Booze Cruise

I Heart Small Libraries

 I never feel more comfortable -- or, as they say in Nashville, "c'mfir'erbil" -- than in a small library. My child's brain and nervous system and values and sense of adventure and emotional excess and boundless curiosity and a hunger for wonder all grew up in my town's small library, in Holbrook, Massachusetts. Birthplace of no one remotely famous until Andy Card, my senior class president, became the 43rd-worst president's, George W. Bush's, chief of staff. He and his family were about the only Republicans in our town, this being Massachusetts; which if it wasn't in the back pocket of labor in 1965, our graduation year, was at least jiggling its keys and change in the side pocket. You are looking into the Hotchkiss Public Library, in Sharon, CT. Think Rodeo Drive in Los Angeles; now translate that to horse farms and rolling hills. That's Sharon. Stonehenges of wealth spring from the ground wherever you look. Except here. This is its library. Once wealthy as scandal. Widow Hotchkiss named it for her industrialist husband, who'd run away to Paris with his mistress; but then, thankfully, died. That's him, the bust in the back. Hotchkiss needs a million in renovations at least. Somebody there should just cough it up; there must be a couple of hundred who could afford it. "Josh?" Post your bust next to Philanderer Hotchkiss. Or maybe add a rich face to the Tiffany windows. The Hotchkiss hosted me from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. on Sunday (closed), June 30. I worked away in an upstairs room, listening to movie soundtracks, while downstairs my wife, the estimable Simone, ran a board retreat in her usual distinguished, gales of laughter, not quite as strict as a nun way.

We ran off on a wonderful lost weekend. She worked Friday and Sunday. We played Friday night and all day Saturday. Did Chez Nous, restaurant in Lee. NWR -- not worth repeating; still as good as previous visits; but now only in spots. Too busy to keep itself honest; and trouble getting good help, I guess. From the kitchen, loud French anger: cue the temperamental chef. He was vaguely entertaining. More important to me: the specialty cocktail lacked personality and murdered its star, the elderflower liqueur St.-Germain, made in France; "lychee-like flavor...with a hint of pear," wrote Jeff Hoyt. A death by drowning, overcome by a bunch of bubbles; cheap champagne filled the bud glass. And the chairs: we were stuck on bar chairs. But bad bar chairs: with a rim that severed circulation across the back of the thigh. Yes, if you did not wish people to linger, these would be exactly the chairs to choose.

But Jacob's Pillow? I go to dance, hoping to be transported. Not mildly. I mean moved into some dimension I have never before visited. Dance does that; I love rhythm and bodies performing en masse. I believe it stems from my days in a marching band, part of a high-stepping group of newly hormonal teenagers. A few movies -- mostly documentaries -- can do that, too. And music? Music, praise all, does that for me every day. I LOVE my nervous system. I listen to movie soundtracks as I write stuff for clients. My iPod move playlist has 27 entries; all either sad, heroic, or heavenly. They drive me to write with flourishes. Late in the day, when I'm exhausted, those soundtracks drive me to drink. I like that part, too.

I was transported into the 7th or who knows what dimension by the Heddy Maalem Compagnie. African dancers from everywhere, performing against Igor Stravinsky's Consecration (Rite) of Spring, plus some sound-drops. The audience was maybe 60 years of age on average (me, too): those without muscle tone watching those with shocking muscle tone. The sexless viewing the recently sexual (top age, 30?). And collaborating! Performances need viewers! As it should be! You take your turn. You celebrate your role, wherever you happen to be chronologically. Being your age is your job.

In Millerton, NY (pop. under 800) we ran into a tasting by winemaker Peter Sloan, of Teatown Cellars (Napa), hosted by Little Gates & Co. Wine Merchants.You know how you walk into certain shops, and immediately fall in love? Little Gates is that kind of place. An obvious labor of love, very welcoming. It's just around the corner from Oblong Books (the perfect, lose-an-hour-browsing independent bookstore); a half-minute's walk from Harney's tea emporium, a national treasure all its own.

Peter Sloan was pouring his 2004 Merlot. He'd signed a few bottles with a grease pencil, too; nice, artisanal touch. He's been a wine buyer for a major NYC restaurant and was a wine wholesaler for years. He was well-acquainted with obscure wines from the Languedoc, our part of France.

