initiate into secret knowledge, not a consumer of mass entertainment.

Counter-Intuitive Strategy: Anti-promotion as promotion. No singles released in the UK during their prime. No names on the first album cover. Untitled fourth album with mysterious symbols. They made scarcity a sacrament when everyone else was chasing ubiquity.

The Outlier Moment: Led Zeppelin IV (1971)—no band name, no title, just four cryptic symbols. It sold 37 million copies. They proved you could erase your name and still dominate because the work was the signature.

Inspiring Takeaway: Mystery is a moat. Accessibility is overrated. The hardest brand strategy is saying “no” to exposure—but scarcity creates value.

Application Across Industries: Supreme’s limited drops, Hermès’ Birkin bag waitlists, Clubhouse’s invite-only launch—mystique creates desire. In B2B: thought leaders who don’t speak at every conference gain more gravitas. In luxury: less availability equals more aspiration. Zeppelin taught us that the most powerful brand position is “you can’t always get what you want.”

 

4.THE BEATLES: Perpetual Reinvention as Brand Religion

The Core Story: Four lads from Liverpool who refused to be what they were yesterday. From mop-topped boy band to psychedelic philosophers to stripped-down studio monks—they remade themselves every 18 months while the world watched, copied, and never caught up.

UFP(Unique Feelings Proposition): “We give you permission to outgrow your past self.” The Beatles made reinvention feel safe, even sacred. If they could go from “She Loves You” to “A Day in the Life” in four years, you could evolve too.

Counter-Intuitive Strategy: Kill your golden goose repeatedly. At peak Beatlemania, they stopped touring (1966). After perfecting pop, they invented psychedelia (Sgt. Pepper’s). Post-masterpiece, they stripped back to roots (Let It Be). They made obsolescence a creative mandate, not a market threat.

The Outlier Moment: Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (1967)—they literally created an alter ego band, complete with fictional personas and concept album narrative. They branded away from themselves to transcend themselves, teaching every artist since that your next act requires killing your last one.

Inspiring Takeaway: The most dangerous brand move is standing still. The Beatles proved that loyalty isn’t built on consistency—it’s built on trusted evolution. Fans don’t want the same thing twice; they want to be surprised by someone they trust.

Application Across Industries: Amazon starting with books, then everything. Apple’s evolution from computers to phones to services. Netflix from DVDs to streaming to production. Madonna’s chameleonic decades. These are Beatles blueprints: dominate, then destroy your own playbook before competitors do. For agencies: redefine your services every 3 years. For personal brands: your bio should make your 5-years-ago self unrecognizable. The Fab Four taught us that brands die from calcification, not transformation.

 

5.PINK FLOYD: Immersive Experience Over Individual Stardom

The Core Story: After Syd Barrett’s departure, Pink Floyd became a collective identity—no frontman, just a sonic architecture that enveloped audiences in audiovisual cathedrals.

UFP(Unique Feelings Proposition): “Transcendence through total immersion.” They didn’t give you songs; they gave you journeys into your own consciousness.

Counter-Intuitive Strategy: De-emphasize the humans, amplify the experience. While contemporaries sold sex appeal and charisma, Floyd sold inflation pigs, circular screens, and quadraphonic sound. They branded the experience ecosystem, not the band.

The Outlier Moment: The Dark Side of the Moon stayed on Billboard 200 for 736 consecutive weeks (over 14 years). They proved that if you create something people want to live inside, they’ll never leave.

Inspiring Takeaway: Your product isn’t the hero—the customer’s transformation is. Pink Floyd pioneered “experiential branding” decades before it was a buzzword.

Application Across Industries: Disney doesn’t sell rides; they sell “magic.” Apple doesn’t sell phones; they sell ecosystems. Starbucks positioned as “third place,” not coffee shop. Nike’s “Just Do It” sells transformation, not shoes. The lesson: architect experiences so complete that people can’t separate the product from their identity. Relevant for hospitality, retail, SaaS onboarding, museum design, healthcare—anywhere human experience is the product.

 

6.GRATEFUL DEAD: Community as Competitive Advantage

The Core Story: A band that encouraged fans to bootleg concerts, created a ticket system for loyalists (Dead Heads), and generated 95% of revenue from touring when everyone else chased radio hits.

UFP(Unique Feelings Proposition): “You’re not a fan; you’re family.” The Dead made every follower feel like a participant in a living, evolving artwork.

Counter-Intuitive Strategy: Give away your best product for free. They allowed—encouraged!—taping of live shows when the industry was suing bootleggers. This “freemium” model created evangelical fans who spent on tickets, merchandise, travel. They monetized devotion, not content.

The Outlier Moment: Creating a mailing list in the 1970s to sell tickets directly to fans, bypassing Ticketmaster fees—primitive CRM that built a database of 100,000 super fans who could be activated for any tour.

