This is how a blogger attends a convention

John Perry Barlow has a good plan for attending the Republican Convention. I hope some of the lanyard-wearing bloggers will be suit-donned and participating, or at least transmitting some real-time pics.

And may I recommend, at precicely the right moment, a little something from President (of Funk) Clinton to hasten the pant wetting?

More from JPB:

I don't want to confront the Republicans. I want to discombobulate them. I don't want to argue with them, which would only convince them further, I want to throw them off their game. I don't want to be aggressive in my discontent. God knows there's been plenty of that on all sides. I want to be genial. But disconcerting.

So, to that end, I propose the following: I want to organize a cadre of 20 to 50 of us. I want to dress us in suits and other plain pedestrian attire and salt us among the sidewalk multitudes in Republican-rich zones. At a predetermined moment, one of us will produce a boom-box and crank it up with something danceable. Suddenly, about a third of the people on the sidewalk, miscellaneously distributed in the general throng, will start dancing like crazy and continue to do so for for about a minute. Then we will stop, melt back into the pedestrian flow, and go to another location to erupt there.*

Now this is how bloggers cover conventions.

* Idea Stavros and Sessum certified organic.

$97.53!

I have now stopped smoking for 27 days, 1 minutes, 12 seconds. That translates into 459 cigarettes NOT smoked, for a savings of $97.53! I have increased my life expectancy by 1 days, 14 hours, 15 minutes, 4 seconds.

[[courtesy of sharemeter]]

A question Mr. President?

Fun little time waster. Once you ask all your questions or enter your favorite keywords, don't forget to try bin laden, michael moore, and laura bush...

Pope Blames Feminists for Gender Confusion

According to a leaked extract, the document accuses feminists of "blurring the biological difference between man and woman".

For instance, the Pope noted, Priests frequently mistake little boys' rectums for women's vaginas.

...developing...

Stavros' folks place is still for sale?

I'm telling you, this place is blogtopia. What are we waiting for? 200 bloggers at a grand a piece. We time share in bunches.

I have dibs on summer!

Oh, and don't forget to read Stavros' convention blogging.

Jimmy, Won't You Come Back?

I've gone on about Jimmy Carter here before. There is something about living in the south, a short drive in no traffic from the Carter Center, which is a peaceful place of historic writings and images, that puts Jimmy in context. And once Jimmy's in context, his true greatness -- his heart and his brilliance, in that order -- are overwhelming.

A man of incredible integrity, Jimmy is unlike any other Presient. I think everyone can agree on that. People overuse the word integrity these days. It's all the rage in self-help circles, a cherished prize for the self-actualized who have managed to get their needs met, in the passive voice of course. Active voice is simply too aggressive.

But I digress. When Jimmy uses the word integrity, he means integrity.

Kalilily has a link to Jimmy's speech from the convention, which is worth a read if you didn't hear it on TV or if you were in the Blogger's Box at the convention. ;-)

Elaine calls out this quote:

You can't be a war president one day and claim to be a peace president the
next, depending on the latest political polls. When our national security
requires military action, John Kerry has already proven in Vietnam that he will
not hesitate to act. And as a proven defender of our national security, John
Kerry will strengthen the global alliance against terrorism while avoiding
unnecessary wars.

Ultimately, the issue is whether America will provide global leadership
that springs from the unity and integrity of the American people or whether
extremist doctrines and the manipulation of truth will define America's role in
the world.

At stake is nothing less than our nation's soul.....

Thanks for pointing this out E.

A topic I know a thing or two about...

...you know, when I'm not dissociating.

Semantically Yours...

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the new number one google search result for the word "Credentialed".

surprised? not me.

The thing that bothers me most about the credentialing of bloggers for this past week's democratic convention is how the bloggers willingly participated in a PR mega-event that had been brainstormed about, strategized about, met endlessly about, project managed about, account managed about, and congratulated over by what has to be hundreds of PR flacks across multiple organizations who really don't give a rats ass whether bloggers covered the event or not.

This was a corporate event and credentials were bestowed like tickets for a ski-doo raffle, finalists made up of the lucky few who stuck business cards with the right combination of words on them (i.e., no troublemakers, left-leaning) in the bowl on the trade show floor. Ooooo--maybe I'll win.

Yah, if life, business, and government worked that way.

It doesn't. That's why we came here--remember?

I will state my personal position again: Anything that seeks to professionalize weblogging, I am against. It's power depends upon its non-professionalization. Stop letting them bully you into stepping and fetching it, guys. And yes, guys, I'm talking to you specifically, because you continue to bite every time.

I wish I lived closer to a convention. I would not be credentialed, but I would cover it, on the street, in the 'tweens, from a boulder on the grassy knoll. Covering politics is talking to people, not following the cued plan of PR pros. I'd go wherever they weren't--anywhere they weren't.

Here is a conversation I imagine has already taken place between public affairs PR flacks involved in the event, the Kerry launch at the DNC convention.

PR Flack 1 (PRf1): Credentialing bloggers--great idea wasn't it?

PR Flack 2 (PRf2): "Sure was. I don't know how the whole thing got started, but it was the best thing we coulda done to show how the 'voice of the people' counts... That 'be not afraid' of john q. public...' Embrace him even!

PRf1: Yeah, without letting them get close enough to cause any trouble!

PRf2: Hey, those guys don't leave their laptops for a second--It was easy to keep em penned up. Can you believe they didn't riot when we saw how far away they were? No way they could hear or see anything--making like it was their war room up there--haaaa!

PRf1: Did you see them typing the whole fucking time?

PRf2: No shit--what the hell were they writing about? Carol King--how many words can you write about her -- she sang for fifteen minutes.

PRf1: I saw this one blog guy get his credentials--his eyes were so big you think I he just got the Nobel Peace Prize.

PRf2: sheeeeeesh!

PRf1: I thought they'd be all over the balloon mishap--Jesus the stage manager that had Mischer that close to Blizer is so canned.

PRf2: The bloggers were all gone by then--there were like two of them up there. I guess they got the picture that the terrorists weren't coming--"Nothing to see here boys, go ahead home..."

PRf1: hhhhaaa! Yah, "The real journalists have it covered--why don't you all go buy some ink cartridges for your printers!"

PRf2: Now the Bush team is all about how to leverage the webloggers.

PRf1: Yeah, well, give 'em Bush Cheney signs and tell them to get drunk like everyone else.

PRf2: I think if you give 'em fancy lanyards they're yours for life.

PRf1: blahahaha!

(and on and on).

Are we worthy of the jeering? Naw. Doesn't matter really. But we are responsible for not letting ourselves be manipulated in the name of blogging. At least I think so.

So you credentialed few--cover the next convention somewhere where it's not expected, scripted even. And if you get detained or kicked out, tell us about it. There are plenty of folks who can talk about healthcare and not having insurance to take their kid to the hospital and who have had relatives killed in Iraq. There are plenty of folks who rely on those tax cuts to power their corporations, who demand we close our borders and torture prisoners of war to get the answers we need.

Start a conversation with one of them.

And you don't even need a fancy lanyard to do it.

The Spiridellis Brothers--Two Guys and a Computer

Just read a good article on the Spiridellis Brothers, better known to us as JibJab, the creators of the now legendary and hysterical This Land Is Your Land lampoon. It's great to see a couple of guys who know what to do with the net get mainstream recognition from a really good piece of work. Hysterical even. Hopefully they can use the noise to drum up sales for their new book, Are You Grumpy, Santa?, which looks awfully cute.

In the meantime, the brothers are under fire from the publisher who holds the rights to Guthrie's song. At the heat of the debate is whether the use of the song qualifies as infringing satire or protected parody.

If you really want to dig into the conflict, Corante has a thorough rundown of what's gone down.

Kinda takes the fun out of two guys and a computer.

Doh!

We all need a few more balloons...
by Don Mischer
DNC Convention Director
 
No confetti, no confetti
yet.
Go balloons. Go balloons.
More Balloons. All balloons.
All balloons.
 
Come on guys,
Let's move it
Jesus.
 
We need more balloons.
I want all balloons
to go, goddamn!
No confetti. No confetti.
No confetti.
 
I want more balloons.
What's happening to the balloons?
We need more balloons.
 
We need all of them coming down!
Balloons. Balloons.
Balloons.
 
