The best and the worst thing about advertising hell was the New Business Pitch. It was winner-take-all. May the best bullshitters win. And these one- to two-hour take-no-prisoners shoot-outs cost a fortune, all of it out of pocket for the agency.
Thompson got invited to pitch for the Miller High Life beer account. Miller was owned by Philip Morris and they were spending ninety million dollars a year, which was a lot of money back then. Maybe it still is. I’ve lost track and I’ve lost interest.
The pitch was a big deal at Thompson, of course, but CEO Burt Manning and new business director Bert Metter had a sometime tendency to overdo things. We’d already had four grueling rehearsals by the time we flew out to Milwaukee. What was worse, Burt and Bert insisted that we meet that night at Miller headquarters around ten and practice the pitch all over again.
When the creative team—Hal Friedman, Brian Sitts, Frank Nicolo, and myself—got into Milwaukee, I made the command decision that we were not going to meet Burt and Bert at Miller headquarters. We were going out for steaks and beer.
The next morning, we showed up for the big presentation around seven thirty. In those days, Miller actually had beer taps in the lobby. Maybe they still do. Frank Nicolo drew himself a beer, took a healthy swig, and said it was good for client relations.
When we got up to the conference room, Burt and Bert wouldn’t talk to us before the pitch. They were really pissed. I got it. My team and I had blown them off the night before.
When the pitch was over—a really good pitch—Burt and Bert still wouldn’t talk to us.
But two days later, when we got the news that we’d won the Miller account, Burt and Bert immediately started talking to us again. They even popped some champagne down in Burt’s office. And Burt could really heap on the praise when it was earned.
Not long after we won Miller, we had to go to Philip Morris headquarters to meet with Hamish Maxwell, who ran the corporation. I’ll never forget entering the Philip Morris boardroom and seeing a pack of cigarettes placed at every chair around the big table. How fricking bizarre is that? Or maybe not, given that Maxwell was a two-pack-a-day smoker.
During the meeting, Hamish Maxwell said a line that’s stuck with me: “I’ve been bamboozled before, but now I’ve been bamboozled by the best.”
Now, here’s the strangest part of all. Years later, I had to take a little heart exam at New York–Presbyterian Hospital. So I go up to the fourth floor, start walking to the front desk, and stop dead in my tracks. Big letters spell out HAMISH MAXWELL PAVILION.
Think about it. I definitely did. The man, since deceased, who had been the chairman of Philip Morris, makers of Marlboro, Virginia Slims, Chesterfield, and Player’s cigarettes, now had his name emblazoned over the front desk of the clinic where my heart was about to be examined.
I had to stop myself from running the hell out of there. But I stayed. They’re very good at what they do in the Hamish Maxwell Pavilion.
I’m fine, by the way.
Maybe because I didn’t drink any beer at Miller headquarters.
Or maybe because I didn’t smoke the cigarettes at Philip Morris headquarters, or anywhere else.