Inspiring Takeaway: Community beats content. Participation beats consumption. Generosity creates loyalty that turns customers into missionaries.

Application Across Industries: Harley-Davidson’s HOG clubs, Peloton’s community features, Salesforce’s Trailblazer community, GitHub’s open-source ethos—all descendants of Dead Head philosophy. For B2B: customer advisory boards, user conferences, and co-creation platforms. For D2C: Discord communities, beta tester programs, ambassador networks. The Dead proved that when you empower your audience to be co-creators, they’ll defend your brand more fiercely than any marketing campaign.

 

7.BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN: Authenticity as Armor

The Core Story: A working-class kid from New Jersey who rejected glam, rejected shortcuts, and built a 50-year career on three-hour shows and stories of ordinary people’s struggles.

UFP(Unique Feelings Proposition): “Your life, your pain, your hope—seen, heard, honored.” Springsteen made factory workers and waitresses feel like heroes in their own epic.

Counter-Intuitive Strategy: Choose exhaustion over polish. While MTV demanded quick hits and choreography, Springsteen played marathon concerts, refused to lip-sync, and wrote 70+ verses for “The River.” He made effort visible when everyone else was hiding the seams.

The Outlier Moment: Pulling “Born in the USA” from Reagan’s campaign despite it being career-advantageous politically, because the message was being distorted. He chose brand integrity over short-term gain.

Inspiring Takeaway: Authenticity isn’t a tactic; it’s a 50-year commitment. Your brand is what you protect when compromising would be profitable.

Application Across Industries: Patagonia’s environmental activism even when costly, Costco’s refusal to raise hot dog prices, In-N-Out’s limited menu focus—these are Springsteen strategies. In professional services: thought leaders who admit “I don’t know,” consultants who fire bad-fit clients, agencies that show process not just results. For personal branding: sharing failures, maintaining principles during market downturns, consistency across decades. The Boss taught us that the most valuable brand asset is the one that can’t be counterfeited—your actual values.

 

8.THE DOORS: Danger as Differentiation

The Core Story: Jim Morrison positioned The Doors as shamanic rock poets—part Dionysian theater, part literary revolution, all unpredictability. No bass player, just organ filling the low end, creating a sound as unconventional as their image.

UFP(Unique Feelings Proposition): “We’ll take you to the edge, and maybe over it.” The Doors made you feel like you were accessing forbidden knowledge, flirting with danger from your bedroom.

Counter-Intuitive Strategy: Weaponize volatility. Where professionalism was prized, Morrison made unpredictability the product. Would he show up? Would he get arrested? This unreliability became mythology.

The Outlier Moment: Morrison’s arrest in Miami (1969) for “indecent exposure” could have ended the band—instead it cemented their outlaw brand. They turned scandal into legend, controversy into currency.

Inspiring Takeaway: Sometimes the brand promise is risk itself. Calculated danger creates stories; stories create immortality.

Application Across Industries: Red Bull’s extreme sports sponsorships, Cards Against Humanity’s offensive humor as feature, Ryanair’s CEO’s deliberately provocative statements—they all channel Doors energy. In tech: move-fast-and-break-things startup culture. In marketing: controversial campaigns that polarize (Nike’s Kaepernick ad). The lesson: if everyone likes you, you’re forgettable. The Doors proved that making some people uncomfortable can make others devoted—as long as you’re authentic to your core. Not for every brand, but powerful for those with courage.

 

9.METALLICA: Evolution Without Abandonment

The Core Story: Thrash metal pioneers who survived lineup tragedy (Cliff Burton’s death), mainstream sellout accusations (Black Album), and Napster backlash by evolving while respecting roots.

UFP(Unique Feelings Proposition): “We grow, but we never forget where we came from.” Metallica made fans feel that aggression and sophistication could coexist, that success didn’t require betrayal of origins.

Counter-Intuitive Strategy: They fought their fans’ wishes to preserve their vision. The Black Album (1991) was “too commercial” for purists—and became the best-selling album of the SoundScan era (17+ million in US). They chose expansion over appeasement.

The Outlier Moment: Some Kind of Monster documentary (2004)—showing therapy sessions, creative conflicts, weakness. They demystified the band at career peak, turning vulnerability into renewed credibility.

Inspiring Takeaway: Evolve visibly and explain nothing. Then, when challenged, show your humanity completely. Metallica mastered the balance between confidence and transparency.

Application Across Industries: Netflix’s shift from DVDs to streaming despite backlash, Adobe’s Creative Suite to Creative Cloud migration, Microsoft’s Satya Nadella transformation—all Metallica moves. For agencies: transitioning from traditional to digital services. For restaurants: elevating the menu while keeping signature dishes. The lesson: growth requires alienating some day-one fans, but if you’re authentic about why you are evolving, the right audience will follow. And when attacked, radical transparency can transform critics into respectors.

