ARTICULATED

In 1999, during the telecom bubble, I went to work for a DSL company in Colorado, one operating on hundreds of millions of dollars in venture capital and debt facilities. In the blink of an eye, the company had hired hundreds of people and placed expensive telecommunications equipment all over the Midwest.

It was run by a longtime telecommunications exec, a heavyweight in the industry with a bit of a reputation as a bully and hothead. My desk was very near his office.

As director of marketing communications, I was in charge of developing the brand for the new company, among other things. Once the chief marketing officer and everyone else had blessed the final-draft brand package, I showed it to the CEO – logo, sample business cards, letterhead, etc., all in a corporate and contemporary mint green. He glanced at it, grunted “fine,” and dismissed me. I authorized production. Box checked.

A couple of weeks later, in the car on my way to work, I got a call from the CEO’s assistant. She’d been with him for years and was as meek as he was brash, as timid as he was intimidating. Though she was unmarried, I found her a disturbing prototype in spousal abuse.

She whispered into the phone, “Shane, I’m calling because the new business cards and letterhead arrived early this morning. I don’t think ______________ likes them. He’s throwing the boxes. They’re exploding everywhere. He keeps screaming, ‘GOVERNMENT GREEN!! GOVERNMENT GREEN!’ I’m down on my knees trying to pick it all up. But he won’t stop throwing them.  He won’t stop screaming. He’s hitting the windows with the boxes. I’m afraid he’s going to break the glass.

“I just wanted you to know before you get here.”

Unable to breathe, I called my boss.  He was dumbfounded, out of town, and unable to help.  I wanted to call my mom, but there was nothing she could do.   So I continued on to the office to take what I had coming, certain it would be physical and violent. One colleague I called for advice and moral support turned her car around and went home. “Oh, HELL no,” were her precise words.

When I arrived, the paper and cards were returned to their boxes. The place was eerily silent, like nothing had happened. I tiptoed around all day, but that CEO just ignored me, consistent with what he typically did. He scarcely ever uttered another word my way.

About seven months later, when the telecom bust began, and signs suggested the wheels were about to come off the company and all others like it, people began getting laid off in waves – waves of 10, then of 25, then of 100. But weeks before, the layoffs began in a wave of one. The very first person let go – in the entire company – was me.  It was the most traumatic experience of my professional life. I was certain I had been fired under under the guise of reduction in force, and there was no convincing me otherwise. I had never been anything but a standout employee!  I felt like I had failed, and the sensation made me an emotional wreck. I continued to try to help and do work for the company after I was laid off, just to show I was loyal and still cared. My former colleagues pleaded with me to stop.  What a loser.

Months later, once I had leveled off a bit, I learned the company had filed for bankruptcy and hoped to keep it a secret.  I called the telecom reporter at the Denver Post, shared with him the tip, and gave him a very specific number to call for an interview.  I’d never done anything like that before and haven’t since. But at that time, it sure made things right. “Government green” it was.

I’m at a Colorado Association of Funders daylong seminar on social media strategy. Hundreds of people from the state’s nonprofit community are here listening to author and consultant Beth Kanter, who is quite charming.

I’ve been tweeting live from the event with the hashtag #ztrain, one of about 20 people in the room doing so. Right now, I’m the guy I’ve made fun of before, the one with my eyes down pecking away rather than making eye contact with the live humans around me. Luckily, I’m charming, so I’m interacting with my table enough that they still seem to like having me around … even though they’re making fun of me for “twittering.”

The upside is that, because of the hashtag I’m using, I’m more or less identifying myself to other people in the room who also are tweeting from the conference. I couldn’t point them out, of course. But the whole dynamic is intriguing.  And maybe I’ll make a new friend or business contact out of it.

On a break, I just tried to explain all of this to a funny and fun copywriter sitting beside me. She was dying to know what the hell I’m doing. Her reaction to my explanation was quite entertaining.

If you’re considering the purchase of a new vacuum cleaner, do you go to the Hoover website? Or do you Google the model you’re considering and look at whatever reviews pop up? What about the local auto-repair shop? Would you visit their website for any reason other than to learn their hours of operation? Would you call them and ask them what they think about themselves? Or would you ask others what experience they’ve had there? On the social web, Yelp, Google Reviews, and other services do the work of uncovering customer perspectives for us. That’s because these days, we don’t care as much about what a company has to say about itself. Intentionally or not, we increasingly root around the social mediasphere to validate (or nudge us away from) our purchase inclinations.

