If you have a product and you want to know how to make it better, maybe Scoble can blog it for you. Look at this great set of feature requests for aggregators that are "aggregated" in Scoble's comment box.
These are regular Scoble readers with a passion for a product they use on a (mostly) daily basis. What we see here is a micromarket coup for aggregator/product folks -- and an example for other companies. Want to know what you should do next? Find a blogger with a wide audience of users and ask him or her to ask us.
Blogs can be a one-stop shop for organizations to find out what should be in their next release. Send your product marketing manager home for a month. Scoble's got you covered.
Scoble, can you do one on world peace, or at least whriled peas? ;-)
May 29, 2005
No Pool Toe?
I can't believe there isn't a single illustrative photograph on Google Images of Pool Toe. Is it a southern thing? Are my friends and I the only ones to use the term to describe, well, you know, pool toe?
Tell me you know what it is. Tell me you know how, when you go swimming a lot - as in every day because the weather is nice here in the south, not like western new york where it's gray and 53 degrees all summer, which lasts approximately three days - and your big toe gets kind of flat, calloused, and the side of it develops that hard, yellow, extra appendage type thing? You know, right: Pool toe.
It's when your big toe gets calloused like you've been playing bass with your feet. Right? And it starts to splay out the callous gets so hard and big. And it itches at night but the callous is so hard you can't make a dent in that crazy itch?
Right? Yah? Well, I've got it.
I know, I know. Cry me a river.
Tell me you know what it is. Tell me you know how, when you go swimming a lot - as in every day because the weather is nice here in the south, not like western new york where it's gray and 53 degrees all summer, which lasts approximately three days - and your big toe gets kind of flat, calloused, and the side of it develops that hard, yellow, extra appendage type thing? You know, right: Pool toe.
It's when your big toe gets calloused like you've been playing bass with your feet. Right? And it starts to splay out the callous gets so hard and big. And it itches at night but the callous is so hard you can't make a dent in that crazy itch?
Right? Yah? Well, I've got it.
I know, I know. Cry me a river.
May 28, 2005
Okay then,
If you haven't heard these, which you'll find at Tom's, you MUST! Bring your dancin' shoes.
Here it comes right now right now, the last time I had one I decided I'd blog it right then and there--those thirty-second rushes that tell me there is no reason in the world I shouldn't be lighting up a cigarette right now, of course I should, what is the big deal it's only one, maybe I'll just have a puff, and/or just light one, in the garage, quiet, so many cobwebs to untangle with my eyes, and I step outside of my body and see myself inhale and it's georgous, and I don't care what you tell me, it is sweet to see me smoking and if you don't think so you don't know the uptake just a little bit burning, I am finally full, fill me up, fucking take away the empty space, crowd me with feeling, hold, hold, and exhale, out with the bad, baby, out with the bad, and in again, filling, feeling so relaxing because these are my moments, with me, with my head and no one else, me sucking myself inside to push down the crap I don't feel like letting go. That's where it is, that's why we do what we do.
So there.
And no, I didn't have one, but I might as well have.
So there.
And no, I didn't have one, but I might as well have.
3 Podcasts I Would Listen To
Wonderchicken - because he has a wicked cool voice and an insanely cool mind.
RageBoy - because he's the smartest, funniest dude on the net.
AKMA - I want AKMA to record his sermons either before, during, or after he actually gives them, and podcast them. I want to go to AKMA's church.
RageBoy - because he's the smartest, funniest dude on the net.
AKMA - I want AKMA to record his sermons either before, during, or after he actually gives them, and podcast them. I want to go to AKMA's church.
Good Book Good Grief
I'm reading Good Grief by Lolly Winston, and enjoying the hell out of it. It's about a 30-something woman whose husband dies of cancer, and the book follows her through the grieving process--not your neatly packed stages of grief mind you, but some real-people dysphoria kind of feel-it grieving, and it's funny too. Because, as RB and my phone-a-thons during The Darkest Hours attest to, if you can't be completely absurdly insanely hysterically funny, then you might as well take a benzo and go to bed.
Anyway, it's my pool book, I'm half way through it, and it's a good read. Believe me, or believe Publisher's Weekly:
"The grief is up already. It is an early riser, waiting with its gummy arms wrapped around my neck, its hot, sour breath in my ear."
Sophie Stanton feels far too young to be a widow, but after just three years of marriage, her wonderful husband, Ethan, succumbs to cancer. With the world rolling on, unaware of her pain, Sophie does the only sensible thing: she locks herself in her house and lives on what she can buy at the convenience store in furtive midnight shopping sprees. Everything hurts—the telemarketers asking to speak to Ethan, mail with his name on it, his shirts, which still smell like him. At first Sophie is a "good" widow, gracious and melancholy, but after she drives her car through the garage door, something snaps; she starts showing up at work in her bathrobe and hiding under displays in stores. Her boss suggests she take a break, so she sells her house and moves to Ashland, Ore., to live with her best friend, Ruth, and start over. Grief comes along, too—but with a troubled, pyromaniac teen assigned to her by a volunteer agency, a charming actor dogging her and a new job prepping desserts at a local restaurant, Sophie is forced to explore the misery that has consumed her. Throughout this heartbreaking, gorgeous look at loss, Winston imbues her heroine and her narrative with the kind of grace, bitter humor and rapier-sharp realness that will dig deep into a reader's heart and refuse to let go. Sophie is wounded terribly, but she's also funny, fresh and utterly believable. There's nary a moment of triteness in this outstanding debut.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
May 27, 2005
Boundaries, Walls, and other Good Building Materials
My stepfather had surgery yesterday and will probably be in the hospital for a week. He had part of his colon removed and that's about all I know because I'm getting the news from my sister. Even though I live 3 miles away from him. Sounds odd, doesn't it.
The last time I spoke to my stepfather it was to try to convince him to come to a family therapy session, which he never did. He's an accomplished man. I would say that he raised me from the time my mom remarried when I was 12, but he didn't raise me. He financially supported the household. The toll that took on him -- leaving his semi-career as a very good artist and photographer for a "real" career at Xerox to support our household -- was obvious and devastating to him. I suppose I owe him a thank you, but there are extenuating circumstances.
I never saw him draw after he married my mother. His pen-and-inks were astounding, but he couldn't, I guess, divide himself into the corporate man and the artist. He bought a professional drawing table, which was relegated to the basement, but he never used it. He packed his camera equipment away after they married. At first he would bring it out at family events, but as family events became more trouble than they were worth, he packed up that artistic outlet and put it in mothballs as well.
When I first met him, I liked him. I was 10. I showed him my artwork, my poetry. He was really interested. He showed me his pen and inks, his black-and-white photography. Even then I knew he was very, very good.
By the time they married, he had already traded in his leather hat for a leather briefcase, a suit and tie, and I hated him. I hated him for the bait and switch, I hated him for the meaningless drivel about "the office" that they would discuss over drinks each night. I hated him until I moved away from home.
I found once I was away from him, I had compassion for him. I respected him for his business sense. He taught us a lot about business and how to apply talent for money. He could be a bastard in business. I needed to learn how that was done.
The last time he was in the hospital, I was there directing doctors and demanding quality care. I was his advocate. Not because I ever loved him, but because I am good at that. Because I owed it to him, to them.
This time, I am not involved because I have extricated myself from the truly unhealthy spiral that is that household. I think about him, in his cotton hospital gown, remember how unlike the corporate hero he looked the last time I saw him in one of those. No briefcase. No tie. He might as well be naked.
If I were to visit him this day, I would bring him his bottle of ink and his pen and a grand canvas. I would tell him I was sorry for the life he suffered through before he ever met this family, and after, that I was sorry he was compelled to give up his art to be the savior of our family. And I wouldn't leave until he started to draw.
But it doesn't work that way.
No matter intention, it cannot work that way. You see? If it could work that way, nothing would have been the way it was in the first place. This is the tragedy of wounded people pretendng.
Pretending and pretending until we can't pretend anymore, until our breath is gone.
This is my family.
The last time I spoke to my stepfather it was to try to convince him to come to a family therapy session, which he never did. He's an accomplished man. I would say that he raised me from the time my mom remarried when I was 12, but he didn't raise me. He financially supported the household. The toll that took on him -- leaving his semi-career as a very good artist and photographer for a "real" career at Xerox to support our household -- was obvious and devastating to him. I suppose I owe him a thank you, but there are extenuating circumstances.
I never saw him draw after he married my mother. His pen-and-inks were astounding, but he couldn't, I guess, divide himself into the corporate man and the artist. He bought a professional drawing table, which was relegated to the basement, but he never used it. He packed his camera equipment away after they married. At first he would bring it out at family events, but as family events became more trouble than they were worth, he packed up that artistic outlet and put it in mothballs as well.
When I first met him, I liked him. I was 10. I showed him my artwork, my poetry. He was really interested. He showed me his pen and inks, his black-and-white photography. Even then I knew he was very, very good.
By the time they married, he had already traded in his leather hat for a leather briefcase, a suit and tie, and I hated him. I hated him for the bait and switch, I hated him for the meaningless drivel about "the office" that they would discuss over drinks each night. I hated him until I moved away from home.
I found once I was away from him, I had compassion for him. I respected him for his business sense. He taught us a lot about business and how to apply talent for money. He could be a bastard in business. I needed to learn how that was done.
The last time he was in the hospital, I was there directing doctors and demanding quality care. I was his advocate. Not because I ever loved him, but because I am good at that. Because I owed it to him, to them.
This time, I am not involved because I have extricated myself from the truly unhealthy spiral that is that household. I think about him, in his cotton hospital gown, remember how unlike the corporate hero he looked the last time I saw him in one of those. No briefcase. No tie. He might as well be naked.
If I were to visit him this day, I would bring him his bottle of ink and his pen and a grand canvas. I would tell him I was sorry for the life he suffered through before he ever met this family, and after, that I was sorry he was compelled to give up his art to be the savior of our family. And I wouldn't leave until he started to draw.
But it doesn't work that way.
No matter intention, it cannot work that way. You see? If it could work that way, nothing would have been the way it was in the first place. This is the tragedy of wounded people pretendng.
Pretending and pretending until we can't pretend anymore, until our breath is gone.
This is my family.
May 26, 2005
Pippastic!
| AKMA and I were emailing earlier today about our daughters and their amazingness, starting with me telling him how I'd been sniffing through Flickr lately and--as I always do--marveling at Pippa's artwork and creativity. He promised he'd be posting some more today, and it's just great. Pippa is brilliant, with the highest sensibilities and what she creates is the coolest mix of radiance and humor. It's like Georgia O'Keefe meets R. Crumb. I already have Jenna signed up to be her business manager (more on that sometime), so the rest of you just siddown. |  Early Bea Originally uploaded by AKMA. |
The Smoking Thing Flip Flop
Don, Dean, Frank--my steadfast "don't do it, girl" heroes, got me through another self-questioning period this week where I have really really really wanted to smoke. As I get closer to the one-year anniversary, the disappointing thing to me is how badly I sometimes still want one. How easily those 10 months disappear before my very eyes and it feels like I lit up ten minutes ago, so what's the big deal.
We have a new baby sitter for Jenna on Wednesdays. A nice lady, in her 50s, grown children, she comes from the agency we use for baby sitting. We all like her.
Jenna said to me the other day, "Miss Mary smokes."
I was surprised that my reaction was near panic. "She what?"
"She smokes, but not around me."
"Well then how do you know."
"After we went to the Dollar Store she stood outside the car and smoked, like you used to do."
Bamalamadingdong.
"Do you smell it--has she ever smoked in the car or near the house?"
"No mommy. She made sure. I didn't smell it at all--I was in the car. She was right next to the car."