 

10.SCORPIONS: Longevity Through Reinvention

The Core Story: German rockers who went from psychedelic prog to heavy metal to power ballads, surviving 50+ years by reading cultural shifts and pivoting without losing identity.

UFP(Unique Feelings Proposition): “Epic emotion, delivered with Germanic precision.” Scorpions made you feel grandeur—whether through shredding solos or orchestral ballads—always with meticulous craftsmanship.

Counter-Intuitive Strategy: Embrace the power ballad when you’re a metal band. “Wind of Change” (1990) became the anthem of Soviet collapse—not through heaviness, but through tenderness. They proved genre flexibility beats genre purity.

The Outlier Moment: “Wind of Change” selling 14+ million copies globally, becoming a geopolitical moment, showing that a rock band could score history itself by reading the room (the zeitgeist) perfectly.

Inspiring Takeaway: Longevity demands genre-fluidity. Your brand can be a “both/and” not just an “either/or.” Metal and ballads. German and global. Hard and soft.

Application Across Industries: IBM’s shift from hardware to services to cloud, Nintendo’s toy company to video game empire evolution, LEGO’s near-bankruptcy rescue through media franchises—all Scorpions-level pivots. For professional services: law firms adding consulting, consulting firms adding implementation. For product companies: Apple from computers to lifestyle ecosystem. The lesson: your core competency (Scorpions = emotion + precision) can manifest in radically different forms over time. Don’t confuse format with essence. The brands that last 50 years + are those that keep their soul while constantly updating their body.

 

THE UNIFIED THEORY: What Rock Taught Branding

 

These legends didn’t follow marketing textbooks—they wrote them in power chords and poetry. The patterns are clear:

1. Conviction Over Consensus: Jethro Tull’s flute, Zeppelin’s mystique, Dead’s free taping—all initially seemed insane.

2. Experience Over Product: Pink Floyd and Springsteen sold transformation, not songs.

3. Community Over Customers: Grateful Dead pioneered what tech calls “network effects” in 1967.

4. Authenticity Over Perfection: The Doors’ chaos, Metallica’s therapy—vulnerability connects deeper than polish.

5. Evolution Over Preservation: Scorpions and Metallica stayed relevant by growing uncomfortably.

6. Tension Over Harmony: Deep Purple’s friction created sparks; comfort creates mediocrity.

7. Scarcity Over Ubiquity: Zeppelin proved less can be infinitely more.

These aren’t music lessons. They’re master classes in building brands that don’t just survive—they become monuments.

Rock on.

 

A slightly offbeat attempt in this blog post. Consider this as an internal interview the post is conducting with you, the reader. Each question nudges with intent. Each answer attempts to ground. The idea being, together, they probe, provoke, prove, promise, and provide without preaching.

 

Some questions we are all probably avoiding? Here is An Uncomfortable, But Necessary Q&A:

 

Q1. What exactly is the Friendship Recession? It’s the gap between how many people we are connected to and how few we feel truly held by. A slow erosion, not a sudden crash. No drama, just drift.

 

Q2. But are we really lonely, or just nostalgic for another time? Loneliness today isn’t about being alone. It’s about being constantly reachable and rarely met. Nostalgia is a distraction. Presence is the missing ingredient.

 

Q3. We’re busy. Isn’t this just adulthood doing its thing? Partly. But adulthood didn’t steal friendship. We redesigned life to reward productivity over proximity, efficiency over emotional slack. We normalized canceling plans. Made “busy” a badge of honor. Turned “let’s catch up soon” into a socially acceptable lie.

 

Q4. Isn’t technology supposed to solve this? Technology solved access. It didn’t solve intimacy. We have faster connections and thinner bonds. Speed turned out to be a poor substitute for depth.

 

Q5. So what’s really broken here? Not people. Not effort. Design. We built days with no breathing room for friendship to exist without an agenda.

 

Q6. Why does friendship feel like a “nice-to-have” instead of something essential? Because it refuses measurement. Friendship doesn’t scale neatly, doesn’t report quarterly, doesn’t show up on dashboards. So we underinvest.

 

But I have hundreds of friends on social media. Doesn’t that count?

 

Does watching cooking videos make you a chef? Self-reported high loneliness scores affect between 10-40% of national populations across the United States, Japan, China and Europe—despite unprecedented digital connectivity. Social media gave us the appearance of connection without the substance. Real friendship requires vulnerability, time, and showing up when it’s inconvenient. Instagram doesn’t do inconvenient.

 

Q7. What’s the hidden cost of that underinvestment? Burnout that won’t respond to vacations. Teams that transact but don’t trust. Creativity that feels strained. Leadership that feels lonely at the top.

 

Q8. Is this a personal failure or a collective one? Collective. Most people didn’t choose to neglect friendship. They absorbed a system that quietly deprioritised it.

