White Courtesy Telephone

Too Hot For The Countess

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WCT blogger Albert Ruesga met the Countess Apraxina at a Tolstoi Foundation reception a few years back.  She offers a unique perspective on American culture and philanthropy.  “Alyosha” is a Russian nickname for “Alexei.”  She never properly learned Albert’s name ...

Dearest Alyosha—

Past two weeks have had terrible time sleeping! Riviera is furnace thanks to your Mr. Al Gore’s global warming. I have prescription for Ambiens size of golf balls, but they stop working, so am ask new boi toi Philippe to read me from your blonk. So dull, Alyosha. I am asleep before he reaches—how you say?—first semicolonk. Social justice this! Social justice that! Such blind and stupid fool you are, my lapushka, although I mean this only in nicest way. 

I have an e-mails from latest client, Fox News, telling me Ford Foundation was to blame for emancipation of serfs. What tragedy for Russia! I tell you, my little kotik, my Great Great Great Uncle Georgiy was, by all accounts, like father—almost god—to his serfs.  We did not need your philanthropy in Spas-Klepiki. Fortunately serfs on our estates died of disease long before anything like philanthropy became necessary. Mr. Darren Walker has much to answer for, you will believe me!

You write about empowerment of peasants, Alyosha, but you have never witness horrifying spectacle of toothless woman in headscarf breaking wind after potato harvest! Now you have peasant children streaming over your borders and your Mr. Hopey Changey flying them back to country of origin! Веры ридикулус! Hours after they eat every little pretzel on airplane, they are on your borders again! I am suggest to Fox News is more effective to spend little more money and fly children to Gaza Strip, but editors didn’t like idea because I couldn’t work in anti-gay angle.

I am go boating this afternoon with Michele Bachmann.  Will leave cell phone on.  Call me.

— Apraxina

An Easter Message From The Countess Apraxina

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Editor’s note:  We publish occasional messages sent to us by the Countess Apraxina.  She and former White Courtesy Telephone editor Albert Ruesga became friends after meeting at a Tolstoi Foundation reception many years ago.  According to Albert, the two spent the rest of the evening drinking Champagne Martinis and pretending to share a fondness for the works of Turgenev.  The Countess consistently and mistakenly refers to Albert as Alyosha ...

My Dearest Alyosha:

I am surprise to see my new assistant, Ivan, read your blonk.  He tell me he is on payroll of Vikki Spruill  who as you know is безумный [ed: crazy] for foundations.  Poor Ivan is dangerously bored with your writing so you will stop immediately.  Yesterday he dissolve 50 Ambiens in Big Gulp frozen daiquiri.  But don’t worry, my little turkey waddle, he did not drink.  As he hold cup to lips he say, “Inducing state of eternal nothingness would be redundant after reading White Courtesy Telephones!”

How tedious you have become, my little zaychik, and I mean this only in nicest way.  As we say in old country, “Guilt is rope that wears thin quickly.”  Much better to make powerful people feel good about themselves.  We are the winners, Alyosha.  Don’t lecture us about truth.  We eat truth for breakfast with side of sausage.

You will call me on cell, please, to tell me how much you admire me and because I need your advice.  Am working on new Impact Investments project for Global Philanthropy Forums.  We are going to bring power to villages in rural India by passing electricity through people too hungry to move.  This will stimulate activity at Bottoms of Pyramid.  Villagers will then use electricity to shop on Amazon.  Investors get 3 percent of every purchase over 10 Rupees.

I have foot massage at four o’clock your time but call me after.  Ciao.

— Countess Apraxina

-----

Other messages from the Countess:

• The Countess Apraxina on Fashion 
• The Countess Apraxina Blings Philanthropy 
• The Countess Apraxina on Fundraising

 

The Countess Apraxina on Fundraising

Editor’s note: We occasionally publish letters written to us by the Countess Apraxina.  We’ve asked her to join the White Courtesy Telephone family of bloggers, but she steadfastly refuses, stating firmly that “Apraxina does not blonk.”  Never having learned his name properly, she consistently refers to WCT blogger Albert Ruesga as “Alyosha,” the Russian nickname for Alexei.

