Improvise

Unconventional Career Advice from an Unlikely CEO

Fred Cook, Liz Fosslien

• Publisher: Agate B2
• Year: 2014
• ISBN:
  9781572847330
• Topic: Personal Development
• Subtopic: Careers

"An entertaining education on leadership, creativity, business and getting ahead of your competition... your career will never be the same." — The Edge, PRSA blog This year alone, 3.2 million U.S. students will graduate from college. Unprecedented percentages of them will move back home, and many will be unable to obtain a job in their fields of study. Improvise is an inspiring story of how Fred Cook followed an unusual yet fascinating path from young adulthood to the corner office as CEO of the award-winning PR firm GolinHarris. Melding learnings from a lifetime of uncommon experiences with insights from a surprisingly successful corporate career, this book will inspire workers mired in indecision and dimly lit prospects. Following college, Cook was initiated into the business world through a dozen odd jobs, each of which provided valuable insights into the business world and the understanding of how to make the most of even the smallest opportunity. Each chapter delivers a bold truth, supported by relevant episodes from Cook's personal life and reinforced by his encounters with corporate America. Filled with colorful anecdotes about being punched by a guru, stalked by an intern, and lectured by Steve Jobs, Improvise is full of hilarious yet poignant moments. "Fred is a legend in the PR business... [ Improvise ] is immensely fun and engaging." — Forbes "An offbeat career guide for new college graduates." — Parade "Fred shares the street smarts he gained from a lifetime of uncommon experiences to educate and inspire others who are trying to find their own way in the business world." — Execunet.com

1.

Expose Yourself

People entering the business world today are a commodity. They’ve gone to the same schools, taken the same courses, read the same books, and watched the same movies. Every summer they’ve dutifully worked at internships in their chosen field in hopes of landing the perfect job the day they graduate from college.

Meanwhile, companies like mine are desperately seeking fresh minds to help them navigate the massive cultural and technological changes they’re facing. Where will they find distinctive individuals with diverse points of view to meet these challenges? China? India? Brazil? They shouldn’t have to look that far.

While a college education is a prerequisite for most jobs, a life education should also be required. School delivers information. Life delivers ideas. Ideas that drive business. Twitter was an idea. Red Bull was an idea. South Park was an idea.

When I participate on industry panels, someone in the audience always asks what attributes make for a successful employee. My fellow panelists rightly answer that they’re looking for skilled writers, articulate communicators, and aggressive self-starters. My response? I would trade ten of the above for one person with a big idea. But brilliant ideas aren’t created in a vacuum. They’re formed by the experiences we have and the people we meet.

My life education began when I was awakened from a nap in Mr. Moody’s freshman French class. Although I never found school to be very stimulating, I did manage to stay awake through enough of it to get As and Bs. But French blemished my academic career with a D. My tongue still flops around like a goldfish out of water when I encounter a word beginning with le.

I blame my proclivity for French on my father. He served in the infantry in WWII, marching across France mostly in the rain and mud. He didn’t talk much about his stint in the service, but I did glean a few bits of intelligence over the years. At one point, he was reported missing in action and presumed dead. Hearing this news, which was also reported in the local newspaper, his parents “buried” him even though there was no body. Later it turned out he wasn’t really dead. After escaping a German blitzkrieg, he’d been living with a family in the south of France. This is where he began appreciating the French language.

The only evidence of this critical period in my father’s young life is a German Luger he kept in his closet and an old scrapbook filled with black and white photographs whose serrated edges were held in place with little black corners glued to the pages. Most of these pictures are of him and his baby-faced army buddies pretending to be members of the Rat Pack, with tough expressions and slicked-back hair. The other pictures feature young French women in bikinis swimming at an outdoor grotto surrounded by rocks and trees. Like the men, the girls resembled young Hollywood stars, with long wavy hair and thin white bodies. These fading photos provided a peek into an exotic world of beautiful French mademoiselles and virile American soldiers enjoying the euphoria of having survived a war they were probably too young to understand. They also explain my dad’s love of the French language.

Growing up in a small town in the southern part of Indiana, I led the middle-class life of Beaver Cleaver. I was the eldest of three kids raised by my housewife mom in a three-bedroom home built by my building contractor dad. She was the president of the Junior League and he was a member of the local Elks Lodge, where he hung out with his childhood pals. My grandparents lived across the street and my cousins at the end of the block. On my fourth birthday, my sister Carol was born. Shortly after my eighth, my brother Robert arrived. Our birthdays were predictably nine months after our parents’ wedding anniversary. In the winter, we drove our Chevy station wagon to Florida for vacation, and in the summer I took tennis lessons at the local country club.

At the time, Bill Johnson was the best (and probably only) tennis pro in Evansville. In his college days, a newspaper article referred to him as a “chunky little sharpshooter” when he won the city championship. Chair dancing was Bill’s other claim to fame. With little provocation, other than Elvis Presley and a few beers, he would leap upon a chair (or a table) and flail around in a riotous combination of the dirty dog and the pony. I frequently watched him gyrate a few feet above the ground at parties his students attended at his house, which may explain why he got fired from his teaching job after two years.

Bill took me and a few other budding tennis players on the junior circuit to tournaments in Decatur, Illinois and Middletown, Ohio. I usually lost in the first round, but my doubles partner, Tom Ryan, frequently reached the semifinals, where he beat some great players, including a 12-year-old Jimmy Connors. Despite my limited success on tour, at William Henry Harrison High School I was the only freshman who played varsity tennis.

