Tuning in to the live BloggerCon Webcast today to catch bits and pieces. Tip: Have your mute button ready--the microphone they're using in the audience has a wild buzz.
So far, it's interesting--especially the live webcast itself. In theory, I mean. Two years ago we were kind of stumbling around finding out who we were. Now we're webcasting live discussions on blogging realtime. It's all rather surreal.
October 04, 2003
From Montessori to Public School
It's depressing. Ask George. Jenna's kindergarten experience so far has been nothing short of depressing. I don't know if it's her age (september birthday that missed the state cut off for first grade by 4 weeks) or her Montessori experience that brought her too far ahead, but this current kindergarten situation isn't working.
I thought I'd found a good compromise in a school that is not quite a regular public school--one of those new-fangled special schools, but still state funded--and I thought there would be a better chance for her to move ahead (either within her grade, or literally to first grade) at this school. So far, none of that has happened.
The newsletters we receive at home from her teacher suggest activities such as:
Use string to make the shape of an "S" - (she's been reading for over a year)
Let your child write letters in shaving cream - (george did that with her when she was 3. she's been writing for real for 2 years now).
This week, the newsletter said, they learned the difference between a real horse and a model horse.
Well unless someone shipped over some actual steaming maneure for the kids to smell, I don't think Jenna learned much new from that little exercise.
Things like that. There are more examples. Jenna comes home and acts out. When I ask her what she learned at school, she says "It's boring. It's stuff I already did before. And the other kids whine all the time!"
And then she starts.
So we've been attempting to reach the administration to discuss the situation.
It took four in person visits to the school to get the Principal to call us back, just once. She did not apologize for her lack of response. If I hear ONE MORE TIME how busy she is, I promise you, I am going to pop my top. Busy? She thinks her job is busy? Join the stinking club, lamebrain. If I treated my clients like you treat your parents, I wouldn't HAVE any.
Anyway, the Principal promised us during her gracious call that the guidance counselor would call us Thursday or Friday. "I promise I will have her call you Thursday or Friday," she said.
She never did. It took two more calls on our end to chase her down. The guidance counselor gave George a laundry list of benefits from keeping Jenna in Kindergarten, but indicated the choice was ours.
So we thought about it. George more than me. He actually thinks about things. I react. When all was said and done, we decided to have her moved to first grade. We called to tell them to move her, and it was like talking (again?) to a space alien. Did she even remember us? I couldn't tell by the tenor of her voice.
Now, apparently, they don't think she's ready to move.
Ready to move?
She's the only six-year old in her class. If she had been born at 36 weeks instead of 40 weeks, we wouldn't be having this discussion. She's had almost 3 years of Montessori. She reads, writes, and does math equations for FUN--the only one in her class who can. She's sick of coloring already!
She's forgetting what she once knew. She's regressing. She's bored to tears, quite literally. She loves Saturdays and Sundays because she can do work at home. She doesn't want to get up for school.
This is not the Montessori child I knew.
This is not the same the child who used to push ME out of bed to get to Montessori. She knows the continents, she knows the rainforest, she knows how to read chapter books, she always has a pen in her hand.
And now, she's starting to forget. And she says she's forgetting. She'll TELL you she's forgetting things.
I think it's because she's using her brain power to re-absorb and re-awaken what had become inherent. And she's stumbling because of it.
I have no scientific proof of this. But I have something that makes me more credible: the title of Mother.
Stop me before I strangle someone.
The bottom line is we have a meeting with the weenies at the school on Monday morning.
Any words of wisdom on how to approach a very arrogant, very disorganizied, very clueless female Principal are welcome. In other words, what language do these idiots speak????????????
I thought I'd found a good compromise in a school that is not quite a regular public school--one of those new-fangled special schools, but still state funded--and I thought there would be a better chance for her to move ahead (either within her grade, or literally to first grade) at this school. So far, none of that has happened.
The newsletters we receive at home from her teacher suggest activities such as:
Use string to make the shape of an "S" - (she's been reading for over a year)
Let your child write letters in shaving cream - (george did that with her when she was 3. she's been writing for real for 2 years now).
This week, the newsletter said, they learned the difference between a real horse and a model horse.
Well unless someone shipped over some actual steaming maneure for the kids to smell, I don't think Jenna learned much new from that little exercise.
Things like that. There are more examples. Jenna comes home and acts out. When I ask her what she learned at school, she says "It's boring. It's stuff I already did before. And the other kids whine all the time!"
And then she starts.
So we've been attempting to reach the administration to discuss the situation.
It took four in person visits to the school to get the Principal to call us back, just once. She did not apologize for her lack of response. If I hear ONE MORE TIME how busy she is, I promise you, I am going to pop my top. Busy? She thinks her job is busy? Join the stinking club, lamebrain. If I treated my clients like you treat your parents, I wouldn't HAVE any.
Anyway, the Principal promised us during her gracious call that the guidance counselor would call us Thursday or Friday. "I promise I will have her call you Thursday or Friday," she said.
She never did. It took two more calls on our end to chase her down. The guidance counselor gave George a laundry list of benefits from keeping Jenna in Kindergarten, but indicated the choice was ours.
So we thought about it. George more than me. He actually thinks about things. I react. When all was said and done, we decided to have her moved to first grade. We called to tell them to move her, and it was like talking (again?) to a space alien. Did she even remember us? I couldn't tell by the tenor of her voice.
Now, apparently, they don't think she's ready to move.
Ready to move?
She's the only six-year old in her class. If she had been born at 36 weeks instead of 40 weeks, we wouldn't be having this discussion. She's had almost 3 years of Montessori. She reads, writes, and does math equations for FUN--the only one in her class who can. She's sick of coloring already!
She's forgetting what she once knew. She's regressing. She's bored to tears, quite literally. She loves Saturdays and Sundays because she can do work at home. She doesn't want to get up for school.
This is not the Montessori child I knew.
This is not the same the child who used to push ME out of bed to get to Montessori. She knows the continents, she knows the rainforest, she knows how to read chapter books, she always has a pen in her hand.
And now, she's starting to forget. And she says she's forgetting. She'll TELL you she's forgetting things.
I think it's because she's using her brain power to re-absorb and re-awaken what had become inherent. And she's stumbling because of it.
I have no scientific proof of this. But I have something that makes me more credible: the title of Mother.
Stop me before I strangle someone.
The bottom line is we have a meeting with the weenies at the school on Monday morning.
Any words of wisdom on how to approach a very arrogant, very disorganizied, very clueless female Principal are welcome. In other words, what language do these idiots speak????????????