What's happening!
They're not coming down.
 
All balloons.
Where the hell
Nothing is falling. 
What the fuck
are you guys doing
up there?
 
We want more
balloons coming down.

More balloons.
More balloons.

PTSD - 1: Lullaby

rock-a-bye baby
down by the lake,
when the wind blows
your world starts to shake,
when the storm hits
your world starts to break,
and crap starts flying around smashing into you and busting your head wide open until you bleed into the streets and passersby look down wondering what the hell is wrong with you and kick you and tell you to get up and be productive you useless sack of shit,
'til it's all you can take.

PTSD - 2: Grandpa

They wept more for you
I never understood
because you were murdered
and he was supposed to die.

Just three weeks apart
my daddy, my grandpa
gone
who loved me more
no matter
dead.

I watched them weep for
you grandpa
wondering why
I didn't see them cry that
hard for my father
your death a tragedy
his a relief

your death
and his
are alive for me
still
in the corners of the
kitchen where I opened
the door to tears and moans,
on the far wall of my bedroom
where I watched shadows
at night instead of understanding
that nothing was the same,
on the school bus where looks
of pity wrapped me in kind blankets
that I grew used to wearing.

That is where I keep you.

 

PTSD - 3: Intermission

Wind washes me
dirty dirty
grandma said
you put panties on
when you sleep
or I'll tell your
mother

Rain washes me
dirty dirty
grandma said
those dolls have
no clothes and
look
you drew on
their dirty
parts now
I have to
tell your
mother

Fire washes me
dirty dirty
grandma said
look at that
drawing
I can see
that girl's chest
rip it up now
or I'll show
your mother.

Earth wash me clean
of their shame
show me where
to bury it.

PTSD - 4: Move

His hooves make prints
paint the ground in u-shaped echoes,
the hard autumn runway
where waves lap sand.

We gallop through foam,
icy lake water
splashes my bare calves
rubbed hairless on
the insides
from holding on
tight,
his belly wide and strong,

Remembering ends
the day they took him away.

But not my skin,
every inch of flesh
a memory of touch--
thighs, calves
heels, hands--
of movement
of silent conversation.

Of losing him.

PTSD - 5: Birth

I open like wings
from me flies
new life,
she.

I warm her skin
against my chest
she me,
we.

I terrify them then
blood everywhere
eyes close,
dark.

I open again for them
they save me
I know,
agony.

 

PTSD - 6: Dance

To know your face
so well
to trace the lines above
your eyes
to have found all
the secret flaws
to love you
still

To be destroyed,
ripped by words that
shred like shards,
blood drips milk
deceit and despair mingle,
currents of
spoiled innocence
rearrange
real and pretend.

How do I parse
disbelief,
real or
imagined? 
when
what was so
never was.

To love again.

7 more posts until my 2,000th here.

I shall endeavor to ring in the new millennium with a spree of on-the-spot poetry.

Please enjoy.

Or Else.

Oh No, No, NO!

They've killed him! They've killed him!

 

My B Key Makes Prime Time

Thanks to Mike for posting my story on my Hiptop/Sidekick and the faulty key of B over on the Hipshake site.

yabadabedope!

Edwards (Mrs.) for America

I've been saying for months that I really like John Edwards' wife, Elizabeth. Just read another article about her--I didn't know they'd lost a 16-year-old son or that they have a 22 year old and a 4 year old. I didn't know she was a devastatingly good lawyer, had a baby when she was 50, or looked like a real person, sans botox.

"Elizabeth Edwards' intellect was termed 'a weapon of mass destruction' by a former courtroom rival."

I love complexity. This pair's complex.

Can we elect her?

 

Glaze Flavored Drink? Ouch. Brain Freeze

Thanks Mike for the news on future blood surgar spikes around the nation from the new drinkable Krispy Kreme donuts.

My sweet tooth has been satisfied for a month, and I haven't even tasted them.

Shiiivvvveerrrr.

More on Obama from Chris at Afro-Netzien

This is a great blogger's-eye view post from the convention on Barak Obama's speech and its aftermath. Nice.

((I'm following the convention followers because I got nothing good to write about right now. A good dose of meta-blogging ought to cure me of my writer's block.))

Convention Blogger Challenge!

I was thinking that one use for blogs during the convention is an interactive treasure hunt! In other words, we, your valued readers, tell you, the convention blogeneers, what items we want you to hunt down and take camera-phone pics of then post to your blog!

I want to see:

One conventioneer with a funny hat.
Someone walking around bearfoot.
One man sleeping.
David Weinberger doing any of the above.
One half-full latte.

Extra Bonus: Get close enough to Theresa Heinz Kerry to tell me what genre of alcohol is on her breath.

On your mark, get set, GO!!

This is good...

They give you a razor, which you couldn't have brought in with you, once you get inside?

This must be so you can slit your wrists from boredom?

I like Jessamyn's posts and pics.

The meta-ness discussion was 'specially cool.

Yes, I saw him.

Did you?

Where are all of our blog reporters on the guy mainstream media and a great part of the viewing audience says made history tonight? Obama anyone?

So far meandering through the blogs covering the DNC I see lots of middle-age white guys writing about how a lot of other middle-age white guys are hard to hear.

Boys, boys, boys. We pack you up, we send you off to tend to the Important Duties of the Nation, and this is what we get?

I want a refund.

 

David Weinberger says "Shove It" to a Pulitzer-Prize-winning Journalist

Well, at least he's not running for First Lady.

Every once in a while, David utters these immortal quotes that make the sides of his readers' lips turn up, down, or all around. This one, from the USA Today today, made me smile so good:

"Objectivity is a worthwhile objective,
but it needs to be recognized that it can't be reached."
--David Weinberger

If nothing else comes from the DNC, and I suspect nothing else will, this article and David's quote on the illusion of objectivity was worth weblogger participation. He got to say, well duh BigMedia--you've never been what you claimed to be.

You Go, David.

Dr. Bill K is Way Kool.

Dr. Bill Koslosky is one of those neat geeky docs I like so much, the ones who embrace technology with gusto because they understand it can make our lives better. I owe him some notice because he keeps me up to date with emails, and as I mentioned below, I have become really sinfully bad about dealing with email since I quit smoking. (okay since before that.)

First, then, you should be keeping up with Dr. Bill and his blogging here at wireless-doc, and here.

When I wrote recently about MSF (doctors without borders), Bill wrote and gave them kudos and me a thanks for mentioning them, then told me about the kind of things some other organizations are doing to help build communities, assist the ill, injured, and others in need around the world, especially using technology.

The sites he mentioned include: Bridges,  Voxiva, One World Health (a non-profit pharmaceutical company!?!), and DNDI (which is working with MSF). These sites are all worth reviewing, and their efforts supporting. Most have donation areas if you can and choose to de-pocket some cash.

These are important links for folks who want to help others, and to help others who are helping others, extending the reach of your resources across borders and oceans and cultures. Read about the ever worsening disaster in Sudan from those who are there. This ought to make you sick. It ought to make you cry. If you're anything like me, it ought to bring outrage. It ought to make you not give much of a shit about which bloggers are covering the DNC or what happened at the Dogone Blogon conference last week.

Recently Dr. Bill sent an email on stem cell research, an email I subsequently lost (I know--me and my emails...). The good news is, David has the info over here.

Thanks Dr. Bill for continuing to inform me and remind me of global needs and global accomplishments through caring people using technology and their own two hands to make a difference. Keep sending and I'll keep posting. 

Thanks especially for writing even when I don't write back.

Demonstracione

Spam Headline Poem from My Current Inbox
With Love

 

Why would you?

Immobility uranus
mennonite dynamite
fun for you both.

How is life, Ginseng?

You've been pre-approved
the deal of the century:
legal Tylenol 3 with Codeine,
Valium, popular software.

Regain your youth,
I'm waiting for your call.

Denunciate
except for me
our little secret
Saturday.

You should tr.y this new phar.m--
forget the doctor
stay hard longer.

Hello.

Home invasion,
get cash out of your house.
Unidirectional grail,
Calvinist.

The midwife
50 curses...
Was it you evil hamal?

All I wanted
is better now, chivalry lawsuit.
All I wanted
brought salmonberry
health, happiness, and fortune.

Long time no see, babe,
'bout time you emailed me back.

