Now that everyone in the entire blog universe has comments except him, and him, and her, I am having a whole new level of fun just hopping around blogs off of blogs off of blogs--the ones I wouldn't otherwise find my way to--and chatting up a storm in the comment boxes. It's like taking going on vacation from my own blog. Hopping on over to Europe and down to Florida and over to California.
I love blogging today.
But I'd love it more if I had my blogpalm.
December 26, 2002
blogpalm
In 2003, can someone give me a handheld device geared to blogging? I want all the cool little blogging-related apps and a quick browser and maybe a little resident help tutorial on all the HTML codes I could ever want, and a really easy way to type my posts in wherever I am?
Maybe I'd want email too. But not necessarily. I don't want it to be complicated or mixed with extraneous MS Office crap or anything. I just want it to be small enough to fit in my purse, to be called something like blogpalm or another cool name that identifies me as someone who's so cool I blog. And I want it to be a cool color. Or colors.
It could have those icons on the sidebar where I can one-click my favorite blogs to read.
Will it let me save my posts until I connect later?
I want something small to take with me so I can blog anywhere and not be distracted by palm-pilot-like excess capability. I just want to be able to have a browser window for surfing the web, reading blogs, and a browser window to post in, and some blogging-related apps, and a way to preview my posts before publishing so I can see what my post will look like once I connect, later, if I'm not connected while I'm writing.
I will pay up to $499 for my new blogpalm.
Not that I have $499 to pay. I'd prefer to pay $99-$299. But I'd save up for it if it were $499.
Now, someone leave me a comment about how this already exists, and please include a link to a site where I can buy it.
As always and as if I had money,
jeneane
Maybe I'd want email too. But not necessarily. I don't want it to be complicated or mixed with extraneous MS Office crap or anything. I just want it to be small enough to fit in my purse, to be called something like blogpalm or another cool name that identifies me as someone who's so cool I blog. And I want it to be a cool color. Or colors.
It could have those icons on the sidebar where I can one-click my favorite blogs to read.
Will it let me save my posts until I connect later?
I want something small to take with me so I can blog anywhere and not be distracted by palm-pilot-like excess capability. I just want to be able to have a browser window for surfing the web, reading blogs, and a browser window to post in, and some blogging-related apps, and a way to preview my posts before publishing so I can see what my post will look like once I connect, later, if I'm not connected while I'm writing.
I will pay up to $499 for my new blogpalm.
Not that I have $499 to pay. I'd prefer to pay $99-$299. But I'd save up for it if it were $499.
Now, someone leave me a comment about how this already exists, and please include a link to a site where I can buy it.
As always and as if I had money,
jeneane
I hear you hear me
Jonathon answers my call bravely, in an answer song that resonates with me. The wandering around inside of yourself wondering why you didn't feel worse than you did.
The me at six pretending to be grieving on the school bus, looking out the window, distant, hearing other kids say, "Her dad died. Wow." Me, not really sad that day. Me, glad for the attention I had to share while he was sick. His was focused on me, and then later on breathing, while pancreatic cancer ate him from the inside out, the pain, I understand, unbearable. So, once he was gone and I knew he was gone, well, then, what does a kid do? You get on the bus and you go to school just like you did while he was well, while he was dying, just like always. But you get more attention.
At first I liked it. The hugs from the teachers. Then it embarrassed me. Then it tortured me. Then I began hiding. From the cancer. From the spotlight.
I know Jonathon, the aftermath. When family members swoop in and take your dead parent's stuff, when people can't look you in the eye because it mirrors their worst fears, when they say, "I'm sorry," and you're thinking, sorry for what? Stop saying your sorry. You can't fix anything, and don't be sorry for me. Be sorry for you, you gutless spineless weasel here to steal my father's 1953 Fender Bass, and you, you lowlife here to steal my father's VW Bus, and you, you scumbag, come to get the upright bass. You sorry motherfuckers. Don't be sorry for me. Be sorry for your sorry lives.
I hate the words I'm Sorry. They batter me. They batter me because they are the first expressions I received from adults in my world who let me down. They let me down by letting him die. They let me down by pretending to care. They let me down by pretending it would all be alright. It wouldn't be alright. It would never be alright again.
I hate watching parents in the playground, their sons whacking one another in the stomach, "Tell Billy you're sorry." "Sorry, Billy." Turn around, he wacks Billy again. Sorry means you won't let it happen again. And you can't ever not let it happen again. So stop saying it. Do it.
I'm sorry doesn't cut it with me.
Say nothing.
Shut up and prove it.
And if you can't act, let me have my pain. Or let me go play.
Jonathon knows how it is when things bother you: "I hated that. All worrying what people thought. All wanting not to hurt someone's feelings. All caring about it," he says.
I know.
Oh, fuck, I'm the one without a dad. Everyone wonders. Their parents feel bad, ask me to father-daughter dinner dances. Please, the attention I wanted at six, I don't want anymore. Guilt? It sucks being uncomfortable over something you didn't do. It sucks being embarrassed about something you didn't cause. It sucks feeling bad for people who feel bad for you.
So you start to change.
You get an edge.
Jonathon knows.
And you kick yourself when you realize you've left yourself vulnerable, so you don't anymore. And then you kiss yourself when you realize you've left yourself vulnerable, so you do it again. And then you learn that you don't care. It is freeing.
To not care, to not have nerve endings on your outsides anymore; it's freeing.
Even if it is all different tomorrow.
The me at six pretending to be grieving on the school bus, looking out the window, distant, hearing other kids say, "Her dad died. Wow." Me, not really sad that day. Me, glad for the attention I had to share while he was sick. His was focused on me, and then later on breathing, while pancreatic cancer ate him from the inside out, the pain, I understand, unbearable. So, once he was gone and I knew he was gone, well, then, what does a kid do? You get on the bus and you go to school just like you did while he was well, while he was dying, just like always. But you get more attention.
At first I liked it. The hugs from the teachers. Then it embarrassed me. Then it tortured me. Then I began hiding. From the cancer. From the spotlight.
I know Jonathon, the aftermath. When family members swoop in and take your dead parent's stuff, when people can't look you in the eye because it mirrors their worst fears, when they say, "I'm sorry," and you're thinking, sorry for what? Stop saying your sorry. You can't fix anything, and don't be sorry for me. Be sorry for you, you gutless spineless weasel here to steal my father's 1953 Fender Bass, and you, you lowlife here to steal my father's VW Bus, and you, you scumbag, come to get the upright bass. You sorry motherfuckers. Don't be sorry for me. Be sorry for your sorry lives.
I hate the words I'm Sorry. They batter me. They batter me because they are the first expressions I received from adults in my world who let me down. They let me down by letting him die. They let me down by pretending to care. They let me down by pretending it would all be alright. It wouldn't be alright. It would never be alright again.
I hate watching parents in the playground, their sons whacking one another in the stomach, "Tell Billy you're sorry." "Sorry, Billy." Turn around, he wacks Billy again. Sorry means you won't let it happen again. And you can't ever not let it happen again. So stop saying it. Do it.
I'm sorry doesn't cut it with me.
Say nothing.
Shut up and prove it.
And if you can't act, let me have my pain. Or let me go play.
Jonathon knows how it is when things bother you: "I hated that. All worrying what people thought. All wanting not to hurt someone's feelings. All caring about it," he says.
I know.
Oh, fuck, I'm the one without a dad. Everyone wonders. Their parents feel bad, ask me to father-daughter dinner dances. Please, the attention I wanted at six, I don't want anymore. Guilt? It sucks being uncomfortable over something you didn't do. It sucks being embarrassed about something you didn't cause. It sucks feeling bad for people who feel bad for you.
So you start to change.
You get an edge.
Jonathon knows.
And you kick yourself when you realize you've left yourself vulnerable, so you don't anymore. And then you kiss yourself when you realize you've left yourself vulnerable, so you do it again. And then you learn that you don't care. It is freeing.
To not care, to not have nerve endings on your outsides anymore; it's freeing.
Even if it is all different tomorrow.
December 25, 2002
Tom Matrullo's a Papa
Sawyer James, born 12/24 at 12:17, 8 pounds 13 ounces. Happy, healthy, hooray. Looks like he's ready to kick back on a beach towel and catch some Florida rays...
peace.
peace.
December 24, 2002
Go Read Jonathon
Read Jonathon's answer to my call. I got some stuff to say about it. Too heavy to post while babies are being born. Gonna have to wait a day or so. But it's brewing. Yes, J.
December 23, 2002
Proxybloggin' for Matrullo
I want to scream. I want to scream, Tom!, we're here! we're not on the way to Florida for vacation yet! Call me back!
I am failing at my first attempt at proxyblogging.
Crap.
You see, Tom asked me to proxyblog while he and Wendy were busy having a baby. Needless to say I was honored. Too many words need to go here. Can't fit them all in right now. Next paragraph:
In the mean time, Wendy camped out at the hospital on Sunday with little action in the dilation area. Tom sent news that they'd probably come home for a few days and try again on Thursday. I emailed Tom yesterday letting him know that we might head out to Florida this week for vacation. But I wasn't specific. I didn't mean TODAY! I meant, you know, in a few days.
Problem is, I keep MISSING Tom's calls and emails. So now he thinks we're on the road to Florida when in fact we're here in Atlanta on pins and needles because of this news from Florida!!!
Blogsprog number 3 is on his way, ladies and gentlemen. I remain in a confused state, wishing Tom had a cellphone and I had his number. Along with blessings of a speedy delivery and health for baby and mom, I send a wish that Tom gives me one more chance to live up to the proxyblogging he deserves. Tom, I promise I'll pick up the phone. Call back. I don't think we'll sleep so great tonight here in Atlanta on our bed of pins and needles!!!
Come on Baby Matrullo. The blogworld is waiting to welcome you.
YAHOOOO!!!
I am failing at my first attempt at proxyblogging.
Crap.
You see, Tom asked me to proxyblog while he and Wendy were busy having a baby. Needless to say I was honored. Too many words need to go here. Can't fit them all in right now. Next paragraph:
In the mean time, Wendy camped out at the hospital on Sunday with little action in the dilation area. Tom sent news that they'd probably come home for a few days and try again on Thursday. I emailed Tom yesterday letting him know that we might head out to Florida this week for vacation. But I wasn't specific. I didn't mean TODAY! I meant, you know, in a few days.
Problem is, I keep MISSING Tom's calls and emails. So now he thinks we're on the road to Florida when in fact we're here in Atlanta on pins and needles because of this news from Florida!!!
Blogsprog number 3 is on his way, ladies and gentlemen. I remain in a confused state, wishing Tom had a cellphone and I had his number. Along with blessings of a speedy delivery and health for baby and mom, I send a wish that Tom gives me one more chance to live up to the proxyblogging he deserves. Tom, I promise I'll pick up the phone. Call back. I don't think we'll sleep so great tonight here in Atlanta on our bed of pins and needles!!!
Come on Baby Matrullo. The blogworld is waiting to welcome you.
YAHOOOO!!!
meg's squares and bloghopping possibilities
You know those little icons that Meg at Mandarin Design makes? I love them. See her "Blogs We Are Reading Today" area if you don't know what I'm talking about.
and 
are good examples.
How'd I get one? I begged poor Meg to make me a little square since she'd had George's face up there for a while. And she did. Meg is nice. And talented. And she knows begging when she hears it. I love what she does for us with the Mandarin site. (Although, I think George has become a tad obsessive since Meg showed us how to change font size and color.)
HERE'S MY POINT IN ALL OF THIS. My point is about Meg's square icons. I like them. No, I really like them. I want to be able to put these little icon buttons in my browser toolbar. I want squares for the top 20 blogs I visit everyday, and I want them on my tool bar or down above my status window so no matter where I travel, my favorites are a click away. I want to blog hop without going back to my blogroll or some like-minded blogroll to remember who I wanted to visit next. I will pay $10 to the first person who makes this easy to do.
I am getting old and can't remember things.
I love technology.
and are good examples.
How'd I get one? I begged poor Meg to make me a little square since she'd had George's face up there for a while. And she did. Meg is nice. And talented. And she knows begging when she hears it. I love what she does for us with the Mandarin site. (Although, I think George has become a tad obsessive since Meg showed us how to change font size and color.)
HERE'S MY POINT IN ALL OF THIS. My point is about Meg's square icons. I like them. No, I really like them. I want to be able to put these little icon buttons in my browser toolbar. I want squares for the top 20 blogs I visit everyday, and I want them on my tool bar or down above my status window so no matter where I travel, my favorites are a click away. I want to blog hop without going back to my blogroll or some like-minded blogroll to remember who I wanted to visit next. I will pay $10 to the first person who makes this easy to do.
I am getting old and can't remember things.
I love technology.
December 22, 2002
Well, What If I Don't?
Jonathon says I said something radical the other day, with my, "and what if I don't care?" option in my list of ways I could feel if one of my blogging friends perceived that another blogging friend slammed them, and if the other blogging friend perceived that they were slammed by the first blogging friend first, and I didn't defend either one of them. Jonathon, of course, says it in a way that's more organized and enticing:
"I dig Sessum for that. So very freaking true. Right and Wrong. Words that have contained zero meaning for to long. Well, they have been spoken to long. We are on the verge. The verge of freeing the big-big thing. The big thing that says we get to question those sacred no-nos. Not just question but throw them out. The things that make no sense. The junk that Bush says or Gore. The thing the fundamentalist pushes or that the liberal endorces. We are moving to flip out at tolerance calling for something deeper. Engaging eye-to-eye conversation. Me listening. You pouring. No converting you. That blew up the towers."
Fascinating read on what I was getting at. Just what I was looking for. Jonathon emailed me and asked for more. He said this:
"Damn. I mean DAMN. YOU HAVE to go on about this. More. Feed me. Stick the needle in. I don’t care what it costs. Push it."
It can cost a lot. It is a risk to drop the drape and show who you are--that you're not anyone's reflection, you're not a version of someone else, you're not even yourself most days. You don't know yourself when she stumbles in at 2 a.m., you don't know what you believe, sometimes you do, but days go by and you're not sure. You're not sure if believing in anything is even worth it.
The lines between love and hate, between loyalty and empire toppling are blurred. You can build a mountain on Monday and rip it down on Wednesday. You don't know how you built it or why you decided it had to go. It is passion sometimes without direction, unleashed, looking for a reason, looking for someone else out there to receive you, and if the wake of your voice pulls someone else under on it's way, then what's wrong with not caring about that?
What's wrong with setting a fire and watching it burn?
Some days I care. Some days I will roll your motherfucking soul over if you don't see it the way I see it.
Some days I want you to love me. Pretend if you have to. Bring me into the fold, welcome me into the cult, where do I sign, how do I pledge? Forevermore I'm yours.
Some days I love you unconditionally, I wonder how I lived a day without you in my life, can't live in the realworld anymore, moving to the compound in the woods so we can all cook together, read together, blog together, live together.
Some days I don't care if you live or die. I don't care about you, or you, or you. I only care about me.
Some days I don't care about me.
And what does it matter? When the music comes on and we're all listening and jamming, I'm your girl. I'm the one that'll keep it in the pocket. I'm here to hear you. To power your groove.
I wonder if you're there to hear me?
I know what it means to be real. This is who I am. I'm not who you need me to be. I'm done sweating and toiling for that. If you don't like me, I'll live. If I don't like you, I'll leave.
Does that work for you?
Take it away, Jonathon.
December 21, 2002
I took a lie detector test and PASSED!
Please state your full name.
Jeneane Dimino Sessum
Your Date of birth?
