Brian Buck, Peace.

Rogers and Dave report that Brian Buck has lost his battle with bone cancer. I checked in on Brian's blog every so often after I first saw Dave mention Brian and his writings about coping with cancer. I am so sorry to hear that his words have stopped, his breath, his voice.

In his weblog, Brian puts words around grieving better than anyone I've read in a very, very long time...

Mourning

I don't know how other people deal with it, but when I am under duress I tend to repress a lot of my emotions. One of the sad realities of battling cancer is you meet a lot of people who have a high likelihood of dying. Over the last year, I have had a half-dozen people I care about pass on. There is never a good time to die, but when you are battling the same disease that others around you are dying from, it can be tough to keep your head up. I imagine it is like true combat. You would like to stop and mourn the loss of your brothers, but there is no time to waste, you must kill the enemy or end up dead yourself.

It is days like today that the memories of my fallen brothers and sisters haunt me. Now that I am no longer under fire, it is time for me to go back and mourn them properly. It can be a dark hallway to look into, but I try to make it bright. I listen to music and celebrate life. I remember past conversations, words they have written, and thoughts they have passed on to me. And I cry. I used to avoid crying, it made me feel weak, or so I thought. But now I can cry and it makes me feel better. Sometimes I feel like I am up against an insurmountable wall, but when I cry, my tears are proof that the feelings inside me are real, and that my emotions can be moved forth into the here and now.

At times, life can seem like it will be this way forever. You take for granted a kiss, a phone call from somebody you love. As I mourn the lives of my friends who have passed on, it is these lonely times I find so dark. It is hard to find brightness when you are alone in an empty room. But I think of the spirit, the strengths that these friends had. I fill my mind with their voices, the life and love of another person can be much greater than yourself, and it can be a beautiful feeling when you find it. I am still learning the language of mourning, and it is spoken with voices in the past. I still hear you, friend.

I hope that Brian's blog will remain accessible for years to come. That is obviously the decision of his family. But if I discover one day I have cancer, Brian's is a weblog I would spend a lot of time on. For information, and for inspiration. And I would bet I'm not the only one.

Peace.

A Pox Upon Your House

I posted 14 times yesterday and you hosers aren't going to comment? That's it. I am forevermore using the sweat off of my brow to wash my dishes in peace!!!

Wait til I Show Coco....

click picture for more on the burning man hamster wheel...

Fix

From Broken Type:

Bad Business Slang

Let’s give him a plastic cup and see what he fills it with.

I’d like to chain that question to the radiator for a few months.

We need to stop worrying about the low hanging fruit and start going after the injured pack animals.

We’ll look up that skirt when we come to it.

This organization is all chiefs and no plagues.

I’d like to double-tap that issue to be sure.

We’re still feeling our way around the meat locker on that one.

May I add some?

We need a 30,000-foot look at the problem before we flush the toilet on the jet.

Let's float your idea out there and watch it sink like a mobster hit.

Our people are our biggest assholes.

Let me noodle on that while I'm at the porn show.

We turn data into infomercials.

We offer comprehensive benefits that you don't qualify for.

Our foundation is as solid as a muffin pan in a midnight kitchen.

iPod Free

I blow you away when I post with such fervor. Don't I? Is that how you spell fervor?

I still don't own an iPOD.

I don't know much about them except that even Presaccident Bush has one now. And he has My Sherona on it.

Shudder.

My main problem with getting an iPod is that I think you have to plug it into your computer. Or some cradle that plugs into the computer. USB I assume. And I use a laptop. And if there is one thing I hate it's tethering cords. I still haven't gone wireless inside the house. I have the DSL cable and the power cord already. And some days I take pictures on my digital camera, but the thought of connecting it to the USB port with that stinking cable is enough to make me nap.

Doesn't take much these days.

Then I think of actually using the iPod as a Busy Adult Mother. Like, WHEN? The only time I listen to music now is either on my laptop or in the car. I suppose you iPod people plug your iPod's into your car and somehow use it that way.

Well, that sounds sort of interesting.

Did I mention I still have an entire wall of LPs?

I haven't even accepted the CD yet for music.

Some technology I just don't get.

New Neighbors

It's really something how the initial thrill of buying a new house makes you immune to the nuisence you may be causing your neighbors.

Such is the case this early morning with my backyard neighbor to the right (not the PIG neighbor to the left), who moved in a couple of days ago. He has taken a real shine to hammering any number of deck and fence boards in the wee hours of the morning.

I understand. I remember moving in here and blaring the radio in empty rooms as we painted over bright Polish heritige colors with six layers of primer.

I guess I should bake some cookies and drop them by.

And while I'm there, steal his hammer.

A Papal Smear

Really, I was just looking for an excuse to use that Title.

"E" is the Easy Way You Hold Me....

Sure a country named Kyrgyz could use another vowel, but why is Rumsfeld giving away the Enron "E"?

Screwing Others is a Time-Honored American Tradition.

Ji-the-feck-had

Oh Frank. You always get me into one of the situations.

My Unitarian Jihad Name is: Sister Holy Mace of Kindness. What's yours?

Funny thing is, Sister Holy Mace of Kindness is ALSO my given Sicilian name. What are the odds?!?!?

