Tag Archives: Campbell-Ewald

“Have You Met Any Movie Stars?”

1 Comment

Cornell

Hollywood!  I was 26 years old and working in Hollywood.  I knew nothing about California except for what I saw out of the cab window on my way to start my first day of work.  Dick Byrne greeted me and took me back to his (soon to be mine) corner office.  He brought me up to date on what was going on in the two zones I would be covering.  He introduced me to everyone in the office.  I asked him about his retirement.  He was going to live in his condo in Apple Valley, near Victorville in the Mojave Desert.  His wife was already out there, and Dick was living in a motel for the next week until his retirement became official.  He couldn’t wait to start playing golf every day.  Dick then took me to lunch.  As we walked out onto sidewalk, I immediately realized that I was on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Treading lightly on the names of long-deceased celebs, we soon reached the Musso & Frank’s Grill.  I had never heard of it.  I will never forget it.  Opened in 1919, the dark interior features red leather and mahogany.  The waiters, many of whom have been there for years, sport red jackets and black ties. Faulkner used to go behind the bar to mix his own mint juleps, Fitzgerald would manny-aguirresit in a booth and review his writing.  Their nonpareil martinis are served in carafes.  Gore Vidal described the place, saying,  “Coming into Musso’s is like stepping into a warm bath.”  It was during lunch with Dick that I saw my first movie star: Cornell Wilde!  He was sitting alone at the next table, quietly eating his Shrimp Louie.  He was probably contemplating whether or not to appear on “Dean Martin Presents The Goldiggers.”

As our lunch was finishing, Dick asked me where I was planning on living.  I told him that since this was my first trip to LA, I didn’t have a clue.  He suggested the Park LaBrea complex.  “It’s very close to work. My wife and I lived there for 22 years. You should really consider it.”  I told him that I would. When we got back to the office, Dick went off to make some phone calls. Some of the other staffers also asked me where I was going to live.  I mentioned Park LaBrea. “Noooo!!,” they said as one. They explained that even though Dick and his wife had lived there for 22 years, when his lease term was up the first of April, he had to either renew for another year or move.  They didn’t allow month-to-month leases. They moved out, with Dick’s wife going to the desert condo, and Dick staying in a cheesy local motel.  On top of that, there was no central air conditioning at Park LaBrea, and window air conditioners were prohibited.  Since it was 102 that day, Park LaBrea was crossed off my list.  Just then, Dave Koontz, one of our TV producers came up with a suggestion. Dave’s wife, at the time, was Christina Crawford of “Mommy Dearest” fame.  “Hey man, do you have any kids?” We didn’t at the time.  “You should check out a place called Marina Del Rey.  It’s on the water, and it’s a non-stop party place.”  That sounded very good to me.

Screen Shot 2013-08-13 at 12.05.50 AMThe next day I drove to the Marina and visited one apartment complex: Mariner’s Village.  It was right on the main channel into the Marina. It truly was a village, or at least my imagery of one.  It even had its own on-site dry cleaners!!  The two bedroom unit they showed me was perfect.  The living room sliding glass door went out to a balcony with a breathtaking view of the water.  Sailboats slowly cruised by right on front of me.  “I want it,” I screamed. “I’ll be back in 48 hours with my wife to sign the lease.”  I ran to the nearest pay phone and called my wife in Kansas City. “I have found the promised land! It’s an apartment right on the water. I’m flying home tonight to start packing, and then we’ll fly back here tomorrow.  You’ll love it”

Timing is, truly, everything.  Bad Timing Item #1: When we got off the plane in LA, it was 104 degrees with a Stage 3 smog alert.  I think Stage 3 meant that your skin would start blistering if you were outside for more than ten minutes. My case for moving to LA wasn’t helped by the fact that my wife’sla-smog-jordansmall_462 eyes were burning and she had developed a nasty hacking cough in the last ten minutes.  Bad Timing Item #2: When we got to Mariner’s Village, I found out that my dream apartment had been leased to someone else that morning. “But I told you I was coming right back,” I sobbed. “Sir,” they officiously scoffed, “we don’t ‘hold’ units without a deposit.”  “Is there another one?”  “No, they said.  We have no more vacancies. We’d be happy to put your name on a waiting list.”  I stormed out.  There had to be other really cool Marina apartments for rent.  After driving around for three hours, I found that there weren’t.  We stopped for lunch.  My wife bought the current issue of Newsweek.  When I returned from the bathroom to join her at our table, she threw the magazine at me.  “Now I know why you want to move to LA!!!”

Bad Timing Item #3

Games 

The cover story of the current issue of Newsweek was an expose on the anything-goes, swinging sex scene lifestyle found in a place called Marina Del Rey.  To top it all off, the cover picture was taken at the pool at Mariner’s Village, the place I had been dying to make mine.  “You can move here if you want.  But I’m not coming with you.”  Hmmmm.  I realized that I had some selling to do.  And I only had 24 hours to do it. I desperately suggested, “Let’s drive around for a while. We might find something.”  I was clutching at straws. I managed to get lost as we drove in ever-widening arcs away from the Marina.  “Why don’t you give up?  We’re not going to find anything we like,” she said.  Just then, I saw it.  The sign that said “Luxury Apartments and Townhouses just ahead.”  Last chance.  I pulled into Raintree. It was just off Jefferson,east of Overland in Culver City.  MGM was selling off Raintreemany of their backlots.  Raintree was no exception.  Many of the exteriors from the Elizabeth Taylor movie, Raintree County were filmed on this lot.  MGM left the small lake which was now the centerpiece of the complex.  The units were brand new, unoccupied.  We could have our pick.  Once you passed the guard gate, the air was cooler, cleaner. Large willow trees shaded the walkways.  The resident managers were from Ohio, and spoke Midwestern.  They told us that Telly Savalas and Isabel Sanford (The Jeffersons) were residents in the townhouse section of Raintree. My wife said, “This will do.”

Next:  Chita Rivera Saves The Day  

Hills That Is. Swimmin’ Pools. Movie Stars!!!

