Color or Content?

In a comment to the post below, Nichelle left a link to Color or Content, a gathering in NYC in April to discuss issues around race and blogging.

This is the kind of 'event' that interests me because it is NOT like every other stinking Northeast or west-coast conference about blogging featuring the GODS of BECAUSE WE SAY SO, who, without pause, have allowed U.S.-based conference after conference about media, journalism, CREDIBILITY, and blogging -- invitation only events -- take place WITHOUT inviting bloggers of color, especially black and brown American bloggers.

It's wrong. It's embarrassing. It has made me question what some of the people I thought I liked online are really about. Seriously. Are the white men of technology, business, and academia still that threatened? Because if not, it means they're just that stupid.

So, Good for Nichelle and others for raising the Color or Content question. If I can get up to NY, I will. It would have to be a family trip, but if George has business in NY in April, it could happen. I wish it were a bit further out--but, hopefully this will be a first, not a last, gathering like this.

Incidentally, I really like the post by Chris Raab that Nichelle references. It tackles these issues and presents them in the words of someone who has directly experienced the mainstream conference homogeony first hand:

They weren't ready to walk the talk. And that's okay, as long as they admit it (to themselves) their inconsistencies. The same holds true for the event's organizers, panel and audience. Walk the talk or STFU. Seriously though, in any enlightened group, most folks would have failed the "smell test".

When the older drunk white guy started to heckle the crowd for having only one Black person in the audience (his wife), someone retorted that there was a "Spanish guy back here". Indeed, there was one Latino in attendance. And yet, I still didn't feel all warm and gooey inside by this veritable parade of ethnicity.

If diversity and inclusiveness were truly important to the organizers of this event, the panel and audience would have averred this. Clearly, it did not.

If the whitefolk in the audience who I made uncomfortable truly believed in inclusiveness, they would commit to doing something -- anything -- to address the segregation which they in part help maintain by their complacency. In other words, they would have to take a leap into the unknown -- that is, real diversity, where the majority of people of color in their presence are of the same or higher social status.

And it is indeed a leap. Woody Allen and the cast of 'Friends' aren't the only New Yorkers who can experience a white Manhattan, if they wish to. The fact of the matter is that most white people live in a segregated world of their own making, and the only thing keeping them from jumping into the mix is the will to do so. Maybe before Google, I'd cut my white compatriots with no Black friends or acquaintances some slack. But, damn, just Google "blackfolk" and "Manhattan" and if you don't come up with something germane within 5 minutes, you're either an imbecile or full of shit.

So, my solicited suggestion to these two young white guys was: Leave your comfort zone. I did so by jumping on a freakin' train in arctic conditions to participate in a panel amidst a virtually all white audience to talk about something that assuredly would not have been meaningfully addressed had I not gotten off my ass and participated. In fact, I even joined a group of whitefolk afterward for dinner at a German restaurant. (I didn't even go to a German restaurant when I visited Berlin!) So, no one can say that I didn't practice what I preached.

Do I think that most whitefolk will heed my bitchy intonations? Nope. But if I just reach one privileged white person a year through 2008, I will have exceed my lifetime community service quota. Besides with the advent of the blogosphere, whitefolk who have not yet drummed up the will or courage to interact with their colored counterparts can at least eaves-drop on us by reading our blogs. That way you don't have to pay Amtrak $80 like I did to leave the comfort zone of your web browser's bookmarks.

Nichelle mentions others who are attending the Color or Content gathering:

Prometheus6

Ron Taylor

EJ Flavors

Hip-Hop Blogs

All About George

Once You Go Black...

Apparently, in addition to being a recent topic here at allied, the blogging race/ethnicity issue has also risen to the top within more prominant blogs, like Rebecca's and Halley's.

I'm glad.

I'm also disclaiming my niche. While I happen to think, especially for Americans, it's important to be reading global voices--voices outside of the prattle we hear in our own heads and workplaces every day--it's AS important, or dare I say more important, to be paying attention to those too easily dismissed in our own country. I'm here to say this specifically: you white men should put some black men on your blogrolls. They're writing circles around you and you don't even know it.