 

Q9. If friendship is so vital, why does it erode so quietly? Because it doesn’t demand attention when it’s fading. It just waits. Politely. Until one day the call feels awkward and the silence feels permanent.

 

Q10. Can friendships actually survive long gaps and changing lives? Yes. But only if we stop treating silence as neglect and start treating reconnection as normal. Friendship evolves. It doesn’t have to expire.

 

Q11. What’s the smallest unit of recovery from this recession? Not a grand gesture. A call instead of a like. Listening without fixing. Showing up without an agenda.

 

Q12. What role do leaders, creators, and marketers play in this? A bigger one than they realise. Culture mirrors behaviour. Transactional leaders breed transactional teams. Human leaders create room for real connection.

 

Q13. Is there a competitive advantage to deeper friendships? Absolutely. Friends sharpen thinking, soften certainty, and make risk survivable. They are emotional infrastructure in uncertain times.

 

Q14. What does success look like if we take the Friendship Recession seriously? Smaller circles, stronger bonds. Fewer updates, richer conversations. Time that looks inefficient but feels deeply replenishing.

 

Q15. So how does this recession actually end? Not with a viral post or a public pledge. It ends with a conversation that doesn’t need documenting. One person. One unhurried moment. Repeated.

 

Q16.Is “networking” killing actual friendship?

 

Absolutely. Networking is transactional. Friendship is transformational. When every relationship has an ROI calculation, genuine connection becomes impossible. In Japan, reports of communication with family and friends are much less frequent, regardless of whether someone reports loneliness—suggesting cultural workplace norms shape social behavior. You can’t optimize your way into intimacy.

 

Q17.What’s the real promise here? What changes if we fix this?

 

Everything. Research shows our wellbeing and health are maximized by having approximately five close friends—though this varies by gender and personality. When you’re truly connected, work gets easier, stress gets manageable, joy gets amplified. Strong social connections can lead to better health and longer life. The promise? Life becomes livable again. Not optimized. Not productive. Just deeply, messily, beautifully human.

 

The friendship recession ends when we stop waiting for connection to happen and start building it. One honest conversation at a time.

 

The quiet promise beneath it all

 

The Friendship Recession isn’t asking us to feel guilty. It’s asking us to be intentional.

 

Because in a world obsessed with growth, friendship grows best when it’s allowed to be inefficient, unspectacular, and real.

 

And that may be the most strategic investment we make next year and beyond.

 

Come January 2026. And the pressure to have it all sorted out is the trap that most of us fall prey to.

 

While everyone’s posting their perfectly aligned strategy decks, the truth is messier and more interesting. The brands that will thrive in 2026 won’t be the ones with flawless forecasts—they’ll be the ones who learn to dance with uncertainty.

 

So what does 2026 hold for you? Not what you think. And that’s exactly the point.

 

Uncertainty Is Your Competitive Advantage

 

Not long ago, you might remember we thought AI would “settle down” by now? When economic forecasts felt reliable? When consumer behavior followed predictable patterns?

 

2026 laughs at our optimism.

 

But here’s the counterintuitive truth: The brands struggling most are the ones still trying to plan their way out of chaos. The ones finding momentum are experimenting their way through it.

 

The shift: From “Let me perfect this strategy” to “Let me learn something this week.”

 

Try This Test

 

Identify one assumption your brand is operating on. Just one. Now design a small, cheap experiment to test if it’s actually true. Budget: the lowest you can afford. Timeline: two weeks max.

 

Hypothesis

 

You are a skincare brand. And your go-to is that your audience wants ‘ clinical proof ‘ messaging. A simple Instagram Story poll revealed they actually craved “real results from real humans.” One assumption challenged, entire content strategy shifted. Cost: Zero.

 

Speed Over Perfection( Smart In-Built)

 

The tyranny of polish is killing creative confidence. But speed without strategy is just noise.

 

2026 demands a new balance: Fast, focused, and forgiving.

 

Think of your brand as a jazz musician, not a classical orchestra. The orchestra needs months of rehearsal to perform. The jazz musician improvises in real-time, responding to what’s actually happening in the room.

 

The 48-Hour Response Framework:

 

When culture moves, you have a two-day window. Not to jump on every trend, but to decide if you should. Ask three questions:

 

1. Does this connect to our brand truth? (Not our positioning—our truth.)
2. Can we add value or just volume?
3. Will we care about this in a month?

 

If yes to all three, move. If no to any, sit it out with confidence.

 

You Don’t Need Permission: You Already Have It

 

You don’t need more data to make your next move. You need more courage.

 

Data is seductive because it feels safe. But every breakthrough brand moment comes from someone deciding to trust their instinct and test it in the wild, not in a conference room.

 

What This Could Look Like

Launch the weird idea you keep talking yourself out of

Partner with the creator who feels “off-brand” on paper but right in your gut

Write the email you think might be too vulnerable

Try the channel everyone says is “dead” for your category

 

The pattern: The brands we celebrate in case studies weren’t smarter. They were braver.

