It looked like a chicken.

In 1958, I was a 17-year-old after school advertising apprentice at a fast-growing… little agency in Cleveland. We specialized in shopping center promotion. Shopping centers were a new phenomenon and we were riding the wave. I was comfortably seated on the commode in my favorite men’s room stall staring at the door in front of me.

There was a chip on the door. It looked like a chicken.

Every day I came into this stall. Every day I stared at the chicken chip. These were the heady “Mad Men” days of anything-goes creativity and of anything-goes anything. 

And so, on that particular day I thought (all at once), “If there were something to read on the stall door instead of a chicken chip, I would read it. If there were an ad with very long copy, I would read it. If I were an advertiser, I would know for certain that captive men and women in a particular office building were reading my message. If I were an office building landlord, I could make money with no investment by just allowing ads on my stall doors.”
It seemed like something that should be done.

I immediately went to, my idol and mentor, Howard Marks, the 27-year-old head of the agency, who had himself apprenticed at the agency that introduced Smucker’s to the marketplace and who, in seven or so years, would create KISS. I told him about my chicken-chip-cover-up epiphany. “That’s a great idea,” he said. “You should do it.”

I was, of course, hoping that he would work with me on it; finance it; make it happen. After all, he was 27. He knew how to make things happen. I was 17. I didn’t. Howard made no offer to help whatsoever. 

So, I then shared my bathroom brainstorm with our agency’s brilliant elder copywriter. He was 32. “That’s really a great idea,” he said. “You should do it.” He went back to his Olivetti. That was it. If anything was going to happen with this, I was obviously going to have to do it myself.

My ad career subsequently took me to California, Milwaukee and St. Louis. I was drafted and was in the Army Band (I’m a reed man) and then Viet Nam for a while. I then moved to New York City and got married.

During all these moves and years, whenever I brought up my idea, mostly as a conversation catalyst, virtually everyone would say, “That’s a great idea. You should do it.” 

So, one day in 1970, unhappy with my present agency position, I got an MBA friend to help me put together a business plan and through a family connection found a group of brave investors who thought stall door advertising really was “great idea” and that “I should do it.” Project R (Rest Room), Inc. was born.
First order of business: get the stall doors. I created a portable cartoon strip film/audio presentation for landlords. In today’s world it would be on a DVD or a memory stick. In 1970, state-of-the art was a 25-pound monster carrying case with a 10-inch screen on its outside and a synchronized strip film/tape player inside. The strip film and audio were constantly getting out of synch. I just had to kind of lug it in, clunk it down as gently as possible, push the start button…and hope. 

The cute little cartoon landlord in the presentation showed initial animated interest when the announcer let him know that he could make a lot money on property that he already owned, with no further investment or risk. And actual landlords actually showed actual initial interest as well. Then the announcer asked the cartoon landlord to guess what this fabulous moneymaker might be. He couldn’t and eagerly awaited the answer that was: “The inside of the stall doors of the rest rooms in your office buildings.”

Upon hearing this, the enraged cartoon landlord jumped on his desk and ordered me immediately out of his office. The announcer begged his indulgence and explained the low-risk, high-return potential. The animated landlord listened and finally, won over by solid marketing strategy, became eager to sign. Unfortunately, actual landlords continued in the “get out of my office” direction. My 25-pound assistant and I were thrown out of some of the most important real estate firms in New York, often accompanied by a shower of stinging epithets.

The Project R investors couldn’t understand why New York’s landlords weren’t lining up to partake of the windfall we offered and were becoming a bit nervous.

Me, too.

Then I got an appointment Harry Helmsley whose firm owned and/or managed more than 100 prime Manhattan properties including the Empire State Building. He had a reputation as a solid businessman and a gentleman. He was both. A soft-spoken, 6’5” white haired, impeccably dressed consummate real estate tycoon, he watched the antics of my cartoon landlord with a civilized smile and listened to my recorded announcer and said, “It’s a great idea. I think we should do it.” 

As I attempted to conceal my elation and disbelief, he laid out the required insurance parameters, etc., told me who to see to get things signed, and told me to stay in touch. 