2 Comments

beverly-hills-mansion_48

We had made it through the Field Meetings alive.  On my way through the 4th Floor Lobby, I stopped to admire the 4′ x 6′ display that had graced the lobby during the meetings.  It was a large map of the United States.  Across the top ran a banner “Our Men In The Field!”  Glued over each Campbell Ewald city containing a field office was a 6″ x 8″ photo of the field guy who was there.  Sure enough, smiling from the center of the United States, plastered on Kansas City, was my company mug shot. Oh, I thought, if only the kids from Emerson Jr. High could see me now.  This would partially make up for the time I stood up in 8th grade science class with my fly wide open.  Who’s laughing now, huh?

When I returned to Kansas City, for three weeks I was the Oracle of Delphi for the Chevrolet people in the Region.  “What does the new Monte Carlo look like?” “What Regional markets are on the spot market media buys?”  “Is it true that GM might come out with a vehicle powered by a Wankel engine?”  “Did you get to touch John DeLorean?”  My Midwestern acculturation had begun.  Life was good.  The people were very friendly.  Johhny Carson came on at 10:30.  The town was beautiful.  The food was incredible.  One of my favorite haunts was The Savoy Grill at 9th and Central.  Opened in 1903, it served incredibletornedos-rossini steaks (of course), and fantastic seafood (go figure).  They also served Tournedos Rossini.  If you haven’t had them, try to find a restaurant that does. They are exquisite! And there’s no truth to the rumor that Tournedos Rossini is French for Myocardial Infarction. What’s unhealthy about a beef filet sautéed in butter, on a large crouton, and topped with a hot slice of butter sautéed foie gras? Sprinkle on some black truffle and a Madeira demi-glace and you’re good to go. Viola! 

By the spring of 1973, I had been so inculcated with things Midwestern that I was now pronouncing the state properly…Mizzourah.  I even bought a light blue seersucker suit.  The only blip in my idyllic life was a decision to drive back to Michigan to see family.  It’s a twelve-hour drive.  Four to get to St. Louis, four to get to Kokomo, and four on up into Michigan.  Leave at 8:00 AM, arrive in Michigan at 9:00 PM, allowing for the time zone change.  For my recent birthday, my wife had purchased for me some Jockey cotton mesh underwear.  She told me it’s the brand Mark Spitz wears.  I all knew was that it made me look like Harry Reems getting ready for an audition.  My big mistake was deciding to wear it for the drive to Michigan, thinking that it would be “cooler.”  Somewhere between St. Louis and Indianapolis I became aware of a searing pain extending from the middle of the back of my thighs up to the small of my back.  Sciatica?  Probably not.  Couldn’t be fatigue.  The bucket seats in my car held you tightly like you were sitting in the palm of a giant.  As we got out of the car in Michigan, I hobbled up to meet the outstretched arms of family waiting to greet their successful son. I explained my agony as a possible pulled muscle.  I sought refuge in the nearest bathroom.  It now felt as though ten thousand needles had been placed into my backside.  As I dropped my pants, and turned to inspect the area, I was horrified!!  Note to self: Don’t wear cotton mesh briefs if Rumpyou’re going to sit on your rear for twelve hours.  I had to take them off.  It proved to be a tricky task, as the mesh had become one with my porcine behind.  It looked like a rolled rump roast. Unfortunately, much of the mesh had burrowed into my skin.  Taking off my briefs was very much like pulling the mesh off of a cooked rolled roast.  There was a distinct “popping” noise as each square of the mesh broke free.  I slept on my stomach that night. The return to Kansas City was uneventful.  I drove back sitting on a pillow.

People in the Midwest kept buying Chevys, and all was right with the heavens. The Region even got Ford to take their “This Is Ford Country” outdoor campaign down, as Chevy was outselling them.  When not out in the field, making sure that the world had a better way to see the USA, field guys were on the phone…with each other. If only one or two guys had heard a rumor about things happening in Detroit, it probably was a false alarm.  Three or four guys, the rumor deserved to be checked out.  A simple majority of the guys meant that a memo confirming it would probably arrive in the overnight pouch.  Thus it was that I found out that I was being transferred.  To where I did not know.  The usual tour of duty had you in the field for two to three years, then back in Detroit.  The rumor was that “someone” was being transferred.  But there were no openings in Detroit at the time.  Did that mean someone was being fired and that poor soul didn’t have a clue.  Then the rumor mill picked up on the fact that Dick Byrne was retiring after 17 years as the LA field guy. Maybe someone was going there.  Some new guy?  One of us?  Within days I discovered that I was one of two names being floated for LA.  Apparently, the other name said “No” as my name was the only one being mentioned.  My comrades asked if I had heard anything about it.  I said, “Hey, I get all my news from you guys.”  Two days later my boss called.  “Tom, I’ve got some exciting news for you.”  “I know,” I said, “I’m being transferred to LA.”  He was incredulous.  “How did you know?”  I told him, “It was in The Hollywood Reporter.”  I learned the talent of messing with people’s minds.

The more I discovered about the position, the more attractive it became.  Nice salary bump.  Only two zones to call on; LA and San Diego.  Larger staff.  I flew to LA to check it out. The LA office housed all of our network clearance people, an account executive who worked on Rockwell, some production people, a guy who was Hwoodin charge of the “Hollywood” fleet of Chevrolets (cars for use in TV production), and the West Coast head of Network Programming.  The programming guy was senior to me (a VP!) so I was officially the number two guy here.  No big deal.  I still had my private secretary, my corner office, and my free car. My office was in the southwest corner of the First Federal of Hollywood building at the corner of Hollywood and Highland. It was torn down to build the Kodak Center.  On clear days I had a view of the Pacific Ocean and the LA basin all the way to Palo Verdes.  On most days I had a clear view of brown air.  In the lobby of the office there were travel posters for UTA Airlines and the Tahitian Tourist Bureau.  I asked if these were Campbell-Ewald clients.  “They used to be,” I was told.  I was then told a story that would, years later, teach me a lot about how ad agencies, and executive management, could make a lot of money in the ad biz.  It seems that Campbell-Ewald, as many agencies did, wanted a larger presence in Southern California.  Building the business took too long.  It was easier to buy an existing LA agency.  So they did.  They bought a vibrant little LA agency called Dailey, for $2 million. By the early 70’s, Campbell-Ewald had decided they couldn’t make a go of it as a full-service West Coast agency and sold it back to Pete Dailey for less than $200,000.  Interpublic had acquired Campbell-Ewald  in 1972.  Twelve years later, Interpublic bought Dailey and Associates for $22.3 million.  The new California Gold Rush was on!!  It was time to say goodbye to Kansas City.  We were heading to LA!      

