Venturing Out

I went out into the world this week. Several times. A trivial task to some, executed without a whole lot of forethought each day as they drag sleepy eyes and asses onto the highway for the two hour commute. I used to do that. Every single day, twice a day even, at least on those days when I actually got to leave work. But that was then and and this is now. I've been working from home these last five years, and excursions to Midtown Atlanta, let alone the Publix down the road, have become more infrequent, which makes it all the more exciting when I do go out. Did I say exciting? I meant exhausting.

This week I started off by actually going into the office. Don't faint. Take a deep breath. Yes, you heard right. I went to work. (They gasp).

There's something to be said for going to work on a semi-annual basis. Mostly, you feel like a celebrity when you hit the elevator, until you realize you haven't worn pumps in four months and your feet already hurt, so you shift the backpack with the laptop inside to the other shoulder, and walk like a drunk has-been movie starlett to your cube, which you have because you work from home, and even though your position would warrant a less-than-cushy office with doors and windows, there would be mayhem if you had one since you only show up on the third new moon of each millenium.

Ah! A phone message... lemme check. Oh, just a telemarketer. How did they find me here? Oh, right, they didn't find me here.

I run into my old friends. They seem happy to see me.

"Jeneane! How are you? Haven't seen you around here in forever--how long has it been?"

"Forever," I smile.

And the inevitable question: "What brings you in today?"

I tell them the truth. "I saw the email that we were having a party at 3."

They laugh and nod. Tell me it's always loud when I come in. I love them and they love me. Humans are so interesting!

I make the rounds, full well knowing I won't get much done there and I'll have to make up the time later, at home, where I can think. But that's okay. Shooting the breeze with other adults who do what I do for a living is refreshing. I'm wanted. I get to tell lots of stories. Talk about "remember whens." I'm glad I made the trip. Except that the party got postponed until a day when the attendees of honor, hard at work at the client's site, can actually be there.

Even with the extra work waiting for me once I got home to make up for my socializing, I know I did the right thing. I remember missing my work friends as soon as I see them. We've been through a heck of a war the last five years and have lived to tell about it.

Heart doesn't die easy in tech.

My next two adventures were school field trips with Jenna's class. Talk about contact! 20 little 3-6 year olds running mostly amuck from a pumpkin patch at a local YMCA to a Native American demonstration in a huge tepee at a nearby campground. I helped supervise the kids, which mostly meant making sure they didn't escape into a parking lot or down some slick ravine, or at least if they did, that they didn't get killed. I think I did a good job. Everyone lived.

I got that good feeling--just like the one at work--being around the kids. You could tell they thought I was the cool mom. I talk to them like real people--I yell at them just like their own moms when they fight, push, or run off into the nearest nest of copperheads. I took Jenna and her best friend to and from the events in my Escape, turned Earth Wind and Fire up loud, and laughed with them as they danced in their seats...

Searching in the sky one night, while looking for the moon
I viewed a mighty light approching in a zoom
Need was there to tell someone of my discovery
Fifteen seconds later, a light appeared in front of me
To my surprise, there stood a man with age and mystery
His name was Jupiter and came to visit me

The name is Jupiter, from the galaxy
I came to meet you, to make you free
Deliver to you a flower from
A distant planet, from where I come

Keep your eye on Jupiter, such beauty in the sky
We will wait for your return in the by & by
Keep your eye on Jupiter, memories we shall fulfill
Just to view a brighter day, and do a righteous will

Watching and considering my visual state of mind
The flower fragrance help reveal to me the sign
The sigh of love, I had confessed to live and really know
The sign of love which I had failed my fellowman to show

The name is Jupiter, from the galaxy
I came to meet you, to make you free
Deliver to you a flower from
A distant planet, from where I come

The name is Jupiter, from the galaxy
I came to meet you, to make you free
Deliver to you a flower from
A distant planet, from where I come
--Maurice White, Verdine White, Larry Dunn and Philip Bailey

All of this is to say, that there is life out there beyond my Dell Latitude. Who knew? Apparently not me because I was surprised by it all. And every once in a while, I guess, I have to nudge myself to go out and participate in it. Lots of things are waiting, like tree smells and other loud people, some of them very tiny and fast moving, and even good friends that you forget you have unless you make time to stop by and say "Hey" once in a while.

If you haven't been keeping up with Dervala's journey...

go over there and bathe in some great story telling. Man, can she write.

An anti-blogroll

What I want to add to my site is an anti-blogroll. On my very own anti-blogroll I would list all the blogs I recommend avoiding because they spew hate and meaningless muck. There must be a way to develop an anti-blog button that, when clicked, actually removes linkage to these sites rather encouraging links. hmmm... The sum total of assholes on our combined anti-blogrolls could compete daily for a spot on anti-daypop, or--for more sizzle--"daypoop."

I'd stick Gene Expressions on mine. I tripped on this blog today, but don't feel like linking to it. Instead, see the comment from someone called godless capitalist on Anil Dash's post about depression today. I'd rather give Anil the link. His post on mental illness is a good read--I heartily agree with blogging as therapy.

Even for women and people of color. ;-)

Okay, I said I would...

The parts of my dream I remembered from last night were intertwined thinking vingettes. I often have those. I remember what I thought more than I remember what happened or who else was there. This particular dream montage combined thoughts of armegadeon with thoughts about thong underwear. The sense was that the end of the world was pretty near, preparations were taking place, and somehow I ended up at a woman's store looking at thong underwear, a silky red and silver pair in particular, wondering what the appeal was for women--why not just forgo underwear altogether and save on the money and comfort factors? There were some drill-down thoughts here, but they probably belong over at BlogSisters.

