A few posts, just because

Winding down the evening here, jenna's snoring away beside me, I'm bed-topping (blogging in bed on my laptop). Quick question--or dilemma. I have been using Trend Micro's PCcillin for anti-virus for a couple of years, and have been using webroot's spysweeper for spyware detection/removal.

Well, two times in the last six months I've ended up with a worm that is un-get-rid-able, and so I've ended up restoring; i.e., back to XP Pro on a desktop--having to reload all my applications, etc. AND my Outlook email file is always too big to copy to a CD, so I lose my email every time.

So I've downloaded Zone Alarm trial--the whole enchilada. I have the virus protection turned off because it wants me to uninstall PCcillin, which I won't do unless I buy Zone Alarm. But it does seem to be blocking intrusions. I don't seem to have any spyware problems, but I also didn't reinstall spysweeper last week when I restored because I'm sick of it not working hard enough to protect me.

SO, my question is, would you get Zone Alarm for everything?
Or do you prefer using separate virus/spyware/adware/firewall shit?
And if so, in what combination?

I'm really stumped. The more options out there, the more I seem to get slammed.

I am now finally up to date on all Windows updates. I avoided updates last time I restored, and that ended up hammering me.

Ah. fudge.

thanks for any info.

The Dog Ate My Homework... and...

So Sorry; I've come down with the Ebola.

I'm a double ass.

I didn't know Karsh had lost his job in January because of his blog. From Dooced to Karshed.

Skeletor spoke at length about her great disappointment in me while Wednesday Addams crossed her arms and nodded for effect. “And I don’t even know what this 'black gay blogger’ thing is. I mean what is that?” I stifled my laugh as best I could. columns of numbers and posts from my site were photocopied, stapled and collated as she emphasized “we have the proof”. I almost felt like I was Law and Order or something, getting busted for using the taxpayer’s hard-earned money on a new BMW X5 and a summer home in the Hamptons. As she spoke and the other manager nodded, I slouched down in my seat, giving Skeletor a look which said “I can see your point, but I still think you’re full of shit.

I was like, OH MAN, Karsh.

The Washington Post was like, whoa--bloggers have principles; the dude quit.

The blogger renamed his supervisor “Skeletor” and “Wednesday Addams” in an entry about the confrontation. When the was told he would be demoted and had to
dismantle his site, he quit, he said.

Norma Rae Karsh. YEEEAAAH!

And, what does "dismantle" a "website" mean anywah, like we're maintaining these active construction sites or something? We've got to tear down the scaffolding and drive the back hoes home down Peachtree Street? Don't forget the drill bits. Wear your hard hat. Time to dismantle your site.

The world gets stranger n stranger.

I am an ass.

I should have noticed before eight months elapsed, but where's Tom Shugart gotten to?

Anyone know?

Journal Jism

Bloggers, ask yourselves what you're paying attention to. What are you hearing? Whose words fill your ears with tears? What are you saying? Make me care. And, in the quiet between your bedsheets, write something real.

There was a time, not so far back, when it didn't matter what kind of page words came on; if it felt right, it mattered. If it mattered, we told one another to look. Is it so different now? Because it shouldn't be. Risk is beautiful for its lack of form. Don't you think?

Thanks, Meg.

oh, and journaljism.com--that'd be mine now. ;-) Who want's to have some fun?

Virtual Refrigerator Magnet

Awe, shucks, lookie what Doug blogged me!



Now that is a fact.

What the Walgreens Pharmacist Told Me About the Flu

The best thing about Walgreens is the drive-through pharmacy. No wait, the best thing about Walgreens is that you can order refills online and they email you when they're done. No wait. The best thing about Walgreens is what the pharmacist told me last night.

You see, this mighty illness is rampant around these parts, and from what I'm reading, much of 'Merika. The thing about this illness--which has passed through, and is still passing through, our house--is that it doesn't really want to go away. It's an upper respiratory thing that hits fast and stays longtime. Our friends have it. Some of the cast members of Ain't Misbehaving (Hi George! Blog, wouldya?) are suffering from it.

George finally got it, after two runs of antibiotics and steroids for me, and he has not been able to shake it. As is part and parcel of this little bug, it turns into a bacterial infection after it hangs around for what seems like a year.

