Rubber Chicken
Last night was the annual Cornell Big Red Bash for the College of Business of Cornell. Kim and I attended this event at the cavernous setting of Guastavino’s, which is built into the base of the 59th Street Bridge. I’m not sure it is intended but partying under a bridge has a certain Three Billy Goats Gruff aspect to it. It conjures up images of Scandinavian trolls hiding under the bridge to demand a toll for crossing. The evening is, after all, about raising more money for Cornell by building on the Cornell connection and making everyone revel in the service and loyalty of one another.
That sounds very cynical, but this gathering is what we all generally call a “rubber chicken affair.” That means the organization invites everyone for a dinner gathering, charges them $200 a plate (approximately 4X the cost of the meal and venue) and puts the rest in the kitty for a good cause like scholarships for candidates for business school. That is just the beginning. There are sponsorships from the companies that support the people that are being honored (there were four honorees). And of course, the event is timed to coincide with the typical spring push for the fundraising finish-line of June 30th, the normal fiscal year-end for most big fundraising efforts. The room is filled to the rafters with people from the Development office of Cornell. These are the people charged with tapping the alumni for donations.
For most attendees it is an opportunity to see old friends from their class or professors who taught them. In my case, I have both of those plus students who I taught over ten years on the faculty and faculty and staff I communed with over those ten years. There is also the fact that I was an active member of the school’s Advisory Council for thirty years, even acting as its Chairman for eight years of that run. Even as an Emeritus Member of that Council now (I spent the day listening to today’s version of the same old issues) I have even more connections to new Council members. These sorts of connections are very valuable for many reasons. They certainly mostly make you feel good, remembering good times and giving us all a strong sense of history. With all of my multi-lateral connections, I am one of the people that gets the most out of one of these gatherings.
That all said, these affairs are very tiring. They start by being tiring because cocktail parties are always hard for me to take with all the standing around and chatting. I have what I call “cocktail party back” which means my lower back goes numb if I stand with a drink in one hand, a canape in another and a third hand free to shake hands with everyone and their brother. Therefore, I tend to take what I call the Colonel Kurtz approach (that’s an Apocalypse Now reference) where I find a conveniently located sofa and let people come to me. I guess I feel that with my years of service, my back deserves this honor of sitting back acting regal.
They are furthermore tiring because we are then urged into the dining hall, where the cavernous thing jumps out at you at this venue because of the arched brick ceiling washed in red lighting (it is the Big Red Bash). You are seated at a table with the appropriate closeness to the podium based on your level of giving and importance. I used to be at the front table all the time but am now relegated to the second row of tables since I am neither in the governance group nor in the honoree group. That’s fine, since I position myself to at least face the stage. I have found that adding a twisted neck to a cocktail party back is no fun, so being straight on to the stage is a good thing. Our table of guests is a mix of unconnected folks, which is also fine since we get to know new people. I could and have bought tables for these events and then have my gang at that table, but that feels unnecessary for me now.
I have watched many honorees take one or two tables and then pack them with their friends and family. That is a nice gesture but has a tad of ego boost imbedded in it. I tended to buy tables when I was leading the effort since it always felt like a good leadership move. Some honorees take these honors in stride and see them for what they are, fundraising opportunities. Other honorees take these moments as great recognitions of what one honoree actually said was an indicator that “Cornell loves me too.” That sound sort of egotistical, but it really didn’t when it was said. It was more a statement of fact, “I do for the University and this is how the University pays me back.”
For me, the nostalgia rages when I notice that the top honor (though there has been some confusion of late with a new award being added) is being given to someone of substance that is eighteen years my senior. I also noticed in the program that I was given that very award in it’s founding year of 2007, twelve years ago. My math says that I got that award at age 53 while the current honoree is getting it at age 83. That implies one of several things. Either they are running out of honorees of I got out ahead of myself and did too much work for the school too early in my career. The truth is probably a combination of the two things and several other realities of the fundraising life.
The final nostalgia is how one accomplishes the exit from such an affair. To begin with, Cornell affairs always end with a group singing of the Alma Mater. Given that Kim is a professional cabaret singer, she has been called on the stage countless time s with me to lead the group sing. She always does it, but I suspect she likes doing it less and less. She did not go to Cornell, but she is a good sport. The speeches (the emcee is Andrew Ross Sorkin, so it’s not dull) are running late (no surprise). Before we know it, one table mate is exiting with the appropriate salutations. There is one last honoree and then the Alma Mater. I glance at Kim and I know that she does not want to be called to the stage again. I’m a second-row table guy now so there is no need for that sort of service call, so I signal that we should go. We say our goodbyes and exit stage right. Another rubber chicken down.