Next:  “Have You Met Any Movie Stars?”

 

“Sir, Chevrolet Will Pay For All The Damage.”

4 Comments

sunflower

A hot, summer sun rose over southwest Kansas that August morning.  The ghosts of Helen Crump, Dorothy Gale, Alf Landon, Carrie Nation, Wyatt Earp, and Dwight Eisenhower faded with the dew on the sunflower petals into the ashes of the dawn.  I was visiting the Wichita Zone for their annual Salesperson’s Sales Jamboree Awards.  Dealers who won sales contests were sent, with their wives, to Athens, or Paris, or Tahiti.  Salesmen in the state of Kansas and northern Oklahoma were sent to Wichita for a day of beer-soaked fun, followed by an awards dinner. Sales Jamboree Awards Headquarters was an interesting place called The Diamond Inn, located near the Wichita Airport.  Wichita, Kansas…home of Pizza Hut and Cessna.  I’ve tried both.  Until that time, I preferred Little Caesar’s.  Mainly because I grew up near the original Little Caesar’s Pizza Treat in neighboring Garden City, MI.  This preference lasted until I had my first Ray’s Famous in NYC.

Sixty salesmen (quelle surprise, no women) gathered for the kickoff breakfast.  Scrambled eggs, hash browns, grits, and steak.  They also served an endless supply of bloody marys, scewdrivers, and mimosas.  Since “real men don’t drink mimosas,” I had them all to myself.  The serving of liquor at the breakfast served several purposes:

  • It provided a festive kickoff for the days promised fun-filled activities
  • It provided a running head start for those who were going to drink themselves blind that day
  • It provided a palliative for a large percentage who would have exhibited D.T.’s if they didn’t have their morning “medicine”

After the breakfast, we split into two groups.  Golfers were transported to Endless Plains Country Club.  The course was proud of the fact that there were no trees on the course. golf_in_the_desert_2There weren’t any bushes either.  The sand traps were thinly disguised dry washes left over from when the Chisholm Trail ran across the course.  If your ball landed next to a cattle skull, you were allowed a free drop. The second group was taken to the Jayhawk Bowl-O-Rama.  Chevrolet had bought the place out for the day, and had an open tab at the bar. Nothing gets one ready for six hours of bowling like a Jack and Coke.  The outside temperature was now approaching that of the surface of Mercury.  As much as I would have liked to tempt fate by driving golf balls across 7200 yards of dried earth, I opted for the air-conditioned sedentary prospects of the bowling alley.

Detroit used to have a great television program called “Bowling for Dollars.”  I could have filmed the pilot for a new show, “Bowling for Electrolytes.”  If one begins drinking at 8:00 AM, and has ingested at least twelve drinks  by noon, the day can only go downhill.  At least the golfers can sweat it off, I thought.  I was wrong.  The golf event had turned into a death march.  Each tee box had a full bar, adding to the dehydration that was running rampant through the golfers.  By 1:00, the bowlers had given up any sense of decorum. bowling-funny_88507-480x360Bowlers on several lanes had turned the day into a shot put event, with 16 pound balls dropping like nightmarish hailstones. Not just on the alley, but at the front desk, the cocktail lounge, the ladies room, and the day care center next door. Others, in a prescient nod to planking, were trying to fire the salesmen who had passed out down the alley toward the pins. Others lined the balls up at the foul line, and then pushed them down the lane with their noses.

We still had a BBQ dinner and awards ceremony to get through.  Once the salesmen decided to start playing dodgeball with bowling balls, I excused myself, saying that I had to go “check on dinner.”  I took a cab back to the hotel.  The area around the pool had been magically transformed into a Hawaiian paradise.  In the middle of the pool there was a styrofoam island, complete with miniature palm trees, bird of paradise plants, and little thatched huts. I met up with Charlie Lopez, the Assistant Zone Manager, and the man in charge of the evening’s Bacchanalia.  So far, everything was in order.  The chef had been roasting a side of beef over a large charcoal fire.  Unfortunately, nobody noticed that the chef had passed out from too many vodka and Dr. Peppers, and the fire had gone out.  In a room just off of the pool area, the zone had set up a GM Mini-Mini TheatreTheatre. The Mini- Theatre was a valiant attempt to bring A-V technology into GM dealerships.  The dealer had to buy the device which sat atop a kiosk.  Each GM division produced Super 8 film cartridges that fit into the theatre, projecting product information  onto a small screen at the top of the kiosk.  The thought was that people, who didn’t want to talk to a salesman, could go over to the kiosk and slap in a video from a library of cartridges.  GM dealers resisted the concept because they didn’t want their salesmen sending people away to watch a grainy Super 8mm film.  The Wichita Zone set one up, complete with a full library of cartridges, hoping that the dealers would be driven into a sales frenzy and demand that the dealership sign up for the program. Someone made LOTS of money off of this.

The buses returned from the golf course and bowling alley, vomiting their contents into the hotel lobby.  Most of the salesmen made straight to the four open bars around the pool.  Realizing that the BBQ wasn’t ready, the command decision was made to let everyone keep drinking. The presence of an operational Mini-Theatre just off the pool area was announced.  Charlie and I were slicing huge slabs of raw beef off of the spit, and laying it directly on the grill to cook it.  Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when they saw 90% of the salesmen trying to jam into the Mini-Theatre room.  Who knew that a video about the Cosworth engine could be so appealing?  I went over to get “retail input,” as this would be good filler for my weekly report back to Detroit.  As I stood on my toes to see the Chevy film, I was surprised to see that the film in the cartridge now playing was a morality play about a poor pizza delivery man who, when he arrives at his destination, discovers that the two scantily-clad women at the address don’t have any money to pay for the pizza.  A barter discussion ensues, where the women discover a method of paying for the pizza without having to use money.  The delivery man agrees, and the film proceeds to show the entrepreneurial system in action.  I was proud to be an American!  GM technology at work.