So, I'm picking up his medicine at Walgreens and I ask the pharmacist, "Hey, is this thing the flu gone wrong or what?"

She tells me that they are nearly out of cold and flu medicine at their store, and that they're running low on certain prescribed medicines too. She tells me that they've been talking about it (I guess she means some informal network of pharmasists) trying to figure out what the deal is.

Then she said they have a theory. Remember when 'Merika ran out of the initial supply of (killed) flu vaccine? Well, there was a lapse, a panic if you will, in usable vaccine, until finally--late in the season as far as flu goes--more vaccine arrived. (I believe that was right after the contaminated batch from the UK was turned down.)

Well, turns out that those folks who had been waiting to get their pokes rushed to get their flu shots. Thing is, according to my new pharmacist friend, the second round of vaccine that arrived was the live (not the usual killed) vaccine. So "their" theory is that the folks who got the live vaccine late in the season are in essence giving the flu to the non-vaccinated. That's the oddity of the way it's spreading.

Anyway, you know as a serious Journalist, I've checked all of my sources and stopped by the CDC in Atlanta yesterday to check this theory out.

NOT! But you did hear it here first.

Stay well.

The Tag Challenged...

have spoken.

Dooce is D-O-R-K-I-N'

Simply wonderful. Dork dork dork. I wish I would have seen it. Did anyone see Dooce on the T-Wee typing Dork? Blogging doesn't get any better than that. Dooce does live film blogging. Beats conference blogging all to hell.

I remember when the NY Times photographer came to lilolmy house I had the same exact feelings--they must not have realized that I'm a dork yet. Wait until I open the dork--I mean the DOOR. I called RageBoy, told him the Times interviewed me about women and blogging, and that they were sending a photographer. Oh, I fogot to mention, I told him that I wasn't going to be home. On purpose. Hell no. I am the man behind the curtain. He said what the fuck are you talking about, you will be home, and you need to look at this thing with you. Yes you do. What the hell are you talking about. Yes you are newsworthy. And then he talked to me up until Times photographer showed up.

Anyway, the nice lady photographer told me to just do what I normally do. I avoided getting undressed and stuffing a piece of cheese pizza in my cakehole. Instead I sat at my couch-office with Jenna peering over my elbow and that rotten now-gone cat on the back of the couch, and I typed.

I didn't type dork dork dork.

I think I typed asdf asdf asdf asdf.

Either way.

You go, Dooce.

How early does school start for you?

I know Halley is proud to wake up at 5-o-damn-clock in the morning and start stair steppin' at the side of her bed, pilates, karates, or whatever such hellacious way she chooses to greet the day. She can do that stuff. She's Halley.

And I know they say morning is a great time to get work done, to meditate, to load the dishwasher--whatever it is THEY say to try to convince you that real people actually enjoy the crack-o dawn and don't whine about it.

I'm here to tell you they are a bunch of liars--conodolisaliesalot liars--that there is no conceivable way they can enjoy morning before it is officially morning--especially hearing an alarm cut through the silent sleepy bedtime land that should be sacred.

Waking up before nature is sick.

It's twisted, it's wrong, it's industrial age nonsense.

And it's what I've had to do since Jenna changed schools in October--her new school starting an hour earlier than her old one.

I know--I'm in my 40s. The last five years notwithstanding, I've done the 12 hour a work-day job thing, the commute, the early push down I-75. Fine. That's fine. That was then. And even then, there was no way to get me out from underneath the covers before 7:20. Usually 8:20. Then once they couldn't live without me, 9:20.

I compensate for it--I work til midnight. And I'm more than happy to.

But 6:00 a.m. crap is beyond even the birds.

What are we training first graders to be--besides miserable and over tired? GM trick workers? Is that what public school is about--is that all we have left?

I hate it hate it hate it hate it. Four times each day I think about how I cannot possibly wake up in the dark one more morning. How much I want to stay curled up under the comforter. How right the song "Is that all there is" sounds when you're brushing your teeth in the moonlight.

I can't do it. I can't do it. I can't do it for four more grades. It's mind numbing and it's spirit killing for me and for Jenna.

I am so lame. But I'm telling you true.

I am not a morning person.

When does school start for you?

