Damnit

We interrupt our Thursday Thrashing Letters and today's regularly scheduled spewing of the red hot rhetorical lava at our esteemed Republican Senators, for a story. The story of a man I met years ago.

I'm telling this because, as I have mentioned in the past, our industry, and our culture, does a piss poor job of honoring those who deserve to be honored.

Oh there'll be plenty of trade ink about the cavalcade of mindless Super Bowl commercials no one will ever remember.

Or maybe even another inane list, like the "Top 25 Media Analysts Under 25."

Emily delivers the KPI's that clients can't get enough of. Her mastery of the Excel spreadsheet is legendary. On weekends, Emily likes to crochet sweaters for shelter dogs.

But there won't be anything about the passing of Chuck Bennett.

And there should be.

I met Chuck way back in the 90's. First at Stein Robaire Helm. And later at Chiat/Day, where I worked with him for close to six years.

The first thing you notice about Chuck is his wheelchair. It was also the last thing he'd ever want to talk about it. It was what it was and it was NEVER going to get in the way of what Chuck had to do or wanted to do in life.

I will never forget the first time I saw him climb into his specially equipped silver Volvo 850 wagon.

He opened the front door, and used his massively strong arms to hoist and throw his body into the driver seat. As if that were not an amazing feat of strength in and of itself, he'd then lean over, fold his weighty, stainless steel chair and swing it over his body into the passenger's seat. The choreography was beautiful and it was clear he had done this a thousand times over.

Before I could pick my jaw up off the ground, Chuck smiled and said, "Ok, I'll see you guys at Tacos Por Favor."

In recent years, although in recollection not as recent as I thought, we'd gather at this little divey Taco stand near Olympic and 14th. It was our regular spot for a mini reunion lunch that included Chuck, BTU (Big Tall Ugly) Frank and myself.

We would eat, laugh, shoot the shit, drink the occasional beer, and talk about the hot women that worked in advertising -- a practice for which I will not apologize.

For the young and uninitiated, Chuck will best be remembered for the work he and Clay did for Taco Bell. Their "Yo Quiero Taco Bell" campaign is rich with laugh out lines that often entered pop culture and got merchandised into millions of dollars of revenue. None of which went Chuck and Clay's way.

To which Chuck would often say....

"FUCK."

We stayed in touch via email. And though he got out of the business, he loved reading R17 and never stopped taking joy in the pain advertising dished out, particularly if I was on the receiving end.

Here's an example...

A few years ago, he bought a 5 acre piece of hilly property in a remote part of the big island (Hawaii). He lived the life of a gentleman rancher, as he called it. And later taught himself how to make ukuleles.

Why? Because he could.

Apart from beating cancer, there was nothing he couldn't do.

He was smart, eclectic and oftentimes juvenile.
I will miss his indomitable spirit.
His cutting wit.
His no-holds barred laughter.
Most of all, his friendship.

I'm not easily driven to tears, but apparently this was one more thing Chuck could do.

FUCK.