Interpretation for Extra credit:

World ending = Approaching end of the world.
Thong underwear = Need to buy new underwear for the whole family.

I guess the Jung fairy skipped me last night.

Tag, you're it.

Elaine Says Meet Her in Her Dreams

Elaine suggests that we bloggers set up a virtual vacation and meet in our dreams. Sure would save on plane fare!

Tom Dreams By Proxy--Puts Rest of Us to Shame

If you were Tom Matrullo's pillow, what would you think?

glub.

Why does he keep putting words in my fish mouth? Glub Glub.

ladies and gentlemen, welcome a new blog...

Letters Never Sent. I don't know who's doing the writing, and don't want to if it would silence her, but this is pretty fricking fantastic. ahhh. new voices. makes it all worthwhile.

Dream On, Part 1: The bloggers hit the road...

Okay, some of my blogger friends bit the dream challenge. FASCINATING. Let's recap, shall we?

My post below started the ball rolling, or the dog shit car rolling, or something. And then blogdom chimed in with dreams from last night...

Turner Takes a Hike

Then Gary relates his dream from September. A snippet here: "We approached a right hand bend in the lane where someone had conveniently left a rubbish skip on the inside lane of the the bend which was causing, what was for a leafy country lane, a massively large volume of small hatchback cars all travelling at very high speed, to swerve around the skip only narrowly missing the equivalently fast oncoming traffic coming the other way round the bend. As we were on foot this presented more than a small challenge in terms of negotiating around the bend without being run over."

Frank Paynter Runs But Can't Hide

Next Frank chimes in with his fitness test dream. A snippet here: "There were some steps to ascend and some to descend. I learned all this as I ran. Other runners preceded me, some were on the course behind me. Since it was a single lane, there was a staggered start. This wasn't a competition and people were generally cordial as we met each other on the course."

Elaine Loses Car, Gains Freedom

In a comment, Elaine relates her recurring dream about losing her car: "I have recurring dreams that I park my car and can't find it. I have concluded that that my car symbolizes my freedom, my ability to be out in the world."

No Pizza for Partington, Just a Crappy Car

George P. relates his dream about being taken for a ride. A snippet: "I was heading uphill, and I needed to get over to the left. I moved left, in front of a truck, which was coming up fast. Typical. So, being a conscientious driver, I applied more gas, trying to speed up, but my car wouldn’t go any faster."

--------------------------------

Okay, is it me, or do we bloggers have a LOT of travel, car, and movement imagery in our dreams at the moment? What's this about? Amazing (to me anyway) that a car appears in everyone's dreams here, except Frank's. Both Gary and Frank are on foot, but in Gary's dream annoying hatchbacks still appear. Though Frank doesn't encounter a car, the lanes are there, the movement is there nonetheless. Only difference is that Frank IS his own vehicle. Hmmmm.

Freud? Jung? Don? Anyone?

Are we really on a journey? What happens when we all get to the red light at once? Who has the right of way?

Dr. Weinberger, we be joining...

A dream motion

I have a motion to put before the fellows of the University of Blogaria. I move that we pick a week--like this one--and we blog our dreams. I am interested in seeing any correlations, permutations, variations or gyrations that our loosely joined unconsciouses are unleashing. Who's in?

I'll start. Last night I dreamed that George and I were driving through Boston, towing our pre-enjoyed-new-to-us dog shit car behind us. Which is wierd because we've never been to Boston together, I've never been there at all, we've never have towed the dog shit car anywhere, never towed any car for that matter, etc. But that's dreams for you. So I turned around and looked out the back window only to see that, while a car that looks like the dog shit car is behind us, that car slows down and turns right, and sure enough there's a driver in that car, and our once-in-tow dog shit car is nowhere to be seen. It's fallen off the hitch or something.

"OH MY GOSH--Honey, the car got lost--it's gone!" I panic. At which point George, who I'm not sure I actually see in my dream--I think he's my left shoulder--turns the car we are driving (that doesn't resemble any of our cars) around and we go through all these crowded narrow one way streets to some sort of city hall, where we alert the authorities that the car we were towing has disappeared, to which they answer, "Don't worry--I'm sure it will show up."

We never find the car in the dream.

The phone rings and I wake up.

My dream symbols represent the following (this is for extra credit):

Dog shit car = panic, unresolved issues, conflict, financial stress, dog shit smell.

Boston = land of therapy, Halley, Terrence Real, David W. I think Boston to me is representative of blogging--or of family perhaps. Connection. Connectivity. George's brother lives there as well.

Authorities = are significant in that they don't really care, i.e., Authority Figures that don't lessen my angst, don't help when I have been violated and am in need.

George = as my left shoulder without a face, I haven't seen him enough in the last six months.

Driver of the car that is not the dog shit car = The person I hope actually buys the dog shit car when we put it up for sale this week.

Stay tuned...

Anyone else dare to share?

anthurian's interviews

Atlanta blogger Anthurian has some good recent interviews with techy types on his blog. My favorite line, which I'm sure I'm the last to hear, but maybe not, is from Debba Doo, a free spirit and ballsy cat lover who both Mr. A. and I worked with at Ketchum. Miss Debba says, "Once you go mac, you never go back." To that, I say, you go, girl.

Mr. A., I'm sorry I never completed my interview. Tell me if there's still time, so I can procrastinate a little longer. ;-)

Me roots, me roots.

Which Triscele am I?

