September 24, 2003
bump
I'm bumping the last post into second position so Halley can read it in something other than 9 point Times New Roman, or whatever this horrid font size is. I think she still has one eye to go.
So, the question got popped today
Yes. That one: "What are you--a freelance writer, a PR person..." I could almost hear a silent "Or what?" at the end of the sentence.
Oh boy. I decided to answer it, since I've been getting the question for a couple of months now. But it wasn't an easy answer, and it took me a really long and winding email to explain it to the person asking, not to mention myself.
So much for my elevator statement.
Messaging Department, take a note.
I mean, in the traditional corporate career, you either write contributed articles and case studies and press kits and the like, or you write journalistically. You pick. One's a sleezy profession, one's honorable. One people run from, the other they like to rub elbows with.
Here, look at my poetry. We write kind of similar stuff, don't you think?
Well, no. I mean, not really. But okay. I like it when people like me. That works. So sure.
No one ever says, Oooooooh! Did you write that contributed article on Data Warehousing in DM Review last month? Was that your story on the customer information architecture by that CEO in Healthcare Informatics? {swoon}
No. That activity is not becoming for a writer. It simply pays the bills.
i.e.=sellout.
For my entire career, it's been a cut and dry answer for me. At Kodak it was technical writing; at STI, marketing and PR writing, at Crescent the same, at Ketchum more of the same times 20.
Even the stuff I wrote under my own name over those years, some that paid pretty well, was somehow separate from how I made my living. You know, my CAREER.
How I made my living was PR and Marketing writing.
But how I make my living now is not that simple. Because, if you've been following along with the home game, you know I got laidoff--or should I say I declined their offer to stay--by the Passion and Precision in Communication folks in April.
So, today I do everything.
Whatever interests me and pays, I do it.
And that isn't what most people do.
You're agency or you're corporate.
You're a PR person or you're a writer.
Always sides. Always dividing lines. Always a way to separate voice from itself.
So today, I find myself doing both kinds of writing within a business landscape that has been oiled and tuned for decades to see the dividing line, the hierarchy, the bottom feeders of PR versus the editorial elite.
And I don't fit either mold. Or I fit both. I'm in Media Map as a weblog journalist. Soon I'll be in Media Map as a freelance writer. I also use Media Map for one of my clients, the only one currently for whom I do PR.
What do you make of that? What does that make me?
Yesterday, when this very issue started swirling around my head, I decided that the identity crisis I'm going through is less about ME and more about a subtle change that's taking place around VOICE. Voice with a capital V. Thanks to blogging.
The way I see it today is that the imaginary lines that have for so long separated and silenced human beings as Voices are in place largely because the human voice doesn't fit within the business model, preferences, or pet peeves of big media NOR does it fit the business models, preferences, and brown nosing of BigPR. Not to mention corporations in general, AKA: the client.
Thanks to the Net and most especially blogging, the human voice is beginning, ever so subtly, to rise to the top. To become media. Voice as media resonataing with message. It doesn't matter the outlet, the voice is becoming the place of broadcast wattage. What that means is that I don't care whether I read it in CIO magazine under Halley Suitt's name, or whether Halley Suitt writes it under Jack Bennett's (who? i dunno--it's just a name) name, or if she writes it for Penthouse. You can't deny her voice. I'll know it's her. Even when it's not her. You see?
Give me a Suitt, hold the mayo, extra ketchup.
It's like that. It's a Kleenex thing.
Our day is here. We used to have to bury our voices in business. But that's changing. Even if it's changing because the loudest and most obnoxious among us are being cast out.
GOOD! That's GOOD!
If we are doing nothing else here, we are honing our ears for honesty.
Bloggers know when something sounds dishonest--it doesn't hold our interest for long. We know when someone is telling us something from the gut, something they believe in. We are captivated. It doesn't matter if they're telling us about running out of paper towels and having nothing left to blow their noses in, or if they're telling us the GMAC mini van they bought already sucks wastewater, it is the VOICE----the heart, the soul----of the writer we're tuning into here.
And you once you've tuned into that, you can't tune out just because business wants you to.
You can't turn off genuine voice--you want more and more and more of it, because it makes you feel alive. You hear the heartbeat within it. You know someone's in there.
Tap a vein, I'm comin' in.
Where was I going with this?
Oh yes. The "What am I" question.
I think, from here forward, my answer will be: A blogger.
This other stuff I do, it's just markin' time.
Can I hear an Amen?
Oh boy. I decided to answer it, since I've been getting the question for a couple of months now. But it wasn't an easy answer, and it took me a really long and winding email to explain it to the person asking, not to mention myself.
So much for my elevator statement.
Messaging Department, take a note.
I mean, in the traditional corporate career, you either write contributed articles and case studies and press kits and the like, or you write journalistically. You pick. One's a sleezy profession, one's honorable. One people run from, the other they like to rub elbows with.
Here, look at my poetry. We write kind of similar stuff, don't you think?
Well, no. I mean, not really. But okay. I like it when people like me. That works. So sure.
No one ever says, Oooooooh! Did you write that contributed article on Data Warehousing in DM Review last month? Was that your story on the customer information architecture by that CEO in Healthcare Informatics? {swoon}
No. That activity is not becoming for a writer. It simply pays the bills.
i.e.=sellout.
For my entire career, it's been a cut and dry answer for me. At Kodak it was technical writing; at STI, marketing and PR writing, at Crescent the same, at Ketchum more of the same times 20.
Even the stuff I wrote under my own name over those years, some that paid pretty well, was somehow separate from how I made my living. You know, my CAREER.
How I made my living was PR and Marketing writing.
But how I make my living now is not that simple. Because, if you've been following along with the home game, you know I got laidoff--or should I say I declined their offer to stay--by the Passion and Precision in Communication folks in April.
So, today I do everything.
Whatever interests me and pays, I do it.
And that isn't what most people do.
You're agency or you're corporate.
You're a PR person or you're a writer.
Always sides. Always dividing lines. Always a way to separate voice from itself.
So today, I find myself doing both kinds of writing within a business landscape that has been oiled and tuned for decades to see the dividing line, the hierarchy, the bottom feeders of PR versus the editorial elite.
And I don't fit either mold. Or I fit both. I'm in Media Map as a weblog journalist. Soon I'll be in Media Map as a freelance writer. I also use Media Map for one of my clients, the only one currently for whom I do PR.
What do you make of that? What does that make me?
Yesterday, when this very issue started swirling around my head, I decided that the identity crisis I'm going through is less about ME and more about a subtle change that's taking place around VOICE. Voice with a capital V. Thanks to blogging.
The way I see it today is that the imaginary lines that have for so long separated and silenced human beings as Voices are in place largely because the human voice doesn't fit within the business model, preferences, or pet peeves of big media NOR does it fit the business models, preferences, and brown nosing of BigPR. Not to mention corporations in general, AKA: the client.
Thanks to the Net and most especially blogging, the human voice is beginning, ever so subtly, to rise to the top. To become media. Voice as media resonataing with message. It doesn't matter the outlet, the voice is becoming the place of broadcast wattage. What that means is that I don't care whether I read it in CIO magazine under Halley Suitt's name, or whether Halley Suitt writes it under Jack Bennett's (who? i dunno--it's just a name) name, or if she writes it for Penthouse. You can't deny her voice. I'll know it's her. Even when it's not her. You see?
Give me a Suitt, hold the mayo, extra ketchup.
It's like that. It's a Kleenex thing.
Our day is here. We used to have to bury our voices in business. But that's changing. Even if it's changing because the loudest and most obnoxious among us are being cast out.
GOOD! That's GOOD!
If we are doing nothing else here, we are honing our ears for honesty.
Bloggers know when something sounds dishonest--it doesn't hold our interest for long. We know when someone is telling us something from the gut, something they believe in. We are captivated. It doesn't matter if they're telling us about running out of paper towels and having nothing left to blow their noses in, or if they're telling us the GMAC mini van they bought already sucks wastewater, it is the VOICE----the heart, the soul----of the writer we're tuning into here.
And you once you've tuned into that, you can't tune out just because business wants you to.
You can't turn off genuine voice--you want more and more and more of it, because it makes you feel alive. You hear the heartbeat within it. You know someone's in there.
Tap a vein, I'm comin' in.
Where was I going with this?
Oh yes. The "What am I" question.
I think, from here forward, my answer will be: A blogger.
This other stuff I do, it's just markin' time.
Can I hear an Amen?
Let Us Take Stock
You writers know how it is. You work on a project. You're close. It's almost done. Everyone's happy. You're ecstatic because if you have to write one more word, even if it's only a five or six letter word, you think your knees will give out. You have no words left. Your brain has been sucked dry. Someone asks you your name, you say, "Ummm?"
Right, but it's almost done, so your brain cells start to regenerate--out of habit more than anything else.
And with the new brain cells, the old ones receed. Any knowledge you had on what you were writing about begins to fade. Soon it will all be gone. When you read the result in a week or two or three, it will all be brand new, as if you'd never seen it before in your life.
You'll think, wow, did I write that? Sometimes when you ask yourself that question, it's because the writing sounds so good. And sometimes it's because it sucks so bad. But either way, you dance about on light feet that day because the project is officially done.
Well, mine's not.
I thought we were close. You know how that is. Ooooo. So close you can taste it, and then a hump in the process, and more interviews, and more re-writes, and that's just the way it goes.
But you can't help it. You dig deep for the inspiration to keep pumping the words out. You're so desperate you dig into your cliche basket with renewed vigor. Anything. Anything. Have to keep pushing. Must get it done. Leverage Leverage Leverage.
Keep.
on.
one.
word.
at.
a.
time.
I have created this day the writer's serenity prayer:
God grant me the serenity to accept the edits I must change, the courage not to change the sentences that make sense, and the wisdom to know the difference.
SO in honor of where I am today, I've decided to take stock. Certainly, there are many worse things than a project that won't end. Certainly, there are many worse professions in life than those that keep you stuck to the couch, arms stretched forward, perched over these black keys like EltonFuckingJohn.
Certainly.
Now for two categories designed to help make me thankful for the day...
DOING THIS IS BETTER THAN:
Walking 8 miles to the store. But not better than walking 2 miles to the store.
An all-day workshop on anything.
Not smoking
Waiting in line at Motor Vehicles
A yearly OBGYN appointment
WHAT I WOULD RATHER BE SUFFERIING THROUGH INSTEAD OF THIS:
Laying flat on the floor, face down, being whipped six to eight times on the back with a [[name your implement]]. I would not rather be whipped more than eight times. And I would rather nails not be used.
A dental cleaning
1-hour traffic jam, but not 3 hour traffic jam
Cramps
A fall on grass, but not on concrete
Whole-house vacuuming.
That should give you an idea of how my day's going so far. So, how's your day going?
Right, but it's almost done, so your brain cells start to regenerate--out of habit more than anything else.
And with the new brain cells, the old ones receed. Any knowledge you had on what you were writing about begins to fade. Soon it will all be gone. When you read the result in a week or two or three, it will all be brand new, as if you'd never seen it before in your life.
You'll think, wow, did I write that? Sometimes when you ask yourself that question, it's because the writing sounds so good. And sometimes it's because it sucks so bad. But either way, you dance about on light feet that day because the project is officially done.
Well, mine's not.
I thought we were close. You know how that is. Ooooo. So close you can taste it, and then a hump in the process, and more interviews, and more re-writes, and that's just the way it goes.
But you can't help it. You dig deep for the inspiration to keep pumping the words out. You're so desperate you dig into your cliche basket with renewed vigor. Anything. Anything. Have to keep pushing. Must get it done. Leverage Leverage Leverage.
Keep.
on.
one.
word.
at.
a.
time.
I have created this day the writer's serenity prayer:
God grant me the serenity to accept the edits I must change, the courage not to change the sentences that make sense, and the wisdom to know the difference.
SO in honor of where I am today, I've decided to take stock. Certainly, there are many worse things than a project that won't end. Certainly, there are many worse professions in life than those that keep you stuck to the couch, arms stretched forward, perched over these black keys like EltonFuckingJohn.
Certainly.
Now for two categories designed to help make me thankful for the day...
DOING THIS IS BETTER THAN:
Walking 8 miles to the store. But not better than walking 2 miles to the store.
An all-day workshop on anything.
Not smoking
Waiting in line at Motor Vehicles
A yearly OBGYN appointment
WHAT I WOULD RATHER BE SUFFERIING THROUGH INSTEAD OF THIS:
Laying flat on the floor, face down, being whipped six to eight times on the back with a [[name your implement]]. I would not rather be whipped more than eight times. And I would rather nails not be used.
A dental cleaning
1-hour traffic jam, but not 3 hour traffic jam
Cramps
A fall on grass, but not on concrete
Whole-house vacuuming.
That should give you an idea of how my day's going so far. So, how's your day going?
crap
no time to play. thinking I was done with this recent big push on web copy was, well, wishful at best. I'm back to the grind this week. No time to ponder the better side of life among the blogs.
In real world news, our Jenna turns six on Tuesday. In the last week and a half, she's lost TWO bottom teeth. Truly looking like a six year old now. amazing. what happens. time. it goes. and goes. and then we're done I guess.
more soon. stay upbeat.
In real world news, our Jenna turns six on Tuesday. In the last week and a half, she's lost TWO bottom teeth. Truly looking like a six year old now. amazing. what happens. time. it goes. and goes. and then we're done I guess.
more soon. stay upbeat.
September 21, 2003
ahhhhhhhhh...
that was a sigh of relief.
I've not been here as much as I would like since Jenna wound up in the hospital because work picked up to a feverish pitch (get it--hospital/feverish?) right before she went in, and I've been racing ever since.
To everyone I haven't emailed back: I'm sorry
To everyone I haven't done what I promised I'd do: I'm sorry
To everyone I've done something to lately I shouldn't have: I'm sorry
To Jenna and George: I'm sorry.
Chalk it up to the limitations of human frailty. Over the last ten days I've dumped 65 pages of copy out of my head for a client. That's a lot of copy, even when you write fast and while you're sleeping. It's been a year since I've had to crunch like that, so I'm here to say the worst of it is done, for now, and I hope I can come out and play next week on my blog!!
You all have the day off tomorrow, 'cause I say so.
And that's WITH pay.
Enjoy!
I've not been here as much as I would like since Jenna wound up in the hospital because work picked up to a feverish pitch (get it--hospital/feverish?) right before she went in, and I've been racing ever since.
To everyone I haven't emailed back: I'm sorry
To everyone I haven't done what I promised I'd do: I'm sorry
To everyone I've done something to lately I shouldn't have: I'm sorry
To Jenna and George: I'm sorry.
Chalk it up to the limitations of human frailty. Over the last ten days I've dumped 65 pages of copy out of my head for a client. That's a lot of copy, even when you write fast and while you're sleeping. It's been a year since I've had to crunch like that, so I'm here to say the worst of it is done, for now, and I hope I can come out and play next week on my blog!!
You all have the day off tomorrow, 'cause I say so.
And that's WITH pay.
Enjoy!
September 19, 2003
One last thing...
I think these recent developments actually qualify me for Pirateship.
So, really, pirates talk like I do.
good night.
send chachkes.
or I'll have to slip aboard and steal them from you.
So, really, pirates talk like I do.
good night.
send chachkes.
or I'll have to slip aboard and steal them from you.
Now that I've located myself...
So, I thought I should report, now that I've found myself (see post below), and myself is a member of the media, that I can be bought. I'm not like those old school journalists. I'm biased, I'm poor (okay, maybe I'm like them that way), and I'm on the take.
Bring on your tired, your weary, your product enhancement press releases.
But you better send the cool t-shirts and pens and magnetic poetry and stress balls and yo-yos and leather binders and all those other cool things you send the real media.
Damnit.
And when you're not looking, I'll sell all the cool stuff you sent me on ebay to pay for hosting of this media outlet.
I also accept nice lunches where you can tell me all about what you're leveraging this month.
Sure, you want to do a press tour to my house, that's cool. Bring a toy for my kid.
I prefer to receive press releases never, and prefer to be contacted by email. Or carrier pigeon. YES, please send pigeons.
Yah, that's the ticket.
Bring on your tired, your weary, your product enhancement press releases.