 

Email is like Snail Mail: An Apology in One Part

I remember when email felt fast, amazing, wonderous, when I waited for an email from a colleague in the early 90s back at Kodak like I used to wait for the  postman to bring my American Quarterhorse Newsletter as a kid.

Oh, email was something. Oh, email was everything.

I don't feel like that about email anymore. In fact, it now takes me more time to manage (and mostly delete) incoming messages than it takes to go through my snail-mail bills, and I have A LOT of bills.

That's what I do now. I use all of my email energy to manage incoming crap, and I reserve my outgoing messages for files and communications that I need to send to clients.

In other words, I just don't email people back anymore.

And that sucks. I'm wrong for that. I know it.

I have at least two dozen messages (bolded to to make me feel guilty--tagging them as "unread" even though I've read them) that I haven't responded to. From GOOD PEOPLE. From FRIENDS. From people who even LIKE ME.

And yet, I can't bring myself to go through the envelope-sealing, stamp-licking feeling that overwhelms me when I think about writing and sending emails these days.

It was different when I had "work email" and "home email." All my good stuff came to one address. Even with SPAM, I knew there'd be treasures and I cherished that space inside my home email.

Now my homeplace is where I work, and my workplace is my home and I have Clients, Friends and Spammers knocking on my door, and I CAN'T EVEN SMOKE TO KEEP FROM GETTING CONFUSED.

Blog it and send me a link. That's all I can think to say. If you do that, I'll come across you on my ordinary and extra-ordinary routes through the net, and we'll jam out there.

Just for now. I'm sure my mind will get better. One day.

I apologize for my lack of communication. I am sorry I  hate email so much.  But I do. And I'm so tired.

Laid off from WHAT?

I had a dream a couple of nights ago that I got laid off.

In the morning when I remembered it I started giggling at the irony. Laid off from what, exactly? A layoff? Can you be doubley laid off? Yah, sorry, you're involuntarily separated from your involuntary separation.

My guess is that the dream was a result of the panic that sets in this time of year when business simply dries up. Thanks to summer vacations, July-August is always a nail biter. Same with February, which is simply payback for December-January.

You would think I'd know this, maybe plan. But I don't plan, and I don't remember until it happens.

The layoff dream then isn't so suprising, then, given that I've laid off cigarettes, that my business has let up, and that I wish everyone around me would lay off.

On the other hand, when I went to see George in Tambourines to Glory in midtown with Jenna on Sunday, I parked in the Ketchum parking garage in the area where I parked for five years.

There's always that.

;-)

Who Dat Is?

Sometimes I want to know who searched me up through google using a certain string because I know that we'd be fast friends. The person who came here by searching up Cixous and entredeux, drop me a line. We must talk.

Bloggers' Late Summer Reading List

From my comments, here are some reading recommendations from my Valued Readers. I thought others might want the info too.

Now, someone go add all of these to my Amazon wishlist, huh? ;-)

 

Two minutes to write something before I take jenna to gymnastics

I can't believe I haven't been here. I've been busy. With what, I don't know. OH I know, it's been reading fiction, my new salvation to keep me off cigs. I think it was Andrea who said she always had a book in her purse. Well, that's me. I walked laps in the pool a couple of days ago reading as I went. Put it down on the side and actually made it a couple of laps swimming (it's an olympic-size pool; gimme some credit). Picked it up again. Read it at my sister's. Read it waiting for Jenna at gym. Panic set in when I forgot it on the kitchen table, realizing the error only after I splashed into the pool on Friday.

The obsessive fiction run reminds me of house shopping. I now have several characters from several different books and several plots merging into a twisted and confusing mega story of my own. I toss authors and titles out the window preferring to spend my non-reading time trying to remember which murderer was it who used the toy cat in the ally and was it the guy detective or girl detective who grew up without a father. Then I give up trying to sort out which book was which and let the stories re-tell themselves all mingled in my imagination.

I guess there is life after smoking. Even though I've traded one "must have" for another. I've managed, so far, to make it not food, which is good, because I've been punished with that enough.

SO, I'm okay, but reading, and thinking about reading and writing and the stories we tell here and why they're not enough for me and how I used to read blogs with the same appetite as I have for a good novel now, but that you don't find people's stories on blogs the way you used to, and so I have to spend $6.95 at CVS to be sure I'm not without my fix.

okay, more later...

Think This Means They Could Fix My "B" Key?

This is great for Danger, Inc., makers of my T-Mobile Sidekick (or Hiptop in Danger Lingo). As one of the early adopters of the Sidekick, I'm hoping this means that Danger has an free and easy way of badgering T-Mobile into fixing my "B" key. It stopped working a few weeks after I bought my new Sidekick. Of course, I didn't buy any extended warranty. As it stands now, instead of looking in to what could be done to fix my "B" key, I re-jigger my writing to exclude "B" words. Instead of baby, I type infant. Instead of break, I type smashed. Stuff like that. I've gotten good at it.

The color sidekick is nice and fancy and faster than the old model. But I've found the durability isn't as good. If they upped the quality of the software and innards, perhaps they saved on the case and keyboard? It doesn't feel as hardy in your hand.

My old sidekick rode 14 miles at 40 MPH on the top of my van one time before falling off into the middle of a four-lane road when I made a right-hand turn. When I found it, face down and open, just missed by oncoming traffic, it was on and working just fine. Scratched, dented, but absolutely nothing wrong with its brain or parts.

I've had the new Sidekick a month or so, and already the B key doesn't work and I've had to call T-Mobile once when it went dead for a day to find out I needed to take out and re-insert the SIM card.

Anyway, I hope they use the money wisely, is what I'm sayin'.

And I hope they write and say, Hey Girl, we'll send you a new one that works just groovy and you send us yours.

That's be good.

Hi Dean!

Received the code. Deciphered. I read you. The quarter is benind the tallest oak in the westmost part of town. Over and out good buddy.

;-)

Sure, the story itself is funny...

...because I can think of so very many alternate headlines for it, many of them involving SPAM. But none of my funnies compare to the joy of reading a sentence like this one from the BBC:

"Despite the massive public interest, no-one was found to have lost their organs."

I mean, you just don't run into that kind of news every day.

Really, you don't.

 
I have now stopped smoking for 19 days, 7 hours, 4 minutes, 12 seconds.

okay, I'll live in a bag.

I guess. Why not? Is a zipper included?

Earthbag construction Originally uploaded by Rog.

You say symbiosis, I say homogeny...

Let's call the whole thing off.

The more weblogs embrace, partner with, and mimic traditional media, the more weblogging reads like, feels like, and smells like traditional media.

In other words, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck......

Doc thinks the teaming of Technorati and CNN around politics is cool news. I think Doc is cool. But I think neither of these things is the point.

As a nice way of streaming blogs on macro events for easy slicing and dicing BY THOSE LOOKING FOR EASY SLICES AND DICES this is a fine maneuver. 

SO why does it annoy me, greatly?

I am looking not for symbiosis here, but contrast. My biggest hope is that, in seeing these two forms of communication side by side, the juxtoposition will bring clarity and bright shiny edges. My hope is to see the blinding light of dissonance between blogging and "J"ournalism, to confuse the hell out of every one, including our very own pundits here in blogland.

My fear is that it will look more symbiotic than dissimilar, like Doc says.

politics.technorati.com? How about loss.technorati.com, how about chemo.technorati.com, how about babiesborn.technorati.com?

The diluting of blogging into little more than streaming news (especially political) is a trend that needs to die an early death. Lest we see the day when blog-speak runs beneath all the other little terror-tape up-to-the-minute reports at the bottom of the news screen -- if they can fit another ticker tape on at the bottom of the news screen!

......bloggers report Dukakas the winner by 54 percent!..... Instapundit to wed Sullivan....  Mass. blogger spies suspicious package on sidewalk....

Film at motherfucking 11.

Sharemeter says I get to live another day

I've added a day onto my life, according to Sharemeter. Thanks Paul for letting me in on it. Pretty powerful stats!

Based on my particulars: I have now stopped smoking for 18 days, 5 hours, 34 minutes, 45 seconds. That translates into 291 cigarettes NOT smoked, for a savings of $61.83! I have increased my life expectancy by 1 days, 18 minutes, 35 seconds.

The good news is, I live a day longer.
(the bad news is, I live a day longer without a cigarette.)