June 9, 1962.
Are you an "adult child"?
A what?
Are you an adult child of any known psychological grouping?
Oh shit.
Yes or no answers please. Are you an adult child of any known psychological grouping?
Several.
Ms. Sessum, are you a member of any cult, psychological, personality-based, or otherwise?
No…. I mean, what does that mean? I’m not sure. I hear this Kennedy and Hitler thing—I don’t know what the heck this even means.
Yes or no. Ms. Sessum, are you a member of any cult?
Yes.
Is the leader of that cult RageBoy?
By leader, do you mean he links to me and calls me on the phone a lot?
Yes or no. Is the leader of that cult RageBoy?
Yes.
There was an altercation on the web last week between RageBoy and Kalilily. Do you know of the incident?
Yes.
Were you involved in the incident?
Not until she dragged me into it.
Were you involved in the incident, yes or no please?
Yes.
Was the nature of your involvement to defend RageBoy?
No, the nature of my involvement was that I got dragged into it and then pissed on for being mindless and inauthentic.
Was the nature of your involvement to defend RageBoy?
Yes and No.
That’s either Yes or No, please.
No.
Was the nature of your involvement to defend Kalilily?
No.
Was the nature of your involvement to chase Mike Sanders off the net?
Yes.
Do you believe RageBoy has done anything wrong online over the last six months?
Do you mean, like, when he didn't post for five days at a time, or do you mean when he made the vampire pictures of his ex-girlfriend? Or that weird flash thing where her face flipped all around? Or do you mean all the porn he’s posted? Or that he called himself a babe magnet? Or that he slammed bix for calling him a nasty shmuck? Or which thing do you mean, exactly?
Again, yes or no. Did you believe RageBoy has done anything wrong online over the last six months?
What do you mean by wrong? Do you mean immoral, illegal, useless, or lifewasting?
DO YOU BELIEVE RAGEBOY HAS DONE ANYTHING WRONG ONLINE OVER THE LAST SIX MONTHS?
Well, it’s not that simple. I can’t give you a yes or no. We’re only just getting started. We’re not finished here. My personal prediction: RageBoy’s been tied up in a basement for the last six months and Frank Paynter’s been posting all this stuff. It's a joke. Or maybe it isn't. What if a year from now we read in the Rocky Mountain Times that teeth marks have been found in the necks of several dead men in the southwest. Or, what if laying around naked all day, finding your own ass with both hands, becomes the default? Or, what if none of this happens to be true? What if it’s all true at once? Better yet, what if I don’t care? What if I really don't care if it's wrong?
Ms. Sessum, let me restate. Do you believe RageBoy is doing anything wrong in regard to women, men, transvestites, or children online?
I don’t know what he’s doing. That’s why I read him.
YES OR NO, IS RAGEBOY A NASTY SHMUCK?
I’m not trying to be difficult. I don’t know what shmuck means.
YES OR NO IS RAGEBOY NASTY?
Yes.
YES OR NO, IS IT WRONG TO BE NASTY?
Online?
YES, ONLINE!
Only if your name is RageBoy.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Thank goodness THIS IS OVER. Elaine, I'm not hurt. I'm fine. Don't fret. Relentlessness doesn't phase me. I'm Sicilian. Why does everyone keep forgetting that?
My only problem with all of this is that you haven't heard me.
Such is life. Let's blog on!
Jeneane Dimino Sessum
Your Date of birth?
June 9, 1962.
Are you an "adult child"?
A what?
Are you an adult child of any known psychological grouping?
Oh shit.
Yes or no answers please. Are you an adult child of any known psychological grouping?
Several.
Ms. Sessum, are you a member of any cult, psychological, personality-based, or otherwise?
No…. I mean, what does that mean? I’m not sure. I hear this Kennedy and Hitler thing—I don’t know what the heck this even means.
Yes or no. Ms. Sessum, are you a member of any cult?
Yes.
Is the leader of that cult RageBoy?
By leader, do you mean he links to me and calls me on the phone a lot?
Yes or no. Is the leader of that cult RageBoy?
Yes.
There was an altercation on the web last week between RageBoy and Kalilily. Do you know of the incident?
Yes.
Were you involved in the incident?
Not until she dragged me into it.
Were you involved in the incident, yes or no please?
Yes.
Was the nature of your involvement to defend RageBoy?
No, the nature of my involvement was that I got dragged into it and then pissed on for being mindless and inauthentic.
Was the nature of your involvement to defend RageBoy?
Yes and No.
That’s either Yes or No, please.
No.
Was the nature of your involvement to defend Kalilily?
No.
Was the nature of your involvement to chase Mike Sanders off the net?
Yes.
Do you believe RageBoy has done anything wrong online over the last six months?
Do you mean, like, when he didn't post for five days at a time, or do you mean when he made the vampire pictures of his ex-girlfriend? Or that weird flash thing where her face flipped all around? Or do you mean all the porn he’s posted? Or that he called himself a babe magnet? Or that he slammed bix for calling him a nasty shmuck? Or which thing do you mean, exactly?
Again, yes or no. Did you believe RageBoy has done anything wrong online over the last six months?
What do you mean by wrong? Do you mean immoral, illegal, useless, or lifewasting?
DO YOU BELIEVE RAGEBOY HAS DONE ANYTHING WRONG ONLINE OVER THE LAST SIX MONTHS?
Well, it’s not that simple. I can’t give you a yes or no. We’re only just getting started. We’re not finished here. My personal prediction: RageBoy’s been tied up in a basement for the last six months and Frank Paynter’s been posting all this stuff. It's a joke. Or maybe it isn't. What if a year from now we read in the Rocky Mountain Times that teeth marks have been found in the necks of several dead men in the southwest. Or, what if laying around naked all day, finding your own ass with both hands, becomes the default? Or, what if none of this happens to be true? What if it’s all true at once? Better yet, what if I don’t care? What if I really don't care if it's wrong?
Ms. Sessum, let me restate. Do you believe RageBoy is doing anything wrong in regard to women, men, transvestites, or children online?
I don’t know what he’s doing. That’s why I read him.
YES OR NO, IS RAGEBOY A NASTY SHMUCK?
I’m not trying to be difficult. I don’t know what shmuck means.
YES OR NO IS RAGEBOY NASTY?
Yes.
YES OR NO, IS IT WRONG TO BE NASTY?
Online?
YES, ONLINE!
Only if your name is RageBoy.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Thank goodness THIS IS OVER. Elaine, I'm not hurt. I'm fine. Don't fret. Relentlessness doesn't phase me. I'm Sicilian. Why does everyone keep forgetting that?
My only problem with all of this is that you haven't heard me.
Such is life. Let's blog on!
December 18, 2002
The Day Mike Sanders and Jeneane Sessum Agreed
Mike Sanders says he's giving up blogging. I wonder what I'm supposed to say here. But see? I don't care what I'm supposed to say. The truth of the matter is what I speak: I don't have the capacity to care what Mike does about weblogging--he burned that out of me long ago with his nasty emails and moral battery. In short, whatever.
I do agree with Mike, though, that the time we spend blogging could be better directed. He's onto something there.
So, you be well too, Mike. And know that we have another thing in common--I'm taking some time off from blogging too, but I plan to be back. Something tells me you will too. See you on the flip side?
I do agree with Mike, though, that the time we spend blogging could be better directed. He's onto something there.
So, you be well too, Mike. And know that we have another thing in common--I'm taking some time off from blogging too, but I plan to be back. Something tells me you will too. See you on the flip side?
December 17, 2002
movement
One of the most amazing things about blogging, to me, is its fluidity. What we are doing, saying, thinking are typeset blips on a virtual timeline. This is important. It's important because we as humans are fluid, or we are dead. Our insides are circulating, regenerating, morphing, or else rigor mortis begins to set in. We are dynamic or else we are static.
This is why my archives are becoming more important to me. I want my archives to take on a personality. I don't want them arranged simply by weeks or months. I want to be able to tap into where I was--my headspace, my heartspace. I don't my archives to be just chronological; I want them to represent who I was, where I was, why I was, while I was writing. To be my living brain, my living heart, tracing back into the me I was so that I can learn more about the me I'm becoming.
To think that you are the same person you were when you landed here a year, a month, a minute ago--and that you will be the same person a year from now--is shortchanging yourself. If weblogging is one thing, it is movement forward. One post at a time, one eye ahead and one back.
That's why I've never pulled a post. Not to say I never will--I may feel the urge one day. But the reason I haven't is that I WANT to be able to look back and see the way I hopped from one thought to the next, the way I vibed off of others and myself, what triggers me, what inspires me, what shuts down my voice, what makes me grow.
I want a record. I just wish it could be chronological *and* emotional, that it could track the days of the year *and* the moods of the mind, that it could link back in time *and* back into my heart.
Carry on.
This is why my archives are becoming more important to me. I want my archives to take on a personality. I don't want them arranged simply by weeks or months. I want to be able to tap into where I was--my headspace, my heartspace. I don't my archives to be just chronological; I want them to represent who I was, where I was, why I was, while I was writing. To be my living brain, my living heart, tracing back into the me I was so that I can learn more about the me I'm becoming.
To think that you are the same person you were when you landed here a year, a month, a minute ago--and that you will be the same person a year from now--is shortchanging yourself. If weblogging is one thing, it is movement forward. One post at a time, one eye ahead and one back.
That's why I've never pulled a post. Not to say I never will--I may feel the urge one day. But the reason I haven't is that I WANT to be able to look back and see the way I hopped from one thought to the next, the way I vibed off of others and myself, what triggers me, what inspires me, what shuts down my voice, what makes me grow.
I want a record. I just wish it could be chronological *and* emotional, that it could track the days of the year *and* the moods of the mind, that it could link back in time *and* back into my heart.
Carry on.
let the record show
In the comments section of Elaine's blog there's a whole lotta accusin' going on that I am a cult member in good standing, a mindless drone to Massa Locke. Much of the accusations of such mindlessness have taken place in comments, here, and elsewhere. You know what? I don't want to lose those comments if YACCS ever decides to take a powder. They're too important. I want them so I can look back in five years on what was said. The whole story. That's how we're really going to grow from all this. So here's a rundown of what's gone down:
the post that started the chatter unveiled an underhanded attempt by Mr. Slanders to summon folks onto his anti-RB bandwagon, namely Marek, who blew the whistle. In the post, Locke also mentioned bix's recent callout of RB as a "nasty shmuck," saying this: "As to b!X, a boy with a handle indistinguisable from line-noise, he posted his nasty schmuck remark on his mommy's blog. Brave lad. Rather than have words with this insignificant weasel, I deleted him and his croney dame from my blogroll and good riddance."
A not-nice slam for a not-nice slam.
I posted this, an explanation of why the above post was dedicated to me--the answer to which is that I called Slanders out his name a long time ago. In said post, I stated that I don't lump the Bix/Crone team together with Slanders (or I didn't) when I wrote this: "While I'm not aligned with RB on his opinions about all his blogger relationships - I love the Crone, for example -- I second his nomination of Mike Slanders of Stop Trying as Blogger Asshole of the Year. (okay, well, I made up that nomination)."
That's when the fun began. Let's relive it, shall we?
------------------------
Starts out pretty nice...
FROM ELAINE:
"Tut. Tut. Poor little boy got his feelings hurt by mama Crone and her progeny (who, btw, contributes a hell of a lot more to making the world a better place than the poor little rageboy.) Locke IS a nasty schmuck. But that never stopped me from reading his weblog or keeping him on my blogroll, which I will continue to do. And it never stopped me from being able to separate his adolescent attitudes toward women and relationships from the often brilliant and usually amusing mentally verbal calisthenics. I guess I'm just a better man than he is (and, believe me, there's nothing manly about me at all!) I'm beginning to think that not only is Locke a nasty scmuck, but he's pretty much a lost soul, a lost cause, and a general all-over life-waster. Sorry, Jeneane. I know that he's your blog mentor, but his life seems pretty much useless otherwise."
Things are going pretty civil so far. A constructive dialog begins. Though I think calling someone "life-waster," a "lost cause," and "useless" is pretty much like saying someone's worth as much dead as alive. That aint' so nice.
FROM JENEANE:
"Elaine, I've logged probably 200 hours of real time conversation with Chris over the past year, during which he's helped me in countless ways. It hasn't been a one way street. Both professionally and personally I've learned from every conversation, plus we've laughed a bunch at times when neither of us had a reason to. He's friend to my husband, uncle to our Daughter. His brother and my husband are longtime musician friends that go back 20 years. The Lockes are part of our family. Who knew? Nasty shmuck? No. Abrasive and intolerable? Sometimes. He is brilliant--that's evident in what you mention above...the stuff that keeps you coming back to read him. He understands more about what we're doing here than I think most peple will realize until (my personal prediction) 5 years from now. He has an amazing capacity to understand and love. Yes, he's aggressive and stubborn too--qualities I find endearing in *MANY* of my blog friends (het-hem), even when they butt heads with one another. In short, I love you both. Bix, I'm still trying to figure out!
Still pretty civil. Okay. Cool. Agree to disagree. That's what makes the world go round. Then Frank Paynter chimes in some good stuff--which if I included would take too much room. He's seeing all sides, as he usually does. And wittily so. Okay, onto the next comment.
ELAINE:
(1.) I don't always understand b!X either, but at least he's out there in his community trying to make the world a better place for someone other than himself. (see http://portland-or.bordc.org/). I guess it's a matter of personal values. (2.) I have nothing against tortured artists and/or brilliant minds that try to make a name and a living manipulating the artificial construct of the world of commerce, even if it's couched in the interest of honest conversation. Something good is likely to come out of anything that urges speaking from the best parts of the heart. I do have something against schmucks who publicly harass former "beloveds" and who can dish out invectives out but can't take them. And, I have only pity and sympathy for narcissistic might have beens who seem to make a great effort to make sure the world at large sees them as emotionally stunted and psychologically deformed (by choice or circumstance -- it really doesn't matter) and then complain that people see them as emotionally stunted and psychologically deformed. In other words, as nasty schmucks. Obviously, RageBoy can't tolerate anyone who doesn't idolize him. To those who do, he bestows his good graces and frequent links. If that isn't narcissism, I don't know what is. I wrote Mike Sanders off a long time ago, but now I find that RageBoy has relegated me into his ousted company. While I'm not too happy about that, I'm very happy to suggest that those who idolize RB should perhaps check out his enormous clay feet and his consistent contradictions to his purported humanity. Someone should tell the emperor that his bare ass is hanging out. No one's got the guts."
Oh dear. The beginings of the CULT accusations are taking shape.... "Idolizing" and such. Followed by Elaine again:
ELAINE:
"uh. well, if there's one thing that gets my cauldron roiling nastily is unexpected and unwarranted verbal attacks. I didn't start the fire. However, I'm not afraid to stir the stew. Boil and bubble. Lililth rises. Kali smiles."
JENEANE:
"Elaine, I'll speak for myself here--let the other "cluetrainers" as you've referred to them lately speak for themselves. To suggest that I "idolize" Chris, that I wouldn't have the "guts" to tell him what I think about any given topic, and that any linkage that goes back and forth between us are based on his "good graces"--a return for said idolization--is more than wrong, it's insulting. There are about eight hundred reasons why, and a comment box probably isn't the right medium to list them--more on that elsewhere. What you write here is like saying, "Poor souls; they don't know they're just being used to feed an out-of-control ego." Wouldn't it be interesting if that were the case. Suggestion: Twist it, read it backwards, and see if it makes more sense. It would be nice (in some ways) to be able to boil all relationships--both in and outside of blogging--down to black and white, to never waver from absolute right and wrong, to be Pro A and anti B or vice versa. To hold to the "Mike Slanders line of absolute Truth As I Say It To Be." To draw thick lines with magic markers and never waver. But that's not where the human heart lives, it's not HOW the human heart lives, and it's not what we're doing *here*. From all the discourse I've seen flying back and forth in emails and posts over the last several months, the fire didn't start yesterday. And it wasn't lit with a single match or piece of paper in Boulder. Look deeper. Stir longer. Blog on."
