This is a story about how Bob Pasqualine and I got our first big break at Wells, Rich, Greene. One of the agency’s big and important clients was Royal Crown Cola. 

The agency was responsible for doing all the advertising for RC Cola and Diet Rite Cola.  Unfortunately, the Diet Rite campaign was not going well.

It was a celebrity campaign and one of the spots featured the legendary Lena Horne.  She was dazzling in the commercial, but the client hated it.  While no one mentioned the word “race”, it wasn’t hard to connect the dots.  The company was based in Columbus, Georgia and these were good old boys who still had a fondness for the Confederate flag.

One of their biggest bottlers refused to run the campaign and threatened to make his own TV spot.  That’s when Mary Wells called in Pasqualina and me.  We were a young, hungry team, and Mary instinctively knew that we would not view this as a crappy assignment, but an opportunity.  If we could be a hero with this bottler, it could lead to bigger things.

Our creative idea featured people who didn’t need to be on a diet but drank Diet Rite Cola because they loved the taste.  The theme line was, “I don’t need it, but I like it” and had cute vignettes with interesting characters like a small town beauty queen and a semi-pro football player.

The production budget was $12,000 – all in.  Not much to produce a 30 second spot, even in those days.  But we found a little production company in Charlotte, N.C. that specialized in shooting on videotape.

We were thrilled to learn that, for our little budget, this company would provide a casting director, producer, director, cameraman, composer, mixer and editor.  What we didn’t know is that all of these services would be provided by one egotistical hack named Terence.  We knew he was a phony the first day he showed up wearing a silk ascot and speaking in an English accent with a Southern drawl.

It was clear that Bob and I were going to have to do everything ourselves.  Casting was a real challenge because Charlotte is not exactly your biggest talent market.  In New York, we might have brought in two hundred candidates for each part.  In Charlotte, we were fortunate if we saw ten.

We got lucky finding the beauty queen.  A fetching young blond came in and performed the script with wide-eyed innocence.  “Dear Diet Rite Cola.  I was Miss Corrugated Cardboard, 1966.  I don’t need Diet Rite.  But I like it!”  She ended every sentence like it was a question and her delivery was so imperfect, it was perfect.

Finding a football player who could talk was a lot tougher.  Then Dwayne walked in.  He was a big bear of a man who was missing one front tooth — a gentle giant with a soft, polite voice.  Dwayne was probably five years older than me, but he called me Mr. Cohen.

He had tried out for a couple of pro football teams, but never made it.  After suffering two concussions, he pursued odd jobs – as a truck driver, a handyman, a forklift operator on the graveyard shift.  He was also divorced from his high school sweetheart and seemed a little sad, lost and alone.  Bob and I both agreed – it was risky, but Dwayne was our guy.

Our instincts were right.  The shoot went well and when the bottler saw the spot, he flipped.  These were his kind of people and this was his kind of advertising.  The word quickly got around to all the other bottlers and our little TV spot became the prototype for the national Diet Rite Cola campaign.  Bob and I were promoted and when the Alka Seltzer account came to Wells, Rich, Greene awhile later, we got our shot at the big time.

But the happiest part of this story belongs to Dwayne.  The Diet Rite spot ran heavily in North Carolina, and after seeing it several times, a lovely young librarian became smitten.  She contacted Royal Crown Cola to find out how to get in touch with Dwayne.  They put her through to Wells, Rich, Greene who put her in touch with the production company who gave her Dwayne’s contact information (this was a very persistent lady.)

They met over a cup of coffee and (this is the corny part, but it’s true) it was love at first sight.  A short time later, Dwayne and the librarian exchanged vows and became husband and wife.

Proof, once again, that advertising makes the world a better place.

Like my stories?  Please comment here or send questions to howie@madmensch.com.  And if you like it, spread it.

© 2010 Howard Cohen, All Rights Reserved

Our agency, Cohen, Pasqualina, Timberman, was in its first year of business and we were going nowhere fast. All the accounts that we thought would come flocking to our door were not flocking.

Feeling desperate, I pored through the Redbook of advertisers looking for a prospect – a live one – anyone who was spending money. Page after page, category after category – nothing.

And then, I found it. An account spending $2 million and nobody knew about it. A diamond in the rough. I found Carpeteria!

I called them up and actually got through to Murray, their CEO. I told him about the Clios we had won for our Alka Seltzer campaign, “I Can’t Believe I Ate The Whole Thing” and “Try It, You’ll Like It”. I promised we could do the same thing for their wonderful carpets. To my delight, Murray invited us out to Long Island to make a presentation to him and his partner, Abe.