After all these many years since the chicken chip, I actually had thousands of the best stall doors in the world to offer what were certain to be eager advertisers! Look out world, here comes Project R!

Of course, there were details to be taken care of like getting exactly the right adhesives and laminations for the ads…and building a sales force and maintenance crew, etc. Those were done and it was time to visit ad agencies with my presentation.

The cartoon figure in the agency version was a little media executive who was initially intrigued by the prospects of a mysterious new medium which promised to deliver an upscale captive audience who could be gender and career targeted with absolute precision. When it was revealed to the cute little media executive that the new medium was ads on stall doors of office building restrooms, he became enraged, leaped onto his desk and ordered me out of his office. The announcer begged his forbearance and gradually convinced the cartoon media executive of the advantages to his clients of being “pioneer” advertisers with Project R.

Likewise actual media executives were initially intrigued, became enraged and although not actually leaping onto their desks, ordered me out of their offices. Often accompanied by stinging epithets. The announcer and I were unable to change their minds. “No client of mine will ever…what makes you think that this agency would ever…etc.”

In the midst of these rejections and ejections, Project R, Inc. had now, through the efforts of local reps and the prestige of Harry Helmsley, signed landlords in Cleveland, Dallas, Chicago, Boston and San Francisco. We were national.

In 1970, Jerry Della Femina was an adman’s adman and one of Madison Avenue’s biggest creative stars. His groundbreaking, out-of-the-box concepts were responsible for some of history’s all-time most successful marketing campaigns. I was able to get an appointment with him personally. 

After watching my cartoon media executive and listening to my recorded announcer, he very suddenly charged at me from around his desk, grabbed my presentation case and yelled, “Give me that!” He then called his assistant and told her to book the next flight to Winston-Salem, home of big tobacco. “This is incredible,” he said excitedly. “I’m taking it down there tonight. I’ll be back with it tomorrow night. They’re going to love it! I’ll call you.”

Needless to say, I left his office in a stunned joyous delirium. I always knew that getting tobacco advertisers was nearly as much a key to Project R’s success as Harry Helmsley. I reported the earthshaking news to the team and waited eagerly for the call that would change our lives forever. 

Two days later morning it did.

“They say that they’re a food product and can’t advertise on stall doors,” said Jerry Della Femina.

And that was that. There would be no Project R tobacco ads. No flood of millions.

Although this was a major blow to our instant-success dreams, the buzz and the company, nevertheless, continued to grow.

There were front-page articles in The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, Advertising Age and in business columns all over the country. There were national broadcast interviews and photos taken of me standing on a stall toilet seat for Life Magazine.

In addition to our introductory ads which opened with: “Welcome to the Project R Reading Room…Please don’t get up.” There was a long-copy ad from a lingerie company that gave the history of bras beginning with: “In Roman times, every woman had to own a Zona. (Look it up.)

The media had a ball feigning outrage: “NO ESCAPE FROM THE AD MEN. One of the last places left in life where a person can get a little peace and quiet is being invaded by Madison Avenue though Project R,” etc., etc.

Our readers, however, loved us. We received glowing letters gushingly raving at how much people enjoyed the Project R idea and the ads. More than a hundred employees from one company actually sent us an entire roll of bathroom tissue filled with scrawled rave reviews. 

We added buildings in Detroit and Anchorage.

So, how come you never heard of me? How come I didn’t become very rich and famous? Three words: the economy dumped. A very severe recession (we had them then, too) hit in the early 1970’s and Harry Helmsley, in a consummate tycoon but kindly manner, told me that his buildings were no longer filled to overflowing and that his board of directors told him that Project R was too much of an image risk in seeking new tenants and…you get the idea. 

My investors urged me to continue. But without the Helmsley Empire behind us and with the economy only getting worse, I decided to skip the hospice step, pull the plug and return to a “normal” advertising career.

It was a great ride from chicken chip to Stall King and back to earth. One that I can safely say no one else has taken. Sometimes I think about it as I look at today’s totally invasive ad environment and I smile and feel old.