That all changed when Bill interrupted my French class to inform me that I’d been kicked off the team. Even in my groggy state of mind this news came as a shock. He explained that the mother of one of the boys on a competing high school team had reported me to the governing body that cared about these things for participating in a “hat” tournament—when weekend tennis players pull names from a hat to choose teams for an informal competition. Apparently, I’d violated my amateur status by playing doubles with a handful of old men. My unsportsmanlike conduct disqualified me from every match I’d won during the entire season. Since I was undefeated in both singles and doubles, my team’s standing fell from first place to last, and I was declared ineligible for a letter (the kind that goes on a sweater).

While Sports Illustrated didn’t report my fall from tennis grace, it was a life-changing experience for a naïve 15-year-old whose identity revolved around hitting a fuzzy white ball, which led to a sudden U-turn on my road to the American dream. At this juncture my formal education ended and my informal education began. I replaced Harrison High School with Arc Lanes, a modern entertainment mecca featuring 40 state-of-the-art bowling lanes, a dozen pinball machines, and 15 pool tables. I don’t remember the first time I set foot in Arc Lanes, but I know I went back every day for the next four years. I supplanted teachers like Bill Johnson and Marvin Moody with a new faculty made up of dropouts and derelicts with names like Red Dog, Baby Pod, and Fat Beckham, who were collectively known as the Arc Bums. The criteria for becoming a Bum included a high school diploma, no visible means of support, occasional access to a car, time in jail or reform school, and regular attendance at Arc Lanes. They affectionately dubbed me and their other apprentices “Arc Rats.” The Rats were from a higher socioeconomic background than the Bums. We were still in high school and planned on going to college. Our parents supported us and drove us within a block or two (the respectable drop-off distance) of Arc Lanes.

I was the most obvious example of this cultural gap. As I entered my sophomore year in high school, my family moved into a house that my dad had built in Johnson Place, an exclusive 35-acre, fenced-in residential community he’d purchased from the widow of Mead Johnson, a wealthy local entrepreneur who’d made his fortune in baby formula. By any standards, our house was big. But compared to the humble homes of my Arc comrades, it was a mansion and a continual source of embarrassment for me. Many times, I tried to explain to my disbelieving lower-class friends that my family wasn’t rich. We had a nice house because my dad built houses. If my dad sold cars, we’d have a nice car. It was that simple. I wasn’t a bit different from them. But nobody believed me. Probably because it wasn’t true. When I took a wrong step, I always knew I had a safety net to catch me.

The Bums introduced me to a new curriculum. English, math, and history transitioned into hustling, drinking, smoking, cruising, fighting, and sex. (I mostly audited this last class.) Earning the respect of my new teachers was hard work, but I learned a lot in the process.

Hustling. Even though we spent most of our waking hours in a bowling alley, no one cared about bowling. We spent most of our time huddled around the Brunswick pool tables arranged geometrically on ornate floral carpeting speckled with 50,000 cigarette burns. To prove my prowess, I wielded a 19-ounce, inlayed Willie Hoppe pool cue that my parents gave me as a bribe for completing the latecomers confirmation class at the First Presbyterian Church.

Mike Beckham, also known as “Fat Beckham,” was the faculty pool expert. With his round belly hanging over the red felt, he could shoot a solid game of eight-ball or straight pool, but nine-ball was his real money game. Betting one dollar on the five ball and five on the nine, he filled his pockets with crumpled bills. I learned a lot about pool from Beckham, but I didn’t play him for money unless I was feeling particularly flush or lucky. He didn’t mind just playing for the time, which meant the loser paid the penny-per-minute charge for using the table. When we didn’t have any money, we learned by watching others play for hours on end.

One Arc Rat could hold his own with any pool shark. Always sharp in his starched Gant shirts, Gary Gentry displayed a real intensity with a cue ball. Regardless of the stakes, he never played for fun, even with his best friend. I was pretty good back then and can still run a rack on a lucky day, but Gary conned me on the pool table and duped me at the poker table. I finally recognized when I was being hustled. Now it’s not that easy.

Drinking. This was a required course and was normally taken in conjunction with puking. At Arc Lanes, drinking meant beer and mainly one kind of beer, Pabst Blue Ribbon, which came in many sizes and shapes—longnecks, quarts, cans, and stubbie glass bottles. I have no idea why the Bums drank PBR. Maybe it was cheap or maybe they liked the taste. But I know why we drank it. Because they bought it for us. John D. O’Connor was the guy who usually did that. John’s nickname was the “Red Runner.” Red because of his bright red hair. Runner because he made multiple daily runs to the local liquor store to buy beer for underage people like my friends and me for a fee of 50 cents per six-pack—a price we were happy to pay.

Whoever said alcohol is an acquired taste wasn’t kidding. When I was 16, I thought beer was the nastiest liquid ever concocted. On many occasions, I remember wishing that this bitter beverage could taste more like Coca-Cola, but it never did. After dumping gallons of PBR into my stomach and regurgitating a similar amount from a car window, I finally got the hang of it. Too bad I didn’t have the same perseverance with French.

John D. was my private tutor. Although he barely graduated from high school, he was the first intellectual I’d ever met. He was an expert on geodesic domes, photovoltaic energy, impressionist painte...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Table of Contents
• Introduction
• 1. Expose Yourself
• 2. Hit the Road
• 3. Ask the Captain
• 4. Listen to a Guru
• 5. Enlist an Entourage
• 6. Work for Tips
• 7. Drive a Drunk
• 8. Guide a Tour
• 9. Substitute
• 10. Make the Rules
• Epilogue: Have No Fear
• Acknowledgments
• About the author
• About the illustrator