Next Mike Golby chimes in and I'm not sure I still understand his comment, but it's something about hate the sin not the sinner. Then Tom, with his usual wit and charm. Again, they state their view, try to diffuse a bit with humor. To which I say the following:
JENEANE:
"Okay, Mr's Golby and Matrullo, I'll lighten up if my Crone mother will. The deal is, I don't have a problem with Elaine (or anyone) vocalizing their less than favorable assessment of Dr. RB's behavior if that's what they feel. I have a problem with the notion that somehow RB's butt is hanging out and I/we wouldn't have the balls to tell him, which, I tell him quite often, and, when is the case, he tells me. Not sure what ya'll think friendship is about, but in this case it's definitely peppered with, you ass, fuck you, that's not the way I see it, and you're the best. I'm able to do that. That's what makes me so damn charming. ;-)"
You know, I'm glad I'm who I am.
ELAINE:
"Yes. I just verbally behaved like a nasty schmuck. I tend to shoot back from the hip and then have to stand there and take the returned fire. Yes, I did NOT deserve Locke's blogattack. Neither did I deserve the vitriolic email he sent me that I won't repeat here. But I will back off on how I said what I said about Locke. And I thank Golby and Paynter and Sessum for reminding me. We are all human, with all of our faults and indequacies and mistakes. I don't condemn the human being; but I do condemn nasty schmuck BEHAVIOR. I feel the same way about Sanders and a lot of the other warbloggers, which is why I made up my mind to ignore them. Locke has a habit of behaving like a nasty schmuck. I have a tendency to return nasty schmuck behavior. We both need to lighten up. Only time will tell whether history views Locke as a cultural pop hero. I hope it does. As a matter of fact, in case it does, I'm going to save his vitriolic email (in which he calls me a passive-aggressive bitch) in case it might be worth something someday. Sorry Chris, I don't intend to 'fuck off.'"
Truth be known, I've seen many emails. Regardless, I notice here that again, Elaine seems to be looking forward to Chris' death--one might assume from the recent toungue thrashings flying about cyberland that she should get in a long line. Still, I'm content to let it rest. Who the fuck cares. I could see this personality clash coming a mile away. There's no winner here except Slanders. My worst fear realized. Then bix chimes in with his penny and a half.
BIX:
"I have no earthly idea what in the Hell this entire latest dose of claptrap is event about, but since I was dragged into it be the rabid Locke/Sanders tagteam, I'll just say this: Locke was at one time an unavoidable genius talent. But then he decided to react to a crash and burn lovelife as if he was a spiteful and vengeful pre-adolescent of the worst sort. And ever since then, I've been hard pressed to find any actual brilliance in there anymore. Just bitter pretension. Sorry if I don't see the appeal of that."
Well let's not stop there. Tell me what you really think.
BIX:
"Oh, wait. Hold on. One other thing, since Locke and his alleged genius felt that it would maligningly amusing to say this: he posted his nasty schmuck remark on his mommy's blog. Brave lad. FWIW (and it's worth little to most of those who still wallow in Locke's bootstrapped cult of personality), it was posted there because there was a thread of conversation there about Locke. How dare I! The gall! To participate in the conversation! The matter of whose site said conversation was on is irrelevant, and Locke's making some sort of bizarre point out of it only helps illustrate the nasty schmuckiness in which he's been mired for what seems like ages now. I suppose he merely wishes I had said it on my own site, so that he would receive just that little bit of more traffic."
THERE WE HAVE IT! "The Cult of Personality" accusation takes form. With eleoquent words from Bix, including "claptrap," Remind me--was this a bad Duran Duran song, or Boy George--I'm pretty sure the last time I heard it I was someplace that I left puking. Bix has been doing this kind of thing a lot lately. Pissing in other people's comment boxes and then acting rather surprised--read: really really angry--when people react to what he's said. Funny how that works. BUT WHY STOP THERE? Let's here some more Bix. You're getting to know me real good now. Piss in my comment box some more. It's not full yet.
BIX:
"This -- and the bit that follows it, about people drawing black/white distinctions -- is a load of bollocks. Someone from the Christopher Locke Cult of Personality explain to me why Locke can be brutal, savage, and vitriolic, but then if someone should bother to state in public, and perhaps harshly, just what sort of person that behavior describes -- well, explain to me why the cult goes out of its way to circle the wagons to defend Locke even as he moves onward to try his hand at savaging his critics. If such group dynamics don't lean towards "idolatry" as an explanatio, then someone had better come up with a good alternative. Because they haven't explained it here yet."
Okay, the whole cult worship thing has really grabbed hold here. I'm pretty sure Elaine's going to run with it.. So I figure I should say something first. Cut the whole thing off at the pass. Stop it now before it gets worse:
JENEANE:
"Bix, get a grip. "Claptrap," "Nasty," "idolizing," "Bitter," "Pre-Adolescent," "vitriolic": pot calling kettle much? Learn to read--I said whatever anyone says about Locke, say it. I don't jump to his defense. I don't care. He's a big boy--he knows how to speak for himself. I'm speaking about what is accused of *me*. Don't you dare imply that you know my story, what I'm doing here beyond what I've written, my story with RB or your mom, or that "idolitry" is what any of it is about. Easy, black-and-white Mike Slanderism is what that is. I'll be happy to talk about the big picture with you when you grow up. Hopefully I'll still be around. Til then, -j."
Wshew. Glad that's over with. Now bix can get back to work saving Portland. But no, he clearly thinks he's onto something with this "Cult of Personality" mantra. Hey, when you're throwing around some heavy meaningless words, run with 'em! That's what I always say!
BIX:
"Of course he knows how to handle himself. By dumping on other people. And then when people call him treating people that way, only they seem to get dismissed. He gets called some sort of Warrior Hero of Showing Us Humanity. They get disparaged for being mean. That, my friends and Romans, is a cult of personality."
To which Tom Shugart pops in to say, Go Elaine. RB is a nasty shmuck. To which RageBoy makes an appearance saying, hey, this was all staged--me and mikey knew what we were doing from the get-go.
------------------------------
And that, my friends, brings us to the end of 20 comments worth of bickering. Like a true blue blogger, I try one more time to clarify what I think is going on here in a post two up -- my permalink to that post is broken. Smart permalink. The result is another rash of cult accusations I'm actually too tired to pull out right now. Maybe later. I have a real job I better get back to.
I'll leave you with a comment from Elaine over on her site in which she details what's really going on with me and the mind control mojo massa Locke has cast upon me:
ELAINE:
"And Jeneane, you have a very special relationship with him; it has always been obvious that you are one of his annointed ones. (That's how a cult personality functions.) And, you look at him as your mentor, so it's understandable why you would come to his defense (as the unconditional-love mother figure). That's commendable. But, I'm just been a blogger who tries to question the validity of people who have set themselves up as cult figures, the assumed right, of some of them, to be nasty. Just because he has had to demonize me, doesn't mean that you have to, but I understand if that falls under your definition of loyalty."
What's left to say? How do you respond to that catch 22?
Have you stopped beating your wife? Hey, have you broken loose from that Cult yet?
Loyalty. Yep, that's me. The loyal and faithful servent who would never speak my own mind in public. I can't say what I think because I need people too much and the potential of their rejection of me would be too much for me to bear. Instead, I choose to posture behind my broad strokes, blending magical colors across the canvas that is allied, moved by an inner strength that only I can know, only I can touch.
Now, if you'll forgive me, I think there's a rolled up newspaper over by the couch with my name on it. I better high tail it outta here. And quick.
"Woof."
the post that started the chatter unveiled an underhanded attempt by Mr. Slanders to summon folks onto his anti-RB bandwagon, namely Marek, who blew the whistle. In the post, Locke also mentioned bix's recent callout of RB as a "nasty shmuck," saying this: "As to b!X, a boy with a handle indistinguisable from line-noise, he posted his nasty schmuck remark on his mommy's blog. Brave lad. Rather than have words with this insignificant weasel, I deleted him and his croney dame from my blogroll and good riddance."
A not-nice slam for a not-nice slam.
I posted this, an explanation of why the above post was dedicated to me--the answer to which is that I called Slanders out his name a long time ago. In said post, I stated that I don't lump the Bix/Crone team together with Slanders (or I didn't) when I wrote this: "While I'm not aligned with RB on his opinions about all his blogger relationships - I love the Crone, for example -- I second his nomination of Mike Slanders of Stop Trying as Blogger Asshole of the Year. (okay, well, I made up that nomination)."
That's when the fun began. Let's relive it, shall we?
------------------------
Starts out pretty nice...
FROM ELAINE:
"Tut. Tut. Poor little boy got his feelings hurt by mama Crone and her progeny (who, btw, contributes a hell of a lot more to making the world a better place than the poor little rageboy.) Locke IS a nasty schmuck. But that never stopped me from reading his weblog or keeping him on my blogroll, which I will continue to do. And it never stopped me from being able to separate his adolescent attitudes toward women and relationships from the often brilliant and usually amusing mentally verbal calisthenics. I guess I'm just a better man than he is (and, believe me, there's nothing manly about me at all!) I'm beginning to think that not only is Locke a nasty scmuck, but he's pretty much a lost soul, a lost cause, and a general all-over life-waster. Sorry, Jeneane. I know that he's your blog mentor, but his life seems pretty much useless otherwise."
Things are going pretty civil so far. A constructive dialog begins. Though I think calling someone "life-waster," a "lost cause," and "useless" is pretty much like saying someone's worth as much dead as alive. That aint' so nice.
FROM JENEANE:
"Elaine, I've logged probably 200 hours of real time conversation with Chris over the past year, during which he's helped me in countless ways. It hasn't been a one way street. Both professionally and personally I've learned from every conversation, plus we've laughed a bunch at times when neither of us had a reason to. He's friend to my husband, uncle to our Daughter. His brother and my husband are longtime musician friends that go back 20 years. The Lockes are part of our family. Who knew? Nasty shmuck? No. Abrasive and intolerable? Sometimes. He is brilliant--that's evident in what you mention above...the stuff that keeps you coming back to read him. He understands more about what we're doing here than I think most peple will realize until (my personal prediction) 5 years from now. He has an amazing capacity to understand and love. Yes, he's aggressive and stubborn too--qualities I find endearing in *MANY* of my blog friends (het-hem), even when they butt heads with one another. In short, I love you both. Bix, I'm still trying to figure out!
Still pretty civil. Okay. Cool. Agree to disagree. That's what makes the world go round. Then Frank Paynter chimes in some good stuff--which if I included would take too much room. He's seeing all sides, as he usually does. And wittily so. Okay, onto the next comment.
ELAINE:
(1.) I don't always understand b!X either, but at least he's out there in his community trying to make the world a better place for someone other than himself. (see http://portland-or.bordc.org/). I guess it's a matter of personal values. (2.) I have nothing against tortured artists and/or brilliant minds that try to make a name and a living manipulating the artificial construct of the world of commerce, even if it's couched in the interest of honest conversation. Something good is likely to come out of anything that urges speaking from the best parts of the heart. I do have something against schmucks who publicly harass former "beloveds" and who can dish out invectives out but can't take them. And, I have only pity and sympathy for narcissistic might have beens who seem to make a great effort to make sure the world at large sees them as emotionally stunted and psychologically deformed (by choice or circumstance -- it really doesn't matter) and then complain that people see them as emotionally stunted and psychologically deformed. In other words, as nasty schmucks. Obviously, RageBoy can't tolerate anyone who doesn't idolize him. To those who do, he bestows his good graces and frequent links. If that isn't narcissism, I don't know what is. I wrote Mike Sanders off a long time ago, but now I find that RageBoy has relegated me into his ousted company. While I'm not too happy about that, I'm very happy to suggest that those who idolize RB should perhaps check out his enormous clay feet and his consistent contradictions to his purported humanity. Someone should tell the emperor that his bare ass is hanging out. No one's got the guts."
Oh dear. The beginings of the CULT accusations are taking shape.... "Idolizing" and such. Followed by Elaine again:
ELAINE:
"uh. well, if there's one thing that gets my cauldron roiling nastily is unexpected and unwarranted verbal attacks. I didn't start the fire. However, I'm not afraid to stir the stew. Boil and bubble. Lililth rises. Kali smiles."
JENEANE:
"Elaine, I'll speak for myself here--let the other "cluetrainers" as you've referred to them lately speak for themselves. To suggest that I "idolize" Chris, that I wouldn't have the "guts" to tell him what I think about any given topic, and that any linkage that goes back and forth between us are based on his "good graces"--a return for said idolization--is more than wrong, it's insulting. There are about eight hundred reasons why, and a comment box probably isn't the right medium to list them--more on that elsewhere. What you write here is like saying, "Poor souls; they don't know they're just being used to feed an out-of-control ego." Wouldn't it be interesting if that were the case. Suggestion: Twist it, read it backwards, and see if it makes more sense. It would be nice (in some ways) to be able to boil all relationships--both in and outside of blogging--down to black and white, to never waver from absolute right and wrong, to be Pro A and anti B or vice versa. To hold to the "Mike Slanders line of absolute Truth As I Say It To Be." To draw thick lines with magic markers and never waver. But that's not where the human heart lives, it's not HOW the human heart lives, and it's not what we're doing *here*. From all the discourse I've seen flying back and forth in emails and posts over the last several months, the fire didn't start yesterday. And it wasn't lit with a single match or piece of paper in Boulder. Look deeper. Stir longer. Blog on."
Next Mike Golby chimes in and I'm not sure I still understand his comment, but it's something about hate the sin not the sinner. Then Tom, with his usual wit and charm. Again, they state their view, try to diffuse a bit with humor. To which I say the following:
JENEANE:
"Okay, Mr's Golby and Matrullo, I'll lighten up if my Crone mother will. The deal is, I don't have a problem with Elaine (or anyone) vocalizing their less than favorable assessment of Dr. RB's behavior if that's what they feel. I have a problem with the notion that somehow RB's butt is hanging out and I/we wouldn't have the balls to tell him, which, I tell him quite often, and, when is the case, he tells me. Not sure what ya'll think friendship is about, but in this case it's definitely peppered with, you ass, fuck you, that's not the way I see it, and you're the best. I'm able to do that. That's what makes me so damn charming. ;-)"
You know, I'm glad I'm who I am.
ELAINE:
"Yes. I just verbally behaved like a nasty schmuck. I tend to shoot back from the hip and then have to stand there and take the returned fire. Yes, I did NOT deserve Locke's blogattack. Neither did I deserve the vitriolic email he sent me that I won't repeat here. But I will back off on how I said what I said about Locke. And I thank Golby and Paynter and Sessum for reminding me. We are all human, with all of our faults and indequacies and mistakes. I don't condemn the human being; but I do condemn nasty schmuck BEHAVIOR. I feel the same way about Sanders and a lot of the other warbloggers, which is why I made up my mind to ignore them. Locke has a habit of behaving like a nasty schmuck. I have a tendency to return nasty schmuck behavior. We both need to lighten up. Only time will tell whether history views Locke as a cultural pop hero. I hope it does. As a matter of fact, in case it does, I'm going to save his vitriolic email (in which he calls me a passive-aggressive bitch) in case it might be worth something someday. Sorry Chris, I don't intend to 'fuck off.'"
