The phone rang at 9:53 pm on a recent Wednesday night. "Project Runway" starts at 10 pm and most people know not to call on the precipice of the opening credits of my favorite show. Cursing under my breath, I picked up the phone. The moment I lifted the receiver, even before it made it to my ear, someone was already speaking at fever pitch. "I'm talking MEAT, baby. Prime motherfuckin' Porterhouse! Yeah!" Ah, it's Reubin.

He'd just come from a client dinner at the famous Peter Luger's in Brooklyn. He and two other diners consumed a side of meat the size of a small coffee table followed by copious portions of creamed spinach and potatoes au gratin--the classic steakhouse regime. Ruebin knows I dig a good steak dinner, so he had to call and gloat. It's par for the course in our relationship.

I met Ruebin in 1997 when our company acquired the publications he was working on. Ruebin came with the deal. On our first meeting during the integration process, we connected instantly. He had (and has) that boisterous energy of a person who eats life. He's irreverent, funny, fearless and larger than life. Combined with a booming New York accent and an earnest loyalty for people he cares for, you either love him or hate him.

By our third meeting, we settled the terms of his job and squared away the business details. As he was preparing to leave, he hugged me and then hiked his leg up on my desk and blew out a fart. "That's for you, baby," he said simply. Now in most cases, one would be thinking "WTF?" but in this case, the gesture made perfect sense. It was his way--as odd as this sounds--of saying we understand each other. We've been as thick as thieves ever since.

When I met Ruebin, he was married with a young son; his wife is now expecting their fourth child. He lives and works in upstate New York, but at heart, he's pure city boy. He grew up in Manhattan and had a very rough childhood. His father was a professional pool player, who died young. His mother had issues with substance abuse, so Ruebin was sent to live with relatives on and off while battling his own demons. He went upstate for school, got clean, met his wife and turned his whole life around. He never looked back. The street smarts he acquired for early survival only helped to drive him to succeed in his career.

He sells advertising and he's brilliant at it. A certified master of persuation. For example, if a client declines a $10,000 ad program, Ruebin can verbally reposition the same program in such a way to convince the client that they are getting more for less money, and in the end, he'd close the deal..but now at $30,000. The client happily signs off every time. I still can't figure out how he does it.

Watching him in action is like watching Kabuki theater. It's mesmorizing. I have a fond memory of an important client meeting at a trade show. As Ruebin was talking, he was gesturing wildly, as is his habit, and for emphasis, he did one of those hip-hop type crotch grabs. I think (hope) I was the only one who noticed it. As we left the meeting, I said to him,"Was there a reason you felt compelled to grab your nut sack at the end of your sales pitch?" "I'm just closing the deal, baby," he replied. And damned if he didn't get the business.

We travel together for business a couple of times a year and we always have a marvelous time. We work hard during the day, but come the evening, the hair comes down. There's always a big steak dinner with a gaggle of boisterous clients, sometimes followed by an outing to a dance club--me, Ruebin, the group of clients and inevitably, other people we pick up along the way, like a big dust bunny of humanity. He deeply cherishes the security and the comfort of his home life and family, but when he gets on the road, he just wants to tear loose (and I mean this innocently--dancing till 3 am, guilt-free clothes shopping, eating a piece of meat the size of his head--things his wife keeps in check when he's home).

I enjoy him so much because we're similar in too many ways. He once observed, "If you and I ever hooked up, we'd be flat broke [from shopping], fat [from our big dinners] and fucking all the time [from our bawdy exchanges]." He's right. Good thing we're friends instead.

So this is my valentine to my pal, Ruebin. You're a doodle, man.