Is Gary Trying to Tell Us His Boss is an Asshole?

Hi Gary. Don't call your boss names. Or if you're going to, do it in someone else's comments. It feels just as good, but it lets you operate beneath the proverbial radar screen, wherever that is.

Or, you could read my Solid Gold Post: How TO Get Fired Because of Your Blog.

This is the advice bloggers need. They don't need to know how to SUCK up. They need to know how to FUCK up.

Worst practices. No?

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

From me in 2003 and back by popular demand...

HOW TO GET FIRED BECAUSE OF YOUR BLOG

...With apologies to Blogger.

Do you blog at work? Do you surf porn blogs like there's no tomorrow while you're supposed to be problem solving? Do you think management is so stupid that they'd never think to search you up on Google and find out you've been posting photos from the ladies bathroom since you bought your cool new camera phone three months ago? Well, you're probably right. But that doesn't mean one of your pesky co-workers won't blow you in.

These days, many companies are laying off employees by the hundreds, even thousands. You don't have any job security, even if you think you do, so what difference does it make if you blog at work? The fact is, you'll probably be let go next week anyway, so don't give away your intellectual property (your blog and what you know about blogging) with the illusion that anyone at your company will care. Once you've given them a ten-word definition of blogging, that's all they'll need to sound smart at lunch, on the golf course, and at that next emerging technology conference.

If you think your blogging will make you a star at work, start looking at your company's severance policy today!

How to Get More Hits than Your Company's Website

At the same time, your blog can be a powerful tool for making you more powerful than the company that currently pays your salary (the one that provides you with two days funeral leave if your spouse kicks the bucket). It's very common for bloggers who are intelligent, who write every day, and especially who take pictures of the loading dock at Microsoft, to become far more popular and better liked than the companies they work for. Research from Perseus shows that 97% of bloggers land better jobs once they've been shit canned for blogging at work.

You see, there is a God!

In fact, getting fired because of your blog is one of the smartest marketing moves you can make. Straight to the top of Daypop, Technorati--hey, Andrew Sullivan will probably shoot you a link. That's right. You can be out from under your boss's thumb and working for the coolest new startup, or even the Dean campaign, tomorrow. If you play your cards right.

Layoff or Shitcanned: Two Paths to Blog Freedom

The truth is, your position will probably be eliminated on Wednesday of this week. (They like to let you go right before a holiday weekend, to give you some extra family time, let you stuff yourself with turkey and numb your brain with tryptophan, decreasing the likelihood you'll come back Monday and blow away the Human Resource Manager after you pack your little poetry magnets from the last COMDEX show in your take-home box.) It doesn't matter if you're careful with your posts or not. Corporations have the most uncanny ability to overlook talent, brains, and tenacity in favor of ass kissing and the status quo.

With this in mind, you have two options for shedding your current employer: Layoff (involuntary separation), or Getting Fired (terminated, separated with cause).

Both of these approaches have their good points. For instance, getting laid off usually means you get a severance check, which means you'll have a couple week's salary to spend on your first COBRA health insurance premium. On the other hand, blogging something worthy of getting fired for means you'll be famous on the Web, and may land that book deal you've been hoping for. Or at least a spot on Instapundit's blogroll.

Blogging: Just Do It!

Knowing that you won't have a job much longer anyway, we here at allied recommend that you blog everything. Absolutely everything. Blog about your lame-brained boss. Blog about your loser clients. Blog about the accounting department do-nothings who have fine tuned the art of looking busy while instant messaging their pals in prison but can't cut you an expense check until February of 04.

Blog about your mother, your brother, your fat aunt Sally. Blog about your priest and that little problem he has keeping his hands on the prayer book. Blog prose, blog poetry, blog photos, blog jokes. BLOG TIL YOU DROP.

Because if you think you're career is safe the other way, you're just fooling yourself.

Papal Dead Air

Tom is watching the media keep the pope on medium low over at his place. Simmer until a new story emerges. Stir Occasionally. Read Now.

Mr. Pricky?

Dave writes about Mr. Picky and Mr. Coward, who seem to be kin to Mr. Gender Spam. Of them all, I am most impressed with Mr. Gender Spam, because I've heard he leaps tall buildings in a single bound. Mr. Gender Spam is a strong man. Let's hear it for Mr. Gender Spam. Let's hear some booooooos for Mr. Picky and Mr. Coward who have re-employed weblgging's time-honored tactis of smear and run.

Let's hear it for the boys!
It's Raining Men in Blogdom!

Humidity's rising
Barometer's getting low
According to all sources
The street's the place to go

'Cos tonight for the first time
At just about half past ten
For the first time in history
It's gonna start raining men

It's raining men
Hallelujah it's raining men, Amen
It's raining men
Hallelujah it's raining men, Amen

Humidity's rising
Barometer's getting low
According to all sources
The street's the place to go

'Cos tonight for the first time
At just about half past ten
For the first time in history
It's gonna start raining men

It's raining men
Hallelujah it's raining men, Amen
I'm gonna go out
I'm gonna let myself get
Absolutely soaking wet

It's raining men
Hallelujah it's raining men
Every specimen
Tall blond dark and mean
Rough and tough and strong and lean

It's raining men Hallelujah
It's raining men, Amen
It's raining men Hallelujah
It's raining men, Amen

From Dave: Observation -- it's pretty gutless to challenge someone's integrity and not put your name on it. And it's pretty stupid to do so and leave a trail back to your desktop that a moderately skilled programmer could follow.

