Some brands go as far as to take official ownership of their newfound, consumer-ascribed monikers—capitalizing on the equity and permissions bestowed upon them by loving fans and loyalists: KFC, AOL, Sunny D, even Micky-D’s…

Others try to create their own abbreviated personas, in the absence of consumer input, buy in, or adoration… and fail. Take Office Depot for example. Their new ad campaign, starring a miscast Al Roker, refers to itself intermittently as both Office Depot and “Depot”.  Here, excited office supply enthusiasts espouse the virtues of Depot with a fervor not usually associated with reams of paper and toner cartridges. According to Al and his vivacious cohorts, Depot is the place where happy people and families are made. Kind of stretch if you ask me. Despite the misguided strategy and weak execution, my brand-savvy sensibilities are most bothered by the frequent use of Depot. Its blatant, palpable in-authenticity and lack of consumer creation or connection, makes it an insult to anyone who’s ever needed a pencil sharpener or wall calendar.

Abbreviated brand names are only effective and meaningful when audiences create them. To me, making up your own nickname is like having 1500 Facebook friends and no one to hang out with on Saturday night. What’s more, when individual consumers frequent a brand as seldom as a ubiquitous office supply chain—it simply doesn’t deserve one. The occasional brand should never be positioned as a BFF, but rather a necessity. In other words, we simply don’t ascribe pet names to our acquaintances.

Instead, Office Depot should own its occasional-ness. There’s nothing wrong with providing a parity set of products and services and doing it well. The appeal in their case is not the familiar but rather the selection, price, convenience and know-how. Focus your messages and strategies on what customers actually want and need from you and on what you can actually deliver… and they will come. Pretend you’re friends and that your sticky notes, index cards, and rulers hold the key to familial happiness…. and they’re heading to Staples.

In the eyes of marketers I’m old.

At 40, I’m middle-aged. Over the hill. A cougar at best.

In reality, I’m nowhere even close. Today, 40-somethings are newly married, first-time parents, entrepreneurs, dating, sexy, fabulous, fun, and dare I say… young? Times have changed. Circumstances have changed. People have changed.

Marketing hasn’t.

Regardless of the life I lead, the interests I have, the clothes I wear, the things I do—I’m no longer a part of the coveted 18-34 demographic. Which translates roughly to not being targeted for anything remotely hip, cool, or trendy (Not Your Daughter’s Jeans anyone?).

Somehow, I’ve been unwittingly—kicking and screamingly—thrust into some dated target profile that says now is the perfect time to send me a subscription card for Good Housekeeping Magazine; to inject me with Botox; to seat me in a La-Z-Boy recliner; and to serve me up a tall, frosty glass of Ensure. In the eyes of your brand, your marketing department, your flawed data, your outmoded statistics, I’m a receptive, willing, cane-wielding member of your “sophisticated” target demographic—open to a wide-assortment of “mature” products and services, based entirely on an arbitrary number—and not at all on me.

Which got me to thinking…

Do we marketing and brand folk ever wonder, or question, where our audience segmentation standards come from… and, more importantly, when they were created? I would argue that precious few of us ever really challenge traditional target market wisdom, daring to produce our own, more realistic, contemporary, and learned audience profiles… Think about it, does 18-34 have any real meaning in a world that consistently blurs the lines between young and old?

It seems to me that for all our research and preparedness we’ve collectively failed to notice that age has become almost entirely irrelevant.

Perhaps the time has come for us to start thinking about desired audiences differently? Let’s begin by basing segmentation on life-stage and lifestyle, instead of when we were born. Confine your brand to traditional target segments and risk alienating yourself from lucrative, interested, influential, audiences that are well worth your time and effort. Connect your brand benefits and personality to the individuals that align seamlessly with your offering and character… and you can comfortably and safely forget all about age.

What it all boils down to is allowing yourself to re-evaluate, rethink and reconsider how you slice and dice your audience and how larger swaths of people, and untapped groups map back to more inclusive brand, marketing and sales efforts. In other words, there’s no need to show your respects to the over-34 crowd by calling us ma’am or offering us your seat on the bus. Instead, take the time to see us for who we really are… rather than who someone, somewhere, decades-ago, claimed us to be.

Who’d of thought that one of the best meals I’d have in the Los Angeles area—perhaps anywhere—would be about as far away from the world of Silverton, Puck, Fenniger, Batali, Andres, Lefebvre, Keller, Bayless, Bastinach, Ramsay, Goin, Colicchio, Matsuhisa, and Tracht as humanly possible?

