Like the others in the crammed lobby I've anticipated this event for weeks. The ticket isn't cheap, but it's the cost to find out if any of my three "finalist" entries have won a coveted Clio. It's incredibly strange for such a prestigious event like the Clio Awards to have so much confusion. The paid-for tickets promised at the door are missing and no one has a good explanation. Many of the sharply dressed guests have come from far away places including several foreign countries. It's a humid 86 degrees and we're losing patience fast.

Out of nowhere a perky young reporter approaches me. I notice her scribbling in her reporter's pad as we chat:

      "So, have you heard the rumors?"

      "Rumors?" I ask.

      "You haven't heard? About Bill Evans. Something about drugs and other stuff.
      Some say the Clios aren't going to happen."

Bill Evans is the dapper Englishman and marketing genius behind the Clios. Along with the rest of the American public, I've enjoyed his annual appearances on The Tonight Show with winning Clio spots from around the world. The shocking rumors involving a police investigation of Bill Evans is news to me. We continue to chat as I keep on eye out for any sign of entrance. Then, in the sea of humanity, I notice a familiar face from another agency. I finish with the reporter and push my way through the crowd to connect. My colleague, whom I barley know, thrusts a ticket at me. "Don't ask, just follow me!" she exclaims. As if stepping through Alice's looking glass, in seconds I'm in a spacious and air-conditioned ballroom with a few privileged others. I thank my angelic friend for the third time and make a beeline for the nearest bar stand. As the rest of the crowd slowly shuffles in, disgruntled remarks punctuate the air. I wander the room seeking familiar faces for the obligatory schmooze. More rumors abound about Evans and the event's disorganization which is now a full two hours behind schedule.

It seems the show is finally about to begin as the band strikes up an upbeat tune. However, the dapper fellow behind the podium is not Bill Evans, or anyone recognizable. I overhear a comment that it's the head caterer but dismiss it as just another caustic remark. Moments later I'm informed it's oddly true. Considering that the guy is more familiar with Swedish meatballs than advertising, he does a reasonable job covering for Evans. I conclude that he may me motivated by the thought that if people leave without eating his food, he may not collect his fee. The caterer is doing his very best to cover one slight problem -- no winner's list. Eventually, he's had enough and walks off stage to a chorus of boos and hisses from the disgruntled crowd. More problems ensue when a second unknown presenter (who turns out to be a PR guy) takes the stage. Unlike the charismatic caterer, this guy is far from smooth. It only takes a few off-color jokes to figure out that he probably spent a little too much time warming up at the bar prior to his master of ceremony debut. Well known agency names are verbally mangled, slides of winning ads are backwards and out of focus, and the winners are not even acknowledged. Occasionally, the well-lubed PR guy breaks out in song when the band plays a familiar Irish tune. The evening is taking on an almost circus-like atmosphere. Some in the audience find amusement in the pathetic display. Most do not as the boos and hisses grow louder. What started as an evening of mere confusion is quickly becoming a disaster.

With only about half the show completed, another bizarre thing happens. It simply stops. Before being hit by bread rolls, the disoriented PR guy mumbles something about running out of script and staggers off the stage. The audience sits in stunned silence. To try to keep things moving the band takes the cue to play Hello Dolly for yet a fourth time. I now know how the passengers on the Titanic felt as the ship was going down. Only the unawarded Clios, on-stage like an army of gold soldiers, are unaffected by the evening's shocking events.

It doesn't take long before the disgusted crowd begins to make their way toward the exits. As I join the mass exodus I pause in astonishment as a tuxedoed gentleman boldly struts on stage, grabs a Clio, and then struts off shamelessly flaunting his Clio as a victorious consolation to the disastrous evening. Two others quickly follow suit. Some, in the crowd, gasp. Others cheer. What happens next can only be described as surreal. In seconds, the stage is rushed by dozens of normally dignified ad executives who literally push, shove and fight over each other and the remaining Clios. My jaw is on the floor. It's a feeding frenzy and in 30 seconds it's over. So, it would seem, are the Clios.

The following week, the ADWEEK documents the bizarre event with pictures and quotes, including a few of mine. As I'm reminded of the event I realize that the pre-show hype was accurate...it truly was "The Biggest Ad Event of the Year". The article makes for entertaining reading, but at this point all I'm wanting to know is, "did I win anything?" I still don't know. After several frustrating phone calls to the Clio office, or what's left of it, I'm told that I did -- three awards. And, 22 months later, I actually receive them.

©2002 John Follis. All rights reserved.