Self-Surgery 101

Sitting on the couch next to my grandpa, at five, maybe four years old, I picked the bottoms of my feet until they bled. I didn't understand it then, the picking thing I had. Really, I don't understand it now. Even though I don't pick as often now, there are times when severity makes up for frequency.

Sounds gross I know. But not if you're kin to it.

I think the appealing thing to me about picking at such a young age was having and hiding pain. Of course it hurts to walk on raw flesh. At the same time, I had to keep that pain to myself. I couldn't tell my mother--or wouldn't. Didn't even have a grasp on what I was doing. No this was a martyrish act. It was mine and mine alone.

Pleasure Drive -> Pain Consequence. In a then rigidly Catholic household, one admits affinity to neither. Especially if they're one and the same.

As I got older, my fascination with my own skin focused on my fingers, nail beds and cuticles to be precise, extending often downward from these peninsulas to the mainland of my palm.

Usually I used my fingers. Sometimes safety pins sanitized with a match.

I'm not sure if my picking switched from feet to hands after my father and grandfather died, or if there is any correlation to those traumas and my habit.

I expect there are not only connections, but dependencies. I pause on linking them conclusively though because I'm fairly certain the picking started before my father died.

It could have started when he was sick with cancer, though, which is what I now believe. I have always felt that my passion was more endeavor than dissociation, more a job than a respite. A hyperfocus of sorts.

I've often wondered--in my older and wiser 40s--if I was attempting some sort of surgery, some act of cleansing, perhaps for my mortally damned self, and if not for me then for him. My dad. His necrotic pancreas.

After all, my goal once any picking event began was simple and consistent: Even things out. Make the edges smooth. Heal the blemishes. No bumps, no growths. How elegantly, if not tragically, that links with my strong, invincible daddy having inoperable cancer. How else can a five year old make a difference, make it all better?

Perhaps, my obsession with my own skin isn't the result of a single event or trauma--rather a combination of them. This seems the most likely genesis to me.

The notion that neurotic excoriation, or skin picking, may be genetic is, to me, bunk. What the mainstream of psychiatry has yet to realize is that we inherit our family's traumatic wounds right along side of their DNA. And genes don't hold a candle to the scars you can touch, and the ones you can't.

Once my own picking moved up from my feet to my fingers, the secret was out. You couldn't not notice my bloody stumps. Especially during adolescence, around puberty, when my finger picking progressed at a frenetic pace. I remember one aunt, trying to be helpful, who told me that she used to pick her fingers like me, but that when she met a boy she liked he didn't want to hold hands with her because of her ugly hands. So she stopped.

Jesus.

Talk about setting my picking back 10 years: boys, ugly, hold hands, stopped. Trigger trigger trigger.

Like I said, she meant well, but it felt like shame. I wore it like robe.

Today, my fingers heal up in the summer. In the summer time, chapness gives way to moist, even skin. No more unsightly cracks that must be tended to, evened out. In the summer, a tan thankfully, though not permanently, replaces reddened, torn skin.

Amazingly, perhaps, in all this time, I've never suffered an infection from my escapades. I don't know why. I guess, despite my odd obsession, my hygiene always remained proper. I've also often thought that, in a leech-like way, what I do is homeopathic. It no doubt triggers the immune system, putting little germ fighting cells on high alert. Then again, I don't think that's so good for those little guys to stay hypervigilant like I make them. Let's not think about that right now.

Let's think about smoothing some lotion on tired hands and feet.

Let's think about you telling me a secret.

from:
Connecting the dots: pediatric patients need dermatologists to unite healing between mind, body. (Special report: new frontiers).
by Hill, Suzette
source: Dermatology Times, March 1, 2003.
via: HighBeam Research
COPYRIGHT 2003 Advanstar Communications, Inc.

See also: The Bright Red Scream: Self-Mutilation and the Launguage of Pain.

Shower Songs

Jenna's in the tub, which means it's song-time at the Apollo! She's now delighting me with a rendition of "I can't help falling in love with you..."

Feelings mutual, baby.

You can try these tips for brightening your mood:

Hot chocolate

Blue skies, funny people and a touch of helium

Counting the days till vacation

A warm glass of melon-aid

Knowing that they'll get theirs*

*allied recommended option

from:
WHAT KEEPS YOUR SPIRITS UP?(General News)

via: HighBeam Research


COPYRIGHT 2004 The Register Guard

He so savvy

Finally! You tie it all up in a nice wrapper that not only titillates (I never get to use that word while writing tech brochures), but also demonstrates once and for all that you remain five years ahead of the e-times.