October 03, 2003
October 02, 2003
Dr Bill! Dr. Bill!
He's brilliant, he's funny, he's wacky, he's an MD, and he's blogging.
Dr. Bill Koslosky, MD, has joined the party. As Halley would say, "Don't miss it!"
You know, Mercury must really be in retrograde. And I don't even believe in that stuff. Generally speaking.
But last night I looked up at the sky and actually asked out loud, "What the hell is going on here?"
Two more days.
This post makes no sense, I think.
Dr. Bill Koslosky, MD, has joined the party. As Halley would say, "Don't miss it!"
You know, Mercury must really be in retrograde. And I don't even believe in that stuff. Generally speaking.
But last night I looked up at the sky and actually asked out loud, "What the hell is going on here?"
Two more days.
This post makes no sense, I think.
October 01, 2003
The Death of BigPR Part 34
Star talent, senior talent, expendable talent. Ketchum should know that Weber has stolen a page from its playbook.
I know for Michael, the news is still sinking in. It BEYOND sucks. I feel nothing short of righteous indignation over this happening to a pro like Michael. This is an amazingly smart, intuitive, gifted business and PR guy. The problem is, those who fit this bill are not needed INSIDE of BIGAgencies right now. This is maintenance season for BigPR.
And me with my hunting license!
The loosely-joined global PR network gains another node.
Canada present and accounted for. (Okay, so Michael doesn't know I've drafted him yet.)
I have a new term for this whole phenomenon. It applies to both the letter go and the let go. It is directly related to business models that can thrive in this economy and lifestage of the Internet, and those that can't. I now call it, in honor of Michael, getting "Gonzoed.".
Any questions?
I know for Michael, the news is still sinking in. It BEYOND sucks. I feel nothing short of righteous indignation over this happening to a pro like Michael. This is an amazingly smart, intuitive, gifted business and PR guy. The problem is, those who fit this bill are not needed INSIDE of BIGAgencies right now. This is maintenance season for BigPR.
And me with my hunting license!
The loosely-joined global PR network gains another node.
Canada present and accounted for. (Okay, so Michael doesn't know I've drafted him yet.)
I have a new term for this whole phenomenon. It applies to both the letter go and the let go. It is directly related to business models that can thrive in this economy and lifestage of the Internet, and those that can't. I now call it, in honor of Michael, getting "Gonzoed.".
Any questions?
where ya been all day?
in the dark. that was today. nothing. because, you know that little issue I've been having with money (like getting used to the fact that it takes 30-45 days to get paid for a project, and let's remember what I was doing 45 days ago--does the POOL ring a bell to anyone? yes, those days). Yes, no secret things were slow in August. And picked up after jenna got out of the hospital. And so I think I'm putting this whole Net 30 thing together. Like Net 30 means in about 45 days you get paid, and then, conversely, 45 days after the weeks you had NO work you are, in essence, broke.
Not totally. You know. We have those extra dollars in the bank for the little things. But since you (I'm supposed to say I, or that's what I'm learning in therapy--to OWN my stuff), I don't have enough for the big things. So that gets depressing, so you kind of forget about ALL the big things, and then before you know it, you forget about the really important things: Like ELECTRICITY!
And so at 10 a.m. when Mr. Gas and Electric himself pulls up and cuts you off, and you (in this case, "I") skip out to the driveway with a check, like, "haha silly me...sorry...here you go," and he says "we don't take payment in the field" and you're thinking, this isn't a field, this is my yard, and motherfucker that's my electric hookup you're fiddling with, and I'm going to have to slap you. And then you look eye to eye, and you realize really, it's not his fault. He has to do what he's doing so someone doesn't drive up to his house and disconnect him.
Well, all that is a long way around saying that it's been 12 hours without power today. George took care of it by charming them (that's the look he uses prior to "the glare") or something around 11 a.m., BUT they never got around to coming back and reconnecting us until a little bit ago. It's really late now.
I had the misfortune of being home all day. By myself. I actually enjoyed the quiet. The darkness. And it wasn't long before I was laughing at this house, at me, at the insanity of it. I began thinking I wanted to better understand Socialism.
In the quieter moments, I noticed the odd things. Being without power is like having your house play practical jokes on you all day long.
Hmmm, what should I wear, oh I know--I'll grab my jean skirt, it's back here in the closet somewhere, just let me turn on the closet ligh..... OH YOU silly house you!! There you go tricking me again--we have no lights!
And then you're kind of hungry and you remember NOT to open the refrigerator, because that would let all the cold air out, so you're feeling really smart for remembering that, and so you decide to have a snack and open the microwave to put the microwave popcorn in and oooooooo--there's that crazy house playing a joke on me again. NO microwave. Sheeesh!! Whadda comedian I am!
Ah well. That's okay. I'm just going to go laydown and... oh that's right, I know I can't watch TV, so maybe I'll take a bath instead, probably enough hot water left for that, ahhhh, yes, nice hot water to fill the tub. Just let me bring the phone in here so I don't miss a ca.....ha ha ha you funny bastard--why bring a cordless phone in to the bathroom--it won't RING goofy! fooled again!
All day long it was like that. Playing GOTCHAs with the house. Saving just enough battery life on my computer so I could get email during my client call at 1:00 (on a non-cordless phone--am I getting smart or what?), only to realize that while the computer can run for a short time without electricity, and DSL works fine without electricity, THE ROUTER DOESN'T.
DOH!!
hahaahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaa! snort snort! chuckle chuckle!
Are you laughing with me?
So that was today. 41 years I've managed not to get my power cut off. Oh well. Slapping my head over my own lack of sense, poor time management, and disorganization. Promising myself to begin to get it together TOMORROW!
Thanks for all the b-day wishes for Baby Blogger, by the way. She had a wonderful day yesterday. And Elaine, thank you. The box arrived today, but I'm saving it for tomorrow... you know... since we have LIGHTS now and she'll actually be able to SEE it.
Thank you, and goodnight.
Lights out everyone!
;-)
Not totally. You know. We have those extra dollars in the bank for the little things. But since you (I'm supposed to say I, or that's what I'm learning in therapy--to OWN my stuff), I don't have enough for the big things. So that gets depressing, so you kind of forget about ALL the big things, and then before you know it, you forget about the really important things: Like ELECTRICITY!