I thought a lot of things about this. Probably about 102 things if you add them up. My first thought was rage: How could this woman leave my child in a car and pay her no attention while she had a cigarette. Then, I remembered how it's done. Because I did it for seven years. You simply turn on the radio, make sure the child has something to do, you stand right next to the door so no carjacker can come and grab them, and you make happy faces through the window while you shoot up--I mean have a cigarette.
So, how do I feel? I still don't know. It was, for sure, the fist time I was repulsed by a smoker in my midst. I started thinking of her as an addict--how much attention can she pay if she's jonsing to step outside. Again, I know this because I WAS THAT. And yet, they have a ball. The woman is smart, accomplished, fun, energetic--lots of the things I used to be.
George smokes--maybe three a day. Never in the house. Never in the car. Never around Jenna. How many conversations did we get to have with us standing outside the car and her in the backseat playing with polly pockets when we'd run our errands? Those were the times we had a chance to talk without a seven-year-old, insistent, only child in our faces. We don't get those car-side conversatins anymore.
So I'm caught between envy and repulsion as I weigh whether or not it matters to me that this woman smokes. Even though she doesn't do it in my house or in her car or in Jenna's breathing space, and I've never smelled it on her (I sure used to smell it on me!), I've changed how I think about her.
Because now I see her as an addict. And at the same time, I'd like to join her for one of those car-side talks.
We have a new baby sitter for Jenna on Wednesdays. A nice lady, in her 50s, grown children, she comes from the agency we use for baby sitting. We all like her.
Jenna said to me the other day, "Miss Mary smokes."
I was surprised that my reaction was near panic. "She what?"
"She smokes, but not around me."
"Well then how do you know."
"After we went to the Dollar Store she stood outside the car and smoked, like you used to do."
Bamalamadingdong.
"Do you smell it--has she ever smoked in the car or near the house?"
"No mommy. She made sure. I didn't smell it at all--I was in the car. She was right next to the car."
I thought a lot of things about this. Probably about 102 things if you add them up. My first thought was rage: How could this woman leave my child in a car and pay her no attention while she had a cigarette. Then, I remembered how it's done. Because I did it for seven years. You simply turn on the radio, make sure the child has something to do, you stand right next to the door so no carjacker can come and grab them, and you make happy faces through the window while you shoot up--I mean have a cigarette.
So, how do I feel? I still don't know. It was, for sure, the fist time I was repulsed by a smoker in my midst. I started thinking of her as an addict--how much attention can she pay if she's jonsing to step outside. Again, I know this because I WAS THAT. And yet, they have a ball. The woman is smart, accomplished, fun, energetic--lots of the things I used to be.
George smokes--maybe three a day. Never in the house. Never in the car. Never around Jenna. How many conversations did we get to have with us standing outside the car and her in the backseat playing with polly pockets when we'd run our errands? Those were the times we had a chance to talk without a seven-year-old, insistent, only child in our faces. We don't get those car-side conversatins anymore.
So I'm caught between envy and repulsion as I weigh whether or not it matters to me that this woman smokes. Even though she doesn't do it in my house or in her car or in Jenna's breathing space, and I've never smelled it on her (I sure used to smell it on me!), I've changed how I think about her.
Because now I see her as an addict. And at the same time, I'd like to join her for one of those car-side talks.
Postin' about that Back.
So your girlfriend throws a Honda
Playin' workout tapes by Fonda
But Fonda ain't got motor in the back of her Honda
My anaconda don't want none unless you've got buns hon
You can do side bends or sit-ups, but please don't lose that butt
Some brothers wanna play that hard role
And tell you that the butt ain't gold
So they toss it and leave it
And I pull up quick to retrieve it.
So Cosmo says you're fat
Well I ain't down with that
Cuz your waste is small and your curves are kickin'
And I'm thinkin' 'bout stickin'
To the beanpole dames in the magazines
You ain't it Miss Thing
Give me a sista - I can't resist her
Red beans and rice didn't miss her
Some knucklehead tried to dis
Cuz his girls were on my list
He had game but he chose to hit 'em
And pulled up quick to get with 'em
So ladies if the butt is round
And you wanna triple X throw down
Dial 1-900-Mixalot and kick them nasty thoughts
Baby got back.
--Sir Mix-a-Lot
Playin' workout tapes by Fonda
But Fonda ain't got motor in the back of her Honda
My anaconda don't want none unless you've got buns hon
You can do side bends or sit-ups, but please don't lose that butt
Some brothers wanna play that hard role
And tell you that the butt ain't gold
So they toss it and leave it
And I pull up quick to retrieve it.
So Cosmo says you're fat
Well I ain't down with that
Cuz your waste is small and your curves are kickin'
And I'm thinkin' 'bout stickin'
To the beanpole dames in the magazines
You ain't it Miss Thing
Give me a sista - I can't resist her
Red beans and rice didn't miss her
Some knucklehead tried to dis
Cuz his girls were on my list
He had game but he chose to hit 'em
And pulled up quick to get with 'em
So ladies if the butt is round
And you wanna triple X throw down
Dial 1-900-Mixalot and kick them nasty thoughts
Baby got back.
--Sir Mix-a-Lot
May 25, 2005
Deconstructing Burning Man
Chris Clark pointed to an old post that descrbes, sorta, what burning man is and isn't, and what it gets and misses.
I'll bet early burning man was a lot like early blogging. And I bet not figuring treasures into our writing in favor of strips of tin foil makes blogging now a lot like burning man now.
Since I doubt I'll find myself at burning man in this lifetime, I enjoyed Chris's post. Found all this over at Rox's digs.
How self-absorbed do you need to be not to notice a mountain range? I understand that having all those folks walking around wearing only paint and strips of tinfoil can be a little distracting. But not noticing a mountain range for a whole week? Or even worse: noticing it, but finding it unremarkable?
I'll bet early burning man was a lot like early blogging. And I bet not figuring treasures into our writing in favor of strips of tin foil makes blogging now a lot like burning man now.
Since I doubt I'll find myself at burning man in this lifetime, I enjoyed Chris's post. Found all this over at Rox's digs.
Any way the wind blows
Driving home from group tonight, listening to Bohemian Rhapsody, I realize suddenly that it has been 14 years since Freddie Mercury's death. Time has to stop moving this way. So fast. Away from me. Away from what we're leavng behind. The sounds, the textures I want to wrap my arms around, put in a pack for safe keeping, to remember not to forget.
So I crank the volume as high as it goes without distorting, and I shut up and listen.
Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide, No escape from reality
Open your eyes, Look up to the skies and see,
I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy
Because I'm easy come, easy go, Little high, little low
Any way the wind blows doesn't really matter to me, to me
Mama, just killed a man, Put a gun against his head
Pulled my trigger, now he's dead
Mama, life had just begun
But now I've gone and thrown it all away
Mama, ooh, Didn't mean to make you cry
If I'm not back again this time tomorrow
carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters
Too late, my time has come
Sends shivers down my spine, body's aching all the time
Goodbye, ev'rybody, I've got to go
Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth
Mama, ooh, I don't want to die
I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all
I see a little silhouetto of a man
Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango
Thunderbolt and lightning, very, very fright'ning me
(Galileo.) Galileo. (Galileo.) Galileo, Galileo figaro
Magnifico. I'm just a poor boy and nobody loves me
He's just a poor boy from a poor family
Spare him his life from this monstrosity
Easy come, easy go, will you let me go
Bismillah! No, we will not let you go
(Let him go!) Bismillah! We will not let you go
(Let him go!) Bismillah! We will not let you go
(Let me go.) Will not let you go
(Let me go.) Will not let you go. (Let me go.) Ah
No, no, no, no, no, no, no.
(Oh mama mia, mama mia.) Mama mia, let me go
Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me
So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye
So you think you can love me and leave me to die
Oh, baby, can't do this to me, baby
Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta here
Nothing really matters, Anyone can see
Nothing really matters
Nothing really matters to me
Any way the wind blows.
You Should Never Breed Anything With A Great Dane
We made the mistake once of getting a dog that was a great dane / doberman mix. The problem was, instead of being a great dane in the body of a doberman, he turned out to be a doberman in the body of a great dane.
The difference is not subtle.
Readers with a fondness for dobermans, good for you then. Something about mixing the brain cavity of the great dane with the brain size of the doberman is not advisable. Lots of jostling can take place. As a result, the animal develops the brain power and decision making abilities of a baby hamster.
I remember the day Basie snapped at George's face, in the kitchen, nearly missing his nose, at eye level (because all humans were eye level to this dog when slightly hunched over). I was pregnant. I had already tossed vegetarianism and dropped my PETA membership. In short, I chose life.
After that day, the dog went to live with George's mother, a fitting match, and I won't tell you who won. Hint: not him.
Imagine my surprise to see the living incarnation of Basie in the backyard of our formerly-pig-owning neighbors. Yes, the ones I called the EPA and Code Enforcement on after a year of manure toleration.
Everything about him is our old dog. His blind eagerness to run in all directions at once out of fear/bewilderment/terror/instinct all at the same time. As I watch him trot around their yard continuously with distinct but unknown purpose, I am reminded of Basie today.
I am reminded of his fear of water--including anything dripping within ten miles of him; his inability to function for more than ten minutes at a time without shivering in terror despite his four-foot long frame. I am reminded of his brain's inability to keep up with his instincts, none of which in his best interest in the first place.
In our old pig-owning neighbor's back yard is the kind of high-strung, purposeless animal you know is destined to die by its own hand. I realize this moment may be sooner than later, as I see that they have tied him now, to keep hiim from running up and down the three stories of decks, which he does every minute of every hour of every day.
And I see him get tangled in a small tree, which he manages to break free of by pulling it down with him. At which point he is so glad to be free that he jumps at the next tree, obviously remembering that split second of freedom more than he remembers the danger of being tangled.
The bottom line is, don't breed a dog like this on purpose.
And don't ever bring one home.
I miss the pig.
The difference is not subtle.
Readers with a fondness for dobermans, good for you then. Something about mixing the brain cavity of the great dane with the brain size of the doberman is not advisable. Lots of jostling can take place. As a result, the animal develops the brain power and decision making abilities of a baby hamster.
I remember the day Basie snapped at George's face, in the kitchen, nearly missing his nose, at eye level (because all humans were eye level to this dog when slightly hunched over). I was pregnant. I had already tossed vegetarianism and dropped my PETA membership. In short, I chose life.
After that day, the dog went to live with George's mother, a fitting match, and I won't tell you who won. Hint: not him.
Imagine my surprise to see the living incarnation of Basie in the backyard of our formerly-pig-owning neighbors. Yes, the ones I called the EPA and Code Enforcement on after a year of manure toleration.
Everything about him is our old dog. His blind eagerness to run in all directions at once out of fear/bewilderment/terror/instinct all at the same time. As I watch him trot around their yard continuously with distinct but unknown purpose, I am reminded of Basie today.
I am reminded of his fear of water--including anything dripping within ten miles of him; his inability to function for more than ten minutes at a time without shivering in terror despite his four-foot long frame. I am reminded of his brain's inability to keep up with his instincts, none of which in his best interest in the first place.
In our old pig-owning neighbor's back yard is the kind of high-strung, purposeless animal you know is destined to die by its own hand. I realize this moment may be sooner than later, as I see that they have tied him now, to keep hiim from running up and down the three stories of decks, which he does every minute of every hour of every day.
And I see him get tangled in a small tree, which he manages to break free of by pulling it down with him. At which point he is so glad to be free that he jumps at the next tree, obviously remembering that split second of freedom more than he remembers the danger of being tangled.
The bottom line is, don't breed a dog like this on purpose.
And don't ever bring one home.
I miss the pig.
"Meet the New Boss, Same as the Old Boss"
Now THIS is what I've been trying to say.
Thanks, Snappy, for coining the term "MSB".