The food was finally ready.  The salesmen were pushed to their seats with cattle prods and tasers.  After dinner, the awards were presented.  Those who couldn’t walk up to the stage sent a surrogate.  It was now time for the evening’s entertainment. I’m sure, at the time, having hula dancers close the day’s frivolity seemed like a good idea…in a normal world.  Two things shattered this notion:

  • The hula dancers would be performing in front of 80, sunburned, porn-churned, really drunk car salesmen
  •  The Wichita Zone had decided to hire Mrs. LuAnne Torgelson’s Hawaiian Princesses as the talent

The recorded music started.  The primal drum beats beat against dulled skulls.  Mrs. Torgelson’s troupe, made up entirely of already terrified pre-pubescent young girls shimmied their way onto the stage.  Dressed in grass skirts and coconut shells, they unwittingly threw gasoline onto the pent-up firestorm.  Immediately, the puerile jokes about “Hey, howtahitian-dance---little-girls-resized-1278096056 ’bout a lei?” started.  Chairs and tables were overturned as the mob approached the stage.  The first dance number had finished.  Mrs. Torgelson had jumped in front of the dance troupe.  Many of the girls were running toward the back of the stage, and out into the night. The music for the second number started.  The drunken mob surged. Just then, a Deus ex Machina appeared. Charlie Lopez entered the stage wearing boxer shorts, a grass skirt, and a smile.  He turned to Mrs. Torgelson and told her to grab the girls and “Run for your lives.”  The mob didn’t notice their departure, their eyes were all riveted on a Chevrolet executive shimmying around the stage.  Charlie gave it his all. When the bread rolls started pelting him, he threw them back.  Other Chevrolet zone staff started pelting the salesmen.  I must admit, it was quite satisfying nailing Earl Bob Haney, from Witless Chevrolet in Dodge City, right between the eyes with a stale bread roll.  

The next morning, on my way to check out, I had to pass the pool area. The clean-up after Woodstock probably took less time. The large styrofoam island was nowhere to be seen.  There were, however, plenty of shoes, shirts, bowling balls, and boxer shorts.  When I got to the lobby, I saw Charlie Lopez.  “Charlie, you saved those girls last night.”  He smiled and said, “Sometimes you have to do what you have to do.” Just then, a VERY irate hotel manager came out from his office. “Mr. Lopez,” he croaked, “we’ve found the island.  The maids were cleaning room 227 when they found it.  They also found two naked men sleeping on top of it.  Apparently, they both had ‘their way’ with it several times last night.  You’re going to have to pay for this!”  Charlie let out a large sigh. “Sir, Chevrolet will pay for all the damage.”  As we walked to the parking lot, Charlie turned to me and said, “Well, Tom.  That was a pretty successful sales event.”

Welcome to the trenches!

Next;  My First Field Meeting   

“What Are The Odds?”

1 Comment

Country_Club_Plaza_2_Kansas_City_MO

The next three weeks passed by very quickly.  I moved into Campbell-Ewald’s Kansas City office.  It wasn’t so much an office as it was a cubby hole.  It was in the basement of the Mid-Continent Bank Building on Main St. and 49th.  The office had a small waiting room, and a door that led to my office.  Being in a basement, there were no windows. But I was pretty sure we’d be able to withstand any nuclear attack. After ten days of room service, we moved into an apartment on Wornall and 104th. The Missouri state line was about a quarter-mile away, and our balcony looked out into Kansas and the Milgram’s Supermarket where they sold Coors…at that time something that was unavailable to Michiganders.  I had a nice little side business going sending Coors to Michigan in exchange for Strohs, which was unavailable in Missouri.  My wife found a job at a newly opened dinner theater called Tiffany’s Attic.  It was almost directly across the street from my office.  We would ride to work together every day.  Very newlyweddy.

I found Kansas City enchanting. The only city with more fountains was Rome.  The Country Club Plaza was modeled after Seville, Spain. My office was adjacent to it. The people were very friendly.  In addition to Kansas City, I called on St. Louis, Des Moines, Omaha, Wichita, and Denver.  I was awash in Midwesterness.

I inherited another Chevy Impala from the previous Regional Account Executive.  At least I didn’t have to park this one in a building erected in 1927. On my very first day in the office, I met Marsha, my secretary.  As I was unpacking my briefcase, she came into my office, sat down, and gave me “the speech.”  “I’ve been here for 12 years,” she began, “and inwonder-woman that time I’ve seen seven of you guys come and go. I’m the only constant in this office and the Chevrolet people know that.  I know where all the bodies are buried, who the good guys and bad guys are, and what you need to do to get transferred out of here in two years.  I have my own systems and way of doing things.  They ain’t broke, so  you don’t need to fix them.  I’m here to make you a star, so don’t do anything without letting me know first.  In fact, some of your predecessors rarely came into the office. I’ve already enrolled you  in the Kansas City Ad Club, and the Kansas City Ad Wheels.  The Ad Wheels, by the way, are having their Spring Meeting on the 14th.  You need to RSVP to this number.  It’s going to be a great way to meet the other “car guys” in town.”  With that she got up, and returned to her desk.

“Ummmm, OK,” I thought.  “This is going to be interesting.”  I called the number on the slip of paper Marsha had given me.  “Tom Dickey here,” said the voice answering the phone.  It turned out that Tom was the local BBDO rep handling Dodge.  He told me about the Ad Wheels, and that it was a group of field guys who represented the national car companies in Kansas City.  Ford, Dodge, VW, Toyota, Chrysler, Lincoln-Mercury, Pontiac, and now, Chevy would be represented. The meeting was to begin at 11:00 AM, followed by lunch.  “Oh, and remember to bring your bathing suit,” he added.  ??????  Tom explained that his office had a swimming pool and that the meetings were held around the pool while sipping  Jack Daniels and smoking cigars.  The meeting was scheduled for the 14th, which was the next day.  Sign me up!

