Perfect!

This morning I was remembering a section of Malcomb Gladwell’s The Tipping Point about group dynamics. Honestly, I am not sufficiently motivated to look it up, so I am going from memory here. But I remember that the number seven was very significant.

He talked about the fact that phone numbers were seven digits. Seems that people can memorize up to seven digits (or seven of anything else) without grouping or using mnemonics. Beyond seven, they have to have acronymns, mnemonic devices, visualization tricks, or groupings of sets containing seven or fewer. Seems to be a hardwired thing in our brains. It’s almost universal.

Seems that families with more than five children (plus two parents) tend to break into multiples. For example, a family with nine children will typically have primary group relationships among the eldest five and the two parents, and among the younger four, the parents, and one of the older children (often remembered as a “second mom”). Sets of seven.

Quaker meetings (or was it shaker…or was it mennonite?…or was it Amish?) are permitted to grow to fifty people (seven times seven, plus one), before splitting and forming two meetings. Very organic! Works like this…seven primary groups…the “leaders” of each forming a group of seven…with one extra (they probably don’t really like the extra that much, but who wants to be legalistic?).

Gore Corporation (the people who brought us Goretex, and a bunch of other cool stuff) was famous for dividing itself into autonomous, entrepreneurial groups of fifty or less. Each group had access to all of the technology the company owned (including new technologies the company was developing). Each group was responsible for using that technology to develop products and create strategies for those products. Each group was expected to “live” on the proceeds from the products it developed.

We have seven days in a week. Always have as far as I know. This is ancient, and consistent across cultures. The first six, God worked. The seventh He rested. It’s the number of perfection.

VIvian and I went over to Easley yesterday, to call on a prospective client. Can’t say who the prospect is, but I can tell you that it was great to be in Easley. There’s just something about Easley.

Back in the last century, when I moved here, I was under the impression that South Carolina was made up of the 60 sophisticates that worked with me at Henderson Advertising, and about 1.1 million toothless bubbas. But the longer I stayed, the more I realized that much of South Carolina was sophisticated (and perhaps that I was the bubba). Out of this learning came the concept I call, “The Easley Syndrome”.

For some reason, Easley, South Carolina is a watershed of world-class wonderfulness, sometimes disguised as ordinary folks (maybe even a little bit country). Easley is the birthplace of the world’s most successful kayak manufacturer. Easley is the home of one of Southern Gospel Music’s finest pianists. Easley has a world-class web printer. Easley is the hometown of one of the biggest club acts of the late 70s and early 80s (second only to Leon Russel), a CCM band called The Rob Cassels Band. At one time, the strongest woman in the world was a 16-year-old girl from Easley. Easley has more Congressional Medal of Honor winners per capita than any other town or city in America. Also, Easley is the home of one of the best kept secrets in the healthcare industry (nuff said).

Some places are just like that, I guess. Jackson, Mississippi has more than its share of great writers, for example. And Pittsburgh turns out more than its share of NFL quarterbacks. But Easley, SC ought to be a wide spot next to a railroad track. And somehow…it’s a full fledged syndrome. Who would have thought it?

We got a thank you note today. Without going into a lot of details about why we received it, I just think thank you notes, when done right, really make an impression.

This note acknowledged our gesture. And then, the writer went on to tell us how our gesture fits so nicely with other parts of his life. Having tied these things together, the gentleman expressed thoughts about how our gesture, when combined with related parts of his life, would actually enhance his life.

Then, he complimented us on our work. And he said that he had appreciated our work for some time. And he thanked us again.

What a wonderful note. Based entirely on facts. Yet, expressing sincere feelings. Without sentimentality.

By the way, it was hand written. But you knew that.

Okay, so it’s been years, maybe decades, since the movement began to gentrify the west end. Probably started when they built The Peace Center, which was completed in 1991 (which means the sinister plot was being hatched all the way back in the 80s—along with technopop and glitter country…and Madonna 1.0). They drove out the hookers. Reclaimed the “West End Market.” Pulled some political magic to get The Governor’s School for the Arts down there. Schmizzled the park and put in the bridge. Gave Billy Mitchel’s house to the Hughes brothers. Changed a couple blocks of Pendleton Street to (South) South Main Street. Put in some mega expensive condos. Built West End Field.

By now, the gentrification process has gained critical mass, and there will be no stopping it. We will have Volvos in the West End. But beyond the West end, by a couple of miles, on out the part of Pendleton Street that is still Pendleton Street…down past Academy…is a part of town that’s still a little scarey…in a good way (I think). The part of town I propose to call… The Wild West End.

