Picture it: Buffalo, New York, 2001.
Actually, don't. The snow-muffled sidewalks, the abandoned train station. Let's all forget, together. On three: one, two--gone.
I followed a boyfriend to Buffalo, and after a three-month stint as a clerk at an artisan bakery where the owners' two-year-old regularly was changed on the dough-forming table or barely escaped being amputated by the loaf slicer, I looked again to corporate America to provide a paycheck and a 55 minute break to visit one of Buffalo's many hot dog carts.
In the newspaper I found an ad for a copywriter. I applied and accepted the position, with a radio conglomerate that owned five stations in the metro Buffalo area.
Of the five stations, only one really sold ads: the station aimed at men aged 18 to 24. Tune in and you'd hear Howard Stern in the morning, some rock, and
Opie and Anthony (who were eventually ousted, in part because of a debacle during a live performance in Buffalo).
Ads for national chains were created by agencies; I wrote ads for local establishments. And many of those ads were for strippers.
Stripping, like any long-established profession, has a career arc. Successful strippers won regional titles ("Miss Redhead Miami 1998"), were picked up by agents, and then toured the country's clubs.
Presumably, the most successful strippers could stick to the big leagues, getting a set gig in Vegas or making the rounds at our nation's metropolises. Women who never hit that level of success, or successful strippers who had fallen out of favor (age? weight? a difficult reputation?) were stuck touring the suburbs outside of Buffalo, where their arrival was heralded with radio scripts written by the likes of me.
Their resumes would come in over the fax machine, or sometimes in the mail. Generally there were a couple of pictures, a set of measurements (
EEE?
Really?), and a list of titles. Some were more professional, obviously massaged by an agent. Others less so.
For a year and a half I wrote ads, up to 11 a day, for clubs like "24 Karat Gold." I'd get the woman's name in at least four times in a 60-second spot, in case she had local fans. I ran through the measurements, the titles. If she had mentioned any specific tricks or aptitudes, I would throw those in, too.
In addition to the ads for visiting strippers, I also wrote quite a few ads for sex shops, like "2424 Hamburg Turnpike" (sex, in Buffalo, is always 24, it seems). Sometimes the proprietor would suggest a storyline for the ads, mostly I'd improvise. Two women are headed out for a Canadian beach on an August day. You know what would be fun? Let's stop at 2424 Hamburg Turnpike, and check out the selection of 'marital aids.'
Eventually all of the ads became templates; I knew what the business owners liked and would plug in a few pieces of specific information. A couple of times I used my friends' names in the ads and then sent them taped copies of the spots. I wanted them to think my job was hilarious, when in reality it was boring.
The account executive who made a killing selling the spots was eventually fired. He was a drunk, but a kind one. He gave me a bottle of wine and a gift certificate to 2424 Hamburg Turnpike when I wrote a spot under a particularly tight deadline. He had been caught drinking and carousing with his customers too many times, and had come to work reeking of gin.
Soon after, I quit my job to go to grad school. I didn't keep in touch with the account executives, or the hilarious production guy who shared exotic chocolates with me.
Somewhere, in some box, I still have some of the tapes.
