The Business of Being #1

How newspapers turned “Best Of” contests into the most brilliant ad campaign you never voted for.

Every so often, I find myself flipping through the local paper (yes, I still read one), only to be greeted with a familiar chorus of self-promotion:

“Vote for us as the #1 shoe store in town!”
“Vote for us as the best place to get your teeth whitened!”
“Vote for us as Bergen County’s premier brunch spot for picky mother-in-laws!”

It’s like election season, only the candidates are delis, jewelers, car washes, and orthodontists. Democracy at its finest.

Whoever came up with this idea deserves a place in the Marketing Hall of Fame, right next to whoever invented bottled water and pumpkin spice-flavored anything. Instead of selling plain old ads, newspapers and magazines discovered they could sell hope — the hope of being crowned “Best of the Best.” And suddenly, those quarter-page ads turned into full-page spreads with smiling waiters, jewelers polishing diamonds, or bakers holding cupcakes like campaign props.

The genius is that the contest feeds on itself. First, the business pays for ads begging us to vote. Then, if they win, they pay again to trumpet their victory. The publication wins twice — and the business gets a shiny new plaque to hang by the cash register. Everybody’s happy.

Of course, the whole thing has the aura of a county-fair pie-eating contest. Did my neighbor really compare all 47 nail salons in town before casting her vote? Or did she just click the link after her manicurist handed her a flyer that said, “Vote for Us!” I’ll let you guess.

The history of this publishing goldmine likely traces back to the scrappy alternative weeklies of the 1970s and ’80s — The Village Voice, LA Weekly, The Boston Phoenix. Those papers figured out that readers liked lists (who doesn’t?), advertisers liked attention, and editors liked deadlines that could be filled with “Best Burrito” instead of hard-hitting investigative journalism. From there, the fad spread faster than gluten-free pizza.

Now, every town weekly and regional glossy has its annual “Best Of” ballot. Some even turn it into a gala event, complete with trophies, selfies, and social-media hashtags. It’s less journalism and more local Oscars night, except the Academy voters are your neighbors who click on whatever their barber tells them to.

Am I complaining? Not really. It’s harmless, in the same way carnival games are harmless — provided you understand the game is rigged for the house. Newspapers need revenue, small businesses need attention, and we all need something lighthearted to argue about other than politics.

So the next time you’re asked to “Vote for Us as #1 Sushi in Bergen County,” just remember: you’re not really voting for sushi. You’re voting for the world’s most successful advertising gimmick. And the paper thanks you for your service.

Well, that's what I have to say. Stephen M. Flatow

When cars had names and personality

When Cars Had Names 

Return With Us Now to Those Thrilling Days of Yesteryear

There was a time—not all that long ago—when automobiles didn’t need a jumble of letters and numbers to identify themselves. Back then, cars wore names. Names with personality. Names that told a story.

1955 Oldsmobile Ninety Eight, Photo by Infrogmation

Think back to the Dodge Coronet. I owned one from 1967 to 1972. The very word evoked dignity and royalty. Or the Plymouth Valiant, (I drove two versions owned by my parents) which conjured up bravery and grit—just the kind of name a middle-class family wanted as they packed the kids in for a Sunday drive. Over at Pontiac, you had the Chieftain, a car that sounded like it ought to be leading the parade. Later, Pontiac gave us the Grand Am, which promised both luxury and a nod to the racing circuit at the same time.

These names weren’t just marketing; they were poetry on chrome. They carried with them a sense of place and aspiration. A Malibu made you think of surfboards and California sunshine. A Continental sounded like it belonged on an ocean liner, drifting from New York to Paris. A Buick Park Avenue conjured up, well, NYC’s Park Avenue. Even a modest Nova hinted at space travel and the optimism of the Space Age.

Compare that to today, when cars are labeled like lab equipment: the X3, Q5, GLC, or CX-30. Functional, perhaps, but soulless. You’d be hard-pressed to imagine a child fifty years from now waxing nostalgic about Grandpa’s trusty “RX-350.” But plenty of people today still smile when they recall their first Impala, Mustang, Firebird or, in my case, Falcon. 

The magic of those old names was that they were aspirational. They transported you, even before the car left the driveway. A teenager could dream about a Charger or a Road Runner and feel the thrill of speed. A parent could sit behind the wheel of a Fairlane or Bonneville and believe, for a moment, they were part of something stylish and modern.

In those thrilling days of yesteryear, cars weren’t just transportation—they were characters. Each one had a name, and each name carried a promise.

Maybe that’s what’s missing today. The machines may be sleeker, faster, and smarter than ever, but they’ve lost a little of their soul. Perhaps it’s time for the automakers to bring back the poetry, and give us once again a car we can fall in love with—by name.

Stephen M. Flatow