That’s where our friend Diane Kilgore Condon pioneered to put in The Art Bomb. And that served as ground zero for what has exploded into a bonafide, tattooed, pierced, and henna-dyed bohemian arts district. And that is where our dear friends, the Stephensons, have decided to open what promises to be the coolest coffee shop ever…in Greenville, or anywhere.

Coffee to a Tea is opening tonight in what used to be Tuckers Soda Shop. Now, judging from past history, the place will be very well run, serve superb coffee (prepared by masterful baristas), tea from strange and wonderful places, and delectable goodies. Because Jessie and the Stephensons (sounds like a folk band from Nova Scotia, doesn’t it) are the perfect storm of baking ability, management ability, and coolness. You gonna have to try it to believe it.

To get there, from downtown, stay on Pendleton Street, all the way through the ghetto, across Academy, until you come to Lois Street (at the beginning of the arts district). Turn right, go under the trestle. And it’ll be like the second or third building on your right. Check it out.

I have high hopes that this will turn out to be a destination of coolness for the people I like to hang with. Even as I hope the Volvos stay away for a while. But that’s just me.

A little more than two years ago, we moved into this cool space, in which we rendered a bohemian | industrial feel. We were part of a movement, to turn Laurens Street from an alley, back into a street. The city was very excited. It was us, and a developer of high-end condos, and an ad agency down the street, and a restaurant up on the corner. We got together with the city, before we made an offer on the place, to talk about plans.

They were gonna put a police out-station at the bottom of the block (to offset some issues having to do with the bus station across the street, and transients). There was gonna be a trash compactor, to deal with the trash generated by all the new residents and the restaurants that share our alley. There was gonna be some street scape work. It was gonna be cool.

Then, about three months ago, Duke Power decided to put an eight-foot-tall, green metal transformer in the middle of our street scape. Kinda works with the industrial bohemian thing. But not so much with the live oaks planted next to it. Anyhow, MDH (the woman at the city of Greenville who is in charge of the street project) decides that we can have a mural painted on the side of the eyesore…you know, like arty cities like Austin and Portland do. We though, cool!

We suggested, why not put something to promote one of the big shows coming to The Peace Center. Generate some street level excitement. Ran it by the MDH. Her bureaucratic response:

“Good idea—the only thing is it would be considered “off-premise advertising” and would not meet our city ordinance. If we allowed the Peace Center to advertise, other people would ask to advertise on things all across the City. I think we will probably have to use artwork instead of ads. Thanks for your feedback.”

I think she (and the city) are confused, and need to get this strait in their heads.The old “if we let one person, we’ll have to let everyone” just doesn’t wash in this case. The Peace Center is not everyone. The Peace Center is a major non-profit institution, positioned as the cultural center of the region. It is a substantial driver of city revenue, as well as a significant economic development magnet. If they can advertise their silly footbridge, they can advertise the jewel in their cultural crown.

They need to be reminded that without The Peace Center for the Performing Arts, there is no WEST END.

Sorry for the rant.

I was just smitten by Pamela Jo Klinger, when I was in first grade. For a six-year-old romantic, she was the perfect woman. Curley auburn hair. Freckles. Saddle oxfords. She could climb the monkey bars in a lady-like way. And, she was good at math. What’s not to like?

Problem is, Pamela Jo Klinger didn’t reciprocate my feelings. Unrequited love at six is every bit as painful as unrequited love at … later. So I did what you would expect. I cried.

Cried to my teacher. Cried to my friends. Cried to my mother… “Pamela Jo Klinger doesn’t like me.”

My mother was cool, but wise. “Jimmy, if she doesn’t like you, she doesn’t like you. Maybe she doesn’t know you the way I do (and everyone who does like you). Or maybe she just likes different kinds of people than you. But you can’t make her like you.”

Last week we worked really hard on a proposal for a project that seemed to be tailor made for us. It included branding…web design…a little bit of video. We had lots of references the client should have known and been impressed by. We sent them a pdf proposal, chalk full of links. It had some cool web sites. It had some awesome branding case studies. It had bios of our team and our technical partners. We thought it should have been a slam dunk.

Today, we learned that we didn’t get the gig. So, we looked at ourselves. Our freckles. Our grace on the monkey bars. Our math aptitude. How pretty we sing. How well we draw with our crayons. And we cried. It hurt our feelings.

But one thing’s for sure. You can only do what you can do. You can only be what you are. And at the end of the day…

you can’t make Pamela Jo Klinger like you.

People who know Anne and me know that we eat red meat about once a decade. Well, this year, we decided to celebrate Valentine’s Day by having a cheeseburger and fries (we’re really boring). So, we started about a month ago, asking all our carnivorous friends for recommendations regarding burgers and fries. We got Sonic, Fuddruckers, Wendy’s (my dad’s fav)… But our nephew Jonathan came with the definitive recco. Five Guys.

