Charitable Events - A Proposal

As I walk into the club tonight, I see the same setup...the auction check-in tables are set up, the props are deployed, and another whirlwind of parking nightmares for latecomers to the restaurant cap a Saturday filled with activities.  Reflecting on my early twenties, going to charitable events was an intoxicating experience.  I loved them.

Fast-forward to present.  I've been to hundreds of these luncheons which are free but where you're expected to write a check . . . no matter how heart-wrenching the speakers plea - each only gets a modest $50 check to cover costs and a donation.  The evening benefit events are more taxing.  Will they have 20 live auction items, or a suitable ten?  Will it have the same trip to Italy as the last 10 events, or something inventive?

Back in those old days I confided my love for these events in a friend twice my age.  His prediction for the future was correct - I would come to frown on having to don a tux or suit to attend the same old thing each year.  To get perfection, one must remain in New York, D.C., or L.A. in terms of creativity.  I imagine the queen feels the same way but has trained herself to accept it...Christmas at Sandringham, Order of the Garter.  Tradition is lovely, but change in the event world is imperative to retain audience share.

We have a theory about charitable events.  Each is allowed three years in the limelight and then becomes an also-ran.  I've seen it dozens of times.  Organizations must continually reinvent their events to remain fresh and inviting...that is the secret to audience share.  In addition, finding some banner members of an honorary event committee early on will help with procuring the right sponsorships and the creativity to access original and interesting auction items.

In Portland, the Children's Charity Ball fixed the age old problem of having to worry about auction items...it just charged $1000 per couple and raised a ton of money.  But, then it expanded to the convention center and the aura changed forever - causing the event to fold.

So many things that contribute to success or failure - and keeping us interested in going.  Development directors and event managers take heed!

Seven Hours / Joey's Backstory

Here is a short story giving a little backstory to the character Joey's life in Cage of Privilege:

Seven Hours

A short story by Lane Lee Lansing

Set in Spring 2009

Every day, I’m happy to get seven really good hours.  That’s how I measure my success.  These hours are not related to sleep or work.  My body forces me to sleep each night and I’m thankful I have never had nor will I ever need a job.  When I wake up in the afternoon at three each day, gradually slipping out of the drug and alcohol coma, my head is buried in the pillow.  It causes the tragus to put pressure on my ear so the pulsing of the heartbeat is nearly audible.  I flex and stretch out of a groggy daze, certainly an after-effect of my Olympic abilities to consume massive quantities of coke and cocktails as part of the previous evening’s exploits throughout the city.  It’s an accomplishment to be alive as I begin to ready myself to drive across town to the club.

The first order of business is to get stabilized.  I always keep a spare 8 ball in the nightstand for the waking hours.  Once I figured out that I spend about $150,000 each year on blow – one 8 ball a day for me, and one for the stragglers.  That’s about one-tenth of the total annual net income that I see from the trust my mom set up for me.  The good stuff costs, too, depending how high on the food chain the Mexican distributor is.  But, finding it isn’t as hard as you’d think – you can get most anything you want puttering around the locker room at the club.  I keep my nose fresh for later, so the routine is to prepare a mix of Red Bull with the coke to booty bump.  The caffeine is refreshing, but the blow electrifies me.

I live in The Dakota facing Central Park in one of the largest units.  At 10,000 square feet, it’s a commodity and I’m sure the co-op wouldn’t have approved me today even though it’s one of the more liberal buildings.  But, I just laugh it off when our board toys with the other shareholders.  Poor Roberta Flack can’t even get approval to fix or replace her bathtub.  After allowing the first hit of the day to sink in, I’m showered, calm, and ready to call for the valet to bring around my car.

I love what money can bring you.  That’s different from loving money, which is a sin.  Enjoy what it gives you.  Euphoria, sex, strippers, hookers, access, cocktails, and drugs are what fuel me.  Am I scared to die?  Why would I be?  In my mind I’ve done more than almost anyone at 39.  When I’ve decided it’s time to check out, I’ll take one last bump and call it good.

