Businesses turn to quirky ads, costumes to draw customers

You go to work, put on the shirt, the pants, the overalls, maybe a suit. Not the Calvin Klein. The pancake suit.

If you're one of a growing number of people who wear costumes and hold signs advertising businesses, chances are you're climbing into a pancake or rabbit suit or Uncle Sam's top hat, vest and coat.

No matter what the costume — simple or high-tech and inflatable — unconventional advertising seems to be on the increase during the recession, say those in the industry.

Cities have been increasingly trying to rein in businesses that use human signs and facing legal fights when they do.

Saturday night, an employee of Woodinville's Roundtable Pizza — who wasn't in costume but was carrying a sign — was ordered by police to stop or risk a $125 fine under a new ordinance in that city prohibiting human signs. It was the second time since the ordinance went into effect in January that police have told Roundtable employees to stop the advertising campaign outside the restaurant at 17600 140th Ave. N.E.

Mark Jacobson, the owner, said being unable to advertise that way has reduced his business substantially and puts the city at risk of a First Amendment rights lawsuit at a time when the city coffers are so low "they should be out here with me shaking a sign."

A Redmond sign ordinance prohibiting sandwich-board advertising as it applied to Blazing Bagels was overturned in court in 2004. And in 2007, Lynnwood's ordinance attempting to restrict the Futon Factory's human-carrying signs was overturned in Snohomish County Superior Court.

Despite the legal skirmishes, businesses catering to such quirky advertising are flourishing. Take, for example, the Virginia-based advertising company, Kaboom, which offers to arrange "a huge gorilla chasing a banana through the streets of a major market or a giant smile running and hugging a donor at a major high-end fundraising gala."

And what about products such as those created by a California-based Inflatablescompany.com? That company specializes in inflatable sculptures or costumes for anything you could dream of inflating — from toothpaste tubes to, well, a 15-foot item, built for a pornography-sellers' conference.

Rick Portnova of Inflatablescompany.com, who's been creating inflatable costumes for the past eight years, says not only has the number of competitors increased but so has the demand.

When it comes to costumes, you can transform yourself into anything, Portnova says. There are inflatable-costume popcorn bags, cans of Coke and marshmallows, to name a few.

One of the most popular is the inflatable chicken suit, which can cost several thousand dollars. It's just the thing for those wanting to advertise chicken dinners by having a 10-foot chicken stand outside the restaurant with a sign saying "EAT ME," Portnova said.

Uncle Sam

The costume, however, is only as good as the wearer is at being a ham, say employers such as Liberty Tax Services' Ballard manager, Rayann Su, who hired Tyrone Gathings, an energetic 48-year-old who is quickly becoming well known on his corner, 15th Avenue Northwest and Northwest 59th Street in Seattle's Ballard neighborhood.

"He gives us visibility," Su says. "He lets people know what we're about, having fun with our taxes."

Dressed as Uncle Sam, in a top-hat and coat, Gathings waves his pink-and-white umbrella and dances a few steps as rush-hour traffic breezes past. Horns honk, and Gathings waves and grins.

"Done your taxes yet?" he asks, handing a passer-by a discount coupon. "How about you, sir?"

Not long ago, Gathings was swinging a hammer as a temporary worker. Now he's swinging the umbrella.

Typical of many small businesses, Liberty wanted to draw attention in the least expensive way possible without running afoul of city sign ordinances. So it did as many small businesses are doing — putting energetic, outgoing people in costumes in front of the office to attract attention.

A Chicago native, Gathings says his dream job would be working as the Mariner Moose. Or maybe the mascot for the Arkansas Razorbacks, he says. With that thought, he kicks at the ground.

"You can't stand still out here. That's for sure," he says, striking a pose as a Metro bus passes. "You never know what their day's been like. I just like to make people smile." And with jobs hard to get, playing Uncle Sam "is better than sleeping under a bridge."

On some days, instead of Uncle Sam, Gathings dresses as Lady Liberty in a flowing robe. "And I've been told I look good in it, too," he says.

At Southwest Campus Parkway and First Avenue South stands what at first appears to be a crumpled doughnut. As the arms reach out and it begins to dance, it takes shape. A potato? No, a pancake!

As Andre Felder's iPod kicks in, he begins dancing in a world of his own, thinking of that car for which he's saving. He makes $50 for four hours of work, including anything he wants to eat at the Federal Way International House of Pancakes that employs him. The rest of the week, Felder is a clean-cut, serious 18-year-old bill collector who says he loves being a weekend pancake.

Morgan Dusatko, 20, is a Seattle videographer who made a film about a day in the life of a human in a hot-dog suit.

There is something about a costume, Dusatko says. He has also filmed a man who became a roadside attraction by dressing in a rabbit suit to advertise an Airport Way roofing company.

In the roles people play every day, humans all wear various disguises, Dusatko said. "A hot-dog suit just makes it obvious."

7-foot rabbit

The name: Fluffy. The game: Easter Bunny.

Olin Viydo, 20, of Bothell, wants to teach history someday, but his most recent job involved a suit — a fur one with ears. In the days before Easter, he spent a shift at Bellevue Square playing a 7-foot-tall rabbit. The next day he traded places with Josh Flynn, 29, who was the photographer.

Viydo carried no signs. He was a pure photo prop, he said. But as such, he advertised the photography company that employed him. Some of the hassles of wearing a costume were the same as if he were on the street corner. "The tail is the worst thing," he said.

Caroline Ranger, 52, used to dress in costume — as a pirate's wench and an English barmaid, but most of the time she just carries a sandwich board advertising Mattress Depot as she walks back and forth at 148th Avenue Northeast and Northeast 24th Street in Bellevue, waving to people.

If she were in costume, she might have more visibility, she admits. But as it is, standing as the ham in the middle of the sandwich suits her just fine.

"I love this job," she says.

Yet, sometimes, motorists have shouted insults like, "Get a real job," or assumed she's homeless.

"I'm not homeless," she said. She earns up to $16 an hour, depending on who she's working for — a wine shop or the mattress company.

Across the busy street from Ranger, Victor Vallez, 48, from Colombia but who now lives on the Eastside, holds up a sign with Bible verses. Drivers shake their heads, some shout at him. Would he be more successful with the public if he dressed, say, as Moses?

He rolls his eyes at the thought.

Seattle Times freelancer Blythe Lawrence contributed to this report.

Nancy Bartley: 206-464-8522 or nbartley@seattletimes.com