Tag Archives: Chevrolet

Chita Rivera Saves the Day

1 Comment

tumblr_lfxgx9bWGr1qzfhxho1_400

We bid a fond adieu to Kansas City.  We watched as the moving packers swept through our apartment like locusts on the Kansas plains.  The last thing to be loaded onto the moving van was our new 1973 Chevy Vega Kammback Wagon.  I was nothing if not a company man.  I gave the keys to my free KC car to my replacement. Dick Byrne was giving me his Impala company car. We landed at LAX and went directly to the Franklin Arms.  This was old Hollywood at its stylish.  The residents were all “entertainment people” who would rent a unit on a month-to-month basis. Lots of ice plant and palm trees. A large pool in the centre of the units provided ample tanning area for folks to maintain their healthy Hollywood patinas.  It was about a half a mile from my office.  Fortunately, each unit was air-conditioned, as it was 104 degrees when we arrived.  I told my wife to enjoy the pool as I went off to work. Our furniture wasn’t expected to arrive for another five days. After the first day of having nothing to do from 8:30 AM to 6:00 PM but sit by the pool and read, she informed me that she was getting bored. Uh oh! I suggested that she walk down Hollywood Blvd, maybe visit Grauman’s Chinese Theater which was next to my office.  She wasn’t too keen on that as long as the temperature was above 100.  I told her that I’d try to come up with something for her to do all day.  

This all changed on the evening of the second day.  My wife had met a friend at the pool.  Chita Rivera!  Ms. Rivera was the first Anita in West Side Story on Broadway. Her show stopper was the song “America”…”I like to be in America, OK by me in America, Everything free in America.” She and my wife struck up a conversation and became pool buddies.  Whew!!  On the third morning, as I was checking for any mail, a French couple was checking in.  I don’t really recall what he looked like, but his wife/girlfriend/mistress/lover was striking.  Think of Catherine Deneuve with long dark hair.  Thatimages afternoon I received a call from my wife.  She was quite upset. “What kind of place is this?  Around noon, a French woman comes out and takes her top off and starts sunbathing in front of everyone!!!”  “No!!!,” I exclaimed.  “Tom, I want you to call the manager and complain.” I replied that I’d “get right on it.”  When I got to the apartment that night she asked if I had called the manager.  “He was out, so I left a message.”  The next day, at noon, I got another call.  “She’s back! This isn’t France. Call the manager”  About ten minutes later I surprised my wife by joining her at the pool.  “What are you doing here?” she asked.  “I brought you some lunch, Dear,” as I dropped an egg salad sandwich in her lap, while I frantically scoured the lounge chairs.  “Uhhh, where is that French trollop?”  “Oh, she left about ten minutes before you got here.” Hmmmm. The next day I brought a tuna salad sandwich…at 11:00.  No luck.  I guess someone else had called the manager.

Being the LA Field Guy was the greatest job in the world.  Even though I protested that I didn’t, all of the TV and radio stations, newspapers and outdoor companies in LA and San Diego thought I could help them get on a Chevrolet media buy. I quickly learned about Chasen’s, Perino’s, The Brown Derby, The Polo Lounge, Trader Vic’s, Tail O’ the Cock, and Scandia to name a few.  I learned that the big outdoor companies, Pacific Outdoor and Foster & Kleiser, would barter space with Las Vegas resorts and airlines to provide trips to clients.  I quickly realized  why Dick Byrne had refused to go work in Detroit and stayed in this job for 17 years.  If I played my cards right, I could stay in this job for at least 39 years.  I quickly became used to the lifestyle.  The one thing that I had yet to master, and found out that I should, was golf.  The landed gentry in England went fox-hunting, the Germans went boar-hunting, LA Ad Guys played golf. A wonderful man named Harley Humes “adopted us.”  He was a rep for Pacific Outdoor, and was already well into his sixties. My wife and I would often have dinner at his house in La Cañada. He was “old LA.” His father was one of the founding members of Wilshire Country Club in 1919. Harley came into my office one day and announced to me, “Tom, I’ve gotten you a membership in SCAGA!”  This was the Southern California Advertising Golf Association.  Rich ad guys who were good at golf.  “I’ve put you in our foursome for the next tournament at Lakeside County Club,” he said. Another old line club, a short distance from Warner Brothers in Burbank, Lakeside was founded in 1924 and had as it’s members Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, W.C. Fields, Oliver Hardy, Gene Autry, among others. On the day of the tournament, and with my Sears golf clubs, I arrived at the club. A man about the same age as my father 8893588_122902194863approached me and asked if I was Mr. Cavanagh. I was, I told him.  “Hi, sir.  I’m Sam. I’ll be your caddy today.  Why don’t you just give me those clubs and meet your friends in the grill.”  OK. Not too shabby.  I met Harley, who was sitting at a table with two other gentlemen. The first was introduced as Jim Davis, who owned a photography studio.  The other was introduced as Neal Reagan, Senior VP at McCann-LA.  I tried to lighten things up.  “Hey Neal,” I asked summoning all of my 26 year-old hubris, “you any relation to our actor-governor Ronald Reagan?”  “Why yes,” he intoned,”Ron is my brother.”  Uh oh!!  I felt retribution on its way.

