Beneath blogging things move at a different pace, sometimes fast and sometimes painfully slow. It was Tom I think, somewhere, who discussed the ripeness of the space between posts, what we read in and out of that space, what it means and how we connect with one another inside the in between.
I googled his site, but couldn't find the post where he discussed this online/offline white space. Maybe I read his thoughts. Maybe we talked about it on the phone or in an email. Maybe it was another blogger. I don't know. That's the point.
As we become more than co-bloggers, as we nurture friendships through phone, packages, letters, emails, even comments--all this bing-banging around that happens between posts--subtexts then--we are becoming more than. Maybe it's not the blogging. Maybe it's the tween-blogging, the post-blogging.
In developing these online/offline friendships, some who haven't travelled that backroad--which leads to the dumpster behind the blogplaza where we share cigarettes and coffee and tears and laughs--this seems strange, odd, peculiar, even maybe cultish.
I say, you don't know. You're missing the in between.
I've absorbed some flack over the past year over this guy. I heard from more bloggers than I wanted to that I had been taken prisoner by a cult master, couldn't possibly mean what I said as I cheered him on through so many very beautiful and very ugly places, while in the mean time, I wrote about the fluidity of what we're doing here, how no single post defines who we are or what we feel into the future, which is what I find so compelling, the reason I keep on. It's the stringing together that matters. At the same time, he watched me bing-banging through some similar pretty ugly and beautiful places of my own, a story yet unfinished, restless hope keeping me company.
And in 12 months of subtext, I listened to him play the Baby Grand Blues, re-think the parts, the notes, try to figure the best melody for the story, the best cure for the melancholy, how the tune should resolve, or if it should. I added my parts and borrowed changes and riffs from him. This was the time between posts. It wasn't ripe enough to be written then. Now it is. And now he is.
So, here I am, thinking about the richness of what we've carved in offline tablets in between online posts--so many of us. As much a legacy as, more real than, and impossible to have come to without blogging.
March 15, 2003
"A small strip of earth moved..."
Uncommon Tom discusses community and individuals, noting that something important emerges as we gather around our individual moments together. Nice.
March 14, 2003
cluetrain cult cliche and anti-isolationism
Shelley's got some lively discussion on community v individualism going on over at her place. Her posts link to a wealth of other posts which, if I let myself, and I can't, could lead to an entire day of cruising around the neighborhoods talking to folks sitting out on their virtual porch stoops.
As I understand it, Shelley doesn't feel that community is the most important part of what we're doing here. She does not believe that we wouldn't be here as individuals if not for the communities we bounce around in first and foremost. Shelley, tell me if any of that's wrong. What I'm sure of is that Shelley values her individuality first and foremost, and doesn't see herself attached initially at the community level. If anyone out here is an individual, it's Shelley, and that's a bet.
In my mind, the whole debate, however, is a catch 22. I hate those. You could spend many years stroking key after key wondering if you post something great and no one is there to read it, did you really post at all? Is it Individual first? Community first? Are they so tightly interdependent that you can't tell? It's obvious to me that the duality here is what is puzzling to people. Yes one can be both and neither at the same time. Yes we can be all and none at the same time. Actually, that place of duality is where you find "you" and we find "us." Welcome to the net. Welcome to hyperlinks.
That there's a debate at all seems almost ironic. Community gives rise to debate and resolution, no? And if not for individuals there wouldn't be more than one side to any issue, no? So, where do we go with this?
What did bug me about this round of discussion was the light in which Shelley casts "cluetrainers," setting up some pre-defined borders around people who share a passion about a particular book/idea/philosophy. In framing them as drones in some lockstep march to the cluetrain drum, she risks stripping these folks of their individuality, which is what she values so highly in herself.
More on this.
First, and you heard it here first, there is no "cluetrain community." Cluetrain = four voices that converged in one place discussing something fundamentally important, left the place and ideas for others to take and use as they saw fit, and we all moved forward in time. These men, the authors, also continued to live forward. Nothing ended with cluetrain. For many of us, cluetrain was and remains an important stop along the way of our understanding how the net and business can and can't get along.
I don't think the Cluetrain authors themselves represent a single community, any more than any of our individual blogs do. Their voices, their perspectives, their lenses differ:
Doc: Markets are Conversations. Get Clued. World of Ends.
Chris: Bottom up, not top down. Micromarkets. The solution is poetry.
David: Management Doesn't Get It. Small Pieces Loosely Joined. Ends and pieces and linkage.
Rick: _____________________
The voices that gave rise to cluetrain share a common love for the net, understanding that it has and is changing human beings and businesses, and that institutions like government, corporations, etc. can't stop it. Traditional power structures don't wield the same kind of power here. Is that belief alone the basis for community? Yes and no.
Personally, I travel in and out of a lot of communities, many completely unrelated, and I have friends in all of those places. I have war blogger blog friends, peace blogger blog friends, cluetrain blog friends, Harvard blog friends, Holistic blog friends, feminist blog friends, pro-life blog friends. I learn something as I weave my way in and out of all of these communities.
When either your staunch individualism or narrow community participation risks isolationism, then something's wrong.
Other than that, it's all open road folks.
Alright. I'm rambling. Too much to do. I have to run now.
Besides, I forgot to put my copy of Cluetrain in the southern most corner of my garage, like I do at 10:00 every morning, so that I can do a rain dance on pages 4-33 and wait for the mothership.
why she never comes?
As I understand it, Shelley doesn't feel that community is the most important part of what we're doing here. She does not believe that we wouldn't be here as individuals if not for the communities we bounce around in first and foremost. Shelley, tell me if any of that's wrong. What I'm sure of is that Shelley values her individuality first and foremost, and doesn't see herself attached initially at the community level. If anyone out here is an individual, it's Shelley, and that's a bet.
In my mind, the whole debate, however, is a catch 22. I hate those. You could spend many years stroking key after key wondering if you post something great and no one is there to read it, did you really post at all? Is it Individual first? Community first? Are they so tightly interdependent that you can't tell? It's obvious to me that the duality here is what is puzzling to people. Yes one can be both and neither at the same time. Yes we can be all and none at the same time. Actually, that place of duality is where you find "you" and we find "us." Welcome to the net. Welcome to hyperlinks.
That there's a debate at all seems almost ironic. Community gives rise to debate and resolution, no? And if not for individuals there wouldn't be more than one side to any issue, no? So, where do we go with this?