 

Three Things That Will Actually Matter In 2026

 

Strip away the noise, and three things remain true:

1. Humans are overwhelmed and craving simplicity.
Your brand clarity is a gift. Complexity is the enemy.

2. Trust is the only moat left.
Performance marketing will get them to click. Only trust gets them to stay.

3. Creative confidence compounds.
Every small bet you make builds the muscle for bigger ones. Start small. Start now.

 

Last But Not Certainly The Least

 

You know that campaign idea you’re sitting on? The one that feels risky but right? The one you keep refining, waiting for the perfect moment?

 

The perfect moment is a myth.

 

But this moment—messy, uncertain, beautifully imperfect—is real. And it’s enough.

 

2026 isn’t waiting for you to have it all figured out. It’s waiting for you to show up anyway.

 

So here’s your field guide distilled: Experiment faster. Connect deeper. Trust harder.

 

The brands that will define this coming year aren’t the ones with the best predictions. They’re the ones brave enough to build something beautiful in the uncertainty.

 

Now go make something that scares you a little.

 

A Playlist For 2026( Worth Trying In Month 1)

 

The 5×5 Rule: Interview 5 customers for 5 minutes each, asking one question: “What’s one thing we don’t know about you?”

The Opposite Brief: Take your best-performing content. Create its exact opposite. Test both. Be surprised.

The Honest Subject Line: Send one email with the most human, vulnerable, un-marketing subject line you can write.

The Partner Swap: Find a non-competing brand with your values. Do something together with zero budget. Cooperative Marketing.

The Friday Ship: Every Friday, ship something—a post, an idea, a note. Make it routine.

 

Here’s to the beautiful mess coming up in 2026.

 

Let’s cut the corporate karma and dive straight into the gut of it. The most dangerous word in a leadership vocabulary isn’t a four-letter expletive. It’s a three-letter conjunction: BUT.

 

This is a conversation of, by & for “ And V But “. As great conversations don’t contradict. They compound.

 

We have all gone through it. Conversations dying the moment someone says ‘but ‘. Often times, our creative director and team at ISD Global pitch a brilliant idea. The client leans forward, eyes lit up, mouth opened and…”I love it, but can we make it more corporate?”

 

And just like that, the idea flatlines.

 

The Assassin In The Room

 

“But” is the most polite assassin in the English language. It wears a smile, nods encouragingly, and then quietly strangles every word that came before it.

 

Think about it. When someone says “You’re talented, but…” do you remember the compliment? Hell no. You’re already bracing for impact.

 

“But” is the eraser that shows up after the pen has written. It’s the delete key disguised as punctuation. It’s the conversation killer we’ve all normalized.

 

Enter the Humble Revolutionary: AND

 

Now consider this small act of linguistic rebellion: Replace “but” with “and.”

 

“I love it, and can we explore how to make it work for corporate?”

 

Feel that? The idea didn’t die. It expanded. The conversation didn’t close. It opened.

 

This isn’t semantics. This is survival.

 

In a world addicted to binaries—right or wrong, win or lose, agree or disagree—“and” is the bridge we forgot we could build. It’s the difference between playing chess and playing jazz. One eliminates possibilities. The other creates them.

 

Three Conversations That Changed Because Of One Word

 

The Pitch: A startup founder told investors, “We’re not profitable yet, and we’ve captured 40% market share in six months.” The round closed. Why? Because “and” let both truths coexist without one canceling the other.

 

The Feedback: A manager told an employee, “Your report was thorough, and I think trimming it by 30% would make it sharper.” The employee didn’t defend. She improved. “And” invited collaboration instead of combat.

 

The Conflict: Two partners were stuck. One said, “I hear that you want to pivot, and I’m concerned about our existing commitments.” Not agreement. Not capitulation. Just space for both realities to breathe.

 

The Dangerous Comfort of BUT

 

Here’s why we cling to “but“—it lets us stay safe. It allows us to acknowledge something without actually accepting it. It’s the conversational equivalent of liking someone’s post but never showing up when it matters.

 

“And” is riskier. It demands we hold contradictions simultaneously. It asks us to be adults about complexity. It refuses the lazy comfort of either/or thinking.

 

The Science Of It

 

Neuroscience doesn’t lie. BUT triggers a threat response in the brain—a mini amygdala hijack. AND triggers a reward response. It invites the prefrontal cortex, the seat of creativity and problem-solving, to the party. You’re not just being nice; you’re engineering better brain chemistry for innovation.

 

The Provoke Principle

 

Every conversation is a co-creation or a demolition. You choose which with every word.

 

“But” demolishes. It signals: what you said doesn’t really matter because here comes what actually matters.

 

“And” co-creates. It signals: what you said matters and there’s more to explore here.

