Guest Column: Mays' ways amaze

I can't explain why The Diamondback decided against dedicating even a few words to the life of Billy Mays, the man whose militant approach to capitalism made him a modern legend. Surely no one was more dedicated to old-fashioned hawking than Mays, who was famously unable or unwilling to adjust the volume of his voice. Billy Mays didn't waste his time with focus groups, and he didn't dick around with viral marketing. The man just sold.

Who else presented such an offense to the smoothing-down of American advertising? Logos are losing capitals and even length: MSNBC is now msnbc, SciFi is Syfy and the Pizza Hut logo is now simply "The Hut" (and I still don't want to eat there). Billy Mays spoke in capital letters. He didn't try to sell you a lifestyle or a look. He was like the uncle who had trouble with e-mail and types everything with the caps lock on.

And really, who else could have sold something called the Awesome Auger or Mighty Putty? William Shatner may seduce me into booking my next flight with Priceline, but I wouldn't trust the guy to sell me gardening equipment or magical putty. Same goes with Justin Long and John Hodgman: They're cute for computers, but what do you think they'd do with a cleaning product "powered by the air you breathe and activated by the water you drink?" The answer is that they would look like little wimpy babies next to Billy Mays.

Mays embodies the side of capitalism that society is trying to escape: It's the more personal side; the sweatier, louder side. The side that, let's face it, is a little seedy. Billy Mays isn't running the cute DVD vending machine at the grocery store - he's at the mall kiosk trying to sell you hair extensions. And no matter how hard we work to remove interpersonal communication from sales, Billy Mays is a reminder that interpersonal communication is what sales is all about. Because even if Mays made almost made a fool of himself with his cartoonish mannerisms now and then, the man was damn good at what he did. The Washington Post reported in August 2008 that Mays was the most sought-after man in this business, and his decision to work with a product could be that product's only shot.

Billy Mays always walked a certain line between self-awareness and self-parody, and his funeral was no exception. The pallbearers wore his classic dark blue button-downs and khakis, and at the end of the ceremony they counted to three, threw up their thumbs and shouted "Hi, Billy Mays here!" Mays himself was buried in an OxiClean shirt; a salesman for eternity.

Steven Yenzer is a senior English major and a former employee of The Diamondback. He can be reached at stevenyenzer@gmail.com.