I know Halley is proud to wake up at 5-o-damn-clock in the morning and start stair steppin' at the side of her bed, pilates, karates, or whatever such hellacious way she chooses to greet the day. She can do that stuff. She's Halley.

And I know they say morning is a great time to get work done, to meditate, to load the dishwasher--whatever it is THEY say to try to convince you that real people actually enjoy the crack-o dawn and don't whine about it.

I'm here to tell you they are a bunch of liars--conodolisaliesalot liars--that there is no conceivable way they can enjoy morning before it is officially morning--especially hearing an alarm cut through the silent sleepy bedtime land that should be sacred.

Waking up before nature is sick.

It's twisted, it's wrong, it's industrial age nonsense.

And it's what I've had to do since Jenna changed schools in October--her new school starting an hour earlier than her old one.

I know--I'm in my 40s. The last five years notwithstanding, I've done the 12 hour a work-day job thing, the commute, the early push down I-75. Fine. That's fine. That was then. And even then, there was no way to get me out from underneath the covers before 7:20. Usually 8:20. Then once they couldn't live without me, 9:20.

I compensate for it--I work til midnight. And I'm more than happy to.

But 6:00 a.m. crap is beyond even the birds.

What are we training first graders to be--besides miserable and over tired? GM trick workers? Is that what public school is about--is that all we have left?

I hate it hate it hate it hate it. Four times each day I think about how I cannot possibly wake up in the dark one more morning. How much I want to stay curled up under the comforter. How right the song "Is that all there is" sounds when you're brushing your teeth in the moonlight.

I can't do it. I can't do it. I can't do it for four more grades. It's mind numbing and its spirit killing for me and for Jenna.

I am so lame. But I'm telling you true.

I am not a morning person.

An easy answer to that age old question...

Who died and left you boss?

I now say, that's easy:

My father in March of 1969 of pancreatic cancer, followed by my grandfather, who was murdered in April of that year.

Several great aunts, an uncle I never met, and an uncle I liked a lot.

A niece.

Five dogs, a cat, two horses.

As far as non-living things go, you've basically got some hopes and dreams -- and my innocence.

That about does it.

--References available upon request.

turn of a phrase

markets are constipation.

If you could fence the net, would you?

I was thinking about this today--somethng I heard on (ghastly) A.M. talk radio (I know) about border control and homeland suckurity. Anyway, as my mind is wont to do (wont is right, right?), I started thinking about the net, and about how I've been so uncomfortable with what smells to me like the pollution from intitutional windbags who've come West to claim their gold nuggets in dem dere hills.

But what would I do? Fence them out? I mean, if I could. Or shoot them (metaphorically speaking, of course) before they made it over the fence? Or let them in and try to actually talk with them (when they have no intention of hearing us).

It's different than border control, acutally it's the flip-flop opposite, but still I ask myself: would you keep out the assholes (you know who they are) if you could?

I think that instead I would add new ways in. I might help dig a tunnel, and the ones who come in UNDERNEATH the wire, from below, under the ground, unassuming, smart, dirty, knee-bloody, I'm there to welcome them to safe harbor.

But the guys with the wire cutters busting through my make-believe net fence because they can--I'm not throwing a party for them.

I might even throw some cake in their face.

And I can, because I have my make believe fence I can take up or down and you have a fence, or lack thereof, of your own.

'cause I said so

The next person using the word "transformation" loses!

Coming Clean

So, yes, that's what I've been so busy with. It would be interesting to say I've left the freelance life behind and joined Peachtree Street again, Big Wall Window and Virtigo View. (I said it would be "interesting," not "nice.") But that's not the case.

Essentially I'm doing my work in the same way as I have since leaving Ketchum--at one of three offices: King-Size Bed, Living Room Couch, Living Room Floor. The difference is that, in truth, more work was coming in than I knew how to handle, and at the same time, as synchronicity likes to work, Paul Mckeon was also looking to team up on something new, and as synchronicity would have it, my deacde-old-writing-mate from the pre-Ketchum (i.e. Crescent) days, Jay Tillinghast was interested in what we two good writers were up to, and the idea was born to join into a semi-formal organized informed by best and worst practices alike!

But don't get over excited. She's the same girl she used to be.

On the same king-size bed.