My Dearest Alyosha:

Thank you for sending Apraxina pictures of your new home in New Orlinks.  At first, my sweet, I thought you were sending me pictures of place where you keep your livestock, but then I remember you do not own any—not one little piglet!  How silly of me!

I also receive your note and yes, yes, my little zaychik, I am not forget I promise to help inject little glamour into uninspiring life you lead as foundation laborer, and I mean this only in nicest way.   I am ask new assistant, Raul, former Chilean miner, to cutpaste article from San Jose Mercury News.  Is about glorious fundraiser for X PRIZE Foundation:

For starters, there were the unusual auction items:

Zero Gravity Corp. of Ft. Lauderdale contributed “eight minutes of weightlessness” to the top bidder and 31 friends.

Space Adventure of Vienna donated … a private tour for 10 people of the Balkonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan.

British entrepreneur Sir Richard Branson … invited the auction winner and one travel companion to be his guest on his South African game reserve.

These ideas I like very much, Alyosha.  For weightlessness, Uncle Sergei suggest we enclose auction winners in bubble wrap and push them off top of Flatiron building where he has office.  Not eight minutes weightless, he say, but more exciting, and if you survive fall, you get go again.  As for tour in Kazakhstan: Я предпочел бы съесть бутерброд какашка!*  Why not poke auction winners with cattle prods instead?  No, no, my dear! Apraxina will find more suitable alternative, like suggestion of Mr. Richard Branson.  Visit to game reserve is quite good idea since many people enjoy killing things when on holiday.

I am forget mention I saw Mr. Shamrock recently at Tea Party meeting.  I hope you are not jealous.  Such handsome man, and you, Alyosha, always fighting him like Russian bear!  We were discussing welcome back party for Lord Conrad Black when we heard appeals court had upheld his conviction.  Such a shame!  So many good men behind bars—and out of work ever since your Mr. Hopey Changey took office!  But this is good opportunity for your foundation, Alyosha.  I am telling you, you can buy, for—how you say?—bargain basement prices lawyers willing to write briefs supporting state-sponsored torture.  At one conservative think tank I visit recently there is big sale on economists who say tax cuts for rich are essential.  This same think tank is practically giving away scientists who deny climate change!

Anyway, I must go my dear.  Miss you terribly.  Call me on my cell.

— Countess Apraxina

_____

 * Translates roughly as “I would rather eat a turd sandwich.”

 



Countess Apraxina Steps Into The Second Line

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Editor’s note:  We publish occasional letters written to us by the Countess Apraxina.  She and White Courtesy Telephone editor Albert Ruesga became friends after a few too many champagne martinis at a Tolstoi Foundation reception many years ago.  According to Albert, the two spent the rest of the evening pretending to share a fondness for the works of Turgenev.  The Countess consistently and mistakenly refers to Albert as Alyosha ...

My Dearest Alyosha—

You have driven Countess Apraxina to margins of sanity! How shameful for me to admit it! My ears burn as I write this, but I will always play Varvara Petrovna to your Stepan Trofimovich*! How accurately that madman Dostoevsky described me when he wrote:

Some unbearable love for him lay hidden in her, in the midst of constant hatred, jealousy, and contempt.

Yes, jealousy too! How is this possible, you ask, I should be jealous of you? I do not know. Aunt Sofia tells me you are little more than bony chicken stuffed into ill-fitting suit, small man with small ideas. Now that you are big shot in New Orlinks she assures me levees will break from abject boredom. And yet I miss you terribly, my solnyshko.

I am ask new assistant, Caio, to sketch ideas I had for philanthropy Mardi Gras parade. I attach below. I do not know why I do this for you, my little dullard, after you have so many times rejected Apraxina’s brilliant concepts for you and your miserable philanthropoid friends!

I am fly to DC tonight. With so many new people in Washington, business of shameless self-promotion is absolutely booming! Call me on my cell.

 

 

_____

* Two tragicomic characters from Dostoevsky’s Demons (a.k.a. The Possessed). 