 

The next time you’re about to say “but,” pause. Ask yourself: am I trying to win this conversation or grow it?

 

Truth be told: The most powerful people in any room aren’t the ones with the best arguments. They’re the ones who can hold multiple truths at once, who can say “you’re right, and let me add this,” who understand that great conversations aren’t about conclusions—they’re about connections.

 

Start using “and.” Watch what happens.

 

Your relationships will acknowledge you. Your ideas will multiply. Your influence will grow.

 

And you’ll finally understand what real conversation feels like.

 

Your AND is your superpower. It’s the difference between being a critic and a co-creator. Between a transaction and a partnership. Between a room of defensive individuals and a tribe building a future.

Stop arguing. Start AND-ing.

 

Close your eyes. Play this in the beautiful landscape of your mind.

 

You’re at a five-star buffet of life, piling your plate sky-high with everyone else’s seconds—boss’s deadlines, lover’s moods, kid’s tantrums. Then the lights flicker. The mirror cracks. And a voice whispers, “Plate’s full, genius. Yours is empty.” Ouch. Or is it?

 

Dear Love, it is time to spill it. What wisdom hides in the art of doting on myself? Because let’s face it, we’re all pros at self-sabotage marathons—running ragged for applause that never comes. For attention that is never received.

Dear Love, what would you have me know about learning how to dote upon myself?

 

Walking past a mirror and actually liking what you see. Not tolerating. Not accepting. Liking.

 

We live in a world where we’ll binge-watch seven seasons of other people’s lives but can’t sit with ourselves for seven minutes without reaching for a distraction. Where we’ll send “thinking of you” texts to seventeen people but never to the one person reading this right now.

 

So we ask Love itself: What would you have me know about learning how to dote upon myself?

 

And Love, that cheeky b*X*>, laughed.

 

The Museum Guard Who Changed Everything

 

You might be aware of this unverified story which I chanced upon recently.

 

There’s this security guard at the Louvre Museum—Henri—who spent 40 years watching tourists photograph the Mona Lisa while never looking at the painting themselves. All lens, no presence. One day, his daughter asked, “Papa, when was the last time you just looked at her?”

 

He realized he’d been in the room with beauty for decades but never actually with it.

 

We’re all Henri. In the room with ourselves—this wild, unrepeatable consciousness—but busy documenting life for an audience that’s also not paying attention.

 

What Love Actually Said

 

When you press Love harder, it gets serious:

 

“Doting isn’t self-indulgence. It’s self-preservation. You can’t love from an empty vessel. You can only leak desperation and resentment from there. Fill yourself first. Overflow second.”

 

Then it added: “And stop waiting for someone else to give you permission. That’s not love—that’s probably hostage negotiation.”

 

Self-doting isn’t bubble baths and affirmations. It’s the revolutionary act of treating your own company as valuable.

 

My Pickup Truck Epiphany If You Will…

Last month, I chased a client deadline( you can ask, what’s new?) like a dog after its tail—emails at 2 AM, coffee as blood. Crashed into a wall (metaphorical, thankfully). Sat in my car, engine off, staring at the dashboard. Asked Love: “What now?” Answer hit like cheap whiskey: Stop driving everyone else’s car. Tune yours. Doted on myself with 20 minutes of nothingness. Zilch. Bliss. Paced my story? Chaos to calm in one gear shift.

 

The Monk Who Quit Enlightenment

Jiddu Krishnamurti, the anti-guru guru, ditching his messiah role at 30. Why? He saw “enlightenment” as another’s script. He chose self-doting—quiet walks, unscripted thoughts. Rare truth: The guy who could’ve owned spirituality said no. Lesson? Dote first, or your soul starves amid the spotlight.

 

But what if doting isn’t bubble baths and brunches? What if it’s rebellion?

 

The Elephant In The…

 

Elephants. These titans dote via “dust baths”—rolling in mud not for spa vibes, but survival. Mud blocks sun, kills parasites. Rare? They teach calves this ritual young. Humans? We slather on others’ mud and call it loyalty.

 

So, If You Need An Invitation…

 

For one week, treat yourself like someone you’re trying to seduce. Not impress—seduce. Notice what you need before you need it. Laugh at your own jokes. Cancel plans that feel like obligations. Buy the good coffee. Dance in your kitchen. Be unabashedly pleased by your own existence.

 

Because…here’s the secret they don’t print on motivational posters: The love you’re seeking? It’s already here. In the body that carried you through every heartbreak. In the mind that never stopped trying. In the soul that’s reading this, hoping for permission.

 

Consider it granted.

 

So, If You Read This Far, How About Some Takeaways?

 

Dote like a rebel: Say no to one “yes” today. Watch your energy roar back.

Mirror ritual: Daily, ask, “What feeds me?” Not them. Journal it.

Elephant wisdom: Muddy up your boundaries. Rare truth—self-care isn’t selfish; it’s seismic.

