Follow the smoke rings.

I can't believe the boys on Madison Avenue got away with this sh––                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 January 12, 2023 | [Read Online]( Follow the smoke rings. I can't believe the boys on Madison Avenue got away with this shit. Cole Schafer January 12, 2023 [fb]( [tw]( [in]( [email](mailto:?subject=Post%20from%20Sticky%20Notes&body=Follow%20the%20smoke%20rings.%20%3A%20I%20can%27t%20believe%20the%20boys%20on%20Madison%20Avenue%20got%20away%20with%20this%20shit.%0A%0Ahttps%3A%2F%2Fwww.getthesticky.com%2Fp%2Ften-over-twelve) In high school, I was a stupid pimple-faced, polo-wearing intern at an advertising agency in Evansville, Indiana called Ten Over Twelve Creative. While Ten Over Twelve met the same tragic fate that so many agencies do––shuddering their doors and flickering off the lights after their largest client pulled the rug out from under them––they were enjoying one hell of a lick when I picked up my shovel. Their golden child at the time was Heaven Hill, a behemoth in spirits whose liquor cabinet housed brands the likes of Evan Williams, Henry McKenna, Larceny, Old Fitzgerald, Elijah Craig, Blue Coat, Widow Jane, Deep Eddy's, Carolans and Admiral Nelsons. My seventeen-year-old self got piss drunk just walking the halls of Ten Over Twelve and gazing upon the countless award-winning ads for Heaven Hill that festooned the agency's exposed brick walls. It was here where I first fell in love with advertising. Or, at least, the idea of advertising. Ten Over Twelve was an agency as cool as a cucumber in a pair of Hunter S. Thompson-esque aviators. The graphic designers and copywriters all had window offices that surrounded a bay that was designed in the style of a 50s-era lawn with artificial turf, mid-century modern outdoor furniture and retro-looking Weber grills topped with faux burgers and dogs, charcoal marked and all. The Creative Director of the agency had an office that looked like a cross-between––and I know this is a bit of a reach to imagine––Don Draper's corner office and Pablo Picasso's art studio. He sat at an enormous oak desk cornered by massive, low-sitting leather couches whose arms were bowing beneath stacks of magazines, books and ad concepts pending his approval. I remember my first day on the job he waved me into his office and broke down the animals of an advertising agency as if the two of us were on Safari in Kenya. "Everybody downstairs handles the business side of the agency. Those are the accounts people whose job is to make sure the client isn't fucking pissed." He continued. "Everybody upstairs––that's us––handles the creation of the ads you see pasted over every square inch of this place. We're the creative folks who don't really like to talk to the client." It was here where he reached for a magazine splayed open beside me which depicted a beautiful two-page ad with a pair of blackened hands "warshing" themselves––as my grandfather would say––with a rag that looked like a chimney's favorite handkerchief. "You have to ask yourself what you want to do here. Do you want to handle the clients? Or, do you want to create shit like this." He then pointed to the ad. I looked at him and I said, "I want to create shit like this." The rest of my internship was spent not creating anything like the ad depicting the muck-ridden hands but instead getting my hands dirty with all the shit the rest of the creative team didn't want to do. I spent most of my time with the office manager who smoked so many cigarettes that when she waved her hands at you to make a point––which she did often––you could smell the nicotine wafting off of them. I can't tell you how fond I was of that woman. She reminded me of my aunt (one of my favorite people on the fucking planet and a character straight out of a novel). She was smart as hell, wittier than a fox, funny, mildly unhinged, creative as I'll get out and always looking for an excuse to duck outside for a cigarette break. Short aside... My aunt told me a story once about her beating the hell out of a woman for cutting her off at a red light and hurling a Big Red into her parent's Cadillac convertible––which she had taken out for a joy ride––leaving the buttercream interior looking like Elmo had vomited up his dinner at Red Lobster. After she had finished telling me the story––and mind you this was a couple decades after the beating––she showed me a giant indention on the underbelly of her ring. "That's from the bitch's head." As we approached the end of the quarter and with the "big presentation", you could cut the tension in the agency with a plastic spoon. The graphic designers and the copywriters were scrambling like ants atop a fallen popsicle while I twiddled my thumbs and shot the shit on the artificial turf with my beloved office manager. When the ads were finally approved by the Creative Director, the office manager and I journeyed to an enormous art room buried deep within the bowels of the agency, where we printed out ads, sliced away their bleed with scalpels and pasted them to sturdy, pretty-looking cardboard. We worked the whole day––only stopping for the office managers' smoke breaks––and by the time the clock struck 5 p.m., we had 50-something ads to show Heaven Hill. The next day, the Creative Director asked me to show up to the office a bit early to accompany both him and the founder of the agency on a two-hour drive to Louisville, Kentucky to present the campaigns to Heaven Hill. The founder was a gent by the name of Peter, a charismatic playboy who could sell used Playboys to the ghost of Hugh Hefner. Watching Peter work that room at Heaven Hill's headquarters was like watching an episode of fucking Madmen. At the end of the presentation, everyone at Heaven Hill was beside themselves and the ride back to the office was light with a feeling of pure, unadulterated victory. That was my very first taste of advertising and my only time spent at an agency. I've been chasing that high ever since. By [Cole Schafer](. P.S. It's 2023, I'm opening my books to new clients. If you're in need of copy, creative direction or someone to just shoot the shit with, reply to this email or email me at "cole@honeycopy.com". P.P.S. I don't advertise guns or cigarettes (see the above ad for why). P.P.P.S. If you're new to Sticky Notes, you can subscribe [here](. It's never too late to start. This is Julia Child. She was a badass. She played collegiate basketball. She was a spy during World War II. She was a cancer survivor. And, she'd eventually reach culinary greatness as the first woman to be inducted into the Culinary Hall of Fame. One of my favorite quotes from her is, "I was thirty-two when I started cooking; up until then, I just ate." It's a delicious reminder that 1). it's never too late to start and 2). up until this point, your time hasn't been wasted: you've just been developing your taste. If you love poetry, grab a copy of [One Minute, Please?](, [After Her]( or [Guillotine](. If you're struggling to face your fears, [Let the tigers through the door.]( If you're an aspiring writer, enroll in [Meet Cute](. If you're interested in advertising, it's never too cold for [Snow Cones](. If you're looking for lady luck, buy lunch with [Mr. Draper](. [Buy me a drink.]( Share Sticky Notes Assuming you think the words you just read are "good", you can spread the good word by clicking the big black button down below or highlighting that pretty red link. You currently have 0 referrals. 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