What did bug me about this round of discussion was the light in which Shelley casts "cluetrainers," setting up some pre-defined borders around people who share a passion about a particular book/idea/philosophy. In framing them as drones in some lockstep march to the cluetrain drum, she risks stripping these folks of their individuality, which is what she values so highly in herself.
First, and you heard it here first, there is no "cluetrain community." Cluetrain = four voices that converged in one place discussing something fundamentally important, left the place and ideas for others to take and use as they saw fit, and we all moved forward in time. These men, the authors, also continued to live forward. Nothing ended with cluetrain. For many of us, cluetrain was and remains an important stop along the way of our understanding how the net and business can and can't get along.
I don't think the Cluetrain authors themselves represent a single community, any more than any of our individual blogs do. Their voices, their perspectives, their lenses differ:
Doc: Markets are Conversations. Get Clued. World of Ends.
Chris: Bottom up, not top down. Micromarkets. The solution is poetry.
David: Management Doesn't Get It. Small Pieces Loosely Joined. Ends and pieces and linkage.
Rick: _____________________
The voices that gave rise to cluetrain share a common love for the net, understanding that it has and is changing human beings and businesses, and that institutions like government, corporations, etc. can't stop it. Traditional power structures don't wield the same kind of power here. Is that belief alone the basis for community? Yes and no.
Personally, I travel in and out of a lot of communities, many completely unrelated, and I have friends in all of those places. I have war blogger blog friends, peace blogger blog friends, cluetrain blog friends, Harvard blog friends, Holistic blog friends, feminist blog friends, pro-life blog friends. I learn something as I weave my way in and out of all of these communities.
When either your staunch individualism or narrow community participation risks isolationism, then something's wrong.
Other than that, it's all open road folks.
Alright. I'm rambling. Too much to do. I have to run now.
Besides, I forgot to put my copy of Cluetrain in the southern most corner of my garage, like I do at 10:00 every morning, so that I can do a rain dance on pages 4-33 and wait for the mothership.
why she never comes?
March 13, 2003
the death of an alpha male and the lives left behind
Halley gets to the heart of the alpha male series with a stirring and insightful post that brings her alpha male love full circle. Wshew.
March 12, 2003
March 11, 2003
stay alive; don't blog and drive...
This is one serious soccer mom. See how I keep my eyes on the road and take my own picture? Only bloggers can handle a camera (or is it a breath mint?) so well.
well, okay, not a soccer mom really. no one here plays soccer. yet.
a doctor mom. yes. that's it.
one serious doctor mom.
HONK!
con dolore
This is what it's like.
...it seems more important to say goodbye to this place. Acknowledge what happened here, honor it in some way. This is the only way I know. To try to say what it was, how it was, even if it's over. And it is. Roger that. Over and out.
Life and death and frailty, and trying so hard to build, to sculpt diamonds from coal and all the time the heart is coal, but you don't know that, you don't know that it could take hundreds of years and all the soot in the swamp to make it shine, and you don't know that no matter what you do, what movements what motions what sacrifices, it can never shine enough, can only dully reflect.
You can't know that, so you polish and polish and show them, "look how it shines--can you see yourself?" and they shine back at you, tell you "almost enough," to keep polishing, and you can't know that it will never ever be bright enough for them to see all the way through. They don't know, so how could you?
What can be mistaken for love usually is.
And then losing it and shattering, you're lying in a pool of your own muddy blood, what is left of it anyway, and finding yourself there, it's drowning or not.
Respect, RB.
...it seems more important to say goodbye to this place. Acknowledge what happened here, honor it in some way. This is the only way I know. To try to say what it was, how it was, even if it's over. And it is. Roger that. Over and out.
Life and death and frailty, and trying so hard to build, to sculpt diamonds from coal and all the time the heart is coal, but you don't know that, you don't know that it could take hundreds of years and all the soot in the swamp to make it shine, and you don't know that no matter what you do, what movements what motions what sacrifices, it can never shine enough, can only dully reflect.
You can't know that, so you polish and polish and show them, "look how it shines--can you see yourself?" and they shine back at you, tell you "almost enough," to keep polishing, and you can't know that it will never ever be bright enough for them to see all the way through. They don't know, so how could you?
What can be mistaken for love usually is.
And then losing it and shattering, you're lying in a pool of your own muddy blood, what is left of it anyway, and finding yourself there, it's drowning or not.
Respect, RB.
back to your regular scheduled blogging
I hate the news. I hate talking about the news. I hate that there is news. News sucks me in and makes me either 1) nervous or 2) mad. I don't want news anymore, I want olds. I want olds and only olds. I want to throw some 45s on the stereo, find some chocolate ice cubes in the freezer (am I the only one who remembers ice cubes, the chocolate frozen candy squares that I can't find anymore--someone please tell me where I can get these olds), put on my army pants (from the early 80s, when war seemed like something so old-fashioned that wouldn't have to deal with that messy shit again), and watch Soap. I'm sick of the news. I'm sick of the future. I'm going to go build a campfire in the past. Join me. If enough of us go there, there won't be any news to tell here, or anyone to tell it to.
with all the smarts and all the might and all the intelligence and all the power of the god these men believe has chosen them, there must be a way...
to get rid of one 180 lb. guy with less than 30,000 pounds of explosives.
I admit, I'm guessing on his weight.
And I'm no math wiz, but I figure that means they're using 166 pounds of bomb for every 1 pound of guy.
round here they call that overkill.
maybe it's me. I dunno.
I admit, I'm guessing on his weight.
And I'm no math wiz, but I figure that means they're using 166 pounds of bomb for every 1 pound of guy.
round here they call that overkill.
maybe it's me. I dunno.
Hey, I scooped Drudge
Not that I care, but dabbling around in the "news" part of weblogging as I do on rare occasion (and not as rare as I'd like), please note, dear readers, that I scooped Mr. Drudge today with a pointer to the story in the AJC about the superbomb test scheduled today in the Florida panhandle.
Here's the difference. Since Matt's site is an Internet news site, he and/or his fledgling journarazzi were most likely thinking, "Score! Check out this follow-up in the AJC about the superbomb--quick get the fucking link up." Or something similar. I'm only guessing.