You and I, Mr. Locke, have discussed this phenomenon during some 6549-odd (and I mean odd) phone conversations, most of which I should have been taping, what with long distance being free and all, but that’s another story. I’ve also blogged Gonzo Marketing some 107 times in my own weblog, never mind having started Gonzo Engaged in 2001 just to talk about the book.

BECAUSE IT MATTERS.

This post on C-BLO is important, for many reasons, not the least of which is that RB has often, in our presence, slapped himself for taking a “two-year vacation.” Faaa, I say! He’s got another three years left to go before the Net catches up with him.

Kick your shoes off and relax, bro.

What have you done for me lately?

I said I would. And I did. I got a better price, and it's on its way.

The Seimens is still hard to get your hands on. So I went HP.

Stay tuned: From Sidekick to HP Ipaq 6315 Pocket PC.

64 MB SDRAM, 64 MB Flash ROM, Integrated GSM/GPRS, WLAN, Bluetooth®, Camera, Phone.

The HP iPAQ Pocket PC h6315 with service from T-Mobile is equipped with integrated 3-way wireless capabilities (GSM/GPRS, Wi-Fi, and Bluetooth® wireless technology) to give you high-speed wireless voice and data connectivity at work, at home, and on the go. The removable, snap-on thumb keyboard lets you easily compose emails, notes, and MMS/SMS messages.1,2,3,4 The built-in camera allows you to take pictures, view them on the bright 3.5" color screen, and share them instantly via email or MMS.



Features

Improve productivity with Pocket versions of Microsoft® software (Outlook, Word, Excel, and Internet Explorer for Pocket PC)

Wirelessly make and receive phone calls on the go 5

High speed wireless access to the internet, email, and corporate networks 2,3

Send, receive, and reply to corporate and personal email wirelessly 2,3

Removable, snap-on thumb keyboard lets you easily compose email, notes and instant messages

Take and send pictures in an email or MMS message 2,3,4,5

Safeguard data from power loss or device resets with iPAQ File Store

The Absence Of...

It isn't just the fence. More, really, the striking green manicured lawn that has overlayed its traces. A pasture, more a lawn now, unending, that looks as if it has always been there.

Not just the absence of the fence, then, but the power of what erased it, rolling acres of green grass, each blade so even, regimented, evidently striped by a riding mower, not even a mound or hole where the posts once stood.

It's not just that I don't see the fence, it's that I can't even trace its path from memory.

It's not just that the fence is gone, but that it has been replaced by acceptable, planned perfection.

It's the discontinuity in me -- between the shock that ripples through me still and the ordinary outward pattern that begs to take its place.

g'night

That one did it. Have to sleep now. The elusive 30 in 30 goal still taunts me...

The Untelling

There was a lot I didn't tell you about our trip "home" recently, to Rochester and Buffalo. It's taken me a while to digest the trip, the onslaught of memories. Onslaught, like slaughter. Mmm hmm.

I went back to visit our farm house on Atlantic Avenue, blue now. Who would paint the house blue and leave the barn red? Who would let the silo go that long without its top? Who would take down three acres of plank fence that my father and grandfather built, one rail at a time, handkerchiefs and muscle-man undershirts to soak up the sweat, always in the summer, the horses breaking out, time to fix another rail?

How did it come down? In pieces over time? Hired help to knock down the posts? If I looked hard enough, could I find a wedge of whitewashed post an acre or so back?

The fence, that was hard, the absence of, so much loss in the space where it stood. So many trips in tennis shoes with glasses of ice water for Dad and Grandpa, so comfortable sitting cross legged on the hill between the barn and the house watching their muscles work, a team, son and father-in-law.

How could they know as they hefted the rails that inside a year they would both be gone. One. Three weeks later the other. What kind of sense does it make to take them, and now the fence?

No one knows the preciousness
of things touched
before we come upon them.

Inheritance

Inside your fears
are mine
wonder how yours grew
if I fed them
sure I did.

How do I take them
back
Hold them for you
send
you from me
hands empty
heart full
free?

Used to and Fried Green

I used to do this thing where I'd try to post 30 posts in 30 minutes. I never ever made it. Once or twice I think I got 20 posts in. A couple of time I did 30 posts but it took two hours.

Reason I'm saying this is it'd be fun to do it again, and I don't know why I haven't done it in such a long time.

Lately I'm lucky if I even get time to blog.

I went to a friends' house with Jenna tonight and watched Fried Green Tomatoes while Jenna played with a neighbor girl. I never like watching a movie twice. I'm a one-time chick. If I've see it, there are probably 20 other movies that I haven't seen, so why would I want to re-watch a movie? But tonight I did and I was surprised how much I'd forgotten. It was cool to remember that something was about to happen without knowing exactly what. Then once it happens, I'm all like "OH YAH! That was the best part!"