If you're not American, it's hard to relate the long-standing and still emerging issues of race (both the said and the unsaid) in this country. Far be it from me to even attempt to educate global readers on the subtleties--I am ignorant of so much and will admit it. But I can write based on my own experience as partner and wife for nearly 20 years of an American Black Man, and the mother of a daughter of color in the making.

In America today, thanks to mainstream media, entertainment, conservatism, politics, psychology, religion, homegrown phobias, happenstance, and lots of other things, especially our shared culture as an economy built on the backs of slaves, and YES I said the "s" word, the black man is still marginalized, and he's marginalized in the blogworld too.

Over at Rebecca's, Brad Lena says this: "Here is my two cents worth regarding blog diversity. (First a disclaimer, I’m a white male.) This is a non-issue. As of now, there is damn little preventing anybody from starting a blog. The barriers, however that is defined, regarding cost, access to technology, gender,race, intellect, sexual orientation, physical impairments have plummeted."

Brad. Brad. Brad. How do I break it to you: not all black people are poor. Black does not equal ghetto or poverty. Too little green flows to our cities, where, especially in the segregated Northeast, there are lots of non-white folks. But, dig it, Brad, some black folks are ACTUALLY ONLINE, and as a start, say, you might think of, well, reading some of them. And if you like their writing, well, you might actually think about linking to them.

This is not affirmative action come blogging. But if you want to call it that, I say fine. Just do something about it. Because this is about human conversation and what it might help to accomplish that we've been so bad at accomplishing offline.

And also, it's just the right thing to do. So check your assumptions, check your blogroll, and then check your assumptions again.

And if the spirit moves you, dare to go black.

[[ED NOTE: So I read this to George. And he says you know what? It's not necessarily about color. It's about eliminating the competition. Whether it's age, color, ability: It's an instinct to eliminate any competition or threat of competition: He's not like me, so what he says doesn't apply. (He's too young. He's not white. He's not a liberal/conservative/whatever...) I can't deal with these people anymore. You go around the world, you'll find a LOT OF BROWN PEOPLE, African and non-African. Mexican, Spanish, South African, Turkish, Morraccan, Middle Eastern. And America does not listen to what it doesn't know. What America means to me is something LOUD: WE're Right and We're Mighty and We'll Step All Over You if You Disagree. And the Net is becoming just the same. If you say it loud enough, it must be true. Well, it's not. Not always.]]

Gee, I wish he'd blog more.

We are blessed.

Alleluia.

How White Is Your Blogroll?

I'm just askin'.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

UNITED NATIONS SUES HARVARD FOR USE OF TRADEMARKED NAME AND SEATING CONFIGURATION

The United Nations today filed suit against Harvard University for violation of The United Nations long-standing trademarks, including the United Nations name, image, and patented seating configuration. According to the office of the United Nations Secretary-General, the breach represents further encroachment upon, and potential dilution of, the United Nations as brand and global influencer, thereby reducing the organization’s effectiveness in working with sovereign nations around the world.

Named in the suit is The Media Center at The American Press Institute, Harvard University, and the President and Fellows of Harvard College. The alleged infringement took place in an online events forum for an upcoming conference: Whose News: Media, Technology and the Common Good. Organizers of the “invitation-only” event stated:

“The symposium is based on cross-sector discourse. It will be conducted U.N. style, with participants seated in a U-shaped arena for discussion. All participants will have equal standing; everyone will contribute as a witness.”

Commenting about the lawsuit, Secretary-General Kofi Annan said he was most concerned by the lack of inclusiveness of the closed event.

“It seems pretty lame to me that a bunch of privileged white men – okay there are some women – sitting around in a circle at Harvard would choose to use the image of the highly-inclusive United Nations to symbolize what they’re up to,” Annan said. “In fact, it’s downright fishy.”

Event organizers attempted to clarify the conference objectives:

“Will the traditions of professional journalism survive? Should they? What are the implications for society? Technology, humanity and the global datastream: What’s going on? How will it benefit society? We Media, the culture, and the common good: How we know, how we learn, how we trust in the emerging ecosystem of participatory, always-on media.”