Truth be known, I've seen many emails. Regardless, I notice here that again, Elaine seems to be looking forward to Chris' death--one might assume from the recent toungue thrashings flying about cyberland that she should get in a long line. Still, I'm content to let it rest. Who the fuck cares. I could see this personality clash coming a mile away. There's no winner here except Slanders. My worst fear realized. Then bix chimes in with his penny and a half.
BIX:
"I have no earthly idea what in the Hell this entire latest dose of claptrap is event about, but since I was dragged into it be the rabid Locke/Sanders tagteam, I'll just say this: Locke was at one time an unavoidable genius talent. But then he decided to react to a crash and burn lovelife as if he was a spiteful and vengeful pre-adolescent of the worst sort. And ever since then, I've been hard pressed to find any actual brilliance in there anymore. Just bitter pretension. Sorry if I don't see the appeal of that."
Well let's not stop there. Tell me what you really think.
BIX:
"Oh, wait. Hold on. One other thing, since Locke and his alleged genius felt that it would maligningly amusing to say this: he posted his nasty schmuck remark on his mommy's blog. Brave lad. FWIW (and it's worth little to most of those who still wallow in Locke's bootstrapped cult of personality), it was posted there because there was a thread of conversation there about Locke. How dare I! The gall! To participate in the conversation! The matter of whose site said conversation was on is irrelevant, and Locke's making some sort of bizarre point out of it only helps illustrate the nasty schmuckiness in which he's been mired for what seems like ages now. I suppose he merely wishes I had said it on my own site, so that he would receive just that little bit of more traffic."
THERE WE HAVE IT! "The Cult of Personality" accusation takes form. With eleoquent words from Bix, including "claptrap," Remind me--was this a bad Duran Duran song, or Boy George--I'm pretty sure the last time I heard it I was someplace that I left puking. Bix has been doing this kind of thing a lot lately. Pissing in other people's comment boxes and then acting rather surprised--read: really really angry--when people react to what he's said. Funny how that works. BUT WHY STOP THERE? Let's here some more Bix. You're getting to know me real good now. Piss in my comment box some more. It's not full yet.
BIX:
"This -- and the bit that follows it, about people drawing black/white distinctions -- is a load of bollocks. Someone from the Christopher Locke Cult of Personality explain to me why Locke can be brutal, savage, and vitriolic, but then if someone should bother to state in public, and perhaps harshly, just what sort of person that behavior describes -- well, explain to me why the cult goes out of its way to circle the wagons to defend Locke even as he moves onward to try his hand at savaging his critics. If such group dynamics don't lean towards "idolatry" as an explanatio, then someone had better come up with a good alternative. Because they haven't explained it here yet."
Okay, the whole cult worship thing has really grabbed hold here. I'm pretty sure Elaine's going to run with it.. So I figure I should say something first. Cut the whole thing off at the pass. Stop it now before it gets worse:
JENEANE:
"Bix, get a grip. "Claptrap," "Nasty," "idolizing," "Bitter," "Pre-Adolescent," "vitriolic": pot calling kettle much? Learn to read--I said whatever anyone says about Locke, say it. I don't jump to his defense. I don't care. He's a big boy--he knows how to speak for himself. I'm speaking about what is accused of *me*. Don't you dare imply that you know my story, what I'm doing here beyond what I've written, my story with RB or your mom, or that "idolitry" is what any of it is about. Easy, black-and-white Mike Slanderism is what that is. I'll be happy to talk about the big picture with you when you grow up. Hopefully I'll still be around. Til then, -j."
Wshew. Glad that's over with. Now bix can get back to work saving Portland. But no, he clearly thinks he's onto something with this "Cult of Personality" mantra. Hey, when you're throwing around some heavy meaningless words, run with 'em! That's what I always say!
BIX:
"Of course he knows how to handle himself. By dumping on other people. And then when people call him treating people that way, only they seem to get dismissed. He gets called some sort of Warrior Hero of Showing Us Humanity. They get disparaged for being mean. That, my friends and Romans, is a cult of personality."
To which Tom Shugart pops in to say, Go Elaine. RB is a nasty shmuck. To which RageBoy makes an appearance saying, hey, this was all staged--me and mikey knew what we were doing from the get-go.
------------------------------
And that, my friends, brings us to the end of 20 comments worth of bickering. Like a true blue blogger, I try one more time to clarify what I think is going on here in a post two up -- my permalink to that post is broken. Smart permalink. The result is another rash of cult accusations I'm actually too tired to pull out right now. Maybe later. I have a real job I better get back to.
I'll leave you with a comment from Elaine over on her site in which she details what's really going on with me and the mind control mojo massa Locke has cast upon me:
ELAINE:
"And Jeneane, you have a very special relationship with him; it has always been obvious that you are one of his annointed ones. (That's how a cult personality functions.) And, you look at him as your mentor, so it's understandable why you would come to his defense (as the unconditional-love mother figure). That's commendable. But, I'm just been a blogger who tries to question the validity of people who have set themselves up as cult figures, the assumed right, of some of them, to be nasty. Just because he has had to demonize me, doesn't mean that you have to, but I understand if that falls under your definition of loyalty."
What's left to say? How do you respond to that catch 22?
Have you stopped beating your wife? Hey, have you broken loose from that Cult yet?
Loyalty. Yep, that's me. The loyal and faithful servent who would never speak my own mind in public. I can't say what I think because I need people too much and the potential of their rejection of me would be too much for me to bear. Instead, I choose to posture behind my broad strokes, blending magical colors across the canvas that is allied, moved by an inner strength that only I can know, only I can touch.
Now, if you'll forgive me, I think there's a rolled up newspaper over by the couch with my name on it. I better high tail it outta here. And quick.
"Woof."
December 16, 2002
I Tank My Luky Stars
Tonight i tank my luky stars abov. I thank thos good stars dat i have this here real smart biness man to do my thankin fer me. I wdnt know wha to say without hm. i can barly type withot him tllin me how to thank or writ. i herd it's his persnality that got me all culted up an stuff. oooothankgodalmighty fer that, i kin tell you becaz without dat man i wldnt have a goo job an stuff or dis her blog or nuthin.
but lately i thank wha he's sayin bout dat woman a his is jus plain nasty. yeah nasty. usully i like nasty. but not dis. i wish i culd tell hm he shnt do that to the nice blond ladie. oooooooo but i'm so fraid o hm. i'm so fraid to tell hm wha i think bout anyting. ooooooo lawd what wd he do to me if i tell him he all nekid an stuff. oooooo.
1-720-304-8077.... ring.... ring...
hey!
hallo boss masa. hows yer throne empera boss, and can i com by and clean it fer ya?
Well sure. I just took a piss in it. wait. lemme flush. there. yeah. if you want to. Can you bring your own lysol.
ooooo sure will sir empora. whadever you say. an so ar you cold in dem mountans caus i kin bring you some aminal skins to put on kuz some pepel say yer big white ars is hangin out.
No, really. Keep them. My arse is fine. Hairy, but fine.
okay den boss. i'll be by wid da lysol to clean yer throne. but.... uh.... boss.... uh... uh...
What is it? What's up?
well.... um, i don mean no disrespec. you no boss, it's not like me to tell you whad i thank bout stuff, but i can't keep my ol mouth shut bout dis. see boss, i don like what yer writin bout femails des days. i think it's right nasty. you not goin bout thangs the rite way no more.
So?
uh. well. boss, the thang is, you gotta find nother way to xpress yerself bout this pain bein that it's been six monts and i think you got lil problem wit dis here depressin stuff. i mean, isn there anoder way, you no, you keep... well... pepel startin to wonder if yer okay. i mean those nasty wrds and pcturs... not that i wld ever tell you not to.... caus you know i'm fraid of dose reglar beatins.... but... i got an idea if you wan lisn to me.
Hey, I'm all ears. What you got?
well i thin you shld, you know, gather some powrfl minerals, make a potion.
Make a what?
You no boss, go down to dose geese by yer pond down yonder and get some fethers from them birds. Den get you some coppar pennies you find down by da noody bookstor down there by 18th, then grab you sum toilet paper, wipe undaneth the rim of da john over at the ladies sport club. Bring all dat back and start a pot boiln with some necktar of honey an sum melon seeds, and stir in the fethers an the pennies an the toilet paper. let it boil, bubble, you no, get real hot, real hot like a lady waitin in her bed late at nite time fer her man ta com home.
Okay, let me see if I got ya: geese feathers, copper pennies, toilet paper from the women's gym, nectar, melon seeds. Boil it. Hot. Very hot. And, so, what am I supposed to do with this?
OH LOR, you don no the power dis brew has. Incantations. Mojo. Voodo. Dey call it sometin else dese days. Somethn like knew age. But that shit sure do beat words an pictures fer gettin back at people been botherin you, ooooo you don no the power of it.
Hey, cultster, thanks MUCH for that. I'm heading out right now--the pond, adult bookstore, gym--gotcha. Thanks. Skip the throne cleaning this week. You gave me one valuable motherfuckin lesson. These words and pictures are for the birds. What have I been wasting my time for? I shoulda got me some knew age a long time ago.
OH no prolem boss. tanks for tellin me how to read n right all dis las year. you know without dat personality yers tellin me how to behav, i don no what I woulda been tellin pepel. ooooo thank ya so kindly fer dat. Thank ya so kindly.
No problem. Hey, want to swing by and help me pluck the geese?
Sho nuf. Sho nuf.
but lately i thank wha he's sayin bout dat woman a his is jus plain nasty. yeah nasty. usully i like nasty. but not dis. i wish i culd tell hm he shnt do that to the nice blond ladie. oooooooo but i'm so fraid o hm. i'm so fraid to tell hm wha i think bout anyting. ooooooo lawd what wd he do to me if i tell him he all nekid an stuff. oooooo.
1-720-304-8077.... ring.... ring...
hey!
hallo boss masa. hows yer throne empera boss, and can i com by and clean it fer ya?
Well sure. I just took a piss in it. wait. lemme flush. there. yeah. if you want to. Can you bring your own lysol.
ooooo sure will sir empora. whadever you say. an so ar you cold in dem mountans caus i kin bring you some aminal skins to put on kuz some pepel say yer big white ars is hangin out.
No, really. Keep them. My arse is fine. Hairy, but fine.
okay den boss. i'll be by wid da lysol to clean yer throne. but.... uh.... boss.... uh... uh...
What is it? What's up?
well.... um, i don mean no disrespec. you no boss, it's not like me to tell you whad i thank bout stuff, but i can't keep my ol mouth shut bout dis. see boss, i don like what yer writin bout femails des days. i think it's right nasty. you not goin bout thangs the rite way no more.
So?
uh. well. boss, the thang is, you gotta find nother way to xpress yerself bout this pain bein that it's been six monts and i think you got lil problem wit dis here depressin stuff. i mean, isn there anoder way, you no, you keep... well... pepel startin to wonder if yer okay. i mean those nasty wrds and pcturs... not that i wld ever tell you not to.... caus you know i'm fraid of dose reglar beatins.... but... i got an idea if you wan lisn to me.
Hey, I'm all ears. What you got?
well i thin you shld, you know, gather some powrfl minerals, make a potion.
Make a what?
You no boss, go down to dose geese by yer pond down yonder and get some fethers from them birds. Den get you some coppar pennies you find down by da noody bookstor down there by 18th, then grab you sum toilet paper, wipe undaneth the rim of da john over at the ladies sport club. Bring all dat back and start a pot boiln with some necktar of honey an sum melon seeds, and stir in the fethers an the pennies an the toilet paper. let it boil, bubble, you no, get real hot, real hot like a lady waitin in her bed late at nite time fer her man ta com home.
Okay, let me see if I got ya: geese feathers, copper pennies, toilet paper from the women's gym, nectar, melon seeds. Boil it. Hot. Very hot. And, so, what am I supposed to do with this?
OH LOR, you don no the power dis brew has. Incantations. Mojo. Voodo. Dey call it sometin else dese days. Somethn like knew age. But that shit sure do beat words an pictures fer gettin back at people been botherin you, ooooo you don no the power of it.
Hey, cultster, thanks MUCH for that. I'm heading out right now--the pond, adult bookstore, gym--gotcha. Thanks. Skip the throne cleaning this week. You gave me one valuable motherfuckin lesson. These words and pictures are for the birds. What have I been wasting my time for? I shoulda got me some knew age a long time ago.
OH no prolem boss. tanks for tellin me how to read n right all dis las year. you know without dat personality yers tellin me how to behav, i don no what I woulda been tellin pepel. ooooo thank ya so kindly fer dat. Thank ya so kindly.
No problem. Hey, want to swing by and help me pluck the geese?
Sho nuf. Sho nuf.
cameron came
welcome Cameron.
welcome, Cameron.
December 16, 2002, 03.24 GMT, 7 pounds 3 ounces.
All is well.
Congratulations to Gary and Fiona. God bless you. Peace, sleep, dreams.
welcome, Cameron.
December 16, 2002, 03.24 GMT, 7 pounds 3 ounces.
All is well.
Congratulations to Gary and Fiona. God bless you. Peace, sleep, dreams.
December 15, 2002
fly
shave away my edges
make me smooth
as polished stone
let me skim your skin
slip me in and out of the wind
search results I'm proud of
Yes, there are visitors who arrive here from google search results that I'm none to proud of. Anyone with a blog knows what I mean. Chin Porn is one of the tamest queries that apparently pops this blog up (thank goodness, not on the first page of results). I'm not sure what chin porn is--although I have a couple of guesses. Needless to say, I was a little jittery when the person looking for information on said subject found me.
What a pleasant surprise today was. Today I was happy to see three visitors who came here via google search results that, well, made me feel glad I could help. The winners are:
Digiorno Cooking Instructions
Norlin Streaker
and...
Negative Introject
So there. If I've helped someone cook a pizza without the cardboard, find out what Eric Norlin does at nationally televised football games, or get a handle on that little voice inside your head that says you just can't do anything right, well then I've done my job.
Search on, googlers.
What a pleasant surprise today was. Today I was happy to see three visitors who came here via google search results that, well, made me feel glad I could help. The winners are:
Digiorno Cooking Instructions
Norlin Streaker
and...
Negative Introject
So there. If I've helped someone cook a pizza without the cardboard, find out what Eric Norlin does at nationally televised football games, or get a handle on that little voice inside your head that says you just can't do anything right, well then I've done my job.
Search on, googlers.
Happy Birthday Grandma Dimino
I was thinking about you on the 13th, your birthday. I was going to blog something for you, but instead I've been fishing around over on this site. And with Dad's birthday tomorrow, maybe today, right in the middle, is the best place to post this.
Of all who've gone, I miss you most. I miss you in your flowered dress and black shoes, that great big house of oak and plaster, of tall ceilings and loud pianos, I miss clomping up the front steps and flipping open the mail slot so I could be the first one to smell the fresh sauce and meatballs; I miss your orange soda and hugs, me singing/you clapping. I miss my cheeks never not hurting from all the love pinches, your laugh, the way you raised your eyebrows and shook your hand with an "Eeeeee!" that said ten words with one syllable.
I miss you on the phone with me at night after the late news; I always knew you'd be up. Yours is my late night gene, and that other gene, the one that reminds me of love every time I think of you, and I think of you then with hair teased high, your long gloves, beautiful, and I think of you long after your knuckles buldged, after your body bent and your knees gave way, beautiful. Your 93 years too brief.
