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Authors: John Kenney

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BOOK: Truth in Advertising
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They say brainy Walter Kline never cared for young Frank, whose easy charm had morphed over the years into cockiness. Walter did the worst thing he could do to Frank: he left him on his own, disappearing one day, leaving his wealth to his family and taking a single suitcase to a Trappist monastery in the French Alps.

The agency faltered. The work turned bad. Clients dropped off. They couldn't win a new business pitch if they were the only ones in the room. Frank went through a few creative partners until a fortuitous meeting in the bar at Grand Central one evening with his old Groton roommate, Dodge Vanderhosen. Dodge had been known as someone with a decidedly artistic bent at boarding school. A diminutive man, he had been asked to be a coxswain but kept falling out of the boat. Instead, he put his prodigious efforts into arts and entertainment, editing the school newspaper (he did the drawings and photography), heading up the cheerleading squad (he wrote the Groton fight song, “Let's Try Not to Lose Today”), and was big in the musical theater departments of both Groton and, later, Williams. That evening, Frank, already well lubricated from a long lunch, and Dodge, in the dumps after another day of failed Broadway auditions and orders from his parents to “find a job that doesn't require a costume or we'll cut you off,” formed a partnership. They bumbled their way into new business and never looked back.

Today, Frank (like Dodge) is a largely ceremonial figure, the heavy lifting of account services and creative being deftly handled by younger, smarter, faster, MBA-sporting versions. Now, with his driver and sleek Range Rover, his sartorial splendor, Frank is a man with little to do except share the details of his life of wealth. I once heard him say to a junior art director who happened to mention that she was going to the Hamptons with friends for the weekend, “Do you take a helicopter? It's a must.” To which the junior art director responded, after Frank had gotten off the elevator before her, but still very much within earshot, “Douchebag.” He is, as the one grandmother I knew would say, a nincompoop.

Frank on advertising: “It's my religion, my personal Jesus. And yet it's also incredibly profitable. Can I refresh your drink?”

DODGE VANDERHOSEN

Dodge is the creative one of the duo—or was, as he has nothing to do with the creative product anymore. A late-life crisis a few years
back resulted in a dramatic change of wardrobe for Dodge. Whereas once he wore sensible Brooks Brothers suits and bow ties, now he appears to have come upon a large trove of clothes from Chess King. Check pants, shoes with a substantial heel (Dodge is 5'4" on a good day), open-collared dress shirts, revealing shockingly white skin, the kind that one imagines might have appeared in Michael Jackson's dreams. It is not uncommon to hear Bobby Short singing Cole Porter songs on the iPod in Dodge's office, Dodge singing along in a tinny falsetto.

During my interview with Dodge several years ago, he complimented my work and then asked me if I danced.

“I'm sorry?” I said.

“Dance. Do you dance? Just curious.”

“Ahhh . . . not . . . I mean, not really.”

“Stand up.”

“I'd rather not.”

“It'll be fun.”

I stood up and he held my hands and we danced around his office for several seconds. When we finished, he applauded and said, “Wasn't that wonderful?”

Dodge on advertising: “It's an art form. As surely as mime, the Irish jig, and rap. In one thousand years people will look at commercials as the pinnacle of our society's best artistic efforts. Or possibly TV shows like
ER
and
The Good Wife
.”

But here's the thing about Frank and Dodge. They're believers. They believe in the power of advertising, in the importance of myth, in the malleability of fact, the invention of truth, the happiness at the end of a dollar. They are businessmen and they are very good at it. The secret of their success is not a vital service offered—the crafting of a lasting message in a loud and crowded world—but rather the relentless pursuit of supplication, to borrow from Lexus. There is nothing they won't do for a prospective client. That said, they also provide a good wage and health insurance for hundreds of people every week, myself included. And I happily accept it. Surely this says more about me than them.

Let's meet the rest of the cast, shall we?

MARTIN CARLSON, EXECUTIVE CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Martin is the worldwide chief creative officer, which is impressive for a man of forty-two. On paper, Martin reports to Dodge. In reality, Martin reports to no one. Dodge fears Martin, as do most people. The simple truth is that Martin runs the agency.

