Room to spare

Here's a lesson I learned early on: no matter how nice my room is, the producers' is nicer.

Years ago, I was in New York on a food shoot for Taco Bell. As anyone in advertising—and by anyone I mean copywriters—will tell you, it's essential to the process to have a copywriter on a food shoot. After all, those bagels on the craft services table aren't going to eat themselves.

Our producer happened to book us at one of my very favorite places to stay in New York, the Essex House on Central Park South.

He met us in the lobby, and before he got us checked in he handed us all envelopes full of cash, which was our "per diem", money to be used towards food, incidental items and other miscellaneous expenses. I looked in the envelope, and it was filled to overflowing with hundred-dollar bills. It was the kind of envelopes you see in the movies.

"Mr. Kensington appreciates you keeping this between us."

I couldn't have spent all the money in my envelope even if the shoot was two weeks, and even though it was New York. But God knows I tried.

I got up to my room, and I was amazed. I actually thought I was in the wrong room. It wasn't a room at all, but an enormous suite overlooking Central Park. The only thing better than enjoying New York on someone else's dime is enjoying it in style.

The little red light on the phone started blinking, and it was a message for the team to meet in our producers' room before we headed out. When we got to his room, I'd fully intended on thanking him for the spacious accommodations he'd somehow managed to arrange given the budget we had. I'm not sure I ever got that thank you out. When he opened the door, all I could see was a long, long hallway that we had to walk down before we even came into the room itself. Come to find out that for as nice as our rooms were, he hadn't skimped on himself. He booked a penthouse. My room looked like the maid's quarters by comparison. Don't get me wrong—I was mighty happy I had it as good as I did, but did he really need this palace all to himself?

Did I mention three bedrooms?

Anyway, I always have and always will love the Essex House, despite the fact it's been bought and sold about twenty times since this all happened (It's currently a Marriott, in case any of my close personal friends happen to work on that account). I'm trying to figure out a way to afford it on an upcoming trip to the city. It's been years, but maybe I'll call and drop the producer's name. No matter how many owners they've had, hotels have a way of remembering parties who book as many big rooms as we did.

Of course this time, it'll be on my dime.

On second thought, the maid's quarters will be just fine.

A laughing matter

I, like most humans, enjoy a good laugh.

Not just a regular laugh. I'm talking about the kind of hysterical, on-the-edge, stress-relieving, people-who-see-you-think-you're-losing-your-mind, crying cause I'm laughing so hard, stopping for a minute, thinking I've got my composure and then bursting out into wailing, crying laughter all over again.

The kind of laughter where you feel like a wet noodle afterwards.

That was the reaction I had to this cartoon the first time I saw it. I can't tell you why it made me laugh so hard. Maybe it's that I've worked on so many fast food accounts—including Taco Bell three times at three different agencies—that it struck me the way it did.

Yes, Taco Bell at three different agencies. It's just the kind of masochist I am.

One of those times happened to be Tracy Locke, which is where I worked when I first saw this. It was the front of a greeting card at a store called Aahs on Wilshire Blvd. in Santa Monica. Chris Bouteé, my red-headed woman, a good friend and a fine writer in her own right and I had gone to lunch at a formerly popular, now defunct westside restaurant called the Bicycle Shop.

After our tasty yet overpriced meal, we walked a couple blocks down to Aahs so I could pick up a gift for someone. We were in different parts of the store, and I happened to be perusing the many racks of greeting cards when I saw this one. And I lost it.

It was one of those laughs that shadowed me the rest of the day (it didn't help that I'd bought the card and kept looking at it). In meetings, working with my art director, kick-offs—didn't matter. I was useless the rest of the day.

By the way, many people think that part hasn't worn off yet.

Anyway, while the cartoon doesn't make me laugh as hard as it did the first time, it still brings a smile to my face every time I see it. I think it's part brilliance of the cartoon, and part of my original hysterical laughter echoing through the years in my head.

The good news is I still laugh plenty in agency meetings. Except now it's to myself, and for entirely different reasons.

Northern exposure

I've always loved San Francisco. And a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, I had one of the best gigs under the best circumstances ever there.

I like to file it under I won't be seeing a deal like that again.

Basically the head of research I worked with at Tracy Locke became the VP of Marketing for Taco Bell (if I'd known he was going to become a client I would've been a lot nicer to him). FCB San Francisco was their agency. Since I'd always wanted to work in San Francisco, I called him and asked if I could drop his name often and recklessly to get an interview.

He did me one better: he called the creative director and set up the interview for me.

Normally I'd say any way you can get in is good. But when you're a creative person coming in through the client door, you're viewed with a lot of suspicion. All you can do is give it your best and keep showing them you know who's signing your paycheck.

I lived in Santa Monica at the time, and commuted up there early Monday mornings, and back on Friday nights. Obviously this was before I had kids.

My deal was that FCB paid for my commute, all my meals, and the hotel they put me up at each week (the fabulous Tuscan Inn). Plus the cab fare to and from the airport and my house.

I freelanced on Taco Bell for three months, then FCB asked me to come on staff. On the flight back to L.A. that night, I called my wife and told her they'd made me an offer. Coincidentally my wife was interviewing at the now non-existant Stein Robaire Helm at the time, and they'd also made her an offer the very same day. We decided San Francisco was the one we were going to pursue.

Besides FCB covering all my expenses, I also managed to negotiate a six month severance contract (okay, sometimes the client door is a good thing). Today you have as much chance of negotiating a severance contract as you do finding the Holy Grail.

The day my wife and I were going to fly up and look for apartments, my creative director got taken off the business. Never a good sign. We decided to wait and see which way the account was going to go.

The way it went was into review. For the next five months, until we lost it, I worked on both the business and the pitch out of the FCB offices in San Francisco and Chicago to save it.

After freelancing three months, then working on staff for five, I sat out two more months (paid) in Santa Monica while FCB decided what they wanted to do with the Taco Bell group. Although the group knew way before they did exactly what they were going to do.

When they let us all go, I walked away with a check for six months salary. I also left with a lot of new friends I made there. Every time I see or talk to any of them - I'm looking at you Savoy and Martin - I'm grateful for the experience all over again.

Ironically the day I got my severance check I also got my FCB business cards and letterhead.

Guess which one I still have?