It begs the question: do websites still matter? Check out this fascinating exploration of that topic by Pete Blackshaw, the editor of Advertising Age Mobile. Blackshaw asks, “Didn’t things seem a tad curious during the World Cup when brands like Adidas and Nike actively promoted their Facebook page – not their primary website – at the end of their TV spots?”

The smart marketers at major consumer brands are at the front of the curve on this.   It might suggest that among the savviest consumer marketers, websites are becoming obsolete.  But Blackshaw argues that the role of the brand website is just changing to serve an evolved purpose in our new, social context. His great analogy:

“Brands today live a decentralized if not fragmented existence. The brand ‘home’ has line-extended itself into a network of smaller residences and rented apartments – or what we might call ‘brand stands’ – all primed for meeting and interacting with the consumer at various stages in the purchase, loyalty or advocacy cycle. A Facebook fan page is a classic brand stand.”

Note the mention of “advocacy” cycle, which applies more to the kinds of folks in my professional circles and who read this blog. His counsel is equally applicable to nonprofits serving community needs, trade associations serving corporate members, and issue campaigns attempting to capture the imagination of grassroots stakeholders.

When rethinking the organization’s website, “Think wholesale, less retail. Think distribution, less destination. Think serving, less selling,” Blackshaw writes.

I recently took a big plunge and fulfilled a dream. I became the owner of a tiny little piece of the Rocky Mountains about an hour outside of Denver. It’s a modest cabin on a plot of land off a steep and rutted dirt road at the top of a (9,000 foot) hill. It has a deck surrounded by aspen trees. Over those trees are views of mountains 30 miles away and more.

Over the past ten years, I’ve grown increasingly fascinated with the American West, the high mountains, and the notion of owning one’s own little weekend getaway. Plus I love small salt-of-the-earth communities – they keep me connected to my roots. This move seems to be the output of all those things.

The cabin is a place where I can concentrate on work. By nature of Kinkennon Communications’ mobile nature and the cabin’s proximity to my office and my home in Denver, I can easily spend a day, or a week, working there when I need to reduce distractions, find a creative spark, or simply enjoy a head-clearing change of scenery.

And it’s a place where I can concentrate on play. If I’m feeling leisurely, I can walk dogs over the rocky roads and take in the views. The place provides great access to world-class mountain biking, my first love. And while it’s no closer to major ski and snowboard areas than my home in Denver, I can access places like Breckenridge with less traffic.

The property is on Hilltop Drive.   Fittingly, I think it’s nickname will be “Hilltop.” It treats its occupants to wonders of nature like the full moon rising captured in this photo. I love it.

Michael Wilbon is my favorite sports writer, particularly when it comes to the NFL. I find him easy to read, smart, fair, and full of conviction. He helps me understand the game.

But I like his column today for a different reason. He argues that, sort of under the radar, the NFL is finally opening its eyes to the staggering truth about head injuries. And he broaches an even touchier subject in sports circles – the controversial notion that even more at risk than NFL stars are young college, high school and little league players.

What fascinates me most is his very personal confession that he has banned his own son from playing organized football … ever.  A top-caliber national sportscaster who’s made his living calling and analyzing NFL games has banned his own son from the sport he loves? Wow.

Eleven months ago, I suffered a major concussion on the flag football field. When I finally made my reluctant appearance at the emergency room six hours later, I was astonished at the priority I was given by the staff. When they heard “potential head injury,” they had me in the exam room immediately, ahead of a waiting room full of people. You would have thought I was bleeding from a gunshot wound.

I walked around nauseous and in a haze for the next five days. It was all but impossible to concentrate on work. In meetings, it was obvious to colleagues that something was wrong with me. Studies suggest that I’m now at exponentially greater risk of another concussion. And I’m at increased risk of long-term brain disorders.

And this happened in FLAG football. Those in the NFL community who argue that college and junior football players are not at risk of serious concussion because they are not subjected to NFL caliber hits are kidding themselves.

I’m a huge NFL fan.  But I’m at conflict. I recognize that my patronage of the NFL and its sponsors contributes to a culture in which we Americans continue to strap pads on our kids and subject them to extraordinary risk, thinking it’s somehow still OK.

Last year I joined the board of directors of a national nonprofit organization that has a $35,000/year “give or get” for its board members. That means that I am committed to raising or producing $35K in gifts to the organization annually.

Taking on an obligation like that becomes a BIG item on the annual to-do list. I’m not one to ask my friends and family for money for my causes. And to reach that high bar by hitting up my drinking buddies for $100 each, I’d have to collect 350 checks annually. That’s nearly one a day. But I already have a job.

By contrast, I’m pretty comfortable making my case to foundations and corporations with whom there are some natural synergies. That’s probably the P.R. guy in me. Going that route is still a time-consuming piece of volunteer work, but pursuing money in $10K or $30K increments gets one to $35K much faster.

