“DESK DRAWERS!” I shouted at the top of my voice.

Learning a new language is not easy if you are older than two, learning it well is damn hard. I have yet to manage it in any language.

My English is still pretty Brooklyn and not just the accent.

I learned Greek as a kid, I even had a Greek teacher, Kyria Vangeli…I still spoke like an American that came from Asia Minor- a very weird Greek. Now after years in Greece my Greek is still the Greek of an American. I am called “to Americanaki.” The burden of the Brooklyn accent in all languages, you never lose it.

Five years in Spain and ten years in Mexico and my Spanish is passable, Mexicans are impressed with my Madrilenio accent and Spaniards are knocked out by my Mexican accent.

My Italian is basically Spanish with lots of Italian gestures and an exaggerated Italian accent. I could have starred in spaghetti westerns.

When I was transferred to the Madrid office in 1970, from London, I was Spanishless. I took an intensive

Month long Spanish course from Berlitz, two instructors, 10 hours a day.

Spanish was essential in the Madrid office; very little English was spoken, at least not in front of me.

I spoke or tried to speak only Spanish and naturally made some mistakes.

My greatest mistake was circulated around the office, even made it to the Barcelona office via my secretary, Mari Carmen. I was not corrected for months to the pleasure of everybody around the office, even the clients knew about it.

A lesson in Spanish; the word for balls or testicals is cojones, the word for desk drawers is cajones. You can guess what happened, whenever I was pissed off, I would yell out “CAJONES”. That’s right, desk drawers. The staff thought that if you were angry you yelled out “DESK DRAWERS” in English as well.

Occasionally I would hear “DESK DRAWERS, DAMN IT” yelled out in English to support me.

You make mistakes when you learn a foreign language, usually to the pleasure of the locals.

Read a Greek or Spanish menu translated to English for a great time; there is pleasure in revenge.

Butlins and the Yank

London, the mid sixties, the Ad business…everybody was full of themselves, great cars, preposterous salaries, lots of perks, trips to Europe for photo shoots, Cannes for the Ad Festival, a very trendy existence.

Not the norm for the typical English person.

A very unrealistic existence…creative guys getting paid more than the Prime Minister, and if you were an American, you lived even better.

We had about 6 or 7 yanks at McCann London; I suspect we were unbearable, some worse than others.

There was a popular resort in England at that time, Butlins, it’s still around, It was an all inclusive family resort, everything included, food, entertainment, pools, kid’s camp…the works, anything you could imagine.

They use to run these commercials with the attendants wearing red jackets, some very sexy girls to lure you in, I think even Billy Butlin appeared in them.

All of us were much too trendy for Butlins, we were above it. Trendy snobs in the ad world.

There was an exceptionally unbearable American, always complaining about the English and how bad things were.

He even bored the rest of us Yanks; you could imagine what the Brits thought of him.

He comes into my office one day and asks what can he do that weekend in England; he didn’t want to go to the continent. “Anyplace to see around here…sex, booze…a good time.”

Naturally, I thought of Butlins for his weekend.

I built it up and made it sound like a sex center with four-star food.

I told him no matter what it seemed like, he had to last until Sunday evening when all hell broke loose and they brought the French girls as well. Pretty soon everybody in the office is in on it, telling outrageous sex stories that happened to them at Butlins.

We see him off Friday afternoon in his E type Jaguar…good luck you schmuck.

Monday morning, I am in the office and he bursts in, I am a little nervous, God knows what he will do to me. He not only is a bore but he is a little nuts.

He walks up to me and in a calm voice asks me “when is the last time you went to Butlins?”

Greek saying, “If you haven’t built a house, or married off a daughter, you haven’t suffered.”

I have now done both, and I have not really suffered, at least not much.

Actually the saying should be “ If you haven’t built a house, or married off a daughter, you haven’t LIVED.”

I loved building our house, here in the Argolida, actually in Porto Heli.

I had a great time and it was a creative process…we are still friends with the architect so that should show what a good time we had, they were at the wedding as well.

The house played a role in the wedding; garden, terraces and chapel were all used.

Our daughter wanted as traditional a wedding as possible, very Greek, the village musical group leading her and me to the church, playing wonderful Greek and Epirot songs to start it off.

We have a small chapel on the property, with frescoes painted by our son in the traditional manner. We did part of the service in the chapel, the exchange of the rings.

The village band, clarinet, drum and guitar, playing the traditional music, led everybody through the garden to the terrace overlooking the sea where the crowning would take place and the guests could see the rest of the service properly.

Greek music, dancing and drinking took place after the service. Dinner was poolside later… with a disc jockey playing music that was arranged in NY, no real stress, certainly no suffering.

The priest, a childhood friend of mine, actually an Archimandrite, came from the States to perform the wedding. He did it in English as well as Greek so everybody could enjoy the beauty of the service. It was great to have him here.

