Terror In Tokyo!

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Posted on August 29, 2016

Roppongi-Christmas-2010-013-G2824-600x400

Or for fans of Japanese Literature puns: がいじんものがたり (Gaijin Monogatari)

Yes, that is a giant spider (statue) terrifying residents of the Roppongi District of Tokyo. I will let you know later how I was almost destroyed in this neighborhood.

Things were going swimmingly working on the Honda account. Co-workers were great, clients were great, my free car was great. I didn’t think that things could get any better…but they did. Bill Hagelstein told me that we were going to Tokyo to visit Honda’s world headquarters and to attend the Tokyo Motor Show. On top of everything else, we were going to fly Business Class. Cool!

After an eleven and a half hour flight, which only seemed like half a day, we were transported to our hotel, The Okura. The Okura was a beautiful hotel situated across from the American Embassy. Built in 1962, it was to be a showcase hotel for Tokyo’s 1964 Okura Summer Olympics. Sadly, they began to tear it down about a year ago to build a high rise hotel in anticipation of the Tokyo 2020 Summer Olympics. While I was checking in, I saw Don Hufford and Don Cooke, the Publisher and Ad Director of Car & Driver Magazine, walking toward me. Many magazines carrying import advertising sent staff to cover the Tokyo Motor Show. Bill and I caught their attention. Of course, being great media reps, they immediately invited us to dinner.

There would be five of us for dinner. Don Hufford knew of a wonderful teppanyaki place in an area called Roppongi. Our cab stopped in front of Amakawa. Teppanyaki restaurants prepare your food on a hot grill in front of you. Think of a Japanese version of Benihana. Kobe beef Teppanyaki After two rounds of $15 Chivas, it was time to order dinner. Don said the kobe beef here was delicious. I looked at my menu and did the ¥/$ exchange math in my head. A 12 oz. Kobe steak was $150…a la carte!! I looked for something cheaper, like Spam. Don then removed my cloak of guilt. You MUST try the Kobe beef. Sounds good to me. The tab for the five of us came to over $1500 in 1983 dollars. I guess this wasn’t Car & Driver’s first Tokyo Motor Show.

In the cab on the way back to the hotel I mentioned that there seemed to be a lot of bars and clubs in the area. My hosts told me that there were a lot of “hostess” bars in Roppongi. They had been to one the night before, and made the offer to take me with them the next time they went. For those who don’t know, Japanese hostess bars are establishments where one can go for a drink and have a hostess assigned to you who will drink with you, flirt with you, light your cigarettes, sing karaoke, and listen attentively to your blather. The ladies are known as kyabajō, cabaret girls. There is no sex…Tokyo has other places for that. There are a number of these bars in L.A. and NYC. I know. The first one I went to was in Little Tokyo in downtown LA. I was the guest of the President and Executive Vice-President of Mazda. I should point out that these places are obscenely expensive. That is why 90% of bills at hostess bars are put on corporate credit cards. Corporations are more than happy to have their executives spend five or six hours together after work talking business and having a good time.

The Tokyo Motor Show is gargantuan in scope. Housed in several exhibition halls of the RK012618 Tokyo Convention Center, the TMS is a ten day event where manufacturers from around the world present their visions of the future of transportation. Over one million people will go through the gates. It’s a little like trying to get into a Super Bowl every day. One hundred thousand people every day pushing each other trying to get a glimpse of the latest from BMW and Toyota.

By the end of the day you think your arches have fallen. Looking at prototypes all day takes its toll on your body. That’s why I decided to make an appointment for a massage in the Hotel Okura’s spa. It was rumored to be world-class. I entered the spa waiting room and was shown to a chair to wait for my name to be called. A few minutes later an elderly woman dressed in white opened a door to one of the rooms and said, “Cavanagh-san?” I was surprised by the size of the room, and all the equipment. In addition to a massage table the room had a small soaking tub, a very short wooden stool next to a wooden steam-cabinet-with-steam-generator-500x500 bucket, and some contraption that looked like it was a discarded prop from a David Copperfield show. We smiled and bowed. She pointed to a closet. We then held a brief discussion using the universal hand signals for, “Do I take all my clothes off?” She nodded. OK. Go with the flow. The lady then led me to the magic box. She opened it and motioned for me to climb inside. Was she going to saw me in half? I then found out that it was steam cabinet. She cranked up the steam and watched as I poached. After ten minutes, she let me out and guided me to the very short stool. She had me sit on it, and as I figured out they weren’t going to bring in a cow for me to milk, this was part of the spa treatment. She began pouring buckets of warm, soapy water over me. Then she brought out a brush and went to town on me. Then more buckets of warm, clear water. I should have asked for the sealant and the wax buff. I think you get a car deodorizer with the special. I was then led to the small pool that was filled with warm water. I was about to fall asleep when she pulled me out, dried me off, and put me on the massage table. I did fall asleep about half-way through the massage. When I was done, I was refreshed, my arches were no longer fallen, and I decided to take up Car & Driver’s offer to go with them to a hostess bar.