Jeebus, it's amazing to see how fast the populism and digital democracy and such devolves into this sort of "MY ball" sentiment in the presence of dissent. Even Jarvis did a version of this 2-step recently, where he told us all that he was 'Mr. Transparency" (if only) but he was only obliged to fearlessly crusade against back-room, off the record deals that didn't involve him. Why? Because it's bidness. And that's different somehow. Then they're "conversations." And nobody blogs all their conversations, right? Hoo boy. Interesting take. Transparent as mud. But wholly necessary if you're going to milk this blog thing to resuscitate your career. All of a sudden, "our new media world that we're all creating as citizens but only I'm profiting from" has borders.
Thanks, Snappy, for coining the term "MSB".
Playing Games and Olden Days
Shelley has a very nice post about the state of blogging then and now.
Read it.
I'd ask you to comment, 'cept I'm too shy.
;-)
Yet the same sun that shines now, shined back then, forming the same shadows. Scratch the veneer of most of these “home towns” and you’ll find much of the same ugliness as exists today; except back then, people kept things quiet. When the wife with the bruised face and sore arm told people she fell down stairs, no one believed it–but no one would challenge it, either. The little girl of six who fell suddenly silent after a weekend being baby-sat by the 16 year old neighbor boy is just going through growing pains. The middle aged guy who drinks too much is treated with humor, or even affection.
Read it.
I'd ask you to comment, 'cept I'm too shy.
;-)
Lungs burning for a smoke
I have been seriously considering reupping on the nicotine this week. It will be a year in july since a whisp of smoke has passed these lips. Since then I've had to go on hormones, had surgery, developed high blood pressure, gained untold pounds, have worse sinus problems than ever, requiring a month on antibiotics, and more.
This week, I've wanted one every day. I believe it will help bring me back into whatever balance I sometimes approach. You can tell me all the reasons why that's a stupid opinion. I miss it every day. Still. I wasn't prepared for a year later and a longing this big.
I swear, when I'm gone and they come out with the report that says a certain amount of cigarette smoking is actually homeopathic in treating allergies and asthma, YOU SUE THOSE MEDICAL DOCS AND DEMOCRATS FOR TRICKING ME INTO QUITTING.
This week, I've wanted one every day. I believe it will help bring me back into whatever balance I sometimes approach. You can tell me all the reasons why that's a stupid opinion. I miss it every day. Still. I wasn't prepared for a year later and a longing this big.
I swear, when I'm gone and they come out with the report that says a certain amount of cigarette smoking is actually homeopathic in treating allergies and asthma, YOU SUE THOSE MEDICAL DOCS AND DEMOCRATS FOR TRICKING ME INTO QUITTING.
May 24, 2005
I need some dental insurance
at least on my kid. Damn--why didn't I keep my Ketchum dental cobra? I could have kept that. Relatively speaking it was CHEAP and WHAT was I thinking? Maybe figuring $20 a month for dental added on to $1400 a month for COBRA for health insurance (and no job at the time) would break the bank? What bank? I don't HAVE a bank that gives a hoot.
It was all an illusion anyway. So now I have a much crappier health plan for $800 a month, feel like that's a deal when I still have a $500 deductible and hefty co-pays for docs and prescriptions--read: a grand or so for my recent surgery. And I wish I would have grabbed the dental COBRA and the vsion COBRA, the cheapest of the Really Good Offerings, for the extra 18 months, which would now be ending, but still. Think how clean, crowned, and cavity free our teeth would be.
And Jenna chipped her front permanent tooth a couple of weeks ago. It's small. But every time I look at it I'm reminded that we don't have dental insurance.
And you can get on my ass about the hamsters and the $140 spent to get homes for the babies, and yah, there's her dental appointment, but they're her hamsters and she loves them and takes care of them and is learning more than a tiny chip of a tooth can tell her, so fucking come and be my financial planner if you're going to start that senior advisor crap.
For those of you SEPARATING from your places of employ, don't just check out the health insurance COBRA, check and see if you can COBRA your other benefits too--especially that ever-more-expensive dental, which can actually be more affordable than you think. If you have glasses or need them, check to see if you can COBRA your vision benefits, and don't forget disability.
HELL, SEE IF YOU CAN COBRA YOUR SALARY WHILE THEY'RE NOT LOOKING!
Then adopt me and my family.
Thank you.
It was all an illusion anyway. So now I have a much crappier health plan for $800 a month, feel like that's a deal when I still have a $500 deductible and hefty co-pays for docs and prescriptions--read: a grand or so for my recent surgery. And I wish I would have grabbed the dental COBRA and the vsion COBRA, the cheapest of the Really Good Offerings, for the extra 18 months, which would now be ending, but still. Think how clean, crowned, and cavity free our teeth would be.
And Jenna chipped her front permanent tooth a couple of weeks ago. It's small. But every time I look at it I'm reminded that we don't have dental insurance.
And you can get on my ass about the hamsters and the $140 spent to get homes for the babies, and yah, there's her dental appointment, but they're her hamsters and she loves them and takes care of them and is learning more than a tiny chip of a tooth can tell her, so fucking come and be my financial planner if you're going to start that senior advisor crap.
For those of you SEPARATING from your places of employ, don't just check out the health insurance COBRA, check and see if you can COBRA your other benefits too--especially that ever-more-expensive dental, which can actually be more affordable than you think. If you have glasses or need them, check to see if you can COBRA your vision benefits, and don't forget disability.
HELL, SEE IF YOU CAN COBRA YOUR SALARY WHILE THEY'RE NOT LOOKING!
Then adopt me and my family.
Thank you.
I would like to write a book...
...about writing a book about blogging. wouldn't that be meta fun? i could interview, like, rebecca and scoble and david and hugh and everybody about what it was like to write a book about blogging. And then I could put it in a book. And maybe even BLOG the book--so that would be a blog about a book about writing a book about blogging.
Meta W00t!!!
You know, cool stuff would be finding out: did they use a laptop or a PC? How many IE windows did they have open at once? Did they Yahoo? Google? or Technorati? Were there lunch and bathroom breaks? Did they have to sneak into other folks' Bloglines subscription list to find out the real stories? Was there any Clintonian funny business?
Coming in 06 from Harlequin Business Press: Meta or Way-Meta: Where Do You Fit? Sequel to Who Moved My Sleeze?
Meta W00t!!!
You know, cool stuff would be finding out: did they use a laptop or a PC? How many IE windows did they have open at once? Did they Yahoo? Google? or Technorati? Were there lunch and bathroom breaks? Did they have to sneak into other folks' Bloglines subscription list to find out the real stories? Was there any Clintonian funny business?
Coming in 06 from Harlequin Business Press: Meta or Way-Meta: Where Do You Fit? Sequel to Who Moved My Sleeze?
Introspective Blogger's Open Letter to No One
People, look, it's very hard to be the kind of blogger who writes personal stuff and then people here comment about it. That's very hard. Sometimes I feel like Joi, with all his notariety. And then I remember, I'm not Joi. Whether YOU are Joi or not, it's hard to be a blogger. It gets boring. It gets hard. And when it's not boring, it is way too exciting.
Sometimes people yell at each other.
Sometimes they fall in love.
Sometimes they would like to cut one another with big long blades.
Sometimes they think about screwing behind the birch tree.
Sometimes they make funny jokes and readers might laugh.
It is hard to be a blogger. I'm afraid I might write something that others enjoy reading. And then what? Jesus you might tell me so. AND YOU MIGHT COME BACK AGAIN! AND AGAIN! Creating UNENDING expectations. You have no idea the pressure bloggers are under. And what if you don't come back? Then, do I really, you know, exist online? What about offline?
A am too shy to ask you to comment. I am certainly too, you know, to actually yell at you for not commenting. That's just not me, because I think we should be kind. Because blogging is hard enough work. It's almost like getting paid, except different.
So really, that puts me in a bind. It is very hard to be a blogger. I want you to tell me things. But Not Everything. Only Certain Things. You obviously should read my Policy and Guidelines so that you can understand that. I don't want to know all the things you think. It's too overwhelming. Start your own blog. Just tell me here what I think. Over there say what you think. And then can we link to each other?
Blogging has rules now. I can't believe you didn't know that.
You should not break the rules. Because blogging is hard. It is very hard to write down words every day into a box, and maybe someone might see it.
As a blogger, I don't want to be noticed. I am here for me. Not you. It is very hard to be a blogger. You people who comment here, you have it easy. Who do you think you are having it so easy? I, me, I'm not even sure I like any of you!
YOU BASTARDS!
Today I toyed with not having comments. And then I went to the bathroom. And then I toyed with having comments back. So in the mean time all I did was wipe and flush. I wish you knew how hard that is. In the old days, we did not flush. Wipe yes. Flush no.
That's what I mean. It's so hard being a blogger.
Really hard. Day in. Day out.
How do we do it?
Sometimes people yell at each other.
Sometimes they fall in love.
Sometimes they would like to cut one another with big long blades.
Sometimes they think about screwing behind the birch tree.
Sometimes they make funny jokes and readers might laugh.
It is hard to be a blogger. I'm afraid I might write something that others enjoy reading. And then what? Jesus you might tell me so. AND YOU MIGHT COME BACK AGAIN! AND AGAIN! Creating UNENDING expectations. You have no idea the pressure bloggers are under. And what if you don't come back? Then, do I really, you know, exist online? What about offline?
A am too shy to ask you to comment. I am certainly too, you know, to actually yell at you for not commenting. That's just not me, because I think we should be kind. Because blogging is hard enough work. It's almost like getting paid, except different.
So really, that puts me in a bind. It is very hard to be a blogger. I want you to tell me things. But Not Everything. Only Certain Things. You obviously should read my Policy and Guidelines so that you can understand that. I don't want to know all the things you think. It's too overwhelming. Start your own blog. Just tell me here what I think. Over there say what you think. And then can we link to each other?
Blogging has rules now. I can't believe you didn't know that.
You should not break the rules. Because blogging is hard. It is very hard to write down words every day into a box, and maybe someone might see it.
As a blogger, I don't want to be noticed. I am here for me. Not you. It is very hard to be a blogger. You people who comment here, you have it easy. Who do you think you are having it so easy? I, me, I'm not even sure I like any of you!
YOU BASTARDS!
Today I toyed with not having comments. And then I went to the bathroom. And then I toyed with having comments back. So in the mean time all I did was wipe and flush. I wish you knew how hard that is. In the old days, we did not flush. Wipe yes. Flush no.
That's what I mean. It's so hard being a blogger.
Really hard. Day in. Day out.
How do we do it?
Onto More Important Matters; Hamster Eye
I can't solve the problems or disagreements of the blogosphere. "Detach with Love." "Stinkin Thinkin" -- HEY It PAYS to learn not to be co-dependent.
Now what really matters is that my little hamsters appear to be sick--some eye infecton or cold(??) working its way through the mama's cage (two babies left in there with her) AND the two gave to my friend. SO now I'm a bit worried. How good are your little hamsters' dispositions when you can hold it and wipe it's little pin-head eyeball with warm water and it just looks at you like it loves you because you hand it baby carrots every day.
{did i mention they make wonderful pets--worth the drive, parents on site, all that?}
Anyway, I first noticed it at my friend's house yesterday. She has two of them--she was like, look at their eyes, and I was all like, WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY BABIES, BITCH! And then I remembered she's my friend and she took two of the little things, so she didn't DO anything to them.
Nonetheless, we're fighting hamster ebola over here or something.
I'm going to look online now--PetSmart told us saline wash over the phone, unless its tail-rot or wet-tail or something, which I don't understand because they don't have tails really, but if it's that we need antibiotics, at which point I say to myself, I hope dog antibiotics will work fine because $140 is pretty much all I've got for the money-sucking demons....I mean, little sweeties.
Veterinary advice welcome--homeopathic please.
Now what really matters is that my little hamsters appear to be sick--some eye infecton or cold(??) working its way through the mama's cage (two babies left in there with her) AND the two gave to my friend. SO now I'm a bit worried. How good are your little hamsters' dispositions when you can hold it and wipe it's little pin-head eyeball with warm water and it just looks at you like it loves you because you hand it baby carrots every day.