An absolutely wonderful wedding, our other daughter was the combara; she did the crowning ceremony…everybody in the family was involved, paintings by our son, total supervision of everything by my wife. Heaven help the caterer if anything went wrong, by the way only Greek food, no sushi, no paella…just Greek.

So no suffering just joy.

Everything seemed perfect; we eventually viewed the many videos and found a slight anomaly, actually a hysterical one. The traditional Greek musicians, imported from a nearby village, were playing “roll out the barrel” when they escorted the procession from the church to the terrace were the remainder of the ceremony was to be held. Clarinet, drum and guitar sounding very villagy playing “roll out the barrel”, I never knew it was an Epirot song. 

I wonder what we will find they were playing in the other videos?

‘’No way, that raise is much too much’’.

I started at McCann in 1960 as an assistant art director, straight out of Pratt, with a salary of 5,000 dollars a year, it was a good beginners salary, I was in a big agency and the future seemed great.

I was lucky to work on some great accounts with terrific people, the agency was set up with art groups, this was before art directors working direct with writers. I used to work with a writer on the sly; he would show his work with layouts and my ads all had copy, not just the visual, we were a little ahead of the time, at least at McCann.

There was lots of overtime and super money, basically I did pretty good, money wise…I took the subway home to Coney Island and charged for a cab (suggested by my boss).

Sometime in1961 I get a raise, I then made 7,000, with a higher rate of overtime and expenses, and I am making closer to 12 grand a year. When I told my father what I earned and what I did, he said,” shh, do not tell anybody” It was good money then. Try explaining to a Greek candy maker what an art director does.

At a base salary of 10,000 dollars the overtime stopped.

I was doing some good ads and had bosses that were generous with their praise, the upstairs took notice and I was summoned to some 30 something floor one evening. Big offices no cubicles, each guy had a secretary, drinks, cigars, mad men stuff. The executive Creative Director calls me into his office, the last time he did it was because I was cursing out a client, to myself, at 10 pm. This time he tells me I have a terrific raise, 10,700 a year. He is making out like it was a big deal. I would lose money if I took that raise. I told him I would accept a raise of 9,800 a year.

He now thinks I am crazy, I curse in the hallways and reject raises or negotiate them down.

I had done the math, 9,800 would make over 15,000 with the overtime, and no way was I taking 10,700. Overtime was necessary even if you didn’t get paid for it, it was a competitive world, and everybody was working all hours. Under 10 grand and you got paid overtime, over 10; you did the overtime but didn’t get paid.

I tried to ask for a bigger raise or a lower one…he just thought I was nuts.

He finally gave me the raise that got me off overtime…maybe that is what he was after all along.

Soon after that I left McCann with a McCann guy to work at the Ladies Home Journal, interesting time, great experience, some funny stories, tough women editors, no overtime. I’ll tell you about it sometime.

 The last overtime check I ever got was the McCann one.

I never turned down a raise or tried to negotiate it down, up yes, down no.

A flask…in Greece?

A flask to me, having lived in the UK and seen movies about prohibition, has always seemed a little sinister and sneaky and secret.

A flask seemed to represent a means of getting a drink when it was illegal or unavailable in some way, pub hours for example. Flasks also seemed to be filled with Gin, in my imagination, or Canadian whiskey, especially in gangster movies.

I have never seen a flask in Mexico, Italy, or Spain…booze was always readily available.

Greece seems like the last place in the world for a flask, people carry bottles openly and drinks are available pretty much anywhere. The flask seems to represent a certain amount of secrecy, I am sure users would call it convenient,

nevertheless to me it does have this slightly dark underside…even though I own a few.

All of this is to explain the surprise I had when I saw one and in use.

I was with friends having some tsipouro and some ouzo with a bunch of snacks (mezedes), Greek salad, octopus, marinated fish, all the typical stuff. A friend arrived and he slyly pulled out a beautiful silver flask from his pocket.

Everybody stopped talking and eating and watched this odd behavior. Was he bringing his own homemade tsipouro, or did he decide a gin and tonic was in order. He opened the flask and dramatically poured the contents over the marinated fish and the salad…what the hell was going on? Gin on the tomatoes? Gin marinated fish?

It was his own olive oil; he claimed that the owner of the restaurant was too cheap to put enough olive oil on the mezedes. Everybody thanked him since there was never enough oil on the mezedes, the bread started to be dipped and glasses where clinked, even the owner joined us and made snide comments on the oil.

Seemed like a novel use of a flask, cannot imagine it done in the UK or in a gangster movie.

I wonder how the salad and fish would have been with gin on them?

Jeannine does a double page spread in Playboy, no centerfold unfortunately.

It was impossible to live in Chicago, during the 60’s and not be aware or be involved with Playboy; bunnies, magazine or even Hef, as we called him.

We lived next to his mansion on the near north side, we overlooked his roof where the topless bunnies sun bathed.