OKAY OKAY, I'M ONLY KIDDING!

 

Fiction Recommendations PLEASE

For the first time in six years I've read a  novel from cover to cover (in two days) without a smoke break.

I quit while I was pregnant with Jenna. I spent the majority of my pregnancy in the bathtub digesting novel after novel after novel, with a hunger I thought was driven by the knowledge that once the baby came, I'd never have time to read again. You know, since children end your life and stuff.

Now I think that my nine-month fiction fiesta may have been as much an antidote for the boredom of not smoking as a pregnancy craving. So I read this novel by Catherine Coulter called Blind Side and had a blast with it. I've never read her before, but it's one of those FBI crime fighter thrillers with a six-year-old boy at the center of the ruckus.

So, here we go gang--I'm jonsing. Do I stick with Coulter and run down the series? Or who do you have for me to read? QUICK LEAVE YOUR FICTION RECOMMENDATIONS TODAY!

[[note, I've read every Grisham novel (including bleachers--my first sans-smoking book), I read Running with Sicssors by Agustine Burrows, and I read The Narrows by what's his name? The big detective author guy--malcolm somebody? You know, the Harry Bosch series...]]

My tastes are not eclectic when it comes to fiction. Mostly I NEED AN ESCAPE in my purse just in case.

Thank you.

Everyone's seen it by now...

but I still have to link to JibJab's This Land. It's just too funny.

Waiting to Exhale

Once a week I go to group therapy. Friends ask, what do you do in group? How is it different than individual sessions? I'd never trust opening up with other people around! What do you s-a-y?
 
Group is an amazing and powerful tool for -- excuse the buzzword -- recovery. Buzzwords aside, I can say it has been an essential ingredient in helping me get more well than I've been in my previous 42 years. Without the work I've done in group, I probably wouldn't have been ready or willing to give up smoking. It's not that I talked about smoking in group. It's that, when you work as hard as I work in group, you know when you're not making progress, when there's some kind of block, when you're stuck. Usually it's an addiction. Pick your poison.
 
I didn't put this together before I went tonight--the whole smoking and group thing. I just went. Like I always do. But like I always don't, I cried through my work. All of it. Never mind cried; I sobbed.
 
I wept for the family I had and lost, the family I thought I had, the father who evaporated one day when I got off the bus from kindergarten, the battles with stepfamilies and alcohol and panic and rage and so many many other things. I wept for what was and for what was missing. I wept for him and for her and for us.
 
And finally, I wept for me.
 
It was the first time I realized, really realized, why I smoked, what I was holding down with cigarettes, why I so desperately needed to escape. Even though I've worked for a year to sort through issues I never thought I could, I've held onto so much more--more that I needed to run from every 20 minutes.
 
I've grieved plenty over the last two years, believe me when I say this. I am the one who never cried over my father's death. I am the one who carried a 4.0 GPA in the face of an emotional meltdown. I know a thing or two about holding up, and I know a thing or two about breaking down.
 
What both amazes and terrifies me is knowing that there's so much more to go. That I've really only begun. That some of what I've run the farthest from has been buried so deep under so many layers of smoke and spaghetti, of jokes and cokes, that it's going to take me a long time to get it up, and out. Out is the ultimate goal.
 
I never thought when I started this journey it would feel this way. I guess if I had known I might have decided not to take it.
 
For the first time tonight, though, I don't want to smoke.
 
I don't want a cigarette.
 
I just want to breathe and rest, to dream, to float.
 
 
 

"We do care that you had a cheese sandwich for lunch" --Mena Trott

In honor of Mena's quotable quote, I continue with my rather detailed, if not tiresome, daily meanderings through smokelessness.

When last you saw your heroine, she was so depressed she stayed in bed all day, with brief bouts of consciousness to drop off and pick up her child from gymnastics, and tend to her here and there, and then return to bed to watch A Goofy Movie with her.

Today was a bit better. I made it to the grocery store. For some, a menial task. For me, Filmore Hall. I even remembered to get dog food, which considering we were out, made both me and the dogs happy.

I had the extra energy I needed to deposit a check (from back in the days when I actually HAD work to do--Hello August I feel ya comin' you dry-as-a-bone mofo). The teller was approximately 10 steps from where I checked out at the grocery store--a real triumph!

I have therapy tonight, so I get to leave the house again in a half hour.

This is what it's like for me without my best worst friend. I'm not as down today. We watched a DVD this afternoon which was highly maudlin, and I felt better.

argh.

44 posts til my 2,000th post, and a lifetime to survive until I smoke.

Another milestone approaching. Just 44 posts until I hit 2,000 here. That's sort of cool. And then again, as with every milestone I approach these days, the fundamental question of "why?" tosses itself into the mix.
 
Today, well, just now actually, as I was back in bed, my new favorite spot, watching the Goofy Movie with Jenna, I was trying to tie this feeling of sadness/depression/??? back to something, to figure out why I've been so down even in the face of what is the triumph of quitting smoking.
 
I think it's fear. All the years of stuffing down fear and anger with smoke--maybe I'm feeling so disconnected and bored because I'm afraid of those feelings coming up? Maybe the detachment I'm feeling from life right now--the who can stand this place without a lit cigarette feeling--is a buffer because I'm too afraid to feel what living is like when I'm really there. Afraid of what those moments hold when I'm present without 5 minute breaks every 20.
 
How do I behave with no way out? How do I sit without thinking about getting up? How do I talk without the away time to process? How do I love without an automatic afterward? How do I drive a half hour without disappearing for 10 minutes of it?
 
I'm afraid of this life that you all live without escape.
 
I like my house. I have distractions in here. But the world is too bright. I don't know where you go when it gets too bright or too dark. Where's your smoking area? Even if you don't smoke, you must have one. Is it a martini? A secret something? What?
 
Tonight I'm scared that I can't do this forever, and scared that I have to. I don't like myself--my personality--the last couple of weeks. I hope the experts are wrong and that I shouldn't be feeling more normal by two weeks post-smoking simply because the nicotine is gone.
 
Because if this is my normal, well then it sucks, and badly.
 
Anyway, I have a Goofy Movie to go watch. Thank goodness, the day is nearly over.
 

I want a new design!!

Halley's got a good looking new template goin' on.
 
The font, colors, and design are so clean and easy to read.
 
I come back to this blog after visiting Halley's and look at my own house and feel like I'm looking, well, at my own house. Shit.
 
And the strange thing is, with this new blogger interface enhancement circus, I'm changing typefaces and leading and I don't even know I'm doing it, and that's just no good. I need things to be a LITTLE bit hard. Make em too easy and I'll screw them up for sure.
 
I am still not smoking. I was very depressed today. Jenna went to gymnastics camp and I stayed in bed most of the day. Why? I kept not wanting to, but it felt so good, and bad, at the same time to hang on the edge of consciousness where I no longer noticed how distressingly unappealing life is. Or seems to be, because of course I want to live or I wouldn't be doing this in the first place!!! I just don't want to feel "like this."
 
There is an ambivilance that comes with not smoking, as if the meaning has been sucked out of my participation in life. How stupid. I know it's stupid--ironic anyhow--that in getting healthier I feel less like doing anything healthy.
 
Is this hormones? Is this no cigarettes?
 
Is this what happens when you take away somebody's death wish?
 
I don't know.
 
My two huge activities today consisted of taking Jenna to camp and picking her up.
 
I could have full well gone swimming afterward. I could have gone grocery shopping. Goodness knows we need food in the house. I could have gone to see my sister.
 
I came home. I feel comfortable not smoking in my home because I've not smoked in my home for a decade. Home is where I don't notice so much.
 
But out in the world, I really fret. How stupid that sounds. Trading nicotine addiction for agoraphobia.
 
I think that this week I'm going to have to pick a day where I MAKE myself do something outside the scope of work (which is at home on my laptop), outside the scope of household chores (again, happy happy home home), and outside of the bedroom (which is where I like to nap and nap and nap). I'm going to have to push myself out into the world and find some tiny speck of joy in participating in life sans stimulants.
 
Perhaps I should take up drinking? I've been thinking about it, and that's really not good.
 
Keeping you posted.
 
-me

Bewildered.

I am tired. Dog tired. And every time I feel that tired sinking feeling I reach for something that's not there anymore, and I get very irritable. Angry even.
 