{did i mention they make wonderful pets--worth the drive, parents on site, all that?}
Anyway, I first noticed it at my friend's house yesterday. She has two of them--she was like, look at their eyes, and I was all like, WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY BABIES, BITCH! And then I remembered she's my friend and she took two of the little things, so she didn't DO anything to them.
Nonetheless, we're fighting hamster ebola over here or something.
I'm going to look online now--PetSmart told us saline wash over the phone, unless its tail-rot or wet-tail or something, which I don't understand because they don't have tails really, but if it's that we need antibiotics, at which point I say to myself, I hope dog antibiotics will work fine because $140 is pretty much all I've got for the money-sucking demons....I mean, little sweeties.
Veterinary advice welcome--homeopathic please.
Trying to leave a comment
I think you have to be a "team" member to leave a comment on Halley's blog right now, because it told me I wasn't part of the team when I tried to leave one, so I'll just post what was going to post in a comment over here:
Jesus but we've become a self-important bunch in the last year. Sometimes we make me sick.
If you have comments, you encourage discussion, not a back-patting party. Often, we can learn more from dissent than from agreement.
For bloggers who have problems with that, well, they don't need to have comments. That's everyone's right. That's the trend I see among the pundit/political bloggers, especially on the right. Many don't risk having comments because they can't risk intelligent challenge. Their tenor is: "I'm right and you don't matter." Not a pretty picture that way either.
Personally, I think the default should be to have comments or risk becoming just another bully pulpit and a less powerful medium overall. . zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. But that's just my opinon.
Jesus but we've become a self-important bunch in the last year. Sometimes we make me sick.
May 23, 2005
The Southern Gentleman
The older men of the south -- especially those over 70 -- are unlike men from anywhere else. They are a special breed, their qualities coming from standing on the red earth and feeling the sun at the precise longitude and lattitude they do -- as it races -- from Georga across Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi, and west. Who these men would become was long ago determined, ripples across generations. Their preferred speed of the life is the pace they enjoyed during the years before air conditioning.
And when I say the older men of the south, realize that race doesn't matter in how stories take form--the old men of the south tell stories in one color: Slowly, deliberately, begging no interruptions, from the middle to the beginning then back to the middle and finally to the end.
It can be agony to follow along.
They will not be hurried.
The are unlike anything I grew up with. For someone like me, where closeness among my siblings and cousins was demonstrated by how fast we finished one another's sentences, my intial sit-downs with the elder men of the south have not gone so well.
I find myself stepping all over their sentences with my Northeast cadence, with my clumsy words and impatient questions. This wouldn't be so bad, except that I really do want to hear their stories. But I also find it difficult to sit still and listen to them. I find myself wanting to get up, take a walk, have a smoke. Anything but endure the details and the wholeness of their stories.
The more I try to chime in and relate to what they are saying, the more evident it becomes that this is not a conversation, it's a monologue. Questions will be entertained at the end.
For all of the complexities, sitting and chatting with an elder southern man has proved to be worth the training I've had to go through to understand my role as active listener, passive mouth.
It's also come in handy in learning to listen in general--to hear my husband, to not rush through business conversations, to listen to Jenna's 14th story of the day.
I'm getting there. I'm getting there.
And when I say the older men of the south, realize that race doesn't matter in how stories take form--the old men of the south tell stories in one color: Slowly, deliberately, begging no interruptions, from the middle to the beginning then back to the middle and finally to the end.
It can be agony to follow along.
They will not be hurried.
The are unlike anything I grew up with. For someone like me, where closeness among my siblings and cousins was demonstrated by how fast we finished one another's sentences, my intial sit-downs with the elder men of the south have not gone so well.
I find myself stepping all over their sentences with my Northeast cadence, with my clumsy words and impatient questions. This wouldn't be so bad, except that I really do want to hear their stories. But I also find it difficult to sit still and listen to them. I find myself wanting to get up, take a walk, have a smoke. Anything but endure the details and the wholeness of their stories.
The more I try to chime in and relate to what they are saying, the more evident it becomes that this is not a conversation, it's a monologue. Questions will be entertained at the end.
For all of the complexities, sitting and chatting with an elder southern man has proved to be worth the training I've had to go through to understand my role as active listener, passive mouth.
It's also come in handy in learning to listen in general--to hear my husband, to not rush through business conversations, to listen to Jenna's 14th story of the day.
I'm getting there. I'm getting there.
May 22, 2005
What, you think I'm kidding about the hamsters?
I post what are probably the most adorable pictures of the most adorable creatures outside of Shelley's cat, and you are not moved? Nothing special comes up for you when you see a furry needy face staring you down? Those little newborns have not moved you to tears? You are not at my doorstep begging to own one at no cost to you?
What is WRONG with you people.
What is WRONG with you people.
May 21, 2005
You guys just don't get it...
| This photo. It is the night sky above the condiments. Those are dark clouds rolling in from the west. The colors. This is the kind of photo that changes everything. I'm not even kidding. I have dibs on it. Cyrus, you'll have to let me use it. NO! I don't know what for. thank you. |  Ketchup and pepper Originally uploaded by cyrus_. |
Hamster Charity Work
You should know that nine baby hamsters have healthily made it to weening age. We are so proud. They are so sweet. I didn't want the little buggers, but, you know what? Damn. They are something else.
I went to PetSmart two days ago and spent $140 I don't have on two rather nice cages that are going to my friend's kids (along with two of the babies!), bedding (we were out), food (we were out), and five $7.99 mini cages. George set the little cages up, and I took two babies in their little mini-cages (each cage with food and water, plus a ziplock bag of extra food to get them started) to pick up Jenna on the last day of school.
I am a smart woman. The school nurse took one for her daughter, then a father took one for his graduating fifth-grade daughter (insisting I take $10 in return). Then the nurse called me later in the day and came by to pick up another baby for her daughter's friend.
So, we've got five babies out of the nest.
And there are four babies left, three of which are pictured below. As you'll see by the names next to each, it looks like we're keeping two. Head examination welcome.
Baby Runt Sweet Thang (Mama's)
Baby Brown Head (Jenna's)
Baby Black Eyes Sweetie (Yours)
Hamster pregnancy and pre-natal supplies: $65
Cages, bedding, food and accessories to give away to good homes: $140
Helping the babies grow from popcorn shrimp into beautiful creatures: Priceless
I went to PetSmart two days ago and spent $140 I don't have on two rather nice cages that are going to my friend's kids (along with two of the babies!), bedding (we were out), food (we were out), and five $7.99 mini cages. George set the little cages up, and I took two babies in their little mini-cages (each cage with food and water, plus a ziplock bag of extra food to get them started) to pick up Jenna on the last day of school.
I am a smart woman. The school nurse took one for her daughter, then a father took one for his graduating fifth-grade daughter (insisting I take $10 in return). Then the nurse called me later in the day and came by to pick up another baby for her daughter's friend.
So, we've got five babies out of the nest.
And there are four babies left, three of which are pictured below. As you'll see by the names next to each, it looks like we're keeping two. Head examination welcome.
Baby Runt Sweet Thang (Mama's)
Baby Brown Head (Jenna's)
Baby Black Eyes Sweetie (Yours)
Hamster pregnancy and pre-natal supplies: $65
Cages, bedding, food and accessories to give away to good homes: $140
Helping the babies grow from popcorn shrimp into beautiful creatures: Priceless
davecasting
I know Dave has been participating online as long as there has been an online. Alright, before. Today I say, Dave Winer has found his medium. I've been listening for a while now to his many podcasts. In pixels, understanding Dave Winer as "Dave" has eluded me.
In mp3, I finally get him.
In mp3, I finally get him.
Test of Technorati
Patience running thin over here. Why is technorati not keeping up with the conversation? What's wrong? It's been a few days since my IBM Breathing post, which generated several folks linking to it (and probably 3000 hits from folks in and outside of IBM, which usually results in a link or two itself). I'm not saying I care. I'm not saying I'm obsessed. But for me this is a good test of Technorati and how it's keeping up because I actually know some of what should be showing up. And it's not. Not for days. That's not so good.
Don't make me go searchin' on RSS feeds, now.
Don't make me go searchin' on RSS feeds, now.
What do you know about SEO?
I've been reading up on search engine optimization, not from a weblog perspective but from a professional discipline perspective. I am well practiced yet unstudied on the topic (i.e., I don't know what others say on SEO--especially search engine folks). And frankly, I am trying to define how much SEO is a game or a technique, how much a nicety or a necessity. Is it using key words in key places without sacrificing meaning or intention in order to have your website noticed when search engines crawl? This is what I do. And do search engines appreciate it or do they try to dismiss sites who weave these techniques into copy? I fear so, hope not.
I know there is an art to optimizing website content so that it is finely tuned and appealing to search engines without 1) sounding stilted and 2) so obviously catering to search engines that they can toss you out for trying too hard. I do some of this naturally in developing content. Should we all be doing more of it for our clients?
Ladies, gentlemen, I need to know what you know about SEO. Then I'll research some more. Then I'll say what I think. What do you think?
I know there is an art to optimizing website content so that it is finely tuned and appealing to search engines without 1) sounding stilted and 2) so obviously catering to search engines that they can toss you out for trying too hard. I do some of this naturally in developing content. Should we all be doing more of it for our clients?
Ladies, gentlemen, I need to know what you know about SEO. Then I'll research some more. Then I'll say what I think. What do you think?
Condiments at the Edge of Night
| This is one of the most oddly seductive photographs I've ever seen. To a museum wall with you! | Ketchup and pepper Originally uploaded by cyrus_. |
May 20, 2005
auto-aggregate?
shouldn't blogrolling.com be able to write little utility where it would go through your blogroll and grab RSS feeds from sites that have them which you could then import into the aggregator of your choice somehow?
I have the usual suspects in my bloglines aggregator thingy. I don't want them but I can't find all the lesser knowns in my blogroll without going through them one at a time and finding their feeds, can I? Or searching for them in the aggregator?
Hello, that's a hell of a lot of work.
I think I'll just keep surfing my blogroll and forget the aggregator thing.
I have the usual suspects in my bloglines aggregator thingy. I don't want them but I can't find all the lesser knowns in my blogroll without going through them one at a time and finding their feeds, can I? Or searching for them in the aggregator?
Hello, that's a hell of a lot of work.
I think I'll just keep surfing my blogroll and forget the aggregator thing.
Joi: Does an Interesting Life Make for a Boring Blog?
Joi gets down to it in this post where he asks his readers, essentially, if we are as bored by the stuff he's writing as he is.
I forget if I've talked to Joi on the phone or not--I believe I have a couple of times? With Locke maybe? Or IRC-ed while phoning simultaneously? I don't quite remember. But I know I have enjoyed the Joi Ito multi-channel experience.
Allow me to digress.
Before I ever read Joi, I read lots of people writing about what he wrote. Joi this, Joi that, stealth disco, emergent democracy, and so on. I wondered who the hell is this guy? That's when I started reading him. And I did so mainly to analyze for myself the rapidly-changing motivations of bloggers as the shift from amateurs to professionals began in earnest--and the sucking up was elevated to a fine art.
After I followed the brown noses to his blog, I became a pretty regular reader of joi.ito. Because Joi has an interesting life. In a nutshell, that's what it is.
I like reading about where he goes, who he meets, and why it matters. I like that he gets inside places that most of us never will. He could have waited and just written all this stuff at 45 and called it a book. But instead he posts it like a follow-along song. Follow the bouncing Joi.
Joi's place also gets some of the more lively comments/discussion/feedback. It can turn into a hotbed of criticism for its author. And the constant nit-picking is taking its toll on Joi's voice.
Been there--still there, without the fame. I wrestle with topics I'd like to go back and write about. But I don't. Partly because this isn't the place it was. Whereas we once hung on each other's every (third) word, now we aggregate, skim, skip, and let the tools do half the work.
