You know, sometimes you have to go back...

You know, sometimes you have to go back -- alone, all by yourself -- and make yourself retrace your steps to see just how far you've come, how hard you've worked to get where you are, who helped make it happen and what it all means.

Today, I spent the day by myself in Fort Lauderdale. As soon as I got off the plane this morning, I jumped into my rental car, drove down to Hollywood Beach, and visited the Soviet-era beach hi-rise where I moved when I first landed here nearly 20 years ago from Nashville after accepting a job offer for $10,000 over what I was making at the time -- a 55% pay increase over my job in Nashville. I was like, "Man, I've MADE IT! I'm living on the beach! I can come home every day after work and go snorkeling! And I don't have to work two jobs! This is awesome!" I was so excited to make the change that I didn't even let it bother me at all when Jonathan Thompson and I had a gun pulled on us the very night he helped me move down. So what, who cares? I'm in Florida, bitches.

Well, four months into it, things weren't going so well. I actually got fired because I didn't know what the hell I was doing. It was my second entry-level job as an account coordinator at an ad agency, and I'd failed. I packed up my belongings from my desk and drove straight to Las Olas Boulevard and started asking every restaurant manager if they were hiring.

I was freaking out.

After an exhaustive afternoon of groveling and filling out applications, I drove back to my apartment that afternoon and contemplated moving back to Nashville. I called my old restaurant manager at Blackstone Brewery on Broadway near downtown Nashville. After telling her my story, she said I would always have a job there if I wanted to come back.

With my back-up job secured, I got ready to call my Nashville ad agency I'd just left. This was gonna suck. I dialed my old manager's direct line. The guy who'd replaced me picked up after three rings. Dammit. "Hey Gabe... it's Rob. Yep. I'm calling from Florida. Can I speak to Steve?" Big sigh. "Yeah, Rob. Sure. Lemme put you on hold and page him."

Hold music begins.

A call beeps in while I'm on hold. I take a risk and switch over.

"Hello?" (remember when we used to say "hello" when we answered the phone?) "Hi Rob? This is James Sands, I met you today when you filled out an application at my restaurant. I think we have a place for you here."

When we were done talking, I never switched back over to my old boss in Nashville. Who knows if Gabe ever found him. Who knows if my old boss would have even given me my old job back. All I know is after I hung up the phone with James, I totally forgot about moving back. I never called there again and never spoke to anyone there ever again.

Over the next year, I had the time of my life working at ZanZBar Restaurant on Las Olas Boulevard. Meanwhile, a friend I'd made in my building, Jason, convinced me to move out with him to Victoria Park so that we could pool resources and save money. Soon after that, though, the bills just kept adding up. Desperate to stay current on my student loans, keep up on rent and not lose my rust-bucket Jeep I'd just bought with a 9% interest rate, I started hocking all my stuff. I mean, I sold clothes, furniture, stereo equipment -- EVERYTHING MUST GO, I said. Hell, I even tried to sell the stove out of our kitchen.

Finally, I broke down and realized I was going to have to go get a real day job again. So I started faxing my resume in response to every advertising and marketing classified ad in the Sun Sentinel and Miami Herald. After several weeks with lots of dead ends, I got a phone call one day. "ROB! We got your resume! We all quit that awful company you used to work for and we're all over here now. We'd love to see you again! When can you come in for an interview?"

Shit. Are you kidding me? Recruitment advertising AGAIN with these people AGAIN? Is this some sadist joke?

"Fine. I'll be there tomorrow."

I go in for the interview. I get the job. For the third time in a row now, I'm an account coordinator at an ad agency. And my salary is going to be lower than a year ago, so I had to keep my restaurant job. Whatever. Done it before, I'll do it again. Two jobs never hurt anyone... five maybe, but not two.

One night after my first few successful months there without getting fired (thanks Tripper Allen for your help with that), I go out to the same bar that I go to every Saturday night -- Georgi's Alibi in Wilton Manor -- and ran into a particularly cute and intriguing young man. "What do you do for work?" "I'm a server in a restaurant." "Oh cool, me too!" "Well, I also work at an ad agency." "Oh cool, me too!" From that night forward, Carl Mattison and I were pretty much inseparable.

About a year later, everything was going great when my ad agency's regional VP, Ron Blum called me up one day and wanted to know if I wanted to move to Atlanta. I was like, "Me? The repeat-fuck-up guy? Is this another trick?" Apparently he saw something in me that I didn't. He told my boss he was flying me to Tampa to meet with a client, but in actuality it was an interview that would take me away from her if things worked out.

I got the job.

I asked Carl if he wanted to move to Atlanta. He said yes.

The rest is history, and too much to write about because this post is too long already.

......

I'm sitting here, nearly 17 years later, and I'm enjoying a Glenlivet 15-year neat at the Ritz on the beach.

Why?

Because I can.

Because of my perseverance. Because of every person who said no. And more than that, because of every person who BELIEVED IN ME and said YES and helped me get to the next step.

I spent exactly three full years to the day here in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and they were the best three years of my life. Those years and everything that happened during them gave me everything I needed to be successful for the rest of my life. Tonight, I'm sitting here doing something that I couldn't even dream about 17 years ago when I was a struggling thrice-startover screw-up waiting tables on nights and weekends.

Thank you James. Thank you Jonathan.

Thank you Jason. Thank you Tripper. Thank you Carl. Thank you Ron.

Cheers to you all.