On the morning of the 14th, my wife had to be at an early meeting and rode to work with a co-worker.  I would take her home that evening.  Shortly after I got to the office, Marsha walked in wearing a sundress and carrying a large beach tote over her shoulder. My Spidey sense began to tingle.  “Uhhh, Marsha, what’s up?”  “Didn’t Tom Dickey tell you?” she Pool Partyasked.  “All of the secretaries are invited too!”  Oh well, this was my chance to make some valuable industry contacts.  The BBDO Kansas City office wasn’t an office.  It was a two bedroom apartment in a swanky area near downtown KC.  Tom greeted us and took us to the pool where a sumptuous spread was laid out.  There was a bartender behind a bar. Cigars were being passed out.  Jack Daniels was flowing like the Missouri River during a thunderstorm. The sun was blazing. The water refreshing. The afternoon passing.  The afternoon passing?!?!?!?  I found my watch.  It was 4:45.  I had 30 minutes to dry off, dress, and get to my office in rush hour traffic.  I gave Marsha cab fare…very classy.  I called my wife to tell her I might be a “tad” late picking her up.  “Where are you?” she asked.  Like a cornered rat I blurted out, “In my office.”  “Prove it,” she said.  Uh-oh.  “Just a plain old office,” I replied.  I sped back, stopping at my office to see why she was dubious as to my location. There on the floor of the office was a card she had passed through the mail slot.  “Happy One Month Anniversary!” Oh no, tomorrow was May 15th, our one month wedding anniversary. I raced to pick her up across the street, joking that I had seen the card when I got back from lunch.  I suggested that we go to dinner and a movie the next day to celebrate.

On the evening of the 15th we debated: dinner/movie; movie/dinner. We chose dinner/movie.  Bad choice. As we stood facing each other in line for the movie, my blood ran cold as I recognized the voice of the lady in front of us. It was Tom Dickey’s secretary!!  Maybe if I didn’t move, or say anything, she wouldn’t notice the quivering hulk standing behind her.  “Hey you!  Tom, it’s me, Tammie Sue, Tom Dickey’s secretary from the pool party yesterday. Wow!  How many cannonballs did you do into the pool.  Are you hung over?  Hey it was great seeing Marsha there with you.  Oh, is this your wife? Hey there, your husband’s quite the party guy.  Sorry he was late picking you up.  Hey!  The line’s moving.  See you all later.” I slowly turned to my wife.  The blank stare I got was terrifying.  “Move, she said, “the line’s moving.”

The movie was that light-hearted family laugh fest, Deliverance. Appropriate.  We sat in stony silence for the first half hour of the movie.  Then, she began to laugh. Taking her cue, Hidingso did I.  She then turned in her seat and punched me in the right shoulder with all her might.  “You big dummy.  What, there are maybe 300,000 people in Kansas City?  You know maybe twenty of them?  And you run into one of them in line at the movie?  What are the odds?  I hope you learned something.”  “I did,” I said as we began our make-up smooching. No matter where I go, I’d better behave myself because I was bound to run into someone I knew. 

Next:  Are We Going To Crash?

 

 

”I’m Going To Kansas City, Kansas City Here I Come…”

4 Comments

Wagon Train

Kansas City?  All I knew about Kansas City was that it was the gateway to the Great Plains.  I expected my drive westward on I-70 would carry me through barren plains, when suddenly, off in the distance, I would be able to see the rising skyline of a cowtown.  I was very wrong.

On Thursday, April 13, 1972, my boss came back to me with a “deal.”  I didn’t have to be in Kansas City on Monday, April 17.  I could arrive in the morning on Tuesday April 18, as the important meeting wasn’t until 2:00 PM.  This still wasn’t going to fly. As I was not going to be in the office on the next day, Friday, things needed to be wrapped up quickly.  My boss asked for two more hours.  Around 3:00 PM, he came back into my office with a big smile.  “Tom, I think we may have a deal.”  The “normal” relocation allowance permitted a spouse to travel to the new location and stay for two nights and three days to look for permanent housing.  The agency was going to let my bride travel with me to Kansas City on Monday, April 17. Additionally, they were going to put us both up at the Plaza Inn (a very nice hotel) for ten days as compensation for the lost honeymoon.  They never asked, and ISnowbound didn’t tell, but my original honeymoon was going to be a road trip to Charlevoix and Petoskey.  I got great rates on the rooms as both cities are still snowbound in April.  They were also going to throw in a salary bump to $14,700! What a deal!  I called my bride-to-be. Her only problem with it was leaving Michigan. I told her not to worry.  Kansas City was only a four-hour drive from Muskegon.  Any of you who know anything about geography will know that I was lying.  I needed to close the deal. She said yes.  I said yes.  I spent the rest of my day cleaning out my desk.  A friend drove me home (an apartment I had leased in Rochester) so I could leave the USS Enterprise in its docking bay.  The next five days were going to be interesting.

On Friday morning I drove up to Lansing to see my parents.  There was a letter waiting for me from the Selective Service!  Viet Nam was still a hanging sword of Damocles for me. With trembling hands I opened the letter.  It was a ‘Notice of Reclassification.’ For the last three years I had a 1-Y deferment, due to the knee I had blown out and had repaired.  Was my time up?  I read on… I was being reclassified to 4-F, “Physically Unfit for Duty.”  I found out that this was a “wedding present” from the clerk at my local draft board.  It’s a great story that I’ll save for another blog. My parents and I drove up to Muskegon that afternoon. The rehearsal dinner was that evening.  The next morning dawned cold, but clear.  I had asked two old seminary friends who had made it through to become priests to officiate.  About an hour before the service one of my friends showed up.  He handed me a telegram. The second friend had decided to leave the priesthood and wouldn’t be there.  Oh well, one was better than none.  It was about an hour before the ceremony that it occurred to me that I hadn’t memorized my part of the vows my fiancée and I had written.  I had been too busy calling on Chevrolet dealers in Buffalo.  No problem, I would wing it.

That proved to be a terrible plan.  During the ceremony, I froze.  This was different than presenting to car dealers.  I immediately fell into every clichéd wedding vow I could remember.  I even threw in some lines from the Pledge of Allegiance, and “The Charge of the Light Brigade” for good measure.  Not my finest hour, but we got through it.  The reception went down in the annals of Cavanagh lore as a “bar setter.” Sunday morning, we awoke and made our way to my bride’s parents’ house to open wedding gifts.  We were going to leave them all there and have them shipped to Kansas City once we found a place.  Monday morning we drove to Rochester to meet the movers.  We never were able to spend a night in the Rochester apartment.  After staying at a hotel near the airport, we left for Kansas City.  I, with an eye toward the future.  My wife, with the heavy thought, “Good Lord, what have I gotten myself into?”