I saw the boat you came over on when you were just one. I wanted to put it here:
I saw your name on the ship manifest, and your mother's and brother's names. I know that your other brother died two weeks before you were born; I know he didn't make the trip. But you did.
Yours is a family of long journeys, of rough waters, of welcome arrivals and sudden departures.
And today I miss you more.
Of all who've gone, I miss you most. I miss you in your flowered dress and black shoes, that great big house of oak and plaster, of tall ceilings and loud pianos, I miss clomping up the front steps and flipping open the mail slot so I could be the first one to smell the fresh sauce and meatballs; I miss your orange soda and hugs, me singing/you clapping. I miss my cheeks never not hurting from all the love pinches, your laugh, the way you raised your eyebrows and shook your hand with an "Eeeeee!" that said ten words with one syllable.
I miss you on the phone with me at night after the late news; I always knew you'd be up. Yours is my late night gene, and that other gene, the one that reminds me of love every time I think of you, and I think of you then with hair teased high, your long gloves, beautiful, and I think of you long after your knuckles buldged, after your body bent and your knees gave way, beautiful. Your 93 years too brief.
I saw the boat you came over on when you were just one. I wanted to put it here:
I saw your name on the ship manifest, and your mother's and brother's names. I know that your other brother died two weeks before you were born; I know he didn't make the trip. But you did.
Yours is a family of long journeys, of rough waters, of welcome arrivals and sudden departures.
And today I miss you more.
Thanks, Tom.
Tom Sugart breathes fresh air into this place. Go see this movie. Get outside yourself and inside yourself all at once. Music can do that for you. So can a story that matters. This story does.
Dare you, Dare me.
If he stopped pushing the edge, then the edge would be a lot closer in. Our words would be much safer, much less interesting, less meaningful. Does moving the line in the sand mean that you have to step across it sometimes, kick the shit out of it sometimes, erase it completely, start over, say, "what line, where?" Sure.
So? Grow.
More than anything else, he has, by example, encouraged us to give ourselves permission to risk, to be outrageous, to be kind, to show our hearts and our messy guts. Our "blood-intenstines," as Jenna would say.
Now, we're off to take the Bean to the zoo, with a heartfelt thank you to another blog of heart.
So? Grow.
More than anything else, he has, by example, encouraged us to give ourselves permission to risk, to be outrageous, to be kind, to show our hearts and our messy guts. Our "blood-intenstines," as Jenna would say.
Now, we're off to take the Bean to the zoo, with a heartfelt thank you to another blog of heart.
Lights Out
Okay, kids. Put the tin cans and strings away, take the flashlights out from under your pillows and hand them over, stop the giggling, and turn off that light.
It's past your bed time. Yes, I know Gary will be getting up soon. That's all well and good. He can get breakfast started. But the rest of you, get to sleep this instant!
goodnight johnboy.
It's past your bed time. Yes, I know Gary will be getting up soon. That's all well and good. He can get breakfast started. But the rest of you, get to sleep this instant!
goodnight johnboy.
December 14, 2002
will the real mike slanders please sit down
RageBoy deconstructs "the hoover" today in a post that left me breathless. If you wondered what happened between Ann and RB and Marek J., all questions are answered for those who are brave and/or talented enough to roll their own hoovers while reading.
While I'm not aligned with RB on his opinions about all his blogger relationships - I love the Crone, for example -- I second his nomination of Mike Slanders of Stop Trying as Blogger Asshole of the Year. (okay, well, I made up that nomination).
To that end, RB unveils an email forwarded by Marek, which Slanders sent trying to enlist support in a war-blogger/peace-blogger coalition to undo RB. Marek, you have my highest respect--like you didn't already--for rolling over Mike Slanders with your own hoover.
The blogsticker to the right is testimony to my particular feelings about Mr. Slanders. I tried with Mike--many of us have. Endless discussions that went nowhere because he is, generally, afraid. But when he suggested that the Blog Sisters should make the first female suicide bomber an honorary member, I said Bye Bye Mikey. Mike has apparently been getting ready to dismember RageBoy with his vintage Knife collection, but his steeley knives are no match for the beast of worst practices.
Well done, Uncle Rage, and thanks for the dedication. I couldn't be prouder.
While I'm not aligned with RB on his opinions about all his blogger relationships - I love the Crone, for example -- I second his nomination of Mike Slanders of Stop Trying as Blogger Asshole of the Year. (okay, well, I made up that nomination).
To that end, RB unveils an email forwarded by Marek, which Slanders sent trying to enlist support in a war-blogger/peace-blogger coalition to undo RB. Marek, you have my highest respect--like you didn't already--for rolling over Mike Slanders with your own hoover.
The blogsticker to the right is testimony to my particular feelings about Mr. Slanders. I tried with Mike--many of us have. Endless discussions that went nowhere because he is, generally, afraid. But when he suggested that the Blog Sisters should make the first female suicide bomber an honorary member, I said Bye Bye Mikey. Mike has apparently been getting ready to dismember RageBoy with his vintage Knife collection, but his steeley knives are no match for the beast of worst practices.
Well done, Uncle Rage, and thanks for the dedication. I couldn't be prouder.
Standing in the Shadows of Motown
If you haven't, hunt down the film Standing in the Shadows of Motown, now out in select locations--very select, as in, one theater in all of Atlanta. It's worth the drive. It's worth a lot.
These were the men responsible for the Motown sound--responsible for MORE number one hits than The Rolling Stones, Elvis, The Beatles, and the Beach Boys combined--and I bet you can't name them.
They called themselves The Funk Brothers.
Go See It. Then buy the Soundtrack.
These were the men responsible for the Motown sound--responsible for MORE number one hits than The Rolling Stones, Elvis, The Beatles, and the Beach Boys combined--and I bet you can't name them.
They called themselves The Funk Brothers.
Go See It. Then buy the Soundtrack.
December 13, 2002
December 11, 2002
in 39 weeks
this was when we named her
Bean
because the first picture
showed us
a kidney bean
a heartbeat
a mind, tiny buds
in bloom,
arms, legs, toes, fingers
a tulip unfolding
this was when I craved water
to be in it
always to climb
inside of myself and rest
with her
in a ball
jet black curls floating
in blue black,
look at all that hair
they would say.
this was when I took to the tub
five or six times a day
devoured novels one by one
soaking in them
hurried to spend time
with myself
instinct said
it is ending, then,
You will never be one,
will never be two
again.
this was when the blood first came
the doctor said
it will either keep growing
or it won't
no way to tell
and I cried on his shoulder
her father my love
and he held me
and rocked me
said shhh.
it will be okay
this was when we would sit
late into the night
and imagine tomorrows
me saying
what would we be doing
right now, this minute
with a baby between us
how would it be different
what will we do with it
him saying they fit in
all around you
that is the beauty
this was when the doctor said:
it's a miracle you made it...
all of those tumors...
so much bigger than the baby...
you must be in pain, take these pills...
let's schedule a day...
you are an enigma...
this was when I sat in the front seat
of the the silver four-door coup,
arms crossed, not budging
I don't need to do
this, I like things fine
just like they are
no reason to change
everything now
Give me a week or two
more please
because I still don't
want it to be over
and why can't anyone
see that.
this was when I surrendered
to joy
this was when all my
yesterdays stopped
float, dream,
think
what might be
is.
Bean
because the first picture
showed us
a kidney bean
a heartbeat
a mind, tiny buds
in bloom,
arms, legs, toes, fingers
a tulip unfolding
this was when I craved water
to be in it
always to climb
inside of myself and rest
with her
in a ball
jet black curls floating
in blue black,
look at all that hair
they would say.
this was when I took to the tub
five or six times a day
devoured novels one by one
soaking in them
hurried to spend time
with myself
instinct said
it is ending, then,
You will never be one,
will never be two
again.
this was when the blood first came
the doctor said
it will either keep growing
or it won't
no way to tell
and I cried on his shoulder
her father my love
and he held me
and rocked me
said shhh.
it will be okay
this was when we would sit
late into the night
and imagine tomorrows
me saying
what would we be doing
right now, this minute
with a baby between us
how would it be different
what will we do with it
him saying they fit in
all around you
that is the beauty
this was when the doctor said:
it's a miracle you made it...
all of those tumors...
so much bigger than the baby...
you must be in pain, take these pills...
let's schedule a day...
you are an enigma...
this was when I sat in the front seat
of the the silver four-door coup,
arms crossed, not budging
I don't need to do
this, I like things fine
just like they are
no reason to change
everything now
Give me a week or two
more please
because I still don't
want it to be over
and why can't anyone
see that.
this was when I surrendered
to joy
this was when all my
yesterdays stopped
float, dream,
think
what might be
is.
20 more reasons why blogsprogs is groundbreaking
Ruzz asks in the comments below for me to clarify why I think Blogsprogs is "groundbreaking."
Maybe I was waxing a little crazy at 2 a.m. when I wrote this morning's post. I hope I can clarify some of what I think is astounding about this new blog, and why it matters to blogging and humanity as a whole.
1) It's a team blog written (so far) by three men, and only men, about their unborn (so far) children. That's different.
2) It's a team blog written (so far) by three men, and only men, about the the women having their children. That's different.
3) Participating in childbirth is the most intimate experience a man can have--it is the closest he comes to the woman/feminine. It represents something of ends and beginnings and is a profound human experience. Maybe the most profound.
4) We're getting to observe the experience, and its impression on these male bloggers, in real time, or nearly, as it happens. I can't do that anywhere else unless I work on a maternity floor, and then I only get four days tops.
5) It's a blog about love. Big love. The biggest love.
6) These men all live in different parts of the world.
7) These men have never met. Yet what they are sharing will get very intimate.
8) The mothers have never met, and don't (yet) blog that I know of. We don't "know" the mothers except through the fathers' eyes. The same will be so for the babies until they're old enough to blog (or talk non-stop like mine). This is important. It is about strong reflections and how they mirror to our own lives.
9) I just saw the face of the child who's inside of a woman I never met, married to a man I never met, who live on another continent, and whom I love dearly.
10) My husband and I just spent 15 minutes talking about what an endearing name "Sausage" is.
11) Men don't generally sit, three together in a room, at their place of work, each with their respective partners in their 39th week, and talk about things like birthing balls and back pain with maybe dozens or hundreds or thousands of other people, both men and women.
12) This is a moving and intimate extension of the human experience -- these guys are blogging about as close to naked as you can get. There is huge vulnerability and risk here.
13) This is good writing.
14) This is masculine meeting feminine head on. This is creation and re-creation. The birth of a blog mirroring the birth of three human children.
15) This is men showing us their wombs.
16) Imagine the potential. Imagine three babies (so far) growing up together online, their experiences and their parents' experiences represented within a single blog. Imagine them looking back on it 10 years from now, imagine their children looking back. Imagine their children's children.
17) Imagine these babies being the first babies in a new world.
18) I believe that the men blogging on blogsprogs will relate differently to their wives and children because they are doing this.
20) I believe we will all relate differently to one another than we would have because of this.
Be patient. It won't happen over night.
More to come--or add your own in thoughts in the comment box.
Maybe I was waxing a little crazy at 2 a.m. when I wrote this morning's post. I hope I can clarify some of what I think is astounding about this new blog, and why it matters to blogging and humanity as a whole.
1) It's a team blog written (so far) by three men, and only men, about their unborn (so far) children. That's different.
2) It's a team blog written (so far) by three men, and only men, about the the women having their children. That's different.
3) Participating in childbirth is the most intimate experience a man can have--it is the closest he comes to the woman/feminine. It represents something of ends and beginnings and is a profound human experience. Maybe the most profound.
4) We're getting to observe the experience, and its impression on these male bloggers, in real time, or nearly, as it happens. I can't do that anywhere else unless I work on a maternity floor, and then I only get four days tops.
5) It's a blog about love. Big love. The biggest love.
6) These men all live in different parts of the world.
7) These men have never met. Yet what they are sharing will get very intimate.
8) The mothers have never met, and don't (yet) blog that I know of. We don't "know" the mothers except through the fathers' eyes. The same will be so for the babies until they're old enough to blog (or talk non-stop like mine). This is important. It is about strong reflections and how they mirror to our own lives.
9) I just saw the face of the child who's inside of a woman I never met, married to a man I never met, who live on another continent, and whom I love dearly.
10) My husband and I just spent 15 minutes talking about what an endearing name "Sausage" is.
11) Men don't generally sit, three together in a room, at their place of work, each with their respective partners in their 39th week, and talk about things like birthing balls and back pain with maybe dozens or hundreds or thousands of other people, both men and women.
12) This is a moving and intimate extension of the human experience -- these guys are blogging about as close to naked as you can get. There is huge vulnerability and risk here.
13) This is good writing.
14) This is masculine meeting feminine head on. This is creation and re-creation. The birth of a blog mirroring the birth of three human children.
15) This is men showing us their wombs.
16) Imagine the potential. Imagine three babies (so far) growing up together online, their experiences and their parents' experiences represented within a single blog. Imagine them looking back on it 10 years from now, imagine their children looking back. Imagine their children's children.
17) Imagine these babies being the first babies in a new world.
18) I believe that the men blogging on blogsprogs will relate differently to their wives and children because they are doing this.
20) I believe we will all relate differently to one another than we would have because of this.
Be patient. It won't happen over night.
More to come--or add your own in thoughts in the comment box.
Let me explain why this is so important to me.
"We'd be blog building a bridge between generations." -- Michael O'Connor Clarke
Alright. I had my dance around the living room over blogsprogs, where three blog dads-to-be are blogging their babies into being.
And now I'm back again to talk a little more about why this new blog is so important. Three men, now gathered in a blog to talk about the end of the pregnancy of the women carrying their children, about the birth of their daughters and/or sons, the beginnings of fatherhood (one first timer, two back for more), about how they are experiencing these things, right now, real time, with us. These are fathers giving us a womb-side view as they welcome their children into the world. And then, as they grow, we will see children through the eyes of their fathers.
This was the type of thing I was trying to explain in the NY Times interview. Some might think I've babbled on too long about how I didn't focus on "women," in the interview, but tried hard to talk about how blogging is changing us as human beings. As men and women yes, but as humans first. As fathers and mothers, husbands and wifes, lovers, children, parents--redefining roles, crisscrossing who we've been with who we might be, and becoming more.
This is what blogging is about. This is how men and women are changing and rearranging their core by talking about truths that were once better left at home, under the rug or in the top cupboard above the refrigerator, or in this case, discussed by women in the waiting room of the OBs office, sans husbands. Do you see how important this is, and how even more important it is that blogsprogs flowed naturally out of what these men were already writing, thinking, sharing through weblogging? Now you know why I was dancing. These are my brothers and they are talking from the heart.
RageBoy said to me last week that blogging is redefining human beings (and I think he means right down to our DNA), that our "containers don't fit anymore." Crazy? Let's wait and see.
So it's 2 a.m. and I have to go to sleep now, but what I'm saying is: It's not that these three men are or *aren't* talking tech, and it's not that women are or *aren't* talking knitting. It's about what we're doing together. Here. And how it's changing us out there. It's about what we're knitting together. We're weaving ourselves in and out of roles, in and out of love, in and out of lives, in and out of work, and we're doing it right here, together, men and women, and we're writing and picking up the phone and meeting one another and showing one another it's okay to be human.
Good night. blog on. Dads, take this with a grain of salt--no added pressure here--wouldn't want to make you any more nervous than you already are.