Right now.

Blogging for you like I write for them.

Except I get to swear here.

And I'm not changing that. Hell no.

But I will keep you posted here on how things are going with The Content Factor as we smash old business models in a single bound.

For more background, read our profiles.

Or Search google:

...where Paul's quoted a lot.

...And where I never shut up.

More soon....

The Content Factor -- good writing, good folks

Update: I'm no longer affiliated with The Content Factor. You can contact me at ewriter AT bellsouth.net, or jeneane.sessum@gmail.com.

Just a bit of subtle shameless self promotion.

Or another way to look at it: your solution to a tangled web of too-busy, unreliable freelancers or high-maintenance,in-house writers.

My preferred way to look at it: top-notch, veteran business writers under one virtual roof.



[[dum dum deee dum...]

jeneane inside.

I don't know how to use Tags.

There, I've said it.

I don't know how to incorporate them, I don't understand what they do, and I wish we didn't have to jump around the latest techgizmo just to hear what we each are saying.

I thought the net was supposed to fix all this conversations stuff.

Ring Me Up, Netherlands.

More evidence of the coolness of the Netherlands. Check out these ringtones. I was searching up information on player pianos, thinking back to my friend who had one growing up, and how I loved to watch the rolls go round and round while an invisible maestro pressed the keys.

I landed on the National Museum van Nederland website and found my favorite ringtone--one I wish I could get on my Blackberry, but I don't know how any of that new fangled stuff works. Can we download these? Or do we need to be cool like they are over there? I don't know--I don't reada the language.

For easy digestion by Amerikans, I would give the ringtones English names:

Schwarzwalder Speelklok de Trompetter - becomes: Ticktock lil Clock

Cilinderorchestrion de Heizmann - becomes: Ride My Painted Pony

Speelklok met glazen bellen - Glasglöckchenuhr - becomes: Gentle Fairy Wings

Straatorgel de Limonaire - becomes, well, Old MacDonald?

Maybe they should make mechanical music rolls for wireless.

I could handle that.

--more: see the collection page.

Oh, THAT Pompitous

George and I were just having a discussion about The Joker, no not Steve Miller fans really, more about what the hell is the pompitus of love, yes it is, no it's not, sort of like that.

And you have to love the net.

you no lead I no follow

a refrain for shelley...courtesy of genesis...

I will (no)follow you will you (no)follow me
All the days and nights that we know will be
I will stay with you will you stay with me
Just one single tear in each passing year

I will (no)follow you will you (no)follow me
All the days and nights that we know will be
I will stay with you will you stay with me
Just one single tear in each passing year there will be...

followyoufollowme.au

Pieces

Unsettled
born and bred
on the cusp
of the lost
and found

moldy boots,
thumbless mitten
always one hood
ties frayed
without its jacket

what does one do
with such things

I am patchwork
torn edges
stitched by hand
anything but
beautiful

You should have
seen that
from the start.

Red State, Blue State...

Who lives in a flu state?

Documenting BLOJO CRED

Jon Garfunkel, who attended BLOJO Cred at Berkman, has written up a thorough summary on some of the touchier issues around the conference. He polled some of the excluded and included some thoughts from critic-skeptics, I think in part so that there would be a centralized record of what some of the outlying blog voices were talking about when the initial criticism of the conference began.

Jon did a lot of work compiling his analysis, and it shows. While I agree with his assumption that the lack of diversity didn't affect the outcome or the tenor of the conference, I maintain my dismay: That's the point. That by not assembling a more diverse group both the high priests of blogdom and high priests of journalism were safe in securing their desired positioning without challenge from their own parishioners. Each desired to win the coveted credibility grail from the other. In the end, no one got to take the trophy home.

As for the rest of us? Well, we were right, and a hell of a lot more funny, but that doesn't count for much in closed circles.

Jon concludes his essay by describing what happens when a homogeneous group tries to achieve something meaningful:

"Getting a group of fifty in a conference room tilts the conversation too much. There are just too many affluent men (and too few women) strutting their own stuff without anybody to challenge their assertions. I know; I was there; I offered the challenges. I got support from the people on the outside looking in, but the insiders had little response, and the good folks in academia who should have led the questioning had checked their skepticism at the door."