And so at 10 a.m. when Mr. Gas and Electric himself pulls up and cuts you off, and you (in this case, "I") skip out to the driveway with a check, like, "haha silly me...sorry...here you go," and he says "we don't take payment in the field" and you're thinking, this isn't a field, this is my yard, and motherfucker that's my electric hookup you're fiddling with, and I'm going to have to slap you. And then you look eye to eye, and you realize really, it's not his fault. He has to do what he's doing so someone doesn't drive up to his house and disconnect him.
Well, all that is a long way around saying that it's been 12 hours without power today. George took care of it by charming them (that's the look he uses prior to "the glare") or something around 11 a.m., BUT they never got around to coming back and reconnecting us until a little bit ago. It's really late now.
I had the misfortune of being home all day. By myself. I actually enjoyed the quiet. The darkness. And it wasn't long before I was laughing at this house, at me, at the insanity of it. I began thinking I wanted to better understand Socialism.
In the quieter moments, I noticed the odd things. Being without power is like having your house play practical jokes on you all day long.
Hmmm, what should I wear, oh I know--I'll grab my jean skirt, it's back here in the closet somewhere, just let me turn on the closet ligh..... OH YOU silly house you!! There you go tricking me again--we have no lights!
And then you're kind of hungry and you remember NOT to open the refrigerator, because that would let all the cold air out, so you're feeling really smart for remembering that, and so you decide to have a snack and open the microwave to put the microwave popcorn in and oooooooo--there's that crazy house playing a joke on me again. NO microwave. Sheeesh!! Whadda comedian I am!
Ah well. That's okay. I'm just going to go laydown and... oh that's right, I know I can't watch TV, so maybe I'll take a bath instead, probably enough hot water left for that, ahhhh, yes, nice hot water to fill the tub. Just let me bring the phone in here so I don't miss a ca.....ha ha ha you funny bastard--why bring a cordless phone in to the bathroom--it won't RING goofy! fooled again!
All day long it was like that. Playing GOTCHAs with the house. Saving just enough battery life on my computer so I could get email during my client call at 1:00 (on a non-cordless phone--am I getting smart or what?), only to realize that while the computer can run for a short time without electricity, and DSL works fine without electricity, THE ROUTER DOESN'T.
DOH!!
hahaahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaa! snort snort! chuckle chuckle!
Are you laughing with me?
So that was today. 41 years I've managed not to get my power cut off. Oh well. Slapping my head over my own lack of sense, poor time management, and disorganization. Promising myself to begin to get it together TOMORROW!
Thanks for all the b-day wishes for Baby Blogger, by the way. She had a wonderful day yesterday. And Elaine, thank you. The box arrived today, but I'm saving it for tomorrow... you know... since we have LIGHTS now and she'll actually be able to SEE it.
Thank you, and goodnight.
Lights out everyone!
;-)
September 30, 2003
What SIX looks like
Presents wrapped (Big Lots rocks). Cupcakes dropped off at school. Now to figure out dinner and a cake.
hmmmm.
til later.
September 29, 2003
what's news?
Really. I haven't heard a thing. I needed to generate about ten pages of copy today (note the word generate--not craft or create), so I decided to make Starbucks my office for the first time. It's amazing what a comfortable chair, some lame music, and three venti-sized cups of super-charged coffee/latte/mocha/java and whatever other things I drank can do for your productiivity. Sheesh! I've found me some new office space. And it's free, if you don't count the mandatory $4 a pop drinks.
Now, I can't get on the net, because I'm a lame old DSL cable chick, but I wonder if I could get one of those fancy wi-fi cards in my old Dell laptop and actually get online while I'm at "the office." That would be cool. Or maybe that would be a distraction. Jury's still out.
Anyway, I did have my T-Mobile Sidekick (you remember, the one that fell off my van going 40 down the highway several months ago) with me, and since I get my email on the sidekick (plus phone calls from creditors) I was highly reachable.
No complaints. Except that they should have some salads and real food available instead of all that sweet stuff. Between the sugar and caffiene, I've been a bitch since 7 p.m.
But I'm a bitch who met two deadlines.
that counts for something.
In other news, OUR BABY TURNS SIX TOMORROW!
My goodness. I'm thinking back to the night before she was born, and we knew she was coming since she was a scheduled c-section (thank you Fibroids--NOT!). She was born on a Tuesday at 8:25 a.m. Tomorrow's a Tuesday. I guess that's as close to a precise anniversary as you ever get.
I remember showing up for prep at 6-something in the morning. I remember sitting in our sliver Honda Civic, refusing to get out. I remember how not-ready I was. Not a pain, not a contraction. No reason to go in there. No reason to want her to come out just then. But it was our scheduled day, and it was our scheduled time, and surgeons wait for no man.
I really didn't want to go through the doors.
I really didn't see any need.
I'm quite sure she could have rested comfortably in there for another two weeks.
I think having to walk in pain free and submit to having my baby yanked out of me has something to do with my ever-present warm and fuzzy feeling of wanting her back in there. Where she was safe. When I was safe. Where our family was safe. Before all of everything that came afterward.
Anyway, George finally made me laugh at something, and I finally agreed to go in. I think if he hadn't been at my side, I would have rolled off the table and rolled myself home (see, you can't move from the chest down with an epidural; hence the rolling idea) just to get out of there.
But I didn't roll. I just felt like throwing up when they lifted me off the table with the mightiest of yanks to free her from her nest of fibroid tumors. That sweet little breech baby came out feet first. And George held her for me to see, and I think six trillion thoughts went through my head.
six or seven.
Man. They grow and grow. How do we get to where we get?
Everyone, take off work tomorrow in honor of National BabyBlogger's Birthday. Spend the day kissing your kids. We'll all meet at Chuck-E-Cheese, or the zoo, or Toys-R-Us. No one works. We all play all day. If you don't have a kid, play with someone else's. Or bring your pet to the park for the kids to play with.
For crying out loud, It goes too fast.
Way too fast.
Now, I can't get on the net, because I'm a lame old DSL cable chick, but I wonder if I could get one of those fancy wi-fi cards in my old Dell laptop and actually get online while I'm at "the office." That would be cool. Or maybe that would be a distraction. Jury's still out.
Anyway, I did have my T-Mobile Sidekick (you remember, the one that fell off my van going 40 down the highway several months ago) with me, and since I get my email on the sidekick (plus phone calls from creditors) I was highly reachable.
No complaints. Except that they should have some salads and real food available instead of all that sweet stuff. Between the sugar and caffiene, I've been a bitch since 7 p.m.
But I'm a bitch who met two deadlines.
that counts for something.
In other news, OUR BABY TURNS SIX TOMORROW!