I have also heard of this tactic. It is pretty stupid to do. It is stupid to hack sites also. Really stupid to post anonymously a harrassing comment. Dave's advice is sound. One should be more than a moderately skilled programmer if one is going to challenge someone's integrity.

Words to live by.

The Untold

If you had the chance to hear them
Them the kind of words that change
everything,
five minutes before
being one way
five minutes after
being not that way anymore,
would you want
to hear them?

these are the tales
of generations
graves opening like mouths
finger against lips
A shhhh or a scream?

Hush little baby don't say a word
The untelling is its own sickness
a cancer unhealed.

Do I really want to know?

Brick Wall Head Banging

There are certain things in my life that I shouldn't do.

I've lived 43 years by avoiding some of these things.

Some of these things I learned to avoid recently.

Some of these things I avoid are people.

Some people make me not do so good.

Some of these people are family.

Some family scares me.

I love my family.

Love scares me.

Love me.

For Immediate Bloglease

C-LO, C-BLO of Highbeam, points to some serious blogability advancements offered through Highbeam for bloggers like you and me in this Blog Release.

I've been fortunate to be on the Highbeam beta team testing out the service and its use for webloggers. I love love love Highbeam. It's as easy to use as Google, but it cuts through the crap that now clutters Google making it ineffective as a research tool--the paid ads, the unrelated search results, and the changing status of the information delivered based on the popularity of the site your keywords appear on.

Highbeam doesn't put you through any of that b.s. Pure and simple, you get credible source material on which to base your 1.) research, 2.) opinions, 3.) purchase decisions, 4.) marriage mates, 5.) next career.

And I pay more for web hosting per year than it costs to get Highbeam.

Sound powerful?

You bet.

You go try it now.

Feeling zzzzzzzzzzzzzzy.

The first week after my endometrial ablation, I felt great. I was wizzing around on day number 2 feeling better than I had in months.

It must have been the drugs.

Today and yesterday I slept. I want to sleep a million hours. Nothing less will do. What gives? I was feeling groovy. Now I'm feeling poopy. And I don't think it's the baby hamster deaths. Could be I guess.

In other news, it appears that Coco the Canibale is pregnant again.

God's little miracle Hamster. Or Something.

good night.

Not All Females Eat Babies...

Some very cool things are going on over at blogher.org, where I'm happy to be on the conference advisory board.

I know--you're saying, WHAT? YOU? CONFERENCE. But this conference has a different feel to it and I think it's going to be a lot of fun, with a lot of real exchange among participants.

Because I don't get to many/any conferences, I didn't know most of the women on the team--except in passing, virtually speaking--until the discussions began regarding BlogHer Conference '05, July 30 in Santa Clara. Elisa Camahort, Jory Des Jardins, Purvi Shah, and Lisa Stone have launched the beginnings of an amazingly comprehensive concept/brand/idea/conference/group/community in record time, with style and class. Congrats to them.

This is one conference I'd like to attend, and I will try. I wish it weren't on the other side of the country, but it sure would be sweet to see CA. I've never been.

Give it a look. Don't forget to check out the scholarships to be given out to selected live-blogger translator/volunteers. That's neat.

A big wind came and swept them away, and then...

When I pick Jenna up, I get to tell her that all the babies are gone.

She's going to want to bury them.

I'm going to have to tell her that the mom already took care of that, if you know what I mean.

And she does, because she saw Marshmallow eat a baby and Coco eat a baby during the surprise birthing fiasco.

"Whoa. It looks like a watermelon without the head."

My favorite Jenna line of the year.

Awe crap. Not only did she make a poster "The Afishel Birth Cert." "Jenna's 13 Baby Hamsters! Marshmallow and Coco, April 6, 2005" and take it to school, and not only did the teacher hang it in the room, but also Jenna had the kids in her class sign up on her hand-made list if they wanted a hamster in a few weeks.

Last night I was thinking about how nice it was having the babies for her to watch--even though it was for a, well, REALLY short time. So I did what any mother would do.

I stuck Coco back in with Marshmallow and watched them hump like hamsters. Muskrat love, baby. I mean, they rocked the house.

In about another two weeks, we should have a new crop of pups. And THIS time I'll know who the mother is.

I'm just not sure if that's a good thing, given the mother's particular tastes......

Hello, My Name is Coco...

...and I ate all 13 of my babies!

PIG

In honor of McD and others who inquire often about the Pig that lives behind us in Acworth/Kennesaw suburbia, the pig kin to the insurance salesman neighbor who finally used his insurance claim for hail to fix the back fence. AND yes, in Georgia, you can face the outside of the fence into your neighbor's yard. I know--who knew?

So, without further adieu, I offer exhibit A. It should be all you need. He is on their lower deck, next to the jacuzzi.



Any questions?