And while the conference apparently failed to achieve any accord or agreement (the best news I'd heard come out of the Berkman Center in a long time), Jon concludes that perhaps we can do a better job at talking with the elite without attacking them:

There's still work for the readers to do, and perhaps this is what Dan Gillmor meant to say. Outsider participants need to figure out ways to get the insiders' attention without dropping into personal attacks.

There are moments when I think that having civil discourse over heated matters helps. But I've found that usually it doesn't. There is a certain demographic among the blog elite that doesn't hear unless you get in their face. I'm willing to keep doing it. Partly for me and partly for those more civil than I who otherwise don't get heard when posting opinions of dissent. The ones who email me saying, "That rocked what you said on your blog."

If three or four years of fine writing and thinking -- of humor and horror, of piss and passion -- on the part of the excluded aren't enough to get the "insider's attention," then it's just not going to happen.

And that's okay.

Because what they don't seem to realize is that they are quickly positioning themselves as the "business as usual" crowd of blogdom and journalism, the institutionalized among the amateurs. They are becoming what they came here to diss.

Tee hee.

The CEOs of Blogging are no sooner going to forgo their $50,000 in "pocket change" than I am going to stop pointing out how silly they look in their fancy-dancy ties.

I think we don't need their attention. We simply need to keep talking to one another, and when they do and say ridiculous things within the hallowed halls of conferenceland, attempting to define standards and ethics for an "unspace" like the blogworld, then we keep talking to each other.

That's what we do.

Obama!

Yah! I like seeing his name up there in my google ads.

In other news, I ditched the old sidekick finally. I initially bought an HP IPAQ 6315, thinking that it would be way more relevant to me than it was. I hated it. What's with making a Pocket PC with a detachable keyboard and not making a case that houses said keyboard. Well, key"board" is probably best described as hyperbole. I should call it an itsybitsyletterbox.

Anyway, I spent a total of 10 hours on T-Mobile support calls trying to 1) Get the IPAQ do some simple tasks like say give me the email I actually WANTED, not deliver them as SMS's every two seconds. Then when I gave up and returned the IPAQ, I was left with residual data "FEATURES!" on my sidekick that insisted on delivering an Instant Message every single time I got an email in either of my two email accounts. I can tell you precisely how many SMS email alerts fill up your sidekick SIM: 39. I get 39 in a half hour to an hour on a typical workday. WHich means, in order to keep my phone SOMEWHAT functional, I had to delete messages every 45 minutes.

BYE BYE SIDEKICK.

BYE BYE IPAQ.

BYE BYE T-MOBILE.

Hello Blackberry.

Miscommunication

LONG LIVE KOMBINAT! IMAGINE GLOBALLY. PICTURES TALK TOO. PIXELS ARE WORDS PIXELS ARE PICTURES DO NOT DISCRIMINATE.

Miscommunication Originally uploaded by marekj.

Sisters CONTINUE Doing It For Themselves...

Blog Sisters has a new look and vision, thanks to the edgey eye and keen talent of Andrea and Rox. Just in time for our anniversary in February.

We turn 3 years old.

Makes a mama proud.

Blessings all.

Still Alive

There are so many things I want to post about that I can't post a thing.

I have not the time, for I am currently in customer aquisition and retention mode. i.e., busy selling and doing work.

You won't believe how well it's going. Just wait until we have a web site. I hear people use that internet to check out companies before they do business with them. 'magine that. And the whole time I thought it was just about p0rn.

So, for now, I'll spark your interest with our name:

The Content Factor.
stay tuned - coming soon to www.contentfactor.com, or for those of you who like a good article, www.thecontentfactor.com.

don't go rushing there yet.

too soon.

this is a pre-launch message.

I'm me and I approved this message.

Some Cluetrain Clarifications...

People of Earth,
[[-->Not just White People of the U.S.]]

A powerful global conversation [[-->punctuated by hyperlinks, not business cards]] has begun. Through the Internet [[-->not one-off exclusionary institution-centered events]], people are discovering and inventing new ways to share relevant knowledge with blinding speed. As a direct result, markets are getting smarter—-and getting smarter faster than most companies [[-->even popular media conglomerates, and that's good]].

..People of Earth
[[-->not just White People of the U.S.]]