But you better send the cool t-shirts and pens and magnetic poetry and stress balls and yo-yos and leather binders and all those other cool things you send the real media.
Damnit.
And when you're not looking, I'll sell all the cool stuff you sent me on ebay to pay for hosting of this media outlet.
I also accept nice lunches where you can tell me all about what you're leveraging this month.
Sure, you want to do a press tour to my house, that's cool. Bring a toy for my kid.
I prefer to receive press releases never, and prefer to be contacted by email. Or carrier pigeon. YES, please send pigeons.
Yah, that's the ticket.
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way Back to Media Map
I'm in it.
And so are a lot of you bloggers.
Remember when Dan Gillmor and others posted about getting pinged by annoying PR people from BigPR asking if their client can guest host (or some such nonsense) their weblogs?
Well I know why now. It's Media Map.
When I left Ketchum, I was an infrequent but pleased user of Media Map. I've always thought Media Map was the killer ap for media relations. I started using it when I was at Crescent back in 1997. It had some bugs back in those days, like don't try to click on page two of your search results because it just wasn't having that. But over the years, it's become a valuable tools of both big and small agencies.
I'm now using Media Map Performa for one of my clients. It's some version of media map that is basically the media map I remember from six months ago. It's good. No bugs like in the old days--least as I can tell so far.
In the database is just about every reporter, editor, broadcast journalist, publisher, producer, lapdancer and candlestick maker in the wonderful world of media. There are a number of ways to search them up, and a number of reports you can generate. It's not all bad for the reporters either. They get to state their pet peeves--like DON'T FUCKING CALL ME (mostly they don't say fucking); email me instead.
And would you believe many of them still prefer faxes for press releases--I'm assuming that's so they can easily ignore them altogether. Smart.
But that's not news.
The news to ME was this: Among the choices in the field for media "Outlet" -- along with magazines, journals, broadcast TV, Broadcast Radio, Online, Newsletters, etc -- is now--you guessed it--BLOGS.
PLABOMEASHGHOFLSHHH: Sound of Jeneane's mind being blown.
So, when I put my mind back together, naturally I searched on blogs.
And there was Allied, this very blog, proudly if not puzzlingly listed among the "A"s.
Right. Dig it.
I come to Media Map
in my role
as a PR person
searching
for various media outlets.
I dutifully look
for contacts names
and outlets there.
One of the outlets I find
is my very own blog,
this blog,
And one of the media contacts I find
is ME.
I, in essence, have found myself.
I never thought it would feel like this.
Is your head spinning yet?
And George is there, and Doc and David are there.
Here's a sampling of what Media Map says about some of us:
The Doc Searls Weblog covers computer technology, as well as current events, national, and international news.
And then about Doc himself, as the contact for the blog: Searls' blog covers computer technology, as well as current events, national, and international news. Searls is the Senior Editor of The Linux Journal. He prefers to receive all press releases and contact by e-mail. See the outlet overview for complete blog details and pitching tips. Topics covered - Emerging technology; Government: municipal, county, and natl.; News, international; News, national; Technology.
For George's blog, it says: Musick covers jazz and the music industry.
For David it says: Joho the Blog covers government and politics, technology, the Internet, other blogs, and the media.
And for this blog? Allied covers topics related to healthcare, public relations, technology and blogging, communications, and general business topics.
And about me as the contact for the blog: Sessum covers topics related to healthcare, public relations, technology and blogging, communications, general business topics, and race issues in her blog. She can be contacted by e-mail. See the outlet overview for complete blog details and pitching tips. Topics covered - Advertising, marketing, and PR; Business; Communications, technology; Healthcare; Internet; Social issues; Technology.
Before you get irate or excited (you know--I was basically stupified), know that Media Map has a blog too, and it's not a bad one. It's one of those mostly news blogs, but I generally hang out there for longer than five seconds, so that means I'm reading something. I think they're getting the hang of it. It's not Media Map I'm worried about. It's the masses of PR newbies at BigPR agencies that could begin to make the lives of bloggers difficult.
I'm afraid of this very likely sequence of events:
1) PR AE goes to media map.
2) Performs search for a business/technology media
3) IN THE FIELD FOR OUTLETS, SHE CLICKS ON "ALL"
4) Blogs appear in the search results among the usual suspects
5) She checks out a few blogs before pitching, but doesn't know how blogs or blogging work.
6) We bloggers begin getting bombarded with pitches from PR flacks just like traditional journalists do.
In answer to the question that I so hate -- "Are Bloggers Journalists?" -- we may not be allowed the power to answer that for ourselves in the end. We may just start getting pitched. And some of the stories will be interesting. Some may be so interesting that we bite on them. And then what are we?
And some of them will be really lame and annoying. Well, probably most.
And it will be up to each of us to decide what to do with these pitches.
The depressing part of blogs being part of media map is essentially what's depressing about most broadcast media in general and its happy lackey BigPR: Targeting, not talking.
If we could skip the search-and-pitch-at-100-miles-an-hour routine, and if more bloggers, businesspeople among them, and traditional journalists got to know each other as people--heaven forbid even switch voice and genres here and there--well then, we'd be talking. Literally.
As I sit here this evening pondering what I stumbled on today, I say good for Media Map for giving us a run in their database. But PR people PLEASE use blogs as an outlet with extreme caution. Otherwise you'll find your pitches and your names plastered up for the world to see. And your boss--the one who probably told you to find out about those new weblog things--won't be so happy about that.
But still there's an upside. When you get fired by that same clueless overlord, you can come blog with us.
And just wait; those same people will be lathering you up with praise hoping to get you to pick up a story or two....
;-)
And so are a lot of you bloggers.
Remember when Dan Gillmor and others posted about getting pinged by annoying PR people from BigPR asking if their client can guest host (or some such nonsense) their weblogs?
Well I know why now. It's Media Map.
When I left Ketchum, I was an infrequent but pleased user of Media Map. I've always thought Media Map was the killer ap for media relations. I started using it when I was at Crescent back in 1997. It had some bugs back in those days, like don't try to click on page two of your search results because it just wasn't having that. But over the years, it's become a valuable tools of both big and small agencies.
I'm now using Media Map Performa for one of my clients. It's some version of media map that is basically the media map I remember from six months ago. It's good. No bugs like in the old days--least as I can tell so far.
In the database is just about every reporter, editor, broadcast journalist, publisher, producer, lapdancer and candlestick maker in the wonderful world of media. There are a number of ways to search them up, and a number of reports you can generate. It's not all bad for the reporters either. They get to state their pet peeves--like DON'T FUCKING CALL ME (mostly they don't say fucking); email me instead.
And would you believe many of them still prefer faxes for press releases--I'm assuming that's so they can easily ignore them altogether. Smart.
But that's not news.
The news to ME was this: Among the choices in the field for media "Outlet" -- along with magazines, journals, broadcast TV, Broadcast Radio, Online, Newsletters, etc -- is now--you guessed it--BLOGS.
PLABOMEASHGHOFLSHHH: Sound of Jeneane's mind being blown.
So, when I put my mind back together, naturally I searched on blogs.
And there was Allied, this very blog, proudly if not puzzlingly listed among the "A"s.
Right. Dig it.
I come to Media Map
in my role
as a PR person
searching
for various media outlets.
I dutifully look
for contacts names
and outlets there.
One of the outlets I find
is my very own blog,
this blog,
And one of the media contacts I find
is ME.
I, in essence, have found myself.
I never thought it would feel like this.
Is your head spinning yet?
And George is there, and Doc and David are there.
Here's a sampling of what Media Map says about some of us:
The Doc Searls Weblog covers computer technology, as well as current events, national, and international news.
And then about Doc himself, as the contact for the blog: Searls' blog covers computer technology, as well as current events, national, and international news. Searls is the Senior Editor of The Linux Journal. He prefers to receive all press releases and contact by e-mail. See the outlet overview for complete blog details and pitching tips. Topics covered - Emerging technology; Government: municipal, county, and natl.; News, international; News, national; Technology.
For George's blog, it says: Musick covers jazz and the music industry.
For David it says: Joho the Blog covers government and politics, technology, the Internet, other blogs, and the media.
And for this blog? Allied covers topics related to healthcare, public relations, technology and blogging, communications, and general business topics.
And about me as the contact for the blog: Sessum covers topics related to healthcare, public relations, technology and blogging, communications, general business topics, and race issues in her blog. She can be contacted by e-mail. See the outlet overview for complete blog details and pitching tips. Topics covered - Advertising, marketing, and PR; Business; Communications, technology; Healthcare; Internet; Social issues; Technology.
Before you get irate or excited (you know--I was basically stupified), know that Media Map has a blog too, and it's not a bad one. It's one of those mostly news blogs, but I generally hang out there for longer than five seconds, so that means I'm reading something. I think they're getting the hang of it. It's not Media Map I'm worried about. It's the masses of PR newbies at BigPR agencies that could begin to make the lives of bloggers difficult.
I'm afraid of this very likely sequence of events:
1) PR AE goes to media map.
2) Performs search for a business/technology media
3) IN THE FIELD FOR OUTLETS, SHE CLICKS ON "ALL"
4) Blogs appear in the search results among the usual suspects
5) She checks out a few blogs before pitching, but doesn't know how blogs or blogging work.
6) We bloggers begin getting bombarded with pitches from PR flacks just like traditional journalists do.
In answer to the question that I so hate -- "Are Bloggers Journalists?" -- we may not be allowed the power to answer that for ourselves in the end. We may just start getting pitched. And some of the stories will be interesting. Some may be so interesting that we bite on them. And then what are we?
And some of them will be really lame and annoying. Well, probably most.
And it will be up to each of us to decide what to do with these pitches.
The depressing part of blogs being part of media map is essentially what's depressing about most broadcast media in general and its happy lackey BigPR: Targeting, not talking.
If we could skip the search-and-pitch-at-100-miles-an-hour routine, and if more bloggers, businesspeople among them, and traditional journalists got to know each other as people--heaven forbid even switch voice and genres here and there--well then, we'd be talking. Literally.
As I sit here this evening pondering what I stumbled on today, I say good for Media Map for giving us a run in their database. But PR people PLEASE use blogs as an outlet with extreme caution. Otherwise you'll find your pitches and your names plastered up for the world to see. And your boss--the one who probably told you to find out about those new weblog things--won't be so happy about that.
But still there's an upside. When you get fired by that same clueless overlord, you can come blog with us.
And just wait; those same people will be lathering you up with praise hoping to get you to pick up a story or two....
;-)
Oh, I forgot... Land like a Pirate
Pirates have different ways of boarding ships these days.
Technology is so cool.
bloody 'ell.
(Is that British or Pirate?)
Technology is so cool.
bloody 'ell.
(Is that British or Pirate?)
Fashionably Late to the Pirate Ball
You coulda knocked me over with a feather when I heard it was Talk Like a Pirate day from this fine Woman of the Sea and this this fine Woman of the Burning Parrot!
The only problem is, I've been walking around trying to talk like a pirate all day and I can't do it.
I can't get the cadence.
I can't get it.
But I am bold in my breeches. That must be good for something.
Yes, that's "Bold" not "Soiled".
Now THIS is what you do with spam.
BMO gets down on penis enlargement with a pretty darn hysterical post.
September 18, 2003
asleep girl walking
this is my blog. I can post what I want. sometimes you have to remind yourself of that. so if I want to whine about how tired I am, I can. I will. Too often lately I see bloggers critiquing other bloggers for their pettiness. You know those comments. They're the ones that try to belittle the writer by stating emphatically that what he or she is blogging about isn't important.
well fuck that.
when we started this mess called blogging, we were bloggiing to see what blogging was, and mostly, to have fun. The heavy posts were deep because they were a break from the free-for-all link-and-laugh fest that woke us all up and gave us a reason to get out here and show ourselves in the first place. Now there seems to be some kind of unspoken mandate that what we write should be meaningful and relate to "our readers."
again, fuck that.
This isn't a job, it's an adventure.
If I want to complain about how tired I am or how hard it still is to get my kid to sleep, I will. If I want to say, oh no, Jenna woke up with a sore throat this morning--which she did--and feel like crying all over this blog, I can.
If I want to write about driving to Walmart last week with George and Jenna to get printer cartridges, only to get half way there and say, "Uh, George, do you know what model the printer is?" And him slowing, breaking the car, getting ready to turn around so we could go back and look, me turning to Jenna, still 5, for a couple of weeks yet, asking: "Jenna, do you remember the printer model number?"
"Z-22."
Parents exchanging looks in the front seat.
Z-22. I think she's right.
And she is.
And we get the cartridge and say, wow, how did you remember that?
I don't know. I just remember seeing it.
And if I want to write about how our minds are so plyable at that age, so nimble and flexible and uncluttered, I can.
And if I want to mourn here that I already see the crap of humanity starting to fill little pieces of her mind, starting to infiltrate those innocent perfect sacred spots, the spots fighting to contain mistaken lyrics to songs sung loudly, to contain bright red printer model numbers, to hang on to the three big fingers she used to draw on the people she makes in her art, or her daddy's locks always sticking striaght up in those drawings, then I will.
Right.
And so, if I want to whine here, I'll whine. I don't want to have to be profound. Some days I can come here and say I'm tired as shit, feel as old as dirt, working too hard for what, losing myself again.
some days I come here and post pictures of lingerie barbie and GI Joe.
And I'll come here to look for some joy and games and jokes and stupidity and aimless ramblings from bloggers who remember what it was like.
And I'll continue to do whatever the fuck I want here.
And so should you.
well fuck that.
when we started this mess called blogging, we were bloggiing to see what blogging was, and mostly, to have fun. The heavy posts were deep because they were a break from the free-for-all link-and-laugh fest that woke us all up and gave us a reason to get out here and show ourselves in the first place. Now there seems to be some kind of unspoken mandate that what we write should be meaningful and relate to "our readers."
again, fuck that.
This isn't a job, it's an adventure.
If I want to complain about how tired I am or how hard it still is to get my kid to sleep, I will. If I want to say, oh no, Jenna woke up with a sore throat this morning--which she did--and feel like crying all over this blog, I can.
If I want to write about driving to Walmart last week with George and Jenna to get printer cartridges, only to get half way there and say, "Uh, George, do you know what model the printer is?" And him slowing, breaking the car, getting ready to turn around so we could go back and look, me turning to Jenna, still 5, for a couple of weeks yet, asking: "Jenna, do you remember the printer model number?"
"Z-22."
Parents exchanging looks in the front seat.
Z-22. I think she's right.
And she is.
And we get the cartridge and say, wow, how did you remember that?
I don't know. I just remember seeing it.
And if I want to write about how our minds are so plyable at that age, so nimble and flexible and uncluttered, I can.
And if I want to mourn here that I already see the crap of humanity starting to fill little pieces of her mind, starting to infiltrate those innocent perfect sacred spots, the spots fighting to contain mistaken lyrics to songs sung loudly, to contain bright red printer model numbers, to hang on to the three big fingers she used to draw on the people she makes in her art, or her daddy's locks always sticking striaght up in those drawings, then I will.
Right.
And so, if I want to whine here, I'll whine. I don't want to have to be profound. Some days I can come here and say I'm tired as shit, feel as old as dirt, working too hard for what, losing myself again.
some days I come here and post pictures of lingerie barbie and GI Joe.
And I'll come here to look for some joy and games and jokes and stupidity and aimless ramblings from bloggers who remember what it was like.
And I'll continue to do whatever the fuck I want here.
And so should you.
September 17, 2003
zzzzzzzzzz
When you fall asleep at the computer (and don't lie and tell me you don't do that), does your head nod off forward or backward? I'm a forward nodder all the way. Takes two bounces down for me to realize I'm asleep, and then I snap it back up and pretend it didn't happen.
yep.
back at it.
yep.
back at it.
September 16, 2003
The Bruner's don't stop
Over at Michael OCC's blog just now--((HI MICHAEL!!! I'm SORRY I haven't emailed lately. Kiss that baby for us!))--I saw a post pointing to Marketing Wonk, the brainchild of Rick Bruner, at least I think so. How the hell did I miss Marketing Wonk this long?
I'm doing one of those things we bloggers often do.
Those linguistic double takes: "Uh, how did I get to this blog again? Hmmm. And is this the same guy so-and-so was posting about? OH holy shit, look, he's posting about my Uncle Bucky--OH FUCK, we're related!! OH MAN, this blogger's my HALF BROTHER!"