The flight to Kansas City was uneventful except for the tremendous thunderstorm we spent an hour flying in on approach to the Kansas City airport.  We were tossed around like Stormping-pong balls in a Bingo drum.  The old Kansas City airport used to be downtown, nestled between a crook in the Missouri River and the downtown skyscrapers.  The terrible thunderstorm and buffeting notwithstanding, it’s a little disconcerting to be on final approach to a runway and look out the window to see skyscrapers on both sides of you that are taller than your current altitude.  I waved at the office workers watching the terrible storm. They waved back.  Another fun thing about landing at the old airport was the fact that you would start descending over the Missouri River. As the plane went lower and lower, the river got bigger and bigger.  One would think that we were only inches from ditching. Then, at the last possible second, the runway would appear under the wing.  Air travel as a Six Flags thrill ride!

We finally landed.  My wife informed me that she had gotten air sick and now had a migraine.  The old airport didn’t have jet ways that extended from the terminal. They would roll ramps up to the plane, and you had to walk down to the ground. We did, and were met in the pouring rain by my boss and two local Chevy heavy-breathers.  “Welcome to Kansas City!”, they said.  My wife got sick on the tarmac.  

Let the games begin.

Next:  What Are The Odds?

You Want Us To Do What??

Leave a comment

Do What?

It was now December, 1971.  The top television shows were All in the Family and Marcus Welby, MD.  I managed to do my time in Traffic, Print Production, and Art Buying without pissing anyone off.  I was finding that this training program was an invaluable way to learn the business.  That’s why so many other Detroit agencies didn’t have management training programs.  They’d let Campbell-Ewald go to the time and expense of training us, then, when we were done, they’d pick us off the vine.  Still, I got the feeling that when there was a dirty job to do, the first thought was “have the trainees do it.”

I was called to report to the VP of  Personnel’s office right away.  Oh no!  What now? On the way there, I ran into Chuck Seibert, another of the trainees.  He was on his way to the same meeting.  He was as clueless as I was. We entered the Director’s office and were asked to be seated across from his desk.  Standing behind him was a woman who, as far as any of us knew, was the Assistant Director of Personnel for Female Stuff.  This was not a good sign.  The Director began, “Gentlemen, as you know, tomorrow night is the Campbell-Ewald Christmas Party.  The entire agency will be there…including the secretaries.  There will be open bars, and probably a lot of drinking going on.”  Where was he going with this?  “Tom and Chuck, you are both single account men (back then were there any account women?) and we are asking you to, um, err, uh….  Marge, why don’t you take over here?”  The ADOPFFS stepped from behind her desk, uncrossed her arms, and began.  “Gentlemen, the women at this agency are not used to nice things.  Even now they are discussing with each other what they are going to wear.  As soon as it’s 5:00 tomorrow, they will all race to Femen prostitutes protest Kievthe ladies’ rooms to change and spend an hour or so doing their hair and applying make-up.”  Now I was completely bewildered.  “These women,” she continued, “are not used to nice parties and this may be the only open bar they will experience all year.  Many of them will get extremely drunk…and amourous. Many of them are only in advertising to find a rich husband (who also gets free cars!) and live off of him.  We cannot have them ruining any of our married men’s lives because the man was seduced in a moment of weakness. That’s where you two come in.  If you any see behaviours that appear to be headed for sex, we want one of you to step in.”  

“And do what?” I asked.  I wasn’t going to carry a bucket of cold water around all night.  “You are to remind the gentleman that he is married, and escort the lady away.”  “What if she’s still hot to trot?” Chuck asked delicately.  Marge flinched for a second, then dropped the bomb.  You two aren’t married.  We don’t care what you do with the secretaries.”  My open mouth was rapidly filling with dust and cigarette smoke.  “You want us to do what?” I asked.  The Director jumped back in.  “Tom, you’ll be doing everyone a great favor by defusing any volatile sexual situations.  We can’t afford to have any of our men hurt by a slight indiscretion with someone from the office.”  Ahh, I thought.  I get it. It’s OK for these guys to have off-campus affairs, just not one with a co-worker.  Hmmm, I think someone’s been sued before.  We were dismissed.  On the way back to our offices, Chuck turned to me with a huge grin and said, “Man, do you know what this means?  Personnel has just given us Get Out Of Jail cards for the Christmas Party.  We have company issued licenses to shag the secretaries!”  He really didn’t say shag.  I just used it because it was nicer than the word he actually used.

The next day dawned crisp and cold.  I was hoping that the cold air would quell any misplaced ardor that evening.  Just to be on the safe side, I wore my best underwear. The clock ticked inexorably toward 5:00 PM.  And, as Marge had predicted, at 5:01 there was a small stampede toward the ladies rooms.  The party was scheduled to begin at 6:30 PM across the street in the Grand Ballroom of the St. Regis Hotel.  By 6:31 it was standing room only at each of the five bar stations.  By 7:15, romansthe first person has passed out after getting sick on a statue of Antoine Laumet de La Mothe, sieur de Cadillac.  By 8:05, I saw my first challenge.  Tom Turner, another trainee, was pinned against the wall by a secretary in his group. She was leaning into him so hard that her drink was spilling on the front of his suit.  Tom and his wife, Carol, were from North Carolina and as nice, and charming as could be.  The terrified look on Tom’s face told me that he was trapped. The young lady was wearing a fetching crushed velour, forest green mini dress.  I knew she was wearing underpants because the dress didn’t go down far enough to cover them.  Tom had been a Navy pilot in Vietnam.  And, as military people are want to do, Tom quickly fell into the argot of acronyms and euphemisms for what he did.  “What did you do in Vietnam, Mr. Turner?” she cooed.  “Well, Lindy Lou, I was a tail hooker (a pilot who lands jet planes on carrier decks) in the Navy.”  “Ooooooh,”she squealed, “would you hook my tail tonight?”  True to his gentlemanly constitution, Tom said, “Oh no, a tail hooker is a guy who drops the hook down on the back of his jet fighter, hoping it grabs one of the cables on the carrierSafety deck in order to keep his 31 ton aircraft, that’s moving at about 250 MPH, from plummeting off the end of the deck.”  Her face went blank, but she was relentless.  “Do you want to get out of here and go see my apartment?”  “Hey Tom,” I called out.  “There’s someone over here I want you to meet.” I explained to him what I was doing, then went back to find Lindy Lou.  She had already been picked up by a guy from Research, who had heard the entire tail hooker story.  The two of them were making tracks for the door and a sweaty assignation somewhere in a small apartment in Troy.  Oh well, the research guy was single, so it was OK.