“WTF?” Annan asked. “The global datastream?”

Many Internet pioneers who were excluded from the event also criticized its intentions.

“The thing I find most offensive is that I wasn’t invited,” said Dave Winer, who writes the well-known scripting.com weblog and invented blogging in 1954. “As far as I’m concerned it’s bogus.”

Well-known and well-liked blogger David Weinberger, who is invited to everything, said it’s all about the story.

“We’ll create a story about the dialogs,” said Weinberger, Cluetrain author and long-time fan of the human conversation. “Story makers have been assigned to each of three discussions. They’ll capture the proceedings with video and still cameras, recordings and notes. Key ideas will be projected on a screen as they occur. The story makers will share their findings, follow up with participants and decide how to present the story.”

Jarvis-Rosen-Rubin-MacKinnon-Stone agreed. Annan remained skeptical.

“Look, I don’t care what they say they’re up to, but the bottom line is this: You can set your room up in a circle; you can set your room in ten circles; but if you’re exclusive of who fills them, you’re limiting what you can accomplish," Annan said. "This sure as hell ain’t the UN. Now put that in your story and blog it.”

If you're there, you better be THERE

SXSW is the only conference I would pay to attend within the world of conferences I know about, if in fact I had the money, which I don't, and yet, oddly, I still have a point.

If you've broken open your piggy bank, or if you're speaking, or if you find yourself there by some lucky corpo-sponsored chance, I'd advise you to check out the Blogging While Black discussion, with smart panelists who might enlighten, brighten, ire, and inspire--regardless of the particular fraction of melanin you possess.

Panelists include:

Monique Judge
George Kelly - allaboutgeorge.com
Jason Toney - Dir of Web Dev Bunim/Murray Productions
Tony Pierce - tonypierce.com
Lynne Johnson -

Mr. Kelly, pls supply my missing links above.

Their job will be to expound and expand on the following:

Although there are literally hundreds of black blogs today that were once bound together by color and attitude, their communities have diversified to encompass other social networks within the larger weblog world. Panelists will address blogging while black and discuss why the active community of black bloggers get very little recognition outside of their own social network.

March 14th. Room 16A. 11:30 a.m. No excuses.

Don't Quote Me on This.

I was just trying to find interesting rhymes from The Rhymer for Rageboy and Rage.

Okay, I don't know what I did to get this list of quotes/phrases, but whatever mistake I made, it's a good one. And how about Wiki Quote--of which these quotes are courtesy? (huh?)

How much older can you be at your age?
-Catch 22

Thanks to Brad (no you don't) Sucks for the cool tool links.

Junie B. Jones I Love To Read

I've been sitting here looking through three Junie B. Jones books, on a mission to share a particularly moving passage with you. For those of you not blessed with little rascals of your own, Junie B. Jones is the funny, precocious, quirky character of chapter books for elementary school children. They're written by Barbara Parks, whom Jenna tells me, somewhat amazed, "has written other stuff too!"

The thing about these Junie B. Jones books that surprised me: They are hilarious. I didn't realize it. I hate to admit this, but since Jenna reads on her own now, I haven't read a Junie B. book to her. Truth is, I didn't know until last night they were so funny.

Last night I hear Jenna just doubled-over on her bed, laughing herself into a wheeze. I knew she was reading, and I smiled. I don't think any of Jenna's accomplishments have brought actual tears down my cheeks the way hearing her read has--hearing my child enjoy reading, get it, love it, explain it, want more of it. Man, that is one of parenting's best moments.

Anyway, she's laughing herself silly, and she comes running into my room with one of her Junie B. Jones books in hand. She says:

"Mom, you gotta hear this. You just have to--oh my gosh!"

"What is it; here crawl in bed and read it to me."

She sits up on the bed and proceeds to read:

I looked at Camille and Chenille.

And Guess what?

My eyes popped right out of my head!

Because wowie wow wow!

Those girls were twins, that's why!

I sprang way high in the air.

