Raised by MadMen

This one’s going to be short and sweet. And it isn’t going to be so much a blogpost as a love letter.

The best way I can describe it is this: I had a moment out of time today. After not having seen or really talked to them in too many years, I found myself sitting at lunch with two of the most influential men in my career and my life.

One of them—an advertising Hall of Fame legend—saw something in me I didn’t see in myself, and gave me an unexpected and life-changing opportunity when he made me the first junior copywriter ever at Wells Rich Greene/West.

The other—a highly accomplished and award-winning creative director, and now internationally acclaimed photographer and artist—showed me how to navigate the new responsibilities that came with the title. The essentials, like how to treat, respect and direct talent. The steps involved in producing a television spot.

Both of them lavished encouragement on me, allowed me to let my imagination and humor run wild, reigned me in when needed, made a real writer out of me and always had my back. Together, they taught me the importance of being a decent, inclusive, caring man in a business with no shortage of the opposite kind.

I was sitting at lunch today with two men who are forever a part of my fabric and I love dearly: Howie Cohen and Alan Kupchick.

My wife, who worked with Alan at the agency where we met, and later for Howie at his agency, was also there. Together the four of us filled in the memory blanks on names, events and stories, of which there were just as many we got to as we didn’t.

There are very few occasions in life where the saying "time flies when you're having fun" actually applies. But as Howie put it, it was a three-hour lunch that felt like three minutes.

Yes it was. And I can’t wait for our next three minutes.

Blame him

You want to know whose fault it is that I'm in advertising? It's his.

A long time ago, in a lifetime far, far away, I saw a job post on the UCLA job board for a position in the mailroom at an ad agency in Century City. I'd never given much thought to advertising, but I did give a little thought to paying my bills and my rent. So I interviewed for the position, turned on the charm and humor we all know and love and got the gig.

Come to find out the agency was Wells, Rich, Greene. And the creative director who arrived from New York shortly after I got there was Howie Cohen.

By the time Howie got there, I'm not sure which of my jobs I was on at the agency. I'd started in the mailroom, where I got to make my rounds, and talk with everyone every day. A social butterfly even back then.

Then I got promoted to running the stat camera (look it up) in the studio. Except it wasn't in the studio. It was in a small, badly ventilated room next to the studio. Since the camera used a lot of fragrant chemicals to develop the film, I'd have to hold my breath a lot, then run out of the room after I'd taken a shot of whatever camera ready art I was working with.

From there, I was bumped up to traffic person - excuse me, project manager. If you look in the Guiness Book of World Records, you'll see that I was the worst traffic person that's ever held the job. True fact.

Anyway, my grand plan, since I was a theater arts major, was to become an agency producer. I figured if I did that, I'd make all these contacts. I could get an agent and start my illustrious film career.

But a funny thing happened on the way to my three-picture deal.

One day, there were no creative people at the agency. A team was down in Rio on a shoot for Brittania Jeans. Another team was out sick. Yet a third team was at a client meeting. This all happened to be on a day when a Bran Chex print ad had to be written and presented. The account guy, a short man who looked like he was wearing those plastic glasses with the fake nose - except they were both his - was running around the agency trying to scrounge up someone to write the ad.

He called Howie, who wasn't in that day, and asked who he should get to write the ad. And Howie said "Give it to Jeff."

So I wrote it. While it didn't win any awards, I'm pretty sure it's still the best written ad for a high-fiber cereal Reader's Digest has ever run.

Shortly after that, Howie promoted me to junior copywriter. Honestly, it was thrilling. I was excited to be working with the team, Howie and his partner Bob Pasqualina, who had created the legendary "I can't believe I ate the whole thing" Alka-Seltzer commercial.

As you might imagine, earning his bona fides working in New York advertising during that time, Howie has many, many stories that only someone who lived it can tell. And nobody tells a better story than Howie. If you want to read some good ones, definitely have a peek at his blog MadMensch.com.

I'm happy to say Howie is still working his magic in the world of advertising. I'm still working mine as well, although so far nothing I've done has made it to the Advertising Hall Of Fame. Yes, I said so far. Keep hope alive.

Anyway, I don't know if I ever actually thanked Howie and told him how grateful I am for launching me into a career I didn't even know I wanted. But if I haven't, I'm doing it now.

And by the way, for all the creative directors I may work for in the future, if you don't like something I write, now you know who to talk to.

The party line

Years ago, I worked for Wells Rich Greene, one of many New York ad agencies that had decided to open a west coast outpost in Century City. It was my second job in advertising, and it was exciting. The people were smart, funny and creative. I couldn't wait to get to work every day and spend time with them.

You know, just like now.

Anyway, there was this rather dapper and flamboyant account guy named Tom Baker, and he invited a lot of people from the agency, including me, to a birthday party he was throwing himself at his house in Santa Monica Canyon.

It was a spectacular house. Literally on the side of the mountain, you had to walk a staircase halfway down the hill to get to it. Not the famous Santa Monica staircase off 4th Street where all the joggers exercise, piss off the neighborhood and congest traffic. The other one.

Here's what I remember. It was a great party. The champagne was flowing, and I had more than my fair share. A lot more. Up until that party, I'd only had a sip of champagne here and there at a wedding or anniversary party. But it tasted like soda - really good soda - and they were pouring it like bottomless drinks at Islands, so I couldn't see any reason to stop.

The other thing you should know is I didn't have time for lunch and hadn't had a lot to eat that day. I think you see where this is going.

It didn't take long for all my champagne dreams to catch up with me. I stumbled my way outside to the stairs, and just plopped down on one of them. I was sweating, holding my stomach, rocking back and forth, groaning and grunting like Monica Seles on center court (look it up). The mountain was spinning around me, and I believe if the good Lord had chosen that moment to take me I would've been nothing but grateful.

I've never been that drunk before or since.

Ann Siegel, a girl I'd been talking to at the party who also worked at the agency, had wondered where I'd gone and came outside to find me. She immediately saw the shape I was in, put her arms around me, held me as I rocked back and forth and told me over and over it was all going to be okay.

I have no idea how long we were like that, but I do remember at one point I broke from her grip, leaned over the side of the steps and projectile tossed what seemed like bottles of champagne on the side of the hill. Ann asked if I was okay, and I remember babbling on just thanking her over and over for sitting and staying with me.

To which she said, "That's okay. Just don't kiss me."

The next day, I asked her to a movie, and we wound up going out for a year. Whole other post.

Here's what I don't remember: Saying goodbye to anyone, walking back up the stairs to my car and driving home to my apartment in Brentwood.

My memory picks up again at climbing the stairs (again with the stairs) to my second floor apartment, and pounding on the door.

My roommate Ned opened the door, and when I saw him I said, "I'm really drunk." Although he didn't have to be Columbo (look it up) to notice the fine perfume of alcohol, sweat and vomit emanating from me.

He helped me stagger to my bedroom where I collapsed on my bed. The room was spinning faster than Karl Rove on election night. Ned brought me a damp washcloth I put on my head, then standing over me, arms crossed, he took a beat and said the line I'll never forget.

"So, is this what all the girls find so attractive?"