It started with a… conversation
I was born on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Spent a few early years in the Bronx. By the time I was six, my parents moved us to Chappaqua, New York—long before it became known as the Clinton family’s suburb of choice.
Back in 1972, Chappaqua was still “country.” It was a town of mom-and-pop shops, Pop Warner football, long summer nights, and keg parties in backyards and parks. A small-town upbringing with big-city DNA. That world shaped me more than I realized at the time.
I went to college in Florida, then returned to New York at 21, suited up and ready to take on the world—or at least crack into Wall Street. One afternoon, I was standing on Bleecker Street, staring into the window of a bar, dressed for a Series 7 interview. That’s when an older Irishman walked past and asked,
“Hey guy, whatcha doing?”
I told him I was heading to a job interview downtown—probably going to become a broker. He took one look at me and said: “F* that. Come work for me.”**
That man was Pat Kenny, owner of The Bitter End—one of New York’s oldest and most iconic nightclubs. In his thick Irish brogue, he offered me $500 a week, cash, and a chance to pick up extra shifts at the door. I didn’t hesitate. I pivoted. That’s how fast life can change.
A week later, I was managing The Bitter End. That night’s act? Tracy Chapman’s debut performance. Not a bad way to start.
On my nights off, I lived in the music scene. I hung out at The Bottom Line—my buddy Stevo ran sound. I shared a bottle of Jameson with Donovan and his stepson Julian Jones, listening to wild stories about the Dalai Lama, Jerry Garcia, and a very complicated John Lennon. I smoked pot with Jimmy Cliff and the Spin Doctors, threw back shots with Bruce Springsteen at the Cat Club, and stumbled out of more East Village after-hour joints than I care to count.
Yes, Save the Robots was as wild as people say. If you know, you know. Tuesday morning sunrises never looked so blurry.
I photographed Bo Diddley’s shows at the Village Gate because his drummer happened to be my neighbor at 184 Thompson Street. I lived in the thick of it.
My roommate had a bit of a cocaine problem, which led me to go apartment hunting. I walked into a real estate office, and a beautiful redhead behind the desk looked up and said, “Hi.” I took the apartment. Took her on a date. A month later, she moved in. Her dad owned the agency. I got a place with no broker’s fee… and a wife.
Thank you, Thumper. Sometimes it pays to have a cokehead for a roommate.
Fast-forward 35+ years, and I sometimes wonder:
What if I hadn’t taken that path? What if I went downtown, got the job, lived in spreadsheets, chased markets, wore cufflinks?
But I always come back to the same answer:
I wouldn’t change a damn thing.
I chose the creative side of my brain. I chose music, film, chaos, energy.
I wanted to be in the mix—not behind a desk. And, for the most part, I got that wish.
After The Bitter End (which, as it turned out, had a bitter ending), I bartended downtown, ran showcase nights under Acme, and started managing bands like Bankie Banx, Never On Sunday, and others. Signed a few small production deals. Made great memories. Made bad decisions. Lived hard. Laughed harder. And learned.
There was the one-night-only stint waiting tables at a French restaurant in Union Square—was supposed to bartend, but they asked me to wait instead. First table? Conan O’Brien, his agent, and his girlfriend—right before he landed The Tonight Show. Neither of us were thrilled with how dinner went. Years later, I got a few guests on his show. He looked at me once like he was trying to place my face. I just smiled.
Eventually, Audrey gave me the “it’s time to grow up” talk.
So I did.
I landed a job at Avon Books, a division of Hearst, and found myself in the perfect blend of corporate structure and creative energy. It was my first taste of public relations, and it clicked. My boss, Joan Schulhafer, was a tough, brilliant mentor who taught me the art of strategy and storytelling.
Summer Fridays meant long golf games. The weekdays? I worked with literary giants like Ray Bradbury (who, by the way, once drank me under the table at lunch) and Steven Pressfield, helping launch The Legend of Bagger Vance and Gates of Fire. Sci-fi author Charles Pellegrino even wrote me into his apocalyptic novel Dust—I save the world, but die from brain worms.
Sometimes, that’s just how it goes.
I once smoked a pack of Marlboro Reds with Tom Clancy in the PBS studio of Charlie Rose. Smoked a $15,000 Gurkha cigar with Ice Cube in my office at 5WPR.
Created the Starbucks Green Team for an Earth Day event in 1996 with NYC Parks Commissioner Henry Stern.
Closed down Times Square for an underwear party and tried (unsuccessfully) to break a Guinness World Record.
All true. All unforgettable.
’ve worked at agencies big and small. Some experiences were incredible. Some, well... not so much.
But every late-night pitch, every campaign, every win and failure, helped shape the communicator I’ve become.
And yes—I learned to pitch the media before there were cell phones. Before email.
I’ll give you a moment to let that one settle.
Here’s what I know now:
Communication is everything.
It’s not just a job. It’s not just a degree. It’s the foundation of everything we are as human beings. And when it breaks down, so does trust. So does empathy. So does progress.
We’re watching it happen right now.
I have friends I love—dearly—across the political spectrum. Left, right, somewhere in between. We don’t always agree. But we talk. We listen. We stay connected. That’s what matters.
That’s what makes us human.
So here’s my ask:
Pick up the phone. Call someone.
Don’t text. Don’t hide behind email.
Have a real conversation. Hear their voice. Let them hear yours.
Because when communication stops… when silence sets in…
you can’t ever go back.
We have to fight for connection.
For understanding.
For community.
For each other.
Because the most important things in life—love, trust, healing, growth—They all start the same way: With a conversation.—Adam Handelsman, Founder of SpecOps Communications