Can't find the babies tonight.

I hope the mama hamster hid them, 'cause I don't see them in the nest.

Ugh.

In better news, I think I got a picture of the pig for McD and memer. I'm not sure how visible the pig will be, as I snapped the picture off of our back deck, and I don't have any photo editing software to enlarge the "pig" part of the picture, but I'll do my best.

More soon.

Who Dat Baby Daddy?

I've always looked at Harry and wondered. Even now as he's grown into a man, I don't see Charles or the rest of the Royal Inbreds in this boy. Not the eyes, not the forehead not the nose not the mouth not the personality not the nothing.



Now, Diana's lover on the other hand... well, it's getting more obvious as Harry gets older...



Who dat is? That's just my baby daddy.

At Least Two Hamsters

Baby sighting today--movement! The weird thing about baby hamsters is they lay on their backs a lot with their legs sticking straight up. So, basically, they look dead. Which is why it's very exciting when you shine a flashlight on them, annoying them into movement.

Which is to say, I saw at two little hamsters in the next when Coco, now re-named Melanie, the mother I thought was the father, scurried out to eat. The babies still look like a pinkie finger, but they were moving! Whether or not the other 8 or 10 are, I don't know, don't want to know.

Meanwhile, I have sat down only to sleep since my surgery. As mildly invasive as the surgery was, it was still surgery and I have not been good about any amount of resting. Spring break after all.

That's why I'm in pain tonight. Nothing 800mg of Motrin, half a Xanax, and a good book won't ease. Tomorrow school starts for Jenna, and work re-emerges in full force. Work people, if you check in on me, I'm hiding out in bed tomorrow. Clients, I need a day of rest.

I'm going into my little makeshift nest for a piece of peace. If my legs stick straight up, call the doctor. Or my publicist.

It could be a blue one--does it matter?

I've put a lid on the hamster co-dependence thing for tonight. Instead I've been thinking about blogging--for which I've developed a nasty disliking lately, despite the obvious. That obvious being that I'm writing in a user interface right now developed by blogger.com, which essentially means I am blogging. I think so anyway.

And what I was thinking is that when it comes to form and function, I see blogging breaking down into two schools. There are bloggers who write. And there are bloggers who report.

The writer bloggers tell stories.

The reporter bloggers tell ABOUT stories.

Some reporter bloggers' stories come from mainstream media. Some come from other bloggers. But reporter bloggers--who often fancy themselves journalists--write about and link to OTHER PEOPLE'S stories much of the time; i.e., stories they did not write.

Story telling bloggers spend the greater part of their blogging writing original stories--of a day, of a moment, of a death, a life, a cheese sandwich for lunch. The majority of story teller bloggers' posts tell stories rather than alerting readers of a story that has told itself elsewhere.

As with all things blogging, there are exceptions/hybrids/rule-breakers/convergences/cross-pollination taking place between blogging reporters and story tellers.

These electric places of EXTREME overlap or EXTREME dissonance are the where innovation takes place, those exchanges, those posts, those weblogs that move us forward into new territory.

What does this have to do with a red umbrella?

Well, I wasn't thinking any of what I just wrote until five minutes ago.

I thought about what I wanted to explore in this post--not politics/journalism/gender-wars/tech/biz/pr-marcom theorizing. I wanted to write about something. To tell a story.

With no ideas nearby, I closed my eyes, opened my mind, and snapped a picture of the first flash revealed.

A red umbrella.

Google it.

Image(ine) it.





In common these things have movement.

In movement these things have meaning.

Under cover we make meaning or seem to. And yet, how fleeting is that sense that we work so hard to make when a single updraft shucks the red umbrella like an ear of late summer corn, or rips it from an uncommitted hand.

I found out today about a friend who lost her lover who was a friend before her lover.

In that moment of her telling, in a flash of pain, a flash I did not recognize until I sat down to write about these things here, was the red umbrella.

Simple in its elegance, posturing as protection, fighting against its own beauty, there is no mix of form and function that keeps us safe enough.

Certainly not the red umbrella.

Certainly not tonight.

Sleep Remedies

What I don't want to hear is a bunch of parenting wisdom about routine and strict bedtimes and such. Because it's been spring break here the entire week. And I had surgery. And Jenna slept at three different houses, well one wasn't different because it was her own, but still, maybe I should say strange houses. And routine unintentionally went out the window. And by the way, routine has never made a dent in my daughter's energy level.

The deal is, 7 years old. Never falls asleep without an hour or seven of reading and writing and artwork and mazes and puzzles and math problems. Favorite new activity: Writing three columns of alternating-colored vocabulary words, one letter per page, on large classroom poster paper, and rolling masking tape balls to stick on the back to decorate her room with the sheets.

Chamomile Tea doesn't work. Tried it. The good stuff too. Leaves in the tea seeping spoon. In the end, I drank it and felt great. Fell asleep before everyone else.

She has CRCT tests starting next week for two weeks. We have to be on time to school or they lock us out. She needs to sleep well or she'll get sick. That's the long and short of it.