Pasqualina and I decided to create a TV campaign to showcase our creativity. We even hired a freelance creative team to work on it, too. As it turns out, they came up with the big idea. To create a superhero called “Carpetman” complete with a cape and a big “C” on his chest – the whole bit.

Building on their breakthrough idea, we wrote heroic scripts with Carpetman coming to the rescue of carpet deprived people. We even penned a thrilling theme song (think Mighty Mouse) to herald Carpetman’s arrival on the scene.

Pasqualina and I must have been drinking the same Kool-Aid, because we got really excited over this idiotic campaign. Feeling totally confident, we drove out to Long Island to present it to the owners.

Upon arrival, we were escorted by Myrna, the receptionist, to a carpet warehouse the size of two football fields with carpets piled on top of one other as far as the eye could see. And standing there in the middle of this miracle of plush-dom, were Abe and Murray, arms outstretched to welcome us.

“You’re Mr. “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing” Murray said. “Genius, genius”, and Abe added, “I say that line all the time. You would, too, if you knew my wife’s cooking!” he laughed.

The four of us made our way to the corner of the cavernous warehouse. This was our big moment.

Bob did a great job of taking them through the first storyboard, and then I sprang into action.

Feeling adrenaline surge through my body, I leaped up onto a huge bolt of carpet so that I was actually looking down at Murray and Abe’s bald spots. I acted out every character in the stories — the poor people who were carpet deprived — and when Carpetman came to the rescue and it was time for our big musical anthem, I let it rip. I sang at the top of my lungs, every lyric a gem, every note in perfect pitch.

And just as I was about to reach the crescendo, I jumped down off the carpet, landed right in front of Murray and Abe and belted out the final note, “Carpetmaaaaaaan!”

And then I stopped and looked directly into their faces waiting for the applause that never came. There was just silence. Then Abe turned to Murray and said, “Murray, is this schlock?”

The ride back to Manhattan was long and uncarpeted.

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Like my stories? Please comment here or send questions to howie@madmensch.com. And if you like it, spread it.

© 2013 Howard Cohen, All Rights Reserved

If Wells, Rich, Greene was a hotbed of creative talent, it was also a volcano of raging hormones. 

Everywhere you looked, there were beautiful people roaming the halls of our glamorous Billy Baldwin styled offices in the GM building overlooking Central Park.

You could hardly turn a corner at the agency without bumping into another sexual fantasy.  The sweaters were tight and the miniskirts were so skimpy, if a secretary bent down, you could see all the way to Cleveland.

We were living in a very publicized age of sexual freedom.  The Viet Nam war was in full swing and every young man had a number on his back.

If that number was called by the draft board, we could be plucked out of our careers and forced to fight, and possibly die, halfway around the world in an insane and senseless war.  So, an attitude of “live for now because who knows if we’ll be here tomorrow” was pervasive.

Recreational drugs and alcohol helped fuel the new found feelings of freedom.  Smoke a little grass, drink a little wine, feel a little creative, make a little love!  And so, at Wells, Rich, Greene, lots of young single people were getting into some healthy sexual experimentation.  And not to be denied, many of the married guys were letting their hair — and their wives — down, too.

Art directors and copywriters who came from humble beginnings in Brooklyn and the Bronx, and who had married their high school sweethearts, were suddenly immersed in the glamorous world of sexy models, out of town shoots and decadent film production parties into the wee hours of the morning.

As a result, there were bitter breakups.  For awhile, I worked with an art director named Kenny who grew up in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn.  Over the course of a year, I saw him change from a nice mensch-y guy into a self-impressed ladies man who started to believe his own bullshit.  He divorced his high school sweetheart and left her and his two little kids for a skinnyminny Ford model.  “I can’t believe it, Howie, she’s gorgeous and she loves me!”

Six months later, she left him for a fashion photographer with a big studio, a large bank account and really good drugs.  There were lots of guys like Kenny and they came from every side of the business.

As a friend said to me at the time, “Howie, everybody’s doing everybody.”  Account executives were dating producers, copywriters were romancing secretaries, art directors were falling for media people, and then it was — everybody change partners and start all over again.

