Barland Outdoor gear wasn't like what most see today. You can't find it at Dick's and it's not the kind of gear to be shelved next to the likes of The North Face, or Columbia. No. Barland was for the elite. The upper 1%. The people who played as hard as they worked used their equipment, and there were no excuses for why it didn't work. These weren't just wind breakers and hiking boots, they were a staple of the guy that could write a dinner check for 26 grand and still have enough for a quick flight over to the French Riviera for after-dinner tea, yet here I was attempting to lure these wolves in with a tagline that motivates them to trek their next mountain with the latest 8 grand hiking boots.
Last week, I'd met with the president of the Colorado-based company to try out some of the gear that they offered. He was a real class-A kind of guy. A ladies' man and a connoisseur of many hobbies. He was the kind of guy that had a Ferrari for the weekly commute, and a stacked out Jeep for the weekend excursions around his private wooded land. I'd gained plenty of knowledge from him about the company and his background, including how he once timed his mountain climb after doing 3 lines of coke, only to find himself looking for his misplaced Range Rover, which was later recovered at the bottom of the slope in a pile of twisted metal. The fucking guy drove it straight up, got out and didn't set the parking brake, and, well, you could probably guess how the rest turned out.
The one item of interest to me was a set of spiked, steel-toed boots. They looked like others, but what made them different was how light they were and how capable they seemed. A hike up the trails turned into a trek up steep and slippery snow-covered rocks, not so much with a daring grimace, but more so with so much confidence that climbing these things didn't take so much as a pep talk to help me conquer the summit. It was amazing, and I felt this would be where I drew my inspiration. Of course, since I'd been at the office, I was struggling to figure out a way to describe the experience in such a visceral and exciting matter to someone who was sipping champagne on a leather couch on a mild summer afternoon.
Stumped, I walked over to my window, overlooking Madison Avenue. 80 floors below, I could see the world passing by. It looked peaceful. Everything from up here looked peaceful. The only barrier between me and total chaos being a quarter inch thick piece of tempered glass that broadcasted the view of New York that lay before me.
I gazed out into the view. hundreds of thousands of miles of Earth stood before me in static silence from the concrete New York jungle to the hills that lie in a faint smog in the distance, and yet no matter how much of a distraction it provided, I couldn't bring myself to lay the first brick that would build this campaign up. "Copywriting; what a bitch" I say to myself, "but damn is it rewarding when you get it right." As I looked to the wall opposite my desk, decorated with awards from past campaigns, I reminded myself that this was the composure that I maintained that had gotten me through some of the toughest briefs I had ever been charged with cracking. Each one was a golden nail, my mind and creativity serving as the gold hammer, the likes of which when the two met produced material that won awards and put me on the front pages of some of the world's biggest Advertising publications. As I turned back toward my desk, adorned with a sprawl of documents and my laptop, the phone rang.
"Michael speaking" I spoke into the line
"Michael!" the voice on the other end said in an excitable tone, "You've been in there all day; cat got your tongue?"
"You kidding me? I am the cat. I just wish I could catch the damn mouse." I replied. I could hear him taking a deep inhale after I'd finished speaking.
"You know the business" he continued; "It's just one big game of Cat and Mouse. Set the right bait and you'll have it in no time - give it a crumb and you won't find anything in the trap."
"If I had a choice I'd shoot the thing" I replied. "How'd you get past it?"
"If you're referring to the sun-blocking barricade that is the creative wall, my mostly legal answer to that would be a few stiff drinks and a Friday night romp in the Vette" he replied.
"Legal answer?" I asked. "What other answer is there?"
"Well let's just say that creative inspiration is the result of a change of state of mind, wouldn't you agree?" I'd then remembered a talk we'd had about the great architect Frank Lloyd Wright, and how he'd painted his rear window black, so that he could only see where he was going, and not where he had been.
"Why is it that I sense a brainstorm coming on?" I replied.
"Come into my office, I can fill you in with the details." He said before a click and a dial tone filled my ear, indicating the end of the conversation, serving presumably as an extension of his invite.