For me, that has changed things. It's the difference between ripping steak apart with your hands and using a razor sharp knife. Some things should be a little messy.
I have no advice on getting over it--especially for someone as "watched" as Joi. If it were me, I'd go over and write on Gonzo Engaged, which was my first blog, our team blog, our outrageous blog, the blog where there is never ever a mistake because worst practices are best.
That's where I go when I lose my voice. For me, it's going home, it's going back to that net-place where I turned over the first rock. I have to go back in to come out. There, I'm reminded why I started this nonsense in the first place.
Joi, the following statements are not diametrically opposed: (A) I admire you for the work you have done in front of us. (B) You literally couldn't pay me enough to be Joi Ito.
But if you want me to add you to the Gonzo Engaged team, just drop me an email.
Don't worry. You can mess on the carpet over there. Everybody does. ;-)
...I find myself struggling with this bloggers block more and more these days. I find myself hanging out on the IRC channel chatting about things that in the past I would be blogging about. I definitely feel like my blog is going edgy to broad and boring.
I forget if I've talked to Joi on the phone or not--I believe I have a couple of times? With Locke maybe? Or IRC-ed while phoning simultaneously? I don't quite remember. But I know I have enjoyed the Joi Ito multi-channel experience.
Allow me to digress.
Before I ever read Joi, I read lots of people writing about what he wrote. Joi this, Joi that, stealth disco, emergent democracy, and so on. I wondered who the hell is this guy? That's when I started reading him. And I did so mainly to analyze for myself the rapidly-changing motivations of bloggers as the shift from amateurs to professionals began in earnest--and the sucking up was elevated to a fine art.
After I followed the brown noses to his blog, I became a pretty regular reader of joi.ito. Because Joi has an interesting life. In a nutshell, that's what it is.
I like reading about where he goes, who he meets, and why it matters. I like that he gets inside places that most of us never will. He could have waited and just written all this stuff at 45 and called it a book. But instead he posts it like a follow-along song. Follow the bouncing Joi.
Joi's place also gets some of the more lively comments/discussion/feedback. It can turn into a hotbed of criticism for its author. And the constant nit-picking is taking its toll on Joi's voice.
...As I read criticisms in the comments and on other blogs about what I write, I have become increasingly sensitive about what I say here. The criticism is often valid. "Check your facts before you post." "Read before you write." "Don't be so self-obsessed." "That was stupid." "The tone of your post was offensive to me." "So this guy posts every time he's 'off' to somewhere new. Is he boasting about his travel?" I know it shouldn't, but these voices yap at me in my head and cause a kind of chilling effect. I fear that my jokes will be misinterpreted and the irony lost. I fear that someone will take offense. I fear that a post will sound boastful.
Been there--still there, without the fame. I wrestle with topics I'd like to go back and write about. But I don't. Partly because this isn't the place it was. Whereas we once hung on each other's every (third) word, now we aggregate, skim, skip, and let the tools do half the work.
For me, that has changed things. It's the difference between ripping steak apart with your hands and using a razor sharp knife. Some things should be a little messy.
I have no advice on getting over it--especially for someone as "watched" as Joi. If it were me, I'd go over and write on Gonzo Engaged, which was my first blog, our team blog, our outrageous blog, the blog where there is never ever a mistake because worst practices are best.
That's where I go when I lose my voice. For me, it's going home, it's going back to that net-place where I turned over the first rock. I have to go back in to come out. There, I'm reminded why I started this nonsense in the first place.
Joi, the following statements are not diametrically opposed: (A) I admire you for the work you have done in front of us. (B) You literally couldn't pay me enough to be Joi Ito.
But if you want me to add you to the Gonzo Engaged team, just drop me an email.
Don't worry. You can mess on the carpet over there. Everybody does. ;-)
May 19, 2005
8 Rules for Creating Great White Papers
Are you one of those people who've secretly--or not so secretly--wondered what a white paper is, what it's for, what one should say (and not say), what topics are "the right" topics, and what might make your next white paper a must read?
Or, do you just want to see what we've been up to at The Content Factor?
Either way, here's our first free white paper in a series that will make you scream, "More!".
Eight Rules for Creating
Great White Papers
Download, read, and enjoy. Visit our blog. And if you have any questions or need advice, give us a shout.
Or, do you just want to see what we've been up to at The Content Factor?
Either way, here's our first free white paper in a series that will make you scream, "More!".
Eight Rules for Creating
Great White Papers
Download, read, and enjoy. Visit our blog. And if you have any questions or need advice, give us a shout.
Read This, Commented Thusly
Read this over at MOCC's Flackster.
Responded Thusly:
So, what would YOU do?
A Reuters report in this morning’s Globe and Mail describes changes introduced by Morgan Stanley and their ad agency into the contracts they’re proposing to use in booking print advertising. “Under the policy, Morgan Stanley wants publishers to tell it about any objectionable stories that will be run in their newspaper or magazine,” according to Reuters’ sources.
The clear implication is that the mighty Morgan Stanley is threatening to pull lucrative advertising from any publications running stories critical of the firm.
Responded Thusly:
On one hand, I say, "Well the imaginary wall between editorial and advertising in MSM publications has just been outed as the less-than-pure facade it has been--and good." On the other hand, I say, "How dare Morgan Stanley apply editorial pressure through ad dollars." On the other hand, I wonder if these new policies/disclaimers are becoming more common than we know. On the other hand, how fun to work in Issues and Crisis on the PR side during a time when you can make such demands. On the same hand, I think this is representative of the undeniable loss of power of the mainstream media. In the end, these are corporations making demands upon one another that will wind up with them either doing business together or not.
If I were a Morgan Stanley competitor, I would write and publish my own OPEN AD POLICY right now that would read the exact oposite of this--stating that in no way do we tie our ad dollars to reporting/news stories, that we trust our customers and stakeholders to use their intelligence and judgment in what they read, that some things they read may be critical of our organization. Many more will testify to our success.
In other words--the best opportunity here is lies with the organizations competing with those making such demands.
And, if I were the publications in question, I'd say no. Opening the door to MORE Morgan Stanleys would forever rewrite my editorial policy.
Might as well have PR flacks write the news. (Oh, wait a minute!)
So, what would YOU do?
May 18, 2005
Send Water
What they don't put on the benecarHCT literature is that you get the biggest baddest case of cotton mouth you've had since that really big bowl you smoked back in the 70s.
Someone send water.
And brownies.
Someone send water.
And brownies.
Where Are They Now?
I was thinking on my way to Group how far so many bloggers have come from where they were -- in style, substance, voice, even personally -- since we started ths little exercise. This now noisy bunch for the most part started out a little timid, whimsical, unfocused, then took the lid off and never shut up.
So, how did we sound back then, in the beginning?
Denise Howell: "...It's my blog and welcome to it (I can't be the only one around here with a latent Thurber fetish, can I?"
Frank Paynter: "tap-tap-tap. hello hello. can you hear me in the back of the room?"
Gary Turner: "It lives! If you find yourself reading this you are either: (a) Lost (b) Out of medication (c) Already clicking the Back button (d) I've become famous and you're tracing my rise to success."
RageBoy: "Finally finished the "review essay" for HBR. Look for it in the November-December issue. That is, if you're inclined to shell out for the paper edition or pay for it on the site. These guys don't seem to believe that ASCII wants to be free. And they wouldn't let me use the word "suck" -- can you fucking believe that?"
Andrea Roceal James: "There are two things that have interested me most about the diaries of others: the intimacy and familiarity of tone, and the fact that the diarist manages to find something to say about the smallest of everyday things. I find it a good writing exercise to attempt to come up with a unique perspective on my world on a daily basis."
Elaine: "My mother lives across the hall from me -- a situation I swore would never happen. But life happens, and death beckons, and sometimes the better parts of us win out after all. But she still drives me crazy."
Tom Matrullo: (estimated--probably earlier posts): " 'For the last twenty years neither matter nor space nor time has been what it was from time immemorial. We must expect great innovations to transform the entire technique of the arts, thereby affecting artistic invention itself and perhaps even bringing about an amazing change in our very notion of art.' " -- Paul Valery, "La conquete de l'ubiquite"
Halley: "So what's the deal with THE STORY of the Ford Thunderbird with it's luxurious Nudo leather seats?"
Stavros (oldest one located): "As promised : I was in the toilet, from whence many of my best thoughts seem to emanate, and the phrase 'cultural cargo cult' sprang, fully formed, into my mind. It was early in the morning, and I see no real connection with my dream about the Irish Monk who required that I bring him the largest lettuce leaf I could in order for him to fashion a cloak from it, for me. The leaf I managed somehow to unwrap from a perfectly normal head of lettuce was not only purple, but approximately the size of a bedsheet."
For too many blogs--especially the old radio blogs--it's nearly impossible to find out how far back posts go. Add to that fact that too many of you have moved to new blog tools and homes without leaving a "from whence you came" link back to your old sites, means that we've lost the connection to the old-new you.
If I missed you and you don't want to be missed, leave a link to your first post from a few years back here, in my comments box.
We were a funny lot. Now we're just a lot.
So, how did we sound back then, in the beginning?
Denise Howell: "...It's my blog and welcome to it (I can't be the only one around here with a latent Thurber fetish, can I?"
Frank Paynter: "tap-tap-tap. hello hello. can you hear me in the back of the room?"
Gary Turner: "It lives! If you find yourself reading this you are either: (a) Lost (b) Out of medication (c) Already clicking the Back button (d) I've become famous and you're tracing my rise to success."
RageBoy: "Finally finished the "review essay" for HBR. Look for it in the November-December issue. That is, if you're inclined to shell out for the paper edition or pay for it on the site. These guys don't seem to believe that ASCII wants to be free. And they wouldn't let me use the word "suck" -- can you fucking believe that?"
Andrea Roceal James: "There are two things that have interested me most about the diaries of others: the intimacy and familiarity of tone, and the fact that the diarist manages to find something to say about the smallest of everyday things. I find it a good writing exercise to attempt to come up with a unique perspective on my world on a daily basis."
Elaine: "My mother lives across the hall from me -- a situation I swore would never happen. But life happens, and death beckons, and sometimes the better parts of us win out after all. But she still drives me crazy."
Tom Matrullo: (estimated--probably earlier posts): " 'For the last twenty years neither matter nor space nor time has been what it was from time immemorial. We must expect great innovations to transform the entire technique of the arts, thereby affecting artistic invention itself and perhaps even bringing about an amazing change in our very notion of art.' " -- Paul Valery, "La conquete de l'ubiquite"
Halley: "So what's the deal with THE STORY of the Ford Thunderbird with it's luxurious Nudo leather seats?"
Stavros (oldest one located): "As promised : I was in the toilet, from whence many of my best thoughts seem to emanate, and the phrase 'cultural cargo cult' sprang, fully formed, into my mind. It was early in the morning, and I see no real connection with my dream about the Irish Monk who required that I bring him the largest lettuce leaf I could in order for him to fashion a cloak from it, for me. The leaf I managed somehow to unwrap from a perfectly normal head of lettuce was not only purple, but approximately the size of a bedsheet."
For too many blogs--especially the old radio blogs--it's nearly impossible to find out how far back posts go. Add to that fact that too many of you have moved to new blog tools and homes without leaving a "from whence you came" link back to your old sites, means that we've lost the connection to the old-new you.
If I missed you and you don't want to be missed, leave a link to your first post from a few years back here, in my comments box.
We were a funny lot. Now we're just a lot.
Alright, let's rip off a few posts here
I don't have a lot of time. Therapy beckons. Listen, I have this summer cold thing and It's got my dander up. Not really, I just thought "dander up" would be a good search phrase for finding this blog. But it does have me off my feed, which is a good thing, given my blood pressure of late, and so I gave in and started taking those blood pressure pills today.