One of my friends at the agency was a talented copywriter named Timothy.  He was a Brit — tall, dark and dapper — and he always dressed in sleek dark suits so he looked far more elegant than the rest of us who were growing our first beards and wearing clothes inspired by Sargent Pepper.  Timothy had a thick English accent which was a real turn on for the ladies and which he played up for all it was worth.  So, he always had plenty of women.

He also had a rule of never taking out any woman more than three times.  The first time was all about wild passionate sex and the thrill of discovery.  (In those days, everyone did it on the first date.)  The second time was about experimentation and expanding your sexual horizons.

And the third time was the “je regret” moment when Timothy would present the lady with one perfect red rose as part of a sad and romantic farewell.  Timothy was classy that way.  I can assure you that no Jews or Italians from Brooklyn were giving girls roses.

One day, Timothy and I were having lunch and after about the third martini, he began to let his hair down.  “You know I’ve been dating Linda” he said.  “Yes, everybody knows” I said.  “But did you know we’ve been seeing each other for three months?”  “Really?”  I said.  “Wow, what happened to the three date rule?”  “This is different.” he said.  “Howie, I think I’m falling in love with her.  Which is why I’m so upset.”  “What do you mean?” I asked.

He said, “I thought Linda was different from the others, you know?  I mean, she’s really smart, she’s great in bed, and she makes me laugh.”  “Laughter is good.” I said, “Sex is easy, but a good laugh is hard to find.  So what’s the problem?”

“Well, just when I was about to bare my soul to her, I found out she was screwing that guy Walter in the mail room!”  “Walter?” I said.  “The fat sweaty guy?”  “Exactly” he said. “So what does that say about Linda…and what does that say about our relationship?”  I was beginning to see his point.

“I don’t know what to do about it.” he said.  “I’m good at sex, but I’m not very good at this love thing.”  “Why don’t you have a long talk with her” I suggested.  “Tell her how you really feel.  Maybe she’s just screwing around because she thinks you’re not serious…like, your relationship won’t go anywhere, so she has to keep her options open.”

Timothy had a different approach.  “I’m going to ask out her best friend Carla and “f” the crap out of her.” It’ll make Linda jealous as hell.”

“Timothy” I said, “That sounds like a really bad idea.  I think you’re just going to drive her away.  Don’t be an idiot!”  But he was confident he had the right strategy.  Piss her off to win her over. It was clear to me that his relationship with Linda was about to be history.

Meanwhile, the promiscuity at Wells, Rich, Greene was becoming common knowledge and the word had reached the highest levels.  One day, a guy named Hank, who had a reputation for being an agency spy and a snitch with direct lines to Mary Wells, popped into my office.  Bob Pasqualina and I were sitting there working on a new TV spot when Hank closed the door and pulled up a seat.  We dropped what we were doing.

“Gentlemen” Hank said.  (Did he say gentlemen?  This must be really serious.) “I’m going from office to office.  It’s going to take me all day and maybe all day tomorrow, too.  But this is very serious.  I’ve been asked to relay this message to everyone in the agency.  It’s a personal message from Mary Wells herself, and I quote:

“Do not dip your quill in the company ink.”

It couldn’t have been more clear or more powerful.  Screw around with agency people and you’re gone!  Everyone got the message and, all of a sudden, everyone became more discreet.  I know the sexual activity didn’t stop, but it definitely went underground.  We no longer knew who was doing who, or where, or when, or how many times.

As for Timothy, he might have had the right strategy after all.  That year, he married Linda.

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Like my stories?  Please comment here or send questions to howie@madmensch.com.  And if you like it, spread it.

© 2013 Howard Cohen, All Rights Reserved

Shortly after Carol and I got married in 1972, she quit her job as an advertising copywriter to pursue a career as a psychologist.

During the course of her studies, she had to practice certain skills, like learning how to administer psychological tests and evaluate the results.

To do this, she needed a willing subject, and since I was the guy lying in bed next to her, I became her favorite guinea pig.

One day, over the course of two hours, I subjected myself to an intensive two-part test beginning with General Knowledge (all the little factoids that are stored in your brain) followed by Visual Perception (the ability to define shapes, objects and put puzzles together.)

Being a good sport, I embraced the challenge and answered all of the questions with alacrity and good charm.

When the test was finished, my wife told me I would hear the results in about a week.

Well, a week went by, and then another. Now, I was starting to worry. Why was she avoiding me? What did that test say about me, anyway?

Finally, I confronted her and said, “Okay, I did your dumb test, the least you can do is tell me how I did.”