Meanwhile, over here in blogdad, I was thinking about Tom (not in the panhandle, but close enough for jazz), George's mom, brother, niece and nephews, our accountant, Clarence Bell (in the panhandle), and, basically, ***human beings*** that might be in the vacinity of the boom.
Well, heck, we ain't that far away from it ourselves.
Then I was thinking of Bagdad, not so far away from Blogdad, and all the parallel people who try to work and live there.
Not really there, here:
Those folks who are actually are in the precise vicinity, better known as the target, for this superbomb. And I find myself wondering, what the hell you do to prepare for 30,000 pounds of high-power explosives?
Duct tape?
I think not.
Here's the difference. Since Matt's site is an Internet news site, he and/or his fledgling journarazzi were most likely thinking, "Score! Check out this follow-up in the AJC about the superbomb--quick get the fucking link up." Or something similar. I'm only guessing.
Meanwhile, over here in blogdad, I was thinking about Tom (not in the panhandle, but close enough for jazz), George's mom, brother, niece and nephews, our accountant, Clarence Bell (in the panhandle), and, basically, ***human beings*** that might be in the vacinity of the boom.
Well, heck, we ain't that far away from it ourselves.
Then I was thinking of Bagdad, not so far away from Blogdad, and all the parallel people who try to work and live there.
Not really there, here:
Those folks who are actually are in the precise vicinity, better known as the target, for this superbomb. And I find myself wondering, what the hell you do to prepare for 30,000 pounds of high-power explosives?
Duct tape?
I think not.
March 10, 2003
seeing eye to eye
I took jenna to a pediatric opthamologist today. Her pediatrician wanted us to take her just in case, to check some, well quite a few, grey flecks and dots in the white part of her eyes, which she hadn't seen in a child before.
Probably because she hasn't seen many extra-ethnic kids That's my new term these days, extra-cultural or extra-ethnic, even extra-racial, pick your term, and for the record I hate that there are terms at all, because that isn't how I see it or we see it, but we don't run the planet, and extra is much better than bi-anything because these kids aren't positive-negative, they are enriched with layers of heritage, culture, and genes, and at the end of the day, quite simply, they are most certainly the opposite of being inbred in most every single way.
So I said to George the other day, I think I'm use the word extra, because along with being extraordinary, it also conotes "more" and going outside of, connecting beyond, and of course, being on the edge, unique, and can also mean superior, and so screw them, this is what I can say if I want to, and even better it's like extranets, which of course is at the crux of what I think about most days when I'm not thinking about eye doctors and extra-ethnicity.
Speaking of culture and ethnicity, I want to tell you about the richness and oddity of this visit to the eye doctor today, but it was one of those all-senses kind of events that makes me wish my whole body was a blog so that I could soak in the experience and not forget to tell you anything.
Being more blob than blog this day, I will do my best.
It has to do with Harley Davidson, really. Hot bikes and cool chrome. Fast riding. And it has to do with none of that too.
Once I had Jenna seated in the kids theater, watching The Little Mermaid, at this geared-to-kids doctor's office, I went to sit in the adjacent waiting area with an assemblage of other adults and one young boy who was there with his Grandmother.
You see, she had driven him down from the North Georgia Mountains to the opthamologist.
This is what I learned as I sat down in the middle of a conversation, a loud one, between grandma and this petite, sweet, blonde black-belt belle karate expert, suited in her black belt outfit, enjoying a lively talk with grandma. Apparently these folks had come a long way, from separate parts of north Georgia, to see this doctor because he's good. (Which, it turned out, he is).
I watched the ping and pong of conversation about getting lost, about finding shortcuts, about finally arriving, and about how late they'd get home, I noted mostly that they both were both very loud.
Now if you've been to the North Georgia mountains, you would know that folks from there speak with heavy, country, southern drawls. These are the people whose accents, actually quite charming, are parodied on TV and in the movies in a none-too-kind a light. And I admit, I bought into the stereotype when I first moved here. I've found that more often than not, though, they'll fool you. They ain't so country as they seem, ya'll. And they're usually nicer than you expect, or even would like them to be.
My attention is immediately absorbed by the little boy, about 8, who is louder than grandma and a real corker. With red-brown hair, a face full of freckles, an Opie accent gone due south, and Dennis the Menace's personality, you get the picture.
I'm watching him as he's grabbing grandma's jowels and telling her, "Looky all the meat you got on yer throat, grandma--you're so cuuuute," and then her, knocking him across the chest back into his seat with a, "You want these folks to see you get your butt beat, I'm ready to oblige," and then the two of them laughing and pushing one another, this obviously being their rough, fun loving game, or something, one that I'd bet gets much rougher when junior really screws up and isn't in a room full of people.
I say to grandma, "Boy, he's not a shy one, is he?"
"No I wouldn't say so--It's because of his name."
"What's his name?"
"It's Harley. Harley with the middle name of Davidson. Harley Davidson."
"You kidding?"
"NO--really?" chimes in the black-belt belle.
"Yes m'am. His parent's couldn't afford to get a Harley, so they named him Harley Davidson."
"Well, I guess they got one after all," I say.
chuckle, chuckle, slap, shift, fun, smiles.
I'm digging this. Real people. Real life. Touch them--they don't bite.
Now's the time when the Vietnam Vet whose son is getting glasses comes and sits down with us. He happens to be black, and I'm wondering how the petite black belt belle--by now she's told us that she is in fact a black belt (as are her husband and three boys)--grandma harley, harley davidson, the vietnam vet and I are all going to hit it off. You have to understand, a glance around the room tells you one thing: We all comin from real different places.
And grandma harley's just gettin warmed up.
She wants to tell us about the BYOB dance party she went to on her birthday a couple weeks ago. And we all want to hear it. No, I'm serious.
Apparently the deal is, everyone meets at a big hall and brings their own booze; there's a live band, kids and adults, and they dance all night long. Costs $8 to get in ($16 for a couple, grandma tells me). Sounds like some kind of a barn raising from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers to me, and I'm thinking, that's kind of charming. Well grandma explains that she had a bit too good of a time.
Harley Davidson chimes in, "She ain't supposed to drink cause of all the medicines she's on, but she drank that night!"
She shakes her head, "Yes I did, I took two of them shots--they call 'em tooters--and I felt such a nice buzz--I'd never had a drink in my life, and that buzz lasted ten minutes, and as soon as it was gone I said I wish I could get that back. Then I went home and read my Bible. I sure did."