My car is the ultimate status symbol – a Bentley Continental GT.  It’s a nice car but the real benefit is what it picks up.  The stragglers - friends of the family and assorted losers that I met in rehab that are with me as placeholders – aren’t of particular interest.  However, the legions of prostitutes I keep in my stable as the top customer will admit it’s a nice ride.  The professional ones work the usual places and are easily found.  The amateurs who work for other benefits – not the cash - reveal themselves strategically and are far more interesting and adept at their craft than the professionals.  But, I’m not stupid enough to marry a gold digger.  Unlike the pros, at least they can talk about current affairs.  I like a woman with who is knowingly discreet, cloaking her true intentions while she’s being presented in public.  It’s a novel concept – the whore masquerading as an innocent and so-called equal in society.

At 75, my mother Jane Torrance is still the chairman of the company she founded with my dad.  After I was born, it was very apparent that her other child – our company, Torero Resources – was the favored one.  I know I’m not book smart, but I didn’t expect to be written off the way both of them seemed to dismiss me without even a test so early in my life.

After dad died, the company became her life.  When I would stay with her on vacations from boarding school at her penthouse on Fifth, she would literally quake if I came out of my room during one of her famous dinner parties for twenty-three of her closest friends.  The fear you could see in her eyes was priceless as I’d walk toward her at the dinner table to kiss her goodnight before heading out.  I’m not that unpredictable but playing nice with the loveless bitch has always been the path of least resistance.  She does her thing, and I do mine.

After I buy the next day’s supply of coke from my dealer in the locker room and do a quick bump in the toilet stall, an executive workout in the steam room calls to pull all the toxins out of the pores.  The sauna and hot room are also part of the process before showering and heading upstairs to try and mind my own business while all-too-eager legions of fellow club members mill around and try to make conversation.

Going to the club’s main level means I must present myself perfectly.  Not because I really care what people think of me, but because I ultimately still crave the respect I’ve never received in life as a rich kid and known-quantity party scene abscess.  Heading to the bar that is attached to the restaurant, I run into all sorts of people from the Upper East Side.  The tireless drivel of conversation begins with seeing some of my mom’s friends, people edging for a donation who know I’m a trustee for the $400 million foundation that bears my father’s name, and the worthless private bankers that try to shield me from myself by giving me an allowance.  A fucking allowance at 39.  But, I look good – well-dressed and I’m ready to schmooze.  The drugs won’t take their toll for a few years like they’ve done so many times before with facsimiles of me from other families, so I carry on without a care.

The conversations always go something like this.  I never actually respond honestly like I would like to.

Yes.  My mother is fine. [Eat shit, you cocksucker.  She never liked you.]

Email me, I’ll see what I can do.  [Ha!  You won’t get shit for a donation because you’re too fat for me to sleep with.]

Grandmother is still on Park in her place.  [Aren’t you the same old senile cotton head who’s always here?]

Isn’t Arch Cape in Oregon perfect for a retreat? [God I hate that place.  It’s just like Gearhart.]

You’re too kind.  [I despise wealth managers.  Don’t jockey for position.  It’s not going to happen.]

The pleasantries are somewhat of a delight.  Finally, recognition from people.  So gratifying.  No one can touch me walking out of the club triumphant.  I go pick up Ricky, one of the stragglers.  He’s already spun on something, but is gregarious and able to start conversation with any number of the actors along the way so he’s a useful commodity.

We pull up to some second-rate strip club in Hell’s Kitchen.  News travels fast inside about what’s just pulled up out front.  Sitting at the rack, Ricky and I get an amazing view of the cornucopia of opportunities for the evening.  We tip with c-notes, not twenties.  One by one, the girls slink before me to entice a response that could signal that one could be lucky enough to make a pilgrimage home to The Dakota.

More bumps in the bathroom chased with vodka shots.  I send Ricky on his way with a couple hundred to thank him for his companionship while I try to decide who the lucky one is.  By this point at only ten o’clock I’m spinning hard.  The place and crowd begin to blur and resemble the cantina in Mos Eisley.  I decide it’s just better to head home – a straight-shot up Eighth to Central Park West.  The bouncers know me well and deposit both me and my car at the Dakota for the doorman to escort me upstairs to safety.  Popping an Ambien, I pass out face down on the bed.  Head buried in the pillow, I look forward to another great seven hours.