“You really want to know?” she asked. “Yes, I really want to know!” I said.

“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “Well, you did above average on the General Knowledge part. But you did very poorly on the Visual Perception part.”

“One out of two ain’t bad” I said. “So, what does it all mean?”

“What it means is…” she cleared her throat, “You’re either schizophrenic or have brain damage.”

My lovely wife went on to earn her PHD in Psychology and have a successful practice in L.A., which she enjoys to this day.

As for me, I’m proud to be her loyal, supportive, brain damaged husband.

A few months ago, our gang here at Phelps had the opportunity to pitch a great new account based in Phoenix.

We really wanted this baby so we pulled out all the stops — research out the ying-yang, multiple creative exploratories, integration across all platforms — the works.

On presentation day, everybody was ready to roll…except me. At the time, my wife and I were living in a hotel room due to some heavy-duty remodeling going on at our house. So my mind — and my things — were totally scattered.

At 6 a.m., as I was getting ready to leave for LAX, I realized I had left my leather briefcase at the house. I had nothing to carry my presentation materials in. I was screwed.

But before I could panic, my wife said, “Don’t worry, just take my black purse, no one will even notice.”

She was wrong. All the way to Phoenix, my teammates had a great time teasing me about the pretty design and delicate lines of my lovely black purse.

The only criticism I got was from our media director who pointed out that my purse didn’t match my shoes. In response, I repeated a line my interior decorator once told me, “It doesn’t have to match, it just has to go.”

Despite my fashion faux pas, our new business presentation went extremely well. We got lots of accolades, shook lots of hands, and as we were leaving, we almost made it to the car when their VP of Marketing called down the hall,”NICE PURSE, HOWIE!”

I reached down deep to my feminine side and thanked him for being a true gentleman. Then we flew back to LA and waited to hear. I guess we were up against some pretty stiff competition because the news didn’t come for another three weeks.

But when it did, it was celebration time. We won!

I’m sure there are many people who would argue that we won because of our brilliant strategy, our inspired creative campaigns and our sparkling presentation skills.

I think we know the real reason.

In the mid-70s, our agency Cohen,Pasqualina,Timberman, became known as a hot creative shop.

That’s when the movie studios came calling. If there’s anything that makes movie executives moist, it’s rubbing shoulders with hot talent, be it actors, directors, or even…ad guys.

One of our most glamorous projects was working on “The Spy Who Loved Me” starring Roger Moore as James Bond with Barbara Bach (the future Mrs. Ringo Starr) as the Bond girl.

In high-level strategic meetings with the MGM marketing guys, they told us they needed something breakthrough because the Bond franchise was losing steam. With each new Bond film, ticket sales were sliding.

Up to that point, every ad for a Bond movie featured James Bond holding a gun with scantily clad girls frolicking in the background. “We want to lose the gun”, their head marketing guy said. “It’s getting old. We need something more creative…that’s why we’re bringing you guys in.”

“Okay” we said. “But, you know, Bond holding the gun is your icon. Everybody recognizes it and you own it. Are you sure you want to walk away from that?” “Fuck the gun” was the response from their eloquent ad manager. “We’re hiring you because we want something new and breakthrough.”

One week later, Pasqualina and I were on a plane to London to meet with “the man” himself, Albert (Cubby) Broccoli, co-owner and uber-producer of the entire James Bond franchise.

Upon landing at Heathrow, we were greeted by a limo driver in a big, cushy Daimler Benz and handed envelopes containing 300 Pounds each in spending cash. He then drove us to the exclusive Dorchester Hotel where we unpacked and decompressed before heading over to Mr. Broccoli’s exclusive London Townhouse where we were ushered into his posh walnut paneled and leather tufted study.

(Here’s a bit of trivia about Broccoli. While it may sound strange for a man to be named after a vegetable, it was actually the other way around. Broccoli’s ancestors were Italian horticulturalists who crossed the cauliflower with rabe to create the veggie that bears his name.)

As the butler served us English scones and exotic teas from India, Mr. Broccoli shared the history of the James Bond franchise as well as his hopes and ambitions for the new movie. Then he extended an invitation for us to join him the following night at a little party he was throwing for a thousand of his closest friends.

To publicize the movie, MGM threw a Hollywood style extravaganza. It was held on the largest sound stage in the world at the time, built specifically to house two mock nuclear submarines, central to the movie’s plot. The finest food, wine, champagne, truffles, cakes, cookies and brandies were laid out on fine linen tablecloths stretching the full length of the stage.

