Tsunami Help

The SAET weblog is astounding in form and function - the information provided there on the relief efforts in South-East Asia is so very valuable. Visit and donate via one of the Links.

Thanks to Constantin -- who also has a great list of related links -- for pointing it out to me.

Meanwhile, Benjamin is investigating the effectiveness/efficiency of various charities here.

Thanks to boing boing for that link.

You can also one-click donate to the American Red Cross on Amazon's homepage.

Thanks to C-Lo for the link.

Women's Weblog of the Year

Well, okay, maybe it's not exactly like that, but still, we over at blog sisters are feeling pretty good about Time Magazine's Person of the Year issue giving blog sisters the linky love for women's blogging.

Our blogroll is extensive, and even more than the passers-by who read the writing on the site, I am glad they'll have access to so many women's blogs off of our blogroll.

In all of the years blog sisters has been humming along, we've never been recognized--not even nominated--in any of the "same-old-crowd" weblog award extravaganzas. So good. Time's nod is recognition enough.

Most Bloggers Are Women

Men may have taken the lead in the early (read: geeky) days of blogging, but that's not the case now. According to a survey of more than 4 million blogs by Perseus Development, 56% were created by women. More bad news for the boys: men are more likely than women to abandon their blog once it's created. Call blogging a 21st century room of one's own.
GO TO: blogsisters.blogspot.com

In other blog sisters' news, The Crone has stepped down from her job as President and Registrar of blog sisters. Elaine is finding there isn't enough time in the day to keep up, a sentiment I can certainly relate to. We all say thanks for keeping us organized over the years. I know Elaine will still write over on blog sisters when she gets a chance.

In the mean time, she's forwarded me about 15 emails of women wanting to join--which I will get to in time.

An announcement is forthcoming on Elaines replacement. I know you're on pins and needles.

Good.

Wash Your Hands!

I hate to post, since I'm enjoying the google adsense Pig-related advertisements so much. I never knew that one could purchase a 400-pig-per-hour slaughterhouse setup so easily. With a click of the mouse, you too could be covered in pig intestines.

Vegetarianism beckons.

Another reason I didn't post yesterday -- did I the day before? -- it's all a blur -- is that we have ALL had the stomach flu, which began with me, I think on Friday, but it might have been Thursday, what's today? at 2 in the morning with the dreaded throw-ups, followed by the other end, a relentless combo that lasted for 12 hours, at which time fever, dehydration, and delirium took over, until 24 hours had elapsed and I was speaking in tongues.

That was nice.

I made it through and by sometime over the weekend--was it late Saturday night? felt pretty good, or maybe it was Sunday, no it had to be Saturday--Jenna began her 16 hour throw-up extravaganza, the likes of which I hadn't seen before--we counted 23 times, and that was with a phenegren suppository (go google adsense!) and that took us into this morning, at which time I heard George making the now-familiar groaning sounds.

He is currently burning up with fever.

So, the moral of the story is, WASH YOUR HANDS!

Happy Holidays...

--The Mistress of Puke

Why a Pig is Not An Ass

Requests--of course we take requests. And so, it's time for a pig update.

I thought of you, dear pig enthusiasts, when I saw Pig out back today frolicking in the leaves. In case you wonder, pigs, or at least this pig, love to run and kick up leaves.

It's funny--today was about 40 degrees--the nights have been very cold. In the 20s. And I've been wondering about Pig. I wondered how pigs handled cold weather. What special provisions they need. Really, I have no idea. But I can tell you the techniques of our pig-owning neighbors.

It appears that the first technique, which I observed as the leaves gave way to an unobscured view of the pig owners' yard, that they have constructed a pen for Pig.

A pig pen, I guess.

Now, the thing is, we've been after them to fix the stockade fence that separates our backyards for a decade now. They claim they don't have the money for that, but they obviously had the money to install a new, ten-foot-tall, 12x12 chain-link pig pen in their back yard. I was unaware pigs could climb. So why 10 feet? I don't know.

It is perhaps the ugliest feature within their very ugly yard.

Anyway, a tip for all of you who may one day own a pig in the winter, the pork-savvy neighbors have now padded the entire square pig pen with hanging blankets. First one appeared. Then another. Then a few days later, the pig pen became a tapestry of thick, hanging, dirty blankets.

I finally figured out it was to protect Pig from the cold. Pigs don't have much hair. So I guess hanging blankets ten feet in the air makes sense.

If you're an idiot.

Anyway, the lady neighbor let Pig out from his pen yesterday to romp in the yard. She stood on the deck. George was at the window in our kitchen watching the touching scene. "He's running right over to her and nuzzling her leg!" he told me. George admires pig. But just about every other day he says, "It's time to call on them. It's just not right."

Problem is, Pig is really the best pet in the neighborhood. Pet? Hell, he's the best neighbor, period. (Except in August when it smells like a zoo at our house.) The majority of the time he's great. He doesn't bark. He doesn't climb on the fence. He doesn't mall children. All he does is push the ground around with his snout. He seems happy. I envy Pig.