I gazed out the window once more, my face stricken with pondering curiosity. Creativity could strike at any moment. I wasn't sure if the answer I was looking for was in that room, or that the creative edge I needed to pin this campaign down was hidden somewhere in the walk from my office to his. Either way, I didn't want to walk in empty handed.
I gathered the normal tools I bring to every meeting; my laptop, a notepad, sketch paper and of course my recorder. I liked recording the meetings we went to; some how the setting of normal conversation during a brainstorm helped me come up with ideas to pitch back that I hadn't thought of before. This time, though, this time was different. This time was out of the ordinary, as I could tell the minute I arrived at Cal's door.
Cal was our CCO. He'd been with the company for nearly 20 years, and I'd known him since I was an intern at the agency 6 years prior when he was a budding copywriter.The story of how we'd met was rather unique. I'd been in college, living the life of a dreamer, indulging in my passions and hobbies when I ran into him at a Maserati dealership during my senior year.
I'd been gazing at my dream car - a jet black GranTurismo V12 Stradale, when he came around the front end with an associate. He was the kind of guy that obviously wasn't there just to dream. In fact, I would have bet money he'd had his checkbook ready to cash in if he was really swayed to do so. As I looked inside, into the black leather interior, his face showed up in the window's reflection beside mine.
"You must be either stuck in the clouds, or one of the youngest stock brokers to ever walk the Earth." he said. He was dressed in what looked like an expensive suit, and his tone sounded subtle, yet humorous, as if he were inadvertently asking what the hell a college kid was doing in a Maserati show room.
"Neither sir, I'm really just a fresh grad with a dream" I replied with a nervous smile. This feeling that came over me was a mixture of nervousness and excitement. Kind of like I'd been too drunk at a nightclub right before being thrown out by a bouncer.
"Well, you're looking at my next dream boat" he said enthusiastically. "I'm sure you're still here only because you have a good taste in cars" he continued, as he was handed a set of folded documents, along with a black leather box. "But considering the circumstances..." -- he opened the box and pressed a button, which caused the Gran Turismo to chirp to life and flicker its lights --"...you might want to bag yours before they're gone!"
"Well If I ever find myself in your shoes, I'll be sure to credit you for the advice, sir" I replied, hoping he'd get a laugh. Instead, I got a stern, but interested smirk. My nerves picked up again. I hope he got my humor. Oh god.
"You said you were a fresh grad?" He asked inquisitively.
"Yes sir, just walked the stage last Saturday" I said. " Now I've got a degree but nothing to show for it. But that's the story with most post grad millennials I suppose." I continued
"What was your major again? I don't think I caught it"
"Advertising, with a focus on Copywriting and Design." I said.
"Well I'll say this, you're in the right place to start a career" he chuckled.
"Why is that?" I asked
"Ever hear of Simmons and Barkley?" he asked. Of course I had. I'd been following their work for the past three years. But I didn't want to sound like I was over excited that he'd brought up the one Agency that I had worshiped since I was a sophomore in college.
"Yeah I've followed their work throughout most of my college career" I replied hastily.
"Well I'm the Senior Copywriter there. Tell you what, it seems like you have a good head on your shoulders." Just then, he pulled out his wallet, out of which came a small business card which he extended over to me. "Send your resume over to me, we'll take a look at it."
Cal Simmons, the business card read.
"Oh, thank you sir...though you don't seem like the kind of guy to just hand these out" I said curiously.
"Well you're a special case" he replied.
"Why's that?" I asked
"Because you're in a Maserati show room" he said. "I can appreciate creativity. But I can respect ambition."
The doors to the show room opened as he stepped into his new car. The V12 roared to life with a symphony of sound bellowing throughout the room. After a celebratory rev, he exited the show room, like a man leaving the bar with the most beautiful girl there.
......
After walking into Cal's office, I could tell that this would be unlike any other brainstorm. Normally, it was the entire creative department. This time, it was a one on one, which normally meant you'd better have your cards in line ready to play them...or that I was about to clean out my office.
"Shut the door" Cal said upon me entering. He was sitting at his desk, twiddling with one of his pens. He didn't wear a suit, but rather chose to be causal, instead dawning a loose pair of khakis and a dark blue sweater. He had a pair of Sperrys, but they sat at the corner of his desk rather than on his feet. You could tell Cal was the kind of guy that enjoyed his laziness. You could also tell by the half empty glass of brandy and the lingering smell of a previously smoked cigarette that he was most certainly a writer. "We're gonna immerse ourselves in deep thought" he continued.