"TWINS! TWINS! THEY'RE TWINS, LUCILLE! THIS IS OUR LUCKY DAY!"

I pulled on her again.

"Come on, Lucile! Let's go touch them. Hurry, before a line forms!"

At this point, Jenna is doubled over again: "Hurry before a line forms!" she's laughing and I'm actually belly laughing myself now, because I'm thinking of that line myself, "Let's go touch them." and "Hurry, before a line forms." And you have to admit, that's downright Saturday Night Live funny in kid terms. After all, you've got a set of twins and this little girl is so amazed by them she's wigged right out wanting to touch real, live, actual twins before the entire first grade lines up to do the same.

Well, we had fun the rest of the evening with our booklight and three other Junie B. Jones books, Jenna showing me her favorite illustrations and favorite parts--all of them just plain funny I might add.

And I drifted to sleep thinking about my Junie B. Jones, Pippi Longstocking. And I thought, I've got to get some old Pippi Longstocking books to show Jenna what mama used to read sort of like Junie B. Jones, Pippi with her mismatched clothes and long, wild pigtails and freckles, and how I used to laugh when she'd get in a bind, and how very very much I loved to read...

And how very very much I still do.

Yahoogle

All the news that fit, I linked.

Gotcher Kottke?

I'm all for micro-underwriting. So I did. In the name of our new company. You do what you can too.

When the fanfare dies down, we're all we got.

bloodlines

Anemia is no fun. I have to tell you. The best part of having it is that it makes sleep so damned enjoyable. Sleep becomes about the best thing you've ever ever seen/heard/tasted/felt/smelled. Everything about sleep is cotton-filled wondrous. My hair follicles love sleep; my toe nails love sleep. I love sleep. I am sleep.

I have some advice, from personal experience, on how to leverage your anemia to achieve high-value sleep. Really--we're talking about Sleep ROI here. Even healthy people can benefit from these tried-and-true techniques.

Let's start with the pillow. You'll need a cool cotton pillow case, queen-size, ivory, and, okay I'll be honest here, the one I'm talking about here is one of the seven I took while living at the Residence Inn in Buckhead when I first came down to Atlanta to start my job. I lived there for three months, on the company's dime, one month by myself, one with two dogs, and one with two dogs a husband. This was before we found a place to rent, which wasn't easy considering we moved here in 1994 on the eve of the Olympics, kind of like everyone else.

Anyway, back to the pillow cases, I didn't mean so much to take them, it's just that living across two states 1000 miles apart with boxes and suitcases and laundry all askew, things find their way into your "keeper" pile. You know? Especially things you like.

So, there are those pillow cases. And of course, semi-firm pillows.

And you should know, I don't use one pillow. Or two. I have the annoying habit of sleeping on no less than five pillows. I'm like the Pillow version of the Princess and the Pea. One goes under my arm, one goes upright between the wall and the primary pile of pillows, and 2 to 3 pillows are stacked for an "elevated" effect. Then, of course, there's one on the side for balance. Most nights I get away with this, whether there are one, two, or three of us in the bed.

Pillow Hoarding Is My Birthright. Deal With It.

But back to me and anemia and how wonderful sleep feels...

You've got to have 100-percent cotton sheets too. In the winter, go for flannel. As for bed coverings, I'm a texture-sensitive anemic--I prefer corduroy or that new fool-me mock suede or some version of thick cotton weave. I am a comforter/duvet-cover freak. I buy them, I use them, I take them off, I send them downstairs to the wash, and I move on in my search for The Perfect Coverlet.

Let's also consider lighting. As an anemic, I sometimes enjoy an afternoon nap. There is an art to waking up without feeling suicidal--that is, to keep the blinds half open and to make sure you wake up before it gets dark. That's getting easier now that it's no longer getting dark at 2 in the afternoon. The continuity of light (or dark as the case may be) is essential to avoid that "OH NO--I've Wasted The Day!" feeling, even if, in fact, you have wasted the day.