Martin started his career in London, rose through the ranks of one of the finest agencies there. He ran our agency's London office before taking this job. Tall, trim, beautifully dressed, he is undeniably talented. But he also has an English accent, which makes anything he says sound thirty percent more intelligent to American clients. I've seen it in meetings.

A daffy client: “What do
you
think, Martin?”

“Me?” Martin says, blinky and Hugh Grant–charming. “Right. Well,
I
think you're a ponce and a fool and frankly wonder why you exist. One man's opinion, of course.”

The client, nodding: “I think that's exactly right.”

I sense that Martin feels that I do not immerse myself enough in the business, in nurturing my teams, in doing what it takes to get to the next level. I sense this because these were the exact words Martin used at my review last year. I'm due for one early in the New Year and hope to be promoted to creative director, an important difference and one
The New York Times
would no doubt lead with in my obituary. The chances of the promotion are slim to none.

Martin on advertising: “All clients are geniuses. We merely execute their vision. I'm sorry, I thought this was going to be posted on the agency website. No? In that case, clients are largely frightened and undereducated. Creatives are difficult and not nearly as talented as they believe themselves to be. Management is old and foolish. And yet, I look forward to going to work each morning. Strange, I know.”

IAN HICKS, SENIOR ART DIRECTOR, MY PARTNER

You met him on the shoot. He is my art director partner and, along with Phoebe, my closest friend. He is the brother I never had.
Unless you count the two brothers I do have who I almost never speak with. I trust two people in the world. Ian is one of them. He grew up in Montana in a place that was not particularly accepting of homosexuality. He left after high school and put himself through NYU. There he studied photography. At one point after he graduated he had three jobs just to make a livable wage. He continues to take pictures and has had three gallery showings of his work and once had a photo in
The Sunday Times Magazine
. It hangs in my office.

Ian on advertising: “It's a job. Once in a while we get to make something good. I've cleaned stables, been a dishwasher, done flooring, worked as a mover. It beats most jobs on the planet.”

PHOEBE KNOWLES, CREATIVE DEPARTMENT ASSISTANT

You met her briefly on the phone. Twenty-eight years old, from Boston, of Knowles & Knowles Attorneys at Law (Boston, London, Frankfurt, Hong Kong). The youngest of three, her two older brothers already at the family firm, Phoebe has no interest in law. She moved to Paris after graduation, where her father knew someone who knew someone who was the editor of French
Vogue
. Phoebe was a junior editor there for a few years. Physically, she is nothing special, unless you find heart-stopping beauty special. Men become foolish around her. She followed an older man back to New York from Paris, a Frenchman, who broke her heart. She doesn't speak of it.

PAM MARSTON, AGENCY BROADCAST PRODUCER

Pam is a producer. She's one of eight or ten producers at the agency. Her job is to make the production happen. It is a complex and thankless task, usually underpaid. Too often the creatives expect to be treated like babies, their producer-mothers procuring their airline
tickets, upgrades, car services, corner rooms, smoothies, lattes, dinner reservations, and usually the check after dinner. (Though I should point out that Ian and I always make our own plane reservations.) Why this is, I don't know. When one thinks of the name “Pam,” one tends to think (I feel empirical evidence would back me up here) of a perky, upbeat, generally optimistic woman; perhaps one with an athletic build, small of breast, who ran track in high school and now makes time in the evening for “projects,” which might include making her own stationery or mini-muffins. Not so with our Pam. Our Pam smokes and drinks hard and generally hates—and scares—most everyone she meets. I don't know how old she is (I'd guess forty-five) as she refuses to give her age because, as she herself says, “Go fuck yourself and I hate birthdays.” Her hair is unusually long, a shiny, silky black. Most days she wears it in a ponytail, pulled back severely from her pale face. She's fond of Frye boots (the heel gives her 5' 2" frame a lift), long skirts, and sweaters that conceal her ample chest. I've never known her to have a boyfriend (though Ian said she married and divorced young), but a certain kind of man is definitely attracted to her. She treats men the way the worst kind of a man treats women. For some reason I've never been able to figure out if she likes me.