I'd thought this was one of his deep breathing exercises again. "How so?" I replied.
"Do me one last favor - put that draft stopper underneath the door."
I did so, and walked over to the desk. His office was very minimal. Two of the 4 walls were floor-to ceiling sky windows which overlooked the city, while the other two sported contemporary shelving for his drinks and books, as well as a few hanging artworks he'd owned since I'd started there. His desk was a large glass decorative piece, adorned with a think mac desktop, business magazines and a few sketchpads.
"Have a seat; take a load off" he suggested.
I sat down in 1 of the two Barcelona chairs in the middle of the room and placed my things on the coffee table. He came over and sat on the couch across from me and pulled out a small black box I'd remembered seeing a few years back the day we met, which bared the Maserati logo; however what came out of it wasn't a set of keys.
"You ever wonder where inspiration comes from sometimes?" He asked as he worked on something thst was in the box. The cover obstructed my veiw so I couldn't tell what he was doing. He continued: "Is it that extra sip of fine whisky to get you to the ever elusive creative peak? Is it a long conversation you have with a close friend? Or is it that we're too overworked, and that sometimes, you just need to sit back and take a deep, satisfying breath?"
Just then, the crafting he'd been working on behind the top cover of the opened box rose up above into sight. A blunt. a huge fucking blunt. The kind of blunt that I'd remembered smoking only in my early college years, not so much as a way of inspiration, but more so to see how high one could get without actually passing out. I'd thought that Cal Simmons, being the professional he was, never touched the stuff. Hell, I thought he'd been opposed to it since the day he'd driven out of the show room in that Maserati. And yet there he was, a blunt with at least a quarter ounce of weed in hand, staring me in the face as he dried out the seal with a lighter. What the fuck. What the real fuck.
"I have to be honest, I never pegged you as a smoker" I said
"Mike, you of all people should understand the many, many outlets that writers such as you and myself draw inspiration from sometimes. Come on, like you haven't written some of your best works in college without a little help from your friend Mary J." He said as he lit the end.
"Yeah I get it, and you'd be right about that to a point" I said. "Does anyone else know about this?"
"About what? My indulgence in the green? Let me put it to you this way;" He closed his eyes and took a deep inhale. He held it for a few seconds before exhaling, surrounding us in a plume of smoke. He continued: "Rememember the day I drove off in that brand new Maserati you'd spent an hour staring at?"
"Yeah, of course I do. I gotta be honest it was a bitter sweet moment for me." I replied.
"Well by the time i'd gotten to the road and made that right turn down Madison Avenue I'd already puffed my way through a quarter of a joint. Needless to say, it was a good day."
He took another hit of the massive blunt and then passed it my way.
"Now I'm not gonna lie, I could tell that you were a smoker the minute I saw you looking at my ride."
"Is that why you gave me your card?"
He laughed in his reply: "No, I saw the creativity come out of you like a mad tiger coming out of its hideout. You were hungry and I'm not talking about munchies."
I took it as a compliment and puffed my way to a mellow state.
20 minutes later, I found myself in a cloud of haze. The mid day sun filled the airy office with a gleaming summer glow, and as we put out the roach, Cal addressed me about the account for which I'd originally come in for.
"So what are we supposed to do about this account?" Cal asked.
"Isn't that the 5 million dollar question" I replied. "Barland is prestige, and they have the kind of customer base most apparel companies would only dream of."
"What, you mean that they sell reliable outdoor equipment to customers that are more than willing to pay top dollar?"
"No, I mean the people that buy this shit actually use it."
"Columbia comes to mind on that one" replied Cal.
"Yeah, but you can tell them that climbing Everest is possible if you buy one of their fucking marshmallow jackets" I replied, stirring a chuckle from Cal. "Barland needs an honest voice; one that is unique and actually doesn't motivate you to conquer the world like you're fucking Ceasar" I continued.
"Well separating our clients from the rest is what we're good at. So, you have your ducks in a row, now let's see the ideas fly." replied Cal.