-Aunt Jeneane
Alright. I had my dance around the living room over blogsprogs, where three blog dads-to-be are blogging their babies into being.
And now I'm back again to talk a little more about why this new blog is so important. Three men, now gathered in a blog to talk about the end of the pregnancy of the women carrying their children, about the birth of their daughters and/or sons, the beginnings of fatherhood (one first timer, two back for more), about how they are experiencing these things, right now, real time, with us. These are fathers giving us a womb-side view as they welcome their children into the world. And then, as they grow, we will see children through the eyes of their fathers.
This was the type of thing I was trying to explain in the NY Times interview. Some might think I've babbled on too long about how I didn't focus on "women," in the interview, but tried hard to talk about how blogging is changing us as human beings. As men and women yes, but as humans first. As fathers and mothers, husbands and wifes, lovers, children, parents--redefining roles, crisscrossing who we've been with who we might be, and becoming more.
This is what blogging is about. This is how men and women are changing and rearranging their core by talking about truths that were once better left at home, under the rug or in the top cupboard above the refrigerator, or in this case, discussed by women in the waiting room of the OBs office, sans husbands. Do you see how important this is, and how even more important it is that blogsprogs flowed naturally out of what these men were already writing, thinking, sharing through weblogging? Now you know why I was dancing. These are my brothers and they are talking from the heart.
RageBoy said to me last week that blogging is redefining human beings (and I think he means right down to our DNA), that our "containers don't fit anymore." Crazy? Let's wait and see.
So it's 2 a.m. and I have to go to sleep now, but what I'm saying is: It's not that these three men are or *aren't* talking tech, and it's not that women are or *aren't* talking knitting. It's about what we're doing together. Here. And how it's changing us out there. It's about what we're knitting together. We're weaving ourselves in and out of roles, in and out of love, in and out of lives, in and out of work, and we're doing it right here, together, men and women, and we're writing and picking up the phone and meeting one another and showing one another it's okay to be human.
Good night. blog on. Dads, take this with a grain of salt--no added pressure here--wouldn't want to make you any more nervous than you already are.
-Aunt Jeneane
george explores the joys of soundmen...
George Sessum knows his musical stuff. I'm telling you so not as his wife, but as someone who above all respects his playing and his ear. That's why I especially like it when he tackles the artistry and business of music on his blog. tonight's take on the gaffs of soundmen is worth a read for anyone who listens to live music and wonders. (wonders what? wonders anything at all. because if you wonder anything at all, you were probably listening.)
"Kick drums go BOOOOOOOM! and not 'blip'."
--George Sessum
"Kick drums go BOOOOOOOM! and not 'blip'."
--George Sessum
THIS IS THE BEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN.
ohmygosh, ohmygosh. I'm so excited. Michael O'Connor Clarke just started BlogSprogs, a new weblog to blog the children of our blogfathers-to-be -- Tom Matrullo, Gary Turner, and Michael himself, into the world. The real world. Well, and this world too.
Blogging babies into being. This is the best idea I've seen for a team weblog. As may have noticed, I'm gushing about these dads-to-be and imagining running through the maternity ward decked out in one of gary's blogsticker t-shirts with bubble gum cigars and helium balloons, exclaiming, "I'm the dad-to-be's blogsister, who do you think I am?!" Since I can't do that (can I?) I've been haunting their comment boxes and discussion areas like some kind of a twisted baby stalker. I am just so excited that these great friends and their lovely women are sharing the births of our blognieces and blognephews with us, I could SCREAM.
baby smells. cotton caps. receiving blankets. baby-bathed hair. tiny sweaters washed in that special laundry detergent. mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
bring those babies on.
Blogging babies into being. This is the best idea I've seen for a team weblog. As may have noticed, I'm gushing about these dads-to-be and imagining running through the maternity ward decked out in one of gary's blogsticker t-shirts with bubble gum cigars and helium balloons, exclaiming, "I'm the dad-to-be's blogsister, who do you think I am?!" Since I can't do that (can I?) I've been haunting their comment boxes and discussion areas like some kind of a twisted baby stalker. I am just so excited that these great friends and their lovely women are sharing the births of our blognieces and blognephews with us, I could SCREAM.
baby smells. cotton caps. receiving blankets. baby-bathed hair. tiny sweaters washed in that special laundry detergent. mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
bring those babies on.
and one more
a re-post from July 13th based on a request from Ray Sweatman who actually reads what I write. Holy shit, who knew? Ray writes some great poetry over at YouLiveYourLifeAsIfItsReal, which I think is the longest blog name I've ever come across.
And Dean, I hear you too. Somehow a more daunting task. But I'm almost up for it. Soon.
now...
jenna at four
she tells me,
look at that plastic bag
I see faces in it
do you see them?
she tells me,
I hear TV when it's not on
I hear it in my head
do you hear it?
she asks me,
are the bumps
on the road
giant worms
underneath?
she tells me,
I don't want a baby
when i grow up:
how do I not
have a baby?
she tells me,
five teddy bears
flew across my ceiling
in the nightime,
I wanted you
to see them
but you were sleeping.
her mood spikes
and falls with the wind
submits only
to thunder
she tells me,
oh no
I made the storms
come again.
she fills my soul
then wrecks me,
she dances
light and fierce.
And Dean, I hear you too. Somehow a more daunting task. But I'm almost up for it. Soon.
now...
jenna at four
she tells me,
look at that plastic bag
I see faces in it
do you see them?
she tells me,
I hear TV when it's not on
I hear it in my head
do you hear it?
she asks me,
are the bumps
on the road
giant worms
underneath?
she tells me,
I don't want a baby
when i grow up:
how do I not
have a baby?
she tells me,
five teddy bears
flew across my ceiling
in the nightime,
I wanted you
to see them
but you were sleeping.
her mood spikes
and falls with the wind
submits only
to thunder
she tells me,
oh no
I made the storms
come again.
she fills my soul
then wrecks me,
she dances
light and fierce.
two more, because Ray asked.
I hadn't read voicelessness since I wrote it back in July, in blogger, one night. Ray reminded me it was out there, somewhere. I think you could say I blocked. Forgot about it. Don't remember writing it. I remember the hurt when it was coming out, but don't remember actually writing it. Tonight as I read it, I think the words are all just right, however the heck it got here.
And in response to Ray's other request, here's the link to George at 3 a.m.
[best not to let the kids read either one of these.]
[actually, best not to let the kids on to this blog lately.]
[well, maybe ever.]
And in response to Ray's other request, here's the link to George at 3 a.m.
[best not to let the kids read either one of these.]
[actually, best not to let the kids on to this blog lately.]
[well, maybe ever.]
December 10, 2002
and then I had this idea
I started that journey back tonight, back through my archives, remembering what I was thinking, where I was, what things smelled like, summer nights on the porch, smoking late, big bugs and fighter jets streaking night skies.
I re-read a lot of my poetry. I didn't think it was too bad. I thought some of it was actually pretty good, and that kind of amazed me considering I composed every letter of what I wrote during the past year inside my blogger post window. No forethought. No malice.
I noticed several themes, you know, when I strung it all together. These were, in no particular order: loss, love, voice, birth, chained, untied, child, without, writing, movement, silence.
Tonight I decided to make a book of it.
You know, some of it at least.
So I made a PDF. Of my poetry. Named it "Running out of Rhyme." Turned out to be 35 pages.
I'm posting it here. For you.
Download it if you want to.
thank you,
the manglement
click me
I re-read a lot of my poetry. I didn't think it was too bad. I thought some of it was actually pretty good, and that kind of amazed me considering I composed every letter of what I wrote during the past year inside my blogger post window. No forethought. No malice.
I noticed several themes, you know, when I strung it all together. These were, in no particular order: loss, love, voice, birth, chained, untied, child, without, writing, movement, silence.
Tonight I decided to make a book of it.
You know, some of it at least.
So I made a PDF. Of my poetry. Named it "Running out of Rhyme." Turned out to be 35 pages.
I'm posting it here. For you.
Download it if you want to.
thank you,
the manglement
click me
December 09, 2002
i cannot function in RW
i cannot write anything but blogs
i cannot write anything but blogs
help me.
please help.
send help.
remind me why i
must continue to function in real world
getting more and more difficult
being sucked in
living inside blogs
can no longer function in real world
schwans truck came today
eating s'more ice cream
not writing what I have to
can only blog
can only blog
not good
going
going
gone
i cannot write anything but blogs
help me.
please help.
send help.
remind me why i
must continue to function in real world
getting more and more difficult
being sucked in
living inside blogs
can no longer function in real world
schwans truck came today
eating s'more ice cream
not writing what I have to
can only blog
can only blog
not good
going
going
gone
December 08, 2002
s'alright
feeling mighty broke today. mighty broke. you ever get to the point where you've paid all the bills that you've decided to pay and you're feeling pretty good, and then your husband's four-night run at the club gets canceled because of the ice storm that never happened and suddenly you don't have $30 to your name, plus a car sitting in a parking lot that ought to fetch $4K except the title, which the DMV said would be here two weeks ago, isn't, and so you couldn't sell the car to the assholes at CarMax, and then you start to look at the cupboards thinking what interesting tuna-related dinner you can make tonight.
You wonder why you paid the DSL. So you can still blog. And get your news, since cable went off long ago. And so you can do the work for your day job, which is ever more important.
And then you think about your day job and ask yourself, "why am I still working part-time? I should go back to full-time." But you don't. And you're not sure you understand why, except that you don't want to because you want the other part of you--the part you've started to free through blogging--to have the time, the peace of mind, to blog and to work on that book and to be a happier mother and wife, which, when she was working 60 hours a week, she just wasn't. But still. You question your sanity.
You order food from Schwans because you know you can post-date the check by two weeks. They are great about that and their food is good too. And you unass some stuff on ebay. And you think about what equipment can be pawned. You're glad you got food for the cat and dogs when you did; you're worried that you haven't gotten the kitten to the vet yet. But you got him vitamins and Iams kitten food and look at him grow, the rest will come.
You figure you'll catch some flack for this--"you're working part time by choice and you're complaining about money? your husband's a musician/producer--you two have chosen this life. just work harder." yes, there's that.
And those comments that come or don't come don't really mean anything today, because you can feel something more important than any of this brewing and you need the time to nurture it, you need to be able to divide your brain between stifling work and this world that is blooming, and babies that are on their way, signifying new generation in blogland, so that makes it all the more important. There's an urgency. You're feeling it.
Then you think about the money you just spent to upgrade the Blog Sisters site on blogspot, and the $10 you just gave Technorati, and the $70 you give Earthlink each month, and the Blogger Pro money. You knock your hand against your head and say you'll tell work next week that you're ready to go back to full time.
And then you start this post. And you decide, not today. You still have some stuff you can sell on ebay.
You wonder why you paid the DSL. So you can still blog. And get your news, since cable went off long ago. And so you can do the work for your day job, which is ever more important.
And then you think about your day job and ask yourself, "why am I still working part-time? I should go back to full-time." But you don't. And you're not sure you understand why, except that you don't want to because you want the other part of you--the part you've started to free through blogging--to have the time, the peace of mind, to blog and to work on that book and to be a happier mother and wife, which, when she was working 60 hours a week, she just wasn't. But still. You question your sanity.
You order food from Schwans because you know you can post-date the check by two weeks. They are great about that and their food is good too. And you unass some stuff on ebay. And you think about what equipment can be pawned. You're glad you got food for the cat and dogs when you did; you're worried that you haven't gotten the kitten to the vet yet. But you got him vitamins and Iams kitten food and look at him grow, the rest will come.
You figure you'll catch some flack for this--"you're working part time by choice and you're complaining about money? your husband's a musician/producer--you two have chosen this life. just work harder." yes, there's that.
And those comments that come or don't come don't really mean anything today, because you can feel something more important than any of this brewing and you need the time to nurture it, you need to be able to divide your brain between stifling work and this world that is blooming, and babies that are on their way, signifying new generation in blogland, so that makes it all the more important. There's an urgency. You're feeling it.
Then you think about the money you just spent to upgrade the Blog Sisters site on blogspot, and the $10 you just gave Technorati, and the $70 you give Earthlink each month, and the Blogger Pro money. You knock your hand against your head and say you'll tell work next week that you're ready to go back to full time.
And then you start this post. And you decide, not today. You still have some stuff you can sell on ebay.
December 07, 2002
for crying out loud, could I focus on something?
I just looked back at my blog over the past many days (as far as you can scroll). As I did, I realized quite suddenly that I don't focus on anything in particular. In fact, I really don't know what the heck I've been talking about for the last couple of weeks. I don't remember writing about half of these posts.
This cannot be good. I've talked about, in no particular order, childbirth and children, hospitals, friends, cats and kittens, blogging, blog evolution, sleeping, AKMA, college, turtles, George, bills, death, ice storms, holiday party humor, men and women, women and blogging, bloody lips, hate, love, grief, being a parent, Jamaican vacations, catching a worm in my mouth as a kid, driving while aroused, and various other unrelated topics.
I need to find an area of expertise.
This cannot be good. I've talked about, in no particular order, childbirth and children, hospitals, friends, cats and kittens, blogging, blog evolution, sleeping, AKMA, college, turtles, George, bills, death, ice storms, holiday party humor, men and women, women and blogging, bloody lips, hate, love, grief, being a parent, Jamaican vacations, catching a worm in my mouth as a kid, driving while aroused, and various other unrelated topics.
I need to find an area of expertise.
blogging babies into existence
Tom Matrullo and Gary Turner are going to be fathers any day now. Yes, that's right:
This Guy:
and This Guy:
A year ago I didn't know either of them. Now I count them among my best friends, best friends I've never met.
Having not met them, only spoken to them by phone, doesn't mean I don't know them. The more we blog the more we know. I think about Gary and Fiona, about Tom and Wendy, several times a day; pray for them. I send them all the good wishes I can muster, knowing that within a matter of days, more or less, they will be welcoming into the world their children, and I'm feeling as much an aunt-to-be this week as I've felt in a very long time.
But we're not in one another's real world. So I can't go barging onto the maternity floors waving stuffed bears with helium balloons trailing behind. Can only just wait, with everyone else who cares about them in Blogaria. Wait and bite my nails.
Some words of encouragement--Jenna was breech and I had a c-section. Something I didn't want either. If the Turner turns again, or the Matrullo fails to matriculate, though, fear not. A c-section is not the worst thing in the world. It's over quickly. No trauma for the baby. No labor pains. No special pillows to sit on afterward. If you need advice, Dads, on where to look and what to say, and where to not look and what to not say, in the event of the rather daunting task of assisting mom-to-be in the OR, email George. He handled it all very well. Something about not looking in the reflection of the window.
God bless.
This Guy:
and This Guy:
A year ago I didn't know either of them. Now I count them among my best friends, best friends I've never met.
Having not met them, only spoken to them by phone, doesn't mean I don't know them. The more we blog the more we know. I think about Gary and Fiona, about Tom and Wendy, several times a day; pray for them. I send them all the good wishes I can muster, knowing that within a matter of days, more or less, they will be welcoming into the world their children, and I'm feeling as much an aunt-to-be this week as I've felt in a very long time.
But we're not in one another's real world. So I can't go barging onto the maternity floors waving stuffed bears with helium balloons trailing behind. Can only just wait, with everyone else who cares about them in Blogaria. Wait and bite my nails.