Well, they're not all exactly like that.
But you know what I mean.
So I'm asking, is the Rick Bruner MOCC mentions the same Rick Bruner I happened upon one post below off someone's blogroll who I don't read that often, so not often that I don't remember how I even clicked there?
And after earlier today being sold on the "Bruner You Pig' (BYP) concept by the BYP (no relation to Rick Bruner, at least I don't think...Rick--are you Polish?) creative director, Marek Fucking J. or DOCTOR J-- back with a spanking new blog and his get-down-get-funky, blow-my-mind writing.
So, Marek/RB/Annie are talking about BYP, I'm clicking through to Bruner.net off some randomx blogroll, and MOCC's over there talking about Marketing Wonk.
What the hell kind of synchronistic convergence in the hemospheric chasms of catastrophic proportions is this?
Eh, Bruners???
I like.
I like.
I'm doing one of those things we bloggers often do.
Those linguistic double takes: "Uh, how did I get to this blog again? Hmmm. And is this the same guy so-and-so was posting about? OH holy shit, look, he's posting about my Uncle Bucky--OH FUCK, we're related!! OH MAN, this blogger's my HALF BROTHER!"
Well, they're not all exactly like that.
But you know what I mean.
So I'm asking, is the Rick Bruner MOCC mentions the same Rick Bruner I happened upon one post below off someone's blogroll who I don't read that often, so not often that I don't remember how I even clicked there?
And after earlier today being sold on the "Bruner You Pig' (BYP) concept by the BYP (no relation to Rick Bruner, at least I don't think...Rick--are you Polish?) creative director, Marek Fucking J. or DOCTOR J-- back with a spanking new blog and his get-down-get-funky, blow-my-mind writing.
So, Marek/RB/Annie are talking about BYP, I'm clicking through to Bruner.net off some randomx blogroll, and MOCC's over there talking about Marketing Wonk.
What the hell kind of synchronistic convergence in the hemospheric chasms of catastrophic proportions is this?
Eh, Bruners???
I like.
I like.
Bruner, but not that Bruner, has some cool photos of European men who respect their babes by treating them like.... cattle?
Damn. Talk about ungentlemanly.
Found it on this cool blog by Rick Bruner.
No, now, I know what you're thinking. It's not THAT bruner!
Found it on this cool blog by Rick Bruner.
No, now, I know what you're thinking. It's not THAT bruner!
I've always wanted to see Alaska
In a former life, if I believed such things, which I don't think I do, I do think I was a bat. Cold, dark is a favorite climate for me. The bigger and heavier the comforter I can cuddle under, the better I feel.
Note that this summer I did the anti-bat thing: sun and swimming.
I was so darn proud to go beyond my little comfort zone (better known as the front door) with all of this outside activity.
But truth be told, when I reach inside, when go looking for home, it's dark, it's cool, and when the sun comes you can smell the forrest with it, the ice with it, the snow with it, the wet hard beaches of Lake Ontario where I grew up.
No surprise then that I've always wanted to see Alaska. I used to say to George, man! I'd love to take one of those Alaskan cruises. West Indian roots shuddering at the thought, he would say, "Why? I mean, I know it's beautiful and I wouldn't mind seeing it, but a cruise to Alaska? How about some place a little warmer?"
I think there was two feet of Rochester snow on the ground when I suggested it.
And so that's where Doc and the Linux bunch are, and I swear I could look at those two pictures on Doc's blog all night long.
I'm going to hang upside down from a limb now.
Note that this summer I did the anti-bat thing: sun and swimming.
I was so darn proud to go beyond my little comfort zone (better known as the front door) with all of this outside activity.
But truth be told, when I reach inside, when go looking for home, it's dark, it's cool, and when the sun comes you can smell the forrest with it, the ice with it, the snow with it, the wet hard beaches of Lake Ontario where I grew up.
No surprise then that I've always wanted to see Alaska. I used to say to George, man! I'd love to take one of those Alaskan cruises. West Indian roots shuddering at the thought, he would say, "Why? I mean, I know it's beautiful and I wouldn't mind seeing it, but a cruise to Alaska? How about some place a little warmer?"
I think there was two feet of Rochester snow on the ground when I suggested it.
And so that's where Doc and the Linux bunch are, and I swear I could look at those two pictures on Doc's blog all night long.
I'm going to hang upside down from a limb now.
annie, your doorstop's waiting for ya! Or, a post in which Jeneane goes in and out of the southern vernacular
Since RB sold my computer to Ann without my prior knowledge, and then offered to sell her our house as well, I thought I'd better pipe up before RB gives AnnC my kid. For free.
Annie, baby, the laptop's yours if you want it. The only thing is, it's broke. I mean bigtime broke. Once I put Macafee on it, it started actin up something perculiar (note, I'm switching into southern vernacular to appeal to the vernal in you). That there software damn did somethin nasty as a hound's tongue after a huntin trip, 'cause the bitch wouldn't even start up no mo.
In other words, first it wouldn't boot. NOW it won't even turn on.
Really, though, these are all features.
You blog less, you spend more time with fleshy people.
I hear that has its benefits.
So, if you want the dead computer Mr. Boy tried to sell you, you can have it.
Mehbe you got a-one-a them there handy men in yer neck-a-the-woods.
Of course you'll have to pay $14,500 for the 2001 Ford Escape that comes WITH the dead laptop.
It's a steal. Really. Email me for details. Your new laptop and SUV are waiting!
With love,
Bruner, You Pig!
Annie, baby, the laptop's yours if you want it. The only thing is, it's broke. I mean bigtime broke. Once I put Macafee on it, it started actin up something perculiar (note, I'm switching into southern vernacular to appeal to the vernal in you). That there software damn did somethin nasty as a hound's tongue after a huntin trip, 'cause the bitch wouldn't even start up no mo.
In other words, first it wouldn't boot. NOW it won't even turn on.
Really, though, these are all features.
You blog less, you spend more time with fleshy people.
I hear that has its benefits.
So, if you want the dead computer Mr. Boy tried to sell you, you can have it.
Mehbe you got a-one-a them there handy men in yer neck-a-the-woods.
Of course you'll have to pay $14,500 for the 2001 Ford Escape that comes WITH the dead laptop.
It's a steal. Really. Email me for details. Your new laptop and SUV are waiting!
With love,
Bruner, You Pig!
GI Joe Calling Barbie
Halley posts that Sir RB will be rolling a hoover during the upcoming BloggerCon conference, which truth be told I WISH I could go to, but can't get away from my work right now.
Halley, I think to best entertain RB, you ought to consider tossing a few Barbies into Jackson's room with the GI Joes. Rumor has it, RB is looking forward to hooking GI Joe up with Lingerie Barbie. I'm told he can spend hours playing with dolls. Well, the right dolls.
If Jackson's lucky, he'll get some fashion-savvy soldier babies out of the deal in about 3 months (the gestation period for dolls). And when those babies grow up to be alpha males, well, hopefully they'll remember some of their mama's tips on accessorizing.
Barbies, don't let your babies grow up to be soldiers....
Halley, Get thee to ToysRUs!
;-)
Halley, I think to best entertain RB, you ought to consider tossing a few Barbies into Jackson's room with the GI Joes. Rumor has it, RB is looking forward to hooking GI Joe up with Lingerie Barbie. I'm told he can spend hours playing with dolls. Well, the right dolls.
If Jackson's lucky, he'll get some fashion-savvy soldier babies out of the deal in about 3 months (the gestation period for dolls). And when those babies grow up to be alpha males, well, hopefully they'll remember some of their mama's tips on accessorizing.
Barbies, don't let your babies grow up to be soldiers....
Halley, Get thee to ToysRUs!
;-)
September 15, 2003
the daily ha ha
Peter the writer gets interviewed by the creative director and producer.
Hee hee.
Thanks to the Happy Tutor for the chuckles.
Hee hee.
Thanks to the Happy Tutor for the chuckles.
September 13, 2003
A rant that makes no sense to you, maybe.
Don't you hate it when women get laid off right when they're coming back from maternity leave? You hate that. Right? I hated that when it happened to me six years ago. I hated it so much I got a good lawyer who got the severance I deserved (the one that was in the employee handbook, not the one they made up on let-go day).
Boy, I really hated that I was punished for having a baby after five years of stellar performance, the company hero, the results getter.
Can you spell W-h-a-t- h-a-v-e y-o-u d-o-n-e f-o-r m-e l-a-t-e-l-y.
You really hate that not very many people understand that while you were out of the office, you were finishing baking and birthing a human being. That kind of took up some time on this extended vacation called "disability" (in my day it was).
There are enough women in HR now, in management now, that this shouldn't be happening. It is beginning to smell more and more rotten to me. When women are so worried about their own asses that they won't even stop to notice another woman's ass being raked over the coals, that just plain stinks.
What's next--should we start eating our young and just be done with it?
I mean, there are enough mothers out there to stand up against this growing practice of ousting women on the eve of their return to work, to make a real stink about it when it happens to a colleague. Aren't there?
Aren't there?
Where are all the fucking women in this world?
Hello??????????????
And by the way, if this happens to you unjustly, and you live in Georgia, Adam Conti's great.
Boy, I really hated that I was punished for having a baby after five years of stellar performance, the company hero, the results getter.
Can you spell W-h-a-t- h-a-v-e y-o-u d-o-n-e f-o-r m-e l-a-t-e-l-y.
You really hate that not very many people understand that while you were out of the office, you were finishing baking and birthing a human being. That kind of took up some time on this extended vacation called "disability" (in my day it was).
There are enough women in HR now, in management now, that this shouldn't be happening. It is beginning to smell more and more rotten to me. When women are so worried about their own asses that they won't even stop to notice another woman's ass being raked over the coals, that just plain stinks.
What's next--should we start eating our young and just be done with it?
I mean, there are enough mothers out there to stand up against this growing practice of ousting women on the eve of their return to work, to make a real stink about it when it happens to a colleague. Aren't there?
Aren't there?
Where are all the fucking women in this world?
Hello??????????????
And by the way, if this happens to you unjustly, and you live in Georgia, Adam Conti's great.
September 12, 2003
bye bye ketchum blog
An update of sorts: the ketchum blog I referenced a couple of days back for its cluelessness is now sans content. As in, the posts there have been deleted, but either someone doesn't know how to delete the blog itself, or maybe they're planning to have another go at it. Time will tell. I have my guess already. I wish I had a bookie.
My original post on the blog has no comments because YACCS, my comment facility, was down and out at the time. But hunt around the PR bloggers. You'll see the references. The latest is over on PR Opinions, where I left a comment, and Tom wrote another good post (although we differ in our predictions) on the topic of BigPR.
So that's the update.
Oh, and...
Anyone wonder if I'm feeling particularly good about pointing the Ketchum blog out and generating much PR biz buzz over it? Or if maybe I'm feeling guilty that my pointing out the blog may have played a role in their ditching the content?
Do you really want to know?
Who knows me--come on, you guys know me... what's your vote?
Good or Guilty.
Lemme know, then I'll tell you that I feel G......................... Well, maybe later.
My original post on the blog has no comments because YACCS, my comment facility, was down and out at the time. But hunt around the PR bloggers. You'll see the references. The latest is over on PR Opinions, where I left a comment, and Tom wrote another good post (although we differ in our predictions) on the topic of BigPR.
So that's the update.
Oh, and...
Anyone wonder if I'm feeling particularly good about pointing the Ketchum blog out and generating much PR biz buzz over it? Or if maybe I'm feeling guilty that my pointing out the blog may have played a role in their ditching the content?
Do you really want to know?
Who knows me--come on, you guys know me... what's your vote?
Good or Guilty.
Lemme know, then I'll tell you that I feel G......................... Well, maybe later.
what a post
When halley does it, she really does it. Damn. A fine post.
Nothing was easy for anyone and of course terrible in some ways for my son. No kid votes to dissolve a family -- they could give a shit if you're unhappily married. You do everything to avoid it. You're kidding yourself if you think they'll EVER understand that your happiness matters. They are built for their own selfish survival and they want family, not rupture. I like that about them. They're smart. They make it painfully clear that you're an asshole -- both of you -- you're both assholes for not being able to stay together.
So you just keep losing and losing -- parents and husbands and weight and you name it -- and some how you come out the other side. God knows how. For me -- it's about writing -- it was the only self I could hold on to and the only place I could go and find a long lost self. What did I write? Irony of ironies -- I wrote about men, all the while not understanding the man I had married at all, letting him down in a million ways perhaps, and simultaneously letting down the boy I was raising. But wait, there is a happy ending -- I'm almost sure of it. I see little glimmers even now. We're all coming through it alive.
Nothing was easy for anyone and of course terrible in some ways for my son. No kid votes to dissolve a family -- they could give a shit if you're unhappily married. You do everything to avoid it. You're kidding yourself if you think they'll EVER understand that your happiness matters. They are built for their own selfish survival and they want family, not rupture. I like that about them. They're smart. They make it painfully clear that you're an asshole -- both of you -- you're both assholes for not being able to stay together.
So you just keep losing and losing -- parents and husbands and weight and you name it -- and some how you come out the other side. God knows how. For me -- it's about writing -- it was the only self I could hold on to and the only place I could go and find a long lost self. What did I write? Irony of ironies -- I wrote about men, all the while not understanding the man I had married at all, letting him down in a million ways perhaps, and simultaneously letting down the boy I was raising. But wait, there is a happy ending -- I'm almost sure of it. I see little glimmers even now. We're all coming through it alive.
September 11, 2003
yes i know what day it is
a hoard of bloggers will relate their impressions and feelings of the day that changed everything today. Not me. I let mainstream media do that kinda thing.
You see, it's all they have left. I figure we ought to let them keep something. You know, remembrances. Anniversaries. Obituaries. Terror alerts. That kind of thing. So turn on CNN if you want to hear all about the day that was. Better yet, hug your kids and take them to Chuck-E-Cheese or the park.
And Halley, don't preempt my honor role award with that writing that leaves lumps in people's throats, now, ya hear?
You see, it's all they have left. I figure we ought to let them keep something. You know, remembrances. Anniversaries. Obituaries. Terror alerts. That kind of thing. So turn on CNN if you want to hear all about the day that was. Better yet, hug your kids and take them to Chuck-E-Cheese or the park.
And Halley, don't preempt my honor role award with that writing that leaves lumps in people's throats, now, ya hear?
September 10, 2003
smelling her breath and public relations
Okay, I admit it. One of my favorite things about night time when I lay down with Jenna to itch her back is lying face to face, and when she finally falls asleep, If I can stand waiting the very long time it often takes, smelling her breath as she exhales. Not just smelling it really, more like sucking it in.
I time it. She breathes out, and I breath in. Her little breath smells so sweet I want to drink it in like fruit juice.
Tonight I thought, if I inhale with enough force, I wonder if I could suck her back inside me so I could protect her from the world. From nasty cats and boo-boos. From icky spiders and bullies.
You think?
In other news, I'm getting tons of great mail from folks who liked my Bye Bye Big PR post. From "You Go, Girl" to "You hit the nail on the head," my peeps in and out da biz dug it.
Bloggers, thank you for hearing me. It helps validate us lunatics who really are in charge of the asylum--and can that be a bad thing, can it?
Speaking of lunatics and all, The Hooter Tutor, err, I mean, Happy Tutor had, as usual, gobs of insight and intelligent commentary on the TooBigAgency issue. The comment banter between Happy and Gerald is worth the read. I think everyone over there is in agreement that Valium is the answer for me.
Ben Silverman of dotcomscoop fame mentioned it in his ezine.
Uncle Doc (doctor unc?) gave me my props.
Halley the Glove Suitt gave her readers a mandate to check out my take on the end of BigPR, and I see today she's hoisted me onto her September Blogger Honor Roll--I'm so excited! I haven't made an honor roll for more than 20 years! Thanks Halley!
And Jeremy over at his Pop-PR blog chimed in too.
Who'd I miss--anyone?
And, lastly, don't you think the broccoli in those Uncle Ben's Add Boiling Water Quickie Pasta Dinners tastes amazingly like cabbage?
So many things blow my mind.