The group laughs in unison, a couple of us shaking our heads.
"Well, it sounds like fun," I tell her
"You know, we're in a mixed room, or I'd tell ya'll a joke I got from that party. But somebody's probably deck me. I bet he [pointing to the Vietnam Vet, who, as I said, happens to be black] just as soon knock me out if I tell this one."
I'm thinking, okay. Here we go. Here's that southern thing where you get along fine and then someone has to demonstrate that you're not so foreign to them that they can't fit you in as the butt of a joke. In other words, I'm thinking here come's the racial joke.
I pipe up, "Well if he doesn't, I might."
"You? Really. Well here goes anyway..."
I look at the Vietnam Vet, giving a look that is one part "here we go" and one part "what a trip," and he smiles back, shakes his head. We wait.
"So the head of that party we went to, he says, 'Bea, you know what a man's favorite thing is on a Saturday Night?' And I say, 'No, what?' And he says: 'Tooters and Hooters!' Tooters and Hooters! I about fell over laughing. And now ya'll probably think I'm foul."
Tooters and Hooters? A booze joke? It dawns on me that she was concerned about being unladylike in mixed company, not about offending the varying color hues in the room.
In her own way, she was concerned about propriety. And I gave myself an internal kick for assuming she was coming from another place. Yeh, sure, up at the barn raising there may have been plenty of those kind of jokes too, but not this day. She had as good a talk with the vietnam vet as she did with the black belt belle as she did with me, and all of us together talked for close to an hour, laughing a good bit of the time, shaking our heads at grandma and harley davidson (which seemed to delight them) the rest of the time.
Whatever else she is, grandma harley's one of a kind.
"My husband's 22 years younger than I am," she says. "That's right, I'm 54 and I married me a 32 year old man who treats me right. I met him on a Tuesday and got a ring and proposed to him on Saturday, and that's when we got married."
Harley pipes in about grandpa's role in his life, "He's real nice to me too," which grandma seconds. "Don't you tell him that boy ain't his own grandson or you'll be in for some trouble."
Mostly we're sure we would be.
Harley starts to rev his motor some at this point, tired of waiting and used to being the family comedian, he's getting bored. He's telling us how much weight grandma's lost over the last two months, and she's telling us too, and then Harley starts grabbing grandma's sides, and she backhands him in the chest again, at which point they begin their joyful pushing and shoving all over again.
"He has ADHD, you know," grandma tells us.
Black Belt Belle says, "Well he's not really hyper--they're supposed to be hyper right?"
"That's because his medicine's just startin to wear off. That's what happens. Another hour and he'll be climbing the ceilings."
Harley's eyeballing the ceiling now and shaking his head. Yes, he'd like a rope to climb on up, so he could get up onto the ceiling tiles and get ready.
But instead the nurse comes out to the waiting area and calls his name to go back for his appointment.
I was sorry to see Harley and grandma go. I decided I was going to miss them both.
But I don't have to miss them. I have them here now, for good. And so do you.
More soon...
Probably because she hasn't seen many extra-ethnic kids That's my new term these days, extra-cultural or extra-ethnic, even extra-racial, pick your term, and for the record I hate that there are terms at all, because that isn't how I see it or we see it, but we don't run the planet, and extra is much better than bi-anything because these kids aren't positive-negative, they are enriched with layers of heritage, culture, and genes, and at the end of the day, quite simply, they are most certainly the opposite of being inbred in most every single way.
So I said to George the other day, I think I'm use the word extra, because along with being extraordinary, it also conotes "more" and going outside of, connecting beyond, and of course, being on the edge, unique, and can also mean superior, and so screw them, this is what I can say if I want to, and even better it's like extranets, which of course is at the crux of what I think about most days when I'm not thinking about eye doctors and extra-ethnicity.
Speaking of culture and ethnicity, I want to tell you about the richness and oddity of this visit to the eye doctor today, but it was one of those all-senses kind of events that makes me wish my whole body was a blog so that I could soak in the experience and not forget to tell you anything.
Being more blob than blog this day, I will do my best.
It has to do with Harley Davidson, really. Hot bikes and cool chrome. Fast riding. And it has to do with none of that too.
Once I had Jenna seated in the kids theater, watching The Little Mermaid, at this geared-to-kids doctor's office, I went to sit in the adjacent waiting area with an assemblage of other adults and one young boy who was there with his Grandmother.
You see, she had driven him down from the North Georgia Mountains to the opthamologist.
This is what I learned as I sat down in the middle of a conversation, a loud one, between grandma and this petite, sweet, blonde black-belt belle karate expert, suited in her black belt outfit, enjoying a lively talk with grandma. Apparently these folks had come a long way, from separate parts of north Georgia, to see this doctor because he's good. (Which, it turned out, he is).
I watched the ping and pong of conversation about getting lost, about finding shortcuts, about finally arriving, and about how late they'd get home, I noted mostly that they both were both very loud.
Now if you've been to the North Georgia mountains, you would know that folks from there speak with heavy, country, southern drawls. These are the people whose accents, actually quite charming, are parodied on TV and in the movies in a none-too-kind a light. And I admit, I bought into the stereotype when I first moved here. I've found that more often than not, though, they'll fool you. They ain't so country as they seem, ya'll. And they're usually nicer than you expect, or even would like them to be.
My attention is immediately absorbed by the little boy, about 8, who is louder than grandma and a real corker. With red-brown hair, a face full of freckles, an Opie accent gone due south, and Dennis the Menace's personality, you get the picture.
I'm watching him as he's grabbing grandma's jowels and telling her, "Looky all the meat you got on yer throat, grandma--you're so cuuuute," and then her, knocking him across the chest back into his seat with a, "You want these folks to see you get your butt beat, I'm ready to oblige," and then the two of them laughing and pushing one another, this obviously being their rough, fun loving game, or something, one that I'd bet gets much rougher when junior really screws up and isn't in a room full of people.
I say to grandma, "Boy, he's not a shy one, is he?"
"No I wouldn't say so--It's because of his name."
"What's his name?"
"It's Harley. Harley with the middle name of Davidson. Harley Davidson."
"You kidding?"
"NO--really?" chimes in the black-belt belle.
"Yes m'am. His parent's couldn't afford to get a Harley, so they named him Harley Davidson."
"Well, I guess they got one after all," I say.
chuckle, chuckle, slap, shift, fun, smiles.