I mean let’s face it, where we eat says a lot about who, even what, we are. And as a card-carrying foodie—big-name, big-chef matters a lot. Restaurants—their menus, owners, investors, chefs, interior designers, ingredients, and clientele have become a very big deal. Especially to us city-folk looking to bolster our cocktail party blather, blog content, food porn pics, and Foursquare check-ins.

What restaurants serve and how, when, where, who and why its prepared has taken on new meaning and fervor to customers; sliced and diced by tastes, preferences, socio-economics, ethnicities, values, ethos and ethics. Local, organic, molecular gastronomy-ed, raw, sous vide, amuse bouche’d, house-made, artisanal, vegan, gastro pub’d, small batched, fairly traded, house-grown, hand-pulled, grass-fed, free ranged, low and slow are here to stay and more important than ever before. In food, as in nearly all products and services, everything you say and do matters. Albeit bloated, stylized and sometimes absurd, food has become all about brand.

So, how is it that in my big-city world, dominated largely by the brand of eating and drinking—my best-ever meal was not in LA, or for that matter a big name restaurant, at all? Rather, my food nirvana exists in the San Gabriel Valley—a tiny, Asian-immigrant enclave due east of downtown LA, and worlds apart from Osteria Mozza. Even more confounding, is that my California-honed palate was turned upside-down by, of all things take-out-boxy, Chinese food? A cuisine nearly extinct, within the red-roped Los Angeles city limits, other than the steadfast Beverly Hills institution, Mr. Chows.

The name: JTYH (huh). The food: from the Shanxi Province (located somewhere between Mongolia and Beijing and nowhere near an eggroll or a fortune cookie). The look: linoleum and asbestos. The experience: crazy delicious. The price: ridiculously cheap. The brand: non-existent. Which is exactly my point.

The San Gabriel Valley lives in a brand-less world. One based entirely on culture, family, heritage. A world that’s never heard of Philippe Starck or Kelly Wearstler, and wouldn’t give a shit if they had.

You’d think I’d hate this place. I’m a brand girl after all. But I adored it, treasured it, coveted it. Sometimes, who you are and what you’re all about speak for themselves. No bells, no whistles, no celebrity guest lists, no liquid nitrogen. Nothing but the pure charm and unexpected delight of authenticity.

With little more than a fabulous meal, I am now a San Gabriel Valley enthusiast, explorer, historian, loyalist. I will go again and again (and then some). I will convert my friends. I will even find a way to imbue it into my clever cocktail party repartee. You see, I was enchanted by the unencumbered, unfussy, unscathed, unselfconscious, unapologetic brand of brandlessness—and sometimes that’s just what you need to get the job done.

Fabuloso. Spanish for Fabulous. English for why are my eyes burning?

Also a household cleaner, bargain hunters know Fabuloso as an affordable and deodorizing alternative to big name brands. In reality, Fabuloso is undoubtedly unsuitable for use by any living creature—but then again, most of the popular household cleaning brands sitting under your kitchen sink fit the same bill. How’s that…? Our perception of clean is in large part a byproduct of generations-old branding.

Case in point, on a recent visit to my mother-in-law’s house, she began to “clean” the kitchen table. This being the very same table where my organically fed, farmer’s market obsessed, botanically cleaned children were eating meals, drawing pictures and playing board games. I watched in stunned silence as she vigorously sprayed copious amounts of Fabuloso on the table and well beyond: into our eyes, mouths, throats, and even purposely on my husband’s feet. Wiping, spraying, wiping, spraying, until her glass table took on a cloudy finish and seemed to wilt into submission.

As we waited (and waited) for the radioactive fog to clear, I had time to reflect on the “brand of clean” and how the notion of housekeeping with chemicals has been a part of our collective consciousness and cultural zeitgeist for over a century. Evergreen brands like, Clorox, Lysol and Pine-Sol started it all by focusing their energies and marketing dollars on powerful, desirable brand benefits, not formulations. Pioneers in the art of brand, they sold housewives on superlative product outcomes: cleaner, faster, better, whiter, germ-free, cheaper; while failing miserably in the art of corporate social responsibility. Ignoring product unmentionables like deadly carcinogens, neurotoxins, formaldehyde, ethanol, organochlorines, VOCs, butoxyethanol, sulfates, parabens, irritants, pollutants, perfumes, and dyes—these “cleaners” are acts of brand and marketing fiction since the means do not justify the ends.