Number one: ponderous, reflective version:


or

Number two: evil motherfucker version:


Answer: you probably don't want to know.

"The head in the center was that of Medusa, whose hair was turned into snakes by the outraged goddess Athene. In their wisdom, the Sicilian parliament replaced the Medusa head with one that is less threatening to the innocent onlooker who, after all, should not be anticipating being turned to stone."

I think perhaps the head should have remained as it was. You can put a mink coat on an alligator, but chances are it's still gonna bite your ass off. What's so bad about threatening anyway? When you're an unassuming shoe of an island, what are you gonna do, put out the welcome mat? Let's get real. You're going to want the ability to turn your enemy to stone. Gaze upon this, mofo.

The moral of the Sicilian flag story, near as I can tell, is this: When you think of Medusa between your legs, its best to think thrice.

That's today's pop culture homeland update from allied!

A Long Overdue Thank You to Dr. Marek J.

I haven't talked to my mother in two months now. Our "normal" relationship ceased about four months ago. We used to talk every day. Or there abouts. Now we don't. Talk. At all. I sent her a letter explaining the reasons why I needed time, space, distance, needed her to back off. She didn't accept that, couldn't accept it really. So I sent a stronger letter. She "got" that one. Among the reasons for time away, I named alcohol, and its effects on me growing up, repercussions I'm just now beginning to understand.

I'm seeing them now because the noise of our relationship has been quieted. Noise, according to Marek J., is defined as anything that isn't "gold," the distracting hum of inner chatter that keeps us from getting to gold. There's noise, and there's gold. Gold you want. Noise is just noise. It interrupts. It is useless and counterproductive in getting to gold.

It is amazing what I've come to see, to realize, as I begin to distinguish noise from gold. Thank you Dr. Marek. Still working on it, you know.

Having spent the majority of the last six months on my own with George away, I've had the quiet that I didn't want--but definitely have needed all my life. Marek was and is right. The more we allow noise to interrupt our search for gold--maybe gold is the "True Self"--the further off the path we wander, the more we end up in prickerbushes, hurt, in pain.

In relationships, Dr Marek's theory of noise vs. gold is a pretty heavy concept. Let noise in, let it disrupt your focus, let it impact how you relate to one another, and any gold you had turns to noise, then potentially, to dust. I think we have a tendency to welcome noise sometimes, to sabbotage ourselves and our loved ones, to feed noise. Why? Why do we feed noise? Do we entertain noise in order to drown out the louder noise we've lived with all our lives? Is noise the negative introject, or at least the negative introject's handiwork? I think so. But Marek doesn't use those fancy terms. He calls it "noise."

I mention this today because the theory of noise vs. gold that Marek shared with me months ago is something I think of almost daily now. I'm sure he doesn't even know that. But when something comes at me and it feels like me undermining myself, I say, "That's just more noise. What's the gold you're looking for here?" And I try to answer. Not always sucessful, but I try. To begin to identify the negative introject as noise, to be able to identify and NAME it when it starts feeding you poison, is a powerful tool for trauma survivors on the road back.

So thanks, Dr Marek, from the Sessums. I'm sure Marek's willing to set up sessions with other Bloggers in crisis--I paid him $13.52, but that was an early bird special. I think the guy's worth at least $100.00 an hour.

Marek, hang out your shingle -- we can't afford to have you not blogging.

Rising the Comments Above

You know, the comments a couple of posts back really got humming with great stuff I don't want to lose. It all started when Tom threw me into a depression by pointing me to Clay Shirkey's article on why blogging won't pay. Now Tom and I and Clay have bantered gonzoite ideas before, and maybe it's my current reflective (read depressed) state, but Clay's saying something here. Let me layout the ensuing conversation by raising the comments up a level for further exploration....

Matrullo Drops the Bomb

Tom said: "J., I know we've had some discussion with Clay Shirky about gonzo issues before. Here's his bit about blogging for dollars - it's worthy of inspiring counter-arguments."

Partington Kicks Corporations in the Ass

Then, George Partington contributes this: "The best way to get paid for blogging is to have people, not corporate entities, pay you. Corporate involvement would just corrupt this thing we got goin on, because, as RB has pointed out, despite the fact that they are comprised of people, they have no body and no heart. Let's cut out corporations and build communities. Not saying I have any answers. Just my two cents."

Mays Wants to Pay AKMA Partington's Two Cents

To which, Jonathon Mays says, "Dang, I just want to make money. Gekko type. How bout AKMA and Frank become my editors (better still, ghost writers). You could write. I could make money. Therefore, keeping everyone's integrity intact? Yes?"

Jeneane Gets Depressed, Talks Too Much

Then I chime in with my big ole mouth here: "Wow. I just read Shirkey's piece. I need to go drive around for a while before I pick up Jenna. I have seen this parallel within the music business--In Boston for example, mom and dad pay for many a college student to attend one of many very fine colleges. Too many of these kids are also amateur musicians, who will likely use their fine degrees one day to do anything but perform music for a living.

"Yet these same passionate (and some even likeable) amateurs play for free--some even pay to play. They clog up club after club, event after event, venue after venue. Some are good, some are not. Most will remain amateurs. They don't need to get paid because their real job is going to college. And they are going to college to not play music professionally one day. But to have a "career" or at least a "fallback."

