It Looked Like a Chicken
How a Paint Chip on a Bathroom Stall Door Led to a Controversial New Advertising Medium
(Part 1)
By Rondavid Gold
It looked like a chicken.
In 1958, I was a 17 year-old after-school advertising apprentice at a rising 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 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 the band 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 flash drive. 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.”
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.
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 with 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!