I woke up and thought, well I haven't taken my blood pressure in two days and I'm feeling pretty good--been exercising finally, dropped a couple of the dozens of pounds I'm looking to shed, have been swimming every day, am tan finally. It ought to be back down to the 120/8o it was six weeks ago before my surgery, when I was in far worse health.
Right?
176/110--HOLY! I was waiting for the stroke to hit on the way to the sink to take my first BenecarHCT. [[yes, I checked it three times. Yes it was up that high all morning.]]
Well I took it. People let me know I'd likely be hitting the bathroom more since it's a diuretic. SP? no time to check spelling. But I haven't noticed much difference.
I took it about six hours ago.
Hold on, I'll go check my BP right now.
Everyone--on the count of three, make me relax. Ready? ONE-TWO-THREE!
149/89!
GOOD JOB everyone. Happily boarderline this afternoon.
I woke up and thought, well I haven't taken my blood pressure in two days and I'm feeling pretty good--been exercising finally, dropped a couple of the dozens of pounds I'm looking to shed, have been swimming every day, am tan finally. It ought to be back down to the 120/8o it was six weeks ago before my surgery, when I was in far worse health.
Right?
176/110--HOLY! I was waiting for the stroke to hit on the way to the sink to take my first BenecarHCT. [[yes, I checked it three times. Yes it was up that high all morning.]]
Well I took it. People let me know I'd likely be hitting the bathroom more since it's a diuretic. SP? no time to check spelling. But I haven't noticed much difference.
I took it about six hours ago.
Hold on, I'll go check my BP right now.
Everyone--on the count of three, make me relax. Ready? ONE-TWO-THREE!
149/89!
GOOD JOB everyone. Happily boarderline this afternoon.
Shades of Summer to Come...
"MOM-DAD! QUICK! OH MY GOSH! We have to order this NOW off the computer! You know those fortune cookies I like? On this website, YOU CAN GET ONE BILLION OF THEM FOR JUST $5.95! A BILLION OF THEM!!!"
"A billion? You're saying a billion fortune cookies? It can't be a billion. That'd fill the whole house, the whole neighborhood maybe."
"IT'S A BILLION, YES! FOR $5.95! It says '1 bl! For just $5.95--I have that in the bank!'"
"Are you sure it's not 1 lb.?"
"I don't know--I'LL GO LOOK!!!" [feet running through the house.] "MOM-DAD? Yah, it's 'lb.'
"That's a pound then, not a billion."
"So how big is a pound?"
"Plenty."
"Okay, let's git-em!" [dancing off through the house.]
"A billion? You're saying a billion fortune cookies? It can't be a billion. That'd fill the whole house, the whole neighborhood maybe."
"IT'S A BILLION, YES! FOR $5.95! It says '1 bl! For just $5.95--I have that in the bank!'"
"Are you sure it's not 1 lb.?"
"I don't know--I'LL GO LOOK!!!" [feet running through the house.] "MOM-DAD? Yah, it's 'lb.'
"That's a pound then, not a billion."
"So how big is a pound?"
"Plenty."
"Okay, let's git-em!" [dancing off through the house.]
May 17, 2005
Tickling IBM's Big Blue Funny Bone
Right Back At Me: Responsible Engagement in Inhaling and Exhaling from James Snell. Man, I was going to write up the breathing guidelines, but James beat me to it!
Guidelines for IBM Breathers: Executive Summary
Know and follow IBM's Breathing Conduct Guidelines
- Breathing, circulation and other forms of biological functions are individual processes.
- IBMers are personally responsible for the air they inhale and exhale. Be mindful that the air you consume is being shared by others.
- Identify yourself -- name and, when relevant, role at IBM -- when you breath.
- Breathe in the first person. You must make it clear that you are breathing for yourself and not on behalf of IBM.
- If any air you exhale has something to do with work you do or subjects associated with IBM, use a disclaimer such as this: "The air I exhale is my own
and does not necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions." - Respect polution, smoking and financial disclosure laws.
- Do not disclose IBM's or another's confidential or other proprietary information while breathing.
- Don't exhale on clients, partners or suppliers without their approval.
- Show proper consideration for others right to breathe
- Find out who else is breathing and exhale towards them
- Don't pick fights, be the first to smell your own bad breath, and don't alter previously exhaled air without indicating that you have done so.
- Try to add value, and for goodness sakes use a breath mint.
May 16, 2005
IBM Today Okayed Breathing. Set Guidlines for Air Suckers
For Immediate Release
ARMONK, NY -- May 16, 2005 -- As has been reported on a variety of blogs around the net, IBM today began encouraging all 320,000+ employees world wide to consider engaging actively in the practice of breathing.
This move follows several years of persistent grassroots efforts by an informal community of IBM employees who breathe. Aerobic leaders like Sam Ruby, Grady Booch, Robert Sutor, and anaerobic leaders like Ed Brill and Catherine Helzerman, have played a very significant role in this effort by providing excellent models for other IBMers to follow as they inhale oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide.
"With IBMers breathing both inside and outside our environment, the company recognized full well that it was time to formalize its support for what many of us had been doing for quite some time," said IBM's James Snell, exhaling as he finshed his sentence.
Okay, I'm just having some fun.
Men and their Moms
It's funny that when a discussion emerges about lackluster linking to women's voices, some guys never fail to bring their mothers. Theirs or someone else's.
It looks to me as though some men's way of getting defensive is to say--But I love my mom!
That's cool that you love mom. That's GREAT in fact. It is a wonderful thing when a child-parent relationship is healthy and loving. I hope my kid says the same thing when she's 30, 40, 50. If I make it that far.
But, I was thinking last week, that if it was the daughters of these men (Marc has one I think; Dave I don't know) coming to them as grown women, accomplished in technology or related feilds (just like Dad(s)), and who happened to also be great writers, saying: "They don't hear me, Dad; they don't even want to listen," THEN would these same men notice with just a bit more sincerity what really happens "out here"? What it looks like beyond their blogstep? If their own daughters told them how it feels, would they tell those same women to go be a mom so that one day their sons can link to them?
We are your moms. We are also your wives, your daughters, your grandmothers, your whores, your starletts, your nurses, your mistresses, your teachers, your proctologists, your politicians.
Okay?
It looks to me as though some men's way of getting defensive is to say--But I love my mom!
That's cool that you love mom. That's GREAT in fact. It is a wonderful thing when a child-parent relationship is healthy and loving. I hope my kid says the same thing when she's 30, 40, 50. If I make it that far.
But, I was thinking last week, that if it was the daughters of these men (Marc has one I think; Dave I don't know) coming to them as grown women, accomplished in technology or related feilds (just like Dad(s)), and who happened to also be great writers, saying: "They don't hear me, Dad; they don't even want to listen," THEN would these same men notice with just a bit more sincerity what really happens "out here"? What it looks like beyond their blogstep? If their own daughters told them how it feels, would they tell those same women to go be a mom so that one day their sons can link to them?
We are your moms. We are also your wives, your daughters, your grandmothers, your whores, your starletts, your nurses, your mistresses, your teachers, your proctologists, your politicians.
Okay?
Goal #2
Let us never take commenting for granted, the act of which is but one inaliable blog right our foreparents gave their lives for.
(I dunno what's wrong with YACCS today. In my case, probably down due to lack of weekend use. het-hem.)
(I dunno what's wrong with YACCS today. In my case, probably down due to lack of weekend use. het-hem.)
May 15, 2005
Once Again, I get to say HA HA HA.
Dan Pink names the research that proves it:
I write best in the prone position. Plain fact. All my life. From birth-through-40s. From homework to real work. From algebra to Noka. From Emerson to IBM.
So THERE, I say to all who make fun of me for working lying down on my bed. Yes indeed. My desk is a king-size mattress, my cubemate is a TV, and my bathroom is a mere six steps away. If I had the coffee maker up here, there's no telling what I could create.
When in Rome...
Research to be published today in the journal Cognitive Brain Research suggests that we're more creative lying down than standing up. In a study conducted by a psychologist at the Australian National University, subjects solved anagrams faster in a prone position than while standing. What's behind these results? Noradrenaline. That's a neurotransmitter that enhances the more focused aspects of cognitive ability, but in the process may impair the symphonic thinking associated with creativity. When we lie down, however, we release less noradrenaline -- and therefore our creativity may encounter fewer impediments. If this is right, I see a huge market in adult-sized kindergarten nap mats. Posted on 05/11.
I write best in the prone position. Plain fact. All my life. From birth-through-40s. From homework to real work. From algebra to Noka. From Emerson to IBM.
So THERE, I say to all who make fun of me for working lying down on my bed. Yes indeed. My desk is a king-size mattress, my cubemate is a TV, and my bathroom is a mere six steps away. If I had the coffee maker up here, there's no telling what I could create.
When in Rome...
A post in which I rant about people
People that pretend to be who they aren't really chafe my scrote, in the words of the illustrious wonderpoultry. I am so fed up with people who pretend so often in their daily goings on that they don't even know they're pretending anymore. They don't know how rediculous they sound as they tell their secret stories to you--and you already know them--and they shove pretense down the throats of the unwary. I am so overwhelmed by them. I am so sick and tired of the up and the down and the be my friend, be mine not, let me be around you so I can chafe your scrote, just so you can let me know who I can shit on today. Well no way. I say no damn way. You know what, you motherfuckers? You go iritate and subjugate your own selves and the horses you rode your selfish asses in on. You chafe your own scrote. You listen to your own self for five fucking minutes and see if you can believe yourself without vomiting your very heart and soul--as if you HAD any heart and soul. And if I let them, OH people make me crazy. OHH they make me crazy. And they wonder why I shut down. What do you expect us to do--every one of us worth a damn? What do you think we're going to do--that's right, we're going to take your motherfucking cues and shut it down. I look at the hamsters. That's as complex as it needs to be. She takes care of them. They learn to take care of themselves. Their is compassion, concern, correction, respect, fun, play, eat, sleep. NO FUCKING HEADGAMES WITH HAMSTERS. You see? Sure their brains are the size of what, a seed?, but that's not the point. The point is that they are not pretending animals. They are real animals. They are instinctual not coniving. They know that survival is optional--they use their time and attention wisely. COULD YOU TAKE A CLUE? They eat their young for a reason.
Remember that, okay? They eat ther young for a damn reason.
If you don't get it now, I can't help you.
Love,
allied
Remember that, okay? They eat ther young for a damn reason.
If you don't get it now, I can't help you.
Love,
allied
With My Penchant for Ramen...
It's no wonder I dig this post from The Black Table on How to Eat at the Dollar Store.
"
Read on for all the dollar store gourmet treats you may never need.
This post is NSS - Not Sodium Safe
"
Since most dollar stores sell some form of food as well, can the same thing be said about their edibles? Can a person actually make a reasonable meal out of food bought at a dollar store? I decided to go to a couple and find out myself. Figuring that all I was going to find was No-Frills Corn Chips and cans of Shasta, I was quite surprised when I turned down the grocery aisle; there was a lot of stuff there. However, in order to make something that constitutes a filling, edible meal, some creativity is still needed.
Read on for all the dollar store gourmet treats you may never need.
Your edible meat choices at the dollar store pretty much come down to tuna, tuna and tuna. Sure, there are other options, but they consist of meat whose origin, both with regards to location on the planet and on the animal itself, is questionable. Besides the aforementioned corned beef hash, other meat-like products that I did not put in my basket included Vienna sausages, off-brand chili and turkey SPAM.
I did, however, throw some Dinty Moore Chicken Stew in the basket. When I look back on it, I have no idea why.
This post is NSS - Not Sodium Safe
Besides 4 stalks of Celery each day...
I need tips for bringing blood pressure down. Was previously 120-130/80-87. I went hypertensive during surgery five weeks ago and have been ever since. Can't get it down. Doc wants to put me on BenecarHCT. I'm trying to reinvent myself to avoid yet another drug. Tips welcome.