The sky is open to the stars. Clouds roll over us night and day. Oceans rise and fall. Whatever you may have heard, this is our world, our place to be. Whatever you've been told, our flags fly free. Our heart goes on forever. People of Earth, remember.

[[-->no edits to the above paragraph.]]

with thanks to Cluetrain.

Remember, February is "Re-Read Cluetrain" Month!

Pick a buddy and read to one another!


Above: Doc reads Cluetrain to a class of third graders at his neighborhood elementary school

How homogeneous Can One Room Be?

About like this.

The frightening thing is, they have no idea how ridiculous they look to the rest of the world. For some of them, the world is what they report on--their oyster. Little brown bodies floating in the sea and such. They are tolerant in their own country. They will send money to others.

For others of them, not all of them of course, the world looks much like Boston, a white-friendly little jewel in the tolerant blue state area of the U.S.A. They don't like W. They might even vote for Barack Obama. But they don't think anything's odd about a room full of so many people just like them discussing ethics and standards for an online world they assume as much privilege over as their offline neighborhoods.

Hey, ho, girl, you're outta line.

And you?

I wouldn't care if they were getting together to share recipes or tips on selecting the right tie for navy blue pants. I'd even be glad if they got together to work on how to be better writers.

But I do care that they were discussing "credibility," "ethics," and "standards" about a space that is as much mine, ours, as it is theirs. A space that they can help ruin because of shared "trust" among an alarmingly homogeneous group.

What's not to trust--they don't look like criminals, they're educated, they're sitting around a table at Harvard for the love of God. Certainly they are who they say they are.

Thing is, they are assuming they know themselves. No no no. You don't know who you are. You don't know who your wives are, your husbands are--you have no idea what kind of ticking time bombs are tucked inside your hearts.

But it's easier, isn't it, to fix this space, to examine it, to quantify, verify, validate, and ejaculate it into a neat and tidy transcript. Baby, it don't work that way.

How many bloggers of color did you invite? How many reporters/journalists of color? I'm making assumptions here--I better be careful--like I'm always so careful. It wouldn't be ethical to be careless. Yes, so, I just want to know.

"It's about business models," one of them said. It's about a "shared vocabulary." It's about "a shift from analog to digital." It's about changing "the mainstream press' ideas about journalism."

No it's about your raw ass. How's that. It's about ebonics if I want it to be. It's about strawberry jam and toe jam. It's about whatever it's about.

I am glad that it had a happy ending though:

We're certainly a long way from a shared set of principles, or a code of ethics, or even an understanding of how they could come about.

Well thank the Blue Eyed Jesus for that.

For Immediate Release: BloMe Pre-Registration Begins

Don't forget--pre-registration begins next week for the spring Blogging and Media (BloMe) Conference.

This year's theme is "BloMe: Those Who Can't, Confer." During the popular Case Study track, a dozen middle-age white male bloggers will facilitate a panel discussion at Chuck-E-Cheese entitled: "The Credibility of Child's Play: How Do We Verify Enjoyment?"

Attendees will discuss the panel's growing discomfort with creativity before stealing their tickets and turning them in for tattoos at the prize counter.

When we write it, we can link

Disclaimer: I dont' have time to disclaim. Or edit. On a good day I might get time to spell check. That day's not today. Blogging is not my job. It's just something I do. And carpool starts in 15 minutes.

I hopped off to David's site today hoping to read something usually witty and realized the much anticipated BloJoCred conference is underway. Finally. Now it can be over and people can go back to writing.

I read a little bit of David's coverage. I thought, there everybody is again. Third paragraph: Winer speaks. What else is new. Then I got to Jay saying this at the conference:

Jay: Every reader is a writer. Every reader is connected horizontally to all the other readers. In Web publishing, the editing occurs after publication.

And I bristled. Because that was mine -- my words -- and though a New York Times reporter echoed this thought to Jay on the phone the same day I did, Jay agreed and we did what we do in blogging -- jammed on in the comments using one another's thinking to build the collective braintrust.

I know Jay is smart enough to have thought of all of that on his own, and I respect Jay. My beef isn't that anyone used or didn't use an idea I once had. It's seeing ones idea fly out of a community and into a closed-loop environment -- especially an environment that is exclusive rather than inclusive.