"It's no secret that you have superstars in the business who make the majority of the money, most not through recordings (where the labels gobble it up) but through touring. Then you have amateurs who play for love and not money. And then you have a whole professional class in the middle who eek out sometimes okay livings from a business not set up to pay them. The world Shirkey could end up just like this. We pay to read the superstars. The up and comers and tech flashers blog for free. And what will become of us in the middle? When will we decide to put down our axes and get a day job? :-( " [i.e., end of jeneane's big mouth]

AKMA's in the House and He's Bringing His Crash

When blogosipher AKMA jumps in with an idea I really liked because it meant something for ME ME ME: "But we wouldn't accuse someone of corruption if she accepted a free Zildjian for her drum set, right?"

[to which I responded with some lame statement about send me stuff. and saying sorry to AKMA about never sending his peanut brittle, and he tells me how Margaret and the kids are doing.]

Partington Loves Courtney

Followed by that smart George Partington responding to AKMA's cymbal analogy with:

"No, not out of hand. But if the drummer's tour was sponsored by Zildjiian, and Zildjiian was part of a company that included big ol X Co. that had lots of nasty practices in the name of profit, our drummer might feel a bit compromised (not to say corrupted, the "thing" is corrupted, the person could be or not, maybe just caught in a not-so-healthy situation), not wanting to write a song about unfair labor practices, for example.

"Courtney Love had some interesting things to say about such a situation. I think it was Pepsi that sponsored one of her tours, and they pressured her to say things in favor of the product, etc. (wanting to get their money's worth). She says they acted as if they owned her and she should be grateful for it. And, she says, she took every opportunity to slam them instead, so she'd never be tempted by another, similar deal. See her rant, Courtney Love does the math, for more.

Frank, Where Have You Been All Day?

At which point Mr. Paynter chimes in with:

"Oops, gone for a full day and the whole thread morphs in a zillion directions... oh well, I like Jonathon's idea of ghost written blogs, but I don't think the business model is right. How about y'all talk to the rich and famous people you know about the new Sandhill ghostblogging service. We (me and my hand picked stable of professional ghostbloggers) will create a unique and authentic voice for you online in a blog of your own! Why waste time writing when someone who enjoys it can do it for you?!?

"And to offset ghostblogging costs, we will hook you up with an ad agency that will create a banner ad revenue stream for you! Drink Coke!!! And for the ad agency, to offset the costs of those banner ads, we will provide 'bots that harvest email addresses from comment streams so you can direct sell those people on Bose radios and organ and glandular enlargement therapies. After this little engine of commerce gets humming, we at Sandhill hope only to exert ourselves endorsing checks to deposit. Cyber Paradise."

Steve "One Pot" Splits Frank's Hairs

To which Steve responds thoughtfully:

"Re: Zildjian and Pepsi, to my mind there's a difference. If Zildjian chooses to give free cymbals to drummer x (would that it were my poor, sold-his-congas-last-week-to-buy-new-traps brother!), it's generally because drummer x is already using the product. Or because the company is developing--a la Eric Clapton--a new product specifically along the lines dictated by the sponsored 'name'. The company does so in hopes that other drummers will see drummer x actually using the product, and note its quality.

"When Pepsi or Budweiser sponsor a tour, they're doing nothing but cash in on something totally unrelated to their own product. It's no different than going to an expensive charity dinner just to have my picture taken with famous people. There's no real connection between us, but I'm implying one for purposes of my own gratification. In other words, whether or not Courtney Love drinks Pepsi means nothing to her concert; the type of guitar she plays does. One allows her to do what she does *ahem* 'better' and more easily, the other doesn't. Maybe I'm splitting hairs unnecessarily, but to me it seems more insidious to sponsor something simply to get your name attached to it gratuitously rather than because it's actually relevant."


And that's where we are. So continue, please. This is too tastey to drop off now.

tuesday ramblings

Hey, stop over to allied--it's the hot place for comments this week, and boy do I love that! Many wonderful side conversations are taking place beneath this surface layer where I type shit in. Everyone should have comments (have I said that before?) They put the groove in groovy. Let's keep that up. Makea da blogger happy.

When you're done commenting here, hop over to george's blog and see what mess the sessums have gotten themselves into this time... does the word dog excrement mean anything to you?

In other news, I'm tired.

Have I mentioned that we may be headed to Florida for some sunshine at the end of the month? Anyone have tips on Clearwater Beach, please use that nifty comment link below and tell me all about it.

Did I mention I'm tired?

Besides our eventual vacation, there doesn't seem to be any good news anywhere this week. Bloggers not making money, bloggers sniping at each other, sniper shooting people left and right, the right edging closer to war, companies not wanting to spend a spare dime on anything, friends and loved ones in varying degrees of anguish. ENOUGH ALREADY!

Then it's time for Jenna to go to bed. I climb in beside her to pat her back while she settles down, drifts off. Her arm drapes over me. I hug her little bottom close and she passes out wrapped around me. I look at that sleeping face--I am so blessed. She is so sweet, so beautiful, so calm. Finally she is still. She is never still, you understand. She is motion. Motion and words. These are things to be thankful for--signs of health, signs of life. But at the end of a long day, I welcome sleep when she is still, and most of all, quiet. As animated as she is awake, she is the oposite asleep. Like a rock. Nothing disturbs her slumber except a rare (thankfully) bad dream.

She had one last night. She cried without easing up until I went into her room at 4 this morning. I held her. I passed out. She finally drifted back to sleep. In the morning she told me about the nightmare.

Daddy and I had gone to a wedding to get her a baby brother, and we didn't take her with us. She was devastated. Crestfallen. How could we?

All of this, Freud doesn't need to tell me, as a result of our "night out" on Saturday when we had the first night as a couple without her in a long, long, long time. She had a blast, went to a festival, rode ponies, had a wonderful time, mind you. I don't think she thought about us once. Well, maybe once.