Club Morena was a hostess bar in Roppongi. I knew of it because it was the favorite hangout of the American Honda executives. They said that I should go if I ever had the chance. I now had the chance. And making it better, the folks at Car & Driver were going to Roppongi-69432 host me. I called them and said that we cold meet there at 8:00. The cab driver dropped me off in front of a tall, narrow building. Fortunately, I found the words Club Morena among the jungle of gaudy signs with flashing lights. The sign said that Club Morena was on the 4th floor. I entered the building to see a very narrow stairway…no elevators! After much huffing and puffing, I arrived at Club Morena. As I entered the bar the mama-san (yes, that’s what they’re called) approached me with a “Hey, gaijin (foreigner), what are you doing here?” look on her face. She spoke English so I began rattling off the names of the American Honda executives. Her face lit up. “Welcome to Club Morena! Are you by yourself?” I told her that I was meeting two other people. She hustled me to a large table in the corner as she barked orders in Japanese. By the time I got to the table, we were joined by three hostesses and three small trays full of wasabi peas and Japanese rice crackers. My hostess sat down next to me, while the other two kept a respectable distance at the table. She valiantly tried to ask my name in English. I told her, and asked hers. She said, “Tiffany.” I had a hunch that Tiffany was her nom de hostess. I ordered a beer.

hostess005 I figured that I could nurse it until my friends got there. Tiffany kept giggling and filling my glass.It was now 8:45 and I was starting to get a queasy feeling that I was on my own. I could hear the meter running…ka-ching, ka-ching. The mamasan came over and wanted to know where my friends were. She asked not so much out of concern, but because I was taking up a table for three. Fifteen minutes later she came back. “It’s raining outside, maybe your friends are delayed.” She asked where my friends were staying. Like an idiot I told her. She wanted to know their names saying she would call them for me. I blurted out, “Room 1207!” This was my room, so there would be no answer. She went and called, coming back to say that they must be on their way as she put another beer in front of me. The other two hostesses had already been reassigned. I finally arrived at the terrifying truth. I was on my own in the quicksand of overpriced booze!

A waiter walked by and I asked for my bill. It came. $160 for a beer and some wasabi peas. I left the amount in yen and waited for the mamasan to go into the kitchen. Whispering “Sayonara” to Tiffany I bolted toward the door. As I hurtled down the stairway, I heard someone yelling, “Stop! Stop!” It was Tiffany. Was she going to drag me back to the mamasan? It was then that I noticed that she was carrying an umbrella. We walked out Taxi onto the street. It was pouring! She dutifully held the umbrella over me while I tried to hail a taxi. She informed me that the scores of cabs parked in the street were pre-booked by bar guests so they knew that they could get home. Tiffany handed me the umbrella and jumped in front of a moving cab. I heard what I guess was Japanese profanity coming from the driver as Tiffany motioned for me to get in. I made my escape.

As I walked through the lobby of the Hotel Okura, I spotted my Car & Driver friends at the bar. “What happened to you guys?” I asked. They informed me that they were very tired from being at the show all day and visiting Club Morena completely slipped their minds. I told them about my terror. They laughed and asked if I wanted a drink. I said yes.

NEXT: Bless me Father, for I have sinned. Can you stash 60 Hondas for me?

I Leave Home

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Posted on August 23, 2016

child walking along road

As in many other industries, ad agencies follow a certain protocol when poaching talent from another agency. Rather than use a “scorched earth” policy that leaves behind bad feelings, reputable agencies rely on oblique seduction. Thus it was when I was approached about leaving the bosom of Foote, Cone & Belding/Honig. Bill Hagelstein of Needham, Harper & Stears, called me one sunny afternoon. Bill was part of the original immigrant wave from Detroit who ventured to Southern California to make ads for Japanese cars. In fact, we had worked together on the Datsun (now Nissan) account at Parker Advertising…for about 15 minutes. Bill had been working there for some time. Datsun fired Parker 15 minutes after I was hired. Fate was attempting again to bring us together.

One sunny May afternoon in 1982 I received a call from Bill. After we exchanged pleasantries, Bill asked m Mouth at Phone e if I might be able to help him with a favor. I immediately agreed. The folks at Needham were looking for an account supervisor to work on Honda. Bill outlined the responsibilities, salary range, and benefits. I told him that I would “make inquiries.” I sat at my desk, staring at the narcotics officers busting crack dealers in the park across the street. It was then that a thought crossed my mind. “Why should I offer someone else for this plum job. Why don’t I go for it?” I went home and discussed it with the family. I was going to go for it.

I called Bill early the next morning. Like two sand cranes performing a mating ritual, Bill and I danced around the issue for a few minutes. Then I said, “Bill, I thought of someone who would be perfect for the job at Needham. Me.” He laughed and said, “I was hoping you’d say that. I couldn’t come right out and ask you.” Plausible deniability. By me asking him, Needham couldn’t be accused of poaching. The agencies and clients would be calm about it.

It was tough leaving FCB/H. They are the ones, after all, who had plucked me from the Slough of Despond. I felt a great deal of loyalty toward the co-workers who had taught me that Tanqueray was a damn fine gin. But I had to face facts. I didn’t see much chance for imminent upward mobility. The client was struggling to find a new identity afte Money Stack r being known for their rotary engines. At the time, Mazda was split into two American companies. One headquartered in Rancho Dominguez, CA., the other in Jacksonville, FL. Consensus on creative was often a rocky road. Oh, who am I kidding? I did it for the money.

Honda and NH&S were whole different worlds from where I was. Accords, Civics, and Preludes were flying out of dealer showrooms faster than the trucks could deliver them. It was like printing money. Actually, a few years later something like that was going on. But enough has been written about that chapter that I don’t need to go there.

One of the first things I noticed in my new world was that American Honda actually
Screen Shot 2016-08-23 at 9.20.03 AM mirrored what their advertising slogan was: Honda – We Make It Simple. No onorous creative and budget presentations to countless levels of committees . For major presentations we would be in front of four people: Joe Haight, the Honda Ad Manager, Tom Elliott , at that time the VP of Marketing, Cliff Schmillen, SVP of the automotive division, and Yoshihide Munekuni (known affectionately as “Moon”), the President of the automotive division. Back then, Honda was using the avuncular, soothing tones of Burgess Meredith as the voice-over talent in the commercials. Once the storyboard had been presented, we would read the copy, starting with the words, “And then Burgess says…”

Honda also gave NH&S responsibilities that went beyond the “normal” client/agency relationship. Working with Porter/Novelli Public Relations, we put on their new product short-lead press previews. One of our account people was the “The Honda News Bureau.” We produced their major meetings, including their annual dealer meetings.

