Annals of PR: The Glass Menagerie
By Alan Goldfarb
June 17, 2022
For the life of me, I’ve long tried to find out the derivation of the word “flack” as it pertains to PR – as a pejorative to denigrate or malign publicists. According to some dictionaries the word could mean, "a crass ambulance-chaser who flacks himself in TV ads" or as one TV network called Trump mouthpiece Sean Spicer, “The playfully pugilistic flack”. I wanted to begin this post as taking a self-deprecating playful swipe at publicists, who don’t follow through on promises as they engage the media. But the more I delved into the publicity agency that recently contacted me, inviting me to what was billed as a media opportunity, the more I became pissed off. Because in the aftermath, the proposed “opportunity” signified nothing; and made me understand why flacks have garnered such self-inflicted bad reputations.
Last week I received an email from a publicist inviting me to a dinner at a high-profile San Francisco restaurant, which was to be the backdrop for a company about to unveil a line of wine glasses. So far very nice. I’m interested in wine glasses. Many years ago, I had a wine radio show (remember radio?), whose studio was housed inside a high school communications department. I invited Georg Riedel, who was at the time, introducing his myriad wine glass collection. In anticipation, I swept up the joint and he swept me off my feet by actually showing up. He then cleaned my clock of any notions I had of thinking my favorite glass would show the Pinot I chose, in a better light than the same wine in his glass. Riedel’s glass dusted my broom.
I digress re: the invite to that restaurant and the tasting in what I thought may be yet another guy’s attempt to break into the glass-is-completely-full pantheon of wine paraphernalia perfidy.
Actually though, my real mission in wanting to attend this event was to see if I could get a story about that publicist, who invited me in the first place. After all, this blog is primarily about the business of media relations. Thus, I thought a post about the machinations of how another publicist conducts his business, might make for a compelling piece.
Initially, said publicist was perfectly charming as we exchanged emails. I inquired if it were possible to sit outside at the restaurant, because after all, Covid was still raising its nasty head. He apparently ascertained that mine was a reasonable entreaty, by writing that he’d look into it. I replied, “Please, don’t do that just for me.” He rejoindered that he’d try to fulfill my need.
The date of the “opportunity” was approaching; and as I write this – one day before the glass tasting – I was shattered because said publicist was radio silent. I’d heard nothing in the six days since our last exchange. Was my plea for wishing to be seated on the patio being met with derision as in “he’s a vaxxer” or “he’s too much trouble”? There was no glasnost to be had here.
I never heard back from my perfectly charming flack; when the least he could have done was to tell me my request wouldn’t be possible; and left the decision, whether or not I still wished to attend, up to me.
But nothing. And that my good reader, is the epitome of poor flacking. It’s rude. It’s non-professional. And it’s the reason why publicists can be regarded as though they’re members of congress or lawyers chasing ambulances.
It gives my profession a bad name. Sack the flack. Not in my backyard. Some of us though, at least deserve to play in the front yard, sometimes.