Truth in Advertising Page 0,26

account girl.”

“The stunning one?”

“The stunning one.”

“Not his wife, in other words.”

“Definitely not his wife. They were making out. At the bar. Like openly making out. This is across the street! Tom gets so drunk that he puts his head on the bar and the stunning one strokes it. People are watching them now. He puts his hand up the back of her blouse. He gets up and walks into the hostess stand, almost knocking it over. The hostess picks him up, asks if he’s all right. He says he’s fine. Then he walks out onto the street and in full view of the entire restaurant, pukes onto the sidewalk.”

Why is there a part of me that secretly enjoys hearing about this? Why is there a tingle of excitement at someone else’s misfortune, poor decision, emotional duress? Is it because somewhere in my own psyche I understand poor, sad Tom Pope’s actions, his need for attention from an attractive young woman as he grows older? Is it because I recognize this as a cry for help, a longing for something that’s clearly not happening at home? Or is it because it’s just plain funny when a grown man makes a horse’s ass of himself in public and then vomits freely?

Phoebe says, “Promise me you’ll never be like that.”

I say, “If he keeps this up he could be a partner in no time.”

Then Phoebe says, “Would you miss me if I left?”

“You mean, like, left my office?”

“Left. Quit.”

“You thinking of leaving?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. I’m getting a little bored.”

Ian has stuck his head into my office and says, “Can I come with you? I’m bored, too.”

I say, “The entire agency may come with you.”

Ian says, “I’m headed to Chubby Feet.”

This is not an insult by Ian. Nor is it a form of Tourette’s. This is the name of the company where we color-correct commercials. After you’ve shot the commercial, edited the commercial, you then primp it for air. This takes place at highly specialized companies in New York and Los Angeles, usually in formerly industrial buildings in TriBeCa or West Hollywood or Santa Monica. Often they are simple raw spaces, open concrete floors and walls with modern sculpture, an array of death masks perhaps, a flat-screen TV that shows nothing but waves hitting the beach. In the middle of the room there is almost always a Ping-Pong table. Soviet-era posters might adorn the walls. Sleepy-looking young people wander the halls, their hair unwashed and bedraggled, their pants low on their hips, ironic writing on their T-shirts (I’M NOT GAY BUT MY BOYFRIEND IS). And in the semi-darkness of the editing suites with their double-paned soundproof glass doors, there sit exceptionally expensive computers and software systems manned by industry-famous men with one name. Luke. Rush. Anton. They provide exceptional lunches.

The companies have uniformly bizarre names that bear no relation to the business they are in. No Stan Whaley’s Plumbing and Heating Supplies here. Instead, Chubby Feet, Hey Gary!, Ham Sandwich, and Super Happy Good Time. The receptionist at this last one, a perpetually fatigued-looking young woman named Petrol, must say the company name hundreds of times a day. Often she answers the phone by saying, in a voice that suggests otherwise, “Super Happy.”

Who’s to say why they choose these names. It is, I think, in the worlds of advertising/entertainment, the almost manic pursuit of hip. This is crucial. Who’s hip, who’s cool, who’s the guy? The problem is that by the time I’ve heard who’s hip/cool/the guy, they’re no longer hip/cool/the guy. They’re mainstream/accepted/cliché. The key is to be just ahead of the hip curve, which I have never ever once been. Where does one go to learn of this hipness and coolness? My father wore zip-front cardigan sweaters. Not cool. Kurt Cobain wore zip-front cardigan sweaters. Cool. Why? Could be his use of heroin and his playing of the guitar. But what is cool? What is hip? My sense, after a lot of thought, is that if you have to ask, you’ll never know. Also, it would be gauche and profoundly uncool to ask how these post-production houses came up with their clever names or why they simply didn’t call themselves Alan’s Post-Production Services. When I’m there I say things like “Hey, man” and “Hey, dude,” even though I don’t use the words man or dude in normal conversation. In this way, along with my uniform of blue jeans, Blundstone’s, and short-sleeve T-shirt over long-sleeve T-shirt over short-sleeve T-shirt over a life vest,