It was pretty good even without a pair of binoculars. I remember when he had a fence built on the roof, we still had a view, but we did have to stand on a chair.

There was an awareness of the Playboy empire in Chicago, the mansion, the magazine, the girls that appeared in the magazine, the photographers, the whole infrastructure…all were very visible.

I know, people claimed to get Playboy for the articles and the authors, which were amazing and innovative, and not for the photos of those strangely innocent naïve girls…by today’s standards.

There was an amazing art director that was part of the creation of Playboy, he was Art Paul and was responsible for the beautiful look of the magazine. He was instrumental in the look of the photos, the retouching, the artwork, the full visual aspect of the magazine. I wouldn’t be surprised if he even designed the bunny costumes.

Every illustrator admired him and wanted to work with and for him. 

Jeannine went to see him, she was a freelance illustrator, she called him and he saw her, just like that. He loved her work and gave her a double page spread to do, not a photo, an illustration.

He had her do the Christmas food spread…a corduroy roast beef with silk potatoes.

It was no centerfold, although I liked to see the reaction when I told friends that Jeannine did a spread in Playboy. I didn’t always explain that it was an illustration.

Her double page spread was the most unique double page spread in Playboy, she was my centerfold though and always has been.

Chicago, our first international move

In 1963 we went to Chicago from NY, it was our first international assignment, at least that’s what it felt like.

Being a New Yorker, even worse a Brooklynite, Chicago seemed like a foreign country.

I hade a great offer from an ex boss that I respected, he was the executive Creative Director of McCann, so Chicago couldn’t be that bad. It wasn’t.

Jeannine and I set off for the first of our many moves; most after this were really international. London, Madrid, Milan, Johannesburg, Tokyo, Mexico city, Columbia, Athens…this one.

It is hard to imagine that Chicago would seem like a foreign country, but if you are a typical New Yorker anything else is the other side of the moon.

We arrive and find a great apartment on the near north side, two blocks from the lake, tenth floor, great view, even overlooking Hugh Hefner’s mansion.

Playgirls sunned themselves on the roof, Chicago is not bad, and as a matter of fact it is starting to look great, remember this is the summer.

Topless bunnies!

Nothing like this in Brooklyn.

This is summer, unfortunately winter arrives very quickly. Windy, cold, snowy, we have that in NY, but we are called the big apple and Chicago is the windy city and it is. That wind off the lake will knock you down and it does.

First a wind story, there is a copywriter, good guy, talented…but he had a terrible comb-over, OK, you know what is coming.

He always wore a hat when he went out, his hair on one side went below his shoulder, and he made Trumps hair look natural. He meticulously protected his hair, carefully sprayed, avoided convertibles etc. but it was the windy city after all, it was inevitable.

We are on the way to a client and on Michigan Avenue looking for a cab, and it happens, hat goes down the street, I am protecting the layouts, which were acting like sails. I look up and it happened, his hair is on his shoulder and his skull is shinning, nothing, zip not a hair. I become a teenage girl and start laughing like an idiot all the way to the client. I am such a shit; I keep lifting his hair up as soon as he repositions it.

God I was a bad guy. Chicago brought out the worst in me.

The cold, and it was cold especially with that wind, and now the snow, my God it could not have been worse.

One night I come home and we need to take the car out, it is snowing freezing and icy, no garage, I am trying to put the key into a frozen lock in the door, no luck…solid ice.

 I ask our doorman if he has anything to defrost the lock, some kind of Chicago deicer. He looks at me and says, “Everybody pees on their locks.” Must be a Chicago deicer thing, I figure he is joking and I ask him again, “everybody pees on their locks, Mr. Birbil, really.” He says, very seriously.

I go out, walk the half block to my car, wind coming off the lake is freezing, and I look around to make sure I am alone.

I pee on my car door lock, the key slips in and works, I unlock my car. I look down the street and there are two other guys standing suspiciously close to their cars front door.

Chicago deicer…the doorman was right, pee on the lock, but do it fast.

We had a traffic guy that was promoted to junior account guy. I was presenting some work to the account group, we had the Peter Pan peanut butter account. I was suggesting that we use Zero Mostel as Peter Pan. I thought it was a great idea, the account group asks the new guy to comment.

Yesterday I knew him as the traffic guy, today he is supposed to comment on my work. He tears into it, putting on a show for the account group, “It will not work, it is wrong for the brand.” He goes on and on about how wrong it is. He is probably right but I couldn’t resist, I look at him and say,

“Harold, I can see my face in your fingernails.”

He had gotten a manicure for his new job and I sarcastically pointed it out and put him down. I still remember that moment 47 years ago and still cringe.

I really enjoyed Chicago, it was the start of our international life, our son was born there and we made some great friends and did some good ads.

Next was London, slightly more international than Chicago…our son was only thirty days old when we went.

Not as windy, certainly not as cold and no peeing on car locks, much stronger accents and even a foreign language.