My goodness. I'm thinking back to the night before she was born, and we knew she was coming since she was a scheduled c-section (thank you Fibroids--NOT!). She was born on a Tuesday at 8:25 a.m. Tomorrow's a Tuesday. I guess that's as close to a precise anniversary as you ever get.
I remember showing up for prep at 6-something in the morning. I remember sitting in our sliver Honda Civic, refusing to get out. I remember how not-ready I was. Not a pain, not a contraction. No reason to go in there. No reason to want her to come out just then. But it was our scheduled day, and it was our scheduled time, and surgeons wait for no man.
I really didn't want to go through the doors.
I really didn't see any need.
I'm quite sure she could have rested comfortably in there for another two weeks.
I think having to walk in pain free and submit to having my baby yanked out of me has something to do with my ever-present warm and fuzzy feeling of wanting her back in there. Where she was safe. When I was safe. Where our family was safe. Before all of everything that came afterward.
Anyway, George finally made me laugh at something, and I finally agreed to go in. I think if he hadn't been at my side, I would have rolled off the table and rolled myself home (see, you can't move from the chest down with an epidural; hence the rolling idea) just to get out of there.
But I didn't roll. I just felt like throwing up when they lifted me off the table with the mightiest of yanks to free her from her nest of fibroid tumors. That sweet little breech baby came out feet first. And George held her for me to see, and I think six trillion thoughts went through my head.
six or seven.
Man. They grow and grow. How do we get to where we get?
Everyone, take off work tomorrow in honor of National BabyBlogger's Birthday. Spend the day kissing your kids. We'll all meet at Chuck-E-Cheese, or the zoo, or Toys-R-Us. No one works. We all play all day. If you don't have a kid, play with someone else's. Or bring your pet to the park for the kids to play with.
For crying out loud, It goes too fast.
Way too fast.
September 28, 2003
monumental six-year-old moment.
Jenna turns six next week.
As monumental is this is for her, I haven't been giving it much thought, or have been trying not to. Some kind of denial thing on my part, no doubt. No party planned, just an inkling of doing something special, maybe the weekend after her birthday. No real liquid funds to do it up big, plus that has never been a real goal in our house. We're looking forward to taking her to the zoo for her very first time next week. She will love that--and since we've never been, it ought to be f-u-n for all of us.
The improvisational approach to her sixth birthday on my part has more to do with my not-so-unconscious desire to keep her my little baby forevere than my busy schedule, I'm sure. But this morning was I got an indication of why milestones are attached to birthdays, or why birthdays truly are milestones, at least for children.
For the very first time in the history of this mother and this daughter, Jenna let me sleep in until 10:30 this morning.
Oh. My. Goodness!
10:sweeeet40 to be exact.
She got up on her own, got her self dressed on her own, went downstairs on her own, did two mixed-media art projects that featured beads, straws, crayons, construction paper, and glue. She didn't make a mess. She made art. I heard her dancing around downstairs, while drifting in and out of sleep, knowing something was different but not sure what.
Not until she came in and said, "Mom, the clock saays 10:40, are you going to get up?" I looked at the clock. No lie. It wasn't 7:30, or 8:30, or 9:30. It was 10:40.
I hugged her and told her how big she was to get up all on her own and do her projects. And then I made her the big pan of french fries she'd been drewling for.
If this is six, I'm glad it's here.
Stunned, but glad.
As monumental is this is for her, I haven't been giving it much thought, or have been trying not to. Some kind of denial thing on my part, no doubt. No party planned, just an inkling of doing something special, maybe the weekend after her birthday. No real liquid funds to do it up big, plus that has never been a real goal in our house. We're looking forward to taking her to the zoo for her very first time next week. She will love that--and since we've never been, it ought to be f-u-n for all of us.
The improvisational approach to her sixth birthday on my part has more to do with my not-so-unconscious desire to keep her my little baby forevere than my busy schedule, I'm sure. But this morning was I got an indication of why milestones are attached to birthdays, or why birthdays truly are milestones, at least for children.
For the very first time in the history of this mother and this daughter, Jenna let me sleep in until 10:30 this morning.
Oh. My. Goodness!
10:sweeeet40 to be exact.
She got up on her own, got her self dressed on her own, went downstairs on her own, did two mixed-media art projects that featured beads, straws, crayons, construction paper, and glue. She didn't make a mess. She made art. I heard her dancing around downstairs, while drifting in and out of sleep, knowing something was different but not sure what.
Not until she came in and said, "Mom, the clock saays 10:40, are you going to get up?" I looked at the clock. No lie. It wasn't 7:30, or 8:30, or 9:30. It was 10:40.
I hugged her and told her how big she was to get up all on her own and do her projects. And then I made her the big pan of french fries she'd been drewling for.
If this is six, I'm glad it's here.
Stunned, but glad.
September 27, 2003
The Cash Flow Woes
Got some sweet juicy clients
know they got plenty of green
looks like I won't see my part
'til my kid turns 16.
I got the cash flow woes,
oh baby feels like a gray, gray day
got the cash flow woes
when them clients gonna pay?
mmmm love letter came in the mail
just yesterday noon
say the electric man comin'
to turn my lights of soon.
I got the cash flow woes
oh baby feels like a gray gray day
got the cash flow woes
when them clients gonna pay?
You know you poor (po), baby
When you 'fraid to answer the door (do), baby
The man come to get your Ford (Fo), baby
And give it a tow, baby.
Nothin you can do but cry, baby
And wave goodbye, baby
You get your shotgun and try, baby
But you better better better aim it high, high, high.
I got the cash flow woes
oh baby feels like a gray gray day
got the cash flow woes
when them clients gonna pay?
You know they like what I do
Say my words cut through the haze
But when I ask for my taste
They keep tellin' me THIRTY more days.
I got the cash flow woes
oh baby feels like a gray gray day
got the cash flow woes
when them clients gonna pay?
Now our sweet brown-eyed baby
turns six oh six next week
what little monney we had
the tooth fairy gave for her teeth.
I got the cash flow woes
oh baby feels like a gray gray day
got the cash flow woes
when them clients gonna pay?
know they got plenty of green
looks like I won't see my part
'til my kid turns 16.
I got the cash flow woes,
oh baby feels like a gray, gray day
got the cash flow woes
when them clients gonna pay?
mmmm love letter came in the mail
just yesterday noon
say the electric man comin'
to turn my lights of soon.
I got the cash flow woes
oh baby feels like a gray gray day
got the cash flow woes
when them clients gonna pay?
You know you poor (po), baby
When you 'fraid to answer the door (do), baby
The man come to get your Ford (Fo), baby
And give it a tow, baby.
