Philadelphia madman Steven Grasse thinks he can sex up the political scene.

Philadelphia adman Steven Grasse rocked the tobacco and liquor industries with his edgy new looks for stodgy old brands. Now the maverick marketer thinks he can sex up the political scene by telling young voters they have to fight for their right to party.

He is still a novice, politically speaking but Seven Grasse presses the flesh with remarkable aplomb. The advertising entrepreneur stands inside the cramped living room of a late-model RV, hovering over an off-duty dancer named Heather Victoria. Like all the revelers in the 29-foot Ford Eldorado, she has been dubbed a VIP, ranking her among the hippest of those assembled at this hoedown in inner city Philadelphia. The partiers serve as a test market for the 35-year-old impresario's latest venture - a fledgling political organization called SHIFT - and Grasse, like any savvy politico, wants his prized invitees to walk away impressed.

With frat-guy bravado, he orders Victoria to tilt back and open wide. The striking redhead, with the high cheekbones, complies without hesitation, and Grasse dumps a generous dose of Bad Apple schnapps into her waiting mouth. Conversation dips briefly as onlookers check her reaction. The shot stays down. Partiers buzz anew.

Welcome to the future of conservatism as seen by Steven Grasse. Huddled here in the trailer are an art-gallery owner, an aspiring songwriter, and a Hollywood type, representatives of Grasse's target audience. The party raging outside, with its wink-wink white-trash theme and hardscrabble venue, represents the type of get-together SHIFT plans to help spread its libertarian message. SHIFT's precincts are trendy hot spots like bars and dance clubs, and the group will work them just as New York's Democratic machine once pumped churches and union halls. And what's with that funny business with the lovelies and the liquor bottle? Merely constituent outreach, SHIFT-style.

One day, according to Grasse's political vision, the group will "be like the Christian Coalition," forcing Republican hopefuls to take a stand on the liberties that SHIFT seeks to defend, wherever mayors or magistrates or matrons seek to restrict them: uninhibited artistic expression, drinking and smoking, and removing your clothes for pay. "All this liberal bellyaching that's going on about these things that hurt you and that affect you and boo-hoo-hoo. No one's actually stood up and said, 'Hey, just chill the fuck out,'" he says. "I don't need to be told I can't smoke or drink or wear or do whatever. Just, just - go away."

Once his core supporters are sated, Grasse leaves the RV and returns to the action under the bright yellow big top. Attendance at his Hee Haw Holiday now stands at more than 250. Nouveau swingers follow signs to the beer, booze, and shitters. Rockabilly music blares from the bandstand. Slacker kids decked out in cowboy gear peruse stacks of activist propaganda at a table near the kegs. "Just because young adults aren't into politics doesn't mean they're not into change," reads a brochure. "We've heard the rhetoric. And we prefer our freedom." Every aspect of the odd scene bears Grasse's signature, and to those on his singular wavelength, it's all totally cool. Grasse owns Gyro Worldwide, a boutique ad shop known for creating promotions that connect with cutting edge consumers, an elusive group of buyers coveted not so much for their buying power as for their ability to influence mainstream tastes. Although he wont reveal exact revenues, Grasse claims that Gyro pulls in "somewhere between $25 and $100 million a year" and often turns down prospective clients, preferring instead to stick with companies that reflect Grasse's maverick personality.

In his industry-acclaimed campaign for Red Kamel cigarettes, Grasse targets fringe buyers through a weird alchemy of retro artwork and glib text that resonates with '90s attitude. One cigarette ad, evoking World War II imagery, depicts a mustached midshipman, dancing with a pretty officer in Army greens at what appears to be a USO bash. "Cindy put out her Kamel and dragged the sailor to the dance floor," reads the copy. "There's a war on, sailor. Let's make the most of what we've got." Viewers know the spot is hip, even if they can't explain why. Through Grasse's ads, products come to embody old-school values and modern cool all at once, the perfect rations to satisfy the trendsetter's appetite for the offbeat.