As we walked toward the first tee, Harley pulled me aside and whispered, “We’re partners in this foursome. Don’t let Neal get under your skin. He’ll try to ride you, but he’s really a good guy. We’re not betting that much.”  If this hasn’t happened to you, you have NO idea the terror of being the new guy in a golf organization as you walk up to the first tee which is surrounded by golfers waiting to see what the “new kid” can do. I casually asked Sam for my driver and sauntered to the tee.  The quiet was deafening as I began my images (1)swing. Keep your head down!  Keep your head down! The ball left the tee with a mighty crack.  It was about 100 yards out when the ball’s right turn signal began flashing and it veered into some brush on the right side of the fairway.  Whew!! At least I got off the tee. “You’re OB, Tom!” Neal crowed.  “Tee it up again, you’re lying three!” Mortified, I walked over to Sam for my 3-wood.  Just hit it straight.  Again, the turn signal. This time the ball wasn’t as far right.  “OB again!!” Neal observed. “Tommy, you are now lying 6!!!!” I walked over to Sam and asked for my 9-iron. At least my slice would be limited. By this time the throng had dispersed, shaking their heads and chuckling to themselves.  My shot went all of 60 yards, but I was off the tee.

The rest of the round wasn’t too traumatic.  That evening at the awards dinner, Neal sat with me. The evening was kept buoyant by gallons of vodka martinis.  Well into the evening he turned to me and said, “You know Tom, you took my ribbing well. You’re a fine Irishman…like me. It’s a pleasure meeting you. Now I have to go the bathroom. I’ll be right back because I want to talk to you.”  He ambled off to the mens’ room.  After 30 minutes had gone by, Harley and I became alarmed.  We asked the waiter if he had seen Neal.  “Oh” he said, “Mr. Reagan got into his car about 30 minutes and drove home.” There were giants in those days.

Next:  The Case Of The Missing Cars 

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   

”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?

“….Ummmmmm. Do You Mind If I Get Married First?”

Leave a comment

Wedding

Now that I was one of Campbell-Ewald’s “Young Account Men,” things began to move swiftly.  My fiancée and I set April 15, 1972 as our wedding date.  I figured that if I got married on Income Tax Day, I’d never forget my wedding anniversary.  Now that I was able to remove my training program beanie, I was able to “mainstream.” I was being invited to important meetings, I was meeting clients, I was going to these wonderful things called media parties, and I was walking with the swagger of someone who thought he was set for life.  One of my responsibilities as the Assistant to the Director of Field Operations was to help determine the economic course of Chevrolet’s future. Each Campbell-Ewald field office had to submit a weekly report as to how things were going in their particular region; sales trends, competitive media buys, dealer comments, newspaper stories.  They were submitted to me each Monday. My job was to “edit out” anything that might reflect badly on the client’s success as these reports were then sent on to Chevrolet.  The New York Times wrote a nice story on the Datsun B-210?  Can’t have that.  The aluminum block engines in the Vega were blowing up all over California because they couldn’t handle the stricter pollution controls required out there?  OK, nobody needs to hear bad news like that. The “Drive A Winner Derby” promotion in the Midwest Region was a flop? Nope, nope, nope.  Definitely can’t have that!  Every day the field guys would call in to schmooze, anxious to find out what was going on in the Mother Ship.  We were a “Band of Brothers.”