Teatown is a "virtual winery." Sloan lives in New York and makes his wines through Napa producers. "Oak?" I asked with my first sip. He objected, and he was right. The oak faded; the fruit advanced. I'm no fan of Merlot; the ordinary stuff is a bit goofy for my tastes. But this offering was big and delicious. I ended up drinking the bottle over two days. A good thing, too: on the second day, it was even better, all its secrets fully revealed. Let it breathe a lot. Highly recommended; $24.50.

How to make your billion dollar goal? Deans approve nothing

My desk, as I'm presenting a webinar. Timer, notes on who's attending, printout of my PPT, Made to Stick, and the Michelin Man, carrying a wine basket bearing my pens. He is why I'm working.

TOTAL INCOMING RANT: I write case statements for part of my comfortable six-figure income. I teach how to write case statements for another part. And for the unmatched excitement of receiving a small royalty check every quarter, I've even written a book about case statements (out soon; one of my four titles on donor communications).

I didn't guess at any of it. I read every major textbook on capital campaigns. I snagged training from two of America's leading capital campaign consulting firms; and continue to work as a contract writer of cases for one (the better-paying one). And I seek out and interview top fundraisers, people who commonly raise millions. Why? Fundraisers use case statements in face-to-face solicitations. I need to know how.

As I mentioned, I teach this topic, mostly at fundraisers' conferences, more than a dozen times this year alone. Today, for instance, I gave a webinar. Listening and watching online were development staff from 70 or so education, health care, and other organizations, many of them brand names; with 30 North American universities among them.

And here's what comes up at every workshop I do, without exception, without fail -- including today: "Well, that's fine, Tom; and I agree with you. But my dean/president/boss will never approve. He/she thinks more verbiage is better; and that jargon and lofty language are the best."

Look, we all know what we know. But sometimes people in unassailable positions (think tenured) fall into an eerie intellectual trance. They start to assume they know everything; and that what they don't know, they can easily guess at, using the mighty instrument of a big brain stamped Ph.D. Common human failing? Absolutely. Tolerable human failing in a capital campaign attempting to raise $1 billion? Please.

A case statement is a sales document. As a sales document, its success depends on many things: an understanding of applied psychology, eye-motion studies, best practices in advertising, journalistic training. To name just the cream.

A case hopes to sell a generalist, not a specialist. The University of Toronto's $1 billion campaign convinced more than 112,000 to make gifts; about half were first-time donors; 95,000 gave less than $1,000, 217 gave $1 million or more. A vast throng; most were not specialists.

Jargon-crusted, lofty-leaning, and tedious writing does not impress this crowd. It fatigues this crowd. It frustrates this crowd. It confuses this crowd. And pity the poor solicitor in a face-to-face solicitation (97% of the money is raised from 3% of the donors) who ends up blurting, "Look, I know; it's kind of vague. Here's what they're trying to say."

A competent, professional approval loop for case statements includes no one but (1) solicitors; (2) their designated writers; and (3) content experts.

Content experts check facts; that's all. They do not rewrite for style. That's not their job. That's not their expertise. A case statement is nothing like a grant proposal or a peer-reviewed article, the things a dean might in fact know how to write. Those items share no common ground with a case statement. They do not share similar target audiences.

Specialists vs. generalists, remember?

CO: Big cloud country

Greetings from room 1006 in the Westminster Westin, between Boulder and Denver. On spur of the moment tornado watch.

In France, waiting for the rain to exit

Welcome to the sodden south of France. Reading the Financial Times and International Herald Tribune, honeysuckle pruned to within an inch of its life (I mean that), bridges to our garage lifted so we don't flood the neighbors (on the fence about that), Campari and soda downed, Haut Gleon poured, laundry in, teasey sun.... Pluey, pluey, go away, returnez-vous some mudder day.

France office May 2008

Looking from the kitchen into the living room, through the massive limestone arches supporting www.ourhouseinfrance.com: my writing desk is against the back wall, which is part of the old ramparts. Today's work: a communications audit for a U.S. community foundation. Tomorrow's work: preparing to train a large state university system how to write the cases for a $1 billion campaign. It's so much nicer to work within a block of the vineyards.

Calgary road food

Calgary, May 7, Simone and I present to the AFP chapter. Night before, Tony and Erna Myers host a home-cooked cedar-planked salmon feast and St. Mary's University MA in Philanthropy and Development reunion. Is demon prankster Guy Mallabone North America's best college fundraiser? He's doing amazing things at SAIT. Inquiring minds want to know: What is Lorie showing Candace?