Everyone who was anyone was there: famous actors, actresses, and assorted dignitaries including members of parliament and the prime minister of England.

It was glamorous and thrilling and it had the desired effect. After viewing a rough cut of the movie the next morning, Bob Pasqualina and I flew home to New York feeling totally stoked.

If these guys wanted a breakthrough, we were going to give them a breakthrough. We jammed for two solid weeks coming up with tons of fresh, edgy, unexpected campaign ideas.

And we weren’t the only ones. As is typical in the movie business, at least three other creative shops were working on this same project. Money was no object, it was all about coming up with the big idea. Finally, we set up a time to present to our client and on the day of the presentation, we walked in totally confident.

As we presented campaign after campaign, they nodded and grinned and high-fived each other. We were a hit! We left the meeting feeling the rush of success. And then we waited to hear which campaign of ours they wanted to go with. And waited and waited.

When the news came, it wasn’t good. They had decided to go with another agency’s campaign. Shit! Some other shop had come up with a bigger idea. We were crushed. Then, we saw the new campaign in the newspaper.

It was James Bond holding the gun with scantily clad girls frolicking in the background. Nothing had changed. MGM had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on 4 different agencies to do the same thing they had always done before.

Feeling confused, I got the MGM marketing director on the phone. “I’m just curious” I said, “After all that effort, why did you decide to go with the same old gun?”

“Howie” he said, “You don’t understand. Bond holding the gun is our icon. We own it and everybody recognizes it. Why would we ever walk away from that?”

Damn, why didn’t we think of that?

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Like my stories? Please comment here or send questions to howie@madmensch.com. And if you like it, spread it.

In 1970, Bob Pasqualina and I were promoted to creative directors on the Diet Rite Cola account.

We had a much smaller budget than Coke and Pepsi, so in order to stick out, we created a humorous campaign with a lot of quirky characters in slapstick vignettes.

To maximize the guffaws, we hired a director known for his ability to direct comedy.

The problems started on day one with the first shot involving a heavyset guy and a rickshaw driver.

As the guy plops his big butt down in the rickshaw, the driver goes flying into the air, with his feet dangling and spinning wildly. It should have been funny, but the way our director was setting up the shot, it wasn’t.

So, Bob and I walked up to the director and politely said, “Can we talk? The shot isn’t working.”

“Jesus Christ” he screamed, “Give me a chance, will ya!?” Rather than get upset, Bob and I saw this as a learning moment — be patient and give the director time to achieve his vision.

On the third day of the shoot, the director was setting up the final shot — the piece de resistance — a big western theme with twenty cowboys, fifty Indians and a stunt horse with a talent for guzzling cola from a bottle.

Having learned our lesson, we sat quietly for two hours as the director lit the set, lined up the principals, choreographed the extras and set up a complicated tracking shot — all wrong.

Finally, unable to contain ourselves any longer, Bob and I walked up to director and said, “Can we talk? The shot isn’t working.”

“Jesus Christ” he screamed, “Now you tell me!?”

You can’t win.

We’ve been running a testimonial campaign for City of Hope with the theme, “We Live To Cure Cancer”.  These are very personal stories of survival and their success depends on honesty and getting across real emotions.

I call them “TestiMotionals”.  We bring cancer survivors into a studio and I interview them, one-on-one.  Since they’re not professional actors, they usually start out a little nervous and say things they think I want to hear about City of Hope, which makes it feel like an ad.

That’s exactly what we don’t want.

My job is to get them to let their hair down.  To share their real feelings with me as if I were their best friend, a family member, a priest or a rabbi.

About ten minutes into these interviews, it usually starts to happen. I ask them more personal questions like, “What were your feelings when you were first diagnosed?” “Who held your hand along the way?” “How did you tell your children?”

That’s when the wall starts to come down, the voice begins to crack, and the tears begin to flow.  (The attached TestiMotional, from an interview by someone else, was the prototype for our campaign.)

I’ve conducted a half dozen of these interviews now, and each one has ended the same way — with a thank you and a warm hug.

Making people cry.  After all these years, I’ve finally found my true talent.

It was my first year in the business and I was lucky enough to land a job as the youngest copy trainee at Doyle Dane Bernbach.  We were working late on a Volkswagen Beetle ad when, suddenly, the lights went out and everything went pitch black.  Not just in the agency; not just in the building.