Pig isn't an ass--his owners are.

These stubborn, hot-tub-and-pig-pen installing, nasty-mouthed neighbors refuse to replace their now-half-fallen back fence. If they'd just do their neighborly duty, so that animals and at least some of their odors would stay in their yard, we wouldn't mind Pig a lick.

Last week I was out on our back deck when I saw the husband and wife back there fashioning more junk between the holes and missing planks that speckle what's left of the fence. A table leg here, a dining room chair bottom there.

You know you're in redneck territory when...

I said, "HI THERE!" They tried to ignore me. "When are you planning to fix the fence?" I asked.

"When we get the money," said Mz. Personality.

"Well, with the pig and all, it seems like the right time to find the money to fix the fence."

Nothing.

"We've been here ten years now, and the fence hasn't been fixed," I continued.

"We've been here 23 years!" said Mr. Insurance Salesman, proud of his subdivision longevity for some reason.

"Well, 23 years seems like plenty of time to fix a fence then, huh?"

After that, they ignored me. Stupid Boxer had come home for a visit, and I guess they had other things on their very small minds. Like watching the dumb dog bark and leap at the pig pen for the next three hours.

Yep. If I could have it my way, I'd let pig stay and call the County Code Office on his owners.

Personal Weblogging Meets the Real World

In the early days of weblogging, we were all personal bloggers. It was only with the second wave of bloggers, those who chose to construct their writing around growing religious extremism and a bright and shiny new war, that personal weblogging took a back seat to punditry and proselytizing in political and war blogging, closely followed by their friends, the business bloggers.

I respect finely-tuned weblogs. I just don't enjoy reading them. Because something is invariably missing. And that would be the blogger himself or herself.

Because we were fewer in numbers back in 2001, bloggers were, by their very nature, personal. As we hyperlinked across what was a more intimate territory, we came to know and care about those with whom we jammed. That was then, before blogging grew up and became famous.

This, of course, is now.

Now I struggle to remain personal here. With a growing business--and even growing interest from clients in weblogging--I should be writing about, well, business. Marketing stuff, PR stuff. Recent developments. Caveats. Trends. You know, important stuff.

But I don't. And when I do, I don't sustain it for long. And that's because my business is not all that I am.

I'm also a mom. An ex-smoker. A recent griever of a dead pet. A Sicilian. A sister. A child who lost her dad when she was only six. A surgery survivor. A horse lover. A woman who thinks about death three times a day. A finger picker. An occasional Xanax needer. Someone who can keep better time than most drummers. A partner of nearly 20 years to my husband. A liberal. A mixed-marriage contender. A reader. A writer. A 42-year-old with quickly graying hair. A woman who has lost a relationship with her mother and has found herself. Someone who doesn't cry often enough. Someone who wishes she laughed more.

That is what interests me about sustained writing online. It is when we reveal, little by little, all of the parts and pieces, some jagged some smooth, some ghoulish some gorgeous, of who we are. And even better, when we find some of those missing pieces through the act of blogging.

It happens.

It's beautiful.

It keeps me here.

I'm not interested in one-dimensional weblogs that feature punditry, business, or politics, because webloggers have begun to hide behind their ideals. They post HTML and leave their heart locked in chains 5 inches thick. They want certainty, not the openness of "what if...?" They want neatly plowed fields, not crop circles. They want a sure thing, not a "we'll see." And they are very big on what they see as decorum and integrity. This is how they hide. This is urging weblogging toward the ho-hum, business-as-usual, mainstream.

That's fine for them. But it's not for me.

So, hello clients or future clients who've wandered in. I know from my site meter and Google that you've been here. I really ought to adjust my prose accordingly. But I'm more happy for you to know me.

And now you know me a little bit better.

Stick around here, and you'll know me way too well.

;-)

2005 School Calendar--Why Bother?

I don't know if this is a pattern in the rest of the U.S., but here in Cobb County, we just received the controversial 2005 school year calendar, and, oh.my.god--could these kids actually GO to school for a full month?

The answer is no. Essentially, they get a week off every month. You can color it a teacher workday, a student holiday, an early release day, a conference day, or any old Monday, and the point is, school's closed.

What is up? I don't EVER remember being off school. They threatened us all year long, and held the dreaded summer school over our head, as if making it almost into July wasn't enough.

Let me unveil to you our days off next year, and you better believe I'm including early release day since I have to be in the parking lot at 12 noon, which is like, why bother at all? I'm not including weekends. We get those off too though.

August: Student Holiday/Teacher Workday 3, 4, 5, 8, 9. Why they mark those, I don't know. I won't count them.
First official day: 10th
September: 5, 21
October: 5, 14, 17, 18, 19 20, 21
November: 2, 8, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25
December: 23, 26, 27, 28, 29, 39
Jaunuary: 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 9, 16, 25
February: 17, 20
March: 1, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24
April: 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
May: 27 through to next August.