Countess Apraxina Does the Hudson Institute

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Editor’s note:  We publish occasional letters written to us—typically on hotel stationery—by the Countess Apraxina.  We’ve invited her to be a regular contributor to the White Courtesy Telephone, but she consistently refuses, stating flatly that “Apraxina does not blonk.”  In this missive she takes WCT editor Albert Ruesga to task for his lackluster performance at a recent panel discussion sponsored by the Bradley Center for Philanthropy and Civic Renewal, a conservative Washington, DC think tank ...

My Dearest Alyosha:

You will know by now that I am go see you speak at Hudson Institute.  I am arrive late, during remarks of charming Mr. Shamrock.  Why you always fight with him like Russian bear?  So handsome!  Groomed to within inch of life—unlike you, my little gemorróy, who look like bony chicken stuffed into ill-fitting suit from Wal-Mart.  You have learn nothink, nothink about fashion in all these years with Apraxina!

And who could understand one little think you say?  Your words flow over audience like embalming fluid—and I mean this only in nicest way.  Sin.  Atonement.  What is this you are saying, my little zaychick?  You remind me of Aunt Sofia, may she rest in peace, who cross herself each time she had impure thoughts.  The woman was in perpetual motion.

You were so focus on inducing narcolepsy in audience, you didn’t notice when Apraxina passed out from boredom and hit head on tray of undercooked brownies.  Fortunately, two very handsome Libertarians carried me out of conference center.  I am meet my good friend Mr. Scooter Libby while I wait in Hudson lobby for ambulance.  He told me he is writing monograph on how to re-introduce honesty and respect for rule of law into low-income African American communities.  I am also ask after childhood friend, Lord Conrad Black, and am surprise when told he has “no comment on allegations.”

New personal secretary, Dmitri, has attach photographs and notes he took at event.  I will use these to sue Hudson Institute, you will believe me! ...

	Mr. Rezga reacts to this comment by Mr. Ed Skloog: “[B]y tying together seriously rich people with harder metrics and better long-term strategy, we may be seeing a new role being created for social capital. And social entrepreneurship—as it is called now, or one of the many terms—may well be getting traction.”
	Mr. Rezga is deep in thought when Mr. Ed Skloog says: “Andrew Kassoy and a couple of his colleagues are talking about the creation in law of a new form of institution that is not an NGO and it’s not a for-profit. It’s a B Corporation, or a Benefit Corporation, whose charter of incorporation speaks not just to serving shareholders but serving all stakeholders ... It’s very, very exciting. B Corporations.”
	Mr. Rezga flubs pronunciation of word “epistemological.”
	Mr. Rezga’s reaction when Mr. Besharov says: “So what do I think is actually happening out there? I think that my colleagues in the academic world and my colleagues in the think tank world ... go through a sort of a charade with the foundations: ‘Oh, yes, you’re very wise, and oh, yes, it’s right—this is the year to worry about black men.’”
	Mr. Rezga is stumped by question from audience member who managed to stay awake during his remarks.

Images: Lake Oswego Public Library; Rezga photos by Max Niedzwiecki

Apraxina-O-Rama!

Back by popular demand (perhaps that’s a bit of an exaggeration),  the wisdom of the Countess Apraxina, with valuable lessons for people who toil in America’s Third Sector.

I called the Countess and asked her to say a few words to her fans.  She said, “Albert who?  Yes, of course I remember you, Alyosha: greybeard with bad haircut, yes?  I am vacationing with assistant Paolo on Dalmatian coast.  You are disturbing foot massage by swarthy Croatian peasant.  Call back later, my little zaychik.”
   

	Public Relations Advice From a Russian Countess
	An Update From The Countess Apraxina
	The Countess Apraxina on Fashion
	The Countess Apraxina Blings Philanthropy
	Fear and Loathing in Philanthropy

Fear and Loathing in Philanthropy

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I am dictate these words to my assistant, Paolo (he is one on left), as special favor to good friend, Albert Rezga.  Albert asked that I write article for his blonk.  I pity him because he is foundation drone with bad haircut, but please understand that Apraxina does not blonk.  Blonking is for indiscrete people who buy clothes from catalogues and work in cubicles.