But then she heard me. It was my tone I guess, since I didn't say anything in particular. I was on the phone telling my friend that we had a good time on Saturday, saw a movie, that I slept until 1:30 in the afternoon the next day.

The relief in my voice must have been evident. I now can tell you that five year olds get "tone." Even subtle "tone."

Where was I when she learned to infer?

I hear her bedroom door slam, hang up the phone, go upstairs to see exactly what the matter is, and there she is weeping in her bed. "You had fun without me! You and Daddy had fun and I wasn't there! Don't ever do that again. It hurts my feelings."

I explain about grown up time, how the movie would have been boring to her, how she had a lot more fun riding ponies than looking for used cars.

Her mind is unchanged. She has already infered that we had fun not as three, but as two. That we were capable of enjoying a moment where she was not the center of it.

How do you explain that it is a different kind of fun? That it isn't the fun fun we have as a family, it is something really boring to little people. How do you explain that you talked about her sixteen times that night? You say it. You say all that, and your child still looks at you with those big brown eyes and says, I wanna come too next time.

And you want to tell her that you want her always, to be right here, right next to you, that if you could you would put her back inside of you and keep her there, safe and sound, as long as forever and ever, that you don't want her to go six inches from your side, that it would be okay with you if the world would disappear and there was no such thing as school and there was no work and there were no responsibilities, no commitments, no money, no world at all.

If you had a say, you would lie just as you do every night, patting her back and racing her to sleep so that you could gaze at perfection forever. That if you could, you'd zip the house up with the three of you inside where no one could get in, no one could say anything hurtful to this family, no one could bring poison in, no one could break through. The sealed up house would be music and games and toys and computers, and melted cheese burritos, and lots of ice cream, forever.

You don't say these things to her though.

You don't say them to anyone.

Because if you did, people might think you're crazy.

oh my gosh, he did it again.

AKMA took the words right out of the back of my brain and organized them just perfectly in this post about bloggers and money, and the lack thereof, and the potiential to make a few coins.

You see? We got the official word from blogging's official honest guy--NOW, LET'S GET PAID!!!

date night

We went to see Formula 51 last night, the latest Samuel Jackson flick that was pretty great, made greater by the fact that we hadn't been to an R rated move in almost two years. Lilo and Stitch can't really match action packed drug dealing, murder and mayhem. Not just a little blood and guts, but worth it. Hint: Bring your umbrella.

My sister kept Jenna over night for the first time in a couple of years. Wow. You parents know what I mean. Wow. So we didn't have to rush home. We actually got onto our street before we looked at one another and said, "Hey, we don't even really have to go home." George turned the car around and we drove to the bar in one of the plazas up the street for a nightcap. Neither of us had ever been to the place before.

And wouldn't you know it was kareokee night, with all the regulars, some very scary-to-me, way-wasted 50-somethings, the guys with polo shirts and a turtleneck sweater or two(L.L. Bean ribbed cotton maybe?), their ladies with big hair, layered makeup, and too-fake smiles. They would have been friendly enough, and they were, but it was that kind of DRUNK FRIENDLY--you know what I mean? I could have passed any one of them in the grocery store the next day and they wouldn't have remembered my face. But last night, they were so glad to have met us, leaning on our shoulders, one burly old fucker trying to massage George's shoulders after making off with his lighter, translated in the language of Wasted as, "I'm Sorry," which, if you knew George, you would know one thing--don't touch his neck.

So burly drunk guy, who apparently is a physical therapist, although I can't imagine, got a little miffed that his massage wasn't appreciated, and showed his displeasure by favoring a lean our way when his drunken sway shifted into full gear. You know, "the lean," the "I can't stand up straight so can I lean on you?" lean. Luckily, this guy had a hard time standing or sitting still, so he left us alone every ten minutes or so to check on his wife.

Mike, the official bar greeter, made sure to stop by and say hello, tell us that the place is a regular hangout for the area, that Friday nights they start early, Saturday a little later, that it's always the same people, that they love one another, swear at one another, sometimes borrow from one another--some swap wives, not Mike of course, but some, he said.

I sipped my rum and coke and wondered about their lives.

Did I mention there was kareoke?

It wasn't really the people or the lame DJ that left me with that shifted feeling. It was realizing that I'm so in between. Gone are the pre-kid days of clubs and hanging out til 3 a.m. and talking with friends over drinks after a gig. My friends are at home doing the same thing I'm usually doing: taking care of the kid, the house, the bills, the cars. that's one side of being in between. The other side of being in between is not yet being a 50-something like most of the free birds at the bar last night were. You could tell, their nests were empty; they were looking for something new, something more, some taste of something they'd lost along the way. Instead, they settle for familiar faces, vodka or gin, and someone else's husband, someone else's wife.

In other words, the movie was better than the bar.

Being able to spend the evening eye to eye with my husband, laughing and holding hands, without the constant interjection that is our love personified, Jenna, was a true gift. A regular baby sitter may just be in our future....

It is highly diggable

Do go dig this.

The Friend of Our Friend is Our Friend

Shelley clued me in on the details of stavrosthewonderchicken's friend Rick who was hurt in the Bali explosion. His condition is currently critical, and the family is encountering some serious medical expenses for his care. A trust fund has been started to help. Shelley has the details on where and how to lend a helping hand. From what I've gleaned, Rick was on holiday before starting a new chapter of his life with a new job when he was caught in the blast that killed and injured so many. Life is far too fragile.

sometimes I want to have my say without linking to you or emailing you, dammit.

