Whenever Newsletter 3-8

Last spring, I had drinks with a friend who is in advertising. I won't tell you his name, but in my home his nickname rhymes with "brickhead." I hadn't seen Brick in a while, and I had some ads to pitch (I worked as a copywriter for years and can't stop writing the damned things).

I started with an ad for Gatorade. Damaged by vodka, I used mainly my arms to convey the following:

"It's a brawny man running on a treadmill at the gym. It's late. He's alone. We snap the photo as he wipes sweat from his brow. The top reads, Not because you're here today... and then the bottom, but because you'll be back tomorrow. Gatorade. Is it in you?"

Brick accomplished the amazing feat of shrugging with his voice.

I kept pushing: "If Gatorade doesn't like it, we'll take it to PowerBar."

Brick stirred his drink, unimpressed. I angled with some slogans.

"What do people look forward to when they eat Hostess? Crème filling! We persuade Hostess to introduce Double-Crème Cupcakes: The Hostess With the Mostess."

More stirring.

"Okay, okay, okay. This one is for a printing company: Kinko's, making you look good in print."

Brick yawned theatrically. "What else you got?"

Maybe it was the vodka talking, but I really wanted to go Three Stooges on this guy. Here it was happy hour, and he couldn't even spare me a smile. Where was the guy who used to solicit hugs from strangers?

The evening ended the way it began, with me wishing I had stayed home. I zigzagged over to the phone and called my wife for a ride but not before telling a nearby police officer that I wouldn't be driving (they always appreciate that).

And life went on.

Last week I heard a commercial on the radio. I only caught the jingle at the end: "Brickhead Design, making you look good in print." I tried to shake it out of my head. Could he do that? No, it would be too ... Dr. Evil.

I went to Brick's website to grab his phone number, and what did I find but my slogan at the top of every web page, in the company literature, on his voice mail. I started to spin. How could? Why did? I mean, we were friends. I would have given him material. It was the fact that he ho-hummed me.

I called Brick to confront him, and he played dumb (he has a knack for it). I laughed but only to keep from cursing. I remembered this from the ninth grade when Steve Allison took credit for my idea to build a race track for people who like to drink and drive. The teacher gave Steve a "C" for supporting such madness, and I consoled him by saying that it was two grades up from plagiarism.

Brick has not returned my calls, which leaves me in the familiar position of scratching my rear end. There is a poem by Mother Theresa called "The Final Analysis" in which she coaches me to let it go. I'll take her advice, but sometimes I wish that I were still immature enough to go with my first idea -- placing fecal matter on Brick's doorstep with a sign reading, "Making you look good in shit."

Something tells me Mother Theresa wouldn't approve.