Some words of encouragement--Jenna was breech and I had a c-section. Something I didn't want either. If the Turner turns again, or the Matrullo fails to matriculate, though, fear not. A c-section is not the worst thing in the world. It's over quickly. No trauma for the baby. No labor pains. No special pillows to sit on afterward. If you need advice, Dads, on where to look and what to say, and where to not look and what to not say, in the event of the rather daunting task of assisting mom-to-be in the OR, email George. He handled it all very well. Something about not looking in the reflection of the window.
God bless.
prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
I've never had a kitten this little before. This kitten is becoming tame, little by little, against all his better judgment. His instincts tell him not to let go--to lie for a while on my leg, but not to relax all the way. As soon as his eyes start to close, he jerks to full alert and bites my hand. Every time. He can't override his instincts. It has been this way consistently until today.
Today he's fallen asleep on me twice. As I type this, he's sleeping on my arm, purring away. Earlier he fell asleep on my leg. I never knew how relaxing a purring kitten sleeping on your arm is. I am likely to fall right back asleep. Again. Lazy day. Sweet kitten. He's right by my cheek. I'm looking down at him, his ears splayed sideways, beyond even purring now. He's sound asleep. He finally let go.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Today he's fallen asleep on me twice. As I type this, he's sleeping on my arm, purring away. Earlier he fell asleep on my leg. I never knew how relaxing a purring kitten sleeping on your arm is. I am likely to fall right back asleep. Again. Lazy day. Sweet kitten. He's right by my cheek. I'm looking down at him, his ears splayed sideways, beyond even purring now. He's sound asleep. He finally let go.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Slept all day today. Remembering back to college days when I never had a class before 11 a.m., wrote all night long, and slept Saturdays away without a second thought. Feeling like beer, pizza, some wings. Feeling like I have a paper brewing. Feeling like writing the night away. Feeling like making spaghetti in a crock pot and sharing it with the girls in the dorm, waiting for friends to bring the pepperoni and Italian bread.
Looking at this house a mess, bills unpaid, animals and family unfed. Missing my 20s.
Happy Anniversary, AKMA
I've met a lot of priests in my life--some of the best people to have touched my life, during my high school years, happened to be priests. I also abhor many of the past and present practices of the Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church, and rather decidedly ditched Catholicism in my 20s. At any rate, I know a caring person, a good dad, and an empathetic and passionate human being when I read one. AKMA is all of those. Happy 16th, AKMA. Many more to you. Christianity and Blogaria definitely need you.
(p.s., although I finally ate your peanut brittle, I changed your URL on my blogroll. am I still in good standing?)
(p.s., although I finally ate your peanut brittle, I changed your URL on my blogroll. am I still in good standing?)
Shhhh. Somewhere Babies Are Being Born
Gary and Fiona are in the home stretch. I'll be checking in all weekend. Gary, are you taking your laptop to the hospital? M-u-s-t- b-e- t-h-e-r-e w-i-t-h y-o-u t-w-o...
Meanwhile, Tom celebrates the birth of 100 newly-hatched Hawksbill turtles.
Tonight as Jenna and I wound our way down the street in the van, she followed the moon with her eyes the whole way.
She said, "Mama, I wish he would land in our back yard. I want to touch him. He looks so lonely up there."
I said, "Well, he has the stars to keep him company."
She asked, "But do they take care of him? Do they?"
There's nothing in the human experience that compares with the frayed nerves, fierce battles, infinite wonder, and enormous joy of childbirth. Except maybe the raising of those babies.
So says me.
We're cheering for you Gary!
Meanwhile, Tom celebrates the birth of 100 newly-hatched Hawksbill turtles.
Tonight as Jenna and I wound our way down the street in the van, she followed the moon with her eyes the whole way.
She said, "Mama, I wish he would land in our back yard. I want to touch him. He looks so lonely up there."
I said, "Well, he has the stars to keep him company."
She asked, "But do they take care of him? Do they?"
There's nothing in the human experience that compares with the frayed nerves, fierce battles, infinite wonder, and enormous joy of childbirth. Except maybe the raising of those babies.
So says me.
We're cheering for you Gary!
December 06, 2002
most interesting...
Even more interesting than the information posted below on the "accessibility" issue is the realworld situation that had me ask the question. The realworld situation was that I was writing something for a client. I needed to get educated on the issue. Fast. And as I googled, I had an idea--how about asking these smart minds I blog with? So I did. And so did they give me information back.
And what does this mean? It gives me pause. Where I work, clients willingly pay to use our knowledge/research center, where skilled people have research tools at their fingertips to look up answers to any number of questions or conundrums all the live-long day. For the most part, they are generalists with powerful tools at their disposal to help them harvest knowledge across a deep, well-organized network.
What about blogging--are we so different? There are some true experts out here--experts on what I'd now hazzard a guess is every given topic under the sun. Denise knows law inside out. If she doesn't know an answer, she darn sure knows where to get it. Meg knows web design inside out. George knows music. Jennifer knows media. Even the Father of e-Commerce is sitting out there blogging art for angels. And so it goes.
After google, where do you go for information?
Why not us? Why not here?
And what does this mean? It gives me pause. Where I work, clients willingly pay to use our knowledge/research center, where skilled people have research tools at their fingertips to look up answers to any number of questions or conundrums all the live-long day. For the most part, they are generalists with powerful tools at their disposal to help them harvest knowledge across a deep, well-organized network.
What about blogging--are we so different? There are some true experts out here--experts on what I'd now hazzard a guess is every given topic under the sun. Denise knows law inside out. If she doesn't know an answer, she darn sure knows where to get it. Meg knows web design inside out. George knows music. Jennifer knows media. Even the Father of e-Commerce is sitting out there blogging art for angels. And so it goes.
After google, where do you go for information?
Why not us? Why not here?
On Online Accessibility for the Disabled
There's a whole lot going on around the issue of disabled access to online sites. On November 22, Florida's U.S. District Judge Patricia Seitz who said that the American with Disabilities Act (ADA) does NOT mandated websites/web-only businesses to be disabled-accessible because they are not considered "places of public accommodation," as defined by the ADA.
In Judge Seitz's 12-Page Opinion, she wrote, "To expand the ADA to cover 'virtual' spaces would be to create new rights without well-defined standards." She dismissed the case saying, "The plain and unambiguous language of the statute and relevant regulations does not include Internet Web sites."
More here.
Did I just hear 300,000 bloggers say, "Wshew"?
No, really. What if?
And should we be?
Granted, most of us don't sell stuff (much) from our blogs, but still--does that mean that we (or more appropriately blogger and other blog interface providers) shouldn't be concerned with how accessible our sites are to the disabled?
Although the Judge dismissed the case, she did give an admonition and a prediction in the footnote of her brief that says more than the dismissal:
"Given the number of visually impaired persons who utilize the Internet for commerce, and the significant amount of business that Southwest obtains through its Internet website, it is unfortunate that the panies have not cooperated to develop a creative solution that benefits both parties and which avoids the costs and polarizing effects of litigation. It is especially surprising that Southwest, a company which prides itself on its consumer relations, has not voluntarily seized the opportunity to employ all available technologies to expand accessibility to its website for visually impaired customers who would be an added source of revenue. That being said, in light of the rapidly developing technology at issue, and the lack of well-defined standards for bringing a virtually infinite number of Internet websites into compliance with the ADA, a precondition for taking the ADA into "virtual" space is a meaningful input from all interested parties via the legislative process. As Congress has created the statutorily defined rights under the ADA, it is the role of Congress, and not this Court, to specifically expand the ADA's definition of "public accommodation" beyond physical, concrete places of public accommodation to include 'virtual' places of public accommodation."
I gather that she is saying: 1) Online business sites have an obligation and responsibility to make their sites accessible. 2) There is money to be made from doing so. 3) (toward the end of the above quote), Congress could expand the ADA's definition of "public accomodation" into the virtual world.
David Weinberger is hipper than most of us, having recently tweeked his site for color-blind readers.
If you want to read up on the accessibility issue, here are some links:
Meg at Manderin Design has a discussion here with a point to this Computerworld article. Thanks Meg!
Macromedia's Accessibility Training page, courtesy of Mr. Tom Matrullo, who knows his micro and macro media. ;-)
And this from Tom as well.
From CNN.com Law Center, November 7th: Should Web-only businesses be required to be disabled-accessible?
In Judge Seitz's 12-Page Opinion, she wrote, "To expand the ADA to cover 'virtual' spaces would be to create new rights without well-defined standards." She dismissed the case saying, "The plain and unambiguous language of the statute and relevant regulations does not include Internet Web sites."
More here.
Did I just hear 300,000 bloggers say, "Wshew"?
No, really. What if?
And should we be?
Granted, most of us don't sell stuff (much) from our blogs, but still--does that mean that we (or more appropriately blogger and other blog interface providers) shouldn't be concerned with how accessible our sites are to the disabled?
Although the Judge dismissed the case, she did give an admonition and a prediction in the footnote of her brief that says more than the dismissal:
"Given the number of visually impaired persons who utilize the Internet for commerce, and the significant amount of business that Southwest obtains through its Internet website, it is unfortunate that the panies have not cooperated to develop a creative solution that benefits both parties and which avoids the costs and polarizing effects of litigation. It is especially surprising that Southwest, a company which prides itself on its consumer relations, has not voluntarily seized the opportunity to employ all available technologies to expand accessibility to its website for visually impaired customers who would be an added source of revenue. That being said, in light of the rapidly developing technology at issue, and the lack of well-defined standards for bringing a virtually infinite number of Internet websites into compliance with the ADA, a precondition for taking the ADA into "virtual" space is a meaningful input from all interested parties via the legislative process. As Congress has created the statutorily defined rights under the ADA, it is the role of Congress, and not this Court, to specifically expand the ADA's definition of "public accommodation" beyond physical, concrete places of public accommodation to include 'virtual' places of public accommodation."
I gather that she is saying: 1) Online business sites have an obligation and responsibility to make their sites accessible. 2) There is money to be made from doing so. 3) (toward the end of the above quote), Congress could expand the ADA's definition of "public accomodation" into the virtual world.
David Weinberger is hipper than most of us, having recently tweeked his site for color-blind readers.
If you want to read up on the accessibility issue, here are some links:
Meg at Manderin Design has a discussion here with a point to this Computerworld article. Thanks Meg!
Macromedia's Accessibility Training page, courtesy of Mr. Tom Matrullo, who knows his micro and macro media. ;-)
And this from Tom as well.
From CNN.com Law Center, November 7th: Should Web-only businesses be required to be disabled-accessible?
george is black, I mean back...
The world's most amazing multi-bassist and multi-tangentialist, King George is back from Florida and finally posting. While I can't vouch for his sanity or the subtleties of his words (cough), I can say he's at the top of RageBoy's blogroll--a mystery that only RB, George and Frank Paynter can unravel. Frank, just how badly do you want that top spot? Should I be looking for Fang outside our garage waiting to pull a sneak attack on George?
where i been
I meant to write yesterday, but things got all topsy turvy. My brother-in-law was in a car accident, and with no car, he had no way to the hospital (the cops dropped him off at home--nice, 63-year-old guy with a head and chest injury). So I spent from 10 a.m. til 5 p.m. in emergency with him. They kept him overnight. He's having a battery of heart tests. Awaiting news.
In the mean time, let me remind myself that you can't spend a day in the ER without feeling... well... without feeling.
The woman I can't get out of my head is probably 90 years old. She looked so unalive I wondered what possible tests they could be performing on her in the CT-scan room that would tell them anything.
Did she even have a pulse?
There's just no way. No way this woman was alive. But the family who stood around her acted as if she were alive. So maybe she was. She was skin stretched over bones. I never saw her open her eyes. Her head was tilted back on the gurny, arched in private pain, her mouth formed a perfect silent scream, releasing fury up to the florescent lights. Her mouth never twitched. Just strained against itself.
She was death in still life.
She reminded me immediately of the ruins of Pomepei. The living captured in time in media res--in the middle of sleep, of thought, of horrible ends. Everytime I think of the living dead woman I want to scream for her, "LET ME OUT!"
There was an older man, too, and his younger wife was with him. She wore lots of jewelry and patted his side. He couldn't find comfort, not from her, not from the nurses. He was the "difficult patient," the one who kept trying to get out of his bed, to go, he didn't know where, but to go somewhere, trying to go anywhere that might be away from his pain. He didn't seem to know where he was headed, but something on his face said he'd know it when he got there. Over and over he tried to get up. And over and over they stopped him.
Several herniated discs, I overheard them tell his wife. These were at least part of the old man's problems. "I need to go," he kept saying, "Honey, somethings wrong, somethings real wrong." And he would sit up, and they would come lay him down, and three times I grabbed the IV bag off its hanger and handed it to the woman just before he ripped the IV out of his arm. She told me thank you three times, but I just nodded, said, "I'd hate to see him have to have that put in again."
By the time I left, they had sedated him. After the security guard came to hold him in the bed, I guess they figured there was no harm in slipping him a little quiet time into his IV.
Wish I could have had a doggie bag for home.
In the mean time, let me remind myself that you can't spend a day in the ER without feeling... well... without feeling.
The woman I can't get out of my head is probably 90 years old. She looked so unalive I wondered what possible tests they could be performing on her in the CT-scan room that would tell them anything.
Did she even have a pulse?
There's just no way. No way this woman was alive. But the family who stood around her acted as if she were alive. So maybe she was. She was skin stretched over bones. I never saw her open her eyes. Her head was tilted back on the gurny, arched in private pain, her mouth formed a perfect silent scream, releasing fury up to the florescent lights. Her mouth never twitched. Just strained against itself.
She was death in still life.
She reminded me immediately of the ruins of Pomepei. The living captured in time in media res--in the middle of sleep, of thought, of horrible ends. Everytime I think of the living dead woman I want to scream for her, "LET ME OUT!"
There was an older man, too, and his younger wife was with him. She wore lots of jewelry and patted his side. He couldn't find comfort, not from her, not from the nurses. He was the "difficult patient," the one who kept trying to get out of his bed, to go, he didn't know where, but to go somewhere, trying to go anywhere that might be away from his pain. He didn't seem to know where he was headed, but something on his face said he'd know it when he got there. Over and over he tried to get up. And over and over they stopped him.
Several herniated discs, I overheard them tell his wife. These were at least part of the old man's problems. "I need to go," he kept saying, "Honey, somethings wrong, somethings real wrong." And he would sit up, and they would come lay him down, and three times I grabbed the IV bag off its hanger and handed it to the woman just before he ripped the IV out of his arm. She told me thank you three times, but I just nodded, said, "I'd hate to see him have to have that put in again."
By the time I left, they had sedated him. After the security guard came to hold him in the bed, I guess they figured there was no harm in slipping him a little quiet time into his IV.
Wish I could have had a doggie bag for home.
December 04, 2002
my head might explode
I'm not sure if it's the furvor of last week's blog-opinion frenzy, or if it's waiting for this ice-storm-or-whatever to come-like-huh?, or knowing I have deadlines and Jenna's school is closed again tomorrow because of the ice-storm-that-who-knows-if-it's-even-coming, or if it's the stress of this entire month, or is it year, or what, but my head feels like it's about to explode.
I'm ready.
I've cleaned the house, so if they come in the front door after not hearing from me for a few days, or if the noise from my skull combusting wakes the neighbors and they phone the fire department, and if they use a battering ram to burst through my door in hopes of saving me, everything's pretty well organized.
Bills are paid until the 15th. Not sure all the checks will clear--ah well. Can't get blood from an exploded head.
Jenna's clothes are out. Prescriptions are refilled.
ahhhh. feeling a little better already.
oh the vice is closing again, temples pounding, my neck feels like someone's rammed a steel rod through it.
so my day's been pretty average.
