"You can't fire me, I don't work for you."

London in the sixties again –

Three Americans in McCann London, facing weird problems.

Our chairman was a good-looking Irish-American executive, from Bay Ridge Brooklyn.

White hair, immaculately dressed always, the right schools - London was his stepping-stone to much bigger responsibilities.

He seemed like he went to Princeton or Yale, we are talking about a serious senior executive in our company.

He was central casting for a CEO in a movie about American industry.

He was always backlit - great suits that he changed mid-day so he was never wrinkled.

In spite of all that, he was still a good guy from Brooklyn.

Our executive CD was a well to do American that had custom suits, a well-dressed guy. He would have his favorite suit copied at a Savile Row tailor (and they would even copy his baggy knees). His suits were so English they didn’t even fit right, the true sign of an upper class custom-made suit.

I was not as conventional as they were, but certainly not as wild as most of my department, after all it was the 60s in London.

Bell-bottom trousers, multicolored shirts, velvet jackets and cowboy boots, short mini skirts on the women, not hippy American style but London Carnaby Street stuff. That was pretty much the style of our creative department (and we were not the wildest agency in London).

Our boss would stop me and complain about the dress code of the creative department. I would defend them by saying if they dress wild they have to change their outfits every day, you cannot wear orange bell-bottoms twice in the same week. My argument was that at least the creative’s clothes were aired out if not cleaned. The account guys wore the same blue suit every day, probably even on holiday, you couldn’t get downwind of some of them.

He reluctantly accepted my argument, but I don’t think he was completely convinced.

He was in the lift one day going up to his office on the fourth floor; we had four out of the six floors in the building. There was an especially wildly dressed guy on the lift with him - I think he was even wearing glitter in his hair.

Just too damn much swinging London for our grey suited leader.

“God damn it, you are fired! Get out of this building!”

“You can’t fire me dude, I don’t work for you, I am just delivering these Photostats.”

He never tried to fire anybody from the elevator again. And certainly not because of their clothes!

  

Gary and the Corvette

We had some great times in Mexico with Gary and Kay, some stand out a bit more than others.

We had a weekend house in Tepoztlan, about 2 hours out of Mexico City.

One weekend, Kay was away and we invited Gary to come and stay.

As the head of General Motors in Mexico, Gary had access to any car he wanted.

The Corvette was just launched in Mexico and I assumed that Gary would come out to the house in one.

The Corvette, the most iconic American sports car, the Ferrari of the States.

He did, and as he drove down the driveway, top down, I realized Gary was not actually driving,

His driver was.

Somehow a Corvette with a chauffer in a dark suit is not the most common sight especially with Gary in shorts and tee shirt, ready for our pool. A zippy chauffer driven sports car, you got to love it.

If you think about it, this has to be the classiest way to arrive for a weekend in a Mexican mountain villa.

Gary was a classy guy, I remember at my going away party (I was transferred to Columbia reluctantly

By my dickhead of a boss, a Danish guy stationed in Brazil).

Gary stood up and made a very complimentary speech about me,

 While scaring the pants off of my boss.

Another classy move from Gary: this one while wearing a dark suit. Thanks Gary, I really liked that one.  

My first job in advertising...sort of

I started working in summers when I was 14, in Coney Island.

My father had an ice cream parlor there but he didn’t let me work for him, he believed I should work for somebody else since fathers are too soft or much too hard on their own sons.

I went to work for a Greek friend of my father’s and his son went to work for my Pop.

He got the better deal than I did; his father was rough on the help.

My first job was working at a souvenir stand in Steeplechase amusement park, my second year I worked for another friend of my Father’s and his son worked for my Father, this went on for about 3 years.

At 17 I decided to get a job more closely related to what I was studying, I was attending the High School of Industrial Art, SIA. I found a job with a sign painter; I assumed sign painting would be sort of like advertising (I could use my Caslon skills).

I got this job at a sign painter on Ave U in Brooklyn named Gus. It was the first time I worked for a non-Greek, even though he had a Greek name, maybe he would pay better.

The first week I painted backgrounds, mostly white enamel, Gus was a minimalist sign painter. I never touched any lettering. Gus would occasionally let me fill in some lettering he outlined; I was making progress.

He tells me one day that we have to go take down some three-dimensional letters from an A&P in Queens.

This store was on a hill and Gus sets up some ladders, rather precariously; he hands me a screwdriver and tells me to start removing the letters as he scoots up his ladder.

I am terrified of heights and keep dropping the screwdriver and make absolutely no progress in removing the letters.

I tell Gus I cannot do this, I hate heights, especially on a ladder that is precariously balanced.

Gus looks at me sadly and delivers this killer line.

“ Sorry kid, you don’t have it in you to be a sign painter, you better find something else to do in your life”.

Could this be the end of my advertising career so soon?

Brooklyn goes to Ascot

 

London in the late 70s…McCann would sponsor a day at the races, Ascot actually.

We would invite our clients, suppliers and senior staff for a day out. We had a tent with drinks and food.

It was quite a posh thing and it was something new and different for me.

In Chicago we would sometimes take clients to a baseball game. No Champagne, just beer and hot dogs

Now the real problem for Ascot was the outfit, men had to wear a morning coat. The ladies wore flowered dresses with big hats. I naturally had no morning coat so I went to Moss bros. to rent it. Moss bros. was an amazing store…Google it, you could find anything as well as pretty much rent anything in the way of clothes.