That's 43 school days off or out early.

That's a month and a half off.

Are we the only state that's lost its mind?

thank you for your consideration in this matter.

Approaching Half a Year

January 4th, it will be six months since I quit the smokey-nasty.

How in the heck did that happen? Six months have nearly flown by. Except for those moments when I've been pulling my hair out at the roots. Although, that activity also makes time pass invisibly. Try it sometime. No long-term health risks, unless you count what could happen at the asylum.

Just yesterday, I was posting in my head about how much I miss the act, how I don't know who I am without it, how in my soul, and in my mind's eye, I will always be a smoker. Just one who's not smoking.

How much a part of me that ritual was. How very much a piece of myself I had to let go with it. This relationship I'd had since I was only 12. How desperately sometimes I want her back. I want her, on the chair on the deck in the sun approaching the moment, flick, light, breathe. Centered. The noise stops. I'm with myself.

I know I know I know I know that's twisted. I know I know I know I know all the good stuff about "not" about being a "non" about living and life and health. I realize I have not been sick since July. I am, and believe me on this one, so very thankful. I realize all of this. And none of it changes the longing.

It's that piece of me I thought I knew. It WAS me for crying out loud. It was the only way I knew how to just "be".

So, a half year later, I'm still trying to figure out how to be. There are rare moments when I think how wonderful it is not to have to extract myself from a moment to go partake. Especially with Jenna. I am not always extracting myself from activities, from talks, from nothing at all even, not marking time with a flame.

I'm also more tired. I relax way too easy. And so I sleep. A lot more.

Oh, and there's the 600 pounds I've gained. Yah, there's that.

Anyway, this is not meant to dissuade anyone from doing what must be done. It is not even meant to throw me off the track (believe it or not). It's not a rationalization. It's not meant to bemoan that place we all come to where we must make changes if we want to keep living.

Really, what I'm describing here isn't any kind of big deal at all.

And at the same time, it has turned me inside out.


if not her,
then who am I?

I'm hungry.

Pontillo's Pizza in Batavia, NY. The BEST Pizza in Western New York.

Ohhhh. Please. Someone bring me a piping hot pie with thick stringy mozzarella that pulls for a yard and a half!!!



I can smell it.

Who Took My Shit (and other mysteries of December)

Who Took My Shit is a story about a middle-aged white woman living in a quiet treed suburban subdivision in northwest Georgia. When we meet our main character, she is wandering through her split-level contemporary home aimlessly, from bedroom to bedroom, then downstairs, then up. She looks confused. More than that, she looks panicked.

The problem, it seems, is that her shit has gone missing.

What shit you ask?

The second good book in two months and a bottle of Biaxin, that's what!

You see, two months ago I was in the middle of a real hair-puller (that's like a page-turner for women) by Jeffrey Deaver, and I was on THE SECOND FROM THE LAST CHAPTER, do you understand me? That's where Deaver always inserts the final plot twist you weren't expecting even when you knew you should be expecting it, and he has this way of zigging when you zagged, and all of a sudden you're like Whoa--there he goes! And of course Lincoln Rhyme knew it all the time and there he comes with his criminologist knowledge and his bad self. HELL that Deaver can spin a yarn.

Anyway, I'm on THAT chapter, and the book disappears. I mean DIS-APPEARS. I mean where the hell did my book go? The same book I've had by my bedside for two weeks? I looked everywhere. I looked under the bed, on top of the bed, over the bed, behind the headboard, under tissues, inside the Kleenex box; I checked the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room, bodily orifices. Everywhere. And found nothing.

So I did the unthinkable. I went out and bought a second copy so I could finish it. That's just wrong.

So imagine my terror last night as I searched for my latest hair puller--The Stone Monkey--right where I had left it, on the night stand, and WTF IT IS GONE! It must have fallen. Nope. I must have taken it with me in the car. Nope. Maybe I left it next to the tub. Nope.

In case I haven't mentioned it, crime novels are my new cigarettes. That's right. I'm five months post-smoking, and instead of lighting up and getting sick, I dig into the twisted sickness of criminology and murder. Really, it's all somehow related.

But the point is: I need my books.

Jenna. It HAS to be Jenna. Wanting attention. That's it.

"Jenna, look, I need to ask you something and I want you to tell me TRUE, okay?" She sees I'm visibly shaking now, my God the piglets are running from The Ghost right now, and they just got made by the guy who rented them the apartment, so SHIT WHERE IS MY BOOK?! QUICK BEFORE THEY ALL DIE!

"No mom. I promise. Which one was it?" She spends the next 20 minutes looking for it with me, showing me any number of paperbacks that are NOT it. Finally, I believe her. Just barely. There was that little incident when she was 3 of taking my new box of checks from the bank and hiding it under her bed. But that was then. Right?