After about six weeks of putting my imprimatur on weekly reports, I was called into the office of the Regional Account Executive for the North Central Region. Because the Chevy regional office for North Central was in Detroit, the Campbell-Ewald rep, Jim Muir, was stationed in Detroit.  In fact, his office was right next to mine.  Jim had been a great tutor on the ins and outs of the job.  Jim asked me to sit down as he closed the door.  “Tom, I’m going retail.”  This was not the same as “going ballistic” or “going commando.”  This meant that he was going to go to work for a dealership. It happened a lot to the field guys.  He continued, “I start in two weeks with Buff Whelan Chevrolet in Sterling Heights, and I’m recommending to management here that you take my place.”  I was shocked!  I was finally going to be a Field Guy! But….I really wasn’t going to be my own boss as I was still in the GM Building, I was going to be calling on exotic locations like Flint, Cleveland, and Buffalo, and it was snowing outside.  Wait, wait!  I was to inherit Jim’s Chevy Impala company car.  I had arrived!!!  I was now getting free cars.

I was now Regional Account Executive/North Central.  I had a friend drive me in to work that day.  I would be driving home in my free car.  The 1972 Impala was parked with the rest of the agency free cars in the parking garage of the Fisher Building.  The Fisher Building, designed by the same fellow who did the GM Bldg, went up in 1927.  It featured an 11 story garage.  My spot was on 11.  Cars keys in hand, I arrived at my free car.  It was beautiful, with a hood large enough for Tom Turner to land one of his Tomcat fighters without a tail hook.  I placed myself into the captain’s chair and gave the order to the Impala’s engine room to “Engage.”  We slowly left the docking bay and approached the first downScreen Shot 2013-07-29 at 10.38.57 AM ramp.  This is when two startling realities enveloped me: this garage was built in 1927, my “USS Enterprise Impala” in 1972; and, it was Winter and the car had studded snow tires on it.  The garage floor was concrete with that waxy coating that prevents oil stains.  My 4200 lb aircraft carrier was on ice skates!! Also, my Impala had almost 2 feet more wheelbase than a 1927 Chevy,  I was about to find out just what that meant as I came to the first down ramp.  My effort at a hard right left me wedged in the ramp.  I put the car in reverse to try again.  The whir of the metal spikes that prohibited the rubber tire tread from touching the ground was deafening.  I put the car into “Park” while I tried to turn the wheel harder to the left, hoping to free myself.  My terror was tempered by a loud honk.  Cars were beginning to stack up behind me!  I put the car in “Drive” and touched the gas, all the while struggling with the steering wheel.  I began to slide down the ramp…sideways.  At least I was facing the right direction when I got to the 10th floor.  And now, on the next attempt I knew to start with a wider arc.  I nailed it! I was pointing straight down toward the 9th floor.  I tapped the gas, smug in my knowledge that I had shown those idiots backed up behind me that I wasn’t some rookie to free cars.  I suddenly realized that I was sliding again, and gaining speed. I hit the brakes.  No luck.  Twelve feet flyfrom the bottom of the ramp was a wall.  This wall was the outside wall to the garage.  There was a window in it.  I was rocketing toward it.  Suddenly, I could see Mom and Dad, and old Muzza, my dog. There were Lynn and Chris from 5th grade. I was going home!!!  I could see the headline in that evening’s Detroit News: “Ad Guy on Chevy Hurtles To Death Out Of Fisher Building.”  It took me about three hours to get my free car out of the Fisher Garage.

On Wednesday, April 12, 1972, I was called to the Field Director’s office.  Gene Owens had left the agency to make some big bucks with a promotions company.  My new boss was Bob Milford, who had moved over from the Truck Account.  “Tom,” he began, “We have some great news.  You’re being promoted to the Midwest Region in Kansas City”  Hmmm, I thought, was there a hierarchy to the regions?  I was ecstatic. I had never been to Kansas City and I heard that they had some great BBQ.  “I accept!” I shouted.  “That’s great,” Bob said.  “Here’s the deal.  Ron Bleckmann (the current occupant of the seat) has just informed us that he’s leaving to join J. Walter Thompson on the Ford Account in Kansas City.  We had to terminate him immediately.” NOTE: this is pretty much standard in the ad biz.  If you go to another car account, they don’t want the client knowing they kept someone around.  “So,” Bob continued, ” Ron is gone as of today.  There’s an important Midwest Regional meeting out therestockyards_cattle_metapth19896_l_bus31_10 on Tuesday, so we’ll need you in Kansas City on Monday to get ready for it.”  There was one problem.  “Bob,” I said, “….Ummmmm. Do you mind if I get married first? Remember those vacation papers you signed letting me go on vacation from 4/14 to 4/24?  I’m getting married in Muskegon in three days, then we’re going on our honeymoon.” Bob’s wide-eyed stare told me that he’d forgotten.  “Tom, we really need you there.” “Bob, I’m a dead man if I take off the morning following the wedding.”  “Tom, let me talk to some people and see if we can’t reach a compromise.”  I wasn’t going to call my bride-to-be and worry her…yet.  Let’s see what they come up with.

