The Downfall Of A Whiz Kid

Written by Steffan Postaer

University of Wisconsin in Madison

A copywriter by trade, Steffan is perhaps best known for his provocative and iconic work on Altoids, “The Curiously Strong Mints.”  Early into his long tenure at Leo Burnett, Steffan co-wrote “Not Your Father’s Oldsmobile,” which (for better or worse) became a part of the lexicon.

As well as doing contract work, Steffan currently provides creative leadership at Jumbo Shrimp, a boutique agency responsible for elevating the creative product across a broad range of B2B and technology clients.

A one-time recipient of Crain’s prestigious “40 under 40,” he’s the recipient of advertising’s most prestigious awards, including numerous One Show Pencils, the Kelly Award for best print campaign in North America and gold and silver Lions from Cannes.

Steffan has written several novels, all of which are available via his Amazon author page. His horror screenplay, Belzec: The Made Undead won Best Horror Screenplay at Action on Film, Chicago’s Horror Fest and several other festivals. He is currently seeking representation for his fourth novel, The Chaos Merchant.

Currently, Steffan resides in Chicago with his wife, a dog named “Elmo” and a slew of fish tanks. He maintains an urban “fish room,” documented on his You Tube channel: Lush & Salty Aquariums: https://www.youtube.com/@LushSaltyAquariums

Hosted and produced by Peter Griffith; contributing producer Rob Wallace; contributing sound Michael Henery.

Hear the journey of a bright young kid who went to college wishing his life to center around drinking, women and writing whatever he felt. This is the remarkably true story of the lessons that were handed to Steffan Postaer, but then ignored, so he could stay a college freshman forever. His authentic journey that started in college reminds us – You won’t ever change, if you don’t really don’t want to.

Published April 29, 2025

[ appropriate music ]

HOST:  Today on campus, we’re back in the 1980s.

For many young men, this was a golden time to be alive.

The 80s “power suit”, complete with shoulder pads, made men (and women) look stronger than they were. The three-martini lunch enjoyed by businessmen, became a leisurely, indulgent power hour. And strong male movie heroes like the Terminator and Rambo were larger than life on giant movie screens.

In today’s episode, we wonder, what does it mean to grow up? What if you never want to? This was the journey of Steffan Postaer, who formed his life around drinking, women and writing whatever he felt. Choosing to stay a college freshman, forever.

This would be a Peter Pan story, if not for the fact that all of it is true. It is the life of a boy who went to college in the 80s with an idealized version of himself, that he wanted to become and ultimately stay at, for the rest of his life.

Hear the remarkable story of the lessons that were given to him, and taken to heart, but deftly dodged. His authentic journey, that started in college, reminds us – You won’t ever change if you don’t really don’t want to.

[ Marching band music ]

This is Once, In College. I’m Pete Griffith. Today’s mini-biography was written by Steffan Postaer. Early in his career, Steffan was the recipient of one of advertising’s most prestigious awards, Crain’s prestigious “40 under 40.” As a creative, he co-wrote “Not Your Father’s Oldsmobile,” which became a part of the lexicon. When we first met Steffan around this time, he took pride in the fact that he had “a salary larger than the President of the United States”.

[ Bells from campus tower ]

But enough preamble, class is about to begin. Here’s Steffan’s life story, in his own words, from a time once, in college.

[ appropriate sounds ]

NARRATOR: I graduated Lane Technical High School in 1979, though I was banned from attending the ceremony for wearing shorts on the last day of school. Can you imagine a dress code now—at a public school in Chicago? Anyway, I didn’t mind. I looked forward to the endless days at Oak Street beach, Cubs games at Wrigley Field, and cramming in as many concerts as I could.

Distracted that hot summer, I did the bare minimum to prepare for college in the fall—including choosing one. Who needed preparation for something so inevitable? I knew I wasn’t going to be an electrician or cut hair for a living. I was going to college because I liked reading, writing, girls, and beer. Didn’t all colleges have that?

Mostly because it was the only deadline I hadn’t missed, I accepted an invitation to a tiny liberal arts school in Iowa. They were happy to take my father’s money, even at the last minute. Cornell had fewer students than my apartment building had tenants, but maybe that was just what I needed—a small space I could fill in grand fashion. I wasn’t thinking reinvention. More like elaboration.

Mount Vernon, Iowa. Why not?

When I arrived at Cornell, I was certain of the person stepping off that bus: an intellectual poet who could drink and screw all night, then channel the chaos into something profound by morning. I wasn’t just seeking acceptance—I craved the kind of admiration that made me feel alive. Students and professors alike would be captivated by my artistic soul. I imagined a peer group who would appreciate me in all my complicated glory.

Thankfully, I adored collegiate academics, especially literature and philosophy, where I could opine with impunity. Math sucked, but I’d always hated it anyway. Besides, I was going to be a successful writer—I’d hire an accountant to count all my money.

I wrote sordid poetry, rhapsodizing about orgasms as if I’d invented them, reveling in the discomfort of my puritanical classmates. I fancied myself a provocateur—a modern-day Bukowski—savoring every raised eyebrow and disapproving glance.