I'm digging this. Real people. Real life. Touch them--they don't bite.
Now's the time when the Vietnam Vet whose son is getting glasses comes and sits down with us. He happens to be black, and I'm wondering how the petite black belt belle--by now she's told us that she is in fact a black belt (as are her husband and three boys)--grandma harley, harley davidson, the vietnam vet and I are all going to hit it off. You have to understand, a glance around the room tells you one thing: We all comin from real different places.
And grandma harley's just gettin warmed up.
She wants to tell us about the BYOB dance party she went to on her birthday a couple weeks ago. And we all want to hear it. No, I'm serious.
Apparently the deal is, everyone meets at a big hall and brings their own booze; there's a live band, kids and adults, and they dance all night long. Costs $8 to get in ($16 for a couple, grandma tells me). Sounds like some kind of a barn raising from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers to me, and I'm thinking, that's kind of charming. Well grandma explains that she had a bit too good of a time.
Harley Davidson chimes in, "She ain't supposed to drink cause of all the medicines she's on, but she drank that night!"
She shakes her head, "Yes I did, I took two of them shots--they call 'em tooters--and I felt such a nice buzz--I'd never had a drink in my life, and that buzz lasted ten minutes, and as soon as it was gone I said I wish I could get that back. Then I went home and read my Bible. I sure did."
The group laughs in unison, a couple of us shaking our heads.
"Well, it sounds like fun," I tell her
"You know, we're in a mixed room, or I'd tell ya'll a joke I got from that party. But somebody's probably deck me. I bet he [pointing to the Vietnam Vet, who, as I said, happens to be black] just as soon knock me out if I tell this one."
I'm thinking, okay. Here we go. Here's that southern thing where you get along fine and then someone has to demonstrate that you're not so foreign to them that they can't fit you in as the butt of a joke. In other words, I'm thinking here come's the racial joke.
I pipe up, "Well if he doesn't, I might."
"You? Really. Well here goes anyway..."
I look at the Vietnam Vet, giving a look that is one part "here we go" and one part "what a trip," and he smiles back, shakes his head. We wait.
"So the head of that party we went to, he says, 'Bea, you know what a man's favorite thing is on a Saturday Night?' And I say, 'No, what?' And he says: 'Tooters and Hooters!' Tooters and Hooters! I about fell over laughing. And now ya'll probably think I'm foul."
Tooters and Hooters? A booze joke? It dawns on me that she was concerned about being unladylike in mixed company, not about offending the varying color hues in the room.
In her own way, she was concerned about propriety. And I gave myself an internal kick for assuming she was coming from another place. Yeh, sure, up at the barn raising there may have been plenty of those kind of jokes too, but not this day. She had as good a talk with the vietnam vet as she did with the black belt belle as she did with me, and all of us together talked for close to an hour, laughing a good bit of the time, shaking our heads at grandma and harley davidson (which seemed to delight them) the rest of the time.
Whatever else she is, grandma harley's one of a kind.
"My husband's 22 years younger than I am," she says. "That's right, I'm 54 and I married me a 32 year old man who treats me right. I met him on a Tuesday and got a ring and proposed to him on Saturday, and that's when we got married."
Harley pipes in about grandpa's role in his life, "He's real nice to me too," which grandma seconds. "Don't you tell him that boy ain't his own grandson or you'll be in for some trouble."
Mostly we're sure we would be.
Harley starts to rev his motor some at this point, tired of waiting and used to being the family comedian, he's getting bored. He's telling us how much weight grandma's lost over the last two months, and she's telling us too, and then Harley starts grabbing grandma's sides, and she backhands him in the chest again, at which point they begin their joyful pushing and shoving all over again.
"He has ADHD, you know," grandma tells us.
Black Belt Belle says, "Well he's not really hyper--they're supposed to be hyper right?"
"That's because his medicine's just startin to wear off. That's what happens. Another hour and he'll be climbing the ceilings."
Harley's eyeballing the ceiling now and shaking his head. Yes, he'd like a rope to climb on up, so he could get up onto the ceiling tiles and get ready.
But instead the nurse comes out to the waiting area and calls his name to go back for his appointment.
I was sorry to see Harley and grandma go. I decided I was going to miss them both.
But I don't have to miss them. I have them here now, for good. And so do you.
More soon...
March 09, 2003
I was going for 5 in 5
My goal has been modestly reduced of late. I was merely trying to post five posts in five minutes, but I'm quite sure time has gotten away from me again. At least I got my five in. And now, I adjourn to the sleeping quarters.
good evening all.
play nice.
good evening all.
play nice.
cats are really good at killing snakes, and other nature discussions
I have more dead baby (and sometimes bigger) snakes in our driveway at this house than in any other place I've lived. Where do these things come from? I know where they go to--the cats. Cats seem mesmerized by snakes. They'll play with them for hours. Sometimes the snake will still have enough energy enough to slither away when the cats lie down to take a rest. But mostly, the cats bother the snake to death.
It's really kind of gross.
One evening I was on the phone with a blogger friend. A damn armidillo comes walking up my neighbor's lawn--do we have those here? I swear it looked like armor on it, not like your run of the mill opossum. Then five seconds later an owl comes swooping by me headed for the neighbor's house. I say, "What is this, Mutual of Fucking Omaha?" (old people will remember--do they still have Wild Kingdom on?)
Anyway, it's been like that around here lately. Some kind of bottom up revolt happening on the part of the belly crawlers and other predators.
the answer my friend, is blowin' in the wind...
It's really kind of gross.
One evening I was on the phone with a blogger friend. A damn armidillo comes walking up my neighbor's lawn--do we have those here? I swear it looked like armor on it, not like your run of the mill opossum. Then five seconds later an owl comes swooping by me headed for the neighbor's house. I say, "What is this, Mutual of Fucking Omaha?" (old people will remember--do they still have Wild Kingdom on?)
Anyway, it's been like that around here lately. Some kind of bottom up revolt happening on the part of the belly crawlers and other predators.
the answer my friend, is blowin' in the wind...
Do you see what I see?
Every time I see the new Wachovia logo around town, I think of Halley.
No, hear me out.
Does this not look like a woman lying on her side in a green (and blue--the middle piece) bathing suit? (or should I say suitt?)
Halley, have you been moonlighting as a graphic designer? Victoria's Secret meets Financial Services? It has Halley written all over it.