"Last week, I used their spike shoes when I was out in Colorado with their President. It was interesting because the grip was unlike any other i'd experienced in the snow. It was solid. And it didn't seem like it needed any kind of message to prove the point. It did exactly what it promised. Not a single slip."
"So let's say that you don't need a message. Let's say its always based on the unique experience; that it's a departure from the clubhouse champagne and tee times that they're used to."
"I mean its not a question whether it's an escape from the fabulous world they live in. It's an escape from the familiar."
Just then, a rupture of thought came over me. It was as if a tidal wave of lava crashed my thought process and triggered an adrenaline shot that made me blurt out the tagline that would serve as the pinnacle of the brand.
"I got it" I said, an enthusiastic glare coming from my eyes, filled with the excitement of an epiphany.
"Go on, tell me" Cal said
"We have a commercial. No sound, but the visual depicts all the scene's actions: A man walks down a busy urban avenue, pressed suit and brief case in hand, the stress of a long week urging him to depart from the working world in search of something bigger. using the spikes, he treks a mountain pass, expressions of vigor, excitement, and fear filling his face. You want to hear what it sounds like, but you can only keep your eyes on the screen. A storm tumbles the bridges and buildings around him. At the end, he stands atop the crumbling world beneath, his spikes providing the foundation to combat the wind. The suit blows away in the wind to reveal a Barland jacket. He drops the suit case and the next shot shows him holding his backpack. He looks diligently off into the distance. The camera pans out, and a tag line comes center screen, thin font -- it reads: "Challenge The Unexpected".
It was that spark of haze-driven and weed inspired creativity that could only come from an uninhibited mind. In fact, looking back on the notes I took of the scene I'd described to Cal in the office that day made me realize that crumbling buildings and a heroic man who strips his corporate identity in the pursuit of adventure probably wasn't something I would have come up with sober, let alone after a few stiff drinks. At least not in such a magnificent fashion. What we told the press during the CLIO awards a few months later, however, was something more along the lines of inspired philosophy of past greats in the industry combining to produce the creative fire we needed to win the award for best film that year. But me and Cal looked at one another, and he wore that same stern, but optimistic smirk he'd given me 6 years earlier.
I did so, and walked over to the desk. His office was very minimal. Two of the 4 walls were floor-to ceiling sky windows which overlooked the city, while the other two sported contemporary shelving for his drinks and books, as well as a few hanging artworks he'd owned since I'd started there. His desk was a large glass decorative piece, adorned with a think mac desktop, business magazines and a few sketchpads.
"Have a seat; take a load off" he suggested.
I sat down in 1 of the two Barcelona chairs in the middle of the room and placed my things on the coffee table. He came over and sat on the couch across from me and pulled out a small black box I'd remembered seeing a few years back the day we met, which bared the Maserati logo; however what came out of it wasn't a set of keys.
"You ever wonder where inspiration comes from sometimes?" He asked as he worked on something thst was in the box. The cover obstructed my veiw so I couldn't tell what he was doing. He continued: "Is it that extra sip of fine whisky to get you to the ever elusive creative peak? Is it a long conversation you have with a close friend? Or is it that we're too overworked, and that sometimes, you just need to sit back and take a deep, satisfying breath?"
Just then, the crafting he'd been working on behind the top cover of the opened box rose up above into sight. A blunt. a huge fucking blunt. The kind of blunt that I'd remembered smoking only in my early college years, not so much as a way of inspiration, but more so to see how high one could get without actually passing out. I'd thought that Cal Simmons, being the professional he was, never touched the stuff. Hell, I thought he'd been opposed to it since the day he'd driven out of the show room in that Maserati. And yet there he was, a blunt with at least a quarter ounce of weed in hand, staring me in the face as he dried out the seal with a lighter. What the fuck. What the real fuck.
"I have to be honest, I never pegged you as a smoker" I said
"Mike, you of all people should understand the many, many outlets that writers such as you and myself draw inspiration from sometimes. Come on, like you haven't written some of your best works in college without a little help from your friend Mary J." He said as he lit the end.
"Yeah I get it, and you'd be right about that to a point" I said. "Does anyone else know about this?"