I'm ready.
I've cleaned the house, so if they come in the front door after not hearing from me for a few days, or if the noise from my skull combusting wakes the neighbors and they phone the fire department, and if they use a battering ram to burst through my door in hopes of saving me, everything's pretty well organized.
Bills are paid until the 15th. Not sure all the checks will clear--ah well. Can't get blood from an exploded head.
Jenna's clothes are out. Prescriptions are refilled.
ahhhh. feeling a little better already.
oh the vice is closing again, temples pounding, my neck feels like someone's rammed a steel rod through it.
so my day's been pretty average.
Holy Cow It's Raining!
In many parts of the country, rain is no reason for unbridled panic and maniacal behavior of the driving and shopping variety.
Those parts of the country aren't Atlanta. Too metro to be "southern" and too southern to be "metro," Atlanta's in a tizzy today, expecting some freezing rain (translated by the local news as a major ice storm), maybe, possibly, but then again maybe not, well the roads are a little wet, a couple of drops already fell, and if you look really really hard you can see your breath, and well the wind's blowing, no sun out today, so, yeh, I'm pretty sure a killer ice storm's on the way, which is why my daughter's Pre-K closed at 11 and now she's home looking out the window asking me when the ice is gonna come.
tick-tock-tick... we'll see.
Atlanta bloggers, let me know when you're home safe and sound.
Those parts of the country aren't Atlanta. Too metro to be "southern" and too southern to be "metro," Atlanta's in a tizzy today, expecting some freezing rain (translated by the local news as a major ice storm), maybe, possibly, but then again maybe not, well the roads are a little wet, a couple of drops already fell, and if you look really really hard you can see your breath, and well the wind's blowing, no sun out today, so, yeh, I'm pretty sure a killer ice storm's on the way, which is why my daughter's Pre-K closed at 11 and now she's home looking out the window asking me when the ice is gonna come.
tick-tock-tick... we'll see.
Atlanta bloggers, let me know when you're home safe and sound.
chuckle, chuckle, snort, snort
I just hopped over to Humor Columnist Madeleine Begun Kane's weblog. She posted an official Office Christmas Party Contract for husbands and wives she wrote, which was originally published in Newsday. Denise, I don't know if this will stand up in court, but it made me snort. An excerpt here:
2. Husband shall be diplomatic and refrain from saying any of the following:
a. "For a tightwad, you sure throw one hell of a bash. Just between us guys, how much did it set you back?"
b. "You promoted her just in time. She was working on her resume."
c. "So you're the fellow my Wife keeps complaining about. You seem nice enough to me."
d. "I hate these things. Don't you?" (Last year Husband said this to the President's wife.)
2. Husband shall be diplomatic and refrain from saying any of the following:
a. "For a tightwad, you sure throw one hell of a bash. Just between us guys, how much did it set you back?"
b. "You promoted her just in time. She was working on her resume."
c. "So you're the fellow my Wife keeps complaining about. You seem nice enough to me."
d. "I hate these things. Don't you?" (Last year Husband said this to the President's wife.)
December 03, 2002
Today's "Ask a Blogger" Question from Allied...
Does anyone know where I can find the latest, greatest, most up to date info on online accesibility legislation/issues/thinking? That is, what sites are, aren't, should, shouldn't are supposed to but aren't, wish they could, etc..... around making sites friendly/usable for the disabled. Legislation? Thinking? Debating? How-Tos?
Found one pretty current article here, but am betting there's a blogger or six out there talking about this stuff.
Thanks. If you leave them in the comment box, I'll push them all up into a post for anyone else who wants to learn more about this topic.
Tangent over.
And out.
Found one pretty current article here, but am betting there's a blogger or six out there talking about this stuff.
Thanks. If you leave them in the comment box, I'll push them all up into a post for anyone else who wants to learn more about this topic.
Tangent over.
And out.
Have I Told You Today How Much I Hate You?
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Bix is pondering a threatening phone call he received letting him know that some soldiers will be "coming to get him" because of some posts and comments he made over the morality/immorality of soldiering. Elaine, mother-to-bix, discusses it here.
While the particular debate wouldn't have caught my attention, the threatening phone call Bix received did. Damn terrorists. I mean nationalists. I mean terrorists. I mean nationalists. I mean...
Jeez louise the guy write's a weblog. Is that a reason to want to come and get *anyone*?
Now I'm off to put my daughter to bed. Am I allowed to say how lucky I am to be doing so without setting off anyone's "ism" alarm, igniting World War III, or inciting threats of violence?
Jeneane's phrase of the evening: Take a powder or drink the Kool-Aid.
While the particular debate wouldn't have caught my attention, the threatening phone call Bix received did. Damn terrorists. I mean nationalists. I mean terrorists. I mean nationalists. I mean...
Jeez louise the guy write's a weblog. Is that a reason to want to come and get *anyone*?
Now I'm off to put my daughter to bed. Am I allowed to say how lucky I am to be doing so without setting off anyone's "ism" alarm, igniting World War III, or inciting threats of violence?
Jeneane's phrase of the evening: Take a powder or drink the Kool-Aid.
Virtual Darwinism--Blogging Does the Extinction Two Step
I once said, more than a year ago on my first blog, that "the net is filled with potholes and assholes just like the real world."
How foretelling.
When did they open the door to this world and start letting just anybody in? (oh, jeesh, 'scuse me. that was the point of it, huh.)
The email exchanges flying around this week, and posts on girlism and sexism and feminism and selfishness -- all of the posturing that is going on -- seems like some kind of sped-up virtual Darwinism gone awry.
Are we in a battle of survival of the fittest? And what is a "fit" blogger.
Shudder.
The current mandate seems something like this: Evolve and become a big-blog media whore/gigolo who uses their blog to pander to some [insert your label here] bunch or another. Come in, come on, and argue with us. Draw the line in the sand. Rant and bitch and show how much you know.
But don't show your feelings. Don't be vulnerable. That's so unevolved.
Dat's how da dinosaurs got gone.
What will this place look like in 10 years, which is probably the equivilant of 1,000 years offline? If it evolves in the direction it seems to be going, then go turn on your TV right now. Turn to one of the aimless news channels. You'll be looking at your online future.
How fucking exciting.
If those of us who write about "more than" any one topic, any one passion, but who write passionately, decide to give up (which I've heard more than one good blogger express this week), then this place won't be any different from that place.
Great, just great.
Jeneane's phrase of the day: If you don't want to know me, then blow me.
How foretelling.
When did they open the door to this world and start letting just anybody in? (oh, jeesh, 'scuse me. that was the point of it, huh.)
The email exchanges flying around this week, and posts on girlism and sexism and feminism and selfishness -- all of the posturing that is going on -- seems like some kind of sped-up virtual Darwinism gone awry.
Are we in a battle of survival of the fittest? And what is a "fit" blogger.
Shudder.
The current mandate seems something like this: Evolve and become a big-blog media whore/gigolo who uses their blog to pander to some [insert your label here] bunch or another. Come in, come on, and argue with us. Draw the line in the sand. Rant and bitch and show how much you know.
But don't show your feelings. Don't be vulnerable. That's so unevolved.
Dat's how da dinosaurs got gone.
What will this place look like in 10 years, which is probably the equivilant of 1,000 years offline? If it evolves in the direction it seems to be going, then go turn on your TV right now. Turn to one of the aimless news channels. You'll be looking at your online future.
How fucking exciting.
If those of us who write about "more than" any one topic, any one passion, but who write passionately, decide to give up (which I've heard more than one good blogger express this week), then this place won't be any different from that place.
Great, just great.
Jeneane's phrase of the day: If you don't want to know me, then blow me.
December 02, 2002
lay down with a child
If you're wondering about the significance of girlism or feminism or sexism or racism or barbarism, if you're wondering about when the war will start or who in blogland is picking fights with whom, who's spouting silliness or who's dangerous or who means what by which comment, or who's making themselves feel better for their puny life by taking shots at an article you appeared in, or who knows what they're talking about and who doesn't. If you're wondering why you care or don't care, you need to do one simple thing.
Lay down with a child; watch them let go of the day.
Not a pet. Not a lover. A child.
Listen to her stories, to her final fury of lucid thoughts before she gives in to sleep; listen to her questions, always profound at this time of the night, about God and oceans, about life and death, about how she'll never be 90 years old.
Be quiet and listen to her. Sketch her face with your eyes as she stares out the window at the stars from the universe that is her covers. Follow her breath with your own, in and out, and wait for the moment when she releases the day.
Then rest there longer. Let her dreams climb into yours, feel the softness of her small hands, and feel so blessed for that moment, and feel sadness for anyone who hasn't experienced it, ache for anyone who has had it and lost it, and realize that sadness will one day be yours, when you don't have her night time anymore.
Touch her hair, brush her cheek gently, and kiss her softly as you rise.
And wonder how anyone makes it through the day without this waiting for them at the end of it.
Lay down with a child; watch them let go of the day.
Not a pet. Not a lover. A child.
Listen to her stories, to her final fury of lucid thoughts before she gives in to sleep; listen to her questions, always profound at this time of the night, about God and oceans, about life and death, about how she'll never be 90 years old.
Be quiet and listen to her. Sketch her face with your eyes as she stares out the window at the stars from the universe that is her covers. Follow her breath with your own, in and out, and wait for the moment when she releases the day.
Then rest there longer. Let her dreams climb into yours, feel the softness of her small hands, and feel so blessed for that moment, and feel sadness for anyone who hasn't experienced it, ache for anyone who has had it and lost it, and realize that sadness will one day be yours, when you don't have her night time anymore.
Touch her hair, brush her cheek gently, and kiss her softly as you rise.
And wonder how anyone makes it through the day without this waiting for them at the end of it.
and lastly, a friendly challenge to Halley
Regarding the post below and all the hubub over girlism, I want to pose a challenge to Halley, blog sister to blog sister.
You say "I posted it as an example of this new trend I'm seeing."
Show me more evidence. That's what I want. And I want to know about the trend from experience or recollection. Don't pull up short and tell it from a big media perspective--not from a women's magazine perspective, not the cartoon network's perspective, not from a record label's perspective.
I want to hear about you. Not about celebrities like Britney and Cybil, who are--esentially--wrapped and packaged to make you feel girly all over. Okay? Not about Cybil, or Janet, or Britney, or the Power Puff Girls.
Scratch deeper.
Write from the place that's stirring this all up in you.
I want to hear about Halley. I want you to make it Real.
Then I think maybe I'll get it.
That's all on this one for today.
You say "I posted it as an example of this new trend I'm seeing."
Show me more evidence. That's what I want. And I want to know about the trend from experience or recollection. Don't pull up short and tell it from a big media perspective--not from a women's magazine perspective, not the cartoon network's perspective, not from a record label's perspective.
I want to hear about you. Not about celebrities like Britney and Cybil, who are--esentially--wrapped and packaged to make you feel girly all over. Okay? Not about Cybil, or Janet, or Britney, or the Power Puff Girls.
Scratch deeper.
Write from the place that's stirring this all up in you.
I want to hear about Halley. I want you to make it Real.
Then I think maybe I'll get it.
That's all on this one for today.
Girlist, Feminist--No Wonder Men Are Confused.
Everyone has their own take about why Halley's Girlsim thing either troubles or intrigues them.
Halley's original post about the end of Feminism and the beginning of Girlism stirred up a lot of conversation--some rather intense--in places like THIS, THIS, and THIS.
Today Halley revisits "Girlsim" on her blog and says this:
"I also posted a comment about Cybill Shepard from More Magazine about how she screens new guys she wants to date. She used to ask how they felt about abortion (classic Feminist issue) and now she asks how often they mastrubate (classic Girlist issue). I posted it as an example of this new trend I'm seeing.
Halley's original post about the end of Feminism and the beginning of Girlism stirred up a lot of conversation--some rather intense--in places like THIS, THIS, and THIS.
Today Halley revisits "Girlsim" on her blog and says this:
"I also posted a comment about Cybill Shepard from More Magazine about how she screens new guys she wants to date. She used to ask how they felt about abortion (classic Feminist issue) and now she asks how often they mastrubate (classic Girlist issue). I posted it as an example of this new trend I'm seeing.
Girlism is about owning your own sexuality as a woman and letting men understand that it's something you like -- sex. And it's something you like on YOUR terms, not on their terms. Women don't need men to define female sexuality. We need to define it ourselves and we need to own it and then teach men how it is. It's beyond Feminism.
Feminism talked about women owning their sexuality in a lesbian context only which was cool, but created no context within which heterosexual women could own their sexuality and enjoy it with heterosexual men. That's what's changing. That's what Cybill's remark suggests. Will anyone really argue with me that the feminist version of female sexuality wasn't strident and unattractive? Girlism is about being sexy and attractive AND liberated. Some men have picked up on my Cybill Shepard post.
First, Jonathon does a great job of conveying some of my thoughts. I love when that happens.
But why not add my two cents here. Against my better judgment.
[[Disclaimer: I love Halley. I'm just seriously concerned she has been abducted by Alien Beings.]]
Here's what bothers me re: this type of "girlism." Hang with me guys (who have, in comments across blogs, leaned heavily in Halley's favor--look closely--you've been duped again.)
First of all, although I'm neither a Feminist nor a Girlist, I am a woman. As such, I can't say that I believe Halley's definition of the early women's movement as being ONLY about sexuality within a lesbian context, nor that it does much good for her to further they notion that feminism, or lesbian feminsim, sexuality is "strident and unattractive." To whom? To men? I doubt they much care.
But Halley does seem to care. She talks about it this way--and this is the bit that gives me the most pause:
"Girlism is about owning your own sexuality as a woman and letting men understand that it's something you like -- sex. And it's something you like on YOUR terms, not on their terms. Women don't need men to define female sexuality. We need to define it ourselves and we need to own it and then teach men how it is."
Unless you're having sex Cybil Shepard's way, what is this "owning" of sexuality? What is this sex as something you like on YOUR terms, not on their terms? What is this singular and one-sided description of sex?
If this is the way we all begin to look at sex, aren't we just having sex with ourselves? Where's the other person in all of this? Where's the intimacy, the love, the foreplay, the afterplay. Where is anyone but "the girl"?
And if a man needs to be taught that "you have a say," in your sexuality, if you need to "teach him" that, then what kind of man is he?
More questions than answers perhaps. But suffice it to say that I really have a problem with either side--feminist or girlist--that takes the relationship out of the equation.
A relationship, and sex, and (God forbid) love--am I the only one that sees this as a part of the deal?--involve two human beings with two human hearts and human baggage and needs and wants and desires that are complex, and sometimes they are musical and sometimes they are unworkable, sometimes they transcend and sometimes they battle one another.
It's NOT as simple as labels, and it's NOT as simple as owning our own sexuality, and it's NOT as empty headed as Cybil Idiot Shepard.
What's missing from Girlism is, in short, relationship and emotional intimacy.
As for Ms. Shepard and More Magazine, anybody who can use abortion and masturbation in the same sentence, flippantly, as a yardstick to measure men by, is someone I need to see LESS of, not More of.
more later. maybe.
You Give Her Back, Damn You!
It's quite clear. I haven't wanted to say anything until I was sure. But now I'm pretty certain. There's no other explanation really. I've fished and fished for one, reaching far back into my psyche, where I pulled out three yo-yos and some cheese curls. No matter how I look at it, there's only one answer.
Halley's been abducted by aliens!
Halley's been abducted by aliens!
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