I am slammed with work that I would have once been doing within the BigPR context. But instead I've been writing from my couch, and it's gotten so out of hand--this work--that I needed a change of scenery, so I have moved my laptop to the floor, and I'm now sprawled out with papers and an empty Starbuck's cup thinking it's time to sleep.
Nighty night.
I time it. She breathes out, and I breath in. Her little breath smells so sweet I want to drink it in like fruit juice.
Tonight I thought, if I inhale with enough force, I wonder if I could suck her back inside me so I could protect her from the world. From nasty cats and boo-boos. From icky spiders and bullies.
You think?
In other news, I'm getting tons of great mail from folks who liked my Bye Bye Big PR post. From "You Go, Girl" to "You hit the nail on the head," my peeps in and out da biz dug it.
Bloggers, thank you for hearing me. It helps validate us lunatics who really are in charge of the asylum--and can that be a bad thing, can it?
Speaking of lunatics and all, The Hooter Tutor, err, I mean, Happy Tutor had, as usual, gobs of insight and intelligent commentary on the TooBigAgency issue. The comment banter between Happy and Gerald is worth the read. I think everyone over there is in agreement that Valium is the answer for me.
Ben Silverman of dotcomscoop fame mentioned it in his ezine.
Uncle Doc (doctor unc?) gave me my props.
Halley the Glove Suitt gave her readers a mandate to check out my take on the end of BigPR, and I see today she's hoisted me onto her September Blogger Honor Roll--I'm so excited! I haven't made an honor roll for more than 20 years! Thanks Halley!
And Jeremy over at his Pop-PR blog chimed in too.
Who'd I miss--anyone?
And, lastly, don't you think the broccoli in those Uncle Ben's Add Boiling Water Quickie Pasta Dinners tastes amazingly like cabbage?
So many things blow my mind.
I am slammed with work that I would have once been doing within the BigPR context. But instead I've been writing from my couch, and it's gotten so out of hand--this work--that I needed a change of scenery, so I have moved my laptop to the floor, and I'm now sprawled out with papers and an empty Starbuck's cup thinking it's time to sleep.
Nighty night.
September 09, 2003
should she or shouldn't she? Only Glove Girl knows for sure
Halley has a dilemma over her way. Her Harvard B'ness Review Glove Girl and Blogging article has been published in full-frontal fashion by another blogger for all to see. Problem is, Harvard keeps its cherished content behind a pay-fer firewall on purpose--it's part of Harvard Publishing's business model. Oh dear.
Does Halley point to the lifted version of the article, or ignore it? Hmmm.
I say it's time to show Harvard that they had the real Glove Girl in their midst, link to the blog-land-based article content, and see Harvard handles it.
They have a panel of experts they can ask for guidance. ;-)
Does Halley point to the lifted version of the article, or ignore it? Hmmm.
I say it's time to show Harvard that they had the real Glove Girl in their midst, link to the blog-land-based article content, and see Harvard handles it.
They have a panel of experts they can ask for guidance. ;-)
Hossein Rocks On with His Bad Self over at YACCS
Man, if all businesses delivered on schedule like blog-land businesses, it'd be a happier world. Hossein has YACCS comment facility back up and running, as scheduled. I bet Gary's doing the happy dance too.
So how the hell IS everyone?
So how the hell IS everyone?
September 08, 2003
I dunno
So what do I do. The YACCS comment facility--which has been down, and which I don't really mind being down since it's been reliable for a long time--is really slowing down my blog by not working. I'd ask you to leave me a comment on what comment facilities you use, but, um, you can't. SO I guess I'll give it another day. Hossein was estimating he'd have the server up by tomorrow.
Guess I'll go take a snooze.
In the mean time, my keyboard's acting up too--extra letters, not registering the space bar when I hit it. It makes hellish work out of writing for a living. I really need an editor now. Except that's my job too. Oh fuck.
Guess I'll go take a snooze.
In the mean time, my keyboard's acting up too--extra letters, not registering the space bar when I hit it. It makes hellish work out of writing for a living. I really need an editor now. Except that's my job too. Oh fuck.
September 07, 2003
blogging is like having a cigarette
okay, so, I finished another page of web copy, so blogging is my reward, my way to lul myself in the coma I seem to need to be in these days to sleep.
Jenna is doing well. So well. We are so thankful. She's back to 100-percent, with a doctor re-check coming this week. In some ways, I think she's better than she's been in a long time. Of course, that could have something to do with having her daddy to pal around with.
I had a recurring dream last night that Hunter the cat came back. And back. And back. Every time I opened the front door, there he was, jumping through the screen (like always) and biting my calves. It was one of those real dreams. When I went outside today, I opened the door slowly.
The house is a mess. I realize now that the eight hours of sleep I got last night was the longest run of shut-eye I've had in nearly three weeks. Most nights since Jenna got sick were 4 hours, and the hospital was virtually sleepless for three days, followed by the killer work project of all projects, and more of the same.
I'm not complaining because that sweet baby who'll be six years old the end of this month is doing well. Like I said, at this time in my life, that's what matters.
Still, I'm tired. And I think I better hit the sack.
Thanks for hanging with me.
I'm hoping Hossein has the comments working again this week. I miss them. I don't know how glovegirl lives without 'em. ;-)
Jenna is doing well. So well. We are so thankful. She's back to 100-percent, with a doctor re-check coming this week. In some ways, I think she's better than she's been in a long time. Of course, that could have something to do with having her daddy to pal around with.
I had a recurring dream last night that Hunter the cat came back. And back. And back. Every time I opened the front door, there he was, jumping through the screen (like always) and biting my calves. It was one of those real dreams. When I went outside today, I opened the door slowly.
The house is a mess. I realize now that the eight hours of sleep I got last night was the longest run of shut-eye I've had in nearly three weeks. Most nights since Jenna got sick were 4 hours, and the hospital was virtually sleepless for three days, followed by the killer work project of all projects, and more of the same.
I'm not complaining because that sweet baby who'll be six years old the end of this month is doing well. Like I said, at this time in my life, that's what matters.
Still, I'm tired. And I think I better hit the sack.
Thanks for hanging with me.
I'm hoping Hossein has the comments working again this week. I miss them. I don't know how glovegirl lives without 'em. ;-)
Pimping Iron
Is anyone really surprised at this? Arnold a racist. You could knock me over with a feather. The racial slurs are one thing, but what up with not paying the $10K lil Arnold? [[yes, i believe the reports.]]
At different times, different things
Blogging means different things at different times to me. Tonight, it is a complete procrastination tool.
Mostly, blogging is breathing. It's something I have to do, to write, to hear my voice, to know I'm alive, you're alive. It's about hearing heart beats. And when I go away from it, the world sounds so loud, but not with beating hearts. More with backfiring cars and pound-pound-pound from the rennovations on the house up the street. How many cars really need to back out of driveways every day? Don't they know?
Tonight though, pure and simple, I'm procrastinating here. I have copy to write. I don't want to write it. I want to hear hearts beating instead.
This is not good.
Looming deadline.
Lots of pages to write.
Why am I hear?
The question is, why do we have to be anyplace else. Darnit.
Okay, I have to do my work now.
More later.
Mostly, blogging is breathing. It's something I have to do, to write, to hear my voice, to know I'm alive, you're alive. It's about hearing heart beats. And when I go away from it, the world sounds so loud, but not with beating hearts. More with backfiring cars and pound-pound-pound from the rennovations on the house up the street. How many cars really need to back out of driveways every day? Don't they know?
Tonight though, pure and simple, I'm procrastinating here. I have copy to write. I don't want to write it. I want to hear hearts beating instead.
This is not good.
Looming deadline.
Lots of pages to write.
Why am I hear?
The question is, why do we have to be anyplace else. Darnit.
Okay, I have to do my work now.
More later.
September 05, 2003
Ketchum Comes Unclued
Lest you think I exaggerate the sad state of BigPR, and its obvious lack of understanding about how to relate to markets on behalf of clients or on behalf of themselves, check out this new Kudos Confidential blog from Ketchum.
I point to this blog because it is a public weblog on blogspot, a place where I've hosted my own blogs for two years plus, a place where I earn my living in ways I'm really beginning to understand, a place where I started the first blogspot resident team weblog back in 2001.
For those who do not know, let me state that Kudos are awards bestowed by Ketchum on "Ketchumites" with the purpose of rewarding employees for delivering results for clients. At least that's how I remember them. I could be wrong. I do remember that the best entries uncoverd during the time-intensive Kudos nomination process were also often submitted for PR Week's Silver Anvil Awards--again, more awards bestowed by those with a vested interest in BigPR to those working in BigPR.
How do you spell, "Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."
The fact that the first official Blog Ketchum has launched on blogspot serves as a back-patting interoffice circle jerk (sorry for the mixed metaphor--I thought it might give you all something to ponder as you drift off to sleep)--masquerading as a hip controversial PR Real World episode--is laughable.
And that's being kind.
It's actually tragic.
It demonstrates perfectly the tragic state of BigPR: The mighty have fallen; get out the violins.
Meanwhile, in the ranks at Ketchum, I know of a few bloggers who do not have an AAE, AE, SAE, VP, SVP or Director title. In fact, they work in a capacity where most of the folks with those titles on their business cards wouldn't think to ask these workers' opinions about marketing, business, and the Internet.
Yet, I would wager that these individual bloggers are tied into more voices, knowledge, business-related interactions, and personal relationships of value by genuinely participating in this space than the highest ranking, highest billing PR Strategist in that same organization.
You see? That is how it's working.
And they don't have a clue.
You may be wondering if I'm risking anything by discussing a former employer this way. Maybe. But I don't see this post that way. I am discussing a Ketchum weblog launched in a public medium--one in which I am a stakeholder. My weblog is an integral part of how I earn a living doing what I do.
In that respect, it is my job to comment on relevant happenings here. Do you see? That any large PR firm would come here with a flawed concept would beg my pointing it out to allied readers.
That's how I see it. And you?
Stupid Tactics from The World of Big-PR Part Deux:
PR spamery alert from Dan Gilmore
And Mitch Kapor weighs in too.
I point to this blog because it is a public weblog on blogspot, a place where I've hosted my own blogs for two years plus, a place where I earn my living in ways I'm really beginning to understand, a place where I started the first blogspot resident team weblog back in 2001.
For those who do not know, let me state that Kudos are awards bestowed by Ketchum on "Ketchumites" with the purpose of rewarding employees for delivering results for clients. At least that's how I remember them. I could be wrong. I do remember that the best entries uncoverd during the time-intensive Kudos nomination process were also often submitted for PR Week's Silver Anvil Awards--again, more awards bestowed by those with a vested interest in BigPR to those working in BigPR.
How do you spell, "Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."
The fact that the first official Blog Ketchum has launched on blogspot serves as a back-patting interoffice circle jerk (sorry for the mixed metaphor--I thought it might give you all something to ponder as you drift off to sleep)--masquerading as a hip controversial PR Real World episode--is laughable.
And that's being kind.
It's actually tragic.
It demonstrates perfectly the tragic state of BigPR: The mighty have fallen; get out the violins.
Meanwhile, in the ranks at Ketchum, I know of a few bloggers who do not have an AAE, AE, SAE, VP, SVP or Director title. In fact, they work in a capacity where most of the folks with those titles on their business cards wouldn't think to ask these workers' opinions about marketing, business, and the Internet.
Yet, I would wager that these individual bloggers are tied into more voices, knowledge, business-related interactions, and personal relationships of value by genuinely participating in this space than the highest ranking, highest billing PR Strategist in that same organization.
You see? That is how it's working.
And they don't have a clue.
You may be wondering if I'm risking anything by discussing a former employer this way. Maybe. But I don't see this post that way. I am discussing a Ketchum weblog launched in a public medium--one in which I am a stakeholder. My weblog is an integral part of how I earn a living doing what I do.
In that respect, it is my job to comment on relevant happenings here. Do you see? That any large PR firm would come here with a flawed concept would beg my pointing it out to allied readers.
That's how I see it. And you?
Stupid Tactics from The World of Big-PR Part Deux:
PR spamery alert from Dan Gilmore
And Mitch Kapor weighs in too.
Bye Bye Big PR
Big PR is not quite dead, but it is dying an agonizing death that's getting difficult to watch. At least for anyone who's suffered through the cubes and brainstorms of large agency life for any time at all. Those of us who remember when what we did really did matter. Just a little. Never a lot. But still, some.
The reason for Big-PR's demise is quite simple: They can't afford to operate without charging inflated rates. That's a pickle. Because those of us out on the market now--the higher-priced talent separated (voluntarily or involuntarily) from Big PR over the last two years--can offer better services at half the price or less.
Where once Big PR boasted about best practices and a global network of communications professionals, they don't have that anymore. Instead, we are the ones creating nimble networks among one another, which are growing larger and more valuable. We are nimble enough (most of us working out of our homes) and lean enough to charge much less and deliver much more. A network of one-off specialists, experts in their areas, linked through the power of the Web and personal contacts.
Voice to voice, we are changing the face of PR and marketing. You heard it here first.
I'm not sure where BigPR thought most of us would go--the army separated veterans. Because many are owned by fat-cow parent companies, my hunch is that their layers of blubber have made it impossible for them to look that far down the organizational food chain. But a whole bunch of us are out here. And we're starting to eat well. And we're working with the clients we used to work with there.
Clients who are old friends. Clients who are happy to pay our rates and get the same work they got for a hell of a lot less.
Yes, it's really happening.
Even the largest of companies are growing tired of BigPR staffing projects with fresh-out-of-college, inexperienced, lower-level people (that is the only category of PR flacks large agencies can afford to keep only partially billable, you see), yet charging as if they were staffing the project with brain surgeons--or attorneys.
It's common for BigPR to bill out an assistant account executive--which is the administrative assistant of PRville--at $120 to $140 an hour. VP's are billing out at nearly $200 an hour, and SVPs commonly around $250 or more per hour.
You tell me.... Why would anyone pay it in a tight economy when they can get smart, senior level people out on their own for around $100 an hour. And thanks to the Web, the same clients who are paying inflated rates to BigPR can tap into an entire network of loosely joined ex-agency talent that shares leads, news, and really cool gossip I wouldn't even tell you about here. We're self organizing, and it ought to scare the pants off of them.
But it doesn't.
Because they can't afford to see that the emperor is walking around butt naked.
The reason for Big-PR's demise is quite simple: They can't afford to operate without charging inflated rates. That's a pickle. Because those of us out on the market now--the higher-priced talent separated (voluntarily or involuntarily) from Big PR over the last two years--can offer better services at half the price or less.
Where once Big PR boasted about best practices and a global network of communications professionals, they don't have that anymore. Instead, we are the ones creating nimble networks among one another, which are growing larger and more valuable. We are nimble enough (most of us working out of our homes) and lean enough to charge much less and deliver much more. A network of one-off specialists, experts in their areas, linked through the power of the Web and personal contacts.
Voice to voice, we are changing the face of PR and marketing. You heard it here first.
I'm not sure where BigPR thought most of us would go--the army separated veterans. Because many are owned by fat-cow parent companies, my hunch is that their layers of blubber have made it impossible for them to look that far down the organizational food chain. But a whole bunch of us are out here. And we're starting to eat well. And we're working with the clients we used to work with there.
Clients who are old friends. Clients who are happy to pay our rates and get the same work they got for a hell of a lot less.
Yes, it's really happening.
Even the largest of companies are growing tired of BigPR staffing projects with fresh-out-of-college, inexperienced, lower-level people (that is the only category of PR flacks large agencies can afford to keep only partially billable, you see), yet charging as if they were staffing the project with brain surgeons--or attorneys.
It's common for BigPR to bill out an assistant account executive--which is the administrative assistant of PRville--at $120 to $140 an hour. VP's are billing out at nearly $200 an hour, and SVPs commonly around $250 or more per hour.
You tell me.... Why would anyone pay it in a tight economy when they can get smart, senior level people out on their own for around $100 an hour. And thanks to the Web, the same clients who are paying inflated rates to BigPR can tap into an entire network of loosely joined ex-agency talent that shares leads, news, and really cool gossip I wouldn't even tell you about here. We're self organizing, and it ought to scare the pants off of them.
But it doesn't.