Alright, this needs to be said and I'm going to say it. David and Halley need to add comment capability to their blogs, and RageBoy needs to fix his comments forthwith.

I love all of these blogs. Everyone knows that. Which is why I get so frustrated not being able to run off at the mouth instantaneously in some form of comment or discussion spot on said blogs. Sometimes I don't want to have to go back to my blog and dedicate an entire post to something you said. I just want to add my two cents. The ability to talk back, respond, vibe, chortle, as well as listen, are all vital parts of conversation, non?

I used to get on my blogging nemesis' ass about this all the time. Mike Sanders' blog was the first to frustrate me by relegating me to linking to him in order to continue the discourse. discord? I slammed him for this many times. Which means it's time I hold my blog friends up to the same standard, albiet without the personal vendetta.

Commenting, threaded discussions and the like are essential for this blogging exercise we're involved in to work. They add layers to our writing, to our conversations. They enlarge our community. A quarter of the folks on my blogroll are there as a result of someone else's comment boxes. I read their comments, say wow this person talks some interesting talk, click on their "homepage" link, spend ten minutes finding out who they are, and usually add them to my blogroll. I also get a few new visitors to this blog each day who hopped here via a comment I've left somewhere else. New friends, new twists in the conversation, new wrinkles, new ideas, spark to flame, pop pop pop, the loosely joined become tighter and more loose all at once.

Got it? Get it.

it always comes down to prepositions

about or from?
that's really the distinction.

A sometimes subtle distinction.

But a significant disinction. One that can mean the difference between personal disarray--family mayhem, lost friends, lost jobs and a host of non-specific offline maladies--and very moving writing.

there ought to be a law

against this. Our dear RageBoy is off to crush all we hold dear again. Poor Gary and Fiona. I read at Frank Paynter's place that poor Gary happened upon RB's parenthood sacralidge just after returning home from a parent-to-be class. Yikes!

Sir Locke (Sherlock?) breaks some more rules with the post above his Dr. Spock abomination, in which he demonstrates the incredible talent it takes for winners of the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest to confound their readers.

Is nothing sacred to this man?

Esther? Help me out here.

dictionary.com, add this one

Tom Matrullo has the best definition of blogs I've come across yet:

"Blogs are extensions or representations of individual selves, which enter into relations of esteem, commerce or criminality."

Don't miss his take on bloggers on the take.

I wish I were a blogger on the take.

Better than wishing I were an Oscar Mayer Weiner. Although, if Oscar Mayer wanted to sponsor this fine blog, I'd be happy to throw some weiner mobile icons on my archives page. Oh okay. I'm lying. I'd run over to the kosher Hebrew National folks jack-rabbit fast and tell them why they should sponsor me for $100 more, thereby solidifying a relationship with the sponsor whose product I always choose and sharing the good news about some really good weiners with my friends. In other words, Utopia.

Does that make me a bad blogger? Or a good weiner? Or Dave Winer?

I don't know.

i have seen the hitler, and it is us

I found a link to this over on Bearman's way-worthy blog. You know, I've been reading through all the war talk and peace talk around these parts for a long while. This story floored me but good. If we are to believe the Sunday Herald about the Bush administration's blueprint for US global domination -- and there are enough quotes from the document, brainchild of the neo-conservative think-tank Project for the New American Century (PNAC), to make me believe it -- well then holy shit we really are rolling down a steep hill into obliteration.

Of all the things in the article, this one scared me most. Think of this tool in the hands of the neo-cons and wonder who exactly they might target for genocide:

"...advanced forms of biological warfare that can 'target' specific genotypes may transform biological warfare from the realm of terror to a politically useful tool."

Yes. Politically useful. I get it.

say it with me now.

politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful politically useful.

Calling all small businesses...

Eeeeks. Where I come from we call this PR and smile about it. And yes, I still sleep at night.

In truth, Gonzo Marketing covers the "how blogs might make money" thing in detail. I don't think taking money from sponsors would ruin the integrity of blogs. The company we keep here in Blogaria keeps us honest enough, whether we like it or not. We sniff out coverups as fast as any conspiracy theorist. And, generally speaking, the types of sponsors we should go after should be complementary to our blogging, but not necessarily related to our blog's theme (of which, mine has no theme except death, loss, and love, so unless we're talking casket manufacturers or Fanny Farmer, I guess there's not many businesses directly related to my blog).

On the sponsors/corporate side, there's so much to gain from standing up for the great writing and significant conversations going on here it almost makes me insane that more businesses aren't doing it. There is perceived risk too. The risk of sponsoring a blog that comes out and complains about the product of the sponsorer, or, worse, falls in love with the sponsorer's fiercest competitor. But that risk is not really risky at all. Once the first wave of sponsors jumps on, they will necessarily become less paranoid about these eventualities. We're the Howard Sterns of the net. THAT we are talking among ourselves, for our sponsors, will be ultimately more important than our current pet peve or gripe of the day.

I think, small companies will be the ones to jump in with us first. They have the most to gain from bloggers. If I owned and SMB right now, I'd be looking at blogs. Bloggers are mostly suspicious of big brands. Either that, or we're already zealots with firm opinions. But the lesser knowns--that small online specialty food or gifts company, that family owned business who knits covers for golf clubs, whatever--should swoop in here with us little guys ASAP and help us turn the mofo upside down.