In previous posts I’ve gone on about how great it was to have a job that gave you a free car. This job went a step further. It allowed you to hobnob with the rich and famous. Honda was coming out with a completely new iteration of the Accord. They wanted to dazzle their dealers at the dealer meeting where the car would be revealed. Honda asked us to handle the meeting. Honda knew that most of their dealers would attend with spouses and/or girlfriends in tow. Honda wanted to invite industry thought-leaders. J.D. Power (Dave Power) would attend with his Associates. I was glad Dave was coming because he loved cigars as much as I did. Honda Motor Ltd. executives from Tokyo would be there. A lot of people would be there. We needed a massive venue. Bob Welsh was the titular head of the Honda account at NH&S. He also was the producer of the Honda meetings and shows. He put Sol Hurok to shame.

The first thing Bob did was to take over the Las Vegas Hilton. They could accommodate the hilton-las-vegas 2000+ rooms that would be needed. Then he booked a “surprise mystery guest,” to boost attendance. Then he used the leverage that comes with booking thousands of rooms to coerce the kitchen and chefs to do the near impossible. When I checked in three days before the event, I was told by reception that I only needed to provide ID. I said, “Don’t you need a credit card for incidentals?” I was told that wouldn’t be necessary as my entire stay was being comped.

Very impressive. I immediately tried to determine how many pay-per-view movies I could watch during the six days I would be there. The new Accord presentation went off without a hitch. When the commercials were shown in the darkened ballroom, our agency plants in the audience were able to start the cheering and applauding. Almost as impressive as the show was the dinner BobHope that night. After a few words from Cliff Schmillen, dinner started. The Hilton chefs had prepared Beef Wellingtons for 2,000, all of them served warm. Dessert was flaming Baked Alaska for 2,000, all of them done correctly. After dinner Cliff introduced the “surprise mystery guest” to the musical strains of “Thanks for The Memories.” Bob Hope walked
out to thunderous applause. Hope was great. A few hours before the dinner his people had asked for the names of the Honda president, the largest dealer, the worst golfer, the highest ranking executive from Japan, etc. He seamlessly worked all of them into his routine. After the dinner, several of us from the agency and Honda were told to be in the lobby the next morning by 9:00 AM. We were also told to bring swimsuits.

The next morning, six of us assembled in the lobby. The Hilton’s Director of Marketing came up to us and said, “Follow me.” We went out the front doors and were escorted into waiting limousines. I breathed a sigh of relief as the limos turned toward Lake Mead and were not heading out into the desert. We were’t going to be whacked! The Marketing VP Hilton Yacht told us that the Hilton Hotel wanted to thank us for our “hard work” over the last few days by letting us spend the day on Barron Hilton’s yacht. The crew saluted as we boarded. A light breakfast was laid out in one of the state rooms. The bartender was able to supply much needed Bloody Marys. I spotted a box of pampers, guessing that those were for baby Paris. We cruised to a small cove on the other side of the lake where the captain dropped anchor. A diving board was attached to the stern section of the upper deck. Lunch was served onshore. After an afternoon of Glennfiddich-fueled cannonball dives off of the diving board, the captain headed back to the marina where the waiting limos took us back to the hotel. Hmmmm. This Honda gig was pretty neat!

Next: I Shut Down New York City

Rolling Coconuts and Footballs

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Posted on March 26, 2015

In addition to getting free cars, another great thing about being in advertising is the opportunity to meet fascinating people at free dinners in fancy hotels. This was the case when an old friend of mine, George Burns (the mag rep, not the comedian), invited me to a dinner at the Ritz Carlton Hotel, located in Marina Del Rey, CA. George’s magazine, U.S. News & World Report, was always able to land some heavy-duty Washington, D.C., face to speak at their dinners. This year’s speaker was David Gergen. Gergen was considered to be an ultimate D.C. insider. He started out writing speeches for Nixon, and quickly became the head speech writer. He was Director of Communications for Ford and Reagan. After taking a few years off, he returned to Washington to become a key advisor to Bill Clinton. He is one of those people in Washington who knows where the bodies are buried.

Because the invitation was for two, I brought a longtime friend and former co-worker, Deana Linderholm. As we arrived that evening, I was immediately struck by two things. The first was that the hotel was populated by gargantuan men who were quite loud and had fingers that seemed to have been broken many times. A quick glance at the marquee explained it. The NFL and Fox Sports were having their annual Summer Meeting here. The other thing that struck me was that the lobby was jammed with very attractive women, wearing very expensive dresses, and ambulating easily on their very spikey high heels. The only other organisation mentioned on the marquee was the National Association of Kosher Butchers. I had a hunch that these women were not part of that group.

We worked our way to the dining room that had been set aside for U.S. News. A number of familiar faces were already gathered at the bar. Another great thing about advertising was that you had the opportunity of drinking really great booze.

After all the booze was gone, we were asked to find our seats. I discovered, much to my surprise, that Deana and I had place cards on either side of Gergen! I should point out that there is a great deal of stagecraft at work at any media event serving food. The basic plan consists of four parts. #1: Serve booze before the dinner. This allows the mag rep and the magazine’s management to “work” the crowd. #2: Sit down and greeting. This is done to help the ad people remember who is buying the booze and the food. #3: Follow the order. Make sure to have your guest speak, or pitch, or opine BEFORE you serve the meal. The ad people are only there for the free food and booze. Once they are done eating, they will stampede toward the exit. #4: Serve dessert slowly. By doing this, the magazine is able to keep the ad people at their tables, waiting for the yellow sheet cake with white frosting. This gives the magazine salespeople one last chance to work the room.