To me, the point is that in blogging, I would have been quite literally "linked" into the conversation. Here, it's Big David at Big Conference typing that Big Jay (all of whom I respect, aside from Big Conference) said X.

How is that different from the business-as-usual these folks proclaim they are helping to turn on its head? They are so right-side-up their feet should be hurting.

I am grateful to Tom Matrullo for noting this when it first happened back in April. Even then I was excluded as a 'thinker,' but the difference is, on the open frontier of the net, connections to ideas are not erasable.

All the above are sensible folks with sharp ideas, and blogging is supposed to be an open realm. The credibility of that depends on our being able to avoid selective deafness. A good idea should be recognized for what it is, not for who offers it. For that we already have academia, the mainstream press, and other white networks. The idea that blogs serve an editorial function has legs. In this case, they happen to look like Jeneane's.

Tom wrote that last April. Seems time stands still in the land of conferences.

Even Peggy says...

"Some things are constant, such as human imperfection, injustice, misery and bad government.

This world is not heaven."

I was sick that week

There's this hoopty-doo going around the land of the blogs and the home of the snobs lately. It's not just lately, actually. It's of late. I mean: it's a lot, and for a while now.

The hoopty doo in question is almost always about blogging itself and is generally intensely interesting for those involved in it. Also intensely inviting for those who'd like to get involved in it.

Then there's me. I'd like to get involved in it, but lately I've been so busy that all I catch is the backwash. By the time I get there, the lava lamp's unplugged and everyone's gone back to writing about whether or not blogging is journalism. Well that's unfortunate.

A good flame war used to last a week, sometimes two, leaving ample time for others to dive in and singe their eyebrows. Now a blogument ignites like a fourth-of-july sparkler, all flashy and dashing for about two minutes, and by the time I get a chance to catch up--get close enough to partake--all that's left is that little charred stick.

It's not fair.

It was like that in high school geometry for me. I was sick for two weeks with incredibly bad bronchitis which, if a doctor had seen me, would likely have been diagnosed as pneumonia.

Nonetheless, I missed a lot of school, and by the time I got back, they'd covered two whole units that are now very evident holes in the mathematics memory chip of my brain.

I don't want our own arguments to end so swiftly around here. What's wrong with carrying a good old fashioned grudge for a couple of months. For crying out loud, what's with all the "This is the last word on the subject" posts. Shut up. It's never the last word.

Didn't you hear? No one gets the last word on the Net.

Least you could do is give a girl a chance to catch up.

Throw a punch or two.

Not that I condone that kind of behavior.

Not me.

Unrelated Thoughts

January is never so busy for me usually. This is a good sign. Perhaps a sign of business picking up for everyone. It certainly has been good around these parts--especially for the month of the year during which I traditionally beg for a new-hire press release or two to write. That's akin to begging for scraps off the master's table. In case you were wondering.

Speaking of the master, props to the president's speech writer, professionally speaking. I could tell by the tone and messaging where he was headed, tuned an ear into how he was weaving pieces of a brilliant positioning that moved the emphasis from "fear" to "opportunity" (we do that a lot in the marketing biz), from "terror" to "freedom."

I'm driving, mind you, and I'm thinking, holy roller, he's setting the prez up as the "Global Abe Lincoln," and then I hear the radio guy who's reading the speech say something about "slavery" and "just as Abraham Lincoln," and I had to 1) pull into a Chick-Fil-A, 2) Not tell them what I was thinking 3) Get a #1 combo 4) cross the street and get gas 5) use the restroom in the gas station which gave me the rare treat of examining a made-for-men urinal in the unisex lav, and 6) collect my thoughts.

America: Freeing Coloreds 'Round the Globe.

It's a good thing I like Chick-Fil-A.

Epiphany notwithstanding, it was a typical drive home, complete with tractor trailer accident or three, me glad I stopped for gas and urinal.

So here I am.

The day was puzzling.

Tuesday's Song

You say Alprazolam
I say Lorazepam
You say Oxazepam
I say Diazepam

Alprazolam
Lorazepam
Oxazepam
Diazepam

Let's call the whole... thing...

Estimated Tax Day Illness

Hello! What's a blog? Where am I?