Give it up parents. Confess it. What puts your older (as in 5-10 year old) kids to sleep? I need one night to get us back on track. I'm not talking long-term behavioral modification. I'm not talking phenobarbitol (although it worked for me as a kid). I'm talking, what WORKS and is LEGAL?

The dog and the fish

So Bando the mutt and Gil the beta are like, what do we have to do around here to get some attention--have a baby?!

BADABING!

Wednesday's Child

Quote of the day:

"It could be way worse. You could be a hamster baby in Jeneane's house."

This Hamster Shit Is Stressing Me Out

Oh good, forever more I'll be googled on "hamster shit."

Listen, the thing about hamsters is that they bury their healthy young (as opposed to eating their unhealthy or too numerous young) way deep in a makeshift nest, in this case 1st-grade lined notebook paper and super-absorbent paper towel pieces, so that you (or as we hear in group, keep it personal--"I") I mean, I, don't know if I killed the babies or not.

I think I saw one pink nose move.

Hard to know.

1 out of 13 wouldn't be a complete failure.

I bought Similac baby formula because I read it can help the nursing mother hamster. She doesn't like it. I don't blame her. She'll probably have nightmares of a huge cow stomping her nest.

The more I try to help, the more I don't.

In other news, school starts Monday, and with the time change I guess we'll be getting up about 2 in the morning now. That'll be extra fun. I told my friend, this is the time of year kids get run over by buses because we turn the time back and it's dark again at 6 a.m. She said, no, November is when they get run over by buses because it's dark in the morning AND at night. I said, no, I think there are more bus-kid accidents when the clock turns back. She said no, it's in winter, because it's dark when the kids catch the bus and when they come home.

I said whatever, I'm glad I car pool.

Hamster Watch Continued

What a night. I was prompted awake four times by the guilt of having accidentally deprived the mother hamster, who we thought was the father hamster, of her newborn babies for 12 hours yesterday until I "figured it out." Is it too late? Hard to tell. She's back on the makeshift nest today. This morning she was on the other side of the cage, as far away as she could get. I saw one little baby she'd taken out of the nest when I went downstairs at 7:00. I wanted to give him back to her--"Lookie, he's alive!" But I left them alone. When I went down at 10:00, he was nowhere to be found. I hope he's under her.

I'm off to get some formula for her. I read it helps the milk supply. I think hers may have dried up during the twelve hours she spent apart from the babies. I reached in to give her a scratch while she was eating. She rolled over asking me to rub her belly. She never does that. She's the mean one I thought was a He.

Now, about the "Royal Wedding..."

RRRRRRRRRRRRHHHHHHHHTTTTTTTKACHUNK.

The sound of Dianna rolling over in her grave.

Listen, I'm all for going on with life after the death of a loved one. HOWEVER, this skank-ass-bad-teeth-man-hands-rediculous-hat-wearing homewrecker and her cowardly oedipus-complexed-immature-lying-mama's-boy-king-wannabe husband are responsible for inflicting some realy nasty trauma on young Dianna. Maybe more than that. So forgive me for not sending a card.

In a nutshell

Between my ablation and the birth of the new hamster babies, some alive and some not, cage swapping for the adults who have now fully digested aforementioned dead hamster babies, can I just talk for a moment about how bad my house smells?

No. Never mind. I won't.

You just take that tidbit to sleep with you tonight.

Saint Patrick, Thou Art a Stubborn Ass

I didn't know until today that Paul's mother died, and didn't know until I clicked backward that she passed away on St. Patrick's day. Familiar to me--the day my father died, the day my grandmother died. Now too when I remember them there will be a bright little patch of Paul's mom in my recollecting. I spend a lot of time recollecting on that day while the rest of America gets drunk.

Paul is there for his father, for whom the loss of a wife of nearly 54 years must be so very difficult. And now Paul's dad is in the hospital too.

Paul I send you some of the goodness I received virtually during my hospital adventure Tuesday, and some of my own prayers.

I never quite got that Irish thing anyway.

Oh for the love of!!!!!!

So I'm watching Marshmallow tonight wondering, why is she so skittish--she's just not taking care of the babies. Is it because we had to move them out of the wheel of death? Is it because it's her first time?

I'm watching, you know, coaxing her on--comeon marshmallow, you're doing good. You check on the babies, you take food in there, but you're not... doing......

I look over to Coco's cage, the dad, who has been asleep all day, man, why is he... so... tired.......

Oh. My..... IT'S BECAUSE MARSHMALLOW IS THE FUCKING MALE!!!

I grab Marshmallow, lift him/her out, look underneath, a thing, okay, looks like a hole, okay NO FRICKING NIPPLES. I shove him back in, grab Coco out of the other cage, hoping for an obvious penis, lift him/her up, and there is the evidence, clear as day, evidence we didn't see earlier.

OH SHIT! Tiny little babies, still squirming some, no milk in 11 hours, what are their chances. How did we get it wrong? Why was Coco eating them? Why was mashmallow protecting them? Oh man. I kind of told Jenna. We got it wrong.

She is thinking of new names for them. That's the spirit.

Anyway, I swapped the cages, turned out the lights.

I can't watch.

Shit.