We sat down on either side of David Gergen. I discovered him to be a very affable gentleman. He wanted to know what each of us did for a living. Each person around the table spoke in turn: Ad guy, ad guy, ad girl, spouse, ad guy, spouse, ad girl, ad guy. Perhaps to change things up a little, and because it was true, Deana said, “I teach Hawaiian and Polynesian dance.” This caught David’s attention. As this was the seventh dinner on his grueling cross country mag rep dinner circuit, he had become used to the litanies of “ad guy, ad girl, spouse.” “My, that’s an interesting occupation,” he said. “Did you ever have something embarrassing happen to you while you danced?” Interesting question. Deana thought for a moment and said, “Well something happened to a friend of mine as we were in line doing a very spirited Tahitian dance. I heard her squeal, then heard a “clack” and saw half of a hollowed out coconut shell hit the stage and roll away. My friend had lost half of her top!” David then asked, “Did anything ever happen to you?” She thought and then said, “One time, as we were exiting the dance floor, I passed too close to a candle on a table, and my grass skirt started to go up in flames. Fortunately, the dancer behind me saw it and immediately tore my skirt off.” There was stunned silence at the table.

It was time for David to speak. He opened his talk by saying, “Thank you very much for having me with you here tonight. Quite interestingly, I just met a woman who teaches Hawaiian dance. I’ve never met one before. Deana can you stand up? (Polite applause) I thought MY job was exciting. Deana was dancing one time when half of her coconut shell bra fell off while she was dancing on stage. As she tried to run off, her grass skirt somehow caught fire, and she had to rip it off.” (Polite laughter) “Wow!” Deana slowly sat down. After his speech, David came back and sat down at our table. When he was made aware of the factual mistakes in his story, he apologized profusely to Deana. I think that this may have been the reason http://www.factcheck.org was founded.

After the dessert had been consumed, George Burns came over and said, “Hey. Do you guys have to leave? Why don’t you meet me in the lounge for a nightcap?” Goodie, more free booze! Just as we were being seated in the lounge, I noticed the gargantuan men had been seated on one end of the lounge, and the attractive women, who were not Kosher butchers, were seated across the lounge from them. The only difference in their appearance was that now the ladies were all carrying their cell phones. As each one got a call, they would talk for about thirty seconds, write something down, then leave the table and saunter toward the guest elevators. Then it dawned on me! The NFL was here, and I was looking at the paid escort staging area!

After a few minutes, George departed, telling us that he had opened a tab for us in his name. More free booze. About three drinks later, Deana looked over my shoulder and shouted, “O my gosh!” I asked, “What?” She whispered, “That’s Terry Bradshaw over there! My brother is a big fan of his and he’d kill me if I didn’t get his autograph.” She grabbed a pen and a cocktail napkin and went over to the table with Bradshaw and several other ex-NFL players. I ordered another drink. About fifteen minutes later, I realized that Deana had not returned. I peered over the back of my chair and saw that Deana and the guys were having quite a good time telling stories and laughing. Oh well, that just means more bar nuts for me.

A few minutes later, two giant hands reached over the back of my chair and grabbed my shoulders. I turned to see Terry Bradshaw smiling down at me. “Hey hoss,” he said, “we’d like tuh apologize for keepin’ your lady friend so long. Please come on over and join us.” I got up and followed him to his table. I could feel the sixty eyes of the not-a-Kosher-butcher ladies boring into the back of my skull. In addition to Terry, I saw that Howie Long and Ronnie Lott were also sitting at the table.

Terry immediately asked, “Whatcha drinkin’?” Realizing that the NFL was buying drinks, I blurted out, “I’d like a triple Johnny Walker Blue Label…neat.” Everyone was having a wonderful time. Terry was telling a lot of jokes. After one of them, he gasped and said, “Ronnie, was that joke offensive?” Lott answered, “Of course it was Terry!” Then everyone would break out in laughter. I guess it was a shtick they did. More jokes followed. Howie Long and I started some small talk about where we had grown up. He in Boston, I in Detroit. We talked about what it was like growing up in an Irish family, and how the family traditions carry on. I found out that his grandmother and my grandmother both had the same picture of Jesus over the fireplace mantle in the living room. I had just finished reading “Angela’s Ashes.” I told Howie the story line. We both laughed at how many things in the book were familiar to both of us. He took out a pad from his coat and had me write down the name of the book and the author. He promised to read it when he got home. While we were still reminiscing, two ladies from the staging area came up behind his chair and put their hands on his shoulders. Not missing a beat, Howie kept talking to me while he slowly raised the back of his left fist to the eye level of the ladies. He then put his left thumb into the middle of his clenched fist and slowly pushed up his ring finger, revealing a very nice gold wedding band. The ladies made a hasty retreat back to their staging area. “Well done!” I said. He chuckled and said, “I don’t like to talk to them, and the ring finger/wedding band thing keeps them away better than Deep Woods OFF.” Soon, all the jokes and stories had been told. Ronnie Lott said that it was late and their first meeting was at 8:00 the next morning. Terry and Howie agreed. Hand shakes and hugs were exchanged with us before they walked off through an exit that didn’t go near the staging area. These three guys were no longer knuckle dragging gargantuan men to me.

Within fifteen seconds, the recently vacated chairs were filled by three twenty-something FOX Sports production assistants. They quickly affixed NFL lapel pins to their blue blazers. The pins must have been laced with mating musk oxen pheromones, because about twenty of the not-kosher-butcher ladies were now stampeding toward us. I grabbed Deana’s wrist and screamed, “Run for the exit before it’s too late!!!” As we ran out into the lobby, I looked back. It was a terrifying sight. Oh well, at least I got a lot of free booze and food…and had met some very interesting people.