Then tonight, it's the bottle of Biaxin. It was on the dresser. It's gone. Same routine. I've checked cupboards and drawers. WHERE IS IT? We don't have a cat. I don't think we have a rat.

Okay maybe we have a rat--but one that reads and takes drugs? How likely is that?

The whole drama has become a household joke between the two of them and me... "Yah, just like I took the blue and white book, honey--ahahahahhhaaaa! Yah, where's the book, mommy? ha ha ha ha!"

Sure, everyone's laughing. Except me.

Were the heck is my shit and who took it?

I want answers!

I'm calling Alex Cross! That's right, I still have three Patterson books left to read. Ha!

In the mean time, if my Stone Monkey has slipped through the Internet wormhole and landed on your end table, could you please send it back?


Does Jeff know who took my shit???

More about software

Oh dear. You know I need it. You KNOW I do. So how do I get it?

What's the cheapest way to get Photoshop, ya'll. I lost my, um, old version, um that was sort of on my laptop when the laptop crashed. Jeezelouise I just had to buy Adobe Acrobat Big Wig Version That Can Wash The Laundry in order to edit drafts already in layout for one of my clients. That cost like, oh, $400-something. I had to buy Microsoft Office 2003. I've had to buy and buy and buy and now I want a deal!

I have a graphic that just came via spam I'm just ITCHING to play with. It has uncle rageboy written all over it.

Any cheaper alternatives to Photoshop that Windows users love? I sure would like to know.

Got that itch

I want to go somewhere.

I wanna go!!!!

I want a vacation.

Jenna gets out of school next Friday for two weeks.

I WANNA GO FISHING!

The thing is, where? I want it warm, I want a modest cost, I want to fish, I want to swim. Sounds like Florida is the nearest venture to offer all of that. Or is it? I want to see more of the south. I want to see Mississippi. Is there a beach there? Can you fish? Will we be lynched? Oh, how ignorant of me! (right?) I want to get a tan. I'm white. My teeth keep breaking. What's up with that? I don't drink milk. I think I need a calcium supplement. I mean, I'm not losing them. They keep chipping though. Which has nothing to do with a vacation. Unless of course the dentist mentions root canal. In that case, no vacation.

Check out this wonderful sounding vacation in Todos Santos, Mexico. The legendary Hotel California is there, except that the Eagles say their hotel was a metaphor. Anyway, this place sounds fabulous, but rustic.

I don't do rustic all that well.

Did I mention that?

So, please, your best vacation spots in the southeast? For fishing, beach, family-stuff, kids?

And, your favorite calcium suplements'd be a good thing too.

hmmm.

How Time Flies.

Reading through my most beloved Highbeam, and can't believe it's only three years shy of 20 years since Buddy Rich died.

from:
Died. Bernard ("Buddy") Rich. (obituary)



source:
Time, April 13, 1987.


via: HighBeam Research


COPYRIGHT 1987 Time, Inc.

That's impossible to believe. It seems like just yesterday he was staring at George's ass on a gig at Rochester's Red Wing Stadium.

The Stadium's gone too.

Buddy played Rochester often. I had a drummer for a brother, and although they usually tried to find a way to leave me home, I saw Buddy play a few times. That Freak.

Damn.

I'm not sure whether life's too long or too short. One of those though.

Equal Opportunity Disgruntled Software User

I hate Microsoft Excel. Nonetheless, can someone tell me how to do a line return within a cell? Shift+Enter doesn't work, it jumps to another cell, and neither does ctrl+enter, nor of course tab+enter.

All I want is a line wrap within a cell.

Hep?

Ambush Makeover

Who grabbed W. off the street and dressed him like Fidel? Only difference is, W. has his name on his jacket, so's he won't ferget.

Let's Play Name that Dictator!

The Gilmore Boys Take Notes

Doc points to the latest Gilmore Gang , where the boys are celebrating 20 years of Lotus Notes.

Where have I been? All this time I thought using "Celebrating" and "Lotus Notes" together was an oxymoron!

Having been an on (at unfortunate times during my career) and off (blessedly) again Lotus Notes user since 1991, I can say quite passionately that I'm no fan. I always felt that Lotus Notes was the not-quite program of the 90s, missing the mark on usability, openness, and just plain sensible features for normal people.

My most annoying run with Notes was while I was at Ketchum. As part of the IBM team, we and they communicated exclusively via Notes, in that cryptic, screwed up mail address kind of way that Notes demands, as if communicating with a megacorporation wasn't difficult enough. We couldn't receive Notes messages in any other email program. Couldn't send from anything but Notes. Couldn't export Notes messages or documents to, say, a usable application like MSWord, or even Word Perfect. And good luck trying to copy and paste and have the resulting document look good or make sense.

Even better, since I lived among many worlds at that time, I had to regularly communicate via Outlook and my personal email to see what the world beyond IBM was saying. How annoying. Not to mention all the times it hung. I lost more good ideas in Notes than in any other software medium--except Blogger.