Pam on advertising: “Fuck off.”

STEFANO & PAULIE, ART DIRECTOR AND COPYWRITER

Stefano was born in Spain to an Italian and a Spaniard and, so I've heard, moved to New York twelve years ago, where he took a number of design jobs, retooling the look of many well-known magazines. He speaks five languages, though English must surely be his worst. He likes to use colloquialisms at every chance, often inappropriately. His accent remains heavy. I don't know how old Stefano is. He looks to be a few years older than me. A man far more European than American when it comes to matters of the gym, of exercise, of anything, actually. He claims that it is impossible to find edible bread in
North America and that coffee here is largely undrinkable, though he drinks between five and eight cups a day. Similarly, he quit smoking a year ago but still smokes several cigarettes a day. He claims that this doesn't count.

Paulie is a copywriter and a wisp of a fellow, maybe 5' 5", 130 pounds. At lunch sometimes, or when he's bored, he goes to the fifteenth floor, where the agency's telephone operators are located, and answers calls. He says he likes to give the other operators a break, time for a smoke or a coffee. Ask him an employee's extension and eight out of ten times he knows it immediately. There was a period, before he met his wife, when he had a band and would play shows at small clubs around the city. He'd be out until four in the morning. It made weekday mornings tough for him, and for anyone close enough to smell the liquor seeping through his skin. On some of these mornings he would come into my office, particularly hung over, close the door, and nap for a time on my couch while I quietly typed at my computer. I would often unplug my phone, so the ring wouldn't disturb him.

Paulie on advertising: “There's the yin and yang of it, Fin D. You get to travel and stay in great hotels and eat great meals and drink expensive wine and be treated like someone on a movie set. Yet it's not art and deep down we want it to be. We need it to be beautiful. We need it to mean something. And it does, for the first twenty-three seconds of the spot. Then the voice-over comes in and talks about chicken tenders.”

Stefano on advertising: “I don't care for it. And would prefer to say this: Do you know what I think every morning when I wake up? I ask myself, ‘How can I seduce my wife today?'”

MALCOLM & RAJIT, ART DIRECTOR AND COPYWRITER

Malcolm and Rajit came over a few years ago from the Y&R office in Sydney. They claim that, for several months, the Sydney office didn't
realize they were gone and continued paying them. They once presented ideas over the phone—from our very offices—to a gathering in Sydney, saying they were both home with a stomach bug. Malcolm wears his dark blond hair long, often in a ponytail, and has unusually large, gleaming white teeth. He has the easygoing, worry-free demeanor one associates with Australians. You can't help but like him, smile back at him, as he casually says something in his heavy accent, like, “I was adopted as a child.” To which you find yourself responding with an equally large smile, “That's great.” He says “Hey” before saying my name, which makes my name sound like “Hyphen.” He would be the ideal companion to be lost at sea with on the famed Sydney-to-Hobart sailing race. He's single and often spends his weekends with Rajit and his wife (they live in the same building in DUMBO).

Rajit—Raj to most—is his diminutive, portly writing partner. Raj is also Australian, born of Indian parents. Raj himself will be the first to tell you this, though it is unlikely you will understand what he is saying as his accent is so dense as to cause most listeners to wonder what language he is speaking. Malcolm has no problem understanding him and often translates. Raj is a very good writer but is perhaps the least driven man I have ever met. If he's near a computer with a video game, he's happy. Malcolm and Raj smoke. A lot. They smoke in the building even though you can't. They have been reprimanded many times, brought before human resources, threatened with dismissal. The problem is they are so kind to everyone they meet that it's almost impossible to stay mad at them. Human resources finally suggested, after several meetings that began as reprimands and turned into long, laughing lovefests, that at the very least they dismantle the smoke detector in their office and place a wet towel at the base of their door.

Malcolm on advertising: “I can't believe I get paid to do this. And I was adopted as a child.”

Rajit on advertising: unintelligible. Malcolm says, “The people are lovely.”

FINBAR DOLAN, COPYWRITER, NARRATOR

BOOK: Truth in Advertising
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