And yes, I'm already on top of the celery thing. Yum yum--it tastes better these days.
And yes, I'm already on top of the celery thing. Yum yum--it tastes better these days.
Moving
My sister and her husband have decided to move out of Georgia. They claim that the genesis ofthis decision comes from the increasing expense of living in the area, and the growing population/congestion issues. But I just don't see it. At least not in their rather limited travels around the area.
What I do see is property values on the rise still, and Cobb County wth some of the lowest taxes you'll find anyplace. We have a great house on 3/4 of an acre and our property tax is $800 a year. It was three times that in Rochester for a crap house on a postage-stamp-size lot.
Stores? got em. Entertainment? got it. Culture? Well, you have to drive a ways for that. Traffic/congestion? That too. But it seems to me the people who complain about traffic the most are the people who never venture past their local Publix.
Now retired, my sister and brother-in-law can live anywhere they can afford on a modest retirement income--there is no requirement to be near suitable employment. So where do they say they're moving?
Oklahoma.
What I do see is property values on the rise still, and Cobb County wth some of the lowest taxes you'll find anyplace. We have a great house on 3/4 of an acre and our property tax is $800 a year. It was three times that in Rochester for a crap house on a postage-stamp-size lot.
Stores? got em. Entertainment? got it. Culture? Well, you have to drive a ways for that. Traffic/congestion? That too. But it seems to me the people who complain about traffic the most are the people who never venture past their local Publix.
Now retired, my sister and brother-in-law can live anywhere they can afford on a modest retirement income--there is no requirement to be near suitable employment. So where do they say they're moving?
Oklahoma.
May 13, 2005
You have GOT to own a Hamster!
I counted eight babies. Jenna counted nine. Don't ask me--ask Coco.
It appears our litter of baby hamster pups are doing quite well. The little buggers' eyes opened yesterday (they're about 13 days old now), and they're leaving the nest several times a day. They drag one another around the cage, each grabbing the end of a baby carrot. They fall in their food dish. They drag dog biscuits back into the nest. They scurry and hurry. And they are so tiny. Smaller than my thumb. And amazing.
The mama sits on top of the wooden hamster house that covers her nest more and more. She's watching them grow. She doesn't have to pick them up and carry them back inside the nest anymore. In fact, I think she likes it when they're out and about. I saw her teach one of the babies how to use the metal hamster wheel last night. She waited and he got in next to her, beside her, as she walked off her post-partum tummy.
Today one of the little guys got on the wheel by himself. He had no problem making it spin, even though he weighs less than a thimble.
The living room smells, yes. Shavings and nesting material are in corners where they'll likely never be fished (or vacuumed) out. I need to buy more shavings and I'm low on dough. Even the little babies manage to bite. And despite all of that, I can't stop marveling at these magnificent creatures.
It appears our litter of baby hamster pups are doing quite well. The little buggers' eyes opened yesterday (they're about 13 days old now), and they're leaving the nest several times a day. They drag one another around the cage, each grabbing the end of a baby carrot. They fall in their food dish. They drag dog biscuits back into the nest. They scurry and hurry. And they are so tiny. Smaller than my thumb. And amazing.
The mama sits on top of the wooden hamster house that covers her nest more and more. She's watching them grow. She doesn't have to pick them up and carry them back inside the nest anymore. In fact, I think she likes it when they're out and about. I saw her teach one of the babies how to use the metal hamster wheel last night. She waited and he got in next to her, beside her, as she walked off her post-partum tummy.
Today one of the little guys got on the wheel by himself. He had no problem making it spin, even though he weighs less than a thimble.
The living room smells, yes. Shavings and nesting material are in corners where they'll likely never be fished (or vacuumed) out. I need to buy more shavings and I'm low on dough. Even the little babies manage to bite. And despite all of that, I can't stop marveling at these magnificent creatures.
Summer in the South
The pool that Jenna and I go to in the summer is open year round. It's not because it's heated or anything. Oh no. Quite the opposite. Because it's an olympic-size pool (it was the largest in the U.S. when it was built in the 1950s), it stays cooooold until about August. Anyway, the reason they leave the pool open all year is that it's too expensive to empty and refill, and no one is stupid enough to get in during the winter. Well, not no one. There are a few each winter who are that brave.
Anyway, today we snuck over and in, and others came too, to enjoy the sun and brave the 60-degree water if you dare. Jenna dared--all the kids dared. I finally dared too. HOLY it was cold. But beautifully cold. Flesh numbing cold against yellow hot sun. The sky was perfect blue, the color of the water's reflection. The throngs of pool goers won't show up until memorial day, so it was quieter than usual.
Before we knew it, we'd been there five hours. Jenna's already tan. I'm red, but it will fade by tomorrow. Tomorrow--when I hope to have the same kind of afternoon as today--except I want to remember some sunscreen and a good book.
The school year ends on Friday. The pool's primed and ready.
Summer's here.
Anyway, today we snuck over and in, and others came too, to enjoy the sun and brave the 60-degree water if you dare. Jenna dared--all the kids dared. I finally dared too. HOLY it was cold. But beautifully cold. Flesh numbing cold against yellow hot sun. The sky was perfect blue, the color of the water's reflection. The throngs of pool goers won't show up until memorial day, so it was quieter than usual.
Before we knew it, we'd been there five hours. Jenna's already tan. I'm red, but it will fade by tomorrow. Tomorrow--when I hope to have the same kind of afternoon as today--except I want to remember some sunscreen and a good book.
The school year ends on Friday. The pool's primed and ready.
Summer's here.
Exciting
We're doing a great blog-related project for a new b-i-g client. When I can share more I will. In the mean time, understand that they're beginning to understand. They're a little confused. That's good, because we can help. This is all just too fun.
May 12, 2005
Hello, Is This That Lisa?
I talked to a client today in the mid-west--it was an introductory conference call after winning the business (yay!) on which the client had two colleagues join her.
So, she's introducing her colleagues to us, one of whom says that her name is Lisa Williams, and I -- not knowing right off the top of my head where Lisa Williams lives -- found myself choking back a yelp of--"Is this the blogging Lisa Williams?"
Instead, during the call, while still listening attentively, I went to Lisa's weblog and saw references to the Berkman Center and decided, then, that this Lisa was probably not that Lisa.
Still, I was smiling. How cool would that have been?
So, she's introducing her colleagues to us, one of whom says that her name is Lisa Williams, and I -- not knowing right off the top of my head where Lisa Williams lives -- found myself choking back a yelp of--"Is this the blogging Lisa Williams?"
Instead, during the call, while still listening attentively, I went to Lisa's weblog and saw references to the Berkman Center and decided, then, that this Lisa was probably not that Lisa.
Still, I was smiling. How cool would that have been?
I want to do what Joi does with his Tags and Google
I like the little box Joi uses to categorize his posts via tags. I have no idea how he does this. How any of you are doing this.
I haven't jumped onto the tag bandwagon for a big reason. It may be a misconception on my part, or it may just be part of blogging too soon. My worry is my archives. I have years worth of posts here--over 2000--and if I start tagging from here forward, I would be neglecting some of my most important writing--the earlier stuff. At the same time, I can simply not imagine going back through 2000 posts to classify and tag what has come before.
The tag angel on my right shoulder says, "You should get on board with the taggers sweetheart, if you're not there, then you're not there." The tag devil on my left shoulder says, "Screw tags. You're a poet." The tag angel on my right shoulder says, "Yes, but will it be any easier when you've got 20,000 posts to go back through?" And the tag devil on my left shoulder says, "Don't worry; you'll be dead before then."
How are you responding to your tag devils and angels today?
I haven't jumped onto the tag bandwagon for a big reason. It may be a misconception on my part, or it may just be part of blogging too soon. My worry is my archives. I have years worth of posts here--over 2000--and if I start tagging from here forward, I would be neglecting some of my most important writing--the earlier stuff. At the same time, I can simply not imagine going back through 2000 posts to classify and tag what has come before.
The tag angel on my right shoulder says, "You should get on board with the taggers sweetheart, if you're not there, then you're not there." The tag devil on my left shoulder says, "Screw tags. You're a poet." The tag angel on my right shoulder says, "Yes, but will it be any easier when you've got 20,000 posts to go back through?" And the tag devil on my left shoulder says, "Don't worry; you'll be dead before then."
How are you responding to your tag devils and angels today?
May 11, 2005
You with graphical abilities, a pox I say!
Enjoy this poetry unless you are a grafical magician who did not heed my post begging yous to make me a little non-fancy icon for my sessum podcasts ... If that be you, then you must go WRITE two new poems yourself as punishment. AND post them. Here too--in comments. Now Go!
[[Jeff is great, but anna really rocks because she did the work for me!]]
Unspoken
Away
[[Jeff is great, but anna really rocks because she did the work for me!]]
Unspoken
Away
Hamster Notes
They come out of the nest at 10 days and they are blind and so they run around using only smell and they are not afraid. The mother, on the other hand, needs valium. I had to finally change the TWO WEEK OLD BEDDING in the cage today. You can't disturb the nest before 10 days are up. I waited a little longer. HOLY RIPE. We had ants that had found a home in there it had been funked for so long. Anyway, when I put the babies back in, I got to count them.
8 little babies.
weeee!
8 little babies.
weeee!
The Loneliness Was There Before We Were...
He fights the ticks and the shouts. I feel bad for him that he is alone. But I can't change him nor can I save him, nor can I cure his loneliness by sacrificing myself.
His lonliness goes so deep that it can't be cured.
Tish G. takes us home with herto say goodbye to her mother. Her father's distress becomes palpable.
It's just like this.
PR Practitioners Need Apply
Good discussion going on over at David's place on hypothetical and not-so-hypothetical dilemmas facing PR people in helping clients join existing, risky, and sometimes frisky conversations AND helping them respond to conflict.
Good advice. Chime in you flacks.
Good advice. Chime in you flacks.
wanna make me an icon or two?
I want a graphic (gif or jpg) to use when I am posting a link to a podcast/mp3 so that you valued and valuable readers know you're going to hear my voice, not go hopping off on my latest textual fantasy.
Actually, I'd like two little icons--one that says podcast (are some of these out there already as CC-usable?) And one little icon that says Pod Poem or Pod Poetry to let you know that a reading from allied's poetry library is coming your way.
Okay. So, that's what I want for mother's day.
(Wooops. Late again.)
Actually, I'd like two little icons--one that says podcast (are some of these out there already as CC-usable?) And one little icon that says Pod Poem or Pod Poetry to let you know that a reading from allied's poetry library is coming your way.
Okay. So, that's what I want for mother's day.
(Wooops. Late again.)
May 09, 2005
I am a mother
Mother's day feels like whiplash to me.
I perseverate about whether or not to reach out to my mother, who I've been estranged from (read finally erected big tall boundaries between) for three years. The story is too long to tell, and much of it is hers to tell, and so I won't tell it. You see, it's one I can't believe myself, which is why it took me 40 years to tell it to myself.
For now, our relationship has to be this way. Did I say we lived 3 miles apart? Yes we do. It is quite simple. I love her so much. I ran for my life. I'm allowed to do that. She loves me so much. There is more in that. And so I run still. Or maybe I've stopped. I'm trying to figure that out.
I have always been very responsible for my mother's feelings, especially her happy ones, especially since such a focus enables me to completely ignore what I'm feeling or how I'm hurting myself. You do that shit long enough, you get on your own nerves.
So instead of doing what I could never imagine myself not doing, this mother's day I went to a park with Jenna, one of my friends and her two children. I watched geese skim the pond while the children climbed and slid on the playground.
We met an old tiny dog with a bandana as big as he was--one of those teeny tiny dogs that could easily be killed by a single sneaker mis-step, so you wonder, how has he lived so long? He was cool. Jenna almost stole him. She told me she wants a small dog. She will keep it in her Cinderella tent. "Little dogs make little messes, Mom."