On Fertile Ground

One interesting thing about endometrial ablation is that you can't get pregnant after having one. Well, you can get pregnant, but it's a very bad thing, essentially guaranteed to end up as a tubal pregnancy, miscarriage, or a uterine rupture because the lining of the uterus has been removed by the procedure. Any small areas left aren't sufficient to provide nutrients for a growing baby via the placenta. Therefore, the placenta often attatches firmly into the uterine wall, and when it tries to detatch, results in rupture, hemorrhage, death--the kind of clinical outcome you'd really like to avoid.

All of this is to say, I was up crying last night realizing that my childbearing years are officially over.

That's heavy. I mean, I knew this before having the surgery. But knowing before hand and really knowing afterward are two different things.

So there I was, teary and sad last night, without being down really, more a profound understanding of the passage of time and opportunity, a full-stop within steady movement, the knowledge of such things making my tired womb heavy, and my heart too.

This morning I awoke to Jenna's near-hysterical voice:

"THERE'S A BABY! THERE'S A BABY!"

I wonder, what TV show is she watching.

"MOMMY COME NOW!"

And it sinks in slowly. Oh no. Not the hamsters she got three weeks ago, the ones that were supposed to be two girls.... Oh no.... no.

Yes.

There they were, mother and father in the habitat wheel, father munching on one baby, mother hovering over the others, the two parents starting to run inside the plastic wheel, which had the odd slow motion effect of spewing babies out of the wheel, down the slide, and into the shavings at the bottom....

Surreal...a hamster baby machine spitting out little pink hairless blobs.

Hamster babies being cranked out hither and yon.

"Oh my oh my oh my--go get Daddy."

That's what I said.

During the next half hour, we got Coco, the father, out of the cage and into his hamster ball, so he's rolling around the house, while I fill up a large bin with shavings. I can't tell you the iterations we tried--put Marshmallow the mom in the habitat cage and Coco the dad in the big plastic bin. But no, Marshmallow is intent on dragging all dozen babies back into the wheel, the problem being that, she's SPINNING the damn wheel while she's up there, and babies are flying around inside the wheel like popcorn at Walmart.

Marshmallow, you can't put your babies up there!

She remains determined.

So we take Marshmallow and the babies (using a tea strainer so as not to touch them) into the plastic bin, but she's distressed in there because it's unfamiliar, running around with a baby hanging out of her mouth, like, WHERE DO I PUT IT!?

I'm like, how do I know--I'M INFERTILE!

Then I get it! She wants her stupid wheel!

So I take the wheel OFF the habitat cage and anchor it in the shavings in the big bin (so it won't spin for God's sake), and scoop the remaing babies into the bin. Marshamallow then carries all I-don't-know-how-many-live babies -- maybe 10? -- left into her motionless-plastic-wheel den, where she's been sitting on them for an hour.

Marshmallow's got water, food, and a bunch of pink babies that seem to still be alive in her new big plastic bin.

Coco's got his cage back, minus the wheel, the hole plugged up by an expensive fruit bowl, and he seems full and rather happy digesting his offspring.

It's all really too much for me.




Actual Sessum Hamster pictures forthcoming.

little tiny semi thoughts

Inside my head, I'm still enjoying instant replays of semi-consciousness.

Wondering what the hell that big huge L-shaped black neoprene leg holder duct-tape-ala-home-made-torture-chamber looking thing was on the left side of the operating table.

Inside my head: "Whoa. 'The hell is that?"

And again observing with wonder the bigness, roundness, and brightness of the light positioned directly above where I was being placed.

Inside my head: "That is the biggest, roundest light I have ever seen."

And people saying my name. Like a game of red rover. "Jeneane, come on over!!!"

Inside my head: "Funny people - Why they're so far away?"

Semi-consciousness rocks.

Totus Towhom?

Thursday Questions


How does buying a bus ticket to Rome to see a dead pope make one a “Pilgrim”?

How does a man who headed a church that covered up the most widespread institutionalized incidence of child abuse earn talk of sainthood?

How long does someone need to be on display before you put them in the ground?

Where in the text of the scriptures that Catholics adhere to does it say anything about a Pope, about refering to any man as “The Holy Father” or about worshiping an elected official of the church?

Hello people of the world: Get inside your grieving and find what has birthed your hysteria. Could it be that once again you’ve let mainstream media channel and feed off your grief for its own gain? The Pope’s not the only one on display. Your sordid tiresome souls are bleeding through my television screen. Your pain is real, but it’s got nothing to do with the guy in red on the slab with three pillows under his head and a scepter under his arm.

In Praise of Good Drugs and Doctors of Faith

I am among you. For that I am grateful. Even moreso that I'm basically pain free today, even put away some laundry, walked around the driveway, and marveled at what it's like to have a surgical encounter go right.

From a mortal perspective, so much of surgery--even more I think than the skill of your doctor--depends upon the anesthesiologist. And man, did I have a good one. Oh boy oh boy. I don't even remember the OR. I was gone before they wheeled me in, or gone enough that I remember only two things: The Big Round Light and The Big Black Leg Holder, left side. And I remember my one pre-deep-sleep thought: "Wonder why there's only one leg holder?" night night. (I'm now assumng it's because they put the other one up once they have the poor woman on the operating table).

