Wednesday, August 27, 2003

Softens hands while you do the dishes

I used to be in advertising.

NO! Not sales. Ewww. Now I have to do the spasmic gross-out dance like I just found a fresh booger under the lip of the table.

I was in production. When I say production I mean I did it all. I could conceptualize, write, shoot, edit... whatever it took. Of course, not all commercials required that I perform every function but I could produce a spot from start to finish if I had to. I worked for the cable company in Stillwater, OK (home of Oklahoma State University!). Being a college town, half the residents are of a nomadic nature.

Side note: I don't want to sound like Superman, there were two of us on the production team for Stillwater.

Anyway, one of our clients was Stan Clark. If you're one of the non- or not-so-nomadic residents, you may recognize the name. If not, you may recognize the name of his flagship restaurant, Eskimo Joe's.

Stan is a pretty important guy around Stillwater. He owns three other restaurants besides Eskimo Joe's: Mexico Joe's, Stillwater Bay, and Joeseppi's (his newest restaurant that, apparently, has no web site yet).

One afternoon, I was sitting in the Joe Dome (which used to be the beer garden for those of you familiar with the establishment) having lunch with some friends from out of town. Acting like a big shot, I start bragging...
"Yeah, I know Stan Clark." I begin, sticking my chest out and reaching up to tug the lapels of the jacket I'm not wearing.
"The guy that owns this place. He also owns Mexico Joe's and The Bay."

I continue to explain how I met him through my work in advertising, and the fact that faulty equipment caused me to ruin the one and only commercial I ever produced for him. [He started having his spots produced by a company in Oklahoma City after that. He still maintains that it wasn't because of the botched commercial but some say there are no coincidences.]

"I know he at least knows me by sight," I continue. "He'll wave and say 'hello' when I see him. I don't know if he remembers my name, though."

We finish our lunch, pay our waitress and head for the door. As we step out into the warm Oklahoma sun, I hear someone yell from across the street. "Hey, Joe!"

Standing outside his corporate office (a refurbished house across the street from Joe's), is Stan Clark, waving his arm and shouting a warm hello. His timing couldn't have been better. My chest puffed out as I returned the wave, "Hey, Stan!"

"I guess he does remember my name," I say to my friends.

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