Life Imitates Art!

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Posted on January 15, 2014

Advertising is stressful, competitive, daunting, draining, exciting, and stimulating. It also tests the limits of your endurance, and is always just a hair’s breadth away from erupting into violence. That’s why Foote, Cone & Belding/Honig had a co-ed softball team. We wanted to carry these life shortening characteristics into our evenings and weekends. We took it seriously. This was not your fluffy “oops, let’s have a do-over” type of softball. This was “take-no-prisoners” softball. We were L.A. advertising’s softball equivalent to Burt Reynolds’ convict team in The Longest Yard. Our 3rd baseman had been a star on the UCLA women’s softball team. Her throws to 1st base were measured in nano-seconds. Our left fielder carried, along with his glove, a six-pack of Pabst into left field with him every inning. Our 2nd baseman was able to schedule his psychotherapy sessions around our games and practices. And, like Pavlov’s dogs getting their treats for positive behaviors, we would retire to Sloan’s on Melrose to fuel our libidos. Alas, like the Tail O’the Cock, Sloan’s is long gone; given over to those who cater to glitterati and illiterati.

The FCB team was a juggernaut of raging estrogen and testosterone. We would “juice” with our own proprietary concoction, testrogen,before each game. It was now 1980. We were in the playoffs. Our next opponent was William Esty, the agency for Datsun. We knew that no quarter would be given or sought. Nerves were on edge. We were all wound tighter than $5 Sears ukeleles. The game was close. The crowd was frenzied. then, it happened……. The Esty batter hit a slow grounder to 3rd base. Our star 3rd baseman charged it, and with one motion, picked it up with her hand and fired it to 1st base. Unfortunately, Patty Dryer, our crack 1st baseman, had her foot on the foul territory side of the bag, rather than on the 2nd base side. Because of this, her right leg and hip were directly over the base. The ball and the runner, who had his head down running as fast as he could to beat the throw, reached Patty at the same time. Because half of her body was across the base, the runner hit her like an Amtrak train hitting a small goat. She was out cold before she hit the ground. The ball caromed off into right field.

Time was immediately called. Patty was carried off of the field and put underneath a shade tree. Her husband, a beefy ex-marine who ran his own collection agency, charged out of the stands and went after the Esty runner. It took five of us to drag Patty’s husband to the ground and explain that it was an accident. The Esty runner was one of the nicest guys in LA advertising, and he didn’t mean it. The collision was Patty’s fault. Cooler heads prevailed. For a while.

We were in the second to last inning, and had the game well in hand, when it became payback time. Just like in Major League Baseball, “you hurt one of ours, we’ll hurt one of yours,” came into play. Except there was only one person on our team who felt this way…our left fielder who had already consumed six innings of Pabst six packs. He had advanced to 3rd base, when one of our folks hit a fly ball to left. The Esty fielder caught it for the second out. Our guy on third base began to slowly walk down the line toward home plate, yelling at the left fielder to throw the ball to the catcher to tag him out. Oh no! He was going to take out the catcher! We all yelled at him to go back to third. The poor catcher, who was only playing that position because he’d hurt his leg and couldn’t run, knew what was coming. He slowly moved to the side of home plate. The left fielder took the bait, threw the ball to the catcher, and our guy went into overdrive, going out of the base path to take out the catcher, who by now was fleeing toward the dugout. The collision set off car alarms for three square miles.

And just like the true sportsmen and sportswomen we all were, the benches emptied. Lots of pushing, shoving, groping, and cursing. We felt bad, because the Esty folks really hadn’t done anything wrong. But, true to our warrior code, we had to watch each other’s backs. After a few minutes of jostling and bellowing, enough to satisfy the honor code, we all retired to our respective benches…except for our left fielder. He had been kicked out of the game. This didn’t bother him too much, as he was able to make a quick beer run. We won the game and went on to win the West Coast Championship. After the game, we retired to Sloan’s to lie to each other about how great our advertising was. Patty was there, with her red badge of courage bandage over her eye. The Esty guy bought her drinks all night.

A few weeks later, the agency folks were in Las Vegas for the annual Mazda dealer show. This was going to be the first time the Mazda dealers would be seeing the new Mazda RX-7, the car that was to save the franchise. We were going to use a new, at that time, technology whereby the car would be revealed traveling through a tunnel of laser light out over the audience. This was going to be huge, the most expensive new model reveal in Mazda history. The night before the show saw us all trying to get everything ready. Top executives from Toyo Kogyo in Japan would be in attendance. It was now 1:00 AM and we noticed that the electricians rigging the lasers had stopped working and were sitting around smoking. I asked them why they had stopped working. They gave me another life lesson. “See that pipe up near the ceiling? We have to pass a cable over it.” “So?” I asked. “Well, you see, we’re electricians, not plumbers. That pipe carries water for the sprinkler system. We can’t touch it. We’ve put out a call for a plumber.” Two agonizing hours later, a plumber walked in. He was getting triple time as this was an “emergency” call. The plumber and an electrician rode a scissor-lift to the ceiling. The electrician handed the cable to the plumber, the plumber laid it over the pipe, and Violá, everything was back on schedule. The reveal went off without a hitch, and everyone was very happy. Including the plumber.

Next: I Hang Out With Supermodels!

Fast Times At FCB High

These Guys Are A Lot Different From GM!