Before they wheeled me off to the OR, the very understanding anesthesiologist nurse--he was swell--got my cocktal ready for my IV. I'd had to wait about quite a while down by the OR, because they were wrapping up cataract surgery, and apparently you don't need leg holders for that, so they were switching the OR over.

Anyway, I start explaining to the nurse with the needle full of goodies that I don't like the feeling of being put under, that I hope whatever drug he's using is a gentle relaxer, because if it hits me like a ton of bricks, I will resist it. And he says to me with a smile, "You resist all you want, honey."

I imagined departing this realm with those as the last words uttered to me. Interesting. But alas, I awoke a couple of hours later, back in the same spot, wondering when they were going to take me to the OR. Imagine my surprise when the lady nurse said I was all done.

There's a comforting hymn--one I'd been humming to myself all week--that I spent a lot of quiet time humming to myself during the long wait before and after surgery. My OBGYN is a man of faith before he is a surgeon. He says a quiet prayer before he takes his patients into the OR. Me, I like that. The best surgeon's skill can stand some guidance, as can the most difficult patient's healing.

I learned I "went hypertensive" during the surgery, at one point I was like 196 over somethng, and they had to give me medicines for that. I guess I'm okay. I think I'll check my BP this week to be sure. I know that I was 120/80 at the doctor the Thursday before, so it must have been something about pain, bodily invasion, and or intense terror that made my pressure go haywire?

Anyhow, at least it's done. Now we get to watch the progress over the coming weeks and months to see if it worked.

If not, I know what anesthesiologist I'm going back to. Let's call him the Night-Night Doctor.

I'll spare you the truly gory details, but I really do feel good, and I really did feel you guys pulling for me. I felt some others sticking needles in their blogger voodoo dolls too, but they can just go back and write about politics and aggregators. I'm still here.

thought of the day

"Those who did not blog in the years before the revolution cannot know what the sweetness of blogging was." -- jonathon delacour

Count Backwards from 100.

They'll be putting me under at the hospital on Tuesday for an outpatient procedure of a feminine nature. If you are one of the visitors this place who was born without a uterus, you may or may not be interested. It might even give you a rumbly tummy, so don't look too far.

If you're one of the visitors to the place who possesses or once possessed a uterus, and who has bled nearly to death, missed vacations/weddings/work/life because of said uterus, or who has enjoyed the childbirth experience to a certain degree short of death and wishes not to experience it again, then you might be interested in uterine ablation.

Because I'm one of those tricky patients, and because they're throwing in a couple of other procedures for good measure, I get to go to the hospital and have it done. I went for pre-registration on Thursday. George and I sat in the waiting room outside of pre-op when Terri Schiavo died. They sent me home with a living will to fill out.

It's still in my purse. Next to my Xanax prescription. I'm more glad to have one than the other. Can you guess which?

I'm only midly anxious. If you count missing three finger nails "mildly." Generally I think that's pretty good. If it's fewer than five, I'm golden.

I don't like hospitals. No, I mean, I really don't.

So all in all I'm okay. Just thought you should know. Like, in case you want to send me an e-card Tuesday night or something.

A Rose By Any Other Name--Or The Apprentice

Looking at my nude ass is like knowing the square root of a million squared times infinity.

If I could fire bloggers, here's what I'd say:

If you are deciding what to write about by reading ANY of the Technorati Top 100, you're fired.

If you are about to tell me how you feel about the latest MSM story -- shit, if you are going to even think of USING the acronym MSM -- you're fired.

If linked in the last two days, or if you are planning to link to in the next two days, David/Doc/Jay/Scoble/Jay/Jeff/Dan/Dave, you're fired.

If you are waiting for RSS to tell you what to write about, you're fired.

You want to be lazy? Do it on your own time, because you're fired.

There is uncharted territory everywhere on the net. There are discoveries with key words like "peace, my ass" just waiting to transform your vague interest into a genuine passion.

I get calls all the time from NASA because they are worried that if everyone in the entire world thinks of my ass at exactly the same time... then the universe will supernova.

The Funny Papers

Hello, Paul Hornschemeier.



...with a shout out to the Holy See.

Yes, I Know Tourette's is an Illness...

But that doesn't make clicking on these idiots any less fun.

keep my desk fly

Now, I don't take shit from nobody, and I sure as hell don't take no shit from some bitch from Accounts Payable, so I picks up my letter opener and do some crazy kung-fu shit on her. "Flag yo' ass outta here, bitch, and keep yo' fuckin' cupcake shit offa my fly desk."

Not Blogging, or Shut Up.

In this nearly 2 weeks of not blogging, the most perplexing thing of all (for me at least) is that I haven't missed it. Not even kind of. No, not sort of.

Every time I've taken a break previously, I've found that I miss not writing, that the absence of blog noise is very loud indeed. That eventually I'm drawn back by the sound of my own voice.

Not this time.

So far, I've enjoyed travelling around as a reader, commenting here and there, and feeling absolutely no responsibility to myself, to this place, nor anyone else to actually 'write' something.

I've always said that I like making a living as a writer. Truer still, I really like NOT having to write. HA! I never thought I'd say that. I really enjoy the absence of the compulsion to say something here.