And I think I said that about five times.

I love the south

I just do.

For the folks who got here by searching for "strawberry tongue"...

Your kid has strep. You will get to know the look of that tongue well. You'll see it coming a mile away next time. Or maybe you'll be lucky and he'll never get it again.

Take him to the doctor and get some antibiotics.

It woke me up at 7 a.m.

I have such a bad sinus headache that I'm considering macing myself.

Passed the six month mark

I passed the six month no-smoking--not even a puff, just some requests for others to please exhale in my face--milestone. Whoopie!

I am, in many ways, proud and happy. For instance, I haven't had an upper respiratory infection since. But I still miss it just as badly as I did the third week. (Not the first two weeks. Those are special times of despair). I wish that I would hate it. I wish that I would be firm in my resolve to never again flick a bic.

Then I remember the four years I DID feel that way. Being smoke free. Feeling that the nasty habit was so far beneath me. Only to start bumming again and finally rekindle the old connection.

You just can't tell. The one day at a time axiom stuck, I guess, because that's the way it is.

This blog helped keep me honest. Honestly. There were times I thought about it. Seriously. George's cigarettes are in the garage right now. I could easily have grabbed one during one of my "moments." One of the thoughts during those "moments" was that I would have to post it. I would. I wouldn't not post if if I cheated. I would tell you all that I slipped up, and how good it was, but how bad it feels to have to turn the clock back, and you would all tell me that everyone has a slip up and it doesn't mean I've lost the battle--or lost respect--to just pick up where I was before the slipup, and I would say thank you, I love you guys, and to be honest, I wanted to avoid that WHOLE thing.

So thanks.

Jenna, if you ever read this post, please don't EVER light one of those disgusting cigarettes. It's not just that they're bad for you. It's that they don't let you go. They cuff your hands and mess with your head, and all of your internal organs too, as long as you live. Which won't be as long as you would have. And even if you quit, they never stop messing with you.

On to month seven.

Reasons I'm Glad I Blogged It:

This one.

'cause she's so sweet.

Bad PR for Ketchum

You can imagine I'm all choked up that Ketchum's found itself in a stew of bad PR this week. Well, it may be No Child Left Behind, but apparently Armstrong Williams -- a nationally syndicated radio, print and television personality -- is one grown-up left behind, at least by the Chicago Tribune (I think that's the paper he mentioned on Bill Whoreily's show), which has 86-ed his column.

I think Williams can afford to take some time off with his quarter million dollars from the Education Department.

"Rep. George Miller, D-Calif., the top Democrat on the House Education Committee, as saying the contract was "a very questionable use of taxpayers' money" and is "probably illegal."

I also thought it was clever the way Williams kept referring to Ketchum as Ketchum Communications (That isn't and wasn't Ketchum's name. Used to be Ketchum Public Relations, but smartly the dirty word in its name went away a few years ago with the new logo design and branding...) as if using "communications" in the name might somehow leave the door open for pleading a simple "mis-communication" is in order here...

The Education Department defended its decision as a "permissible use of taxpayer funds under legal government contracting procedures." The point was to help parents, particularly in poor and minority communities, understand the benefits of the law, the department said.

Of course. The demographics of poor minorities listening to conservative talk radio are, well, way up there. Uh-huh.

The department's contract with Williams, through the public relations firm Ketchum, dates to 2003 and 2004. It is billed as a "minority outreach campaign" with the goal of "educating the African-American community" about the education law.

Looks like some new ways for measuring value are in order here.

Disclosure: I worked for Ketchum once upon a time. I have never been secret about my likes and dislikes. I have a few fond memories. I also think the business model of BigPR is broken for good.

Sidekick Customer of 2 Years Says Bye Bye

You may, if you were traveling round this blog two years back, remember how in love I was with my Sidekick / Hiptop when it first came out. I was perhaps one of the best early spokespeople everyone never heard about. I even talked about the thing in bed. You could call it an obsession. I talked about it with other bloggers.

And how about the time I left it on the roof of my van on a 12 mile drive and it lived for me to tell about?

Those were the good old days. That was when I had my first-run, black-and-white, not-so-flashy sidekick.

Then I spent $250 for a new color sidekick and have been unhappy ever since. My "B" key hasn't worked for a long time. The SIM card shakes loose too often. And the general reliability and ruggedness isn't there anymore. Plus, frigging T-mobile can't give me reception in my own house. Or even in my own yard. Or on half my street.

Once upon a time, I was in love.

But now I've learned.

And I've started looking. Cheating some. And I think I found the one I want next:



The Siemens SX66 Pocket PC.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm....