The party rolled downhill from here.  When one secretary from media decided it was time for a Southern Comfort fueled striptease, she climbed up on a table and started her routine, ironically, to the stirring lyrics of Gilbert O’Sullivan’s Alone Again, Naturally.  There was no way, literally or figuratively, I was going to touch this one.  “Marge, we’ve got a problem over at Table 8.”  There were no more major problems.  Probably because our married “account men” knew that they were being watched.  Not by me, but by executive management.  I had been put in charge of keeping the expendable ones at bay.  As this party was winding down, another one was taking on a life of its own.  One of the Associate Media Directors was a part-owner in a seedy bar on the Detroit Riverfront called The Sewer.  The party was moving there!  If The Sewer sounds familiar, it should, as the original venue for singer/writer Rodriguez, the subject of the award-winning movie Searching for Sugar Man.

At The Sewer, the party got weirder, the pheromones were flying, the drinks were flowing, reverse peristalsis was sent outside, the bar regulars were upset, one of the secretaries had passed out on the pool table, so we just played eight ball around her. I was OFF DUTY!

Next: I Am Plucked From The Slough Of Despond  

   

“Get out! Get out, now!”

1 Comment

Torch DriveHaving survived the ” Attack of Smokey the Bear,” I was more than happy to return to normalcy.  My 10-week media tour of duty was ending when the Media Director asked if I’d like to stay in media.  “Everyone up here likes you, and we’d like to bring you out of the training program and on the staff here.”  I told him that I was honored, but my dream had always been to be in account management. In hindsight, maybe I should have taken him up on the offer. In any case, account management was where they gave you the free cars.

My next assignment was something called broadcast administration. I had no idea what that was.  My friend Ed Pietila had just finished his term there.  He told me that the department head sat him down and told him everything there was to know in a three-hour chat.  There had to be more to it than that!  On my first morning in my new assignment I was called into the manager’s office.  “Have a seat,” he said, as he closed the office door. “Tom, I’ve been doing this for almost twenty years. I still have trouble staying on top of it.  I’m going to talk to you for three hours and tell you everything that you’ll EVER need to know about this.”  He did, and it was. “Bring in a magazine or book tomorrow, you’ll need something to do.”

Nuts!  This was going to be boring.  On the third day of doing nothing, I got a call to come down to the CEO’s office!!!  Tom Adams was an imposing, charismatic guy. Football star, War hero, hair slicked back.  I had only met him on my first day when, as a member of The Little Princes, we were presented to him.  Why did he want to see me?  On the way to his office I ran into Ed, who had been similarly summoned. What was up?

“Gentlemen,” Tom began, “I am going to ask you both to help Campbell-Ewald.  I can think of nobody better to represent the future of our agency than you two.” Hmmmm.  “For the next two weeks you will both be on loan to the Torch Drive, helping them provide the needy with a better tomorrow.  We’ve already talked to your managers and told them not to expect you in for two weeks.  The Torch Drive will use you in their business-to-business fund-raising efforts. You’ll be calling on some of the most important corporations on the city.”  With that, he got up, shook our hands and gave each of us little Torch Drive lapel pins.  “There is an organizing meeting tomorrow at 10:00 AM at the Sheraton-Cadillac.  Good luck, and thank you.” Fired with company pride, we promised to not let him down.

Ed and I were both 20 minutes late for the meeting.  When we got into the room, we saw gaggles of suits going over information packets and high-fiving each other.  The moderator approached us.  “Are you the Campbell-Ewald gentlemen?”  We put on our best obsequious masks.  “Yes, we are.  We are soooo sorry for being late.” “No problem,” he said, “everything you need to know is in the packets, including the names of the businesses, the owner, and how much they contributed in the past. Your team goal is also in there.  Yours was the last packet chosen.”  We soon found out why.

The United Foundation’s Torch Drive was started in Detroit in 1949.  It grew into the United Way.  “Give once for all,” was their motto.  Ed and I were ready to give it our all.  We knew that our collection area was bounded by E. Warren on the north, Mack Ave. on the south, John R on the west, and Beaubien on the east.  What we didn’t know was that most of it had been leveled almost a year earlier to make way for the new Wayne State University Medical Complex.  We hopped into my brand new 1972 Camaro RS ($2225!) and went to check it out.  I had come to the conclusion that it might be a few months before I started getting free cars, and I couldn’t keep showing up for work in The Flying Coffin.  So I bought one.

We were shocked and dismayed as we drove into the neighborhood.  Over 90% of it was gone or boarded up, waiting for demolition!  How were we going to collect any Storesmoney for the needy? We couldn’t let Tom Adams and Campbell-Ewald down.  We devised a plan.  We couldn’t admit failure.  Perhaps this was a test of our ingenuity. On the first day we’d call on the four or five buildings still standing. For the next thirteen days we would each contribute $5 in the name of a non-existent business.  This was cheaper than paying for parking at the GM building.  We couldn’t show up for work.  That would be admitting failure.  What would we do with our days?

We were definitely ingenious, and 25 years old. We spent our days discussing Nietzsche and Kierkegaard at local fine dining establishments such as Edjo’s, The Tender Trap, the 52nd Street Show Bar, La Chambre, The Landing Strip Lounge (near the airport), Cricket’s, and BT’s.  We heard that the Canadian National Ballet was appearing in Windsor. We went over and saw them.  Each day we put $10 into our collection envelope. Toward the end of the second week, we decided to make a run through the area again.  We found two businesses that had not been as yet abandoned.  One was a small tailor shop run by an elderly Jewish man.  “I’ve been here for over 40 years.  They start demolition next week,  I’m too old to start over.”  He opened the cash register and handed me a crisp $20 bill.  “I hope this helps,” he said.  Wow!