Analysts credit Grasse with making Red Kamels - as well as Glenfiddich Scotch and Puma sportswear - seem transcendentally chic. Now Grasse believes he can do the same for Republican politics. Conservative pollster Frank Luntz thinks that only someone like Grasse can lead twenty-somethings, whom Luntz calls "intensely apathetic," to the polls. "It's an incredible challenge," Luntz says. "But they're gettable. They're the ultimate swing voter: Not only are they undecided on the candidates, they haven't yet decided if they're going to vote. If this works, it could revolutionize politics."

Steve Payne, a Texas political operative who has heard Grasse's pitch, agrees. "Steve and I are about the same age. But on the hip meter, he's about a 99; I'm a 50," he says. "During the 1980s, Republicans pretty much owned the 18-to-30 age group, but we've lost a lot of them. Steve Grasse very well may be the means through which we get them back." Grasse sizes up the future in the same way: "If this works, obviously I'll have a voice to be reckoned with."

As shindigs go, the first SHIFT event is a smash: Two whole roast pigs, each weighing 120 pounds, get reduced to unappetizing carcasses by 9p.m., and 15 kegs are kicked before midnight. But if this organization is to reach its goal of registering 500,000 new voters for the 2000 elections, his cause c�l�bre will need to serve as more than a cause for wild celebration. The SHIFT table remains unstaffed throughout the evening, and promotional materials largely remain where they were laid out. During one 15-minute period, 10 partygoers stop at SHIFT central. One reads intently before sliding a stylishly insurrectionist brochure into his pocket. Eight - including two twenty-somethings that used the table for auxiliary seating - check out SHIFT pamphlets but leave them behind. Finally, another guest picks up a business card. She uses it to wipe her shoe.

Steven Grasse, adman, came into his own early in life. The tongue-in-cheek tone that is his trademark was evident in posters he created for his high-school punk band, the Hair Club for Men, with the act's moniker superimposed over a glamour portrait of the fully follicled members of Led Zeppelin. The musicians didn't play well, but promotions did, winning praise from an observant teacher. Those plaudits marked the first steps along a career path that later carried Grasse to advertising gigs in Bangkok, Hong Kong, London and Auckland, New Zealand. By 25, he was back in his native Pennsylvania and running his own ad shop. Gyro's first client? None other than MTV.

It would take a few years for Gyro to gain national renown, but Grasse cultivated controversy right from the start. In 1993, the firm drew criticism for the campaign it created for Zipperhead, a Philadelphia clothing boutique. To draw patrons to the store's "killer sale," Grasse came up with featuring the mass murderer Charles Manson. The tag line: "Everyone has the occasional urge to go wild and do something completely outrageous." The spot attracted national media attention; Gyro's hometown clients were less amused. Cellular service provider Comcast Metrophone, a crucial revenue source, severed ties with the firm.

Other companies thought Grasse's warped perspective was just what they needed. In short order, Gyro inked deals with beverage giants Coke and Budweiser. Cash-rich arrangements with Reactor clothing and the Hub, America Online's fringe-focused site, followed as the firm solidified its reputation for effective underground marketing. "There's an edginess and irreverence that Grasse brings to his work," says John Singleton of R.J. Reynolds Tobacco, the company that hired Gyro to reintroduce its Red Kamel cigarettes. "He showed, right away, an ability to think out of the box."

Grasse knew he couldn't have accomplished all he did in his young career without - well, without himself. He first read Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead while living in Thailand as an exchange student following his senior year in high school.

As Gyro took off, the self-described Howard Rourke found himself living out the if-it-is-to-be-it-is-up-to-me tenets and developing a strong affinity for the libertarian wing of the Republican party. But another test of willpower remained. "I was fat," Grasse says. "When I started traveling a lot, I ate. I was just as pudgy before that, but then I really got fat. One day, I looked in the mirror and said, 'what the fuck's happening to me?' so about four years ago, I lost 60 pounds."

He also shaved his head and hit the weights. But the badass image was still a work in progress. "This really is something that's been evolving later in life," says ex-wife Emma Hagen, who remains on good terms with Grasse. She says that when they first met, "he was quite shy, really. I had to ask him out."