I will say that in it's early days, when I used Notes at Kodak, and when I went to Notes Application Developer training (YES! ME!), Notes was an advancement over what the semi-literate technical communicator had access to. At times, I felt Notes was elegant even, making it easy for non-programmers to create and enhance applications and documents like a semi-professional. Giving that ability to a semi-pro is rarely a good thing, however. Especially when it comes to development.

Lotus Notes is sort of good for many things, but not really great for anything. I guess that's my way of saying, so, happy birthday, Notes.

You can dress them up, and sometimes you can even take them out!

We were fortunate to be invited to THE party in Atlanta last weekend and hit the town in our best go-to-town clothes for an evening of amazing food, drinks, talk, people watching--and best of all, some big money raised for a good cause.

We got a baby sitter, told Jenna we were going to a meeting (it's a long story), and took off for The Tenth Anniversary X-MAS PARTY hosted by the Captain Planet Foundation to raise money for several great causes in town and around the world.



Ted was there--we missed him this time. And there were plenty of C-Suite execs on hand. PLUS some of Atlanta's really pretty people--man, we've got a LOT of them. Why do they all seem so young? Maybe because we're so NOT young.



The live auction featured some kill-for-them items, including the one I would have bid on if I had a disposable income--or, well, a sizable income of any kind. Up for bid was Peter Max's talent. Mr. Max would come to your house and paint your portrait, or the portrait of your family, or whatever portrait you wanted portraitized. It went for around $15K. I was ready to pay a thousand. Only one good lotto ticket away.



Darn.

The best part of the music of the evening was that George didn't have to play. At most events, I try to become invisible so I don't have to partake in mostly-meaningless social banter, at which I suck, while he's on stage. It was fun to banter with my husband in public for once. Two or three rum-and-cokes helped.

The bands of the evening featured "Tribute bands," which I now understand is another word for bands that not only play copy tunes, but actually dress/look/act the part of the bands they are, well, tributing. Of the three (Beatles, Stones, and Hendrix), the Hendrix band -- Mirror IMIJ Experience -- was really worth listening to. They had fun playing good music well. What a pleasure.

We ate and drank and laughed at some of the way-out costumes. And I mean way out. Because the theme, after all, was Peace, Love, One World, which, although it reminded me of the print on a bottle of Dr. Bonners soap, was really quite cool and extremely well executed. Everything from the lighting to the peace-sign necklaces bathed us in happy trancy 60s ambiance. Nicceee.



What a blast from the past. I'm glad the event went so well, that real money was raised for worthy causes, and I'm really glad that we got to go!

Photos by Rick Diamond Photography.

You musta put voodoo on me....

It's a Neville kind of day.

Oooo those race mixers.

Rogers Cadenhead had an interesting post I'd missed quoting some fascinating illogic about interracial relationships and their threat to all that is white and good from vdare.com, a white is right unity group.

Breaking down the sexual barriers between the races is a major weapon of cultural destruction because it means the dissolution of the cultural boundaries that define breeding and the family and, ultimately, the transmission and survival of the culture itself.

Okay, That's how Sam Francis sees it.

Me? I see it a little differently:

Breaking down the barriers between humans is a major weapon against cultural isolationism, which encourages inbreeding and family dysfunction, and ultimately, the destruction of the culture itself.

Of course, I have a pretty biased perspective on this. I've been married to a black man for nearly 18 years, and together for nearly 20. So let's get something straight:

That's a long ass time, I don't care what color you are.

The funny thing is, that I actually agreed with what Sam wrote early on in the post. His premise was that the Monday Night Football incident with blond-towel-dropping and the Eagles definitely-not-white Terrell Owens, was constructed by marketing geniuses in part because Sheridan is a dumb, white, blonde, starved-for-sex American “Desperate Housewife,” and Owens is a muscular, black, younger-than-her, obviously-woman-fucking American athlete.

Yes, Sam, we’re on opposite sides, but that pissed me off too.

Now, Sam won’t link directly to anything that actually quotes Colts coach Dungy's on his opinion that the skit was purposely racially titillating, playing on long-standing stereotypes—and for that reason the coach found the opener offensive.

Sam won't quote Dungy because Sam doesn’t like niggers--unless they sit down and let White Identity rule Amerka like God meant before he sent a bunch of folks to drag the slaves over here.

But I like Dungy fine. So I’ll link to an article here, where the coach with the unfortunate name explains several things:

The ad reinforces the stereotype that a black man will do anything to get a blonde piece of ass.

The ad reinforces the stereotype that black athletes are good for two things: running from the po-lice and sex.

The ad reinforces the stereotype that black men think blondes are better in bed than brunettes (oh wait--I made that one up!)

The ad LEVERAGES the black-man-white-woman stereotype to create BUZZ for the purpose of driving BRAND awareness.