The last building was about four hundred yards away.  As I drove up, I saw the sign: Chez Antwan’s.  It was a bar!  We could collect from the owner, and any patrons who might be there.  I parked my Camaro by the front door, and Ed and I strode in.  Big mistake!!!  Not only were we the only white guys in there, I realized that in our cheesy suits we looked like narcs.  The “fight or flee” portion of my brainstem kicked in.  In a millisecond I realized that if I turned and ran, we’d be confirming everyone’s worst suspicions about us.  And we’d never make it to the car.  I walked up to the bartender, and in a loud voice, said, “Good afternoon my good man.  My friend and I work for the United Foundation and today we’re in the neighborhood seeing if any of the local businessmen would like to make a contribution for the needy.”  My brain told me to shut up.  Even though it was very smoky in the bar, I could see that every face was looking at us.  “Well, if not, we’ll just be on our way.” The bartender motioned me closer.  “You two are too dumb to be narcs.  I believe your United Foundation story.  I’m not going to give you any money, but I will give you some advice.  Get out! Get out now!”  Ed and I did a sideways crab shuffle toward the door, and got into my car.  We rode back in silence.  At least we hadn’t let the agency down. We had collected $120 for the Torch Drive during these tough economic times.  So this was advertising.

Next:  They Want Us To Do What?  

 

A Manchild In The Promised Land

5 Comments

 

GM Bldg

The “call” came four days later.  I was being summoned to “meet some people” at the Campbell-Ewald offices in the General Motors Building in Detroit.  The building, designed by Alfred Kahn, and opened in 1923, was at that time the largest office building in the world. I had been to the GM building before as a child. Where children in New York City might go with their parents to see the Statue of Liberty, we would go to the GM Building’s incredible lobby to see the new models, and visit the “Technology of Tomorrow” exhibit.  Two of the displays would entrance me for hours.  One was a rapidly spinning machine that looked something like a camshaft.  You could flick a switch and a strobe light would go on, seemingly freezing the spinning device.  You could see how high rpm’s took its toll on metal parts.  That sure made me want to drive fast.  My other favorite display was very simple.  There were two holes in a wall about twenty-four inchesGM Interior from each other.  A ball bearing would roll out of the hole on the left, drop about eighteen inches to where it hit a beveled block of metal that bounced the ball into a 45 degree arc back toward a spinning hoop.  The ball would arc toward the hoop, timed to pass through it perfectly, arc back down to another beveled block of metal that would bounce the ball straight back up, where it would disappear into the second hole.At any given time, there were four balls in the air.  I would stand there watching in dumbstruck amazement until I would realized that my drool was starting to pool on the floor!

But today, I was to put away the things of a child. The Flying Coffin flew me to Detroit, I found a nearby parking lot, and was entering the building when I realized that I had locked my keys in the car!  I ran back to the attendant who assured me that I had nothing to worry about.  I returned to the Cathedral of Capitalism.

Campbell-Ewald, most of it, was located on the fourth floor. When I got off of the elevator, my senses were immediately struck by three things: my nose sensed the mustiness of gravitas, my eyes saw a lot of marble, my ears could detect no noise. Were they closed today? I followed the signs that led to the Personnel Department. Dear reader, you’ll have to remember that this was 1971 BHR…Before Human Resources. I entered, introduced myself, and was asked to have a seat. Several minutes later the receptionist’s intercom buzzed, instructing me to enter the Sanctum Sanctorum. It would be almost another thirteen years before John Williams would introduce his Olympic fanfare, but I could already hear the kettle drums and heraldic trumpets playing in my head.  The office, the size of a racquetball court, was panelled in dark wood.  Harry Parker, Vice President of Personnel rose from his desk to greet me.  “Good morning, Tom, would you like some coffee?”  He could have been asking me if I wanted some heroin, or vodka, or a sharp stick rammed up my nose. I didn’t care.  I gushed, “Yes, thank you!”

We started the Dance of Ennui. I had a hunch this guy’s dad didn’t own a bar.  Harry explained to me how the the training program would work.  The five pauci electi would be cycled through the different departments of the agency, spending a month or two in each.  If, after a year, no department expressed an interest in retaining one of the trainees, that person would be bound and gagged and drop kicked into the Detroit River.  Harry explained that the salaries for all of the trainees were coming out of his budget.  After this pep talk, the recruiter was called in to give me a tour of the agency.  I said “Hello” to approximately 287 people.  After the tour I was dropped back at Personnel reception and asked to wait.  About ten minutes later I was summoned back into Harry Parker’s office.  Mr. Pink Pony was also there.

“Tom, ” Harry began, “we’d like to thank you for taking the time to see us today.”  Nooooooooooooo! They don’t like me.  “As you know, there are 25 men trying to get only five jobs.”  Nooooooooo!  Maybe I can my Sears repo job back.  “We really enjoyed meeting you today.”  Noooooooo! I think I saw a bar around the corner.  “That’s why we’d like to welcome you to the Campbell-Ewald Training Program.”   Nooo…Wait!!! Yessssssssssss!!  Right then, I was very happy that I was wearing a dark blue suit.

“We’re prepared to offer you an annual salary of $9400.”  Be still my heart.  That was an obscene amount of money!!  “If you work out after 90 days, we’ll bump you up to $11,200.”  The room started to spin.  Sphincter don’t fail me now.  “Is that acceptable, Tom?”  By the puzzled looks on their faces I think my answer came out of my mouth as, “Yerrrg.”  We all shook hands.  A secretary magically appeared with a Campbell-Ewald New Employee Handbook full of paperwork for me to complete.  “Can you start next week?” Mr. Pink Pony asked.  “I can start right now, if you want me to,” I blurted.  They both laughed.  “Ha-ha.  What a kidder.”

I attempted to maintain some sense of composure as I was escorted back to the elevators. The composure broke as the elevator doors opened in the lobby.  I ran to the nearest lobby payphone to call my parents. They were almost as excited as I was. I wasn’t sure if I didn’t hear my dad in the background say, “Well, that’s one launched.”  I called my girlfriend.  Her happiness for me was tempered by her concern that I was now going to be living almost 90 miles away.

Oh no!! My keys were still locked in my car.  I ran back to the parking lot, where I was met by the attendant who handed me my keys.  “How did you get them out of my locked car?”  “It’s my job,” he cryptically smiled and said.  Claude Brown wrote a novel in the 60’s, and even though I was light years from his experience, I felt like “A Manchild In the Promised Land.”

Next:  Into The Belly Of The Beast