Grasse's devotion to Gyro - and Hagen's to horseback riding - eventually pulled their marriage apart. He split with her in January 1998; she got the exurban farm and he, the mansionette near the Philadelphia art museum. He sold it. He sold the Porsche, too, and ditched the Range Rover. Today Grasse puts in his allotted five hours of sleep in a rented apartment; when he needs wheels, he uses the company's black Jeep Cherokee. He hasn't given up his spontaneous trips to Paris. But disregarding those, his is almost la vie boh�me.

"I had rock star syndrome," he says," I made a lot of money, bought a lot of shit, became incredibly unhappy, and didn't realize what was wrong. It was getting a little silly. I felt like Elvis in my gilded mansion, sitting there going, 'Man, what happened to me? I used to be cool.'"

Today Grasse feels cool again, and the business couldn't be better. The Budweiser deal seems almost small change now, eclipsed by the revenues Grasse reaps from being "in bed with big alcohol and big tobacco," as a Gyro press release puts it. Those accounts do more than bolster Gyro's profits; they are tinged by the taboos that fuel the Grasse rogue show. This marketer wil represent cigarette makers and strip clubs but won't work for suburban housing developments ("They rape the land") or employee's unions ("They've screwed things up royally"). Grasse says he "is Gyro", and together they represent the dark side. Proudly.

"I have very high moral standards, they're just my standards," he says of the libertarian worldview that shapes his business strategy. "If I have a client, it's because I believe in it morally. I don't tend to jump on any bandwagons. I have a bandwagon that I hope other people will jump on."

Members of SHIFT's events committee sit around a large table in Gyro's front office, outlining plans for the G.O. Party, a major citywide celebration scheduled to coincide with next August's Republican National Convention. The organization views the festival as its coming-out event, and the committee operates accordingly: Roll has been called, official minutes have been recorded, fundraisers are patched in via conference call.

Grasse enters, late. He's just back from his regularly scheduled appointment with his personal trainer, and he says he's "funny" about skipping those.

"Who keeps putting this shit here?" he asks in a mock-scolding tone. He removes a faux dog turd from the table and takes a seat. Then, seriously: "All right, somebody bring me up to speed."

Discussion on the rock concerts, the film festival, and the interactive town-hall event is complete; the group deliberates the big bash that will cap the party. The brains behind the Hee Haw Holiday and the city's first Sinner's Ball has arrived just in time.

"We need to have it in a place that is symbolically weird," Grasse suggests. "This is the anti-party party."

"It should be someplace more formal," counters Bill Winkler. Wearing spectacles and a moustache, khakis, and Docksiders, Winkler provides the perfect foil to the renegade Grasse. The conservative consultant's resume includes work with Michigan senator Spencer Abraham and the Republican National committee. Winkler is the SHIFT principal with the political experience - and GOP credentials - that the group needs. He understands the workings of conventions. The grassroots consultants, the professional fundraisers and their $10 million goal - they are his contributions, too.

Grasse continues, undeterred. "I think we should have Delilah's girls serving again." "Or maybe we could get transsexuals," offers committee member Sherri Bonghi Winkler looks mortified. "I'd rather go with Delilah's girls," he says, head shaking slowly, eyes wide.

The topic is dropped, but the point lingers: To maintain SHIFT's credibility, Winkler needs to mute Grasse's considerable brio. On the other hand, the group will fail to affect youth politics if it cannot mimic Gyro's edge.

After the meeting concludes, Grasse reveals that Jesse Ventura is the only modern politician he truly admires. "I believe that politicians should be characters," he says. "They should be larger than life." Grasse himself has repeatedly boasted that he could successfully run for mayor, a claim he promises to test in the 2003 elections. His candidacy seems like a long shot, but if the G.O. Party impresses Republican leaders, Grasse will go a long way toward building crucial organizational support. And say he does become mayor? Then there's no telling what's next; Grasse, after all, wants no less than to play pied piper to an entire generation. "There are more people out there like me who haven't articulated how they feel," he says. "And they're looking for a poster child to say, 'you feel this way? I feel this way. Join me in my struggle for freedom.'"

George Magazine (link to site)

http://www.magazinecity.com/1978-10.html