-OS: Windows Mobile Pocket PC 2003 Second Edition
-Unique slider design, QWERTY keyboard
-Connectivity: WiFi (802.11b), Bluetooth®, USB, and wireless data transfer via infrared interface (IrDA)

This beauty could change my life. With this baby, I think I could really get some work done by the pool this summer. Being able to run around with Jenna without being tied to timeframes and battery wires, being able to charge on the go, being able to do some work in the parkinglot of Big Lots -- this could make me, well, really really happy.

So much so that I spent a half hour on the lame Cingular sales line today trying to get one, only to find out they're still not there--or "backordered" apparently.

Okay bloggers--How can I get one of these puppies and be working from my purse within the next 30 days?



Better yet, How can I get COMPED on one of these puppies and be working from my purse within the next few weeks?

Bye Bye Sidekick. Hello Pocket PC/Phone. How's your "B" key hangin'?

Is it me, or is it me?

How is it that I've come to the top of the UK Google Search for Bigger Dick?

I mean, no offense, but I'm hardly an expert. In fact, I've always said that penis enlargement spam was misdirected.

First they need to sell me a dick. Then they can upsell me on a bigger one.

Spammers. Will they never learn?

For those Brits arriving here looking for one, well, I'll leave it to my oh-so-valued readers to give you a heads up on what to do ...

Some things, you just have to feel honored about.

Like this.

So glad I could help.

Qumana -- I Likey.

One might call this a test. Well, one might not. But I will.

 

I hate test posts. Hate writing 'em and hate reading 'em. So I'll try to make this a little more than, "Is This Thing On?"

 

I've been testy myself lately, so what better time to try something new. Yesterday I tried w.bloggar, which memer likes very much. I didn't post with it. To me, the options offered, the default font, the preview, and just the "feel" of the writing window didn't turn me on. It felt a lot like Blogger, which isn't a bad thing, because you all know I'm three-years'-worth accustomed to writing in Blogger. But at that point I was like, if I want to have to open a program and write in something like Blogger, but without really seeing what I'm doing too very accurately, I might as well write in Blogger, even despite it's wavering reliability. That thing that woos you to a new tool was missing for me with w.bloggar.

 

Writers are funny this way. Keyboards and the programs we compose in are very important to the evolving process of crafting word-thoughts.

 

So Jon Husband leaves me a comment about this Qumana thing, which I don't know from Adam, (HEY AKMA! HEY MARGARET! HEY PIPPA!), and I decide to try it. That's where I am now. I am wooed. I like it. I like the writing pad--it resembles MS Word, and let's face it, I've got a lifetime of familiarity writing in the MSWord environment.

 

Plus the little tool thingy that hangs out on the desktop has these cute little arrows that let you bop it around the desktop. Paint me quirky, but I like that kind of thing. The Qumana desktop bopper thing is bigger than a shortcut icon: It will remind me to blog. I will probably get mad at it at some point. But for now I like it. (It could be a little prettier--maybe customizable with your favorite celebrity or type of lunchmeat.)

 

This whole thing--which I was absolutely uninformed about until yesterday--has me thinking. Will tools like Blogger become backend engines, while smart people with the nimbleness that Blogger used to have -- because they were small and stayed up late -- begin to develop a whole plethora of cool front-end interfaces to inspire and facilitate the job of, well, writing?

 

As I write inside this window with an MS Word type feel -- and Jon may mean this when he says that Qumana will have other templates you can load in -- I imagine maybe tomorrow, when I'm writing about the horror that is public education, I'll want a more severe workspace to inform and encourage my anger. There might be something to this. Like the mood ring of Blog Authoring tools. You know what I'm saying?

 

One thing that's weird -- I'd recommend fixing it -- is that when you're composing in Qumana, and you open a browser to go fetch a link you don't remember by heart (say AKMA's flickr photostream), the Qumana window doesn't register down on the little IE Start toolbar at the bottom of the screen. In other words, once the browser (or any) windows open on top of Qumana, you have to minimize them all to get back to where you were writing. Gotta change that.

 

All in all, I like Qumana. I'm using it. Blogger, you may now chug along at your own speed. Thanks for hipping me to this, Jon!

One other Update--the Title didn't end up in the title field--I had to go into Blogger and move it up into Blogger's Title: field.

Get the audio. Can we get the audio?

Tom:

Dead, we got dead. 23,000. How'd that wave get so big? - earthquake under the sea - tectonic plates clap hands and sing - what could stop it? waves, aftershocks, earlywarning wouldn'a done no good - too little too late when it's this bigass, get ready for showtime five, four, three - Nobody does dead better than yours truly do dead we wipe our arse with you, ABC, CBS, FOX, we got tourist footage and it rawks - we are sublimest you ain't, we are bigass, waves we got waves, we got we got we got more good wave killahs coming straight at you don't you dare move - no bigger ass ugly biglyasses than us here at MSNBC - keep it right here, 24,000, we got it covered.