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Posted on October 25, 2013

I landed at LAX at 3:30 PM, and it already felt different. This was to be my new home. There was no thought that someone would walk into my office and tell me that I was being transferred back to Detroit. I was filled with giddy anticipation, looking forward to working with new people, new clients new cultures, and…a new FREE CAR! Even though it was a bottom-of-the food-chain Mazda GLC (the Great Little Car), it was free. FCB/H put me up at the Sheraton Town House Hotel. A beautiful, faded-glory hotel situated next to Lafayette Park, on Wilshire Blvd. The Town House was declared a historical landmark in 1993, and is now a low-income apartment building. Upon checking in, I received a note from FCB/H, welcoming me to LA. Classy! Having no idea where to grab a bite to eat, I ordered room service, kicked off my shoes and turned on KABC News and Jerry Dunphy. At this time, FCB was located at 2727 West 6th Street…right across Lafayette Park from the Sheraton Town House. It is now the home of South Baylo University (not to be confused with the school in Waco, TX) a school teaching acupuncture. It was maybe two hundred yards away. A simple walk, or so I thought. I would discover that getting across the park was a little more challenging than driving down Woodward Ave.

Dawn dawned. I was showered, shaved, and English Leathered. It was 8:45 AM when I strode out the door and into the park. I had to diagonally traverse the park to get to the front door of FCB. As I left the safety of the sidewalk, I immediately encountered three young men sitting on a picnic table, smiling at me. Being a good son of Michigan, I smiled back. The largest of the three got up and approached me. A lot of non-verbal cues told me that he was not part of the agency welcoming committee. He slowly opened his left hand to show me several one inch by one inch plastic packages that seemed to contain some kind of white powder. Sensing that it might not be Bromo-Seltzer, I quickly moved on. A few yards later I heard some shouting that seemed to be getting closer. A woman was screaming at a man who was carrying a purse while he ran away from her. Maybe he’d dropped his wallet.

I quickened my pace. I could see the safety of the 6th Street sidewalk just steps away. I turned quickly and headed down the sidewalk for the crossing signal. An elderly lady approached me from the other direction. She stopped directly in front of me, screaming “You can go to Hell, Lewis!” She then moved her legs apart, bent her knees slightly, and relieved herself on the sidewalk and my new Thom McAns. She was definitely NOT from any welcoming committee. I crossed the street and made my way toward the FCB front doors. There is a long hedge in front of the building. While passing it, I heard a noise come from the bushes. I stopped, stupidly, to inspect it. From within the bush came a voice, “Sir, keep moving. You’re interfering with an LAPD drug action.” Suddenly, his radio crackled…”It’s going down. Go! Go! Go!” The hedge gave birth to an LAPD undercover officer dressed as a homeless person. He raced across the street as other undercover officers emerged from trees, dumpsters, and out of cars. As they ran into the park, I could see that they were chasing the three young gentlemen selling Bromo-Seltzer. I’m going to love working here!

I entered the lobby and introduced myself. Denny Remsing came out, greeted me, and took me to my office…which had a glorious view of Lafayette Park. I told him about my park adventure. He said, “Stick to the sidewalks.” He then began to explain the Byzantine organization of our Mazda client. In the beginning, there was Toyo Kogyo of Hiroshima. They started out as a rock drill company at the start of the 20th Century, but began manufacturing motor vehicles. Toyo Kogyo came to North America riding on the success of rotary powered cars. In the U.S., they established three importing/distribution companies. One in Jacksonville, FL. One in Chicago. And one in Compton, CA. When the first gas crisis hit, the not so fuel efficient rotary engine cars suffered. Toyo Kogyo was going broke. They sold the Jacksonville importing company to the C. Itoh Trading Company. Toyo Kogyo’s bank, Sumitomo, took over Chicago. Toyo Kogyo held onto Compton. There was a slight problem. C. Itoh and Sumitomo were major competitors. They had different ideas on how to package, price, and market Mazda vehicles. To compound the issue, Toyo Kogyo had to shut down their Compton operation, with Sumitomo taking it over, and moving the executives to Southern California from Chicago. In the U.S. , Mazda was now really two companies: Mazda Motors of America – Central (Sumitomo decided not to change the name of the company when it moved to the West Coast); and Mazda Motors of America – East headquartered in Jacksonville and owned by C. Itoh. Toyo Kogyo still made the cars, but sold them to Sumitomo and C. Itoh to market in this country. MMA – C covered two-thirds of the country, MMA – E the East and South.

Denny asked, “Are you still following me?” I lied and nodded my head. He continued on to explain that the two importers had different base prices and option packages. This pretty much eliminated any network television ads featuring price. Also, Toyo Kogyo, Sumitomo, and C. Itoh all contributed to the ad budget, requiring three separate sets of budgets. Ads had to be approved by representatives of each company, requiring frequent trips to the dank heat and humidity capitol of America, Jacksonville, FL. I was also informed that I would be in charge of providing budget information to the clients. Yippee!!

Denny then asked me a question that would change my life. “It’s almost noon. Do you like Mexican food?”

Next: Pink Margaritas in Beer Flutes

Becoming A Non-Person

You’re Here To Do What?????

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Posted on September 4, 2013

Ahhhhh, the magic of Hollywood! Where dreams become reality, and things aren’t quite what they seem. Chevy was still sponsoring the NBC Sunday Night Mystery Movie. McMillan & Wife, McCloud, and Columbo had become breakout hits. My brother was coming out from Detroit to visit me in Los Angeles. He asked if we might be able to go see a television show being shot.”Of course,” I said, being “connected” with NBC/Universal. “We’ll go watch them film an episode of Columbo. Fortunately for me, Columbo was shooting during my brother’s visit. I had our Head of Network call NBC to set it up. On the appointed day, my brother and I drove to the main gate at Universal. Reading from his clipboard, the guard said, “Yes, Mr. Cavanagh, that will be sound stage 19. Here is your parking pass.” My brother was impressed. Enough, I hoped, to forgive me for mercilessly picking on him when we were little kids. We got to the sound stage and I introduced myself to the unit production manager who was expecting us. Two director’s chairs had been set up for us just to the right of the set.