I have a distinct distaste for buzz. Brand awareness too. Oh, and racists. That'd be you, Sam.

The tiny little patch of earth where Sam Francis and I stand together is a patch being inhabited more and more frequently in these days of strong polar opinions and extremes. It is a uniting of two distinctly opposite sides to take on the mainstream--in this case, mainstream television, advertising, and BIG BUSINESS (aka ABC, Disney). It is a perverse meeting of two mindsets that disagree on virtually everything else -- but stand on the same soil when it comes to their perceived right or wrongness of a concept that is highly controversial.

Weird? I know.

Sam thinks the Monday Night Football prank represents the unacceptable moral decay of America.

I think the Monday Night Football prank represents the unacceptable greed and cultural ignorance of Big-B-Bidness.

I haven't figured out if this is a win-win, or a lose-lose.

Mostly I had fun playing with photoshop.

Soukous Radio - Live 365

Listen with us.

What is Soukous? See encarta. Or better yet, Wikipedia.

thanks for traveling round the net with me this evening!

Save our sounds...

The American Folklife Center in the Library of Congress and the Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage in the Smithsonian Institution are collaborating on a landmark project to preserve our audio heritage-- irreplaceable recordings of America's music and the voices of her people.

The Save America's Treasures program of the White House Millenium Council has awarded a grant of $750,000 toward this effort, recognizing these recordings as irreplacable American treasures. We have eighteen months to raise $750,000 in matching funds. We hope that everyone, citizens, musicians, and cultural advocates everywhere, will support this crucial effort.

Check out some of the sounds here.

Get your spoons out and play along with The Stanley Brothers.

Other samples here.

Lay down body

Mmmm hmmm. performed by Bertha Smith and Moving Star Hall, of Johns Island, South Carolina.

"I know moon-rise, I know star-rise,Lay dis body down. I walk in de moonlight, I walk in de starlight, To lay dis body down. I 'll walk in de graveyard, I 'll walk through de graveyard, To lay dis body down. 'll lie in de grave and stretch out my arms ; Lay dis body down.I go to de judgment in de evenin' of de day, When I lay dis body down ; And my soul and your soul will meet in de day When I lay dis body down."

For the weary...

Shine On Me


a Negro Spiritual

Shine on Me

Intro (last line of chorus)

Chorus Shine on me. Shine on me.
Let the Light from the lighthouse shine on me.
Shine on me. Shine on me.
Let the Light from the lighthouse shine on me.

Verse 1 I heard the voice of Jesus say,
“Come unto to Me and rest.
Lay down thou weary one lay down
Thy head upon My breast.”

Chorus (ritard at END)

Verse 2 With pitying eyes the Prince of Peace
(optional) Beheld our helpless grief
He saw, and O amazing love!
He came to our relief.

Chorus
(optional)

Oh, You Want to Know

I found out more about tired.com.

To date, he's received more than 32,000 messages. Each one is personal, but most of the people who write in—like the underslept student who started it all—fall into one of a few familiar categories.

There's the overworked parent:

Because I work two jobs and have two kids. My husband is a 13 year old trapped in a thirty year old body. My sister lives with us and doesn't work or take care of herself. My kids are great, but between my other two jobs and this house I'm exhausted. I went to school as a single mom, finished high school with my son, finished college with him. I didn't get married until I graduated college, and I can't find a good paying job without relocating. You can't relocate without a good paying job. It's a vicious circle and it's eating me alive!

The world-weary teen, the site's fastest-growing demographic:

when you're a 16 year old girl who from the looks of things, doesnt have a single pproblem, people think you're strange and maybe even high. I am tired of counselors. tired of hearing about political and economical problems the world has. tired of being expected to put family before friends. SO tired of other females no matter what the age feeling as though every other woman is competition. Tired of my best friends mother jealous of her 16 year old daughter. This, my friend, is only the very tip of the iceberg.

And, of course, the guy who's had a few too many:

I'm sick and tired of all this homophobia shit.
When are we all just going to be people? WHEN?
Also I could get more sleep at night.
I'm drunk.
Bye.

Who the hell's asking?

Are You Tired? Tell Us Why.

freaky.

I love it when I'm right

"It's NOT a manifesto and it's not revolutionary and it's not particularly moving." --jeneane sessum, Aug. 04, on Seth Godin & Kid's "Change This" 'manifestos'.

I hated this idea from the outset because I saw it as much ado about absolutely nothing--and at the same time I knew that the link hounds of blogland would swoop upon the chance to see their names in PDF.

My gripe with this project from day one has had more to do with the HYPERBOLE describing what's being done than with the format the writing is delivered in. I took issue with SethCo dubbing these downloads as "manifestos" (oh. god.) Just look at the sidebar on the site and revel in the marketing-speak. My responses, one by one, are in blue:

ChangeThis is creating a new kind of media.

No you're not. You're putting PDFs on the Web.

A form of media that uses existing tools (like PDFs, blogs and the web)...