I really like not having to come here.

I feel incredibly free in this time of ambivilance. Joyously free.

I've found the "next wave" of blogging, and it's "not" blogging.

HA! FREE!

Free I say!

I find myself fully experiencing those curious moments that used to ignite in me the urge to blog. Instead of thinking, "I have to post about this," I've been, well, not thinking that. I've been present. I've avoided the fix.

In essence, I've gone back to the time of the wheel, and I am quietly amazed at its roundness.

Take a break. Plant your feet in the spring grass, dig your toes into the cool moist earth, and don't, not for a single second, think about blogging it.

Mmmmm. Heavenly.

This time, this place where you stand, is offering itself to you.

Take it and keep it to yourself.

Stewart Butterfield Is Still a Stone Cold Genius

Me on Flickr then:

The Velocity of Beauty

Got Speedo?

Flickr in Different Words

yes, flickr

Once more, with feeling

Me on Flickr now:

Stewart Butterfield is still a stone cold genius.

Congratulations, and well deserved! Now lets move on to those other kind of sharing apps we were talking 'bout way back when flickr was beta.

MBPD

Multiple blog personality disorder - time to pay attention to some of my other blogs. I'll be writing over at the content factor blog, Blog Sisters, and Gonzo Engaged for a while. And when the spirit moves me, here.

Having a hard time keeping up. Like Shelley says, when it's not fun, you have to change things up. So I'll try rippin some rhymes on some other blog walls for a time.

White Men Can Jump Bond

When the verdict was read, Ebbers' face reddened. His wife, Christie, and other family members broke into tears. Afterward, Ebbers and his wife hailed a taxi outside the courthouse and left without speaking to reporters.



Eight of them were sentenced to death, but after years of appeals and retrials, spearheaded by the Scottsboro Defense Committee, some were released, some remained in prison for years, and one escaped.

Clueshame

Glad to see David give Shelley a link today. Sorry to see Doc focused on the same old blog-boy-regulars over the last few days, because if a great guy like Doc is lulled into status-quo vanilla flavor weblogging, then there's no hope.

A bit queasey to see Dave projecting again, this time on the topic of a potential women's blog conference. Oye!

And all in all, really feeling like this place resembles someplace I don't belong right now. And I say that with an echo of "THANK GOD!" resounding in my noggin.

Glad to see Halley and Shelley continuing to tackle the diversity (aka, lack thereof) issue. Keep on, Ladies. And remember to tell the U.S. a-list fellas that you don't have to go all the way to Kenya to find a brother to link to.

Read Shelley on our weekly allotment.

Read George and Jason for links to relevant SXSW coverage and recapping. See also Nancy White.

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

GONE FISHIN.

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

Is That a Link In Your Pocket....

Shelley comes back with a winning post about the big-blog-boy circle jerk--it's funny, it's sad, it's scary, it made me glad.

Point of fact, if you follow the thread of this discussion, you would see something like Dave linking to Cory who then links to Scoble who links to Dave who links to Tim who links to Steve who then links to Dave who links to Doc who follows through with a link to Dan, and so on. If you throw in the fact that the Google Guys are, well, guys, then we start to see a pattern here: men have a real thing for the hypertext link.

Now you have to read the whole post to find out exactly WHY this penchant for boy-linking...something about a cigar and a corvette.

New Term for the Blogtionary

Double-Dooced: Getting Fired for emailing a sexist hate letter under your real name to Dooce, whom you found out about because you heard in a news story that she got fired for her blog.

What We See and What We Get

Tom Matrullo does an absolutely masterful job in this post of contrasting the beauty of flickr and the abomination of hatred--which I too often forget live side by side on this place we call the net.

Tom is always eloquent, but something about the way he masters the transition from the magical faces and places of flickr to the satanic evil of racist blogmills is incredible and all the more moving in its juxtaposition.

Read it.

Blogger bloggers are also rans.

Tony Pierce has a great post on the LA Times article that positions Blogger as sloppy seconds to Moveable Type.

In Tony's comments, I take exception with what Anil says about "free" services like Blogger. Anil, WTF?

Nearly all of the people on free services like Blogger and LiveJournal are writing for an audience of their family and friends. You can't lament that they don't get attention and then be unwilling to actually *read* the sites and understand what those bloggers are trying to do. You (and I) are driven by ego or a desire for lots of readers, but most people aren't.

Blogger.com bloggers writing for family and friends? That's a rather narrow take on a big part of the blogosphere. I'm glad that most of my family doesn't know about this blog. But 60,000 Google hits related to it tells me that some folks online like reading it.

Anil, that was a dumbass statement. Maybe even irresponsible. I've been on blogger since 2001. I liked it at first because it was easy. Now, I like it because it's where I happen to live. Might I move someday? Yes, but it would only be out of frustration over how slow the interface has gotten.

Rageboy's on Blogger. His Chief Blogging Officer weblog is on blogger (and looks better than most MT blogs I've seen). Halley's on blogger. I'm on blogger. Lots of smart people writing for more than their kin are on blogger. Some are even hosted on blogspot.

You pulled that statement out of your ass. It belongs back inside.

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?