All the stuff I've read says that at two weeks (where I am now), the physical addiction/cravings for nicotine are gone. The dependence on nicotine as a stimulant is over, the literature says.
 
Bullshit I say.
 
When I want one, I want it as badly today as I did day one. The number of times per day that wanting hits has eased up, but the wanting hits just as hard, with the same gusto as always.
 
Today we went outside and cleaned my van from pedal to bumper. I used to smoke in my car on the rare occasion when I was alone in it. This was the first cleaning since my de-nicotining self-improvement project. I keep my car as near an actual pig pen as I can on an average day. And a smoker's pig pen is pretty bad. It took two hours of sweat just to get the inside passable.
 
I took 8 packs of "pegs" (what george and I call the half-cigarette oddities that result from my habit of breaking an American Spirit non-filter in half, then smoking one half at a time in my filter) from my glove compartment and hurled them into the garage. I didn't care where they landed as long as they flew far away from my lips, which REALLY wanted a reward for wading through the mess that was my mini-van.
 
I hate that van. I hated it even more today because I had to clean it without the dissociative second-hand activity of smoking.
 
We took Jenna to chuck-e-cheese this evening. My former highlight of Chuck-e-Cheese used to be stepping outside for a smoke. This time I couldn't. WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE THAT CAN DO CHUCK-E-CHEESE WITHOUT SMOKING?! Screaming rides, shrieking kids, bad pizza, and epileptic-friendly blinking lights.
 
"I don't want to be a freak like you people who can stand that place without a cigarette," I said mostly to myself as I stood at the ticket counter with Jenna waiting for her to decide whether to get a notepad and a ruler, a goodie bag, or a tube of body glitter with her 256 tickets.
 
But I managed.
 
And it made me so tired. I get so tired. I teeter between exhaustion and insane rage. The all-or-nothingness that was once reserved for my smoking activities has seeped into my non-smoking self.
 
I know there must joy in regular people's daily activities. I know somewhere there is a "fun time" waiting for me minus the detachment that comes from smoking, that a boredom free life without constant multi-tasking exists somewhere. And I'm sure the experts are correct, that what I'm experiencing now is more the havoc of the emotional addiction, not the physical.
 
But it feels pretty physical to me when I want to put my fist through a wall.
 

Fair and Balanced Tom

We're all Fair and Balanced. Well, compared to Fox News. 
 
Go read Tom and do as he says.
 
Tom: A new commonplaces, fair and balanced watchdog of the zou gou.

If only Bush could spell...

Oh shit!
We missed by one letter!

Happy Anniversary

My last cig was on july 3, so I count July 4 (independence day--pretty clever, eh?) as my no-smoking anniversary, which means it's two weeks today officially.
 
I didn't quit on independence day on purpose. The doc made me do it.
 
Still, feels pretty good except when it feels really bad.
 
Thank you all for your encouragement. Frank Paynter says I'm over the worst of it now. I remember how easy it was to "have just one" after quitting for 4 years, so I'm not sure I'll ever be over the worst of it. It's amazing the stories an addict tells themselves.
 
I once explained the thinking process in quitting to a friend who never smoked. It is true addict thinking that takes over the want-to-be quitter. Logic doesn't really work. In those moments when the craving hits, every single valid, rational, well-rehearsed reason for quitting you've given yourself---even if you just recited them two minutes prior---vanish. Gone. Into thin air. You remember nothing, nada, can't think of a single reason in the world why having a cigarette at that given moment would be a bad idea. It's like amnesia. Until you're in the middle of an inhale, you really have no conscience because you're really not conscious.
 
As soon as the wave passes, all those reasons come back into your mind--OH RIGHT! I can't smoke, OH I'm so glad I didn't light one up, oh MAN I would have blown two weeks straight, OH JEEEZE and there's Jenna, and OH CRAP THAT'S RIGHT, I'm on that medicine where I could die of I keep it up, and RIGHT I remember now!!! Duh! How did I forget all that?!?!
 
Then the next wave comes, and it's la-la-land can't think of a single reason, can't summon one good reason why having a cigarette would be a bad idea, just can't think--trying to think, but can't--of a reason why I shouldn't enjoy just one..... hmmm... seems like there was some reason I'm not supposed to, but no, nope, can't think of what that might be.
 
I wish I weren't an addict. I had a cousin, Louise, who, for as long as I knew her (decades), had one cigarette each day, just after dinner. Never more. She enjoyed that one cigarette in its oneness in a way I never could.
 
No sooner would I light it than wonder what I'll be up to next. Not Louise though. She'd sit back and relax, smoke her cigarette, make it last longer than mine ever did, and then she was finished. Just like that. On to other things without wondering when she'd have another. Without worrying that she might not have another.
 
What is that gene I'm missing? I don't have the "enough is enough" gene. I have the "if one is good, than 160 must be g-r-e-a-t!" gene.
 
Oh, wait a minute. I just remembered Louise married into the family.
 
Figures.
 

Hell yes, war crimes.

Read Stavros today. And wonder then why so many good and decent people hate this country. Or, don't wonder.

Stewart Was Here.

You know how you can tell?
 
Because every time Flickr comes out with a new feature, your favorite blogs begin to look like they've been hit by the local overpass graffiti artist.
 
That's because Stewart is very smart and geeky and businessy and creative and he doesn't slow down. He leaves ideas scattered behind him in chalk outlines that are no longer just "inside" flickr. They're spreading. Look out.
 
Now you can check out photos on flickr, and with just a click-a-da-mousey, share them with your blog readers, complete with your witty commentary.
 
Stewart's announcing a new partnership over on his blog too.
 
Ah Stewart. What next, you crazy kids?

This is certainly appropriate

remind me to make a thumbnail for my sidebar. Might as well make this template as noisy as possible, violating every typeface and design rule known to man and causing seizures in as many readers as possible. You can't get that just anyplace.

blog No Smoking_LACC Originally uploaded by Duane.

tee hee.

Maybe this should be my template photo.

pho shizzle Originally uploaded by Abu.

No matter what I do, my template ends up looking like the inside of my head.

every single time.

AKMA's Photo

More from Flickr, where I found Pippa's Door, which is just so cool. AKMA says: "Pippa has turned social activist, though her cause is not so well-publicized or globally significant as WMDs or torture. On the other hand, thereâ??s a nascent feminist consciousness at work there, and some remarkable slogan-writing capacity. . . ."

Pippa's Door Originally uploaded by AKMA.

Gary, courtesy of Flickr

Flickr has a great new blog-this-photo feature I didn't know about. Til I found a photo of Gary Turner, and decided I needed to blog it so I have it to look at, and I noticed that Gary is blogging, which is good. Gotta run and read.

Walkabout Originally uploaded by Gary Turner.

Cigs were my friends because they...

Were always there
Listened empathetically
Talked me through every problem
Celebrated with me
Cried with me
Calmed me down
Got me up in the morning
Helped me through traffic
Reminded me to breathe
 
Yes, I know that sounds screwed up. But it's true.
 
They also...
 
Made me smell
Took me away from my kid
Made me cough
 
... uh, anyone?? That doesn't sound so bad.
 

the bonds of blogging

I find it quite adorable that these blog guys go shopping together. (for electronics and gadgets, of course.)
 
;-)

That's when you'll really begin to feel better...

Step 5: Go cold turkey. The majority of experts agree that it's the most effective way to go. So when the chosen day arrives, toss your cigarettes — even the secret stash behind the hamper. If you can get through the first two weeks without a slipup, you've got a good chance of staying smoke-free. According to Linda Hyder Ferry, M.D., M.P.H., cravings during the first three to four days are the most powerful; on days five to 10, the intensity plateaus, and after that, the hunger for nicotine begins to dwindle. That's when you'll begin to feel better. Really.
 
Really?
 
From the P.S. Department:
 
What the hell's an MPH degree? Miles Per Hour? I want a Miles Per Hour degree.
 
Jeneane Sessum, M.P.H.
 
TWO WEEKS SMOKE FREE.
 
who would have thought...

One Hit Wonder Follow-Up Songs

Darren takes his shot at it.
 