Nothin you can do but cry, baby
And wave goodbye, baby
You get your shotgun and try, baby
But you better better better aim it high, high, high.
I got the cash flow woes
oh baby feels like a gray gray day
got the cash flow woes
when them clients gonna pay?
You know they like what I do
Say my words cut through the haze
But when I ask for my taste
They keep tellin' me THIRTY more days.
I got the cash flow woes
oh baby feels like a gray gray day
got the cash flow woes
when them clients gonna pay?
Now our sweet brown-eyed baby
turns six oh six next week
what little monney we had
the tooth fairy gave for her teeth.
I got the cash flow woes
oh baby feels like a gray gray day
got the cash flow woes
when them clients gonna pay?
Breaking Up (with a client) Is Hard to Do?
I've never been very good at saying goodbye. But maybe I should. At a minimum, I need to set up some ground rules I can live with. I need the work, yes. I need the money, yes. But do I need the upset stomach? Am I not too old to be "yelled at?"
hmmmm.
I can't help thinking that if I were a man, I'd be handling this better. I don't think I'd be letting myself get bullied into a situation I just don't want. Plenty of women have a right to jump in here and say, it's not a man or woman thing, it's a Jeneane thing. Maybe so. Maybe not. There are blurred edges. I know that.
I'm used to all kinds of clients and client types. I've always been a darling among clients. Even the toughest clients have always trusted me and shown me respect* because I kill myself to get the job done and deliver results, fast. (Better known as mistake exhibit A). And I usually don't mind when they don't treat me with respect. As long as they don't block the road to me getting my job done. And as long as they pay me well.
Maybe it's about setting boundaries, limits on my time and availability, putting some framework around the services I offer, maybe even first define them to MYSELF.
I've failed at putting processes and structure in place within my own business, because I've been running so fast to get and complete projects. That part is my fault. I'm running amuck treating every project like a meaningful but improvisational conversation rather than a structured engagement. When someone asks what exactly I do, although I do it every day, I'm still not sure how to answer it. When someone asks what value I bring, it's easier to show them than to explain it.
I think I need a business web site. To do some messaging and marketing for myself. The cobbler's children and all....
I think that would help me structure myself, define myself. And may even save or improve the relationship with the client that today I wish I didn't have.
I'm moving so fast to stay ahead of the wind.
It's time to slow down.
To take a look at what I want to do when I grow up.
Thank you for letting me turn a post that was going to be a rant into a possible solution. Ain't blogging cool that way?
*except for those within the 666 corporation
hmmmm.
I can't help thinking that if I were a man, I'd be handling this better. I don't think I'd be letting myself get bullied into a situation I just don't want. Plenty of women have a right to jump in here and say, it's not a man or woman thing, it's a Jeneane thing. Maybe so. Maybe not. There are blurred edges. I know that.
I'm used to all kinds of clients and client types. I've always been a darling among clients. Even the toughest clients have always trusted me and shown me respect* because I kill myself to get the job done and deliver results, fast. (Better known as mistake exhibit A). And I usually don't mind when they don't treat me with respect. As long as they don't block the road to me getting my job done. And as long as they pay me well.
Maybe it's about setting boundaries, limits on my time and availability, putting some framework around the services I offer, maybe even first define them to MYSELF.
I've failed at putting processes and structure in place within my own business, because I've been running so fast to get and complete projects. That part is my fault. I'm running amuck treating every project like a meaningful but improvisational conversation rather than a structured engagement. When someone asks what exactly I do, although I do it every day, I'm still not sure how to answer it. When someone asks what value I bring, it's easier to show them than to explain it.
I think I need a business web site. To do some messaging and marketing for myself. The cobbler's children and all....
I think that would help me structure myself, define myself. And may even save or improve the relationship with the client that today I wish I didn't have.
I'm moving so fast to stay ahead of the wind.
It's time to slow down.
To take a look at what I want to do when I grow up.
Thank you for letting me turn a post that was going to be a rant into a possible solution. Ain't blogging cool that way?
*except for those within the 666 corporation
September 25, 2003
No, really. BigPR is fine. Pulse good. Blood Pressure Good.... Uh, wait a sec.... Code Blue!
And in today's news: Ketchum Roots Torn from City in Merger.
I swear, I didn't know a thing. Honest. Call it intuition.
{sniff. sniff. she sheds a tear.}
"There will still be an office in Pittsburgh, but as part of the move to be more efficient, the agency is laying off six employees, bringing total employment to an estimated 20."
Film at 11.
I swear, I didn't know a thing. Honest. Call it intuition.
{sniff. sniff. she sheds a tear.}
"There will still be an office in Pittsburgh, but as part of the move to be more efficient, the agency is laying off six employees, bringing total employment to an estimated 20."
Film at 11.
David, did you remember the wheat bread?
It isn't exactly newsworthy what happened to me in Publix last week. But in the context of blogging, it was, well, one of those moments that makes you wonder, "What's going on here?"
I dragged my tired behind through the store, no list, a bottle of soda here, some Lunchables there, an uninspired grab for yogurt here, an obligatory package of toilet paper there. When I was done I had 60 percent of what I thought I might have come to the grocery store to get. I was more anxious to finish than to contemplate what we were actually "out of" at home.
That's me, that's you. We always pick the slowest line. But the cashiers at Publix are friendly. I wasn't that friendly when I worked the register at K-Mart in my late teens. But these kids seem to enjoy their jobs. And that makes the slow line bearable.
When I finished checking out, I pushed my cart ahead and turned back to get the receipt I almost forgot. That's when I saw him.
"It's David Weinberger!" my central nervous system said. Before I knew what was happening, the smile was painted on my face and I had inhaled, ready to come out with a loud, "DAVID!"
Now you should know, I've "known" David as a blogger for what, two years or so? I read Cluetrain and generally travel in the same blog circles as David. But I've never actually met the man. Never seen him in three dimensions. Only two.
And yet, for those couple of seconds, this poor fellow I stood beaming at WAS David Weinberger to me. So many introductions ran through my head: "David--It's ME, Jeneane!" "David, you shop here?" "Hey, Joho, HO HO HO!"
Then I remembered, in that gnawing physical world disconnect, that David doesn't live in Atlanta. I think he lives in Boston. Or near there. No, David wouldn't be shopping at my Publix. No, this wasn't David Weinberger. No, this isn't the land of blogs. No this is the real world. No. No. No. Behave yourself.
