In the beginning

Today, in further Cleaning-Out-the-Garage Adventures, we travel back to the year 1984. And proudly, ok, maybe not-so-proudly, bring you remnants from the NH&S Wall of Shame.

But allow me to back the mail cart up and give some context here.

There's a reason why so many of advertising luminaries (present company excluded) started their careers in the mailroom. Notably, it's an entry level job. In actuality it's a below-entry level job, if that's even possible. It's mindless work for penniless schmucks like myself who wanted a career in writing but had no idea how to make that happen.

Hence, the schlepping of boxes, the running of errands for cavalier executives and the endless grinding of being stepped on, day in/day out from 9 in the morning until 5 at night. Please note that in those days, at least at NH&S, the office shut down at 5 PM. Sharp.

But, as org. charts have shown, many who started in the mailroom worked their way up to the C-suite (again, present company excluded). Why? I suspect it's because clerks in the mailroom had daily contact with every other department in the agency. 

Moreover, quick-thinking, under-employed, college graduate clerks, like myself and my boss Jim Jennewein, were able to survey the landscape and develop a well-rounded view of the agency as a whole. A perspective not shared by any of the people siloed throughout. 

It was Ad Agency 101.

The mailroom was also a place we desperately wanted to leave. That's we in the collective sense, me, Jim, Hal Riney, Barry Diller and so many more. There's a reason  why no one retires as a Mailroom Clerk.

But getting out would take time. Sorry kids, we all have to pay some dues. 

So while we were trapped in that interior box office with the company's stash of envelopes, pencils, reams of paper and precious Pendaflex Hanging Folders, we made the best of our time. 

Jim and I cordened off a corkboard and dubbed it our Wall of Shame. 

There, we hung pictures snipped from the many agricultural trade magazines no one would claim. That included photos of prize cows from all over the country; Holsteins, Jerseys, Brafords and Belgian Blues. And because there were times we had nothing better to do, we wrote little Playboyesque type profiles on each of the now-named cows. I'm hoping I come across these in my garage clearing activities.

What I did find however, were these lithographs of 19th century farm life, reborn with our not-so-clever captions. 

If I remember correctly, we incorrectly (and naively) thought if Larry Postaer, the Creative Director at the time ever walked in and saw our gut-busting handiwork, he'd immediately pluck us from our vocational abyss and put us to work on the next commercial for the Honda Civic.

Suffice it to say, that did not happen. 

And when you read the following captions, you'll know exactly why. Nevertheless, I'm humble enough to share. And admit my shit stinks. Just like everyone else's. 

Behold...