The episode being shot was called “Swan Song.” The guest star for this episode was Johnny Cash. He was playing a philandering country music televangelist (sorry for being redundant) named Tommy Brown. Tommy’s wife (Ida Lupino) had caught him in flagrante with a choir member and was blackmailing him. Tommy, a pilot, comes up with a solution. While flying with both ladies, he drugs them and then dons a parachute he’d stashed under his seat. He bails out and watches as the plane crashes and his problems disappear. Well, almost. Detective Columbo gets suspicious.

The shot that day was to be a recording studio where Tommy was recording the spiritual “I Saw The Light.” The director was the late Nick Colasanto, who went on to play “Coach” on Cheers. In the script, Lt. Columbo walks in, interrupts the session, and asks a few questions. My brother was ready to see the magic being made. For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, watching a movie or episodic TV show being filmed is as exciting as anxiously watching fingernails grow. After forty minutes of playing with the lights, the camera was ready to roll. “Cue the music!” A pre-recorded tape of “I Saw The Light” began playing. “Action!” The musicians pretended to be playing. Johnny Cash started lip synching along. Columbo was supposed to enter through an EXIT door on the right side of the set. Where was Columbo? Peter Falk was patiently waiting on the other side of the door. A small red light next to him was his cue to enter the room. The light was burnt out. “Cut!!” Twenty minutes later the light was replaced. “Action!” Everything cranked up again. This time Columbo made his entrance too soon. There was a short in the red light’s wiring that caused it to go off. “Cut!!” That was fixed. “Action!” Johnny Cash accidentally knocked over a music stand. “Cut!!” This time everything worked. “Cut!” “OK,” Nick said, “Johnny, I want you to look a little more nervous when Peter comes in.” “Action!!” We were up to Take 37 when my brother turned to me, “Uhh, is this all there is? How much of this will be in the show?” I told him maybe a minute. His face fell. The crew was breaking for lunch. “Is it OK if we go now?” he asked.

My brother, a husky fellow, walked out of the sound stage with me into the very bright, smog-diffused, Southern California sun. He was wearing a black suit, white shirt, and a thin black tie. He also was sporting a black moustache. He had just put his sunglasses on when a Universal Studios Tour Tram started to roll by. Everyone on the tram started screaming and waving at my brother. Had he left his fly open? I turned to look back at him. In the bright sun, and with the sunglasses, he was an exact replica of William Conrad who, at the time, had a hit detective drama on CBS called Cannon. “Quick,” I said, “start waving at them and give them a “thumbs-up” sign. When he did, the solar flare of white light from over 80 Kodak Instamatic Flashcubes igniting simultaneously almost blinded us. As the tram pulled away, we heard shouts of “We love you Cannon!” Right now, my brother’s picture graces dozens of mantles throughout Iowa.

They say that the only true joy is a child’s joy. The child has no idea that the happiness might end. So it was with my tenure as the Southern California Regional Account Executive. I hadn’t told anyone other than my wife, but, I had no intention of trying to get back to work for Campbell-Ewald in Detroit. During the summer of 1975, I met a fellow named Bob Albright. Bob had worked for the LA office of Campbell-Ewald a number of years earlier. He was now working for the agency handling Toyota. We became good friends. As much as we could, we would trade intel about the SoCal car biz. He would stop by our office to see old friends, and pick me up for lunch. Our Summer Field Meeting was coming up in about a week when Bob showed up at my office. Hmmm. I didn’t have a lunch scheduled. My secretary, Ilene, showed Bob into my office with the commanding view of Hollywood, and the LA Basin. Bob had a big smile on his face. We started with general chit-chat. Had I forgotten a meeting that we’d set? He asked, “When are you heading back to Detroit?” I said, “Probably Sunday night. The Field Meetings start bright and early Monday morning.” Bob laughed nervously. “No,” he said, “when are you moving back there?” “Bob, I have no intention of moving back to Detroit.” The smile had left his face. “But Tom, I’m here to take your place!” “You’re here to do what????” I croaked. Perhaps it was my inability to get on my feet to strangle him, or the grotesque visage my face had become, or the frantic clutching at the stabbing pain in my chest, or maybe the fact that I was about to pass out. Bob quickly figured it out…I knew nothing of this. “Well, this is awkward,” he said. “Maybe I’d better leave,” as he headed for the door. Ilene charged into my office, sobbing. “You S.O.B.!!! You said that you’d tell me if you were ever going to leave. Mr. Byrne was here for 17 years. I’m not used to change like this.” Neither was I.

I pulled myself back into my chair and called Bill Fay. Bill was the Director of Field Operations and one of those great guys who also had a keen prevarication radar. “Bill, what the HELL is going on? Bob Albright was just here to tell me he’s the new LA Field Guy.” The earpiece on my phone exploded. “Damn,” he said. “I’ll call you right back.” A ray of hope? A glint of light? A call from the governor at 11:59 PM? About ninety seconds later my phone rang. A still-teary Ilene informed me that it was Dick O’Connor, Vice Chairman of Campbell-Ewald on the phone. “Hey Tommy,” he said. This was not a good beginning. “Boy, did we screw up on this one. A great example of the right hand not knowing what the left hand was doing. Tom, we want you back here in Detroit. You’ll be working in the Chevrolet Merchandising Department here, handling, among other things, Sports Marketing for Chevy. You’re going to be a key member of our Chevy Account Team.” “But, Dick, what if I don’t want to come back to Detroit?” I asked naively. “That’s OK,” Dick said. “You can stay in LA if you want. You just won’t have a job there. You do have one here.” “Oh, since you put it that way, I guess I’ll choose employment,” I said. I was still to come in for the Field Meeting to give my California Marketing Plan reports, which everyone always thought were inflammatory and “pro-import.” A few days later, when I stepped off of the elevator into the 4th floor Campbell-Ewald lobby, I saw the giant “Our Men In The Field” poster. My picture had already been replaced with Bob’s.