Now, let's talk alarm clocks. The essential anemic alarm clock is one with a nap function built in. I can set my nap for 10 minutes or 2 hours without having to change my daily 6:00 a.m. alarm that I have to deal with in order to get Jenna to school. In addition to the nap button, I love my GE Alarm Clock's "GraduWake" (yes, that's for real) alarm feature--instead of jolting me out of bed, graduwake fools me awake, teases me with a soft beep beep that works its way into a full-scale wail if I let it. The best thing about GraduWake is that you can completely ignore it!

ONE WORD: Sleepwear. If you choose to wear any, silk or cotton works best. Silk feels the best against the cotton sheets, and allows you to roll about as you wish without crimping or sticking--but in the summer, grab the clothes-free option. The cool feel of the cotton against your skin makes you feel almost healthy. Note to women: Shave your legs for optimum enjoyment.

Dream Approach: Go no-stress. Rid your mind of anyone who is an ex anything. Rid your mind of work and studies. Think COTTON, COTTON, and nothing but COTTON.

Heat/Air Conditioning: 68-74. Period.

Humidifier: Yes in winter months.

Now, with all of this information, you can do one of two things: Go shopping for the right apparel and linens or GO TO SLEEP.

I vote for number 2.

Lost Labor of Love

To honor the role of labor and the individuals who helped to build industrial America:

LOST LABOR: Images of Vanished American Workers 1900-1980 is a selection of 155 photographs excerpted from a collection of more than 1100 company histories, pamphlets, and technical brochures documenting America's business and corporate industrial history This collection has been assembled over the last 20 years and many of the titles are rare and difficult to find.

thanks wood s lot

Content Factor Weblog

UPDATE: As of November, 2005, I am no longer associated with The Content Factor or The Content Factor Weblog.

The Content Factor now has a weblog where we plan to tackle all things related to business communications--from specifics on writing well to our thoughts on winning business models, strategies, etc. Of course, I'll also try to include some of this author's well-known wit and sarcasm from time to time as well. ;-)

Blogroll now, read often!

Oh--Now I Like This.

I've been finding some good women bloggers this morning that I hadn't read before. I'm blogrolling them as I go. This tickled my fancy. Because I enjoy the sentiment. And the exasperation-turned-rage.

Shelley, if you're online at some x-random library, sitting on one of those wooden chairs with the black padded seats, in West Dakota or wherever your travels are taking you, you should have yourself a read. It's better than caffeine. ;-)

President Snoop Dog Thanks U.S. Troops at Wiesbaden Army Airfield Base

4:56 P.M. (Local)

THE PRESIDENT: Thizzank you all if you gots a paper stack. (Applause.) Thiznank you very miznuch mah nizzle. Thizzay you fo` tha wiznarm welcome. Laura n I wizzle in tha neighborhood -- Wanna Be Gangsta -- n we thought we'd J-to-tha-izzust dizzle by ta say hello. Howdy cuz its a doggy dog world. (Laughta n applause.)

Boo-Yaa!. Laura n I is proud ta be wit you in tha mutha fuckin club. I'm glad ta be wit tha men n bitchez of tha Third Support Command, n tha 421st Medical Evacuation Battalion . I thought i told ya, nigga I'm a soldier. (Applause.)

I see a lot of Big Red Ones here in tha crowd -- (applause) -- I K-N-to-tha-izzow you've jizzy back from Iraq . It dont stop till the wheels fall off. I'm pleazed ta say, "izzy wizzle done." (Applause.)

Thanks Gizzogle and Daughter of Opinion.

America Idol Worship

I'm ashamed to admit it. Only sort of. Jenna and I are hooked on our third season of American Idol. Since George is usually out being an American Idol at the time it comes on, he's not hooked. I'm ashamed, as I've said, because anything called "American Idol" is something I would normally shy away from. I am, after all, like, sane. What a sick name. What a distasteful concept.

But I can now say, in my third season, that it's, well, a good show. And I'm enjoying it. And thank goodness, now that Jenna's a little older, she doesn't cry every time someone gets sent home.

Shotgun Golf.

Peace, Doctor.

HST: "I see. It's like one of those original Hyatt Regency Hotels. Like an atrium. In the middle of the building you could jump straight down into the lobby?"