I am never forget day I first meet Albert at Tolstoy Foundation reception.  He was very sad, barely nibbling crab cake hors d’oeuvre, and, also, I must say, very dull. So earnest!  But Apraxina gets—how you say?—weak kneels when handsome man quotes Turgenev.

To continue: Albert was concerned philanthropy’s image had been tarnished by scandals, that it lacked vigor and was often “unstrategic.”  Such big word from such little man!  But I understood because I had been to philanthropy conference.  I saw men and women with bowed heads carrying small sacks filled with papers.  Very sad.  And so much talking!  People in uncomfortable chairs, opining in cold rooms, inducing narcosis-like state in listeners.  “Alë, garázh!” I shouted, “Rasskazhí éto komú-nibúd drugómu!”*  I would rather spend afternoon with Uncle Sergei listening to description of most recent colonoscopy.

I thought I could help Albert by drawing inspiration from very dear friend, Hunter S. Thompson, Gonzoi journalist.  He started foundation** before he committed suicide (perhaps he attended same conference I did?).  But I was disappointed when I visited—how you say?—Internets.  You will look at this link, please.  I want tell Mr. Ralph Steadman that this is no tribute to Hunter S. Thompson.  What is big arm in desert?  Did it turn man with suitcase into big chicken?

_____

* “Hail, citizen [an ironic address]!  Tell it to someone who cares!” — Editors

** “A Legacy for the Godfather of Gonzo” by Michael Anft, Chronicle of Philanthropy, November 10, 2005.

The Countess Apraxina Blings Philanthropy

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My Dearest Alyosha:

You will have heard by now from Uncle Sergei that I have taken new clients.  You cannot blame me.  You did not like idea of car chase and shootout in lower Manhattan, or my sketches for new foundation couture.  I warned you about my friend Noël Godin, but you wouldn’t listen.  You are chicken-hearted little man with lousy haircut, and I mean this only in nicest way, but I couldn’t wait for you, my darling golubchik, to choose from among Apraxina’s many brilliant ideas for improving image of philanthropy.

I am now helping Oprah with her new philanthropy reality show.  I must tell you, Alyosha, I am never forget the day I first meet the great Oprah Winfrey.  She became thinner and fatter in front of my eyes, one moment airbrushed to within inch of life, the next with pores as big as Chernobyl smokestacks.  She reminded me of strange quantum fluctuation once described to me in agonizing detail by my cousin Vanya, nuclear physicist.  (I will introduce you to Vanya one day.  Like you, he can bore paint off walls.  Just kidding, my little zaychik.)

Yesterday we finished filming opening credits for show.  First you see enormous effigy of Andrew Carnegie covered with sparklers rising out of depths of Beverly Hills swimming pool.  Camera pans away to hundreds of wealthy debutantes wearing gold bathing caps swimming around Mr. Carnegie’s trousers and, at climactic moment, linking arms to spell words, “Tax Reform Act of 1969.”  Is brilliant, yes?

Oprah wants put on film “most powerful, sensational, emotional and dramatic ways to give to others.”  Her staff once made her distribute major appliances to poor people from big truck.  This is idea worthy of pinheads who work in cubicles.  Apraxina is planning delivery of double-wide trailers to tsunami victims using aircraft carrier (think “Mission Accomplished”).  Next week we will use giant aquarium to move entire lake from Minnesota to arid region of sub-Saharan Africa.

So, yes, I also will help launch glossy magazines for rich donors.  Inaugural issue of Generocity will include photo spread on philanthropic fetish gear, with sexy Google billionaire Larry Page tied to post and flogged by anonymous panhandler in designer chaps.

We were going to do photo shoot of conservative donors teaching man to fish, but we had to cancel when we discovered man had only one arm and no fishing pole.

That is all I have time for now, my darling lyubimy.  Call me on my cell.

— Countess Apraxina

The Countess Apraxina on Fashion

My good friend the Countess Apraxina believes the public image of foundations can be improved with an extreme fashion makeover.  She sent me this file tucked inside a copy of Turgenev’s Diary of a Superfluous Man ... 

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An Update From The Countess Apraxina

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I still owe the Countess a reply to her recent proposal to repair the public image of nonprofits and foundations.  I got this e-mail from her recently ...