Krishnamurti hack: Quit one “should.” Walk. Think free.

 

Dear Love, you whisper: Doting on myself isn’t indulgence; it’s insurrection against a world that devours the undoted. Start small—your truck awaits. Provoke yourself first.

 

What’s your dust bath? Hit reply. Let’s stir the mud.

 

 

Going back in time a bit. February 2013. Super Bowl XLVII. The stadium lights go dark for 34 excruciating minutes. The most expensive advertising night in America has just become a black hole. Network executives panic. Advertisers who paid millions for 30-second spots start hyperventilating. And somewhere in a war room, the Oreo team is doing something completely bonkers.

 

They tweet.

 

“Power out? No problem. You can still dunk in the dark.”

 

One image. One line. Zero ad buy. 525 million impressions.

 

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the age of FASTvertising—where timing beats budget, wit trumps polish, and the fastest finger on the keyboard wins.

 

The Culture Moves Fast. Brands, Not So Much

 

Traditional advertising cycles simply cannot keep pace with today’s hyperconnected public conversation. While you’re still waiting for legal to sign off on that campaign deck, the internet has already moved through three memes, four controversies, and seventeen TikTok trends.

 

FASTvertising offers brands a way to not only capture attention but also build authentic connections with audiences, and when executed well, can earn disproportionate returns.

 

The lesson(opportunity)here? Stop acting like a corporation. Start acting like culture.

 

( It is worth reading the HBR article from their Jan-Feb 2026 issue ” Marketing At The Speed Of Culture “).

 

What Happened When Aviation Gin Hijacked a PR Disaster?

 

December 2019. Peloton releases a holiday ad. A husband gifts his already-thin wife a $2,200 exercise bike. The internet collectively loses its mind. The backlash is swift, brutal, and viral. Peloton’s stock drops 10%.

 

Enter Ryan Reynolds and Maximum Effort. Within 72 hours—not weeks, not months—they produce a response ad starring the same actress from the Peloton commercial. She’s at a bar with girlfriends, downing Aviation Gin, looking shell-shocked. The implication? That marriage didn’t work out.

 

The caption Reynolds tweets: “Exercise bike not included.”

 

The result? 13 billion impressions without spending a dime on media placement. The ad helped drive Aviation Gin’s eventual $610 million acquisition by Diageo.

 

It gets more mouth-watering: when “And Just Like That” killed off Mr. Big on a Peloton bike, Maximum Effort struck again within 48 hours with an ad called “He’s Alive,” featuring Chris Noth alive and well. They turned Peloton’s nightmare into their advantage—twice.

 

That’s not marketing. That’s cultural jiu-jitsu.

 

May This FOURce For FASTvertising Be With You

 

1.Culture isn’t a Target Audience. It is the Oxygen

 

Fastvertising works by creating ads quickly to be at the moment, at the culture, usually in reaction to some trend that is already happening. The operative word? Already happening. You’re not creating culture; you’re joining the conversation that’s raging without you.

 

India’s own Amul has been the unsung OG of this game for over 50 years. Every time news breaks—whether it’s a political scandal, a Bollywood release, or a cricket victory—the Amul Girl shows up with a pun-laden topical ad that’s equal parts cheeky and charming. The brand’s popularity and endurance in the Indian market are largely down to Amul’s persistent moment marketing, spending less than 1% of revenue on advertising while competitors burn 8-15%.

 

2. Talent That Moves At The Speed Of Culture

 

Something that is left unsaid most of the time: success demands cross-functional teams empowered to act quickly, streamlined governance to cut through red tape, and an awareness of tone that distinguishes humor from insensitivity.

 

Wendy’s transformed their Twitter presence in 2017 by empowering their social media team, abolishing bureaucratic reviews. The result? A snarky, savage voice that roasts competitors and fans alike. When someone asked where the nearest McDonald’s was, Wendy’s replied with a trash can emoji. When asked “How much does a Big Mac cost?” they responded: “Your dignity.”

 

They didn’t just gain 153,900 new followers during their TikTok campaign—they invented National Roast Day, an entire holiday dedicated to their brand personality.

 

3. Timing Is The New Creative

 

The 72-hour window is sacred. Viral moments lose steam after three days. Miss that window, and you’re not part of the conversation—you’re a sad reply to a deleted tweet.

 

Remember when Britain nearly imploded over #Marmitegate in 2016? Tesco pulled Marmite from shelves during a pricing dispute with Unilever post-Brexit. Asda and Iceland immediately took out cheeky ads in the Daily Mail and Metro, with Iceland offering readers a free jar of Marmite. By the time the dispute was resolved, these opportunistic rivals had already won the cultural moment.

 

Later, Marmite brilliantly co-opted Brexit division with their “Hard Breakfast, Soft Breakfast, No Breakfast” campaign, playing on their famous “Love it or Hate it” tagline with the line “Dividing the nation since 1902.” Simple. Print. Devastating.