No you're not--this is a non-searchable PDF file that we can download from your website. We've had those for a really long time. And the Web is more than "an existing tool."

...to challenge the way ideas are created and spread.

Simply: WTF?

So now, a PDF by Halley inspired a useful rant about the uselessness of PDFs by Doc, to which Seth--Mr. Listen to Your Customers--says, tough titties.

DOC: I'm in a bad mood today about people breaking the Web. One way they do it is by taking writing off the Web and offering it only as a .pdf "download".

Seth: I know they're not in HTML. There are 6 trillion other web pages to choose from if you want that.

The neat thing about the Web is that pundits without substance can't sustain themselves over the long haul. They out themselves with poor thinking and their staunchness in defending it.

Seth, we have the opportunity to move things f-o-r-w-a-r-d here. You might do well to listen to some folks who've been around. Maybe offer more than one o-p-t-i-o-n for your partakers.... Hmmmm. What a concept. Landmark even.

For my part, I believe PDF's have a place on the web. They are handy for forms, for long documents, for samples, even for books. And of course, using them is your choice.

But please don't confuse breaking the web with a groundbreaking idea.

My other thought: Seth, shut up and listen.

On Writing Well

Sometimes a reminder comes when you think you're answering a call from a creditor. Like tonight, for me.

I began my mental countdown-to-hangup: onethousandone, onethousandtwo, onethousandandCLICK, but I never got that far. A familiar voice answered a, "Hello, Jeneane," to my "Hello?"

"Ceil!!"

I had been thinking about Ceil just last week. We hadn't spoken in what, a year? Two? I'd received the yellow postcard announcing her move from Rochester to Florida, but, no surprise to Ceil, I'd lost it a week after it came. It went the way of all my important correspondence--I put it somewhere safe.

The timeliness of Ceil's call was uncanny. I'd been thinking about her because of my new business venture. You see, Ceil taught me everything I know about writing well. She would tell you, no, not true, because she's modest that way.

A professional editor, Ceil began editing me when I was 22 and just starting out in a publishing business geared to the education market. It was Ceil's job to tweak, refine, help define, and bless every piece of writing that left our amateur paws.

In those days, editing was on hard copy, and Ceil used a color scheme along with proofreader marks to indicate the difference between a must-do edit (a typo or grammatical faux-pas) and a suggested edit (poor construction, lame writing). A third color would indicate inconsistencies throughout a document--as in, pick a way and stick with it--I recommend you do it THIS way.

And she was always right.

Over the next several years, a less mechanical form of communication developed between us--as it often does between writers and editors working closely together--a vibe that allows the two to anticipate meaning and intention (on her part) and self-correct according to the editor's keen standards (on my part).

As a writer, a young writer at that time, having the eagle eye of a professional editor--not just for errors, but also for awkwardness and sensibility--was career altering. Really. For years after we stopped working together regularly, I would hear Ceil's voice, see her perfectly-shaped proofer's marks, intuitively mark my own awkward sentences in green, reconfigure them, rethink them, and usually remove them, according to her now-ingrained standards.

In my 30s, what I learned from Ceil became so much a part of my own professional writer's soul, that I stopped hearing her voice, seeing her marks, coloring my phrases. What she taught me became inherent. I carry it with me. It informs what I say even now, even here.

But Ceil is more than a top-notch editor. She is a wise woman, well-traveled through business and life, with an eye as finely tuned to people and intentions as to misdirected prose. I am so glad I know her.

I told Ceil about weblogging today. I've urged her to jump on the party bus with us. Because she has a lot to say. It's her turn to come out from behind the color-coded key and astute corrections and have her say. Exercise her own voice. Maybe even scream some.

And in the mean time, if you're looking for editing help from the best editor you've never met, email me and I'll put you in touch with Ceil.

Thank you, Ceil. For everything.

(p.s., mark this up and send it back to me, kay?) ;-)

Eye Candy

Am I the only one who thinks the C-BLO site rocks? Not just in the usual, "It's Locke's writing--so it's bound to be funny and smart as shit" kind of way, but also in the "it's wrapped up so pretty with a bow because the boy knows how to use graphix JUST RIGHT" kind of way.

CBO. Taking us to new places. Because he can.


Bonus Points: Fun games you can play with the word CBO:

Did you CBO? (as in did you "see Bo?") No, I didn't see him. Does he have any crack?

We Bo for CBO!

Get out from behind that CBO befo it falls on you.

Blogger and Yaccs

It occurred to me today--well, 40 seconds ago actually--that I've been using the same weblogging suite (fancy sounding, eh?) since 2001. Blogger for blogging. YACCS for comments.

As much as I beat on Blogger lately for being so slow, it's amazing really that I'm still here. And even though mcd says in a comment below that he hates my comment facility, I have some loyalty to YACCS because Hossein "Made Commenting Simple" (and free) for those new to Push Button Publishing before anyone else did.