Dearest Alyosha —

Have not heard from you in weeks.  Why is this?

Uncle Sergei tells me you were hang gliding in western Pyrenees.  I have told you, my little tapochki, of my dislike for Basque peoples.  Very dull.  I remember wanting to kill myself in Bilbao during demonstration of txinga erute in which unattractive men carry weights representing milk canisters.  I know you are part Basque, but there are always exceptions, yes?

I write with some urgency.  You have heard of my good friend Noël Godin?  He is man who throws pies at self-important people lacking sense of humor— you have been one of his victims, perhaps.  Just kidding, my little zaychik.  Noël told New York Times his enemies are authority, depressing laws, return of moral order, and political power.  You are little more than powerless drone with bad haircut, quite frankly, and I mean this only in nicest way.

Well, foolishly I told him about our little project and he is creating—how you say?—hit list for philanthropy.  I suggest you quickly take up collection to buy yourself and your people a sense of humor.

Call me soon, dearest Alyosha.  I’m going to South Beach with my new friend Paolo—he is one on the left.  You can reach me at Delano Hotel.

— The Countess Apraxina

Public Relations Advice From a Russian Countess

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I met the Countess Apraxina at a reception hosted by the Tolstoi Foundation and we hit it off instantly, partly because I was born to trade bons mots with European aristocracy.  The Countess is an unusual woman.  Her parents were in their nonage when the bodies of Tsar Nicholas II and his family, after being soaked in acid and burned, were disposed of down a mineshaft.  These terrible events, recounted often by her father at the dinner table, made an indelible impression on the young Countess’s mind.  “They’re what persuaded me to go into public relations,” the Countess confided to me after her sixth Champagne Martini.

Concerned about the number of nonprofit executive directors who are burning out and leaving their jobs, I asked the Countess if, in her professional opinion, there was something we could do to make charitable work more exciting, more appealing to people inside and outside the field.  I just heard back from her today:

My Dearest Alyosha—

I have done research, and I think I can fix public image of nonprofits and foundations for little less than $40 million.  I have attached budget.  Naturally it excludes my per diem expenses.

I went to philanthropy conference.  I saw people sitting in cold rooms, half dead from narcosis, drooling into laps.  So few men!  Women everywhere, wearing beiges, blacks, and tans … It was sad, very sad.  Nonprofit conference the same, except with more young people wearing sensible shoes.  Very dull, like when Uncle Sergei assailed me with entire history of Turkic peoples.

First, I want André to do your colors.  Which reminds me, my dearest Alyosha, that our mutual friend Mark R. has shown me two photographs of you wearing the same orange shirt.  Orange doesn’t suit you, my dearest, it’s vulgar, color for children and prostitutes, not distinguished grey-beard like you.

So yes, André will do your colors because you all dress like undertakers.  And I will ask Tony Proscio to change way you speak.  Have you noticed, little zaychik, that you bore paint off walls?  “Convenings,” “learnings,” “empowerment”—what is this?  Emigré that I am, I have little trouble reading Gerard Manley Hopkins, but I can’t understand one word of what you and your colleagues say.  Such a shame!

For first publicity stunt, I think I will stage high speed car chase through lower Manhattan, with possibly some kind of brawl near Stock Exchange.  I will ask Nikolai about this.

I know you are thinking, ‘Such a brilliant woman, this Countess.  Truly there is no substitute for good breeding!’  Of course I agree with you completely.

The car chase is perfect, I think, because it will take people’s minds off your petty larcenies.  To add little spice, I thought you might encourage nonprofit colleagues to trash hotel rooms when they attend dismal conferences.  Perhaps small disagreements in boardrooms can escalate into shootouts between—what is word?—pistol-packing trustees.  And is it at all possible to have one of your program officers arrested in Las Vegas for cheating at Roulette?  Please let me know at your earliest convenience.

Your sector needs more excitement, Alyosha, more young people, more drama.  Fortunately, I believe I can work with Steve Gunderson.  Very handsome.  I think for next conference I put him in cowboy boots and gold Speedos.

Remember, these are just sketches, Alyosha, try to see big picture …