Despite coming from the big city, I was charmed by the smallness of both the school and the town. Mt. Vernon had only two bars: one for students and one for locals—farmers in dirty tractor caps who wore their grit like a badge of honor. I moved seamlessly between the two worlds, priding myself on my ability to fit in anywhere. In truth, I often preferred the locals, drawn to their unvarnished authenticity. The women who worked long shifts and laughed with ease struck me as refreshingly real—a stark contrast to the polished sorority girls who floated through life without a care.

Alas, the good vibes didn’t last. Most students didn’t share my enthusiasm for my iconoclastic persona—or maybe they just saw through it. Rather than reevaluating, I sought refuge with two kindred misfits: Ricardo, a super-rich Mexican with effortless defiance, and Billy, a fellow Chicagoan whose swagger spoke of hard-earned survival on the streets of Bridgeport. Together, we were a trio of outsiders, bound by rebellion and a mutual disdain for the status quo.

In my eyes, we were The Three Musketeers, swashbuckling our way through campus life. To everyone else, we were The Three Stooges, bumbling toward disaster. But so what? We wore our outsider status like a badge of honor, charming the few who valued rebellion over decorum.

Together, we built a makeshift gambling empire, taking bets on Chicago horse races using nothing but the odds and results printed in the newspaper. Fueled by booze and bravado, we capped off one wild night by stealing a car in Iowa City and, for good measure, driving it straight into the campus pond.

These acts endeared us to no one. But it was my affair with a pretty coed that caused the most grief. On such a tiny campus, word spread fast—what started as a casual hookup quickly turned into something darker. Soon, I was blackballed from parties, even thrown out of one. A football player threatened to kick my ass if he ever saw me with her again. Not that it mattered much; women, in general, soon wanted nothing to do with me.

In my dorm bathroom, someone scrawled unflattering graffiti about me, accompanied by a caricature that was as cutting as it was absurd. I—long hippie hair, sleazy mustache, and earring—stood against the Chicago skyline, lest anyone forget where I was from. Imagine sitting down to relieve myself, looking up, and seeing my caricature staring back. “I think I’m a badass,” the caption read. “But I’m as dumb as the shit below.”

There was no denying it: I had overstayed my welcome. Four months was all it took. Next year, I’d transfer to the University of Wisconsin in Madison—a bigger, famously liberal, edgier place where my kind—whatever that was—might finally fit in. Wishful thinking, but then, changing my behavior wasn’t even a consideration.

Coming from the stifling constraints of Mt. Vernon, Madison felt like stepping into another world—a revelation. Surrounded by three beautiful lakes, the campus was an oasis of cool, the heart of a progressive city that doubled as its state capital. The population was strikingly diverse, a mix of students, professionals, and artists. Culture thrived. There were myriad places to go. Bars galore. And the drinking age was only 18.

Once again, I hadn’t prepared for the move, ending up in a dumpy apartment with assigned roommates: Arthur, the son of a factory worker from Milwaukee, and an exchange student from Thailand whose name I could neither spell nor pronounce correctly. I had nothing in common with either of them, but they were diligent students, reserved in temperament and hardworking to their core. I hardly saw them and wouldn’t have known they existed if not for the occasional aroma of Thai cooking or Arthur’s booming laugh. Once in a while, we shared a beer. But forging any real connection with them was the last thing on my mind.

I was only interested in writing and women. Drinking was a given, having already become something I did regardless of interest. But what I didn’t realize was how quickly all would intertwine—and how much they would define the rest of my life.

I expanded my horizons, joining both campus newspapers and helping to launch one of my own: a music-focused magazine called the Mad City Music Mirror. Every week, my name appeared in print, and I often received letters about things I had written. An audience! My career as a professional writer had officially begun—reviewing albums, concerts, and films. Someday, I would be a journalist for Rolling Stone. It was the perfect job, allowing me to write perilous prose, drink with abandon, and meet scores of beautiful, scandalous women. Highlights from this period included reviewing two up-and-coming bands: The Replacements and Violent Femmes. If not for my glowing praise, who knew whether either group would have succeeded—such was my hubris.

In reality, I reviewed local talent, including a hair band called Whiz Kid, who played top 40 covers for drunken sorority girls and the bros who coveted them. For two bucks a head, I got three sets of music.

A neophyte, I reveled in ripping them a new one. My typewriter was like a weapon—mightier than any guitar. Using every bit of my modest skill, I ridiculed their cheesy name, matching spandex outfits, and blow-dried hair, literally laughing out loud as I wrote.