So, Friday, Anne and I saved our calories all day, so we could do the celebratory injection of nasties into our arteries. We cruised in around 5:30. Place was filling up with large moms and their less large kids…and some teeny-boppers with turbo-charged metabolisms. We walked up to the counter, apparently looking like vegans in a slaughter house. The girl at the counter took one look at Anne and said, “You don’t want the famous burger. The little burger will be plenty for you. The famous burger is two quarter-pound patties.” So, we looked at each other, had a quick discussion of the potential damage to our circulation (and waste lines), and ordered two little cheeseburgers and a bag-o-fries. Mine had lettuce, tomatoes, mustard, and jalapenos.

We munched on the shelled peanuts while we waited (with much anticipation) for “NUMBER 78!” Our number was finally called. We brought the grease-stained back back to our table and began to unpack the feast. We gave thanks. And then, simultaneously, we bit into our burgers. It had been years since either of us had tasted that taste. Beef! With the crunch of cool iceberg lettuce. The slurp of tomato, dripping slightly. The tang of jalapeno afterburners.

Then, we dug into the fries, dipping each one into our little ketchup cups (catsup is for wimps…this was ketchup). The grease made them slide down sooooo smooth. We expected that we would be waddling around for a day or two–red meat remains oozing from our pores. But surprisingly, it has not been a problem. That, I guess, is the benefit of going for the good stuff.

Of course, we are still not big red meat eaters. But this has been a good experience. So we may be increasing our burger frequency. Maybe we’ll do it again for Independence Day. Who knows?

A good friend of ours, and an occasional client, is Isothermal Community College. They have the world’s coolest radio station (WNCW), for which we have never done promotional work. And they also have an awesome metrology lab, for which we have done a good bit of work. Metrology is the science of measuring things.

When we first started positioning the lab, we got a quick lesson in testing. One of the “destructive” test we learned about was a destructive breakage (or strength) test. The way it works is you take a material, you stretch it out, and then you start piling weights on it until it breaks. Then you record how much weight it took to break the thing.

Last week, Vivian and her son did a science project, in which they did strength tests on tall kitchen trash bags. They got the two leading brands, and a brand called “Roughy,” which is the Wal-Mart, cheap-as-dirt brand. With each bag, they put weights into the bag and lift it. Then they recorded the amount of weight required to break each bag.

You might be interested in knowing that the Roughy bags out-performed the others by a loooooooooooog way. In fact, they didn’t have enough weights to break out the bottom of the Roughy bags. They only broke where their fingers punctured the bag as they lifted it. So, there’s Vivian’s science project—proof that Wal-Mart does something right.

Also, here’s a little shout-out to Uncle Ducky. Thanks for the birthday greeting!

Of course, as of today, we know him as Mr. President. But about a year and a half ago, when he came to McAllister Square Mall, here in Greenville, Barack Obama was just an interesting idea. Today, he drew a couple million. That day it was a couple thousand. Of course, he could make a speech even back then.

For the past couple of years, we have done something really cool at Christmas time. We invite our friend Carl Blair over to paint with us. It’s like art class, except the art teacher is a serious business artist. And we all get around a table and paint the artwork for our Christmas mailings.

This year, we threw C.B. a curveball. We prepped the canvases with an under coat of silver and gold metallic. He seemed to think it was cool. He did the first painting by himself. Started with the sky. Worked his way down. Then, he used the ends of the brushes (the part without the bristles) to scratch through and reveal the metallic. It was so cool. So, among other things, Carl Blair can hit a curveball.

In other news, our friend Curtis came to visit from San Antonio. He is a former (and perhaps future) youth pastor, who is using his graphic design skills right now. He has a nice time meeting C.B. at our office. In fact, God seemed to like the two of them together, because the next day, while Anne, Curtis, and I were having coffee at Starbucks, who walks in but Carl and his friend Carol. They sat with us and chatted for a while.

Then, later that night, Curtis, Anne, and I went to Flight for dinner with…Carl Blair (and our best art dealer friend, Sandy).

Curtis had the sniffles, so he stayed at the house and snoozed and relaxed while Anne and I made a Saturday run to Asheville for breakfast with the sisters. Kind of overcast day. Curtis will have to come back when he feels better…and when Asheville feels better too.

Then, we ran around, got artisan bread, listened to Revival Hymn, made black beans and rice, and generally had fellowship with Curtis. And at 4:30 Sunday morning, we got up to take Curtis to the plane. But we wanted to adopt him.

It was three days of little unexpected treasures. Silver and gold. I love that song. Don’t you?