To this day, each of these brands remains a top-seller and an undisputed owner of all things white, clean, disinfected and deodorized. A fact, that in an absurdly informed, connected, researched, blogged, opined day and age, is both impressive and grim. It’s difficult to say whether a brand that is able to transcend our combined brainpower—defying common sense and openly hoodwinking generations of enthusiasts—is a success or a disappointment? To me its simple—brands that fail audiences, fail plain and simple.

Sell your cigarettes, your alcohol, your pharmaceuticals, your aerosol spray, your strip club—but do so with integrity. In our modern, connected world disclosure and authenticity help more than they hurt… As consumers continue to become savvier, more informed, and more cautious, honesty about what your brand is and isn’t pays dividends. For the household product set, as the Methods and Seventh Generations of the world continue their near-complete journey into the mainstream, there will be no other choice for the Clorox’s then to amend their brand messages, change their formulations… or just step aside.

So, if you’re selling something with a notable downside—heed my advice… Keep the consumers’ best interests in mind–always. Follow in the footsteps of “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas”, and own your transgressions; making them a part of your brand personality and appeal. Otherwise, someone will catch you with dirty hands that will not come clean no matter how effective the product may be under your brand’s sink.

Sex doesn’t really require much by way of branding. We all know it sells. But, is it really enough to make your brand all about sex and little more?

Let’s see. There’s Carl’s Jr., a fast-food joint that sells… sex. Victoria’s Secret, a lingerie brand that sells fantasies to men – more so than push-up bras to women using – yup, sex. Abercrombie that sells cotton tees and khaki shorts to teens (not unlike the lily white Gap) using…  uh-huh… sex. GoDaddy even sells domain names and generic website templates using, of all unrelated things… sex. And all quite effectively I might add. So, with the success of these brands, and many more, I must admit that I’m beginning to change my opinion that selling sex is all action, no substance.

Perhaps when a brand attaches itself inextricably to something so visceral, primal and powerful, the offering doesn’t really matter that much at all. Take religion, spirituality, weight loss, longevity… Tie your image to one of these intangibles, desirables, gotta have it-ables, and watch profits rise. People want “in” on what they want most. Enlightenment, the perfect body, immortality, a one-night stand. If a product claims to deliver that and nothing more–and its wrapped in a compelling, convincing, and audience-appropriate package — the substance, the meat, is truly secondary.

Does Kim Kardashian really get off on salad? Not likely. Do women really like their men doused in cheap Axe body spray? Doubtful. Do you know anyone who’s lost 35 lbs in 2 months by taking a pill with 10 patented and clinically proven fat burners and nothing more? C’mon. But, when the sale is aspiration, living the life you want, being the person you’ve always dreamt of being—as in the sale of lottery tickets and nickel slots—people pay for an opportunity, a glimmer of hope, a snowball’s chance in hell… even if its one in a million.

Branding is all about laser focus, commitment, promise, connection and influence. So go ahead, hang your pants on something your audience really, really wants. But you’d better be willing to go all the way. Otherwise, the real zealots, the committed, the wanna be converted, the most desperate will be left begging for more.

I often wonder why so many marketers get it wrong. I mean, is it just me or aren’t most audiences pretty obvious? No one hides anything, anywhere anymore… ever. So why aren’t more brands paying attention?

I used to think the agency was to blame. But I don’t anymore. Bad advertising is the result of marketing and brand manager misguidance. Why? Because many of them fail to understand that their job is not only to own the brand, but also to own the audience. If the agency misses the mark, they have only the approving client to blame. In my mind, as marketers and branders, we have one job and one job only: to look and listen. And by this, I do not mean brushing up on Forrester reports and Jupiter statistics, but rather to observe real life, as it happens, where it happens. Look around: on the street, in the store, at the café, on social networks, in the club, at work, on the road, in the park, on the beach, on the subway, at the gym…

Brand managers must be anthropologists, sociologists, culturalists, psychologists, naturalists, and followers, not just product and service experts.