BILL: "Exactly like that!"

HST: "It's like people driving balls from one balcony to the next."

BILL: (Laughs.) "Yes, they could."

HST: "I could be on the eighth floor and you on the sixth? Or on the fifteenth. And we'd be driving across a lake."

BILL: "They have flags out every 150 yards, every 200 yards, every 250 yards. It's just whether you are hitting it at ground level, or from five stories up."

HST: "I want to find out more about this. This definitely has a future to it."

BILL: "They have one here in the city -- down at Chelsea Pier."

HST: "You must have played a lot of golf in Japan."

BILL: "Not much; I just had one really great day of golf. I worked most of the time. But I did play one beautiful golf course. They have seasonal greens, two different types of grass. It's really beautiful."

HST: "Well, I'm writing a column for ESPN.com and I want to know if you like my new golf idea. A two-man team."

BILL: "Well, with all safety in mind, yes. Two-man team? Yeah! That sounds great. I think it would create a whole new look. It would create a whole new clothing line."

HST: "Absolutely. You'll need a whole new wardrobe for this game."

BILL: "Shooting glasses and everything."

HST: "We'll obviously have to make a movie. This will mushroom or mutate -- either way -- into a real craze. And given the mood of this country, being that a lot of people in the mood to play golf are also in the mood to shoot something, I think it would take off like a gigantic fad."

Female Problems

So I've been thinking.

Facing the prospect of surgery again. Not happy. It'll be okay. It's time to get things taken care of once and for all. I've done my homework and I've got time to plan this time. In fact, I think I can stretch out the timeframe until summer when Jenna's off school. At least that would allow for sleeeeeeping in some. But gee wizers. Still scares me. Just been dealing with those types of realizations. Mind games. Something's gotta give.

Listen ladies, if you've had a hysterectomy, I want to hear good things from you--how much energy you have now, how it wasn't so bad--not much worse than a c-section. And I'll take some caveats too.

Listen men, if your wife has had a hysterectomy, I want you to tell me how great she feels now and how you still love her just the same--maybe more. How she's hotter now because she's not stuck in the bathroom two weeks out of the month.

These are the stories I want to hear. You must tell them. They shouldn't be a secret just because the whole thing is a bloody mess. Those kind of secrets kill us. Shame is their lock.

Because my mind, she plays tricks on me. Tickles me with all sorts of worries and fears. The what ifs. But I have time. This non-smoker has to start walking. Gotta be around for my sweet girl. I know these things--I have these goals. Just haven't been so great on executing against them.

When did I stop being 23?

I don't get it.

Read about some of my past reproductive struggles here and other sordid[sic] places in my archives.

Jaco Pastorius, Mike Stern, and George in happier times, sort of. This ends my test of Picasso 2 and Hello. I approve. I wish you could re-size images directly in Picasso though.  

you may have missed gary turner's National Enquirer Spoof a couple of years back. Damn, it was funny. 

a shot of george at using picasso 2 and hello to upload. 

Behind the Iron Firewall

Go get your favorite About.com advice tidbits now, before the NY Times sweeps them behind the firewall.

The New York Times Co. has agreed to acquire online consumer-information provider About Inc. for $410 million in cash, an indication that the media company is looking to the Internet as a channel for future growth.

OH MY GOSH--you mean that Internet thing might take off after all?

The media company plans to operate About.com as its own distinct business division and market Times products through the website.

We'll see.

If they only knew that they could have bought 410,000,000 bloggers for the same money. ;-)

STWC-side Theatre

How did I miss it? Give a Listen to Stavros read his great post about the raven, which his good friend the mighty Bearman has mixed piano behind.

It's really, really nice.

Kinda what I thought a WonderChicken might sound like.

And while you're there, don't forget to re-visit Weblog: The Movie.

Stav, you remain ball-filled. You're my hero, man.

Liberal: The New Nigger

I don't know why I torture myself with drive-time A.M. talk radio, but I do. Every day. To and From. I tell myself it's homework. That I'm evesdropping on the enemy's secret communiques. I've tapped into their proprietary connection; I'm decoding their messages. I'll take them down yet!