What a let down. To have thought I bumped into a real live blogger, by accident, a celebrity of sorts, in my very own Publix. Only to find out it was a man, like any other, trying to get his bread and milk on his way home from work.
Soon though.
Soon it might be that we're grocery shopping with more bloggers than we are non-bloggers. In our lifetime, I bet. We'll be standing in line at our local Blockbuster and recognize someone we only know textually. Or pixelly. And it will be like that.
It will be one of those moments that make your synapses fire, that bring you such joy, a re-uniting with an old friend, like that day last week when I saw David at Publix.
I dragged my tired behind through the store, no list, a bottle of soda here, some Lunchables there, an uninspired grab for yogurt here, an obligatory package of toilet paper there. When I was done I had 60 percent of what I thought I might have come to the grocery store to get. I was more anxious to finish than to contemplate what we were actually "out of" at home.
That's me, that's you. We always pick the slowest line. But the cashiers at Publix are friendly. I wasn't that friendly when I worked the register at K-Mart in my late teens. But these kids seem to enjoy their jobs. And that makes the slow line bearable.
When I finished checking out, I pushed my cart ahead and turned back to get the receipt I almost forgot. That's when I saw him.
"It's David Weinberger!" my central nervous system said. Before I knew what was happening, the smile was painted on my face and I had inhaled, ready to come out with a loud, "DAVID!"
Now you should know, I've "known" David as a blogger for what, two years or so? I read Cluetrain and generally travel in the same blog circles as David. But I've never actually met the man. Never seen him in three dimensions. Only two.
And yet, for those couple of seconds, this poor fellow I stood beaming at WAS David Weinberger to me. So many introductions ran through my head: "David--It's ME, Jeneane!" "David, you shop here?" "Hey, Joho, HO HO HO!"
Then I remembered, in that gnawing physical world disconnect, that David doesn't live in Atlanta. I think he lives in Boston. Or near there. No, David wouldn't be shopping at my Publix. No, this wasn't David Weinberger. No, this isn't the land of blogs. No this is the real world. No. No. No. Behave yourself.
What a let down. To have thought I bumped into a real live blogger, by accident, a celebrity of sorts, in my very own Publix. Only to find out it was a man, like any other, trying to get his bread and milk on his way home from work.
Soon though.
Soon it might be that we're grocery shopping with more bloggers than we are non-bloggers. In our lifetime, I bet. We'll be standing in line at our local Blockbuster and recognize someone we only know textually. Or pixelly. And it will be like that.
It will be one of those moments that make your synapses fire, that bring you such joy, a re-uniting with an old friend, like that day last week when I saw David at Publix.
September 24, 2003
bump
I'm bumping the last post into second position so Halley can read it in something other than 9 point Times New Roman, or whatever this horrid font size is. I think she still has one eye to go.
So, the question got popped today
Yes. That one: "What are you--a freelance writer, a PR person..." I could almost hear a silent "Or what?" at the end of the sentence.
Oh boy. I decided to answer it, since I've been getting the question for a couple of months now. But it wasn't an easy answer, and it took me a really long and winding email to explain it to the person asking, not to mention myself.
So much for my elevator statement.
Messaging Department, take a note.
I mean, in the traditional corporate career, you either write contributed articles and case studies and press kits and the like, or you write journalistically. You pick. One's a sleezy profession, one's honorable. One people run from, the other they like to rub elbows with.
Here, look at my poetry. We write kind of similar stuff, don't you think?
Well, no. I mean, not really. But okay. I like it when people like me. That works. So sure.
No one ever says, Oooooooh! Did you write that contributed article on Data Warehousing in DM Review last month? Was that your story on the customer information architecture by that CEO in Healthcare Informatics? {swoon}
No. That activity is not becoming for a writer. It simply pays the bills.
i.e.=sellout.
For my entire career, it's been a cut and dry answer for me. At Kodak it was technical writing; at STI, marketing and PR writing, at Crescent the same, at Ketchum more of the same times 20.
Even the stuff I wrote under my own name over those years, some that paid pretty well, was somehow separate from how I made my living. You know, my CAREER.
How I made my living was PR and Marketing writing.
But how I make my living now is not that simple. Because, if you've been following along with the home game, you know I got laidoff--or should I say I declined their offer to stay--by the Passion and Precision in Communication folks in April.
So, today I do everything.
Whatever interests me and pays, I do it.
And that isn't what most people do.
You're agency or you're corporate.
You're a PR person or you're a writer.
Always sides. Always dividing lines. Always a way to separate voice from itself.
So today, I find myself doing both kinds of writing within a business landscape that has been oiled and tuned for decades to see the dividing line, the hierarchy, the bottom feeders of PR versus the editorial elite.
And I don't fit either mold. Or I fit both. I'm in Media Map as a weblog journalist. Soon I'll be in Media Map as a freelance writer. I also use Media Map for one of my clients, the only one currently for whom I do PR.
What do you make of that? What does that make me?
Yesterday, when this very issue started swirling around my head, I decided that the identity crisis I'm going through is less about ME and more about a subtle change that's taking place around VOICE. Voice with a capital V. Thanks to blogging.
The way I see it today is that the imaginary lines that have for so long separated and silenced human beings as Voices are in place largely because the human voice doesn't fit within the business model, preferences, or pet peeves of big media NOR does it fit the business models, preferences, and brown nosing of BigPR. Not to mention corporations in general, AKA: the client.
Thanks to the Net and most especially blogging, the human voice is beginning, ever so subtly, to rise to the top. To become media. Voice as media resonataing with message. It doesn't matter the outlet, the voice is becoming the place of broadcast wattage. What that means is that I don't care whether I read it in CIO magazine under Halley Suitt's name, or whether Halley Suitt writes it under Jack Bennett's (who? i dunno--it's just a name) name, or if she writes it for Penthouse. You can't deny her voice. I'll know it's her. Even when it's not her. You see?
Give me a Suitt, hold the mayo, extra ketchup.
It's like that. It's a Kleenex thing.
Our day is here. We used to have to bury our voices in business. But that's changing. Even if it's changing because the loudest and most obnoxious among us are being cast out.
GOOD! That's GOOD!
If we are doing nothing else here, we are honing our ears for honesty.
Bloggers know when something sounds dishonest--it doesn't hold our interest for long. We know when someone is telling us something from the gut, something they believe in. We are captivated. It doesn't matter if they're telling us about running out of paper towels and having nothing left to blow their noses in, or if they're telling us the GMAC mini van they bought already sucks wastewater, it is the VOICE----the heart, the soul----of the writer we're tuning into here.