This year, I’ve already raised $25K. (Thank you, friends who were involved — you know who you are.)  I’m leading a contingent to Houston this afternoon to make a great big ask of a Fortune 500 company. I should receive word in August about a $15K request being considered by a Colorado-based charitable foundation. This flurry of activity could produce zilch. Nonetheless I’m feeling pretty good at this moment.

Of the money I’m raising, nearly 90% of it goes to program. And I believe it’s very good and important program. But I’ve lately discovered a more selfish motivation for spending my time this way. My line of work is P.R., and I have no desire to change that. But I figure, if I really sharpen my fundraising skills, I’ll always be able to find a paying gig.

(Photo courtesy of Nathan Gibbs via a Flickr Creative Commons license.)

I’m a proposal-writing machine lately. Until two Fridays ago, I had not responded to a request for proposal (RFP) in easily two years. Surprisingly the proposal I submitted that day made the cut in the prospective client’s search.  So feeling encouraged, I responded to a second RFP this past Friday – probably a full-blown cattle call, with every PR agency in Denver in the mix. It was a doozy – a huge, detailed request that required what turned out to be 56 pages of response. I debated and procrastinated. Then I wrote and edited and rewrote. Then I gathered and sorted and compiled and collated. Then I put all seven copies of the 56 proposal in this pretty white box, put this nice label on it, and delivered it 45 minutes before the 4pm deadline. Then I had a beer.

Back in March, I confessed my regret over a posture I maintained through most of a recently ended client relationship. I named my guilt for doing something fairly unlike me – keeping quiet some potentially disruptive ideas about where the client really should have been investing its marketing resources. In the name of avoiding conflict with my primary contact at that company, I maintained silence. As it turns out, that did none of us a bit of good. I said never again.

Fast forward to recently, when Kinkennon Communications received an RFP from an organization I’d love to work for. Unfortunately, my thoughts about how the prospective client should approach its public relations challenge, and the approach suggested in the RFP, were a bit out of synch. The modus operandi in these proposal situations is to say the right things so your firm gets hired. But with “never again” fresh on my mind, and a general distaste for hypocrisy, I decided I’d better go ahead and say what I think … even if I was pretty certain it would result in Kinkennon Communications’ proposal going directly to the trash.

Wouldn’t you know it, they’ve called me in for the next round. I may find myself in front of a firing squad. But it would be an honor to help this group, so –- at the moment -– I’m feeling pretty good.

I’ve increasingly taken to poking gentle fun at the Twitterati – the PR and marketing pros who spend their days on Twitter tweeting to one another about their iPhones and Twitter. They are pejoratively known as “new media douchebags.”  Certain kinds of current events also whip them into a frenzy, particularly weather-related ones.

I poke gentle fun only, because truth be told, I’ve learned a great deal from these people. Many are quite smart about where PR and marketing are going. I have participated in many of these conversations myself. But never mind that.

During the early February blizzard in the Washington, DC area, I had to altogether log off social media because I feared the apocalyptic wordplay might drive me mad. I’ve been only a sporadic participant on Twitter since. But now that it’s 100+ degrees in DC, a colleague emailed me earlier this week and asked, “Have you been on Twitter today? It’s like snowmageddon all over again…”

Has Serena Williams hired a new media handler? (Not a handler of new media. A handler of media that’s new.) She’s always fascinated me for the same reason my elderly mother, the ultimate tennis fan, despises her. It’s the same reason Lance Armstrong has always fascinated me. They are icy if not downright bitchy in media interviews (Lance and Serena, not my mom …). As a matter of philosophy, they refuse to pay the competition even an ounce of respect.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve watched Serena Williams dis or dismiss an opponent over the years. No “She played a great match.” No “Her forehand is really dangerous.” No “I admire her tenacity.”  The PR person in me would silently beckon her, “Please say just one nice thing about that poor girl you just wiped up the court with.” But it never came.

And in the rare instances in which she loses? Even worse. Want to be sure Serena Williams never, EVER pays your tennis game even an ounce of respect?  Beat her.

In all the years Lance won the Tour de France, he did the same thing. He used media interviews to marginalize and intimidate his opponents. It’s not lovable. But you gotta admit, the killer instinct is fascinating. (He’s trying it again right now, even though he’s no longer the favorite. We’ll see how it goes.)

But this past Wimbledon, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather. Serena has never been more dominant. But there she was, doling out praise. She praised forehands and backhand, hustle and game.  I know she didn’t dream up this softened, more huggable persona on her own. I smell a rat, though my mom loves it.