In my opinion, the worst offenders are those who play in well-documented, well-traveled, well-defined, over-saturated sandboxes…. and still don’t get it right. Case in point, “moms”. Marketers have been there and done that, quite literally, a billion times over and somehow, I still have to suffer through eye-gouging-ly painful spots like the one I saw for Crystal Geyser last night. Clearly targeted to moms, the ad is set in a grocery store where an impossibly polite, Norman Rockwell-ian child, riding happily in a grocery cart, turns to his freakishly composed mother and says something (that can only be described as copywriting genius) to the effect of: “Water please…” The smiling, compliant mom turns to the helpful, ever-present produce manager and says: “Water please.” Kindly produce manager (circa Mayberry) turns to a strong and capable Crystal Geyser truck driver just outside and says, “Water please.” Sturdy truck driver turns to a not-so-super-imposed, snow-capped mountain and says… you guessed it: “Water please.” Really? Are you kidding me? That’s it? That’s how you attract mom to your product when there are endless bottled waters to choose from: parity to premium?

When was the last time any mother heard her child say, “please” without prodding; or one who shopped gracefully as their toddler sat diligently strapped into a grocery cart? When was the last time a store employee willingly assisted you while shopping? And, how does a fake mountain backdrop speak to my desire to give my child the very best?

Connecting requires empathy. Empathy requires experience. Experience requires time, energy, patience and perseverance. The very same things a good brand manager make. Don’t paint me into your vision of mom please. This is 2011, not 1950. What’s more, don’t belittle me. Tell it like it is. Make me want to interact with you. Make me feel that you understand what I want and need. Solve my problems. Make my life easier, better, more bearable. Make me feel like you are the only one in the world who really understands me. Then, and only then, have you earned the right–the privilege–of having me drink your water.

Do you remember when it was okay to look nasty at the gym? When old sweat pants, a ripped tee, and worn-out Nikes were just fine? I’m not sure when or why it all changed—because being a regular at the gym lost its place in my daily routine a few years back. But since rediscovering the joys of working out, it seems I’ve missed out on quite a bit. Not about workout regimens like Pilates, Bar Method or Kettle Bells, but about workout style. Why on earth was everyone at the gym looking so damn self-possessed, put-together, strong and downright beautiful while I was panting away in my Target best?

Instead of catching up on some light spiritual reading (The Tibetan Book of the Living and Dying), I started taking note of the fit and fashionable LA women around me (an equally valuable pursuit). Everywhere I looked, I saw tight black Lululemon yoga pants, perfectly fitted, perfectly matched tank tops and a level of “fierce” I hadn’t seen since the days of Olivia Newton John’s Physical. If I wanted to get motivated to start exercising and feel good about myself while doing it, I’d need to invest in some stylish workout clothes. From the look of things, Lululemon was the only way to go. My local Manhattan Beach influencers had done their job… Lululemon was my new Kool-Aid and I was ready to drink it up.

And, then it happened… While trying on impossibly expensive yoga pants (I don’t even do yoga) at my local Lululemon: I felt good… I looked good… No, I take that back, I looked guuuuud, good. And, as I glanced in the mirror, alongside a painfully nice and enthusiastic sales-girl, I felt different; inspired; ready–hot. That fit, fabulous girl I’d been watching could be ME. All I needed was a steady flow of Lululemon gear (and cash) to make that happen.

Today, I am a convert. I bought into the entire brand lifestyle: hook, line and downward dog. I look forward to putting on those cute stretchy pants with my matching tops, nearly every day, even when I have no intention of breaking a sweat. By getting the brand into the right, influential hands (upwardly mobile, fit, passionate, sophisticated, stylish, and powerful… Equinox members), in all the right places. And by owning, living, breathing their brand lifestyle of athletically hip, athletically inspired at every opportunity—creating a way for nearly anyone to look good and feel good while breaking I sweat—Lululemon has achieved the impossible: making me care about something more than surviving my workout when I go to the gym.

I drive an Acura MDX SUV and I adore it. It’s stylish, fast, a little bit sexy, not exceedingly big, three rows of seating (but only as needed), tons of storage space—and nowhere close to (gasp) a minivan. It has prestige, but is not flashy or “me too”. It lets me cart my kids and their friends around while still feeling like something that closely resembles a woman, not just a mom. You get the picture. Trouble is, the gas mileage is totally reprehensible, and filling up each week (often twice) costs me upwards of $90 a pop. So, with my lease ending next month, and gas prices on the rise, my husband has encouraged (READ: forced) me to consider a Toyota Prius.

