I mean no disrespect; Larry Tate is one hell of a guy,
But if you can’t wrangle up a showgirl or hooker
On short notice, you have no business calling yourself an ad man.
Likewise, the Stevens kid gets results—and God only knows
How he carries off some of the last-minute miracles he pulls
Out of his ass—but you gotta keep him away from the money clients;
Too skittish, too much of a loose cannon. No, every agency has to have
A base, a philosophy to anchor itself ; you remember the first big ad we did?
“You call that a suit? Mine’s an Irving Freibush?”
That was mine. Let me tell you, I didn’t need a focus group
Or some fifty-thousand dollar demographic study
To figure out if the goddamn desk the model was leaning against
Should be oak or cherry. I knew it would work because I knew
What every ad man (and preacher and politician, for that matter) knows
As well as he knows his own name; that everyone, deep inside, feels they are
Not quite right—a little slow, a little shabby, a little less than their fellow man.
We just—quietly, mind you—reinforce that a bit, and present them
A shinier, newer band-aid; anyway, the campaign worked like gangbusters,
And it always gave me the jollies that both Hef and Billy Graham
Each had a closet full of those suits. Look, what we do isn’t rocket science
Or parlor tricks—but a bunch of big black figures on the bottom line
Of the ledger book? Now, that is fucking magic.