Here are mine:
 
((for the 40 and over crowd))
 
Come On, Billy, Be a Hero, Be a Fool with Your Life!
Jessie, No Way I'm Depending on You Son.
Suicide's Really Not So Painless After All.
Oklahoma Wants Me
Weeds Grow Where My Rosemary Goes
Turning Taiwanese
Believe It or Not (I'm Falling Right on My Ass)
Brandi, You're an Idiot (and You'd Make a Lousy Wife)
One Toke Next to the Line (if I could see the line)
Timothy, the secret's out; we ate you
 
 
 
 
 
 

Thank Heaven for Little Rants...

Doc points to this nice rant from Roland over at the Global PR Week blog, which was SORELY in need of a rant.
 
The thought and the work behind the Global PR Week 1.0 blog and the idea of such an endeavor impressed me initially, but much of what I've read over there--'til the rant--has struck me as, well, the typical incredibly unclued speak of Industry Professionals.
 
Industry professionals, I dedicate these previous posts from yours truly to you: 
 
Bye Bye BigPR : "Where once Big PR boasted about best practices and a global network of communications professionals, they don't have that anymore. Instead, we are the ones creating nimble networks among one another, which are growing larger and more valuable. We are nimble enough (most of us working out of our homes) and lean enough to charge much less and deliver much more. A network of one-off specialists, experts in their areas, linked through the power of the Web and personal contacts. Voice to voice, we are changing the face of PR and marketing. You heard it here first."
 
Ketchum Comes Unclued: "Meanwhile, in the ranks at Ketchum, I know of a few bloggers who do not have an AAE, AE, SAE, VP, SVP or Director title. In fact, they work in a capacity where most of the folks with those titles on their business cards wouldn't think to ask these workers' opinions about marketing, business, and the Internet. Yet, I would wager that these individual bloggers are tied into more voices, knowledge, business-related interactions, and personal relationships of value by genuinely participating in this space than the highest ranking, highest billing PR Strategist in that same organization. You see? That is how it's working. And they don't have a clue."
 
 

Atlanta Bloggers

Go See George in

Tambourines to Glory

at the Alliance Theater

from now until the end

of July.

People are basically pains in my ass.

SO, I see the bloogle interface has eaten some new features and shit them out upon my screen with no notice. COOL! I don't know what I'm looking at. Looks like some bastardization of the MS Word toolbar. I guess I'll be playing with colors N shit here to see what it does.
 
This is HTML for complete idiots.
 
THE NET IS GREAT!
the net sux.
 

Blogging is everything.

Blogging is nothing at all.

These two statements are not mutually exclusive.

 
People think that links breed familiarity. They do. But not intimacy. We need to employ at least one other medium/dimension for others to see us for who we are.
 
Oh my, this e-z color-n-size capability is going to add to the noise ratio of blogging, or at least of my brain.
 
Now, 13 days without a fucking cigarette.
 
**************************************
 
Jenna said, "Are you mean again today because of that quit thing you're doing?"
 
"I'm not mean."

"Yah, you are. You totally are mean."
 
"You're not listening. No body listens to me. Then I get called mean for yelling. If people would listen to me in the FIRST PLACE, then we wouldn't be talking about whether or not I'm mean because of that quit thing."
 
"Well, you're still mean."
 
grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

12 days no cigs.

Miss you ciggies. So sorry I had to go. There was no other way.

Taking Requests.

More pig news

Two days ago George was in a wrinkle as he watched the goings on out the kitchen window. The Stupid Boxer from the pig people's yard has been back in our yard a few times since last we addressed the pig topic here on Allied. This makes George crazy. Because Stupid Boxer comes up onto our deck and barks at us, rather mindlessly but meanly, as we look out wondering why the hell Stupid Boxer is doing what it's doing.

Our dogs now completely ignore Stupid Boxer. If you're a dog owner, you can attest to how unusual it is that two dogs -- one who likes to play with other dogs Very Much -- would ignore a visiting dog, especially if the visiting dog is stupid enough to bark at them endlessly.

Anyway, George hates Stupid Boxer and has come to feel a genuine fondness for Pig.

This made for an extra dose of angst the other day when George watched through the window as Stupid Boxer (in her own yard) barked and jumped (as boxers do) endlessly at Pig in the 90 degree heat. Not only that, but the other two black labs (the only two animals I THOUGHT lived behind us) joined Stupid Boxer in what became a Dog Mob scene, a barn yard bullying festival, which continued for a good 15 minutes. Barking, circling Pig, leaping at Pig, more barking.

Poor Pig would turn to the side when Stupid Boxer would leap at him. The thing about boxers is they can jump and jab really quickly and I think the thing about pigs is, once they weigh 600 pounds, they don't move so fast.

Back to George. Trauma issues surfaced as he watched the bullying, no doubt recalling his school years in Upstate New York. He was livid that these neighbors were letting Pig get assaulted. He decided he would kill the Boxer, which would solve the problem.

I urged him not to kill the Boxer because it could elicit attention from The Authorities.

He thought about that.

He decided that the next time Stupid Boxer was in Our Yard barking at Us, then he could simply toss Stupid Boxer back over the fence. Not hurt or kill it. Merely hurl it.

I urged him not to toss the Boxer over the fence because, judging from her temperament, she might bite him. And he has a particularly important role in Tony Award Winning Director Kenny Leon's new musical, playing at the Alliance Theater this month, called Tambourines to Glory, which demands that he NOT be bitten on any existing Arm or Hand--Especially not on Any Fingers, especially since he's on stage for the next two weeks, and on payroll.

He thought about that.

He decided to have some coffee.

I called Animal Control for our county. I wanted to report a Pig Attack. It was Saturday. They were closed. They had a number for the non-emergency Police on the recorded message.

I thought calling the Police might be a bad idea, especially since, when I looked back out, all animals had retreated to their comfort zones: Pig in Dog House, Two Black Labs on Deck, and Stupid Boxer with her head through a hole in the fence, barking at Our Dogs.

A BUSINESS ALERT! ATTENTION PLEASE!

While the Feds fiddle with interest rates and business tries to decide if war is bad or good for business, Phil Libin got his office a new coffe machine.

People--THIS IS WHAT'S IMPORTANT.

Please take the Poll at the end of Phil's post and do your part to bring AMERICAN BUSINESS back to its GLORY DAYS.

Thank you.

The drive is harder than the meeting

Had an all-day meeting today, which I wish were this all-day meeting, but it wasn't that exciting.

I noticed I didn't think about smoking at all during the meeting. I was engaged in learning, conversation, and a kick-ass lunch with one of those great MEETING salads--blue cheese, grilled chicken, pecans, rasins, baby field greens, and vinagerette dressing. Mmmmm.

On the drive there, though, I missed smoking every mile of 30-mile ride (one way).

I was a big car smoker. Atlanta can challenge you that way.

Now I don't smoke.

Now my car doesn't stink so badly. I suppose that's good.

But I almost fell asleep from the boredom of driving without my fix.

I remember when I quit last time, the biggest gap for me to cross was accepting that it was okay -- that it could be tolerable -- for me to do only ONE thing at a time. When you smoke, you are always doing more than one thing at a time. Every time you light up you are smoking AND thinking, walking, breathing, sitting, talking, pacing, driving, writing, drinking, whatever. Usually you are doing several things at once. That's what stimulants do best--let you multi-task and enjoy the rush of it.

Losing the ability to escape the perplexing LENGTH of a single moment is perhaps my biggest loss in giving up cigarettes.

There must be some joy to be found in those seem-to-last-forever-moments -- another stretch of highway, another commercial, another bill collector, another Zoom episode, another press release, another Web site. There must be something people enjoy about being present inside of those tick-tock-ticks of time. For me, it is extra time to be anxious.

I've got a long way to go, friends.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

An all-you-can-eat buffet.



Why does this still look good to me.

I'd be smiling too if I got to smoke that much!

Dag. They're getting serious in Singapore.

Sometimes it's hard not to say, "No Duh?!"

Enjoying what was new about hyperlinked friendships and collaboration, we spent the later part of 2001 contemplating our blog navels. Many of us involved in those discussions still circulate 'round as friends; more of us, probably, have gone.

When I look back, I think that we had a lot of things right. I am also astounded at how little the current day pundits of blogitry reference the good thinking that took place when this medium was in its toddler days.

Here is Tom Matrullo on what blogging might mean to corporations ala Gonzo Marketing back on Gonzo Engaged in 2001.