Because they can't afford to see that the emperor is walking around butt naked.
it's okay Hossein
The status for us YACCS comments users: he's working on it. No problem, Hossein. YACCS has been a reliable comment facility for me for two years. I can wait a few days. Hope it all goes smoothly.
September 04, 2003
Trying
I have just four spare minutes to write. And really, so much, that I'm not sure what to write. I'm trying, you know? I really am. And it is trying. I haven't had five seconds to decompress since the Hospital adventure. For better, I guess, not worse, the work I had basically none of during the past month has all come in at once. And it's hard stuff, not easy stuff.
Jenna's going through some changes. You know? To be expected. She has every right. But the screaming.... Everything at once for her too: start kindergarten, so sick, hospital, needles, daddy home to see her, back to kindergarten, cat gone. All within a week. No wonder she's screaming a lot. She can go from joyous laughter to shrieking in five seconds flat. It's trauma. I know that. And it's also traumatizing.
When will I sleep? Soon I hope. Right now sleep is something I have to have before I can blog more. My mind is muddy, and what little clarity I do have must be savored and saved for Jenna and my paying clients.
So that's it.
Summer winds down and I wonder if things will ever be any different.
Bet you wish I had just stayed quiet.
Jenna's going through some changes. You know? To be expected. She has every right. But the screaming.... Everything at once for her too: start kindergarten, so sick, hospital, needles, daddy home to see her, back to kindergarten, cat gone. All within a week. No wonder she's screaming a lot. She can go from joyous laughter to shrieking in five seconds flat. It's trauma. I know that. And it's also traumatizing.
When will I sleep? Soon I hope. Right now sleep is something I have to have before I can blog more. My mind is muddy, and what little clarity I do have must be savored and saved for Jenna and my paying clients.
So that's it.
Summer winds down and I wonder if things will ever be any different.
Bet you wish I had just stayed quiet.
August 30, 2003
August 29, 2003
the rocky ride with jenna
where do I start? where everything starts and ends: with Jenna. This is my third day at the children's hospital with Jenna. We landed here early wednesday--i think it was wednesday--after three trips to the pediatrician's this week. she wasn't getting better, you see, just worse and worse. by tuesday night she wasn't able to turn her neck at all. the lamebrain 20-something-year-old female doctor sent us home tuesday with the second of two antibiotics to try, which I had to beg her for, the script for which she begrudgingly tossed at me on her way out the door. "I think she should have the opportunity to have what everyone else has--it doesn't have to be something out of the ordinary." This after my saying, "She's getting worse not better." This after her asking me, "What is it that you want?" This prior to me saying, "I WANT you to find out what's wrong and get her better. That is your job."
No, not better. worse. SO back to the peds on weds to see the head doctor of the bunch, who finally did work, who finally announced her white cell count was high, who finally said, "there's something going on here. we should admit her. it's the smart thing to do. she'll be comfortable and they can get the right people on the case."
This prior to me launching into a high gear I didn't know I had, after only three hours sleep the night before, zooming home with her in the back, 102 fever still after days of it, me calling George and having him talk to her while I raced up and down three flights of stairs like a maniac trying to remember what to take to the hospital--medicine, some clothes, the care bear family, some toys. Toss some food out the door to the dogs, hurry hurry. I asked the doctor if I could stop home to pick up some things to take. His words echoed: "Yes, but don't wait too long. Best to get her there. They will be waiting."
This he said before me driving like a mad woman down 75, across 285, her throwing up in our pool towel in the back seat. God, just let me get her there, then I can crumble up.
We made it. She was admitted. This facility is perhaps the most amazing healthcare secret in the U.S. More about that in another post.
To get to where we are...
We've been here for three days, her on antibiotics and fluids via IV, me in the couch bed beside her, them running tests, her turning the corner, starting to get better. Thank you. God, thank you.
Our children are, as parents, all that matters. Really all. Nothing else. No. Not even yourself.
It appears--preliminary findings--that she is responding well to treatment for the BITE (not scratch as I originally thought) Hunter the cat inflicted on her neck three weeks ago. I cleaned it with alcohol. I neosporined it. But none of that mattered. Apparently cat bites are serious things, and apparently this one led to a staph infection. She's been fighting it off for some weeks, but not til yesterday, when the Ancef started working and the fever disappeared, did I notice that she has not seemed this lively, this alert, in a very long time.
So we are, I pray, on the road to recovery. She doesn't know yet, but her daddy is also on the road back to see her. What a surprise that will be for her--I'm having fun today thinking about the different ways I can spring it on her. ;-)
She is off to school today at the hospital. They have a school here. Students get credit for attending class and are marked present for days they miss at their real schools if they attend here. More importantly, she loves going. It gives her something to do. Classes are two hours long. Little kids attend with their IV poles, or just their little tape-and-board-wrapped hands. Jenna calls it her "Ivey."
The hospital, as I said, is superb. An anomalie in today's horrid healthcare scene, which is part of the reason we ended up here. But more on that another time, when I can think, and write. I am so tired.
Prayers welcome. I have no idea of my comments are working or not. Dean said they weren't the other day. Anyway, if not, I'll be on the case as soon as we're home. Hopefully by tomorrow. I'm in no rush as long as they get her better.
Thanks friends. As you can imagine I've been blogging in my head the whole time. But my heart has been elsewhere.
No, not better. worse. SO back to the peds on weds to see the head doctor of the bunch, who finally did work, who finally announced her white cell count was high, who finally said, "there's something going on here. we should admit her. it's the smart thing to do. she'll be comfortable and they can get the right people on the case."
This prior to me launching into a high gear I didn't know I had, after only three hours sleep the night before, zooming home with her in the back, 102 fever still after days of it, me calling George and having him talk to her while I raced up and down three flights of stairs like a maniac trying to remember what to take to the hospital--medicine, some clothes, the care bear family, some toys. Toss some food out the door to the dogs, hurry hurry. I asked the doctor if I could stop home to pick up some things to take. His words echoed: "Yes, but don't wait too long. Best to get her there. They will be waiting."
This he said before me driving like a mad woman down 75, across 285, her throwing up in our pool towel in the back seat. God, just let me get her there, then I can crumble up.
We made it. She was admitted. This facility is perhaps the most amazing healthcare secret in the U.S. More about that in another post.
To get to where we are...
We've been here for three days, her on antibiotics and fluids via IV, me in the couch bed beside her, them running tests, her turning the corner, starting to get better. Thank you. God, thank you.
Our children are, as parents, all that matters. Really all. Nothing else. No. Not even yourself.
It appears--preliminary findings--that she is responding well to treatment for the BITE (not scratch as I originally thought) Hunter the cat inflicted on her neck three weeks ago. I cleaned it with alcohol. I neosporined it. But none of that mattered. Apparently cat bites are serious things, and apparently this one led to a staph infection. She's been fighting it off for some weeks, but not til yesterday, when the Ancef started working and the fever disappeared, did I notice that she has not seemed this lively, this alert, in a very long time.
So we are, I pray, on the road to recovery. She doesn't know yet, but her daddy is also on the road back to see her. What a surprise that will be for her--I'm having fun today thinking about the different ways I can spring it on her. ;-)
She is off to school today at the hospital. They have a school here. Students get credit for attending class and are marked present for days they miss at their real schools if they attend here. More importantly, she loves going. It gives her something to do. Classes are two hours long. Little kids attend with their IV poles, or just their little tape-and-board-wrapped hands. Jenna calls it her "Ivey."
The hospital, as I said, is superb. An anomalie in today's horrid healthcare scene, which is part of the reason we ended up here. But more on that another time, when I can think, and write. I am so tired.
Prayers welcome. I have no idea of my comments are working or not. Dean said they weren't the other day. Anyway, if not, I'll be on the case as soon as we're home. Hopefully by tomorrow. I'm in no rush as long as they get her better.
Thanks friends. As you can imagine I've been blogging in my head the whole time. But my heart has been elsewhere.
August 26, 2003
oh no negro!
Why the hell did they eat in Alpharetta? Don't they still have separate water fountains ova dere?
Okay, we're talking bout bobby & whitney. But still.
Okay, we're talking bout bobby & whitney. But still.
sick kid and too much work to do
jenna's still sick--home for the third day since school started, and as coincidence would have it, my business, which was dry for last three weeks, is now in high gear. I mean really high. I mean I'm swamped. I mean tan is gone.
I would love to have something witty to say, but I'm just plodding through the days and nights right now--working, soup making, lying next to, video watching, researching, typing, stepping out on the porch for con calls, back in, patting the back of, downloading, editing, writing some more, editing some more, emailing, deleting sobig.f, writing again, crying with, giving medicicne to, and commiserating with jenna.
there are bigger problems, yes. but not for me this day. these are them. send get well thoughts to the baby blogger.
I would love to have something witty to say, but I'm just plodding through the days and nights right now--working, soup making, lying next to, video watching, researching, typing, stepping out on the porch for con calls, back in, patting the back of, downloading, editing, writing some more, editing some more, emailing, deleting sobig.f, writing again, crying with, giving medicicne to, and commiserating with jenna.
there are bigger problems, yes. but not for me this day. these are them. send get well thoughts to the baby blogger.
Oh, I see
Exquisite post from Halley about what it's like to see the world through a new and improved eye--one of two that she is having corrected via cataract surgery. This post is simply Halley.
August 24, 2003
see it.
Antwone Fisher.
A review.
And a poem:
Who will cry for the little boy, lost and all alone?
Who will cry for the little boy, abandoned without his own?
Who will cry for the little boy? He cried himself to sleep.
Who will cry for the little boy? He never had for keeps.
Who will cry for the little boy? He walked the burning sand.
Who will cry for the little boy? The boy inside the man.
Who will cry for the little boy? Who knows well hurt and pain.
Who will cry for the little boy? He died and died again.
Who will cry for the little boy? A good boy he tried to be.
Who will cry for the little boy, who cries inside of me?
--Antwone Quentin Fisher
A review.
And a poem:
Who will cry for the little boy, lost and all alone?
Who will cry for the little boy, abandoned without his own?
Who will cry for the little boy? He cried himself to sleep.
Who will cry for the little boy? He never had for keeps.
Who will cry for the little boy? He walked the burning sand.
Who will cry for the little boy? The boy inside the man.
Who will cry for the little boy? Who knows well hurt and pain.
Who will cry for the little boy? He died and died again.
Who will cry for the little boy? A good boy he tried to be.
Who will cry for the little boy, who cries inside of me?
--Antwone Quentin Fisher
Oh, you're Killing Me with this one...
Nathan Newman posts on this study from Northwestern University, which finds, among other things, that, all things being equal (pun intentional), white convicted felons get more job interviews than black non-offenders. That is, corporate America would rather hear from a white rapist than an honest black man or woman.
We've come a long way, baby.
We've come a long way, baby.
August 23, 2003
Virus Conspiracy Theory 101
Okay, so here's my guess. It's a bit hard to follow, but all good conspiracy theories are. They also require some leaps of faith. But that's nothing new to you guys.
So.
SOBIG.F apparently had its genesis on a porn usenet group. (No, it's not a link to the porn. so-so-sorry.)
Okay, you're with me so far--good name: so big / porn usenet site.
Actually, good branding job by the evildoers.
So, here's my theory.
It's the Bushes.
Jenna Bush and Barbara Bush, the President's daughters.
Yes. You see, my guess is that there were some, well, interesting videos of the girls on that usenet site. REALLY interesting. And, you see, my guess is that they were doing a thing or two with a folk or two that could make Monica and Bill look like celibacy poster children.
Uh-huh.
And MY guess is the powers found out--and I mean powers, not Powers, and they planted the SOBIG.F virus to bring down the net and to make it a national emergency such that they could come and seize the computers of every man, woman, and child until government geeks can figure out how to dismantle the GIANT BIG SCREEN Bush Girls Video that's coming to a screen near you (if you still have a screen near you) this September 11th.
So, what'd you think? Has all the good earmarkings of a 21st Century conspiracy theory doesn't it?
Or so it would seeeeem... ;-)
So.
SOBIG.F apparently had its genesis on a porn usenet group. (No, it's not a link to the porn. so-so-sorry.)
Okay, you're with me so far--good name: so big / porn usenet site.
Actually, good branding job by the evildoers.
So, here's my theory.
It's the Bushes.
Jenna Bush and Barbara Bush, the President's daughters.
Yes. You see, my guess is that there were some, well, interesting videos of the girls on that usenet site. REALLY interesting. And, you see, my guess is that they were doing a thing or two with a folk or two that could make Monica and Bill look like celibacy poster children.
Uh-huh.
And MY guess is the powers found out--and I mean powers, not Powers, and they planted the SOBIG.F virus to bring down the net and to make it a national emergency such that they could come and seize the computers of every man, woman, and child until government geeks can figure out how to dismantle the GIANT BIG SCREEN Bush Girls Video that's coming to a screen near you (if you still have a screen near you) this September 11th.
So, what'd you think? Has all the good earmarkings of a 21st Century conspiracy theory doesn't it?
Or so it would seeeeem... ;-)
August 22, 2003
it's just us
When I open my email, I feel if I'm shouting into a deeeep canyon, "Hello?" and I don't even get the echo back to keep me company. I get the feeling it's SOBIG.F, the mother of all bandwidth-hogging viruses. Where'd everybody go? Even the spammers are going easy on me. Have the FBI and Rumsfeld disconnected everyone but me?
Has everyone been knocked back into the real world? If so, where are we meeting and what are we supposed to bring with us?
Imagine being one of the so-called 20 computers that the virus sought out as its host. Personal computers, supposedly in people's homes here in the U.S., in Canada, and in Korea.
Imagine the knock at your door.
If you think they'd bother to knock.
*****************
"We're taking you down, missus."
"Huh?"
"Your PC--please show us where it is. We know it's here."
"Um?"
"YOUR PC--SHOW US WHERE YOUR PC IS AND NOW! JENNA BUSH CAN'T GET TO MTV.COM! BESIDES, THE GLOBAL ECONOMY DEPENDS ON IT!"
"oh. well. um. you mean I'm one of the 20? No. That can't be. All my life I've wanted to win the lottery, but this isn't the right one."
"I'm afriad we got your ticket right here Ms. Sessum."
"Oh. Dear. Well, can I back up some files--I have to get my work files off or I can't send the stuff I have due. It will only take me a couple of minutes. I have a CD burner. Look, you can watch me do it. I have to--my clients are waiting for it."
"I'm afraid not. This computer is now the property of the U.S. Government. You've been infected, and we must quarantine you to ensure this SARS, errrr, I mean SOBIG.F doesn't spread to other unsuspecting victims like yourself or to President Bush's friends in Texas... I mean, global enterprises."
"But I'm an unsuspecting victim. And I have years' worth of work files on this machine--NO PLEASE--don't GRAB it like that!!"
"Woof Woof GRRRRR!" [[ed note: plainted wail of Bando the mutt.]]
"GERRY, GRAB THE WOMAN. TAKE HER DOWN!"
"No, please, I was in the middle of a post. Please just let me finish!"
"Listen, little lady--you may think we're fooling around here, but you got the A-Rabs trying to kill us and those damn Rusians who never got over the cold war--and don't get me started on them 'AfrikanAmerikans' -- don't you see, WE HAVE ENEMIES, and THEY are knocking!"
"But I swear, I'm not the enemy. Please don't take me down--not yet--give me two more minutes! I haven't posted yet! I haven't pressed publi...."
**********
So here we are.
Here.
As the uni-directional flood of email conversation crashes into serious roadblocks this week, the voice of blogging becomes even more important. Our words haven't slowed. We don't need no stinkin' cootie shots. The Web's heart is still beating. We're its pulse. We'll keep posting.
Unless, of course, there are more than 20.
Like, say, 20,000,000.
Has everyone been knocked back into the real world? If so, where are we meeting and what are we supposed to bring with us?
Imagine being one of the so-called 20 computers that the virus sought out as its host. Personal computers, supposedly in people's homes here in the U.S., in Canada, and in Korea.
Imagine the knock at your door.
If you think they'd bother to knock.
*****************
"We're taking you down, missus."
"Huh?"
"Your PC--please show us where it is. We know it's here."
"Um?"