If not, then what the fuck is it?
(p.s, yah, I'm stealing their bandwidth. wish it had some cash attached to it.)
And speaking of which, if we all like really really wanted to cause problems with a site, say, a site that some of us really didn't like, not that I would ever do this or even think that way, but would bandwidth stealing be a good way to do it? Say if a hord of bloggers were to link directly to a remote image on said targeted site, would we be heard? I'm just curious. You know. Scientific research stuff.
No, hear me out.
Does this not look like a woman lying on her side in a green (and blue--the middle piece) bathing suit? (or should I say suitt?)
Halley, have you been moonlighting as a graphic designer? Victoria's Secret meets Financial Services? It has Halley written all over it.
If not, then what the fuck is it?
(p.s, yah, I'm stealing their bandwidth. wish it had some cash attached to it.)
And speaking of which, if we all like really really wanted to cause problems with a site, say, a site that some of us really didn't like, not that I would ever do this or even think that way, but would bandwidth stealing be a good way to do it? Say if a hord of bloggers were to link directly to a remote image on said targeted site, would we be heard? I'm just curious. You know. Scientific research stuff.
oh silent night
Jenna's asleep. George is sick, so he's asleep. Everywhere everyone's sleeping, and I'll be next.
This is the quietest time. This is my favorite time. I know my family is safe. Getting healthy. Getting rested. A place for every one and every one in their places. The animals are fed. No cable, so no TV for months now except for GPTV which comes in enough for Jenna to see the kids shows in the morning. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the disk drive in the dining room.
ahhhhhhhhhhh. listen. can you hear the quiet?
shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. nice.
This is the quietest time. This is my favorite time. I know my family is safe. Getting healthy. Getting rested. A place for every one and every one in their places. The animals are fed. No cable, so no TV for months now except for GPTV which comes in enough for Jenna to see the kids shows in the morning. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the disk drive in the dining room.
ahhhhhhhhhhh. listen. can you hear the quiet?
shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. nice.
i should be making a to-do list OR SHAKE Revisited.
because it's gotten that overwhelming. all the shit I need to do but am not doing. i would make it here, but it would scare me, some of what is in my to-do list, to share it with you, which makes me feel like I'm not telling you everything. And so I'm not. And then thinking what I do share, knowing that there's much more below here, that should scare you too. Does me.
Jonathon's pitching curves over there and you have to be quick to catch on. He waits for no man. He pointed to this a couple days ago on Gonzo Engaged and it made my heart stop because SHAKE was the one that got me. And you know you're speaking at the same time, about the same thing, the same way, with the same kind when you find that kind and then find out that the same thing got that someone else. Really.
It's Jonathon's fault. Everything is. What's not his is Marek's.
That's why I have to pull out some of SHAKE here. Because as she says, 24, maybe more of us, are here and most of us all got SHAKED at the same time.
So SHAKE.
And now this, I would think. Not the endless tapestry of complexity unbound, but just stupid ordinary confusion. Embarrassing. Not knowing how to hold one's hands. Like posing for an awkward photograph when you're already in a bad mood. Leave me alone. Shall I hold my face like this? Or this? And nothing felt right, and nothing felt true. No surer hell.
So I drank.
Name your poison.
You're beginning to suspect this is all a bit too random. Or long ago suspected it and now you're not taking no wooden nickels from nobody. You're ready for anything, you've seen it all. You love your kids, you hate your life. No wait. You love your life, you hate your kids. You've even considered Scientology. Or joining the Psychic Friends network.
In short, in fact, in flagrante delicto: you're at the end of your fucking rope. Admit it.
Repent. Forgiveness is yours.
Everyone looks up at the stars and wonders. Everyone remembers falling in love. It's corny and you don't like to admit it, but there it is. It's true for your most hardened killers. It's true for your most chichi ennui-ridden webhead hipster neophiliacs.
...yeah? And then what? Then you give yourself absolution. You forgive yourself for being human, for being confused, for not knowing the right answer. You weep for your life. For having been so shut off and hard hearted. You get down on your hands and knees and kiss the fucking earth for having you one more day is what you do.
And when in doubt, rock like a motherfucker.
This is where I figured out about rock and roll, or whatever you call it that does that. And a whole lot else, I guess, though it's only just now sinking in, now that that world is dead as a burned out supernova ten million light years somewhere back behind yesterday. And the thing would sorta build up as the night wore on, the band getting hotter, the lovers getting hotter, the hall getting a whole lot hotter, until you were dancing your ass off, sweating like a motherfucker, stoned, exhausted and you didn't care anymore, and then the band would know they had you and they'd kick it over the edge, driving the beat like a blinded animal, the lead guitar suddenly sliding up from tasty to insistent to full-throttle roadhouse and just when you thought that was the top, the horns would come in, a whole line of them wailing blasting blowing the fucking roof off and they'd cook like that for so long you could not believe it, as it defied the very laws of God and man, shredded the fabric of space and time, and you'd find yourself shouting "Yes! Yes! Yes!" like a goddam madman just like everybody else, and that wall of sound, of crazy joyous noise, was all the reason you needed, all the reason you'd ever likely get, and everybody knew it. Which was the whole point. The heart and soul of rock and roll. And all the rest of it. If you didn't get it then, you never would.
That, my dear blog friends and enemas, is what it means to get it. It's not about telling, it's about letting the music/drug/words/poetry/net/love/sex/cat/kids/name-your-passion/ kick the guts out of our middle and onto the walls and ceilings, and its messy and joyous. It's nasty and georgeous. And that's how it tells its own tale.
When I found out, a couple days ago, that Jonathon got it from SHAKE like I got it from SHAKE then I knew we got the same thing the same way to the same beat, the same sock in the gut, the same way.
And that's a beautiful thing.
Curvin' ya J-man.
Jonathon's pitching curves over there and you have to be quick to catch on. He waits for no man. He pointed to this a couple days ago on Gonzo Engaged and it made my heart stop because SHAKE was the one that got me. And you know you're speaking at the same time, about the same thing, the same way, with the same kind when you find that kind and then find out that the same thing got that someone else. Really.
It's Jonathon's fault. Everything is. What's not his is Marek's.
That's why I have to pull out some of SHAKE here. Because as she says, 24, maybe more of us, are here and most of us all got SHAKED at the same time.
So SHAKE.