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

Into The Belly Of The Beast

4 Comments

Golddiggers

June 26, 1971, started as any other day except for one thing.  I was now an Ad Guy!!  I had relocated from Lansing to my grandmother’s house in Detroit several days earlier to be close to work.  I was to report to Personnel at 9:oo AM.  As I entered the lobby of the GM Building and made my way to the elevators, I noticed that I was now part of a sea of suits that was about to infest every corner of the building, making heavy decisions, determining the course of the U.S. economy, and just generally being brilliant.  After dropping my paperwork off, I was escorted to the main conference room.  Soon, the other four chosen ones came in.  My MSU college buddy, Ed Pietila, had made the cut. Tom Turner and Greg Stein, Vietnam vets, and Chuck Seibert, who had been a caddy at Oakland Hills C. C..

We had all been assigned to different departments to begin our instruction into the art, craft, science, and lifestyle choice that was advertising.  I grabbed my briefcase, that had nothing in it, and was taken to the Media Department.  The Media Department was not in the GM Building.  It was behind it on the 11th floor of the Argonaut Building.  To get there, you had to take a GM Bldg elevator to the 10th floor where a hallway led you to a skyway concourse that took you directly into the Media Department.  To this day I haven’t been able to figure out how one gained a floor by crossing Milwaukee Avenue a hundred feet in the air.

Bill Kennedy, VP – Media Director, greeted me and took me around to meet the group.  I’m sure that they had all been told to be nice to the “bag smasher” they were getting stuck with.  I was to be assigned to the Broadcast Group.  They were the ones who planned and bought the time for TV and radio commercials.  I instantly learned about “glom.”  Glom was the free tchotchkes you got from networks, stations, and reps.  I was immediately given a Mutual Broadcasting coffee mug, a CBS Spot Radio Sales notepad, and an NBC Sports ballpoint pen.  I was ready to start making a difference.

I was turned over to Mary George. Mary was the head of the Spot Buying Unit.  A very petite lady, she gave meaning to the adage “Hell hath no fury like a spot buyer scorned.”  On many occasions, I would hear Mary’s voice rise when a rep would tell her that he couldn’t deliver the ratings he had promised.  The walls would shake as she told the rep was about to happen to his career.  It was the only time in my career that I would see men run out of an office.  I crunched rating numbers for her.  One day I was standing behind her at her desk, going over a buy.  I noticed that she had a milk crate under her desk, upon which she had placed her feet.  I asked about it. Mary smiled.  “Tom, I’m so short that my feet don’t touch the ground when I sit in my desk chair.  If I didn’t have something to anchor my feet when I went to throw something at a rep, I would just spin in my chair.  That’s not a good image for engendering fear.”  That advice went into Tom’s Book of Advice to Never Forget.

A few weeks after I’d started, the FCC did something that almost caused me to reconsider my chosen vocation.  They came out with PTAR…the Prime Time Access Rule. It wasn’t so much the rule that almost sank me, it was what the rule brought about.  TV stations now were able to run their own local programming.  The hour from 7:00 PM to 8:00 PM would no longer carry network programming.  The race was on!!!  Syndicators and advertisers went crazy coming up with shows to fill this vast wasteland…of time.  Chevy was no different.  The General Manager of Chevy was John Delorean.  John Z. had many Hollywood connections.  The agency was told that Chevy had purchased three barter syndication shows. Barter meant that Chevy would slug two commercials into the show, the station could run the program at no charge and sell the other two spots for their own profit.  They were:

  1. The Tom Brookshier Sports Illustrated Show – Ahead of it’s time.  Think of a kinder, gentler Bryant Gumbel’s Real Sports 
  2. Johnny Mann’s Stand Up and Cheer – Wholesome, clean-cut, mostly young, singers and dancers who always seemed to be wearing red, white, and blue spandex. Notable about the show were two of the singers.  Thurl Ravenscroft, who was 57 at the time.  He gave voice to many of the animatronics at Disneyland, but was most famous as the voice of Tony the Tiger.  The other was Ken Prymus. One of two African Americans in the group, Kennie is probably most famous for his role as PFC. Seidman in the movie version of MASH.  During the “Last Supper” scene, he sings the now iconic theme “Suicide is Painless.”  These were cool people to be around.
  3. Chevrolet Presents the Golddiggers – This was a dog’s breakfast of skits, unintentional bloopers, and going through the motions dance numbers.  For those of you who weren’t around, the Golddiggers were a group of lovely young women who were featured on the Dean Martin Show in the 70’s.  They would lounge around on couches, supporting Dean’s naughty boy image, while he delivered the opening monologue.  Someone had the brilliant idea to package the routines that weren’t good enough to air on NBC, and sell them to Chevy as a syndicated show.

Either because everyone else was too busy, or nobody wanted to be connected with this deal and get career-ending schmutz on them,  I was given the project.  My instructions were simple:

  • Clear the top 25 markets at all costs!
  • There are no demo tapes, “so they’ll just have to trust you that these are great shows.”
  • The MOST important thing was to clear a Detroit station.  There would be a lot of televisions in Bloomfield Hills, Birmingham, and Grosse Pointe looking for them.
  • All of this had to be done in two weeks.

Armed with a station directory and my NBC Sports pen, I started cold calling station managers.  There were a few hurdles.  They had never heard of the shows (except they could name all of the Goldiggers), they wanted to see a demo before they committed to a program, and, of course, they had no idea who I was.  Within two weeks I had cleared 24 markets with at least one of the shows.  I couldn’t crack Detroit.  The folks in media told me to remind the local station managers that there was a huge Chevy Spot TV buy coming up.  Wink, Wink.  WWJ-TV, the Detroit NBC outlet relented.  They signed up for The Golddiggers.  The first show was to air the following Monday at 7:00 PM!  I told my co-workers, I told the client. I also told my friends and my family.  I wanted them all to see that I was now a powerful ad guy.

Monday arrived.  It was 4:30 PM.  My phone rang.  It was the Channel 4 station manager.  I couldn’t really tell what he was saying because of all the cursing and gagging. I finally got the gist of his call.  They had just received the tape for that evening’s show.  Not only was it a terribly edited piece of crap, the program, INCLUDING commercial slugs, was only seventeen minutes long.  Oooops!  I naively suggested that he pull the show and run a George Pierrott Travel Show repeat. Silence.  Then he said, “Don’t worry , Tom.  I’ll get even.”  Hmmmmmm. Something was going to happen tonight that might delay my getting my free car.

7:00 PM.  Judgement half-hour. The program came on.  Everything seemed to be OK. Sure, the production values were crappy, the lip synch was off, and the lighting was bad.  Big deal.  The PTAR was bound to cause a few hiccups.  Then, about ten minutes into the program, while the Golddiggers were singing “Let Me entertain You,” it happened.  The tape slowly ground to a halt.  …”let me make you smmmmm… The station then ran twelve minutes of the same Smokey the Bear commercial.  No big deal for WWJ.  They completed their monthly FCC mandated public service advertising duty in one night.  As Smokey faded out, they started the tape back up. “…smmmmmile. Let me do a few tricks, some old and some new tricks…”  My phone rang.  It was the Media Director.  “Tom, what happened?  Three clients have already called me at home!”  I told him what had happened.  How the syndicator had sent a bad show.  How sorry I was.  He simply and calmly said, “See me first thing tomorrow morning.”  I immediately showered and shaved. Put on my best suit, and sat in my car until the sun came up.

I walked into his office that morning looking like a whipped dog.  I was surprised to see him smiling.  “Thanks, Tom.  You did us all a great favor.  You’re going to go far in this business.”  Huh?  What was going on?  He explained to me that the agency had fought tooth and nail to distance themselves from the Golddiggers.  Since John Delorean had blessed the project, nobody could say No.”  Only by broadcasting one of the shows on a Detroit station could the voices of reason be heard.

I guess I took one for the team.  I learned that most good deeds never go unpunished.

Next:  “Get Out!  Get Out Now!