 

4. Processes That Don’t Suffocate Speed

 

Gen AI can speed up content production, but human judgment remains indispensable. This isn’t about robots writing ads. It’s about having the organizational backbone to make decisions in hours, not weeks.

 

Maximum Effort exists precisely because traditional agency structures are antithetical to speed. Reynolds owns both the agency and the brand (Aviation Gin at the time), eliminating the client-agency-legal-finance approval gauntlet that kills momentum.

 

Zomato in India gets this. Whether it’s their “we aren’t accepting orders” post on Independence Day or arranging three cups of tea to resemble the iPhone 11 Pro’s camera with the hashtag “Do it like a Pro for less than 199,” Zomato constantly delivers sarcastic, brilliant social media posts. When actor Rahul Bose complained about being charged ₹442 for two bananas at a hotel, Zomato jumped in: “You could buy a banana milkshake and banana split for less.”

 

How Did IKEA Turn A TV Show Into A Cultural Coup?

 

Game of Thrones. Final season. Cultural phenomenon. IKEA doesn’t make medieval furniture. So what did they do?

 

They released a cheeky campaign showing how you could recreate the iconic GoT cloaks and furs using IKEA rugs. The playful nod to pop culture was pitch-perfect—self-aware, relevant, and shared obsessively by fans who appreciated the humor.

 

These examples demonstrate how speed and relevance can outweigh production polish.

 

Yes There Is A Dark Side To FASTvertising

 

Not every cultural moment needs your take. DiGiorno learned this the hard way when they jumped on the #WhyIStayed hashtag without realizing it was about domestic violence survivors. They tweeted: “You had pizza.”

 

Yikes.

 

The biggest danger is thinking every trend needs your input. Sometimes the best fastvertising is knowing when to sit one out. If you have to ask “Is this too edgy?” it probably is.

 

The rules are simple:

• Keep humor light and clever, never mean
• Avoid politics or divisive topics completely
• Know your context—understand the full story before jumping in

 

The FASTvertising Playbook:India

 

While the West obsesses over Super Bowl moments, India has mastered a different art form. Brands here don’t just react to culture—they are culture.

 

Fasoos during Mumbai’s power outage: “Andheri or Andhera, we’re still delivering.” (Playing on the suburb name Andheri which means “darkness”)

 

Pepsi timing Shefali Verma’s brand ambassador announcement during the ICC Women’s T20 World Cup on International Women’s Day, beating official sponsor Coca-Cola in conversation share.

 

Netflix India riding the “Rasode mein kaun tha“ viral meme to promote Peaky Blinders, or cleverly tying Mumbai’s rain to binge-watching.

 

These aren’t accidents. They’re the result of teams that live in culture, not in conference rooms.

 

What Can We Learn From The HBR Article ” Marketing At The Speed Of Culture “

Co-authored by Ryan Reynolds, Ayelet Israeli, Leonard A. Schlesinger, Matt Higgins, goes beyond academic theory.

 

It’s a practitioner’s manifesto. Ultimately, fastvertising is not just about being fast—it’s about showing up with humility, humor, and humanity in the cultural moments that matter most.

 

Humility: You’re joining a conversation, not hijacking it.
Humor: If you can’t make people smile, why are you even here?
Humanity: Brands are run by humans. Act like them.

 

What Could We Look At Taking Away?

 

Stop thinking like a marketer. Start thinking like a culture participant.

 

Your competition isn’t other brands. It’s indifference. In a world where attention is the scarcest commodity, fastvertising offers something radical: the ability to be remembered not because you bought the most ad space, but because you said something at exactly the right moment that made people feel seen.

 

Aviation Gin generated 13 billion impressions in 72 hours with zero media spend. Oreo created a case study taught in business schools with one tweet. Amul has been India’s advertising darling for half a century spending virtually nothing.

 

The playbook isn’t complicated:

1. Live in culture, not above it
2. Empower teams to move fast
3. Value timing over perfection
4. Know when to sit out
5. Be human, not corporate

 

Your brand doesn’t need a bigger budget. It needs a faster heartbeat.

 

The lights will go out again. Another PR disaster will erupt. A meme will explode. A cultural moment will arrive.

 

The question isn’t whether it will happen. The question is: Will you be ready?

 

Because in the age of fastvertising, slow doesn’t just lose. Slow becomes invisible.

 

So kill the 17-layer approval process. Trust your team’s instincts. Stop polishing turds when you should be launching missiles. The culture is moving. Either catch up or watch from the sidelines as brands with one-tenth your budget steal the show.

 

Remember: Fastvertising offers brands a way to build authentic connections when done well, earning disproportionate returns.

 

The moment is now. The culture is waiting. Time for your move.

 

Now go. Be fast. Be brilliant. Be culture.