As we head back to Indiana in a week, I’ve prepared this poem for a group of eight media friends celebrating their 70th birthdays:

Six Ad Chicks and Two Dicks

As we enter old age,

We honor six Ad Chicks,

And a couple of sales pimps,

Known as the “Two Dicks.”

 

We forgot a few,

I have no doubt.

But like so many buys,

Some were just left out.

 

We party at the Mousetrap,

This family of Media friends.

And will blow out the candles,

Before the evening ends.

 

England, Kaiser, Albrecht,

Reilly, Flora, and Roman Chicks,

You all don’t look your age,

Warner, Harbin Birthday Dicks.

 

Septuagenarians unite,

No, I didn’t say SEX.

Back then, it was calls,

Not e-mails and texts.

 

“The client has needs,”

Numbers to crunch.

Settling our differences,

Over a cocktail lunch.

 

Agencies and Media,

Never on level ground.

One rounds up,

The other down.

 

Arbitron ratings,

Were still a thing.

Stuck at our desks,

Ring, phone, ring.

 

It wasn’t as though,

We could take it along.

Plugged in the wall,

The cord not so long. 

 

The phone was your friend,

Or the nagging enemy.

What’s my share?

Came the desperate plea.

 

Billboards and print,

Added so many choices,

Does the client prefer,

Pictures or Voices?

 

Let the Buyer Beware,

And the Seller prepared.

Or those promised spots,

May not get aired.

 

Your insert or display ad,

Might not be placed.

Then a disgruntled buyer,

Had to be Faced.

 

Being Queens,

And dealing with Jokers.

It often led,

To heavy smokers.

 

There once was no cable,

Podcasts or streams.

We all had comp tickets,

To follow our teams.

 

Events and concerts,

Payola galore.

Trips made the bad buys,

Hard to ignore.

 

Another powerpoint,

Stacks of Media kits.

But If you agree,

I’ll get you in the Pits.

 

And in retirement,

There’s no front row seats.

Back Stage passes,

Or fancy suites.

 

So glad we got together,

Before more of us departs.

And those who couldn’t make it,

Are forever in our hearts.

 

Happy Birthday to you….