Look, I know a hybrid makes perfect sense. We live in LA, a driving city—and the manifold costs and implications of gas, pollution, exhaust—all-important and scary. But, somehow, I’d still prefer a shiny new SUV. Why? Because for as green-chic as the Prius is—the brand and its message, are simply not “me” enough. The Pruis screams: responsible, eco-friendly, logical, reliable, conscientious—things that do not capture the essence of my largely illogical, irreverent, sometimes irresponsible self.

I want hot. I want chic… I want a Range Rover.

Its not that I don’t care about the environment, I do. What I don’t care to do is drive my politics around the streets of LA every minute of every day.

So for all the good Prius has done—it is truly the Cadillac of the urban-eco-aware—it’s design, it’s lines, it’s look, it’s feel, it’s glaring message simply do not speak to my personal tastes and sensibilities.

You see, sometimes a brand in all its rightness, virtue and political correctness can’t be much more than that. Which is working just fine for the folks at Toyota. Stake your claim in one area, audience and mindset and be prepared to own that for the long haul.

So even though Leonardo DiCaprio, Cameron Diaz, Julia Roberts, and the like, can be seen driving theirs across LA, the intended image of the Prius brand has been established. Despite the gaggle of Hollywood elite, dear Prius, you are still proudly the brand of the Tree Hugger, which means… Toyota has done its job.

And, even though I will likely be driving one by early next week… A brand can never and should never try to be all things to all people. In other words, I will never find “brand me” in a Prius… and that is exactly as it should be.

For 10 years I was loyal to Verizon. And since long relationships were not my thing at the time, that’s saying a lot. Sadly, in May of 2008, it all came to an abrupt end.

You’d think the relationship soured because I realized I was being overcharged for everything from data usage to airtime—but that wasn’t really the problem. The issue, and the reason for my hatred of the brand, is that they failed to deliver on their brand promise of integrity, respect, and service. I can live with mistakes, but mismanagement of a customer… that’s a total deal breaker.

Call me old-fashioned, but when brands make promises I expect them to be kept. So, when I called, after ten years of loyalty, I wanted solutions, apologies, and refunds… What I got instead was the run-around. The passing of the buck, lots of attitude, and we’re right, you’re wrong bullshit. After far too many transfers and hours of wasted time, I found a manager who copped to the mischarges…. BUT still would not give me a full refund! Um, excuse me? It took 4 days to remove only some of the false charges and get on with my life. So, as I sat shell-shocked and annoyed, feeling a little betrayed, and afraid to use my phone, I went online to air my grievances. There, I realized I was not alone. The consensus on gripe sites and amongst the general Internet population: Verizon sucks. How could I have been so blind?

To this day I still wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot Droid or iPhone, and I encourage my friends and family not to either. My loyalties have thankfully found a new home, and its been 3 wonderful, drama-free years of kept promises, amazing service and true brand integrity. And even though my carrier of choice, T-Mobile, has just joined forces with AT&T, a company notorious for dropped calls and crappy reception, I plan to give them a chance with an open heart and an open mind all because they treat me with respect and repay my loyalties with bona fide customer service.

As for Verizon, I will never go back. I will endure and I will stand my ground. For me, brand loyalty must be earned, but more importantly maintained. One bad connection and I’m hanging up.

By Julie Glassman.

I’m a Martha.

My house: Martha. My garden: Martha. My food: Martha. My parties: Martha.

Martha, Martha, Martha.

If you still aren’t sure what I’m talking about, A) you are so not a Martha; and B) It’s Martha Stewart.

The strange thing is, I truly abhor the real-life, cold as ice Martha. I think she’s an uptight bitch with a perfectly packed suitcase full of issues. So how is it that I model absolutely everything I hold dear after her? Because I love, worship and adore Martha the brand, not Martha the person. Who she is, what she does and how she behaves is entirely irrelevant to me. Sell your stock early; go to jail; mistreat your employees… I don’t care. Just keep bringing me impossibly fabulous ideas for folding napkins; baking cakes; cooking turkeys; setting tables—and I’m yours.

How can a brand eponymous with such an unlikable character be so deliciously perfect? It’s Brand 101 baby. Despite your flaws, your misgivings, your mistakes, your bad and ugly (we all, businesses and people alike, have them)—a targeted, focused; centered, carefully conceived brand conquers all. Know your audience; identify their unwavering needs, desires and aspirations—and address them consistently and credibly, in ways that continually satisfy, satiate, please, connect and captivate—and you can be whomever and whatever you want to be behind closed (immaculately painted) doors.