"YOUR PC--SHOW US WHERE YOUR PC IS AND NOW! JENNA BUSH CAN'T GET TO MTV.COM! BESIDES, THE GLOBAL ECONOMY DEPENDS ON IT!"
"oh. well. um. you mean I'm one of the 20? No. That can't be. All my life I've wanted to win the lottery, but this isn't the right one."
"I'm afriad we got your ticket right here Ms. Sessum."
"Oh. Dear. Well, can I back up some files--I have to get my work files off or I can't send the stuff I have due. It will only take me a couple of minutes. I have a CD burner. Look, you can watch me do it. I have to--my clients are waiting for it."
"I'm afraid not. This computer is now the property of the U.S. Government. You've been infected, and we must quarantine you to ensure this SARS, errrr, I mean SOBIG.F doesn't spread to other unsuspecting victims like yourself or to President Bush's friends in Texas... I mean, global enterprises."
"But I'm an unsuspecting victim. And I have years' worth of work files on this machine--NO PLEASE--don't GRAB it like that!!"
"Woof Woof GRRRRR!" [[ed note: plainted wail of Bando the mutt.]]
"GERRY, GRAB THE WOMAN. TAKE HER DOWN!"
"No, please, I was in the middle of a post. Please just let me finish!"
"Listen, little lady--you may think we're fooling around here, but you got the A-Rabs trying to kill us and those damn Rusians who never got over the cold war--and don't get me started on them 'AfrikanAmerikans' -- don't you see, WE HAVE ENEMIES, and THEY are knocking!"
"But I swear, I'm not the enemy. Please don't take me down--not yet--give me two more minutes! I haven't posted yet! I haven't pressed publi...."
**********
So here we are.
Here.
As the uni-directional flood of email conversation crashes into serious roadblocks this week, the voice of blogging becomes even more important. Our words haven't slowed. We don't need no stinkin' cootie shots. The Web's heart is still beating. We're its pulse. We'll keep posting.
Unless, of course, there are more than 20.
Like, say, 20,000,000.
home
burnt red cedar
etched with lines
paintings of insects
tunnels trace paths
across shingles
making a road home.
this house it breathes.
aches and stretches
groans harmonies to the
rumbling of night
thunder.
door knobs give way
six bulbs blown
cupboard hinges hang
just one
garage door left
to rise and fall,
seal us safely in.
what more can come undone
in the heat of the summer.
and still,
signature fingerprints
along hallways remind me
how small she was,
imprints of life
the art of time passing
quietly
strokes of white baby shoes
and strawberry-stained fingers.
there isn't much
I would change
if I could,
except maybe
everything.
etched with lines
paintings of insects
tunnels trace paths
across shingles
making a road home.
this house it breathes.
aches and stretches
groans harmonies to the
rumbling of night
thunder.
door knobs give way
six bulbs blown
cupboard hinges hang
just one
garage door left
to rise and fall,
seal us safely in.
what more can come undone
in the heat of the summer.
and still,
signature fingerprints
along hallways remind me
how small she was,
imprints of life
the art of time passing
quietly
strokes of white baby shoes
and strawberry-stained fingers.
there isn't much
I would change
if I could,
except maybe
everything.
the sky is falling
this worm, this SOBIG and it's infectious friends, are just what we don't need.
i'm on the phone with a client at a big global technology company and she mentions the emails she's been sending me today, and I say, um, no, I didn't get them. Neither did I receive a critical email from one of her colleagues. Surprisingly, my bellsouth.net is hanging in there, delivering me all the spam I don't need and then some, while my clients' networks are griding to a halt, suffering email grande mals at a rate I can hardly track.
No, I'm not alone today. But I am a little scared.
I may also be one of the few who wanted to tell this client, we have two options when email dies: instant messaging and collaborative workspaces.
This is an emergency. You do what you have to do. I wanted to tell the client with whom I'm collaborating on this particular white paper project that boasts a fast approaching deadline, "Let's go start a team blog, mark it private, and do it like that. Just for today. I can't afford e-room, but blogger's free. We can make due. When we're done, we'll kill the blog. Google won't have time to spider it--and no, I'm not sure all of the technicalities on how blogger keeps private blogs private, but why worry--it's Friday and we can delete it by end of day tomorrow. We can post back and forth, leave comments, pull in links to relevant materials, and get the job done behind the backs of those motherfucking, spamloving, email-killing viruses."
That's what I didn't say.
What I did, in reality, was to send him an invitation to Yahoo Messenger hoping that he can sign on, add me as a friend, copy text out of his sent mail, paste it into an IM for me, from which I will copy it out and paste it into our MSWord document.
That will work for the edits.
But...
Let's hope everything's up and running once I plug the changes into the layout and have to turn around the 20-page MSWord file.
'Cause that's when I get to send the invoice.
i.e., that's how I eat.
Fuck you, infectors and spammers.
i'm on the phone with a client at a big global technology company and she mentions the emails she's been sending me today, and I say, um, no, I didn't get them. Neither did I receive a critical email from one of her colleagues. Surprisingly, my bellsouth.net is hanging in there, delivering me all the spam I don't need and then some, while my clients' networks are griding to a halt, suffering email grande mals at a rate I can hardly track.
No, I'm not alone today. But I am a little scared.
I may also be one of the few who wanted to tell this client, we have two options when email dies: instant messaging and collaborative workspaces.
This is an emergency. You do what you have to do. I wanted to tell the client with whom I'm collaborating on this particular white paper project that boasts a fast approaching deadline, "Let's go start a team blog, mark it private, and do it like that. Just for today. I can't afford e-room, but blogger's free. We can make due. When we're done, we'll kill the blog. Google won't have time to spider it--and no, I'm not sure all of the technicalities on how blogger keeps private blogs private, but why worry--it's Friday and we can delete it by end of day tomorrow. We can post back and forth, leave comments, pull in links to relevant materials, and get the job done behind the backs of those motherfucking, spamloving, email-killing viruses."
That's what I didn't say.
What I did, in reality, was to send him an invitation to Yahoo Messenger hoping that he can sign on, add me as a friend, copy text out of his sent mail, paste it into an IM for me, from which I will copy it out and paste it into our MSWord document.
That will work for the edits.
But...
Let's hope everything's up and running once I plug the changes into the layout and have to turn around the 20-page MSWord file.
'Cause that's when I get to send the invoice.
i.e., that's how I eat.
Fuck you, infectors and spammers.
August 21, 2003
loving moms grow children who love effortlessly
Doc said goodbye to his Mom yesterday. He shared her last words with his readers.
It was actually just one word: Love.
Love.
Let that settle in, and consider the type of person she must have been, the way she must have lived her life, to have that message waiting on her lips as she said goodbye.
Love=one another
Love=your neighbor, your brother
Love=yourself
Love=I love you
Love=unconditionally
Love=should be enough; if not that, then what?
If you know Doc, he is testimony to his mother's life and love, her ability to show that love genuinely, unconditionally. He has shared that with us not only in his postings about his mother and his family, but through that place Doc writes from. His mother informs his voice, and she always will.
That is evidence of a life fully lived.
Blessings, Doc.
It was actually just one word: Love.
Love.
Let that settle in, and consider the type of person she must have been, the way she must have lived her life, to have that message waiting on her lips as she said goodbye.
Love=one another
Love=your neighbor, your brother
Love=yourself
Love=I love you
Love=unconditionally
Love=should be enough; if not that, then what?
If you know Doc, he is testimony to his mother's life and love, her ability to show that love genuinely, unconditionally. He has shared that with us not only in his postings about his mother and his family, but through that place Doc writes from. His mother informs his voice, and she always will.
That is evidence of a life fully lived.
Blessings, Doc.
August 20, 2003
long2days
It's been a long couple of days with Jenna sick and home from school, which, as you well know, barely got started. The good news is she has meds for a wicked right ear infection and possibly strep, but the lame-o's at the doctor's didn't swab her because her ear was bad enough that she needed antibiotics. Puss and such. ewwww!
The whole thing put me in a funk, which was made a bit funkier because the nurse practitioner, whom we saw, only RX-ed FIVE days of omnicef instead of the usual 10. Two phone calls later and I had some bullshit mumbo-jumbo non-answer about why, but the damage was done--$25 to the wallet with a likelihood of being back there next week to see a REAL doctor who knows that this particular strepmonger doesn't cure easily, and that it's worse to NOT knock it out entirely, because it comes back (what class? that's right:) stronger.
In a side note, there has to be a carrier here in this house. There just has to be. After some Web research, I've determined it's either me or Hunter. Problem is, I have to live here, so if it's me, well, WTF? But Hunter on the other hand... he's losing his balls next week anyway, and I think I've talked the vet into putting him on antibiotics in case he's the strep-spreader, since the strep culture which would tell us for certain costs $110. Upon hearing I'd have to part with a c-note I don't have, I used my cunning linguistic capabilities to convince the dear receptionist that a few bucks and a few pills won't kill me, them, or the little fucker, so let's all pretend he's the carrier and treat him as such, shall we?
So, does this mean we're making progress?
I would like to believe that. Really.
Meanwhile, Ms. Jenna is perking right up on the meds--the asthma is simmering down and she even mopped the kitchen floor for me today and LIKED it. OH YES--this is a good thing. I told her she mops like her Daddy, who is incredibly thorough and painstakingly, um, careful when he takes on a project that needs elbow grease and a bit of strategy. She got that floor cleaner than it's been in three months, and she enjoyed squeegying the mop head more than any human being should.
So, the end of a long day (or thousand) and I think we're going to try school tomorrow. Nebulizer in tow to give to the nurse with what I hope is a sigh of relief from me, and some words like: "You can do her meds today. Thank you. I love you."
I'm not sure what the school nurse might make of this declaration from me, but being that she is the first school nurse I've laid eyes on since I was in eighth grade, I'm mighty bloody happy to see her. Peace of mind, you're almost mine.
I've been wanting to blog, writing in my head and then posting. Problem is, there's no server back there in the grey matter amusement park that is my brain. So everything gets lost.
So now I'm gonna get lost and go to sleep.
or at least count sheep.
thank you.
The whole thing put me in a funk, which was made a bit funkier because the nurse practitioner, whom we saw, only RX-ed FIVE days of omnicef instead of the usual 10. Two phone calls later and I had some bullshit mumbo-jumbo non-answer about why, but the damage was done--$25 to the wallet with a likelihood of being back there next week to see a REAL doctor who knows that this particular strepmonger doesn't cure easily, and that it's worse to NOT knock it out entirely, because it comes back (what class? that's right:) stronger.
In a side note, there has to be a carrier here in this house. There just has to be. After some Web research, I've determined it's either me or Hunter. Problem is, I have to live here, so if it's me, well, WTF? But Hunter on the other hand... he's losing his balls next week anyway, and I think I've talked the vet into putting him on antibiotics in case he's the strep-spreader, since the strep culture which would tell us for certain costs $110. Upon hearing I'd have to part with a c-note I don't have, I used my cunning linguistic capabilities to convince the dear receptionist that a few bucks and a few pills won't kill me, them, or the little fucker, so let's all pretend he's the carrier and treat him as such, shall we?
So, does this mean we're making progress?
I would like to believe that. Really.
Meanwhile, Ms. Jenna is perking right up on the meds--the asthma is simmering down and she even mopped the kitchen floor for me today and LIKED it. OH YES--this is a good thing. I told her she mops like her Daddy, who is incredibly thorough and painstakingly, um, careful when he takes on a project that needs elbow grease and a bit of strategy. She got that floor cleaner than it's been in three months, and she enjoyed squeegying the mop head more than any human being should.
So, the end of a long day (or thousand) and I think we're going to try school tomorrow. Nebulizer in tow to give to the nurse with what I hope is a sigh of relief from me, and some words like: "You can do her meds today. Thank you. I love you."
I'm not sure what the school nurse might make of this declaration from me, but being that she is the first school nurse I've laid eyes on since I was in eighth grade, I'm mighty bloody happy to see her. Peace of mind, you're almost mine.
I've been wanting to blog, writing in my head and then posting. Problem is, there's no server back there in the grey matter amusement park that is my brain. So everything gets lost.
So now I'm gonna get lost and go to sleep.
or at least count sheep.
thank you.
you go, george
George has his latest column up at AllAboutJazz.
George joined AAJ's roster as a columnist last week. Here's the press release announcing the news.
I wonder who does this guy's PR?
George joined AAJ's roster as a columnist last week. Here's the press release announcing the news.
I wonder who does this guy's PR?
August 19, 2003
30 posts--i can hardly do 3
man, i've lost my juice. no lie. I had every intention to take a run at my semi-annual 30 posts in 30 minutes (30 minutes being a mile markerI've yet to hit). But look. My eyes are clcosed and Iam so tired,I can't do it tonight. Maybe tomorrow. I have so many half thoughts running through my mind as I sit here typing with eyes closed. I think, though, I'm going to let them settle with me here. They don'tmake sense outside of this dream. Not really.
kindergarten cold
can it happen that fast? we get one week and one day in and Jenna's already sick. So far a cold--no fever. We are hyperminting (lysterine) and toothbrushing and vitamining like crazy. Ireally don'twant herto miss this early. but most of all, i want that itty-bitty nose to feel awll better.
can't keep up
Things that remain undone:
cat still has his balls
bills unpaid--nearly all
garage door--springs popped
garage floor--because the springs popped, the floor now gets to hold all the shit I never know where to put.
vaccuming--what carpet? under the fur you mean?
Ford Escape unsold.
press release 1 unwritten
press release 2 unwritten
laundry not washed
laundry not dried
laundry not folded
laundry not put away
dance class not registered for
therapy appt not scheduled
Yoga tape stopped mid-way for a week
kids videos 3 days late
dusting--ha ha that's a joke. who dusts?
virus update on desktop--worm? what worm?
hug not received
dance video still unwatched--recital was in June
mandatory unemployment workshop unattended
dogs out of food
jenna out of soymilk
there's more, but I think I've done enough damage.
cat still has his balls
bills unpaid--nearly all
garage door--springs popped
garage floor--because the springs popped, the floor now gets to hold all the shit I never know where to put.
vaccuming--what carpet? under the fur you mean?
Ford Escape unsold.
press release 1 unwritten
press release 2 unwritten
laundry not washed
laundry not dried
laundry not folded
laundry not put away
dance class not registered for
therapy appt not scheduled
Yoga tape stopped mid-way for a week
kids videos 3 days late
dusting--ha ha that's a joke. who dusts?
virus update on desktop--worm? what worm?
hug not received
dance video still unwatched--recital was in June
mandatory unemployment workshop unattended
dogs out of food
jenna out of soymilk
there's more, but I think I've done enough damage.
been quiet too long
up here late nursing a stomach ache. they happen to me every now and then, these intestinal bouts of agony that I think after many years of having them are due to not drinking enough water and drinking too much caffiene--i.e. dehydrating.
so I'm sitting with my knees up and my arms in some Frankenstien like extension over the couch, onto my little Borders lap desk which sits on the piano stool in front of the couch: i.e., my office.
I decided to see if I can do 30 posts to keep my mind off of my behind, for the time being. Off we go...
so I'm sitting with my knees up and my arms in some Frankenstien like extension over the couch, onto my little Borders lap desk which sits on the piano stool in front of the couch: i.e., my office.
I decided to see if I can do 30 posts to keep my mind off of my behind, for the time being. Off we go...
August 16, 2003
Running Out of Rhyme, Book 2
Running Out of Rhyme
Book 2
Poetry by Jeneane Sessum
In case anyone thought I was serious about pulling content behind a pay-per-view model, I thought I'd make a clear stand on what I think we should be doing here by giving and receiving one another's voices.
So here's the next Running Out of Rhyme poetry collection as a PDF.
Enjoy, and if you feel like donating, know that the Sessums and our COBRA health insurance plan appreciate every penny. If you don't or can't, read on just the same. It's all goooood.
I'll put a link to the side with the other volume for easy access as this post will move along its merry way into my incredibly free archives.
when the dog bites...
when the bee stings.... when I'm feeling sad....
--------------------------
It was a surprise when I heard her yelp LOUDLY from the side of the pool. Yelp? How about scream bloody murder. Yes, sweet girl got her first bee sting today. So many firsts at five. This was yet another. Having never been stung by a bee (yes, I know, weird) even though I used to catch them with my hands and put them in jars, I didn't know exactly what the right course of action was. Luckily one of the pool dads swooped to our rescue, found the stinger, and pulled it out. Of course, it started to swell with nothing to put on it in sight.
