Talking Points

Strangers on a plane

The trip to Austin for a speaking gig was strange and beautiful. Here's the voyage home...

Cab to the airport: driver is from Senegal via Nigeria via got his MBA and and engineering degree in Austin. Keeps getting laid off as the economy tanks. Bought a cab. Great guy. Does he like driving? "To tell you the truth, I'm bored stiff." We almost hugged when we parted.

Seatmate on the Austin-Detroit leg arrives down the aisle, raring to chat. OK. He's a young guy; 38. In retail; a store manager at a luxury Burberry outlet. We talk clothes. He mentions he's moved to Austin for a "fresh start." First alarm bell. He's headed back to Jersey to close on his house, which sold in 7 days (small house in a great neighborhood). Likes Austin? Loves it. We talk about tailors, how they make all the difference. He mentions "Mixed martial arts," a new category of fighting where basically there are no rules except you cannot, absolutely not, use a chair to wallop hell out of your opponent. This guy's into it. Kids? 3. "And my beautiful wife, drop-dead gorgeous. She's 6 feet tall. Blonde. Blue eyes." He's 5'8". Mentions the starting-over thing again. "My big problem is my jealousy." Heritage: Italian and Spanish. Okey-dokey. Starts talking compulsively about this young (22) co-worker of his wife's. She's trained the kid. Who's also a volunteer fire-fighter (think physically fit) and funny (think enraged husband). Mentions again the starting-over thing; turns out it's his third starting over. Now, in my world, guys who are jealous are jerks. But there's something about this one: he's in serious emotional pain. He desperately afraid, he tells me, of losing her. They've been married 15 years, but everything out of his mouth drives her farther away. He's repeating to me (total stranger) verbatim conversations with his wife that turn swiftly into nasty arguments. (Footnote: he admits he's in the wrong in every instance.) He says, "The only person you can really change is yourself, right?" They've had a row so loud already in Austin that the neighbor has come over with some friendly advice about chilling and such, "you don't want to bring the sheriff down around your head." Three hours of this, him and me, chatting away about his extreme marital problems. His wife's having anxiety attacks. He's having anxiety attacks. I tell him about my anxiety attacks. The kids are acting out. The 22-year-old co-worker comes by for sleep-overs when the husband's out of town; but totally platonic everyone swears. Yikes carumba!!!

That was leg one of the flight home. Leg two was just as weird; LA-based email marketer starting a music foundation plumped down next to me. Another young guy, late 20s maybe, high-school drop-out who made good. He purchased the drink cart's entire supply of Jim Beam and proceeded to get sweetly plastered; the drunker he got, the nicer he got (except for the plentiful f-bombs he was dropping in the ears of nearby flyers). On his laptop he's playing a horror movie about a paranormal Connecticut house. "New England," he says, "I mean, really, it's all blood land. Soaked in it. And energy can't die. So it lives on somehow." Like in hauntings. We had a great talk until he slid into incoherence.

L-r: All that fits in my tiny Baggallini carry-on, the luggage of choice for 1-2 day speaking gigs. Good BBQ at the airport, cut the brisket with a plastic fork. Whoop whoop at the fabulous Stephen Austin hotel downtown. Sign on a cabbie's door, from my perspective. Speaks for itself. The Detroit Airport, tunnel scored with original music and a light show. The 6th street music scene tourist office.

On the Brag Board

"Tom, You're becoming a bit of a legend in my office and I thought I'd drop you a note. My name is Kurt Haenicke and I run development communications at Illinois Institute of Technology in Chicago. Your books are required reading for my team..." Also on this day: two of my book titles appear among the top 10 "best sellers" at the AFP online bookstore.

How tightly can you cross your fingers?

Until the nails turn blue. UPDATE: It didn't help.

Crit surfing

"Crit surfing" is a sport that writers and other creative types engage in. It does not build any muscles (unless a clenched neck is a desirable physical attribute). It builds maneuvering ability, though, and a taste for intellectual dominance.

I'm working with a college. They need a case written for their $150-or-so million campaign.

The college president more or less approved the case I wrote (with edits) and is hanging semi-tough. The academic who feels most ignored by the process is complaining. The development officer who rooted for me as some kind of magical national expert is embarrassed. I responsed to her extended apology in an email:

Yet more affirmation. For you. Great job; you're handling the politics like Cirque du Soleil.

This is going exactly as I'd hoped and planned, [insert name here]. Not in the puppet-master sense. In the cattle-drover sense.

Academic environments are predictable, as are their behaviors; in the same way that dating is predictable, kindergartens are predictable, and cattle. (I think that about covers the emotional range.)

And luv my office

When globalization becomes personal

I had four new sign-ups this morning for my how-to e-newsletter: one from New Delhi, one from London, one from Australia, and one from British Columbia. Welcome aboard, from eight ball in the corner pocket: Rhode Island, Youessay.

The one

The Princess Bride. The brave and vengeful swordsman says, "Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

When you choose a career goal, you vow something like that. "Everything else, prepare to die." I knew I would be a writer from a very young age. Some kind of writer. Every kind of writer, it turns out, chasing any degree of measurable success (i.e., audience response). Daisies wilt, forearms shielding their eyes, faced with an obstinate career obsession. True love?: Simone, doesn't.

Sausage factory speed record

Sketched out what I think could be a good direct mail letter in about 15 minutes. You should ask three times: see the places I circled. Note: pen on paper, thoughts first, before turning to the keyboard. You're going for a conversation.

I've been "de-cheekified"

My all time favorite client not my wife invented a word: "de-cheekified." It refers to the removal from my writing of phrases that will predictably set the pinstripes of trustees on fire. This college [confidentiality prohibits me etc.] will celebrate its 100th anniversary soon. It's launching a $150 million capital campaign; I'm writing the case. Decheekified? That would be questionable phrases like, "We're into three digits, baby!" (I.e., their centennial.)

Otherwise, though (I post these comments in my office for solace on the days of doubt), she wrote: "You nailed it baby. WOW. Can't thank you enough. Wow, indeed." Got the whole vast scheme inside 2,000 pretty quick words. I'm happy.

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Where it will appear as a public document Pendel (1981) believes that the style should be motivational. [That is like saying, when the sun appears, it ought to be blinding. Is there a counter? Maybe an UN-motivational style? {Though, frankly, going all confessional now, and just between us garden gnomes, MOST of the communications created inside the dictatorial confines of an institution, are FAR more likely to DE-motivate than motivate. They just suck in so many ways.} Back to you.]