Roll again--get the audio, can we get the audio? The aussies--the guy on the ledge at the bar, oh shit there goes one, bald guy, sailed right by him--he's toast. JESUS NO, don't show the dead white kids--show the dead BROWN kids. You show mangled tourists and tow heads, they're off to FOX within three. Don't do it again. ONLY DEAD = BROWN. Got it? You shoulda known that from 9-11. No white bodies. WHOA did you see that? Another that's at least three kids washed out from the concrete wall--couldn't hold on, see ya later--get that up on the Web! Now!

Then Again, I Really Love Google OR On being an Internalist, not a Journalist.

Strolling through my referrals just now I saw lots of Google search results that pointed people here. Here, of all places!

I followed one of those links right back to myself, July of 2002, when I wrote something I don't remember writing. Those are the posts I like the best. A woman possessed:

So I guess I'm not a journalist, I don't report events; maybe i'm an internalist, writing from my innards out? oh shit, maybe that's not it. but you know, so what another corporate giant is charged with fraud--who in the name of bill gates ever thought organizations were honest to begin with? the default is fraud the default is screw you. command and control, sure enough, where have you heard that before? What do you expect from top-heavy behemoths soaking up hours and lives and loves and children and babies and aging parents in nursing homes and pets in crates from all of us who scurry around the bottom, the sea floor, picking up corporate litter like shells and selling a conch or two to anyone who will buy.

So where was I going with that--Oh, I know: I was going to you. To you. You. Fuck corporations, fuck technology, fuck feminism, fuch patriarchy, fuck politics, fuck meta blogging, fuck all of that. I was going to You. Who are YOU, what made you the way everyone says you are--"she's just that way," you know, the way you are when you step down into your thoughts, the things that stick in your mind, familiar enemies you're used to pushing away, been doing it so long you're really good at it now. Aren't you? No.

So stop pretending. Let them in. Let thoughts flood over you. Decide to drown in them. Decide it's okay if they pull you under. Don't swim, don't race, don't run, don't distract yourself. Sit with them. Close your eyes and let words start to wrap around those dark places, see then? what color are your words? maybe deep purple and orange and cherry, lots of them are black and midnight blue. What sounds are your words, what sounds repeat over and over--today I was thinking rice paper, and rice paper has been swirling around my head--why? it sounds like what it is, or maybe because I've been walking on it most of my life, but that's me--we weren't talking about me--we were talking about you.

How loud can you make your screams if you don't hold anything back?

Write from there. Blog from there. Not always. Not forever. But for today. Write from the inside out, not the outside in. You dare corporations to do it--to turn their business models all topsy turvy. "Hey, Look at Us. We the People. We Matter!" So dare to turn yourself topsy turvy too, flip yourself around, unzip yourself and wear your innards on your skin for a day.

And let me know when you do it, so I can link you like a motherfucker.

Oh, and by the way, sorry I missed the anger discussions that were floating around Blogaria the last two days. I was sitting with my words, and really, I still am.

In Praise of Blog Brothers and Incomplete Ideas

I like it when I get time to write. Write what I want. Here. Not what I get paid to write. Out there.

I remember when we used to finish one another's ideas. Here. A few years back. My favorite thing was to bake words with my blog brothers. That was then, before blogging required that every post be a well-formulated thesis--an entity in and of itself--flawless and final in it's daily decree for the masses to imbibe and link to. That was before pundits mattered.

Then, we jammed some. I might throw out an idea. Half baked. Not baked. Raw. Uncooked. Kind of embarrassing, but all our asses were hanging out anyway. Who cares. And someone would grab it. Gary often. And he'd throw in a handfull of chocolate chips, or he'd mean to anyway, but usually it was coffee beans. Gary was never good at telling those things apart. And then Mike would go off on the thing. And I mean off. Just off and run with it. Jesus. For the love. He would ramble and gamble and put in "print" things that'd make us say, mostly, "Oooooo. Eeeeeks." And how the hell are we supposed to download that, freak? Then Frank, you know, he'd toy with Mike, usually with a joyful zest, but Frank, man, you don't know, he can go off, you just don't see it much, well more now than then. Frank, he'd take it and recap the ingredients so far and then flip the thing right over. Just turn it over. Til you said, OH, I thought it was a pancake, but it's a bison burger! HA! where's my syrup? So Tom would come along, and by crap if he didn't take the damn burger and mold it into the finest fucking filet you've ever seen--and we're going, "Shit, we made this pancake-burger and look at Tom's filet with all that red juice, see he did it again." At which point Marek would walk in and just sit down on that piece of meat. I mean just sit the hell down on it as if he were planting his behind in a leather-backed office chair. As if that's what you do every single day with a fine piece of filet--you just sit your ass on it. And if we were all truly blessed that day, Rageboy would rouse himself long enough to come fuck up the whole works by using the creation as high-gloss latex paint, not as food at all, and we'd go--HA! It's all colors now! And then we'd start all over looking at the entire room, not just the frying pan.

