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.

When it comes to evaluating social networking apps, I cannot be trusted. So, as I’ve been thinking that Twitter was much ado about nothing, I’ve also been thinking, “but how would I know?” But yesterday, I got testimony from an expert witness, a 14-year-old girl who texts instead of speaking!

So, I’m sitting at The Peace Center, the world’s greatest performing arts venue, at intermission of a pretty good performance of To Kill a Mocking Bird, when I look over at the kid next to me, and notice that she is texting at about the speed I type. Never one to pass up a learning opportunity, I ask her, “So, how many texts do you sent in a week?”

“Well, I send about 75 a day, so 75 times 7 is, well, I guess a lot.”

“I’m an old guy, so I probably don’t send 75 a year.”

“Yeah, I guess not.”

“So, do you send all these texts to a lot of people, or do you sent a lot of texts to a few people.”

“Mostly, like, five to seven people. Sometimes others.” I need to note that she said seven, without my prompting. I think that’s significant. But that’s another post for another time.

“So, like you and your seven friends just text each other all the time.”

“Yeah.”

“So, do you change your Facebook status by phone?”

“No, I have a Blackberry.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah.”

“But I have friends who change their Facebook status, like, every minute. I’m like, ‘you need to live your life.’ Like, how do they find time to do anything but change their Facebook status?”

“Yeah, really. So, do you Twitter?”

Wrinkles cute little teeny-bopper nose. “No. I don’t get Twitter. What’s the big deal?”

So, I rest my case.

Twitter. Schmitter.

I remember the day the space shuttle fell apart, and the pieces fell all over Texas. You could get really famous if you got hit by a piece of space debris. You’d be in all the papers for a week or so.

And I remember when a big old sink hole swallowed a car near Pittsburgh, back when I was living up there. Of all the ways to lose your car, that is one that would make the papers.

Used to know a woman who slept with a sauce pan on her head. She lived in a bad neighborhood, and she said you never know when a stray bullet is gonna fly through your bedroom.

My college friend, Bruce Call, was delivering papers in Xenia, Ohio, when the biggest tornado in the history of the state ripped through. There was Bruce, riding his bike like the wicked witch of the west, through a tornado…dodging softball-sized hail stones. He actually lived to tell about it. There are certain places where you just don’t want to be a certain times—like on the sidewalk where the piano lands when the piano-movers rope breaks as he’s delivering the thing to the fourth floor walk-up.

So far, the Lord has been good, keeping us from those places. But, since pride is a bad thing, He has also kept us from being in the right place at the right time. Today, we talked to some folks who would be perfect clients for us. They believe what we believe. They sell what we buy. They’re a little weird, inexactly the way we are. Unfortunately, they just hired an agency…right before we got there. We’re not giving up on that one. Could still happen. Maybe a project. Maybe something down the road.

Wrong place. Wrong time. Could be worse. Could be a falling Boesendorfer.

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.

I think my favorite stock index is the volatility index (VIX), which is not exactly a stock index at all. Actually, it is an index of how fast certain types of transactions happen—or something like that. But what it does is measure how freaked out the market is. You know, like when the liquidity crisis happened, back in September, the market was really freaked out. VIX jumped to, like, 80. That’s like having blood pressure of 200 over 130. Or having a resting heart rate of 125. It’s crazy stressful.

Normal (kinda the 120/80 of volatility) is 40. Back during the bubble, some people were nervous about volatility index being high 30s, low 40s, as the market went up…and up…and up. And then, as the market came down (over several months) from 14,000… to 12,500…to 12,000… to 11,000… the index stayed in the high 30s - low 40s. People just didn’t see the connection between the rise and fall of the market and the rise and fall of … wealth. Until they did.

Well, today, VIX was between 39-41± just about all day. Closed at 40.06. It looked for a while like it might actually close below 40. This is good. People are catching their breath. Gathering their wits about them.

Take a deep breath now. Ready. One. Two. Three. Climb.

Well, the market closed up today. That’s six out of seven sessions. And it’s nearly 1000 points above the bottom, right? Housing starts were up, as were construction permit applications. Wholesale prices were up, but just a little. Food prices down, fuel prices up. Consumer spending and retail sales, both steady.

It’s like we’re in one of those Tarzan movies. You’re running through the jungle and fall into a booby trap—a pit covered with some branches. At first, you panic, because you’re shocked at the ground giving way. And then you feel yourself fall, but you don’t know how far. Or what’s at the bottom. Then, you hit with a thud (a little bounce, which is better than a splat). You lie there for a while. Roll over, look up at the light shining into the hole. Check to make sure nothing’s broken. Pull yourself up. And then begins the climb.

I guess we’ll be climbing for a while. And we have scrapes, scratches, bruises, sprains, strains, stoves, and maybe even fractures. But, for the first time in quite some time, we appear to be still alive. So, there’s that!

When we do branding, we spend a great deal of time, and many tools, getting to understand the client’s differential advantage. Now, it’s generally pretty easy for folks to understand things like color palette, type palette, photography palette, voice, tone, music…all the sensory components of the brand. But it’s sometimes a little harder to grasp differential advantage. So, here’s what it is.

Differential advantage is the set of benefits you are able to provide profitably, every day, within your normal operation, that are relevant to the purchasing decision of a significant portion of purchasers of your category, that your competitors cannot duplicate as routinely or as profitably. In short, it is your home field advantage.

A great example (which we, sadly, did not develop) is FedEx. They built their entire business on a “hub” concept, where all packages came to, and departed from, a central hub (Memphis, I think). This unique operational feature enable them to deliver any package, from anywhere in the Continental United States, to anywhere in the Continental United States, over night. Thus the differential advantage, as tag line—when it absolutely, positively has to be there overnight.

This differential advantage was a leverage point for FedEx to own the premium niche of overnight business delivery. Although they now do a lot of other things—international delivery, ground delivery, KINKO’s—and although others now do overnight delivery, FedEx was able to leverage being first in this niche to build an entire brand on the overnight position.

We branded with a bank in Texas, who looked around and saw that there were a lot of banks in Texas, but not too many FROM Texas. Now, that may not mean much in Alabama or South Carolina. But Texans Loooooove Texas. So, we were able to build an entire differential advantage on the fact that they were from Texas, and their direct competitors weren’t. Blue bonnets are magic, you know.

That’s the average age of the folks we spent the weekend with. It was awesome. We’re working on some branding for Pittsboro Christian Village. This weekend, we went over for a visit. Spent Saturday evening there. Went to services there on Sunday morning. Shot off to lunch with Uncle Ducky. Back at Pittsboro for dinner and evening service. Spent the day there on Monday. What an amazing group of people!

We met missionaries from Congo and Zambia. We met folks who knew Anne’s parents before they were married (which would be, like, sixty years ago). We met retired executives.

The place is run by a retired Lt. Colonel, Gerald. He lives on the grounds with his family. So, you have this community in which the average age is 85. And then you have these four teenagers hanging around, with their friends. And everybody loves everybody. What a brand!

I gotta say, I have never done a series of one-on-one interviews in which every interview included prayer and more than half included tears. Can’t wait to write this one!