"Tobacco" two people said in unison.
Get one of your cigarettes, soak it in water, and squeeze the juice on it. That's what they advised. Nearly everyone there had their grandpapa use the remedy. Is this a southern thing?
For the first time I was glad I still had some cigarettes. I soaked one and made a paste of ground American Spirit tobacco.
"What's that?" Jenna asked.
"Something for bee stings," I lied.
Sort of lied. Thing is, it worked. Within five minutes she said it wasn't hurting so bad. Within a half hour, besides the lump on the bottom of her foot, you wouldn't know anything had gone awry.
This is your Southern tip of the day.
If you get stung by a bee, throw some chaw on it and carry on.
--------------------------
It was a surprise when I heard her yelp LOUDLY from the side of the pool. Yelp? How about scream bloody murder. Yes, sweet girl got her first bee sting today. So many firsts at five. This was yet another. Having never been stung by a bee (yes, I know, weird) even though I used to catch them with my hands and put them in jars, I didn't know exactly what the right course of action was. Luckily one of the pool dads swooped to our rescue, found the stinger, and pulled it out. Of course, it started to swell with nothing to put on it in sight.
"Tobacco" two people said in unison.
Get one of your cigarettes, soak it in water, and squeeze the juice on it. That's what they advised. Nearly everyone there had their grandpapa use the remedy. Is this a southern thing?
For the first time I was glad I still had some cigarettes. I soaked one and made a paste of ground American Spirit tobacco.
"What's that?" Jenna asked.
"Something for bee stings," I lied.
Sort of lied. Thing is, it worked. Within five minutes she said it wasn't hurting so bad. Within a half hour, besides the lump on the bottom of her foot, you wouldn't know anything had gone awry.
This is your Southern tip of the day.
If you get stung by a bee, throw some chaw on it and carry on.
while travelling through my archives
I reconsidered today. I have decided, if you can't beat em, join em.
All bloggers will henceforth adopt the subscription model, pull our archives behind a password and charge $1 per post for downloads. We understand that the NY Times and the Times Online are right. If something's old, it is worth more. Like antiques. Content appreciates with age.
I believe.
I believe.
All bloggers will henceforth adopt the subscription model, pull our archives behind a password and charge $1 per post for downloads. We understand that the NY Times and the Times Online are right. If something's old, it is worth more. Like antiques. Content appreciates with age.
I believe.
I believe.
travelling through the archives.
a song from jenna
Uncle Daddy and the Cousin Jumpers
McWTF?
the strep diary and more strep (oh my goodness... i remember may).
JBMCSE CorpoBlogging Methodology (it was supposed to be funny.)
Uncle Daddy and the Cousin Jumpers
McWTF?
the strep diary and more strep (oh my goodness... i remember may).
JBMCSE CorpoBlogging Methodology (it was supposed to be funny.)
August 15, 2003
RageBoy's Outta Juice
If you thought Boulder, CO was immune to the dastardly effects of the North East power outage, think again. Oh dear, RageBoy has been sucked into the black hole of Panix's New York power outage. (If the links work, then that means shit's working again).
No blog (hosted on panix). No email at the old homestead (clocke@panix.com). No nothin'.
BUT, he has asked me to let the blog world know he's still alive and can be reached for sympathy, empathy, and generous monetary donations at entropygradient@earthlink.net or through that obsolete boat anchor known as the telephone (720-304-8077).
Glad to be of assistance.
'Til the next lightning strike,
--jeneane
No blog (hosted on panix). No email at the old homestead (clocke@panix.com). No nothin'.
BUT, he has asked me to let the blog world know he's still alive and can be reached for sympathy, empathy, and generous monetary donations at entropygradient@earthlink.net or through that obsolete boat anchor known as the telephone (720-304-8077).
Glad to be of assistance.
'Til the next lightning strike,
--jeneane
August 14, 2003
too much power
the power is on in georgia. i wish it weren't. at my house anyway. I wouldn't want to have to throw out food, or re-set the alarm clocks in the middle of the night, or perspire in the late evening heat. I wouldn't want to not be able to blog or to have to explain to jenna that it will be okay in a few hours.
But I could go for a nice, brief, bring-people-out-of-their-houses-with-a-bag-of-ice-and-some-beers power outage about now.
I hear the lights are coming back on. Or so President Johnson says.
But I could go for a nice, brief, bring-people-out-of-their-houses-with-a-bag-of-ice-and-some-beers power outage about now.
I hear the lights are coming back on. Or so President Johnson says.
fame in the UK
This Article from the Sunday Times Online gives a shout-out to BlogSisters and a mention of yours truly.
I would link to the actual article, rather than the 10-pound (as in money) version I paid to download (can't download individual articles--only in multiples of 10 at a minimum). However, my emails to the editor who contacted me back in June about the story went unanswered once the article appeared. So I never saw it. Never knew when it came out. And now it is, of course, in big-media fashion, behind the pay-to-play firewall.
Obviously, given context clues, my photo made it in, but I'll never know which photo since they asked for a few and since archived articles appear sans photos. Sans personality. Let's see, remove the layout and design, remove the photograph, and charge for it. Um.... okay. That's one way to do it.
If I had time, I'd launch into a rant about big media and its cluelessness as to things even beyond blogging, as in: pulling content behind the magic curtain where people--even the people who contribute to stories, people who are quoted or featured in stories--need to pay for the privilege of reading them.
But I don't have time this evening. So I won't. I'll just bask in another five seconds of fame, which in the end, cost me somewhere close to the tune of $20.
Reason 567 why we'll be here long after they go away.
I would link to the actual article, rather than the 10-pound (as in money) version I paid to download (can't download individual articles--only in multiples of 10 at a minimum). However, my emails to the editor who contacted me back in June about the story went unanswered once the article appeared. So I never saw it. Never knew when it came out. And now it is, of course, in big-media fashion, behind the pay-to-play firewall.
Obviously, given context clues, my photo made it in, but I'll never know which photo since they asked for a few and since archived articles appear sans photos. Sans personality. Let's see, remove the layout and design, remove the photograph, and charge for it. Um.... okay. That's one way to do it.
If I had time, I'd launch into a rant about big media and its cluelessness as to things even beyond blogging, as in: pulling content behind the magic curtain where people--even the people who contribute to stories, people who are quoted or featured in stories--need to pay for the privilege of reading them.
But I don't have time this evening. So I won't. I'll just bask in another five seconds of fame, which in the end, cost me somewhere close to the tune of $20.
Reason 567 why we'll be here long after they go away.
August 13, 2003
August 12, 2003
the night in me
It's been this way forever, really. No matter how little sleep I get, no matter how early I wake up (5:30 this/yesterday morning), at 10 p.m. my internal alarm goes CLANG and the night in me comes alive. It's a curse, being a night person in a daytime world.
The night is when I write, the night feeds me, the moon not the sun cuts a path just bright enough to wander through, not knowing what could jump out, what might surprise, what waits quietly inside thick midnight blue.
Midnight blue--the first color I ever chose from the crayon box. Since I was old enough to scribble, it has been my favorite. Draw bright dark circles, press hard, see how black blue can get.
As a teenager, I'd take a flashlight under the covers and write in my notebook sometime after 1 in the morning, poetry, stories, loneliness mostly.
In that bed, the orange-yellow of the flashlight painted the white cotton sheets like the sunset, bright-white paper gleamed so fresh, dying for black ink to press against it, to make love, flesh-like pulp welcoming the stain of words, giving in to voice, receiving.
In college I'd pop no-doze and crank out 20, 30, 50 pages in a night. It didn't matter. Exhaust myself for morning so waking up wouldn't hurt so bad. Night was my heart's bandage.
And then, you start to like it.
You don't mean to.
But what you find in the locusts and crickets, the air alive with deathly quiet, no birds, no singing, just stillness--it aches for voice, for words, for sound, for touch--your sound, your touch.
The night is the empty room waiting for sound, a whisper, a scream.
Dark silence is electric. It is a hand poised with a knife aimed just-so at the socket.
It's the moment before, the time that is not yet.
At night there is hope things can get better. By morning hope gives way to blazing sun, to pain that cracks the eye and welcomes tears down.
I have to take the night. I have to.
The night is in me.
The night is when I write, the night feeds me, the moon not the sun cuts a path just bright enough to wander through, not knowing what could jump out, what might surprise, what waits quietly inside thick midnight blue.
Midnight blue--the first color I ever chose from the crayon box. Since I was old enough to scribble, it has been my favorite. Draw bright dark circles, press hard, see how black blue can get.
As a teenager, I'd take a flashlight under the covers and write in my notebook sometime after 1 in the morning, poetry, stories, loneliness mostly.
In that bed, the orange-yellow of the flashlight painted the white cotton sheets like the sunset, bright-white paper gleamed so fresh, dying for black ink to press against it, to make love, flesh-like pulp welcoming the stain of words, giving in to voice, receiving.
In college I'd pop no-doze and crank out 20, 30, 50 pages in a night. It didn't matter. Exhaust myself for morning so waking up wouldn't hurt so bad. Night was my heart's bandage.
And then, you start to like it.
You don't mean to.
But what you find in the locusts and crickets, the air alive with deathly quiet, no birds, no singing, just stillness--it aches for voice, for words, for sound, for touch--your sound, your touch.
The night is the empty room waiting for sound, a whisper, a scream.
Dark silence is electric. It is a hand poised with a knife aimed just-so at the socket.
It's the moment before, the time that is not yet.
At night there is hope things can get better. By morning hope gives way to blazing sun, to pain that cracks the eye and welcomes tears down.
I have to take the night. I have to.
The night is in me.
is it bedtime yet?
today I did six errands before 11 a.m.
i also got more coffee beans.
this is what I did.
that is all.
i also got more coffee beans.
this is what I did.
that is all.
morning
apparently there is something to be said for this hour of the morning. Me, I don't see it. Things should be asleep at 6:30. All things should be restful and dreaming inside peaceful slumber. Not knocking around the kitchen hitting the right side of their heads wondering how they could have managed to run out of coffee beans.
It's dark out.
Dark = sleep.
Oh my goodness.
I am a night person. Have always been. My system is in shock. What do people DO at this hour? Even when I commuted to midtown, I couldn't do this hour. I never strolled in before 9:30. It was not possible for me. Accept me as I am. Love me in spite of my early-morning hatred.
My aunt tells me that I will learn to find something special in the beginning of a new day. That there is something incredible about watching a new day wake up.
I'm waiting.
It looks dark. Quiet. It looks like things should be sleeping.
I've seen this hour many times in my life, but most often from staying up all night. And I include in those early morning feedings of a new baby.
6:30 for me is a stop along the way of nightime. It's the end of the previous day, not the start of the next.
All things are changing. Time to go wake the kindergartener!
It's dark out.
Dark = sleep.
Oh my goodness.
I am a night person. Have always been. My system is in shock. What do people DO at this hour? Even when I commuted to midtown, I couldn't do this hour. I never strolled in before 9:30. It was not possible for me. Accept me as I am. Love me in spite of my early-morning hatred.
My aunt tells me that I will learn to find something special in the beginning of a new day. That there is something incredible about watching a new day wake up.
I'm waiting.
It looks dark. Quiet. It looks like things should be sleeping.
I've seen this hour many times in my life, but most often from staying up all night. And I include in those early morning feedings of a new baby.
6:30 for me is a stop along the way of nightime. It's the end of the previous day, not the start of the next.
All things are changing. Time to go wake the kindergartener!
August 11, 2003
August 08, 2003
kindergarten jenna
Went to see jenna's kindergarten classroom today and meet her teacher. Monday is the first day of school. OH My goodness. I really liked the teacher. She's calm (that is good with a room full of five year olds), not too young, not too old, and has a nine-year-old daughter herself. Wshew. The room is nice and loaded with learning tools, plus five computers that look rockin'. Only 15 kids in the class. Nice teacher-student ratio. Wondering if I can just go there to do my work every day. Wouldn't that be cool? Back to kindergarten I'd go. Don't mind me, I won't get in your way. I'm just going to sit over here and blog and suck my thumb and maybe take a nap.
Anyway, some of Jenna's classmates-to-be were there getting acquainted. A wonderful blend of hues and backgrounds. That is the best thing about the south. Especially this big-city south. But everywhere, really. Even the small towns; even the country. There is blending in the south that goes waaaay back. Even those who don't want to admit it know. It is much less segregated here than in the northeast and midwest--those other parts of the country I'm intimately acquainted with. That is important in our world. Jump in and experience the world of people the world over.
So the children seem great, the teacher seems great, the room is nice and cool and clean, the learning tools are top-notch, and I am breathing an unbelievable sigh of relief--until Monday. Monday our baby girl takes the first step out of this front door into the real world.
It's a tiny step for her, and a big one at the same time. For me it's a step I will never take again in this lifetime, an ending as much as a beginning, and it's as heavy as it gets. Truly.
Wish me a good cry and a strong coffee.
Wish Jenna much joy.
Anyway, some of Jenna's classmates-to-be were there getting acquainted. A wonderful blend of hues and backgrounds. That is the best thing about the south. Especially this big-city south. But everywhere, really. Even the small towns; even the country. There is blending in the south that goes waaaay back. Even those who don't want to admit it know. It is much less segregated here than in the northeast and midwest--those other parts of the country I'm intimately acquainted with. That is important in our world. Jump in and experience the world of people the world over.
So the children seem great, the teacher seems great, the room is nice and cool and clean, the learning tools are top-notch, and I am breathing an unbelievable sigh of relief--until Monday. Monday our baby girl takes the first step out of this front door into the real world.
It's a tiny step for her, and a big one at the same time. For me it's a step I will never take again in this lifetime, an ending as much as a beginning, and it's as heavy as it gets. Truly.
Wish me a good cry and a strong coffee.
Wish Jenna much joy.
the young me
So let me jump right to this. While I was out to dinner last night, I was told I look 21. Then, no, wait a minute, 14 not 41.
That would seem like a compliment to some. If not that I have been trying to look and act my age--I have an age thing going on lately--you know? An age thing. I'm not sure what that means.
I'm trying to figure out how old I am. Really. Arrested development. Or something. So I've been coming out in this more grown up way, letting the wisdom of my years show for the first time, changing the way I dress some, those tall shoes and things like that, and then I get: 21, no 14.
Shut up, Jeneane, you're saying. Find something else to complain about. We know you have plenty.
But it's all related.
After I say my thank yous, I'm sitting there FEELING 14. Why try, you know? I feel my step father ready to belittle me. That's what 14 means to me. Dinner table arguments and drama. Become invisible--that's the answer.
The thing is, at 14 I didn't look 14, I looked 21. "You blossomed early," my mother would say. I'll say.
What does it mean--certainly it's not "the look" people notice when they tell me I look young as much as what--my manerisms? my humor? the way Jenna and I crack each other up? My vulnerability? My ....?
The harder I try, the younger I get, in some respects. In others I must be 100 by now. Maybe everyone's just too kind to say, 41? I thought you were 100!
I had an aunt--Aunt Gussie--the kindest woman on the Slavic side of my family. She never married and was the coolest of the cool, accepting and ever generous. She made tons of money during her lifetime, which she always shared with the children in the form of savings bonds. Aunt Gussie grew the best tomatoes I've ever tasted in my life.
She lived with her sister and her sister's husband in Ohio. They were mean to her, mean to everyone. They were just NOT nice people. Very unhappy. I remember the belittling that went on in that house when I would visit them with my grandmother. And I would think--but why does Aunt Gussie take it? She's the smart one, she's the rich one, and she's the cool one?
I don't know why she stayed. She never seemed to let it bother her, but it must have. I don't know. There is a lot I won't ever know. What I do know is that Aunt Gussie had a big laugh and a husky voice that always made me feel warm.
She lived to be 90, and she never, not ever, ever, ever, had a wrinkle on her skin.
I am serious. No wrinkles. Not one. I can't tell you how odd it is to look upon a woman of 70 (the last time I saw her) who's skin is as smooth as a baby's. Pure. Not one line. No one ever guessed Aunt Gussie's age right.