But it never works that way.

I wind up spitting coffee all over my air vents.

In attempting to decode the secret language of the Red-State-Right (Political Twister, anyone?) I've noticed that the died-in-the-wool redneck now uses the words "liberal" and "nigger" interchangeably. They are at opposite ends of the snuff-chewing political correctness meter.

On talk radio call-in shows, Shane, Bobby, and Sonny Ray claim that "those liberals" are the cause of America's ills -- welfare, crime, what have you. Doesn't matter. If it's bad, the liberals are at the root of the problem. Then, at the corner bar or filling station, among friends, when the sensitivity meter is off for the night, these same societal ills are the work of none other than "those niggers."

The Poli-Racial linguistical twists and turns that have leeched into the mainstream of our newly-'terrorized' nation are downright frightening.

I don't think I need to tell you why.

But maybe I do need to switch to F.M.

Welcome Home

You probably think that when I'm not blogging, I'm writing super-copy for mega-corpoations, sporting fancy sunglasses and an expensive laptop to Starbucks to work with the other trendy involuntarily separated outcasts of the 00s.

Har-De-Har!

What I'm really doing is hanging my DSL wire over the footboard of my bed, hoping it doesn't slip out again since it long ago lost the little prongy-thing that keeps it neatly stuck inside the ethernet port, emailing long-lost bloggers encouraging them to come back.

Take for instance Tom Shugart. An officer and a gentleman who has entered his seventh decade, Tom is one blogger whom this blog mama (you see I helped spawn Tom some years back) is not about to let sit silently.

Tom's a solid old-school blogger.

Tom's not a shock jock. Tom's not a pundit. Tom doesn't chase conferences. Tom doesn't lose sleep wondering whether blogging is journalism or vice versa. Tom's not looking for a book deal (though if you want to give him one, he has a lot to say). He's Tom. And you should keep up with him.

Now that I've twisted his arm, shall we say, to get back to where he once belonged... I confess that Tom only mentions PART of my email to him in his post. I thought you might like to read the whole thing. Feel free to use it as a template to coax your own lost bloggers back online:

HEY BABY--IT'S YOUR BLOG MAMA TALKIN'! DON'T GIMME NO LIP, NOW, JUS GET YOURSELF BACK ONLINE TO THAT BLOG AND I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ONE LITTLE WORD ABOUT IT.

DON'T TELL MAMA YOU BUSY, DON'T TELL MAMA YOU GOT BETTER THANGS TO DO. LORD KNOWS THAT'S THE TRUTH. WOOHOOO. THAT IS THE EVER LOVIN TRUTH.

THE OTHER TRUTH IS THAT THESE HERE PUNDITS ARE COMIN INTO OUR NEIGHBORHOOD AND CAUSIN ALL KINDS OF TROUBLE. THEY THINK WE'RE THE RIFRAF BECAUSE, WELL, I DON'T KNOW, I GUESS IT'S WHO WE HANG OUT WITH IN THIS BLOGPLACE, OR MAYBE BECAUSE WE DON'T GO TO THEIR CONFERENCES AND AREN'T HIGH-EDUCATED OR WHATEVER, BUT THE PROLEM IS THAT THEY ARE THE REAL RIFRAF AND WHAT THEY'RE TRYING TO DO IS JUST MAKE THIS PLACE THE SAME OLD SAME OLD AS THAT PLACE, AND HELL WHY'D WE COME HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE IF IT WAS GOING TO BE ALL CONCRETE AND BRICKS AND WINDOW OFFICES AND WHO-PUBLISHED-WHAT-WHERE-THIS-WEEK?

SO WHAT I'M SAYING IS IN DOING OUR SMALL PARTS--ALL OF US LIL PIECES--WE CAN KEEP OUR LITTLE DAISIES GROWING ALL OF US, AND YOU WATCH OUT FOR MY DAISIES AND I'LL WATER YOUR DASIES AND WE'LL WATER FRANK'S DASIES, AND ALL OF THOSE BLOG PUNDITS THEY WON'T EVEN NOTICE BECAUSE THEY'LLJUST BLATHER ON AND ON AND ON. WHATEVER. DON'T WORRY BOUT THEM. I GOT VOODOO ON THEIR SORRY ASSES ALREADY.