The whole city of New York went dark due to a massive power outage. It was shocking and a little scary. But what could have been an all-out disaster with looting, mugging and assorted mayhem, turned out to be an evening of kindness, humanity and…romance.

Doyle Dane was located in an older office building on 42nd Street between Fifth and Sixth avenues.  Somehow, we all had to figure out how to get out of the building and get home.

It started with hundreds of us filing into the unlighted stairwells and walking down 23 flights of stairs with only candles, matches and flashlights to light our way.  There were plenty of jokes to lighten the mood.  I heard a macho Italian art director call out, “Hey Tony, let go of my ass!”

When we reached ground level, we poured out into the chilly November night but the real warmth of New Yorkers was on full display. Volunteers directed traffic, comforted frightened strangers, and took elderly people by the hand.

As I headed north for the two mile walk to my apartment on 86st Street and 1st, I realized I was walking in lock step with a pretty Doyle Dane secretary.  While we didn’t know each other well, we had, on occasion, flirted with our eyes.  I asked her where she was headed and it turns out she lived just a few blocks from me.  “Want to walk up together?” I asked.  “Sure” she said, “That would be nice.  It’s so dark.”  The streets were lit only by the headlights of the cars heading home and by the occasional flashlights of passersby.

Somewhere between 45th Street and 59th street, I got to know more about this young lady than I had in the entire 8 months I’d worked at the agency.  The semi-crisis created a bond between us and and the darkness seemed to invite a kind of intimacy.

As we began to cross 65th street, a car wheeled around the corner narrowly missing my pretty friend and I reached out to hold her hand.  “Are you okay?” I asked.  “Yes, I’m okay” she said, and added, “Your hand is warm”.  At around 72nd Street, I was feeling the warmth and was emboldened to do something about it.  As we stood on the street corner, I reached out and put my arms around her.  She pulled back a little, looked into my eyes, smiled, and then leaned in for a tender kiss.

We held hands the rest of the way, and when we arrived at her fifth floor walk-up, she invited me up for a drink.  Of course, I said yes.  As I sat on her futon opening a bottle of Chablis, she filled her tiny studio apartment with candles that warmed the room and surrounded us in a golden light.  We drank, we laughed, we cuddled.

When we woke up the next morning, the candles were melted down to little wax stubs , the stereo was playing loud, the lights were back on, and I had a new, very close friend.

It was a splendid night where average New Yorkers became heroes. And a nice Jewish boy got  lucky in the dark.

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Like my stories?  Please comment here or send questions to howie@madmensch.com.  And if you like it, spread it.

© 2012 Howard Cohen, All Rights Reserved

On June 29th, I said au revoir to France after six glorious days at the Cannes Lions. It was an amazing week of Google, Glamour and (cough) Gauloises.

Google flew me there with my wife Carol where we met up with my former art director partner, Bob Pasqualina, and three other advertising “Icons” (their word, not mine).

There was Paula Green, creator of “Avis, we try harder”; Amil Gargano for Volvo’s”Drive it like you hate it” campaign; and Harvey Gabor, for Coca Cola’s famous hilltop song, “I’d like to buy the world a Coke”; and Bob and me for Alka Seltzer’s “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.”  (Check it all out at www.projectrebrief.com.)

There were thousands of advertising people in Cannes from all over the world, guided by a bevy of beautiful blonde hostesses more statuesque than the award statues themselves.

Bill Clinton spoke about how people like us can use the power of words and ideas to change the world; Dan Wieden shared the importance of close relationships and how that led to a former client handing him the $1.3 billion Chevy account without a review (ka-ching!); and the message from our own Project Re-Brief – that technology opens up exciting new doors for creativity.  But in the end, it will always be about “the idea” and the ability to connect in a human way.

I found a little  time to jump in the Mediterranean where I discovered that I could float on my back like a beach ball due to the abundance of salt in the water (or was it all the creme brulee I ate?)

On the last night, Google premiered the one hour documentary chronicling our year long effort on Project Re-brief.  I hadn’t seen the finished piece, and I was very impressed at the great job Doug Pray, our Emmy award winning director did, weaving the four stories together of how we re-imagined those classic ads.

When the lights went up, the applause was loud.  And when Google asked the five “Icons” to stand up, the crowd literally cheered.  And then, forty or fifty starry-eyed Young Lions lined up to get our autographs and snap photos with us like they were standing next to the Washington Monument.

Now, I’m home and it’s back to reality.  Gotta run, Carol is calling me to take out the garbage.