My blog brothers. We made lots of things together out of posts back then.

An Odd Issy

Beat Way Down's blog book, Temporary Truth: The Case, Good as Any, for the Repression of Reason:

With first things first, Pietor Ugamoveich realized that he must obtain some kind of income at any cost, and proof of a job of some kind. As regular work was almost entirely out of the question these days because of the disturbances in the city--let us not forget that capitalism is still several years up the road--he picked up his crusty violin and headed down to the square.

Maybe there he could cut out a tune for a few life-saving rubles; either that, or back to Old Baron Von Bleakskya's rambling country estate--may the devil be damned.

Chris Locke's hardcover book, Gonzo Marketing:

The net is like a vast global city packed with displaced persons, refugees fleeing the insanity of mass media... Artists are outsiders. But artists are also outriders. A dense and crowded matrix of rainy street corners, the net offers little shelter from the elements. But you can pick up your guitar and play. Just like yesterday.

It shouldn't take 10 minutes to get one post up. It just shouldn't.

A funny thing happened on Blogger's way to Google...

It sucked.

I am again frustrated at not being able to post when I want to because blogger's bogged down. I'm ready to drop the "l" and call it bogger.

Currently I'm in Note Pad, which I hate, and I know you all have given me umpty-ump varieties of text editors you use that are WAY better so that I DON'T have to write directly in my Blogger window, but shouldn't it matter that I like writing in Blogger? Not to you I mean--it shouldn't matter to you. But it should matter to Blogger. It's the way I've posted for about more than three years. Should that have to change just because a company gets more money and loads of resources -- enough to fiddle with (oh, I mean enhance) the interface until it becomes nearly unusable?

And I hear the calls to other blogging tools loud and clear. It may become necessary. Still, I helped build this neighborhood, like my Grandfather in Ottawa, Illinois, who built his and my grandmother's first home himself, with his own hands, as did most of the neighbors on his street. That's what you did when you moved to a mostly undeveloped town to work at Libby Owens Ford in the 1930s. You were proud to be there, and you poured your heart into making your house a home.

You built it yourself. And then you stayed there. Because you built it yourself. Because you broke earth with your own two hands.

It's the same for Blogger, except that the look of that deluxe appartment in the sky-hi-hi is getting pretty appealing, especially considering my foundation is cracking over here.

On to other news...

I don't have any! HA!

Joke's on me.

Bless yous. More soon.

Tsunami Help

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

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

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

Thanks to boing boing for that link.

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

Thanks to C-Lo for the link.

Women's Weblog of the Year

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

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

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

Most Bloggers Are Women

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

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

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

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

Good.

Wash Your Hands!

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

Vegetarianism beckons.

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

That was nice.

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

He is currently burning up with fever.

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

Happy Holidays...

--The Mistress of Puke

Why a Pig is Not An Ass

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

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

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

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

A pig pen, I guess.

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

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

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

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

If you're an idiot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

Personal Weblogging Meets the Real World

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

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

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

This, of course, is now.

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

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

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

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

It happens.

It's beautiful.

It keeps me here.

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

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

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

And now you know me a little bit better.

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

;-)

2005 School Calendar--Why Bother?

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

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

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

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

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

That's 43 school days off or out early.

That's a month and a half off.

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

thank you for your consideration in this matter.

Approaching Half a Year

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


if not her,
then who am I?

I'm hungry.

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

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



I can smell it.

Who Took My Shit (and other mysteries of December)

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

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

What shit you ask?

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the point is: I need my books.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sure, everyone's laughing. Except me.

Were the heck is my shit and who took it?

I want answers!

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

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


Does Jeff know who took my shit???

More about software

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

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

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

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

Got that itch

I want to go somewhere.

I wanna go!!!!

I want a vacation.

Jenna gets out of school next Friday for two weeks.

I WANNA GO FISHING!

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

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

I don't do rustic all that well.

Did I mention that?

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

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

hmmm.

How Time Flies.

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

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



source:
Time, April 13, 1987.


via: HighBeam Research


COPYRIGHT 1987 Time, Inc.

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

The Stadium's gone too.

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

Damn.

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

Equal Opportunity Disgruntled Software User

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

All I want is a line wrap within a cell.

Hep?