I don't know Hossein, but I could always tell by the weird way YACCS was a subdomain within the Rate Your Music site, that he must like music. A lot.

Another plus, from my perspective. Plus, the guy has kept a low profile and has done nice things for people without jumping up and down about it.

Anyway, since I could actually USE blogger this evening, I thought I'd remind myself that, besides Microsoft Office and Adobe, there aren't too many software products I've liked enough to stick with 365 days a year for 3 or 4 years.

bonus points: What company did Adobe buy to get PageMaker?




Aldus.

What have They done for us lately?

Last night I had so many great posts in my satchel. Blogger beat the crap out of me by losing some and working slow as molasses. Pissed me off and took away my energy. Not good.

I was going to give you an earful about Marqui and why I am glad to see bloggers getting paid and us getting used to it and what the hell has Amazon done for us, we bloggers who've been hawking their wares and loving on them all of these years?

$20. That’s how much I’ve made as an affiliate. Affiliate nothing--they should call us losers. And what about Google's Adsense? A month later, I look at my report and find out I’ve made a buck. A frigging buck? Every pixel we type into the Blogger window adds value to Google. Thanks for understanding how much I care. MOTHERFUCK YOU.

As a reader, you’re going to read the bloggers you always read. If a blogger starts sounding like a snake oil salesman, no one’s going to be left reading except the snakes’ relatives. The beauty of the net is that it’s self-correcting. When the model’s fucked, it’s quickly either righted or outed. In the mean time, nothing wrong with getting some dough.

When I complain about the professionalization of weblogging, I don't figure money into the equation. Online, our currency is different. And the currency that ruins voice here isn't necessarily dollars. It's aligning yourself with the mass media/big business model. It's sucking up. Getting $800 to perform well isn't always whoring. Sometimes, well, whoring is whoring. I think in this space, you can remain biased and hell, untethered to affiliations you may have that pay cash, AND be happy to get paid. That's what I think.

At least Marc's counsel has resulted in Marqui's attempt to pay some real money—-rent or health insurance premium money—and according to what I’ve read, you write what you want as long as you write about their stuff regularly.

Let them up the ante for these other filthy rich friends of ours who could have thrown us a bone years ago.

To the folks at Marqui, I say: please read Gonzo Marketing so you don’t screw this up.

To the bloggers getting paid, I say: good for you.

I said it a lot better last night, but the folks at Blogger must have been off figuring out new ways for me to make a dollar, and I couldn’t get into my blog.

Read also: Shelley

Marek bedtime story

from kombinat!

Iraq and Poland

I grew up in a tradition of pacifism. I grew up in Poland, a country where two world wars stole many bedtime stories away from children who never heard the voices of their fathers. Millions died because reason turned to madness, people turned to ashes and disappeared and were heard from no more. I decided I was never going to be in a business of stealing stories from children to whom they were to be told by their fathers. Perhaps pacifism chose me because as a 10 year old boy I overheard a story an old woman whom I used to visit with my mother told how she survived Nazi concentration camp running away from Treblinka in the dead of winter, a teenage girl sleeping high up in the branches of a tree so the wolves would not attack her.

I grew up in a "NO MORE WAR" tradition that rejected violence as a solution. It is that tradition that adopted me. I chose it to sustain me. It is something that gives me hope. It's always there to breathe life into my daily existence. It is I believe my Polish Nation's shared commitment to living in peace, our social remembrance of a once charted course and our willingness to continue the work. It's a tradition I can not run away from. It is a tradition we can not run away from.

It is in the spirit of this tradition that I ask you my Polish Nation: What the fuck are you doing in IRAQ?

Dear Marek,

They will tell you it is about freedom. That they are there defending freedom. Don't believe them. Freedom was coopted in 2001. It no longer has meaning. They stomped on it. It means something else now. It's New Hampshire on steroids. Live free or die, motherfucker. Free. Born Free, as free as the wind blows, as free as the medical care will be that covers your two bloody stumps with bandages. Born free to follow your heart as it's blown out of your chest. Yah. They'll use that word. A lot.

Don't listen to them. They stole your freedom word.

You keep talking. Use all the other words you can.

Frank Wrote the Book on Why We Blog

Good stuff from the Larry King Live of blogland.

Tom: To continue to hold out hope that something of a different spirit could animate what is, at the moment, a less than inspiring prospect? There’s a very long pan used by Fellini in Satyricon, I think, which moved across a giant apartment complex in ancient Rome, from one home to the next, each living room filled with screaming Romans, a vast columbarial hive of vociferousness whose apex of roaring expressivity was a self-canceling volume of amplitude resolving itself into an indecipherable hum.

Maybe it can be more

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Frank,
I am sorry I can’t talk to you right now. I have two hot babes on my lap and they are making me very busy. I am showing them your blog and they just love it.

Marek J

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Read it. This compendium needs to join wikipedia if it hasn't.