 

Barely

Holding on. I now have 13 versions of All Along the Watchtower on my iPod. For every occasion.

This was my worst air trip yet. And that includes the puke-inducing migraines and the drunk Brit episode.

On the second leg of our journey to Winnipeg for a speaking engagement, Simone, my co-presenter, realized she'd left her U.S. passport behind. The airline would not board her for Canada, citing potential $50,000 fines. The U.S. consul in Winnipeg tried to intervene. The airline refused. Simone headed in tears for the O'Hare Hilton. I boarded for Winnipeg.

My true destination? Panic. I had three hours of material for a six-hour gig.

Happy ending though. YAY! United pulled through. Simone's passport arrived via cockpit express at O'Hare early next morning. She landed in Winnipeg a little after noon. The Winnipeggers (yay, Leslie!) performed like a precision drill team: urgent cell phones, racing car rides, the lot. Simone strode in to applause and took up her duties. Brilliant, too. Top of her game.

Okay.

Yet somehow .... leaving Canada, dragging my luggage around downtown Winnipeg, merrily photographing Nutty Club signs (from a certain view, the mascot did look deranged), already late for the plane, I picked up traces of explosive materials.

Security detained me. A deliberate, skeptical bunch they were. The pat-down was so intimate and frank that he and I really should have married (sigh). Simone was dancing from one foot to the other. Volcanologists know the signs. She kept trying out her objections on me. She's a hater: of bureaucracy, of poor management.

"Oh, please, my honey," I'd whisper, "please don't say that." We boarded frantically at the very last moment. I'd departed her in Chicago. She was fully prepared to depart me in Winnipeg. "Let's go home." We both said it.

Home in Rhode Island, where at this time of year the mating frogs sound like the bed springs of the metal gods, is where I discovered that the U.S. Transportation Security Adminstration (TSA), an arm of Homeland Security, for whom's mission I should be grateful, had slipped a note into my luggage, letting me know that, despite the Winnipeg rush, they'd been vigilant and rifled my unclean underwear. "To protect you and your fellow passengers, the TSA is required by law to inspect all checked luggage." The card said.

They'd yanked out my gloves. Packed on the chance that ambient Winnipeg's temperature fell below sufferable (it did not). TSA returned just one, you classic dipsh*ts. It was the left glove, my right-brained hand. Maybe it was a statement, from the sinistral side.

Do gloves exist to get lost? This particular pair was an indulgence, hand-stitched by a second-generation glovemaker in Millau, France; cost me around 90 euros; $135. What's the sound of one expensive glove clapping?

But then. Today, one of America's foremost charities phoned BEGGING for my help with a $500 million case. Which group has vowed to reverse global warming? I now know. Balance achieved. Lost gloves. Found cause.

Greetings from Lincoln, NE

Back in December, Marj McKinty emailed me, inviting me to speak at Lincoln, NE's 2008 "brand camp" for nonprofits. Her opening comment: "We're seeking Scheherazade." Who could resist? On my journey, I watched Ted Danson drink coffee in the Detroit airport. Marj met me at the Lincoln airport with fresh miniature daffodils. I speak today at noon, using Scheherazade as the frame tale for my stink bomb about donor communications ("Mostly bad. Mostly very bad."). Lincoln is a college town with a buzzing arts and dining district around the old train station. One landmark, shown in this photo: a remarkably-crafted bas relief mural, of just brick. Dinner recommendation: Lazlo's extra-friendly brewery (delicious oatmeal stout) and restaurant. UPDATE: Heading out, Marj took me by the state house, where her friend Ron gave us an insider's tour of the murals, the carvings, the last moments of Art Deco. The state house was finished debt-free during the Great Depression. Nebraska's constitution still requires a balanced budget; and this year's session obliged. Back in RI, my state of residence, different story: government fiddles while a $380 million deficit burns.

When Deadlines Loom

My desk. I have two alarm signs. They originally dangled from chains in a factory or fire house; picked up at Ipso Facto, an antiques store in she-she farm town, Three Oaks, MI. An alarm sign dropped on a pile of reference matter means the project MUST BE WRITTEN TODAY!

I Love My Clients

Because they send me notes like this.