Ambush Makeover

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

Let's Play Name that Dictator!

The Gilmore Boys Take Notes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



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



Darn.

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

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

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



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

Photos by Rick Diamond Photography.

You musta put voodoo on me....

It's a Neville kind of day.

Oooo those race mixers.

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

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

Okay, That's how Sam Francis sees it.

Me? I see it a little differently:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weird? I know.

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

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

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

Mostly I had fun playing with photoshop.

Soukous Radio - Live 365

Listen with us.

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

thanks for traveling round the net with me this evening!

Save our sounds...

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

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

Check out some of the sounds here.

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

Other samples here.

Lay down body

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

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

For the weary...

Shine On Me


a Negro Spiritual

Shine on Me

Intro (last line of chorus)

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

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

Chorus (ritard at END)

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

Chorus
(optional)

Oh, You Want to Know

I found out more about tired.com.

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

There's the overworked parent:

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

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

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

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

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

Who the hell's asking?

Are You Tired? Tell Us Why.

freaky.

I love it when I'm right

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

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

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

ChangeThis is creating a new kind of media.

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

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

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

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

Simply: WTF?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My other thought: Seth, shut up and listen.

On Writing Well

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

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

"Ceil!!"

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

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

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

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

And she was always right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, Ceil. For everything.

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

Eye Candy

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

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


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

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

We Bo for CBO!

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

Blogger and Yaccs

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

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

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

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

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

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




Aldus.

What have They done for us lately?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read also: Shelley

Marek bedtime story

from kombinat!

Iraq and Poland

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

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

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

Dear Marek,

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

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

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

Frank Wrote the Book on Why We Blog

Good stuff from the Larry King Live of blogland.

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

Maybe it can be more

-----------

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

Marek J

------------

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

Blogger's Latest Feature: Blog Lots at Once

Today Blogger released its newest feature, BLO - Blog Lots at Once. The new feature requires that you post all of your blogging for the month at one time. Not only does this save time, but it floods news aggregators making you the HOT blogger you've always dreamed of being.

When asked what she thinks of the BLO feature, blogger Jeneane Sessum said the new functionality was sorely needed. "The way I see it, you might as well post all of your writing for the whole year once you get into Blogger, BECAUSE IT'S SO FUCKING SLOW LATELY THAT YOU HAVE TO WRITE EVERYTHING YOU CAN THINK OF OR JUST PLAIN FORGET IT. FORGET YOU EVER KNEW HOW TO WRITE. FORGET BLOGGING. FORGET YOUR FLEEETING THOUGHTS. EITHER USE THE BLO FEATURE OR GIVE THE FUCK UP!"

Then she slammed her laptop closed.

Yikes.

You just call out my name, you shithead...

Ken Camp has a great post about what makes a real friend... For your reading pleasure, I present it to you:

1. When you are sad - I will help you get drunk and plot revenge against the sorry bastard who made you sad.

2. When you are blue - I will try to dislodge whatever is choking you.

3. When you smile - I will know you finally got laid.

4. When you are scared - I will rag on you about it every chance I get.

5. When you are worried - I will tell you horrible stories about how much worse it could be and to quit whining.

6. When you are confused - I will use little words.

7. When you are sick - Stay the hell away from me until you are well again. I don't want whatever you have.

8. When you fall - I will point and laugh at your clumsy ass.

This is my oath...I pledge it till the end. Why? You may ask. Because you are my friend.

Send this to 10 of your closest friends, then get depressed because you can only think of two and one of them isn't speaking to you right now anyway.

Remember: A good friend will help you move. A really good friend will help you move a body. Let me know if I ever need to bring a shovel.

;-)

Onward Chris and Soldiers...

So HE's been blogging over here, as Chief Blogging Officer, which means I believe that he is CBO for Highbeam. Well COOL! If it weren't for technorati and spammers, I wouldn't know anything at all.

But I do know about highbeam thanks to C-BO, and I can say that it has saved my ass looking up some arcane items this past week that I'd like to write about as soon as I figure out how to use the blog this item button.

I have an email into the CBO about it. I hear you don't even have to go through his receptionist if you call his office. He answers the phone himself--right from his home office couch.

Technology. It's so cool.

Blogger's Slow Again...

And it's pissing me off.

Take Christianity Back from the Right

To reclaim language, to take back its meaning from those who would distort it, is to reclaim power. Reclaim Christianity now.

I am a Christian, too
It's time to take religion back from the haters, killers and temple money-changers
BY JOHN F. SUGG

There's a bit of schoolin' that God-fearing folks in Cobb County and the rest of the nation should pay heed to as they cheer the creationist team in a federal lawsuit heard last week.