And now this, I would think. Not the endless tapestry of complexity unbound, but just stupid ordinary confusion. Embarrassing. Not knowing how to hold one's hands. Like posing for an awkward photograph when you're already in a bad mood. Leave me alone. Shall I hold my face like this? Or this? And nothing felt right, and nothing felt true. No surer hell.
So I drank.
Name your poison.
You're beginning to suspect this is all a bit too random. Or long ago suspected it and now you're not taking no wooden nickels from nobody. You're ready for anything, you've seen it all. You love your kids, you hate your life. No wait. You love your life, you hate your kids. You've even considered Scientology. Or joining the Psychic Friends network.
In short, in fact, in flagrante delicto: you're at the end of your fucking rope. Admit it.
Repent. Forgiveness is yours.
Everyone looks up at the stars and wonders. Everyone remembers falling in love. It's corny and you don't like to admit it, but there it is. It's true for your most hardened killers. It's true for your most chichi ennui-ridden webhead hipster neophiliacs.
...yeah? And then what? Then you give yourself absolution. You forgive yourself for being human, for being confused, for not knowing the right answer. You weep for your life. For having been so shut off and hard hearted. You get down on your hands and knees and kiss the fucking earth for having you one more day is what you do.
And when in doubt, rock like a motherfucker.
This is where I figured out about rock and roll, or whatever you call it that does that. And a whole lot else, I guess, though it's only just now sinking in, now that that world is dead as a burned out supernova ten million light years somewhere back behind yesterday. And the thing would sorta build up as the night wore on, the band getting hotter, the lovers getting hotter, the hall getting a whole lot hotter, until you were dancing your ass off, sweating like a motherfucker, stoned, exhausted and you didn't care anymore, and then the band would know they had you and they'd kick it over the edge, driving the beat like a blinded animal, the lead guitar suddenly sliding up from tasty to insistent to full-throttle roadhouse and just when you thought that was the top, the horns would come in, a whole line of them wailing blasting blowing the fucking roof off and they'd cook like that for so long you could not believe it, as it defied the very laws of God and man, shredded the fabric of space and time, and you'd find yourself shouting "Yes! Yes! Yes!" like a goddam madman just like everybody else, and that wall of sound, of crazy joyous noise, was all the reason you needed, all the reason you'd ever likely get, and everybody knew it. Which was the whole point. The heart and soul of rock and roll. And all the rest of it. If you didn't get it then, you never would.
That, my dear blog friends and enemas, is what it means to get it. It's not about telling, it's about letting the music/drug/words/poetry/net/love/sex/cat/kids/name-your-passion/ kick the guts out of our middle and onto the walls and ceilings, and its messy and joyous. It's nasty and georgeous. And that's how it tells its own tale.
When I found out, a couple days ago, that Jonathon got it from SHAKE like I got it from SHAKE then I knew we got the same thing the same way to the same beat, the same sock in the gut, the same way.
And that's a beautiful thing.
Curvin' ya J-man.
The artist formerly known as RageBoy
C-Lo goes Condo. Oh yah, and he needs help moving. This is where having blogger friends doesn't come in so handy. (She opens Outlook, clicks create message, "Hey RB, one, two, three, LIFT!" Send.)
Hey, buddy, are ya standing up?
Verse
Somewhere, at the foot of an ice-topped mountain, the hibernating bear stirs inside his tight bunker of boulders. As he comes to, he comes to something, to a season, maybe to a reason or to none at all. This is him coming to and coming from, in spite of her/him/her/them/ and even who and whom.
This is where he comes to in front of us. You can't find that any place else. Because this is where he went under.
Chorus
At an earlier time. In another place. A mirror for Mommy. Say hello to the nice people, Honey. Spin and twirl little girl. A flash of anger, and I took it. Both barrels.
And after it all, you are left with what they gave you in the first place.
Refrain
C-Lo, sweet cheerio.
And with all of this stirring conversation about blind folk, did ya stop to think that RB just gave you a name that says you can't see up high? How you gonna pack the canned salmon?
bada-bing.
Hey, buddy, are ya standing up?
Verse
Somewhere, at the foot of an ice-topped mountain, the hibernating bear stirs inside his tight bunker of boulders. As he comes to, he comes to something, to a season, maybe to a reason or to none at all. This is him coming to and coming from, in spite of her/him/her/them/ and even who and whom.
This is where he comes to in front of us. You can't find that any place else. Because this is where he went under.
Chorus
At an earlier time. In another place. A mirror for Mommy. Say hello to the nice people, Honey. Spin and twirl little girl. A flash of anger, and I took it. Both barrels.
And after it all, you are left with what they gave you in the first place.
Refrain
C-Lo, sweet cheerio.
And with all of this stirring conversation about blind folk, did ya stop to think that RB just gave you a name that says you can't see up high? How you gonna pack the canned salmon?
bada-bing.
world of ends--it's an article, not a movement.
I've been watching the hubbub over world of ends for the last couple of days. I mostly said what I thought over in Shelley's comments.
I view World of Ends as what the authors essentially called it: an article. I like that Doc and Dave didn't pedal it to Wired--they certainly could have and will likely get coverage there and in other pubs regardless. It was classy of them, blooglicious even, to put it up in the public domain with a facility that lets others comment on it and steal as they wish.
While I wasn't a recipient on the now legendary email to folks who got first dibs on checking the site out (although I was probably the first reader to add a link to the site to a global corporate Intranet), my understanding is that the good doctors at Searls & Weinberger, Inc. were primarily trying to answer questions they get all the time. These must range anywhere from, "What's the Internet for?" to "Why should I give a damn?"
As a forum for them to give their personal responses to common questions about the Internet, and then let others weigh in, I think it's relevant. I'm not moved to make the leap that it is anything beyond that. Do I wish I'd get a similar response--well, any response--when I say the Internet is schizophrenic, which, in my opinion is as important? Yeh. But hey.
My only nit with the article is that is was pretty heavy on the top-down end. For an article talking about the importance of fringes and ends, it had a punditish tone and important-people sidebar links. I would have liked these good guys of the net to have added a drill-down layer for each point giving real world, real-time examples of goods and bads from *this* world of folk (not just the Lessigs and Isenbergs). Take it down a level, get dirty, show you can roll around in the grass. It's as important that people like Doc and Dave talk about us as it is that we talk about them. We circle and reinforce one another, and help keep each other real.