I owned a tuxedo since London was a tuxedo kind of place…but I had to rent a morning suit.

When you wear tuxedos or morning suits there are a couple of tests that tell you if they are rented or they are actually owned.

If they fit well and are clean, they are probably rented.

Guys that have their own usually don’t actually fit them any more; also if they have a slight green sheen they inherited them from their Grandfathers or their Fathers.

This green sheen adds a bit of class to the whole thing.

Guys that have their own do not seem to care very much about the shoes they wear…I have seen suede shoes with greenish tuxedos.

It really takes confidence to pull that off, I suppose when you have your own tuxedo or your Grandfather's, confidence is part of the package.

My tuxedos had no green sheen since my Grandfather was a fisherman in Asia Minor, no real call for a tuxedo and certainly none for a morning suit.

There is another test for a rented morning suit, the vest (waist coat) has no back, just straps, a real one has a back to the vest. If it is not greenish and you give him a manly hug you can tell by how the vest feels in back.

Remember no back to the vest and straps it is rented, probably from Moss Bross.

Back to Ascot.

The Queen came in her carriage and opened the event, Prince Phillip was there, I’m sure his morning suit was his own…no need to hug him and check on the vest.

It was a great day, lots of greenish outfits very classy, also lots of well fitting outfits, the Moss Bros. crowd.

Diving 50 years ago in Nassau.

We have been married over fifty years and we went to Nassau on our honeymoon.

It was January and not only did we go diving for the first time in our lives but we took our first airplane ride….lots of firsts on our honeymoon, no sly comments please.

The hotel arranged the dive boat, the captain was a cool guy and his mother was a crewmember and some weird other guy actually seemed to do all the work. The captain would be in the water with us when we dove. He wore a traditional scuba suit and tanks. We on the other hand (2 at a time) wore these huge brass helmets and were connected to the boat by an air hose and a rope. The captain’s mother was in charge of the helmets and connections to the boat, weird, but it worked.

We went out for about an hour to what seemed like the middle of the ocean.

He told us we were over a reef and the water was about 15 feet, seemed nuts, we could not see land.

The water was just about 15 feet; we were surrounded by an amazing sight, thousands of fish, coral, colors, plants, a new world for us. Never saw any of this in Coney Island.

Trained Groupers came to be fed and petted, they expected the tourists and were super to them, mostly because they got their supper from them.

I loved it and Jeannine adored it, she normally was not very good in the water and her going under water with this thing on her head was unbelievable.

The pictures pretty much sum it up. We were very happy under there.

For some reason, it took years for me to dive again, at age 69 I started to dive here in Greece. No big helmet on my head, but normal scuba stuff. We do not have what we had in Nassau, from the point of view of scenery, but it is much freer and still amazing.

What took me so long?

Pavlo, my cousin...my tailor.

I come from a family of tailors on my Mothers side.

Mama and her family ended up in Paris after the Asia Minor catastrophe.

My uncles were all men’s tailors and my Father was totally transformed when he went to Paris to marry my mother.

He embarrassed the Frenchified Greeks when he turned up in his loud American outfits; they made him a complete new wardrobe.

The only way they could introduce him to the other Frenchy Greeks.

Mama ran the workshop and was a talented seamstress and tailor herself.

When we went to Greece for the first time in the early 60s, we visited relatives in Edipso on the island of Evia.

These were my Fathers relatives, fishermen stock and all, except one cousin, were fishermen.

Fishermen on one side, Pops folks,

 Tailors on the other side, Mom’s family.

 Nevertheless the fishermen side had one tailor, I wonder how that happened?

 Every Greek village at that time had at least one tailor; my cousin Pavlo was one of the tailors in Edipso.

I really felt that I should have a Greek suit made by my cousin, my first custom-made suit.

It seemed appropriate that it should be Greek and by Pavlo.

OK, it is not Saville row; it’s a shop on an unpaved street on a Greek island.  That’s Ok; I am from Coney Island after all.

I wanted the trousers low cut like my Levis, Pavlo agreed but insisted on pleats.

The jacket had wide lapels and shoulder pads…nothing Ivy League about that.

Pavlo said the suit needed a vest (a waistcoat, for you Brits) my first three- piece suit.

We were going to be travelling around Greece and he had three weeks to make it, no time for fittings.

We arrive and I try on the suit, it seemed everybody in the village came to the unveiling.

Jacket is great, wide lapels and big shoulders…I feel good in it.

Trousers fit great, low cut and pleats, it works.

They help me off with my jacket and I slip into the vest, they do not reach the top of my trousers, normally the trousers are a lot higher. My low cut trousers have screwed it all up.

It works OK if I lean forward. Pavlo wants to make the vest over; no time we have a plane from Athens in the morning the next day.

I put on all three pieces and sort of bend over and everybody starts spiting three times (it means you look great and the spitting prevents the evil eye)

I wore that suit many times…made me look very continental, Greek at least. In the Greek restaurants in Chicago in the 60s it was recognized as a Greek suit, an authentic Pavlo.

The photo is Jeannine and me in Chicago; we were expecting our first child. I am the one in Pavlo’s suit.

I miss that suit.

“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.