And you once you've tuned into that, you can't tune out just because business wants you to.
You can't turn off genuine voice--you want more and more and more of it, because it makes you feel alive. You hear the heartbeat within it. You know someone's in there.
Tap a vein, I'm comin' in.
Where was I going with this?
Oh yes. The "What am I" question.
I think, from here forward, my answer will be: A blogger.
This other stuff I do, it's just markin' time.
Can I hear an Amen?
Oh boy. I decided to answer it, since I've been getting the question for a couple of months now. But it wasn't an easy answer, and it took me a really long and winding email to explain it to the person asking, not to mention myself.
So much for my elevator statement.
Messaging Department, take a note.
I mean, in the traditional corporate career, you either write contributed articles and case studies and press kits and the like, or you write journalistically. You pick. One's a sleezy profession, one's honorable. One people run from, the other they like to rub elbows with.
Here, look at my poetry. We write kind of similar stuff, don't you think?
Well, no. I mean, not really. But okay. I like it when people like me. That works. So sure.
No one ever says, Oooooooh! Did you write that contributed article on Data Warehousing in DM Review last month? Was that your story on the customer information architecture by that CEO in Healthcare Informatics? {swoon}
No. That activity is not becoming for a writer. It simply pays the bills.
i.e.=sellout.
For my entire career, it's been a cut and dry answer for me. At Kodak it was technical writing; at STI, marketing and PR writing, at Crescent the same, at Ketchum more of the same times 20.
Even the stuff I wrote under my own name over those years, some that paid pretty well, was somehow separate from how I made my living. You know, my CAREER.
How I made my living was PR and Marketing writing.
But how I make my living now is not that simple. Because, if you've been following along with the home game, you know I got laidoff--or should I say I declined their offer to stay--by the Passion and Precision in Communication folks in April.
So, today I do everything.
Whatever interests me and pays, I do it.
And that isn't what most people do.
You're agency or you're corporate.
You're a PR person or you're a writer.
Always sides. Always dividing lines. Always a way to separate voice from itself.
So today, I find myself doing both kinds of writing within a business landscape that has been oiled and tuned for decades to see the dividing line, the hierarchy, the bottom feeders of PR versus the editorial elite.
And I don't fit either mold. Or I fit both. I'm in Media Map as a weblog journalist. Soon I'll be in Media Map as a freelance writer. I also use Media Map for one of my clients, the only one currently for whom I do PR.
What do you make of that? What does that make me?
Yesterday, when this very issue started swirling around my head, I decided that the identity crisis I'm going through is less about ME and more about a subtle change that's taking place around VOICE. Voice with a capital V. Thanks to blogging.
The way I see it today is that the imaginary lines that have for so long separated and silenced human beings as Voices are in place largely because the human voice doesn't fit within the business model, preferences, or pet peeves of big media NOR does it fit the business models, preferences, and brown nosing of BigPR. Not to mention corporations in general, AKA: the client.
Thanks to the Net and most especially blogging, the human voice is beginning, ever so subtly, to rise to the top. To become media. Voice as media resonataing with message. It doesn't matter the outlet, the voice is becoming the place of broadcast wattage. What that means is that I don't care whether I read it in CIO magazine under Halley Suitt's name, or whether Halley Suitt writes it under Jack Bennett's (who? i dunno--it's just a name) name, or if she writes it for Penthouse. You can't deny her voice. I'll know it's her. Even when it's not her. You see?
Give me a Suitt, hold the mayo, extra ketchup.
It's like that. It's a Kleenex thing.
Our day is here. We used to have to bury our voices in business. But that's changing. Even if it's changing because the loudest and most obnoxious among us are being cast out.
GOOD! That's GOOD!
If we are doing nothing else here, we are honing our ears for honesty.
Bloggers know when something sounds dishonest--it doesn't hold our interest for long. We know when someone is telling us something from the gut, something they believe in. We are captivated. It doesn't matter if they're telling us about running out of paper towels and having nothing left to blow their noses in, or if they're telling us the GMAC mini van they bought already sucks wastewater, it is the VOICE----the heart, the soul----of the writer we're tuning into here.
And you once you've tuned into that, you can't tune out just because business wants you to.
You can't turn off genuine voice--you want more and more and more of it, because it makes you feel alive. You hear the heartbeat within it. You know someone's in there.
Tap a vein, I'm comin' in.
Where was I going with this?
Oh yes. The "What am I" question.
I think, from here forward, my answer will be: A blogger.
This other stuff I do, it's just markin' time.
Can I hear an Amen?
Let Us Take Stock
You writers know how it is. You work on a project. You're close. It's almost done. Everyone's happy. You're ecstatic because if you have to write one more word, even if it's only a five or six letter word, you think your knees will give out. You have no words left. Your brain has been sucked dry. Someone asks you your name, you say, "Ummm?"
Right, but it's almost done, so your brain cells start to regenerate--out of habit more than anything else.
And with the new brain cells, the old ones receed. Any knowledge you had on what you were writing about begins to fade. Soon it will all be gone. When you read the result in a week or two or three, it will all be brand new, as if you'd never seen it before in your life.
You'll think, wow, did I write that? Sometimes when you ask yourself that question, it's because the writing sounds so good. And sometimes it's because it sucks so bad. But either way, you dance about on light feet that day because the project is officially done.
Well, mine's not.
I thought we were close. You know how that is. Ooooo. So close you can taste it, and then a hump in the process, and more interviews, and more re-writes, and that's just the way it goes.
But you can't help it. You dig deep for the inspiration to keep pumping the words out. You're so desperate you dig into your cliche basket with renewed vigor. Anything. Anything. Have to keep pushing. Must get it done. Leverage Leverage Leverage.
Keep.
on.
one.
word.
at.
a.
time.
I have created this day the writer's serenity prayer:
God grant me the serenity to accept the edits I must change, the courage not to change the sentences that make sense, and the wisdom to know the difference.
SO in honor of where I am today, I've decided to take stock. Certainly, there are many worse things than a project that won't end. Certainly, there are many worse professions in life than those that keep you stuck to the couch, arms stretched forward, perched over these black keys like EltonFuckingJohn.
Certainly.
Now for two categories designed to help make me thankful for the day...
DOING THIS IS BETTER THAN:
Walking 8 miles to the store. But not better than walking 2 miles to the store.
An all-day workshop on anything.
Not smoking
Waiting in line at Motor Vehicles
A yearly OBGYN appointment
WHAT I WOULD RATHER BE SUFFERIING THROUGH INSTEAD OF THIS:
Laying flat on the floor, face down, being whipped six to eight times on the back with a [[name your implement]]. I would not rather be whipped more than eight times. And I would rather nails not be used.