We've been sick overhere in our parts. I'm just coming to. To what, don't ask me. To the realization that estimated taxes are due today, and by due I hope they mean postmarked, and if that's not what they mean, please don't tell me, because I don't have time machine. Curses.

I'm sending the $. Period.

Jenna and I have been battling the upper respiratory infection from hell. Where's the shot for this? Shit. I finally gave in and popped to steroid pills today. That ought to be good for another Xanax prescription down the road...

Speaking of which, I had the pleasure of being in the company of an orthopedic specialist this weekend who mentioned that there's a NEW flavor of Xanax out--not cherry or berry, but Long Acting. He said the initials are LAX. And we both laughed about panic and air travel.

Do I know how to have fun or what?

As I mentioned recently, it's an odd thing, but I'm getting more referrers coming through various google search results each day. Looking through them today, seeing terms that take me back in time -- like my father's name, recovery room moaning, digiorno pizza, Rochester garbage plate, family dollar paper towels, and redneck neighbor -- it was very much like watching my life flash before my eyes. And I wondered, when it's my time, down the road a piece I hope, God willing, and all of that, if I won't skip the haunting visuals and simply sit back and let site meter do the work. 

Knockin' Robin

Something about this particular bird is worth sharing with you. She knocks. This particular bird first came to our house six weeks ago on a Saturday. I know, because that was a day I was trying to sleep in when Jenna ran upstairs proclaiming that something "Amazing!" was taking place.

"Mmmmm?"

Almost always my first words upon waking.

She told me that there was a bird knocking at our door. No I said, there is no bird knocking at our door, probably a woodpecker knocking on our house, go back to sleep--look it's early.

She kept at me. I begged her not to. I scored a rare win. I got to sleep.

A couple of days later after I'd dropped her at school at the ungodly hour of 7:30, I was home tapping a vein in my arm for some coffee, when I heard the knocking. Tap tap tap. TAP TAP TAP! I looked at the front door, and I saw her in the long window that runs along side our door. Knock knock knocking away on the glass, for what must have been a good reason, though I couldn't imagine what it was.

No woodpecker. A robin. Out of place in December, lows had hit 20, aren't they supposed to go someplace warm?

I walked to the window and moved the curtain. She was in mid peck/knock. I thought immediately of Shelley. How I wish she could have captured the moment. It looked like a real-life version of a Shelley Powers photograph.

Once the knocking robin saw me, she scurried up into the tree. She seemed to be waiting. But for what? I opened the door. She sat on the branch. I looked at her. She seemed puzzled.

Then she darted off to the house across the street and started knocking on their front window.

And I understood. She was saying this:

"Look people, it's fucking COLD out here--huh?! Could you help a bird out? Can't you see I decided to hang here for the winter? I didn't know the ground would freeze--I can't get to a single solitary worm, so toss some bread my way. How bout it?"

So I did what anyone would do if a robin were knocking. I got some bread, shredded it, and tossed it in the front yard. I didn't wait to see if she'd hop over to our side of the street and eat it. After all, it was fucking COLD out!

The next day, and about every three days ever since, the knocking robin comes by. I forget about her in between, but when I hear the morning window peck, I get some bread and toss it out on the front lawn.

I wonder how many of my neighbors are doing the same.

And I wonder when word will get around to other birds, maybe on your street.

Back in Qumana, I'm trying out the Pro version. One thing that's really cool--I haven't tested it yet because believe it or not, all the blogs I write on are in Blogger -- is that if you participate in, say, an MT blog and a Blogger blog, or whatever blogging tool(s) are your favorite, you can post from a single interface with Qumana. I've avoided joining some blogs because I just don't have the time to learn a new blogging tool. I barely have time to write--and that should be the most important part of blogging. So it's attractive that this Qumana dealeybob will let me get used to one composition pad and publish to various types of blogs.

I also like the MS Word feel of it--some may not. I use Word about 12 hours a day, so flipping over and posting here is familiar, and best of all speedy.

Okay, let's post.

Come, Gag with Me

Yet another attempt by Big-A-Academia to market itself as hip and human by comparing and contrasting its genitalia to blogging's.

Stay tuned for details on the Blogging and Internalism conference, coming soon to a public restroom near you!

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?