Either that or fuck business PERIOD. We bloggers pledge to one another. We each decide on a blog WE'RE going to sponsor every month. Every blogger adopts a code of support... like a co-op or something... and I say, I'm adopting Marek this month for $10 (or 13.52 to be exact--all the money I had in my paypal account), and next month I sponsor Tom, and so on. If each of us could support one blogger at $5 or $10 or $20 a month, we'd all end up somewhat happy, no? Am I totally wacked here?

Too tired to think about it more tonight. Later, though. Let me go find my copy of Gonzo first.

Anyone need a NEW VAN?

There's a one week special on this one....
Hurry hurry! vroom vroom!

Thank you one and all

From those who wrote her emails to those who sent presents, Jenna thanks you all for making her fifth blogday so special.

More Pictures Here.

Jonathon does a garbage plate

Jonathon Mays recently enjoyed a Western New York classic dish: the Garbage Plate. Made famous at legendary Nick Tahous, a Rochester late night cult classic, the Garbage Plate can be seen eating Jonathon here.

Jonathon's on a business assignment in Rochester. And now, as if he had nothing better to do, I've sent him off on a food assignment to visit our favorite Rochester eateries (do not mistake this for "arteries," which are will be hardened by the time Jonathon finishes his assignment.) Should he choose to accept the challenge, he is to visit Mamasans (say hi to Bea from Jeneane and George Sessum in Atlanta), where he must try the fresh vegetarian spring rolls (fresh, not fried) and the chicken or vegetarian coconut noodle soop, and maybe some Pad Thai.

Then he's off to Schaller's for a burger on a hard roll (through the garden). The hot sauce in Rochester has meat in it. Don't miss it. Unless you're a vegetarian, which, I assume by your knowledge of Nick Tahous you are not. Jonathon's not done until he samples an order of mixed wings at Country Sweet. He has also been instructed to try a Rubino's sub. Or, he is so instructed now.

There are some people you could squeeze some money out of while you're there--some folks who owe George. But I don't suppose you're there to do that kind of business.

(and if you are, let us know!)

Happy Dining Jonathon!

unfamous quotations

I refer you to the Book of Gary (turner dot net). Yes, our favorite wily UK-er has done it again. Gary's latest brainchild is Unfamous Quotations (first edition) featuring the oft-underestimated and unsung wisdom of bloggers round the world. Now's your chance to contribute to history--don't miss out!

The BlogSisters Get a Facelift

Thanks to Web Doctor Andrea Roceal James, the BlogSisters team blog got a groovy face lift. Check it out, join, comment, discuss.

Nice job, Andrea--and thank you.

where I was a year ago...

what I was blogging about....

"These interconnected 'places of voice' are not the communities we see today on Amazon and in other over-designed pre-fab online subdivisions, but instead real communities, with potholes and assholes--just like real life."

"Passive yields to Active. Eyeballs to Voice."

"I'm scared about the Rageboy™ thing. Not your rageboy (no trademark here--I'm using it generically-notice the lower case), but the variation of rageboy you think we all have. How can I keep writing nice things about my coveted 'blue chip' clients--and usually 'as' one of my clients--if I admit to having a ragegirl inside of me. I can never ever acknowledge her."

"Interactive reviews… write as you read… experience the book. Does a product exist for this? Read the book in the right hand column… Record your thoughts in the left… Somehow you co-write and revise what you are reading… giving it breath beyond the paper page. Continuing the voice--adding new voices to the author's voice… Then, we can merge this co-thinking, co-speaking, and co-mingling of ideas into a creation of its own. A daughter publication. And, the cycle could start again. Think of where we would end up--so far away from, and yet I suspect so close to, the original piece."

"I am canceling my subscription to EGR--that man is a lunatic. He's got me talking all kinds of crazy."

(Oh and one of my personal favorites...)

"How about these 'guidelines,' for all of the mightier-than-thou Internet publication hacks who gave us grief over the last three years:

-Don't patronize and piss off industry professionals who work for your publication for free--providing most of the stuff your readers pay you for.

-Don't fill your publication with so many lame ads that it makes your magazine 600 pages thick and you have to start publishing it twelve times a month, you greedy fuck.

-Don't look like an idiot when no one is buying ad space anymore, you have to layoff half your staff, and your magazine is now 3 pages and comes out twice a year."

From the RGE Archives.

Uh-huh. I knew it.

Something told me that Tom Matrullo would become obsessed with GoogleFight. Heh. If Tom's mastery of "this vs. that" teaches us anything, it teaches us that war is hell, and small wins big. Well, you'll get my drift if you check out Tom's interesting hour (day? couple days?) on GoogleFight.

A note about fair fights--Some of you with rather not-so-unusual first and last names (cough cough--one Gary Turner comes to mind...) need to put QUOTATION MARKS around your whole name when you decide to pick on someone. It's not fair for you Turners of the world to ride on the coat tails of Ike and Tina. Not when the Sessums and Marek Js of the world have to go it alone.

And? Wanna make somethin' of it?

happy anniversary to me... and gonzo

one year blogging anniversary for me today. eeeeeeeeeeeee!

And mostly, happy anniversary to everyone who participated with me in the early and later days of the Reading Gonzo--Engaged team blog.

(Rumor has it that the PAPERBACK edition of the book responsible for launching the RGE blog is shipping any day now... rumor has it you ought to buy the thing if you haven't. rumor has it cousin Vito might pay you a visit if you don't. All rumors and speculation, of course.)

How d'ya like me so far? Here's to year two.

gary double dares ya

Gary Turner says he can kick your butt. Meet him behind the baseball field over at GoogleFight.

just when we were getting tired of hearing ourselves not saying much...