Today it reads like prophetic thinking (at least better than most current-day conference session abstracts). As usual for Tom, it is also great writing:

One way of looking at "The Value Proposition" – (though Mr. Locke might not put it this way) is: If a corporation understands no value other than its core capital, then it is at war with everything on earth that does not form part of or enhance the core.

As Hernani noted, the book calls for corporations to invest in, to underwrite, enterprises that in no direct or measurable way contribute to the enhancement of its capital. In a sense, instead of the usual ho-hum mode of “invest x to get return y,” the corporation is invited to take a flying leap of faith that its capital, plowed back into the loam of people, ideas, enthusiasms, issues, communities - in short, values other than those of the balance sheet – will turn, twist, explore, resurface, appear rather odd, wither in part, explode, propagate and, much like the nonlinear mode of "the story" that is explicitly a structuring theme of Gonzo Marketing, yield unexpected fruit. This would appear to represent a substantive change in current business practice for most corporate capitalists.

Well said. Perhaps as the blogworld drones on about emerging this-n-that, we could look back on what has been dreamed, thought, said, argued, and include the best of that as we thread our discourse forward. It would only make sense for a medium built upon links to build threads of value backwards as well as forward.

Unfortunately, with search engines geared toward delivering us "current events" the "news of the day," the "latest book reviews" and (my least favorite) "hot topics," the solid thinking and once-upon-a-time wonder of early net writers is not easily referenced.

It's more than unfortunate. It's frustrating.

What? FREE FOOD?

If I'd known they'd be feeding us breakfast, I would have at least tried....

Thanks Jeff. ;-)

Putting Winer to Good Use.

If this guy can quit smoking, so can you.

Next time I want an easier habit to kick

The "oops i smoked" dreams have begun. Those are the dreams I will now have for the next number of years, with me, in all sorts of situations, somehow forgetting that I've quit and lighting up, only to startle awake (later on they don't wake me up--just jiggle my sleep) realizing that it was all only a dream.

The ooops I smoked dreams, oddly, are now intersecting with my other only recurring dream, which is that I get back to Jamaica for vacation but somehow run out of time or forget to ever actually get into the sea. That is also a very disturbing dream. The ooops I smoked dream now joins the ooops I forgot to get into the sea dream to ruin my rest. What's that about?

Without cigarettes so far I feel:

depressed
hopeless
angry
tired
mean
pissed
sad
lost
reclusive
old
did I say lost?
unsure
lathargic
unhappy
confused

I don't remember it taking this long to start to feel some good about quitting in the past.

I wonder about six times a day what I'm doing.

I guess that's better than the 26 times I wondered a few days ago.

ugh.

With apologies to Frank

While Frank Paynter puts his hands over his ears, I will tell you now about the steamroller on my coat of arms.

For most, there would be no pride in relating this story. Nor for me. Not pride. More a matter of fact, a question of genetics, a warning of sorts, more full disclosure, and at least a wee bit entertainment.

I've thought a lot about how to say this--should I tell the story, should I name names, probably not, will I be misunderstood, etc.

I opted for a shortish version.

When George first came to Rochester from California in the late 70s, the local news was buzzing with a murder mystery, a crime so horrific (for the victim at least) it evoked a universal shudder.

The story was that a head of a local construction company, for a reason that remained untold--at least by the media--killed his business partner by running him over with a steamroller.

The victim had a wife and a family. They appeared on the news a couple of times. They appeared, as one would expect, saddened and in shock. There was another look on the wife's face, though. To this day, I'm not sure what it was. But I'm pretty sure it meant something.

George remembers watching the evening news back then to learn the latest on the story. It was the topic of conversation at the clubs he was playing, at the grocery stores. It was a relentless story. It wouldn't die.

Meanwhile, my mother was explaining to me that some kids at school might ask me about Bobby, and whether or not I was related. Of course I was. He was my favorite cousin. He was the kindest of them, a surrogate uncle more than a cousin, the guy who always played football with me at the family gatherings, who always sat patiently with the kids to tell them stories. Blue-eyed, handsome, young, genuinely nice, and the guy who ran over his business partner with a steamroller.

Huh.

He went to prison for the crime, and at the time had cancer. He died of cancer in jail. If I had been older--old enough to take myself--I would have gone to visit him.

I never believed he did it. The story, I believed, was bigger and twisted with more complicated knots than the media could untie. But some things are better left for what they appear to be on the surface.

In addition to a morbid sense of humor, I also have a well-controled raging killer inside me. Perhaps we all do. Do you?

My Bobby has a little lever that turns off just in the nick of time, but can feel what it would be like to discharge. I can feel the discharge ripple through my muscles. It's me in the driver's seat of the steamroller.

When I introduced myself to George in 1984, I saw the double take he did when I said my last name. It wasn't that first day, but I think the next when he asked me if I was related to the guy who...

Oh yes, I said.

He smiled.

Just one of the reasons he asked me to marry him.

###

For more on my steamroller totem, sing along with me:

Got my eye on you while your eye’s on him
Got the hurt planned out as the gear slips in
Got some demolition plans for you, baby….
The steamroller’s rollin’ on in.

The brownish pack on the counter--that was my brand.

wistful but not wanting

missing you.

Deanne Delivers

7/9 on 7/9. (weight/birthdate)

He joined the world this past evening around 7:30, happy, healthy, after a 2 hour labor by a 43-year-old third-time mom. Textbook flawless, and I was there to watch my first ever non-c-section birth.

Three of us lady friends stayed in the birthing room with her (never mind the story about the husband--I'll tell you all in person one day), one of us with no children, one of us with three, and me, the scheduled c-section mom of one sweet daughter.

It amazes me, as complicated as my friend's situation is right now personally, as old of a mom as she is starting over, mostly on her own, that it never really entered her mind that anything would go wrong. It just doesn't happen that way in their family. These things go along fine.

Me? I would have had myself dead on the table six times and the baby born with eight heads if I had been in her situation. There's something to those folks who take life as it comes instead of attempting to envision every anomaly (read: catastrophe) that might possibly occur one in eighty-thousand times.

As I sit here now, back at home, I'm still looking for something more than, something deeper, some unseen concern, some untold shoe on high. And I'm telling myself to cut it the fuck out.

It couldn't have been more simple. We stopped by the doctor around 5 p.m., who said, "Oh dear, you're at 5 cm--get over to the hospital," and we put the kids in the van and drove the two blocks to the hospital, where she got her epidural, then we gabbed for a couple of hours while we watched the magic arches on the monitor go up and down, tuned into CNN for a little bit, until the nurse stopped by and said, "Lemme check you again," followed by, "Okay we're gonna push now." So it was one-two-three pushes and out he came, full of hair and full of life, cheesy and pretty darn mad at all the poking and prodding that ensued.

For me, the overwhelming complexity of what it means to be human is to let things be simple, to perceive as deep what seems so very uncomplicated.

My challenge is to be still of mind and heart long enough to notice.

Some things are taken care of before we even get there.

Sometimes we just walk in, laugh for a while, and kiss a baby hello.

RB Delivers

I commissioned Mr. Boy to create my personal totem, an image similar to those grafikal creations of his we've all come to know and love. Minus the porn.

I wanted my totem to brandish a threatening steamroller at the top (more on the steamroller later). Yes, I paid real money. Wow, what $15 can get you these days! (Note to IRS: We used Monopoly money.)

Mr. Boy accepted the assignment, but on further reflection decided that a Coat of Arms was a better backdrop for my steamroller totem. Leveraging the Coat of Arms from Pope Urban VIII (1623-44), and why not, he rendered me a beauty:



I will be finding a nice spot on my template to display my arms coat.

Now, some may be wondering, why a steamroller?

It's in the genes.

More on that soon...

Get It On.

"The Domino's Pizza of Liberation".

[[i'm not worthy.]]

It's true, really.

Wandered over to Euen's and found this:



purdy much.

I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow their house in.

News like this, from NY, makes me want to blow smoke at them. Cigarettes that put themselves out. Kind of like blogging a conference.

The question is whether the newfangled smokes can make a difference. Even with the special safety paper, a forgotten cigarette may burn for several minutes before going out on its own. And some smokers may try to defeat the law by buying cigarettes outside the state.