The legal spat, over a warning plastered in Cobb schools' biology texts that evolution is merely a "theory" and not a "fact," has the world press in a tizzy now that evangelicals are perceived as political 900-pound gorillas (probably not a great metaphor when talking about evolution).

Thank God (so to speak) for Cobb County, always good for when scribes need a bit of bizarre to substitute for news.

Still, there is a "gol darn, I didn't know that!" lesson hidden in the Cobb evolution brouhaha, one that should be important to every Christian. It's a gem from the earlier "monkey" trial, the 1925 drama that starred teacher John Scopes, who challenged Tennessee's anti-evolution statute. The advocate for the religious side was William Jennings Bryan, one of the great men of principle in American history.

But, oh, heavens, Bryan was a died-in-the-wool liberal. He generally was described as a "populist," but in the parlance of the late 19th century, that meant liberal. Bryan volunteered in the Spanish-American War; that experience turned him into a fervent pacifist bitterly opposed to the nascent American imperialism. As Woodrow Wilson's secretary of state, he jawboned the 30 leading world powers to agree to a one-year cooling-off period before going to war -- no pre-emptive slaughter for Bryan.

Dubbed "the Great Commoner," he castigated the capitalists as enemies of common folk. Among his most ardent allies in a 1896 presidential bid was American socialist leader Eugene V. Debs.

In short, Bryan was a man who would have earned the scorn of Karl Rove, Rush Limbaugh and Trent Lott. If he was reincarnated and ran today for a U.S. Senate seat in Georgia, Saxby Chambliss would air commercials putting Bryan's mug alongside Saddam's and Osama's -- just as he did to Max Cleland.

But hold on a minute. Bryan also was a fundamentalist Christian. At the Scopes trial, he thundered, "I believe everything in the Bible should be accepted as it is given there." He was born again, he was an evangelical.

The nation, especially the South, bestowed great reverence on Bryan, who died a few months after the Scopes trial. Country and western balladeer Andrew Jenkins, a Georgia boy, sang these words in tribute: "Oh, who will go and end this fight, oh, who will be the man?/To face the learned and mighty foe, and for the Bible stand?"

Let's wind forward 79 years. Bob Jones III is president of the racist Bob Jones University in Greenville, a favorite haunt of George Bush. Jones, a storm trooper of the religious reich-wing vanguard that claims ownership of Bush, sternly admonished the president after the election, "You owe the liberals nothing. They despise you because they despise your Christ." Ah, I get it. Bush & Co. own Christ.

The letter also underscores the message hammered home so successfully by the GOP during the recent campaign: Liberals despise Christ.That's a lie.

The example of William Jennings Bryan -- and millions of others -- makes clear that ultra-conservatives don't have an exclusive claim on Christ. It's time for Christians to start giving witness to that fact.

I've warmed you up with a little literary napalm. But what I'm going to write next isn't easy. It's the sort of thing journalists aren't comfortable acknowledging. Here it goes ...

I testify that I am a Christian. I have been ever since I came forward at a Billy Graham revival when I was 8 years old. I later fell from grace and had a lot of dark years I'll have to account for on Judgment Day. My life did not turn around until, 14 years ago, I got down on my knees and prayed. That's something I do every day now. I prefer small churches to the show palaces; Christ said to pray in private. I've felt called to be a minister, but figure I'd get to do less preaching than with this gig.

I don't pay heed to the false prophets such as Pat Robertson and Tim LaHaye of the Left Behind books because Christ said to beware of charlatans claiming to know when He is coming again.

The "rapture" isn't in the Bible, so it's not in my theology. I find it hard to conceive of Jesus returning to save a few smug Pharisees such as Jerry Falwell while brutally slaying billions of my brothers and sisters. The heaven I believe in has ample room for all men and women of all faiths who seek God and try to live good lives.

In the Book of Matthew, Jesus said, "Not everyone who saith 'Lord, Lord,' shall enter the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father ... ." He told us his Father's will was to be meek; to be peacemakers; to take care of the weak, the poor, the afflicted; to sheathe the sword.

I believe there is truth in every word of the Bible, but as Bryan said during the Scopes trial, "Some of the Bible is given illustratively." I also believe there is truth in other faiths' scriptures, and I study them, too.

All Americans are invested in the debate over "values." It's time for Christians to take back our religion from people who have commandeered it simply to squeeze political advantage.

I believe the Ten Commandments have more impact if they are carved on our hearts than if they are hung in government buildings. I believe our leaders have broken one of those commandments by bearing false witness in concocting lies out of whole cloth that led us into war. I believe that "elective" war is another word for murder, and war to grab other peoples' oil is coveting and theft -- more broken commandments.

More...

Thanks to Craig for the pointer.