"About what? My indulgence in the green? Let me put it to you this way;" He closed his eyes and took a deep inhale. He held it for a few seconds before exhaling, surrounding us in a plume of smoke. He continued: "Rememember the day I drove off in that brand new Maserati you'd spent an hour staring at?"
"Yeah, of course I do. I gotta be honest it was a bitter sweet moment for me." I replied.
"Well by the time i'd gotten to the road and made that right turn down Madison Avenue I'd already puffed my way through a quarter of a joint. Needless to say, it was a good day."
He took another hit of the massive blunt and then passed it my way.
"Now I'm not gonna lie, I could tell that you were a smoker the minute I saw you looking at my ride."
"Is that why you gave me your card?"
He laughed in his reply: "No, I saw the creativity come out of you like a mad tiger coming out of its hideout. You were hungry and I'm not talking about munchies."
I took it as a compliment and puffed my way to a mellow state.
20 minutes later, I found myself in a cloud of haze. The mid day sun filled the airy office with a gleaming summer glow, and as we put out the roach, Cal addressed me about the account for which I'd originally come in for.
"So what are we supposed to do about this account?" Cal asked.
"Isn't that the 5 million dollar question" I replied. "Barland is prestige, and they have the kind of customer base most apparel companies would only dream of."
"What, you mean that they sell reliable outdoor equipment to customers that are more than willing to pay top dollar?"
"No, I mean the people that buy this shit actually use it."
"Columbia comes to mind on that one" replied Cal.
"Yeah, but you can tell them that climbing Everest is possible if you buy one of their fucking marshmallow jackets" I replied, stirring a chuckle from Cal. "Barland needs an honest voice; one that is unique and actually doesn't motivate you to conquer the world like you're fucking Ceasar" I continued.
"Well separating our clients from the rest is what we're good at. So, you have your ducks in a row, now let's see the ideas fly." replied Cal.
"Last week, I used their spike shoes when I was out in Colorado with their President. It was interesting because the grip was unlike any other i'd experienced in the snow. It was solid. And it didn't seem like it needed any kind of message to prove the point. It did exactly what it promised. Not a single slip."
"So let's say that you don't need a message. Let's say its always based on the unique experience; that it's a departure from the clubhouse champagne and tee times that they're used to."
"I mean its not a question whether it's an escape from the fabulous world they live in. It's an escape from the familiar."
Just then, a rupture of thought came over me. It was as if a tidal wave of lava crashed my thought process and triggered an adrenaline shot that made me blurt out the tagline that would serve as the pinnacle of the brand.
"I got it" I said, an enthusiastic glare coming from my eyes, filled with the excitement of an epiphany.
"Go on, tell me" Cal said
"We have a commercial. No sound, but the visual depicts all the scene's actions: A man walks down a busy urban avenue, pressed suit and brief case in hand, the stress of a long week urging him to depart from the working world in search of something bigger. using the spikes, he treks a mountain pass, expressions of vigor, excitement, and fear filling his face. You want to hear what it sounds like, but you can only keep your eyes on the screen. A storm tumbles the bridges and buildings around him. At the end, he stands atop the crumbling world beneath, his spikes providing the foundation to combat the wind. The suit blows away in the wind to reveal a Barland jacket. He drops the suit case and the next shot shows him holding his backpack. He looks diligently off into the distance. The camera pans out, and a tag line comes center screen, thin font -- it reads: "Challenge The Unexpected".
It was that spark of haze-driven and weed inspired creativity that could only come from an uninhibited mind. In fact, looking back on the notes I took of the scene I'd described to Cal in the office that day made me realize that crumbling buildings and a heroic man who strips his corporate identity in the pursuit of adventure probably wasn't something I would have come up with sober, let alone after a few stiff drinks. At least not in such a magnificent fashion. What we told the press during the CLIO awards a few months later, however, was something more along the lines of inspired philosophy of past greats in the industry combining to produce the creative fire we needed to win the award for best film that year. But me and Cal looked at one another, and he wore that same stern, but optimistic smirk he'd given me 6 years earlier.
This life. It's a game of cat and mouse. And I was the mouse, only now I was the one holding the keys to the Gran Turismo.
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