A dental cleaning
1-hour traffic jam, but not 3 hour traffic jam
Cramps
A fall on grass, but not on concrete
Whole-house vacuuming.
That should give you an idea of how my day's going so far. So, how's your day going?
Right, but it's almost done, so your brain cells start to regenerate--out of habit more than anything else.
And with the new brain cells, the old ones receed. Any knowledge you had on what you were writing about begins to fade. Soon it will all be gone. When you read the result in a week or two or three, it will all be brand new, as if you'd never seen it before in your life.
You'll think, wow, did I write that? Sometimes when you ask yourself that question, it's because the writing sounds so good. And sometimes it's because it sucks so bad. But either way, you dance about on light feet that day because the project is officially done.
Well, mine's not.
I thought we were close. You know how that is. Ooooo. So close you can taste it, and then a hump in the process, and more interviews, and more re-writes, and that's just the way it goes.
But you can't help it. You dig deep for the inspiration to keep pumping the words out. You're so desperate you dig into your cliche basket with renewed vigor. Anything. Anything. Have to keep pushing. Must get it done. Leverage Leverage Leverage.
Keep.
on.
one.
word.
at.
a.
time.
I have created this day the writer's serenity prayer:
God grant me the serenity to accept the edits I must change, the courage not to change the sentences that make sense, and the wisdom to know the difference.
SO in honor of where I am today, I've decided to take stock. Certainly, there are many worse things than a project that won't end. Certainly, there are many worse professions in life than those that keep you stuck to the couch, arms stretched forward, perched over these black keys like EltonFuckingJohn.
Certainly.
Now for two categories designed to help make me thankful for the day...
DOING THIS IS BETTER THAN:
Walking 8 miles to the store. But not better than walking 2 miles to the store.
An all-day workshop on anything.
Not smoking
Waiting in line at Motor Vehicles
A yearly OBGYN appointment
WHAT I WOULD RATHER BE SUFFERIING THROUGH INSTEAD OF THIS:
Laying flat on the floor, face down, being whipped six to eight times on the back with a [[name your implement]]. I would not rather be whipped more than eight times. And I would rather nails not be used.
A dental cleaning
1-hour traffic jam, but not 3 hour traffic jam
Cramps
A fall on grass, but not on concrete
Whole-house vacuuming.
That should give you an idea of how my day's going so far. So, how's your day going?
crap
no time to play. thinking I was done with this recent big push on web copy was, well, wishful at best. I'm back to the grind this week. No time to ponder the better side of life among the blogs.
In real world news, our Jenna turns six on Tuesday. In the last week and a half, she's lost TWO bottom teeth. Truly looking like a six year old now. amazing. what happens. time. it goes. and goes. and then we're done I guess.
more soon. stay upbeat.
In real world news, our Jenna turns six on Tuesday. In the last week and a half, she's lost TWO bottom teeth. Truly looking like a six year old now. amazing. what happens. time. it goes. and goes. and then we're done I guess.
more soon. stay upbeat.
September 21, 2003
ahhhhhhhhh...
that was a sigh of relief.
I've not been here as much as I would like since Jenna wound up in the hospital because work picked up to a feverish pitch (get it--hospital/feverish?) right before she went in, and I've been racing ever since.
To everyone I haven't emailed back: I'm sorry
To everyone I haven't done what I promised I'd do: I'm sorry
To everyone I've done something to lately I shouldn't have: I'm sorry
To Jenna and George: I'm sorry.
Chalk it up to the limitations of human frailty. Over the last ten days I've dumped 65 pages of copy out of my head for a client. That's a lot of copy, even when you write fast and while you're sleeping. It's been a year since I've had to crunch like that, so I'm here to say the worst of it is done, for now, and I hope I can come out and play next week on my blog!!
You all have the day off tomorrow, 'cause I say so.
And that's WITH pay.
Enjoy!
I've not been here as much as I would like since Jenna wound up in the hospital because work picked up to a feverish pitch (get it--hospital/feverish?) right before she went in, and I've been racing ever since.
To everyone I haven't emailed back: I'm sorry
To everyone I haven't done what I promised I'd do: I'm sorry
To everyone I've done something to lately I shouldn't have: I'm sorry
To Jenna and George: I'm sorry.
Chalk it up to the limitations of human frailty. Over the last ten days I've dumped 65 pages of copy out of my head for a client. That's a lot of copy, even when you write fast and while you're sleeping. It's been a year since I've had to crunch like that, so I'm here to say the worst of it is done, for now, and I hope I can come out and play next week on my blog!!
You all have the day off tomorrow, 'cause I say so.
And that's WITH pay.
Enjoy!
September 19, 2003
One last thing...
I think these recent developments actually qualify me for Pirateship.
So, really, pirates talk like I do.
good night.
send chachkes.
or I'll have to slip aboard and steal them from you.
So, really, pirates talk like I do.
good night.
send chachkes.
or I'll have to slip aboard and steal them from you.
Now that I've located myself...
So, I thought I should report, now that I've found myself (see post below), and myself is a member of the media, that I can be bought. I'm not like those old school journalists. I'm biased, I'm poor (okay, maybe I'm like them that way), and I'm on the take.
Bring on your tired, your weary, your product enhancement press releases.
But you better send the cool t-shirts and pens and magnetic poetry and stress balls and yo-yos and leather binders and all those other cool things you send the real media.
Damnit.
And when you're not looking, I'll sell all the cool stuff you sent me on ebay to pay for hosting of this media outlet.
I also accept nice lunches where you can tell me all about what you're leveraging this month.
Sure, you want to do a press tour to my house, that's cool. Bring a toy for my kid.
I prefer to receive press releases never, and prefer to be contacted by email. Or carrier pigeon. YES, please send pigeons.
Yah, that's the ticket.
Bring on your tired, your weary, your product enhancement press releases.
But you better send the cool t-shirts and pens and magnetic poetry and stress balls and yo-yos and leather binders and all those other cool things you send the real media.
Damnit.
And when you're not looking, I'll sell all the cool stuff you sent me on ebay to pay for hosting of this media outlet.
I also accept nice lunches where you can tell me all about what you're leveraging this month.
Sure, you want to do a press tour to my house, that's cool. Bring a toy for my kid.
I prefer to receive press releases never, and prefer to be contacted by email. Or carrier pigeon. YES, please send pigeons.
Yah, that's the ticket.
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