Next: They Take My Free Car!

The Rocket Car

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Posted on August 21, 2013

Here’s my story it’s sad but true, it’s about a car I once knew. It took my love then ran around, through every light in town…Hayp, Hayp. Bumda hady hady hayp hayp… Well, most of you know the lyrics to the rest of the song. This is the story of a car that was born too soon. If Charles Dickens were to write a story about an orphan car, battered by cruel fate, and then cast aside, he would write about this car. Except, in this story, there is no heroic redemption as in “Great Expectations.” Our story begins in 1969 in the top floors of the GM Building. GM was looking for an alternative power plant to the internal combustion engine that would provide great low-end torque, and a true sporty car feel. NSU, of Germany, had developed a rotary engine, the Wankel engine. Felix Wankel was a brilliant engineer. He was also a high ranking SS officer during WWII. During the war he developed a revolutionary rotary engine. After doing his prison time following the war, he went to work for NSU Motorenwerke AG. The modern Wankel was shown to the world in 1960. Mazda, seeing its benefits, bought a license to manufacture it. GM saw that Mazda had a hot little number with the technology. In 1970, GM paid NSU $50 million to license the rotary engine. They were going to put it in the Vega. BUT…the GM version had durability problems. They went back to the drawing boards and decided to use it in a model, still in development, to be launched in late 1974. They went back to NSU and paid another $10 million to re-up the license.

The model in development was a sporty 2+2 hatchback based on a Vega frame. It was going to be called the Chevy Chaparral. Jim Hall Racing of Midland , TX., had long partnered with Chevy to supply him with engines and parts. Chevy made a deal with him to use his Chapparal name. Then, two things happened that would doom the as yet unborn child. GM couldn’t solve the durability problem with the Wankel, and the Arab oil crisis made the Wankel’s mediocre MPG numbers problematic. GM dropped the Wankel. The other was that Jim Hall Racing decided that they wanted more money for their Chapparal name. GM had already spent more than $60 million on an engine they weren’t going to use, they weren’t going to spend more money on a name. Chevy needed a name. And it had to be about 5 inches long, as the dies for the sheet metal forms had already been made. Someone in Chevy Marketing suggested that they let customers name their purchase, providing them with sheets of stick-on letters. That idea died when management begin coming up with some of the possibilities. Then, someone realized that they still held a license for the Monza name. Monza being a trim level name for the ill-fated Chevy Corvair. The unborn child would be christened Monza.

Only one hurdle remained. How would the child be powered? The base engine would be the Vega inline 4-cylinder aluminum block engine. The upgrade would be a V-6 that Buick offered. There was one, teensy, tiny, microscopic, picayune problem with all of this. California, where GM was hoping to repulse the Japanese car invasion, had air quality requirements much more stringent than federal EPA standards. At the time, GM’s solution was to strap on post-combustion air pollution devices. This caused nasty back pressure problems. The Vega for sale in California had a unique problem. They tended to blow up. The aluminum block engine would heat up and expand, causing the cylinders to jam in the combustion chamber, causing the rods to bend and blow. Not good. What about the V-6? Again, Fate had dealt a cruel blow to young Pip. The engine was “dirty” in the state of California, and couldn’t be sold there. What was a mother to do? Again, American ingenuity came to the rescue. A GM engineer had measured the square foot area of the Monza’s engine well. The GM plant in Tonawanda,NY., had excess capacity. They built the monster 5.7 Liter, 350 HP, V-8 engine that went into Corvettes and the Chevy Caprice. The engine developed 250 HP. GM discovered that this engine (clean in California) would fit, just barely, into the Monza engine well. Chevy made it a California-only engine option. There were a few problems to this, however.

The Monza had been designed to accommodate a much lighter Wankel engine. It could handle the inline Vega engine, but the huge V-8 weighed hundreds of pounds more than the front end was designed to support. A Monza with the big engine looked like it was always driving downhill, as the weight forced the rear end into the air. This was an engine that was built to power cars weighing almost one ton more than the Monza. Because the car was so much lighter, it was only available with an automatic transmission. Revving it up with a stick, would have torn the gears apart. Being the savvy auto consumer that I was, I bought one!

What a car!! Pulling up to muscle cars at stop signs, knowing that I had a comparable engine, but weighed as much as a ton less, challenging them off the stop light was child’s play. I didn’t drive this car, I aimed it. Being a rear wheel car with it’s butt up in the air was no handicap. Pushing the accelerator sent 250 horses into the back seat. I was the King of the Road until one day I heard a fwap, fwap, fwap. The front tire treads had been worn off on the inside, exposing the steel belts. The car had less than 10K miles on it. The Firestone dealer honored the warranty and gave me new tires. Six thousand miles later, the same thing happened. I went to a different Firestone dealer for new tires. I figured out what was going on. Since the front suspension was burdened with hundreds of pounds of extra weight, it sagged and pushed the front tires into a bowed position. I was only driving on the inner six inches of tread! No wonder the tires were failing so quickly. I also discovered that the engine’s radiator, designed to cool a much smaller engine, was the size of a small Frisbee. Another vestige of an earlier incarnation. Maybe Dickens shouldn’t have written the story of the Monza. Maybe Mary Shelley should have.