But it was more than her skin that kept Aunt Gussie young. It was something else. It was a reverse kind of thing. The something else WAS what kept her face and skin from showing her age. What was it? What was it? What was it?
Love? Joy? Fun?
Oh you should have seen her eyes. Sparkley blue with cheeks that rose to meet them when she smiled. I'm remembering her writing this, these words are forming her face for me, her laugh. Her bending down to pick me a plumb tomato.
I forgot her voice until I started writing this. Now it's in my ears and with me. Thank you, blogging.
Hello Aunt Gussie. I'm okay. I miss you.
That would seem like a compliment to some. If not that I have been trying to look and act my age--I have an age thing going on lately--you know? An age thing. I'm not sure what that means.
I'm trying to figure out how old I am. Really. Arrested development. Or something. So I've been coming out in this more grown up way, letting the wisdom of my years show for the first time, changing the way I dress some, those tall shoes and things like that, and then I get: 21, no 14.
Shut up, Jeneane, you're saying. Find something else to complain about. We know you have plenty.
But it's all related.
After I say my thank yous, I'm sitting there FEELING 14. Why try, you know? I feel my step father ready to belittle me. That's what 14 means to me. Dinner table arguments and drama. Become invisible--that's the answer.
The thing is, at 14 I didn't look 14, I looked 21. "You blossomed early," my mother would say. I'll say.
What does it mean--certainly it's not "the look" people notice when they tell me I look young as much as what--my manerisms? my humor? the way Jenna and I crack each other up? My vulnerability? My ....?
The harder I try, the younger I get, in some respects. In others I must be 100 by now. Maybe everyone's just too kind to say, 41? I thought you were 100!
I had an aunt--Aunt Gussie--the kindest woman on the Slavic side of my family. She never married and was the coolest of the cool, accepting and ever generous. She made tons of money during her lifetime, which she always shared with the children in the form of savings bonds. Aunt Gussie grew the best tomatoes I've ever tasted in my life.
She lived with her sister and her sister's husband in Ohio. They were mean to her, mean to everyone. They were just NOT nice people. Very unhappy. I remember the belittling that went on in that house when I would visit them with my grandmother. And I would think--but why does Aunt Gussie take it? She's the smart one, she's the rich one, and she's the cool one?
I don't know why she stayed. She never seemed to let it bother her, but it must have. I don't know. There is a lot I won't ever know. What I do know is that Aunt Gussie had a big laugh and a husky voice that always made me feel warm.
She lived to be 90, and she never, not ever, ever, ever, had a wrinkle on her skin.
I am serious. No wrinkles. Not one. I can't tell you how odd it is to look upon a woman of 70 (the last time I saw her) who's skin is as smooth as a baby's. Pure. Not one line. No one ever guessed Aunt Gussie's age right.
But it was more than her skin that kept Aunt Gussie young. It was something else. It was a reverse kind of thing. The something else WAS what kept her face and skin from showing her age. What was it? What was it? What was it?
Love? Joy? Fun?
Oh you should have seen her eyes. Sparkley blue with cheeks that rose to meet them when she smiled. I'm remembering her writing this, these words are forming her face for me, her laugh. Her bending down to pick me a plumb tomato.
I forgot her voice until I started writing this. Now it's in my ears and with me. Thank you, blogging.
Hello Aunt Gussie. I'm okay. I miss you.
August 06, 2003
morning coffee with...
tablespoon of non-dairy creamer, two packets of sweet-n-low, and two sugar ants.
yes really.
Too tiny to fish them out; too expensive to waste the coffee.
Ante Latte: Coming soon to a Starbucks near you.
yes really.
Too tiny to fish them out; too expensive to waste the coffee.
Ante Latte: Coming soon to a Starbucks near you.
August 05, 2003
down
but not out.
only 5 days left til kindergarten. must go spend them the right way. what else matters.
til later... j.
only 5 days left til kindergarten. must go spend them the right way. what else matters.
til later... j.
ain't it funky now
In a low spot today, trying to ward off Jenna's cold, and gettin' funky ova hea. Been listening to this.
I like this interview with George Clinton. Dig how he describes the funk beat:
"It's hard to stay there. You don't want to stay there forever because that would be RI-DIC-U-LOUS. That would be like coming 24 hours non-stop. And every time we start getting there, we'd push it to another level to reach for. We'll never be satisfied with where we're at, so we push it a little harder."
RI-DIC-U-LOUS. uh-huh?
Loud is the only way to go, driving the most funkless automobile ever built--this conservative blue Chevy Venture Value Van, which is no way to go through town or through life. But, it has wheels and a CD player, and four speakers that beat my head with the funk.
Be thankful for whatcha got, ya'll.
I like this interview with George Clinton. Dig how he describes the funk beat:
"It's hard to stay there. You don't want to stay there forever because that would be RI-DIC-U-LOUS. That would be like coming 24 hours non-stop. And every time we start getting there, we'd push it to another level to reach for. We'll never be satisfied with where we're at, so we push it a little harder."
RI-DIC-U-LOUS. uh-huh?
Loud is the only way to go, driving the most funkless automobile ever built--this conservative blue Chevy Venture Value Van, which is no way to go through town or through life. But, it has wheels and a CD player, and four speakers that beat my head with the funk.
Be thankful for whatcha got, ya'll.
August 04, 2003
Atlantans in the House with the little bitty ants, lemme here ya say HEY! HO!
Hey!
Hey!
Ho!
Ho!
Hey hey ho!
Hey hey ho!
.....
Where the hell are these tiny fuckers coming from? All summer long, ant bait after ant bait, boric acid here, ant baits there. I've put them under the microwave, on the window sills, under the cupboards, and those teeny tiny stinking little millimeter sized sweet-eatin ants don't quit.
Is it all the water? Is it just me? I can't take them any more.
I'm beginning to think they're hatching out of me.
I see them in my sleep.
Help. Me.
Hey!
Ho!
Ho!
Hey hey ho!
Hey hey ho!
.....
Where the hell are these tiny fuckers coming from? All summer long, ant bait after ant bait, boric acid here, ant baits there. I've put them under the microwave, on the window sills, under the cupboards, and those teeny tiny stinking little millimeter sized sweet-eatin ants don't quit.
Is it all the water? Is it just me? I can't take them any more.
I'm beginning to think they're hatching out of me.
I see them in my sleep.
Help. Me.
Mental (Health) Part 62
One of the other brain rearrangement projects of the last few months has been claiming the house back from the five year old and the animals. Sure, I go two steps forward, three steps back, but it's coming along little by little.
First the living room. It wasn't. For the last five years it has been a playroom, along with the dining room, kitchen, Jenna's room, and the master bedroom. Yes, since she was mostly at home she invaded everywhere and it took a genuine effort to begin to channel her STUFF into proper places, to restore some kind of order and then look upon the destruction that had taken place under layers and layers of toys and paint and glue and sparkles and stickers and and and and.
The living room is happy now. Remainders of Jenna's Stewardship now include a small table and chair for her to work at and ONE (count em--ONE) small box of toys. The colorful bins containing what must be thousands of pieces and bits of polly pocket clothes and barbie limbs and hundreds of other important things are now in her bedroom. Her desk in her bedroom boasts a globe and a clean workspace. Her bed is in a new place--no wall needed to keep her from rolling out anymore! Next, her closet. But not too much too soon. Change should be measured in relation to the sanity it creates or destroys.
A week or so ago, I decided that the dining room should be claimed back too. It should be a place to--well--dine. Or at least eat. So more organizing and categorizing, very little tossing of anything, but much relocating. Desktop PC's should live on computer desks, CDs in CD holders, etc.
Little by little, long before I knew what I was doing, I was preparing the house for a kindergartener. A school girl. Not a hopping bopping 1, 2, 3, 4, and finally 5 year old.
I took the deck back too--or I tried to--from the dogs. I painted the deck furniture without expecting the summer of rains the likes of which I haven't seen here before. But still, they look better than they did. A sprayer attached to the hose put a dent in the Diva-Dog hair which is matted from one end of the property to the other, especially on the deck. Spider webs sprayed away. At least six layers of dirt washed away.
A tremendous feeling it is taking back the house, putting the prison guard back in charge of the inmates rather than vice versa. We needed that kind of order boost. No idea if our natural tendency to do a million things at once, or the natural tendency to be... um... scattered will catch up with us. Probably. But in the mean time, I'm going to survey the fruits of my labor, stretch out on the couch, and enjoy the lack of complete randomness.
First the living room. It wasn't. For the last five years it has been a playroom, along with the dining room, kitchen, Jenna's room, and the master bedroom. Yes, since she was mostly at home she invaded everywhere and it took a genuine effort to begin to channel her STUFF into proper places, to restore some kind of order and then look upon the destruction that had taken place under layers and layers of toys and paint and glue and sparkles and stickers and and and and.
The living room is happy now. Remainders of Jenna's Stewardship now include a small table and chair for her to work at and ONE (count em--ONE) small box of toys. The colorful bins containing what must be thousands of pieces and bits of polly pocket clothes and barbie limbs and hundreds of other important things are now in her bedroom. Her desk in her bedroom boasts a globe and a clean workspace. Her bed is in a new place--no wall needed to keep her from rolling out anymore! Next, her closet. But not too much too soon. Change should be measured in relation to the sanity it creates or destroys.
A week or so ago, I decided that the dining room should be claimed back too. It should be a place to--well--dine. Or at least eat. So more organizing and categorizing, very little tossing of anything, but much relocating. Desktop PC's should live on computer desks, CDs in CD holders, etc.
Little by little, long before I knew what I was doing, I was preparing the house for a kindergartener. A school girl. Not a hopping bopping 1, 2, 3, 4, and finally 5 year old.
I took the deck back too--or I tried to--from the dogs. I painted the deck furniture without expecting the summer of rains the likes of which I haven't seen here before. But still, they look better than they did. A sprayer attached to the hose put a dent in the Diva-Dog hair which is matted from one end of the property to the other, especially on the deck. Spider webs sprayed away. At least six layers of dirt washed away.
A tremendous feeling it is taking back the house, putting the prison guard back in charge of the inmates rather than vice versa. We needed that kind of order boost. No idea if our natural tendency to do a million things at once, or the natural tendency to be... um... scattered will catch up with us. Probably. But in the mean time, I'm going to survey the fruits of my labor, stretch out on the couch, and enjoy the lack of complete randomness.
August 03, 2003
Talking to Clothes
Six garbage bags full of clothes that haven't fit me for months (and longer) are on their way to the clothing dropbox at the gas station up the road. I tried them all. Too loose. Wow. Six bags. Who knows? Not me. It's not up to me. You can hand it over. That's the beauty.
Old friends once crumpled in the corner of the closet are now hanging on hangers, saying, Hey, where you been?
Who me? I set my mom down a little over a year ago, didn't you hear? I don't have to carry her anymore.
Oh. You thought you did?
Well, no. It's not that you know you're carrying their illness around for them. It's not conscious. It's how it works until you see that you're not doing anyone any favor by carrying that load--least of all yourself and those you love. Plus it tires you out. It took me a long time. Longer than some, not as long as others, I guess.
Well, to a silk blouse this stuff you're saying doesn't make much sense. But we're glad to see you anyway.
Glad to see you too.
Recovery in progress.
Old friends once crumpled in the corner of the closet are now hanging on hangers, saying, Hey, where you been?
Who me? I set my mom down a little over a year ago, didn't you hear? I don't have to carry her anymore.
Oh. You thought you did?
Well, no. It's not that you know you're carrying their illness around for them. It's not conscious. It's how it works until you see that you're not doing anyone any favor by carrying that load--least of all yourself and those you love. Plus it tires you out. It took me a long time. Longer than some, not as long as others, I guess.
Well, to a silk blouse this stuff you're saying doesn't make much sense. But we're glad to see you anyway.
Glad to see you too.
Recovery in progress.
out with the old, in with the even older
Clothes. They are something. Something I haven't paid attention to for a long time. It happens after you have a baby. Yah, that was five-and-three-quarters years ago, but somehow the time in between birth and kindergarten are a whirlwind that leaves a woman happy to have made it through the day. Work full time means you have "those" outfits. The kind you don't have to think about in the morning. Put on business casual and out the door. Then you start telecommuting and--Whoa. Why get dressed? Think of the ten minutes I can save by working in sweats or those silly cotton shorts all day. Trip to the grocery store? Shit--gotta run to the doctor here, prescriptions there, food here, mailbox there, school here, kinkos there. All the while without realizing you're in the same clothes you got up and threw on, or worse, the clothes you slept in.
One thing about shrinking is that it takes you deep into your closet. Out with the stuff that just hangs there, in with the clothes you forgot were hidden in the recesses of your closet. You take out an old pair of jeans, not worn in six years, put them on, and you remember what you were doing when they were new. You remember that part of your life. Barn jeans or dress jeans, interview suit from two jobs past. Are they still in style? Well, kind of. Not really. But since you can't afford to dash off for a closet of new stuff, and since shrinking is still in progress, you put on those old friends and feel pretty good about them welcoming your body back into them.
Old clothes, old lives. There was a time when.
I wear taller shoes now. Jenna made me do it. OOOOh, mama, you look nice in tall shoes. Buy those.
Oh honey, mama wears sneakers. I don't need tall shoes.
Just one pair mama. Just get these.
So I did, at the beginning of summer. There is a lot of perspective to be gained from a tall pair of shoes. Seeing the world from a vantage point that isn't your own. I think it's good for the mind. Thinking outside your height. They're not fancy pumps, which wouldn't find much use traveling to and from summer camp every day, but tall sandles that add a nice angle to the ankle and keep my feet cool.
That's the thing about clothes and shoes. Sometimes you need to dig back far into your closet, or let your kid talk you into one try at something different. To give yourself permission.
That said, off I dash again. Been in and out most of the day--a day to myself--and off I go again.
Then, to rest.
One thing about shrinking is that it takes you deep into your closet. Out with the stuff that just hangs there, in with the clothes you forgot were hidden in the recesses of your closet. You take out an old pair of jeans, not worn in six years, put them on, and you remember what you were doing when they were new. You remember that part of your life. Barn jeans or dress jeans, interview suit from two jobs past. Are they still in style? Well, kind of. Not really. But since you can't afford to dash off for a closet of new stuff, and since shrinking is still in progress, you put on those old friends and feel pretty good about them welcoming your body back into them.
Old clothes, old lives. There was a time when.
I wear taller shoes now. Jenna made me do it. OOOOh, mama, you look nice in tall shoes. Buy those.
Oh honey, mama wears sneakers. I don't need tall shoes.
Just one pair mama. Just get these.
So I did, at the beginning of summer. There is a lot of perspective to be gained from a tall pair of shoes. Seeing the world from a vantage point that isn't your own. I think it's good for the mind. Thinking outside your height. They're not fancy pumps, which wouldn't find much use traveling to and from summer camp every day, but tall sandles that add a nice angle to the ankle and keep my feet cool.
That's the thing about clothes and shoes. Sometimes you need to dig back far into your closet, or let your kid talk you into one try at something different. To give yourself permission.
That said, off I dash again. Been in and out most of the day--a day to myself--and off I go again.
Then, to rest.
oh dear
Well, I made it to the week before Kindergarten without a mention of it. Just a recognition of it. But never a direct question. Just something that was. Because it's not done in our house. Just outside the house. So it never came up. Til today.
Mama, why do you smoke? It's not good for you.
[heart stops. deep breath.]
Well, you're right, Jenna. It isn't good and Mama is working on quitting. You should never start because it is something that's very hard to stop. But I'm working on it. In the mean time, it's adult business and not anything you should worry about.
Okay. It's bad to do though.
Thank you for asking about it, sweetie.
AKA:
FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Quitting must now begin in earnest. Just what I need right now. My one escape. May need to find another.
Because I Been Busted.
Mama, why do you smoke? It's not good for you.
[heart stops. deep breath.]
Well, you're right, Jenna. It isn't good and Mama is working on quitting. You should never start because it is something that's very hard to stop. But I'm working on it. In the mean time, it's adult business and not anything you should worry about.
Okay. It's bad to do though.
Thank you for asking about it, sweetie.
AKA:
FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Quitting must now begin in earnest. Just what I need right now. My one escape. May need to find another.
Because I Been Busted.
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