BUT SEE THERE AREN'T ENOUGH DASIES OUT HERE, SO YOU BETTER COME BACK.

-YO MAMA.

Next, I'm after Michael O'Connor Clarke, about whom I've been thinking--a lot lately. Well, I should say we.

See I got my PEEPS Paynter helping me locate some of our old blogmates.


[[Above: PEEPS Paynter]]

So welcome home, Tom Shugart. And If anyone's seen MOCC, tell him his sister's lookin' for him.

MOCC--If you're out there, email us.

Fire Safety Already!

My poor kid has been indoctrinated into the fire safety honor society, I swear.

Let me just disclaim here--a popular activity among bloggers--that I believe highly in fire safety. Fire is no joking matter. Fire is hot. It burns. It kills. It is nothing to laugh about. I am glad my child has spent the last THREE MONTHS in school receiving weekly fire safety lessons from the local fire crew, because, again, fire (as in my house is on!) is bad.

But then, so are my kid's phobias.

You see, I knew the fire safety thing had been bothering her. Little hints gave it away. The yelps from her room, for instance: "MOM! What was that beep!? Was that the smoke alarm!?" Jenny Penny. The sky ain't falling. She eyes the smoke detector on her way out of the house, into the house, and sometimes in between. She doesn't trust it even though she's seen George change the batteries.

But now that the unit on fire safety is almost complete, and the entire first grade has been appropriately traumatized, Jenna gave me some lessons this evening on what to do in the event of a fire.

Not only do they teach "stop drop and roll" these days, but they add instructions for those of us who might roll into various items during our rolling: if you roll into an object, turn and roll some more.

Jenna demonstrated the technique tonight, rolling alternatively into the dresser, the bed, and the rocking chair. I thought I'd have to take her to the ER not for burns, but for a broken arm caused by a flawed rolling technique. Imagine explaining that one. Yah, fire safety.

I also learned that she's selected a meeting spot for our family in the event of a house fire.

The first spot she picked was the rose bush, which is approximately 14 inches from the house. I suggested something a little further from the source of flames and flying embers. She said she'd considered the mail box, but then thought better of it since it is on the road and we might get hit by a car.

I pondered the irony of that scenario.

We settled on the stump where our willow tree used to be. This is typical southern location language--we often mark geographic landmarks by what "used to be" there.

So, after agreeing to meet where the tree used to be, she gave me a demonstration on how we should leave the house, crawling, one after the other. Daddy first, then her, then me. I pictured our large bodies slithering our way down the stairs and thought about how long that could take--10 minutes? 12?

Long enough to burn like a match.

I suggested, alternatively, that we run like hell.

Jenna explained that if there was smoke, no running. It's slither only. She wasn't negotiating that point.

I thought once again about home schooling.

Then she told me how leaving the house would work.

1) Mommy, you go outside and go to Jack's to call 911.

2) Next I'll go out and wait where the tree used to be.

3) When daddy comes out, he'll say, 'Have you seen mama!?' and I'll say, 'Yes, she's gone to the neighbor's to call 911."

I corrected her:

I WILL GRAB YOU AND RUN LIKE HELL.

I demonstrate:

"FIRE! FIRE! WHERE'S MY BABY!?" I run into her bedroom from mine, grab her blanket which I pretend is her, and rush past the real jenna who's standing in the hallway giggling, toward the front door in a flash that lasts about 1.2 seconds.

She's still laughing.

She did learn other important lessons I hadn't thought of. For instance, parents, we need to show our young children how to open their bedroom windows so that they can scream for help in the event of a fire. And so that they can sneak out when they're 15.

Apparently, we also must remember NOT to put a tramploline under their bedroom windows. According to the fire chief, this almost never works out well.

So remember, class, stop, drop, roll, and as always, if you roll into something, turn and roll some more.

That's all for this evening's first-grade fire safety lesson.

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.