There are some amazing weblogs I've come across recently thanks to others in this circle of friends who are linking to them. I would credit my circle friends for the links, but I've been hopping around so very much tonight that I don't know how I got to where I got! Nuff said. Check these destinations out...

Resident Blog, a team weblog of women residents in their journey to becoming our docs of the future... Tired, worn out, stressed--they STILL find time to blog. Amanda has a particularly moving account of her work in the NICU and more...

"In the process of writing this I have drawn 15 ccs of spinal fluid off of an indwelling reservoir in a baby with hydrocephalus, I have been to the cesarian birth of a beautiful bellowing baby girl whose mom is trying to stay off of methamphetamines in an inpatient drug treatment. Her friend held the baby close to her face behind the curtain and her sparkling blue eyes teared up as she said "Wow." Then, I tried to intubate a tiny 1 1/2 pound baby whose O2 sats were in the 40s. I didn't make it and I handed the blade over to the senior resident who finally made it on the third try. We peeled off our gloves and our hands were all pruney from sweating. My senior's headed to bed- I'm on the first shift and there's folks over in labor and we're likely to be called any minute for some deliveries. I've got clinic tomorrow post call and have put in an 81.5 hour week by midnight tonight."

I didn't see permalinks, so scroll down and read them all--it's worth it.

Another fast rising blog of interest is The Homeless Guy, which chronicles the challenges and warmspots of a homeless weblogger in (I think) Nashville.

There's also excellent writing on HotMud.

This from there:

"He arrives. He looks good. One of the great injustices since the trouble began is that he's looked fantastic. And I don't. The pain goes straight to my face and lodges there; anyone can read it in the tension around my mouth, which is constant, and in my eyelids, which are always slightly swollen. In pain, he shines. It's inexplicable and enviable. It makes me feel ill. It makes me long for anesthetic. I pretend that my mocha contains codeine."

Nice stuff... dat's all for tonight. I'm on the hunt for more. When I get sick of hearing myself write, I always go look for new blood to add to my blogroll... widen the circle... toward one world... one peaceful world.

Down for the Count

I took an uppercut from Tom Matrullo who whooped me on Google Fights, but I KO-ed Halley Suitt in Round Two.

Thanks to Scoble for the link!

a rainy night in georgia, and it feels like I'm bloggin' all over the world.

Shelley's got me thinking--again. In today's post she made me feel nostalgic in a way I've never felt before. Not more or less intense than regular nostalgia, but compressed for sure.

I remember the days Shelley is writes about. They were what, six months ago? In blogland it seems like ten years ago. Jokin', jivin', jawin' on the tele, everything was upside down and sideways but somehow just right. Are we saying, "Those were the days, my friend?" Well, for now, maybe I am.

Looking back. Shared History.

Shared agony, ecstacy. hurt. laughter. With you, Shell. About those days.

When George was in Hong Kong, me here with Jenna, the telephone inviting long talks with Marek, Shelley, Halley, Gary, RB, Tom, Elaine, and crew. They helped take care of me, supported my journey into therapy and soul searching. Jenna wasn't even in pre-K yet. I was working full-time. I hadn't told my parents they were alcoholics yet. So much is different now.

The world in blogtime.

And so I go further back.

And I realize that a year ago Monday (Oct 7th) I started blogging. I signed onto blogger with Reading Gonzo--Engaged after spending a week engrossed with a review copy of Chris Locke's Gonzo Marketing. The infamous RageBoy and I had exchanged a few emails before then. But I never imagined the guy would be our daughter's Uncle when I sent him that MS Word document last October--a document in which I'd been journaling my reading of Gonzo Marketing. He wrote back and said, "This would be just right for a blog, or two, or three." I took him at his word. Still do.

For me, this is where my life among bloggers began.

Gonzo Engaged lived a pretty full life, as its archives attest to. But of late, it has waned in popularity and postings. Many of the bloggers Locke inspired, some of whom started blogging right then and there on the Gonzo team blog, are now focused on their own weblogs and team blogs, me among them.

Still, I wait. To see if Gonzo will re-ignite.

Blogs are funny that way.

So is RageBoy.

But when I look back at my first year of blogging, it seems like a lifetime ago.

Maybe that's because we're living in so many people's lives at once.

Do you think?

I remember when Gary launched the soon-to-be international phenomenon known as Blog Stickers, me saying, can I put one of those things on my blog? (Yes, I was the first.) I picked "Blog is a four letter word," bought up Gary's t-shirts and mugs, told him we'd just hit the new era of e-commerce, and shit, we kind of did, never forseeing Gary was just getting going with his insane ideas, hadn't yet experienced his Chukka Bar Incident; chalk chalking was just a glimmer in its father's eye, as was Baby Turner to be.

RageBoy was loving, then dying; now reborn. I've watched the metamorphosis, which has been incredible, and as real life as real life gets hundreds of miles away over wires.

Halley, Craig, Shelley, and now Doc, all lived in different houses. I feel like I've moved with all of them. Is that why I'm so tired? Halley, where'd you put my f-ing can opener?

Marek hadn't scared us yet with his traumatic hospital stay, Dave Winer hadn't either.

I was on Mike Sanders' blogroll and he was on mine.

The warbloggers were mere pains in the asses, not a full-fledged movement.

Blog Sisters was an idea that woke me up one night, nothing less or more, until... and then...

Elaine wasn't a grandma yet.

I hadn't met AKMA's amazing wife, Margaret.

So many things. So many things to have happened. So many things to have happened to so many of us.

And more to come.

Only one absolute: I feel blessed to be among you.