They did give us a facility to do this, however. The site has a welcome Quick Topic comment area which is where you'll find the real crux of the content. The comments there, and on slashdot, and other places, which Doc has added links to, are a fitting underbelly to the site. (Idea: Doc, add these links to the site itself, not just your weblog).
In fact, the World Ends thread on slashdot, to me, was most indicative of the Internet and why we're all here. I don't think I need to explain why. Something to do with joy.
These offshoot voices, our voices, are the real conclusion to the article, which, if it's on target, should have no conclusion at all.
I view World of Ends as what the authors essentially called it: an article. I like that Doc and Dave didn't pedal it to Wired--they certainly could have and will likely get coverage there and in other pubs regardless. It was classy of them, blooglicious even, to put it up in the public domain with a facility that lets others comment on it and steal as they wish.
While I wasn't a recipient on the now legendary email to folks who got first dibs on checking the site out (although I was probably the first reader to add a link to the site to a global corporate Intranet), my understanding is that the good doctors at Searls & Weinberger, Inc. were primarily trying to answer questions they get all the time. These must range anywhere from, "What's the Internet for?" to "Why should I give a damn?"
As a forum for them to give their personal responses to common questions about the Internet, and then let others weigh in, I think it's relevant. I'm not moved to make the leap that it is anything beyond that. Do I wish I'd get a similar response--well, any response--when I say the Internet is schizophrenic, which, in my opinion is as important? Yeh. But hey.
My only nit with the article is that is was pretty heavy on the top-down end. For an article talking about the importance of fringes and ends, it had a punditish tone and important-people sidebar links. I would have liked these good guys of the net to have added a drill-down layer for each point giving real world, real-time examples of goods and bads from *this* world of folk (not just the Lessigs and Isenbergs). Take it down a level, get dirty, show you can roll around in the grass. It's as important that people like Doc and Dave talk about us as it is that we talk about them. We circle and reinforce one another, and help keep each other real.
They did give us a facility to do this, however. The site has a welcome Quick Topic comment area which is where you'll find the real crux of the content. The comments there, and on slashdot, and other places, which Doc has added links to, are a fitting underbelly to the site. (Idea: Doc, add these links to the site itself, not just your weblog).
In fact, the World Ends thread on slashdot, to me, was most indicative of the Internet and why we're all here. I don't think I need to explain why. Something to do with joy.
These offshoot voices, our voices, are the real conclusion to the article, which, if it's on target, should have no conclusion at all.
If I could pick anything in the world I'd like more of, besides money...
It would be either sleep or health. I think they're related. Pretty sure of it. I bet if I picked sleep, health would take care of itself. Or vice versa.
Yes, that would be my pick.
Maybe in about 13 years, if I live that long.
Yes, that would be my pick.
Maybe in about 13 years, if I live that long.
Pretty Day
I think Spring is finally here. In the 60s, sunny, smells like spring.
Jenna looks kind of out of place in her snowman nightgown.
Jenna looks kind of out of place in her snowman nightgown.
does everyone's house look like this?
don't answer that. I know. Mine is just a chaotic disaster. Most people dine in their dining rooms. In ours, the dining room table is pushed up against the wall, instead of a flower vase and placemats it holds a PC, inkjet printer, any number of CDs and printer cartridges. Two chairs have grown to three or four, pulled around the makeshift desk, where Jenna and George do their computer work. The chandalier (believe me, nothing special) hangs in the middle of the room, and without a table under it, it smacks george in the forehead every couple of days.
The living room is worse. Much worse. My DSL cable is now strewn across the floor in between (and this is real time) a box top from an old lunchables, jenna's over turned yellow chair, a box of crayons upside down, five shoes, an arm of stuffed animals, a computer desk, barbie, tigger, an activity pad, and a popsicle stick. And that's just the floor.
Okay, this is depressing me.
I'm stopping with the living room.
The living room is worse. Much worse. My DSL cable is now strewn across the floor in between (and this is real time) a box top from an old lunchables, jenna's over turned yellow chair, a box of crayons upside down, five shoes, an arm of stuffed animals, a computer desk, barbie, tigger, an activity pad, and a popsicle stick. And that's just the floor.
Okay, this is depressing me.
I'm stopping with the living room.
The dog almost ate the cat
This morning Jenna got up before us and decided to play a game--let the goofy dog in to play "tag" with the cat. I drifted in and out of slumber as I heard odd noises downstairs. It sounded chaotic, but it always does when she gets up. It wasn't until I heard Bando woofing up a storm that I thought I should investigate. He and Jenna were on top of the leather couch when I got there, the kitten hiding in the crevice between the couch and the stereo speaker. Bando, for his part, was poised to grab a mouth full of kittie. He's a gentle soul but thinks with his paws and mouth. Something about boxer mixes.
"Jenna, what are you doing?"
"We were playing king of the mountain."
"Where's the cat?"
Pointing, "Down there."
"Why is Bando in here?"
"He wanted to come in and play. We were just playing tag. He sure is a silly one."
"Get him off the couch. Get you off the couch."
And as they jumped down and ran up the stairs, the cat flew out of his hiding place after them. I think they really were playing tag.
"Jenna, what are you doing?"
"We were playing king of the mountain."
"Where's the cat?"
Pointing, "Down there."
"Why is Bando in here?"
"He wanted to come in and play. We were just playing tag. He sure is a silly one."
"Get him off the couch. Get you off the couch."
And as they jumped down and ran up the stairs, the cat flew out of his hiding place after them. I think they really were playing tag.
One more time with feeling...
The Internet is Bi-Polar. It is a tragedy and comedy all at once; it's dark and it's light, fiction and non-fiction all at once. It's everything that has ever been written and nothing all at the same time. It is poetry and prose at once, elevating and degrading, uplifting and depressing, brilliant and stupid. The net is as much about splitting as it is joining.
And if the net is an agreement, it is as much about disorder as it is protocol. It is as much about the schizophrenia of me, myself, and I (and him and her and them and us) as it is about the handshake with the network. It's as much about how you arrive as what you do there, and as much about what you do after you've been as it is what you did while you were there.
And if the net is an agreement, it is as much about disorder as it is protocol. It is as much about the schizophrenia of me, myself, and I (and him and her and them and us) as it is about the handshake with the network. It's as much about how you arrive as what you do there, and as much about what you do after you've been as it is what you did while you were there.