Then there's the potential added hazard to smokers, who may take more and deeper drags to make sure that they won't have to light up again. Still, if it's a choice between further endangering the people who smoke by choice or the potential victims of fires set by cigarettes, we'd opt for the former.

Yes, and if it's a choice between a live pig and barbeque ribs, I'm eating the pig.

Idiots.

Second Hand Ralph

You should be able to smoke where you drink.

Neither is illegal and they're pastimes traditionally enjoyed in tandem.

Ban drinking because of second-hand vomit then!

It's only right.

(Don't worry my smoker friends. I won't betray you.)

Is it possible to gain 600 pounds in a day?

Take female hormones and add them in on top of quitting smoking, and I'm pretty sure you've got the recipe for triple digit weight gain.

I walked back and forth inside the olympic size pool today. Thought about things other than cigarettes. For at least 33 seconds. I jogged a few laps in the water, even swam some. Yesterday I shopped at Whole Foods so I wouldn't buy junk.

None of this has mattered.

I'm switching to wood.

If that doesn't work, it's Oxycodone for the stomach upset side effect. Not to mention the slight high I'll get.

Clean & sober & toothy

Still not smoking. Not a puff. Oh. How. I. Want. One. Now. I. Don't. Remember. Quitting. Being. This. Hard. Don't. Wait. Until. You're. Over. 40. to. Quit. It. Sux. Real. Real. Bad.

I want to chew things. Not like gum or candy. I want to chew leather sofas, cedar shingles, and baby grand pianos. Right now I'm looking at my piano, and, quite literally, thinking how good the splinters would feel in my gums if I gnawed on it. Once I get past the finish, I imagine a sweet, slightly acrid taste. And soft wood pulp giving way...

Someone ship me a nylabone, quick.

Instead of ruining a family heirloom, I have made other plans. I'm chomping on those fat-free pretzel things that are the size of a bear's paw. I'm quite sure I've loosened three fillings, but I'm actually looking forward to the root canal. Mmmmmm. Saweeet. Only two nerves? Oh, I was hoping for four.

Anyway those pretzels apparently have no fat, no calories, no nothing except the cardboard from the box they come in, which is what they taste like.

But I don't mind the taste because, you see, they move every part of my oral network when I chew them. They absorb all of little parts of me missing my ciggy friends. I wish I could think of something even harder to chew on--like maybe steel.

What is this?

What the fuck is this feeling? I feel like an animal in a steel-jaw leghold trap ready to amputate myself free.

Chew or be chewed.

Well. That's what it's like to be me just now.

And there's a pig just over the backyard fence.....

Oh, you poor poor fellas.

The Big Boy Bloggers' Club laments the pressures of actually having, um, readers.

Whoa. It's tough out there, ain't it Instadoughnut?

Related news on doughnuts.

That Old Black Magic

Cigarettes. I've been thinking about them all day. Because I quit sucessfully a couple of times before (is it successful if you go back at all in your lifetime? Maybe not), the patterened thinking of my addicted mind is familiar to me.

I love cigarettes. I love them. If I had one here in my hand, I would lick it with love. I would sniff and sniff and lick and lick and slobber all over it. Then I'd take another one out and smoke it. I'd inhale deep and hold. Hold my love, my first love at 12, my family, my childhood best friend. Come back to me. I could rely on you. Didn't matter when, who, why--you were there. Always. A block away on a bad day.

That is why I love my friends, cigarettes. That is why at this moment I see no reason, not one single reason, why I should not have one. And then the darkness. You can't. No, you can't have one. Doctor's orders. And Jenna. Remember? Remember? What's wrong with you. You would have had one RIGHT THEN if it were sitting in front of you. Why can't you remember why? Where does it go? How does making sense come to make no sense and not making sense become sensible?

I can't think too good these days. At Group tonight I rambled. The sound of my own voice scared me. It had no idea which way to go without the reliable next step--go out and smoke.

I hate cigarettes. If they loved me like I loved them, those pieces of shit American Spirits, they'd let me go, let me breathe, let me live.

Oh shit. It's not like that, my papered pets. It's not you. It's me. You're sweet and wonderful and make me feel so alive. You taste like candy.

Except that I really hate you, you fucking coffin nails.

LET ME GO!

[[still clean, -j.]]

Day 5, sans cigarettes

getting pissed. it's working.

I've quit before. Once for four years. Always cold turkey. Because I like the way it hurts. It creates a memory that keeps me quit--at least for some years.

Have to. Have to. Don't want to, but do want to, but HAVE to. Can't wait for that feeling good thing when I don't have to remember to bring them with me. Not there yet. Still wanting. BAD.

grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Winer Watch

Dave continues to demonstrate he's wacked (is that better? I don't much care) with recent posts on scripting attempting to pick at his enemas, I mean enemies, while glorifying himself.

It is masterful work in projection from one who calls posses to dig up dirt on the women who dared to say "WTF, No You Can't", has stated that certain women are out in blogland fucking their way around weblogs.com, and has vowed to make sure those who have something to lose DO lose.

Today we see a kinder and gentler Dave, the new self-appointed Dr. Phil of blogland, wagging his finger at those who have in some way -- he's really going back a long ways now -- offended him. These people are HONEST about their world, not afraid, and have nothing to lose here by telling the truth. Dave can't get to those kind of people online because they have nothing to lose, and that drives him crazy.

Projection unmasked:

The Golden Rule comes before The Cluetrain Manifesto. If you aren't trying to treat people as you would like to be treated, you can't possibly do good, imho. You guys have taken a big detour, I think you've lost your way. When I first read the Cluetrain I was cheering, it was exciting. Now it's degraded and sick. Time for an intervention. Wake up guys, people matter. I still believe you're better than this. Much.

Yes, dave, what you said.

The close of day 3 sans cigarettes

Want to. Gotta. Can't. Must. Won't. Mmmmmmm. No. tap. walk. breathe. want. no. don't. won't. don't want. doctor. can't. good. hope. dark. want. have to. door. outside. no. upstairs. downstairs. tv. no tv. work. no work. sniffffff. cough. tap. have to. what? why not? Just one. Not one. who cares? makes good sense. sniffff. sigh. buses pollute. suck. walk. sleep. panic. sleep. snifff. breathe. hack. miss. cry. gone. gone? why not? no don't. Just one? Not one. One more. No more. tap. walk. breathe. sigh. why not? no can't. just one? not one. work. sleep. wake. cramp.

fuck.

Good reading, good writing.

I dug this post over at blogsisters from Tild's blog, where I also found 21 reasons why the average republican seems confused, at which I giggled long and often.

good reading + good writing = funw/blogs

Let sleeping pigs lie

the pig slept in the dog house for so long that I thought he must be dead.

today he moved. took himself out for a walk around the muck.

It didn't rain all day today. We had some sun. We were all quite frightened. I got sunburned.

The answer is: When pigs fly.

I wonder when the neighbor's going to start on that fence...

Maxims

Pigs sleep a lot.

Babies don't come when you want them to.

Coveting Ham

I've been watching the pig. It's been a week or so now. Today I decided that he's kind of cute. All joking aside, he seems to have adapted to life in suburbia better than I have. Sometimes when I stare out the kitchen window, I switch places with him. I play mind games. I'm in the dirt pushing around lettuce leaves and he's in my messy kitchen, and neither of us seem to notice the difference.

The thing is, I guess, pigs adapt.

He has no sense that he doesn't belong a mile off I-75 near a strip mall and an elementary school playground. What does he care? He's got dirt and food and can snap his curly tail (I've seen him) when the flies bother him. He could be in Oklahoma. He could be in Buckhead. He doesn't give a shit. Because he's a pig.

I like the pig now. I like looking out my window and seeing a pig where he shouldn't be, not caring one way or the other where he is.

He's happy for the dirt and the lettuce and the long days of rain that have made his mud hole that much more enjoyable.

You go, pig.

don't know nothin' bout birthing that baby...

I'm supposed to help my friend have a baby in about 12 hours.

Isn't that something?

I don't know what will happen.

I had a baby. I had a c-section. It's not the same.

Don't know nothin' 'bout no labor.

Today I'll know more.

Happy labor day.

In the dog house

The Pig has a dog house now.

I saw the big pig in the dog house today.
I saw his big pig head and big pig legs sticking out.
His big pig snout was resting on his big pig feet,
And he was having a big pig nap.

I wonder what happened to the dog.