This is the cruelest paragraph from the article, published February 1982, in the Mad City Music Mirror. I did not change a word:

“When I see a band whose members have perfectly blown dried hair down to their asses, I envision a bunch of Rod Stewart clones using their guitars as phallic symbols while constantly blowing kisses between licks. I’ve got to laugh at the thought of one of these fellas getting a perm at a beauty shop. Excuse the tangent, but doesn’t anybody else wonder how come while performing, these pretty boys always perspire on their chests but never around their precious hairdos? Could that be what they mean by Whiz Kid? That’s all part of the rockstar persona and I must admit Whiz Kid fits that persona quite well. Whiz Kid plays straight contemporary American rock. I want to emphasize that I do not care for straight contemporary, American rock or the likes of poseur bands with names more befitting Saturday morning cartoons than Saturday night at the club.”

When the story was published, I added it to my scrapbook—a showcase of my diabolical wit.

Whiz Kid did not share my sense of humor.

Not long after the article dropped, I ran into the lead singer at a club. He knew who I was and was plenty upset. He asked why I had targeted his band. Was being a dick part of my job description?

My slurred reply: “No disrespect, brother, but playing Loverboy covers sealed your fate.”

The vocalist did not punch me. Instead, he hit back with something that stayed with me long after. The reason his band played shitty music, he said, was to get gigs—so he could make rent and support his wife and new baby. None of the bars in town hired original talent unless they had a following. Whiz Kid was unknown. Therefore, he had to sing “Working for the Weekend” because that’s what 19-year-olds paid money to see.

I had no defense because I had no clue about the very real life this man was leading. Struck by his truth, a wave of shame washed over me. From that moment on, I abandoned my desire to be a professional critic. Whiz Kid had been working for the weekend—literally every weekend—to survive. I had no right to criticize them for that. My cruel review had served no purpose, save for hurting a group of people.

Shaken by this epiphany, I pivoted.

Copywriting seemed like a logical alternative—a form I knew well from my father’s career. I didn’t even have to change my major, Communication Arts. I studied radio, television, and film, took an advanced course in screenwriting, and kept writing for the newspapers. No one could call me lazy.

At night, between hunting down women and getting my drink on, I also began writing the great American novel. Along with becoming an award-winning copywriter, I was going to be the next Jay McInerney, whose bodacious debut Bright Lights, Big City captured the coked-up downward spiral of a young professional in New York. The book gripped the country—and me. Like McInerney, I wanted to chronicle the messy truths of my generation, but with my own brand of reckless charm. I’d found my North Star: the hard-drinking writer. I romanticized this identity for decades.

In addition to liquor, women became key to my newfound persona. Disenchanted by uptight female students, I developed a fondness for blue-collar girls—the former required too much effort. I once dated a sorority girl, spending weeks just trying to get past first base.

Cocktail waitresses had no such inhibitions. Refreshingly straightforward, they seemed to want what I wanted—rum and Coke, MTV, sex on the futon. I left when it was over, no drama. Maybe I’d see them again, maybe I wouldn’t. It didn’t matter—to me or them.

This was a contract I could get behind. I quickly added skirt-chasing to the role I was playing, blissfully unaware of how the script might unravel.

Reluctantly, I matured. No, not really. What I mean to say is I got a job and began paying taxes. I got married and started a family. My children are young adults now, and prospering. I am still married to the same lovely and patient woman. Miracles happen.

Just out of college, I was lucky enough to get a copywriter position at what was then the most famous advertising agency in my hometown of Chicago: The Leo Burnett Company. While I still had plenty of character defects, they were right at home in the perpetually adolescent boy’s gym that was advertising in the eighties. I was surrounded by a peer group a lot like me: clever, creative, wise asses with a modicum of talent and mountains of confidence. We worked hard. Played even harder. It was like college 2.0.

As I moved up the food chain at Leo Burnett, the hi-jinks wore out their welcome, as they do. I became a senior executive. And I became a serious writer—at least in terms of writing copy. My ego still got the better of me, but I wasn’t poking fun of anyone (not publicly anyway), and I never saw anything written about me in the bathroom stalls.

I would be lying if I said I remembered both events vividly. I do not. But I do know that those two moments in time were significant in terms of teaching me—or trying to anyway—the all-important lesson of humility—one I have still not mastered.

[ appropriate music ]

HOST:  Today’s episode was produced by Rob Wallace and myself, with loads of gratitude to Michael Henery who polished the sound. And, even wrote and produced some of the music himself. Including this track.

We want to thank Steffan Postaer again for sharing the vivid perspective of his life so far. His story reminds us that we can be given the opportunities to change ourselves, but will only do so, if and when we really want to.

If you’d like to find out more about Steffan or his work, he has written several novels, all of which are available via his Amazon author page. He is currently seeking representation for his fourth novel, The Chaos Merchant.

Steffan currently resides in Chicago with his wife, a dog named “Elmo” and a slew of fish tanks. He maintains an urban “fish room,” documented on his You Tube channel: Lush & Salty Aquariums.

Did you change any in or after college? Let us know your story. The biggest lessons from that time in that time and that place don’t always reveal themselves in a class or lecture.

Finally, we’d be grateful if could hit our subscribe button. Or share this episode with someone. Or simply give us a like. Any of these would really help us keep producing what we do here. And would really be appreciated.

Until then, I’m Pete Griffith, back next week with more stories like this, all from a time Once, In College.

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