And that's when it hits me, it's halfway through the day, I'm half present and half grappling with my own grief over unsolvable problems, when I realize, "Hey, I'm a mother too," a fact that had nearly escaped me in my reverie over The Situation. It's okay to enjoy the sun and it's okay to eat a half of an Ultimate sub with jalapenos, and it's okay to let this one be mine, and it's okay to be alone, away, without, with.
That night, when George got home from work, we met the other couple, with our kids in tow, at the Japanese Steak House for a really happy dinner.
I was interrupted by the heavy thud only every hour or so reminding me of all that I've lost, all that I never had. Remiding me that I can't do anything--nothing--to change the parts of "what is" that I'd most like to change. Reminding me that what makes no sense cannot be suddenly made sensible.
But I am a mother too. And it matters.
I perseverate about whether or not to reach out to my mother, who I've been estranged from (read finally erected big tall boundaries between) for three years. The story is too long to tell, and much of it is hers to tell, and so I won't tell it. You see, it's one I can't believe myself, which is why it took me 40 years to tell it to myself.
For now, our relationship has to be this way. Did I say we lived 3 miles apart? Yes we do. It is quite simple. I love her so much. I ran for my life. I'm allowed to do that. She loves me so much. There is more in that. And so I run still. Or maybe I've stopped. I'm trying to figure that out.
I have always been very responsible for my mother's feelings, especially her happy ones, especially since such a focus enables me to completely ignore what I'm feeling or how I'm hurting myself. You do that shit long enough, you get on your own nerves.
So instead of doing what I could never imagine myself not doing, this mother's day I went to a park with Jenna, one of my friends and her two children. I watched geese skim the pond while the children climbed and slid on the playground.
We met an old tiny dog with a bandana as big as he was--one of those teeny tiny dogs that could easily be killed by a single sneaker mis-step, so you wonder, how has he lived so long? He was cool. Jenna almost stole him. She told me she wants a small dog. She will keep it in her Cinderella tent. "Little dogs make little messes, Mom."
And that's when it hits me, it's halfway through the day, I'm half present and half grappling with my own grief over unsolvable problems, when I realize, "Hey, I'm a mother too," a fact that had nearly escaped me in my reverie over The Situation. It's okay to enjoy the sun and it's okay to eat a half of an Ultimate sub with jalapenos, and it's okay to let this one be mine, and it's okay to be alone, away, without, with.
That night, when George got home from work, we met the other couple, with our kids in tow, at the Japanese Steak House for a really happy dinner.
I was interrupted by the heavy thud only every hour or so reminding me of all that I've lost, all that I never had. Remiding me that I can't do anything--nothing--to change the parts of "what is" that I'd most like to change. Reminding me that what makes no sense cannot be suddenly made sensible.
But I am a mother too. And it matters.
If You Were A Hamster's Mother
You would spend day ten after the birth of your children -- a dozen or less, who now break out of the nest two or three at a time about every 5.5 seconds -- picking them up, one by one, and carrying them back inside the nest. In between, you'd grab a piece of dried corn or a few seeds. You would stuff them in your cheek and hope not to choke on them as you drag your still-blind babies back -- over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.
THAT's what you would do if you were a hamster's mother.
THAT's what you would do if you were a hamster's mother.
May 08, 2005
It's not going to be the people podcasting...
It's going to be those you trust the most to send you what you want to hear--they will make the difference. In other words, the BoingBoing.net of podcasting. Set it to BoingBoing Podcasts and know that whatever has been integrated into that feed will make you pee your pants or sweat bullets on the way to work, home, or play.
Because you trust them to be funny and absurd and to serve you up the best of funny and absurd. There is a layer of interpretation that you don't have time to do. That's (make believe) boingboing podcasts job.
I don't want Jeneane, I don't want Adam Curry, I don't want George Burns and Gracie Allen. I want the best of all of them, and I don't need the worst of them, and bring me six more just like them.
Open Media THAT motherfuckers.
Because you trust them to be funny and absurd and to serve you up the best of funny and absurd. There is a layer of interpretation that you don't have time to do. That's (make believe) boingboing podcasts job.
I don't want Jeneane, I don't want Adam Curry, I don't want George Burns and Gracie Allen. I want the best of all of them, and I don't need the worst of them, and bring me six more just like them.
Open Media THAT motherfuckers.
elephantpoop
| it has been a very long time since I posted this gem of a photo that I manipulated to depict the process flow within the blogosphere. I think it's time to revisit. |  elephantpoop Originally uploaded by Jeneane. |
Calling the MSM
This is Jenna, on the phone with the Times about the turnaround story of everyone's clamoring for: Coco, the infamous "bad mother" hamster, has been rehabbed from a baby eater into mother of the year.
It doesn't happen every day. "Spell that, J-E-N-N-A."
It doesn't happen every day. "Spell that, J-E-N-N-A."
Happy Mother's Day, Baby
Coco (now Melanie) and Marshmallow (now Max)
Sitting in some shavings
m-i-s-s-be-havin'....
Here is the lovely couple.
I believe you have all met the mother in question, Miss Coco Melanie:
Now I would like you to meet Mr. Stud Muffin himself, Mr. Marshmallow Max:
With looks like these, the kids have to be smokin'. AKA: you want one you know you do.
Sitting in some shavings
m-i-s-s-be-havin'....
Here is the lovely couple.
I believe you have all met the mother in question, Miss Coco Melanie:
Now I would like you to meet Mr. Stud Muffin himself, Mr. Marshmallow Max:
With looks like these, the kids have to be smokin'. AKA: you want one you know you do.
Having Your Babies.... or FREE HAMSTERS!
ALRIGHT--WE ARE HAPPY TO ANNOUNCE IN OUR THIRD TRIMESTER POST-BIRTH, the winners in the Technorati Open Legs Award Category for "Most Babies Eaten in a Single Litter Whose Parents Went On to Produce Real Live Babies!" (I think that means the dead babies win? Or the live ones? Or does it depend what the meaning of 'win' is?)
YES! WE WON! And it was a long road to the winner's circle. But as of today, many (shhh, it's a family secret) of the baby hamsters in litter #2 have survived!!!!
Our babymaking days can now thankfully cease. And with that, we introduce the new brood of Max and Melanie (formerly Marshmallow and CoCo) below:
Aren't they just so sweet!? I KNOW! You simply MUST have one!
YES! WE WON! And it was a long road to the winner's circle. But as of today, many (shhh, it's a family secret) of the baby hamsters in litter #2 have survived!!!!
Our babymaking days can now thankfully cease. And with that, we introduce the new brood of Max and Melanie (formerly Marshmallow and CoCo) below:
Aren't they just so sweet!? I KNOW! You simply MUST have one!
The whole thing
My instincts are to just let this award hoopla pass, except that I can't because then the people I think should be considered won't have a voice into the Open Media awards/honors/whatever-they-get from AOTechnorati100 .
As for the "Founding Fathers" misnomer, read blogHer to find out who said what. I think Dave Sifry's reply in comments, and his swift category name change to "Pioneers" represent a good way to handle these things. He didn't moan and groan and accuse the world of berating the American White Male. He fixed it. Nice. Whether or not this conversation will affect the grander blogosphere's consideration of women nominees remains to be seen.
Dave Rogers raised the most important questions (gender neutral!) in comments here:
I am hoping Technorati and Co. handle giving us answers to these process/methodology questions as elegantly as Dave did handling the Founding Fathers thang.
But the larger questions Dave raises are not unrelated to the discussion over at Shelley's place about blogrolls.
Shit.
When did we all begin taking this place so seriously?
We need a sensibility transplant in the blogosphere.
And yet, here I am, debating whether or not to give my two cents as to nominees. Or to remain on the sideline.
I think I will list the people I'd like to see in these categories. However, I'm not kidding myself that listing them will mean anything in the long run. And I'm only listing in categories I understand. There sure are a lot of categories they forgot. In ABC Order, I submit:
Pioneers
Rebecca Blood
Christopher Locke/RageBoy
Shelley Powers
Dave Winer
Tool Smiths
Stewart Butterfield
Caterina Fake
Mena Trott
Ev Wiliams
Trendsetters
Roxanne Cooper
Aaron Hawkins (posthumously)
Blog Sisters
Stavrosthewonderchicken
Practitioners
George Kelley
Liza Sabater
Jason Toney
David Weinberger
Enablers
The Joi Ito Category.
(Is there anyone else?)
As for the "Founding Fathers" misnomer, read blogHer to find out who said what. I think Dave Sifry's reply in comments, and his swift category name change to "Pioneers" represent a good way to handle these things. He didn't moan and groan and accuse the world of berating the American White Male. He fixed it. Nice. Whether or not this conversation will affect the grander blogosphere's consideration of women nominees remains to be seen.
Dave Rogers raised the most important questions (gender neutral!) in comments here:
First, what is the basis for believing that AlwaysOn and Technorati are entities that are worthy of bestowing "honor" on anything or anyone?
Second, what indicates a need for "a framework of this emerging industry?" What is the framework for? Who will use the framework and to what end?
Third, isn't the purpose of this list really to draw attention to Technorati and AlwaysOn? Don't those two entities have a need for attention that is greater than any "need" for a "framework of this emerging industry?"
Finally, where's all the transparency here? After all the nominations are submitted, who will decide? Are they really nominations, or votes? What is the process for final enumeration of the list?
I am hoping Technorati and Co. handle giving us answers to these process/methodology questions as elegantly as Dave did handling the Founding Fathers thang.
But the larger questions Dave raises are not unrelated to the discussion over at Shelley's place about blogrolls.
Shit.
When did we all begin taking this place so seriously?
We need a sensibility transplant in the blogosphere.
And yet, here I am, debating whether or not to give my two cents as to nominees. Or to remain on the sideline.
I think I will list the people I'd like to see in these categories. However, I'm not kidding myself that listing them will mean anything in the long run. And I'm only listing in categories I understand. There sure are a lot of categories they forgot. In ABC Order, I submit:
Pioneers
Rebecca Blood
Christopher Locke/RageBoy
Shelley Powers
Dave Winer
Tool Smiths
Stewart Butterfield
Caterina Fake
Mena Trott
Ev Wiliams
Trendsetters
Roxanne Cooper
Aaron Hawkins (posthumously)
Blog Sisters
Stavrosthewonderchicken
Practitioners
George Kelley
Liza Sabater
Jason Toney
David Weinberger
Enablers
The Joi Ito Category.
(Is there anyone else?)
May 06, 2005
Podcast Friday
A series of Pod Poems for your evening enjoyment...
Poem #1 - Weblog Therapy
Poem #2 - Swallow
Poem #3 - Sea Breeze
Poem #1 - Weblog Therapy
Poem #2 - Swallow
Poem #3 - Sea Breeze
JS-MSM
I talked to the writer from the Minnesota Women's Press about a month ago. She was asking about women and blogging for an article she was writing. The resulting article is here. She got details about me wrong, and I think I sound like a goofball in the begining (doing what she does for a living, I know the difference between making someone's quotes sound better and making them sound worse), but I like my ending quote and I think I actually said that.
I was talking about my blog brothers.
I couldn't exactly say this to her:
That would have been a really long quote.
.
I was talking about my blog brothers.
I couldn't exactly say this to her:
I like it when I get time to write. Write what I want. Here. Not what I get paid to write. Out there.
I remember when we used to finish one another's ideas. Here. A few years back. My favorite thing was to bake words with my blog brothers. That was then, before blogging required that every post be a well-formulated thesis--an entity in and of itself--flawless and final in it's daily decree for the masses to imbibe and link to. That was before pundits mattered.
Then, we jammed some. I might throw out an idea. Half baked. Not baked. Raw. Uncooked. Kind of embarrassing, but all our asses were hanging out anyway. Who cares. And someone would grab it. Gary often. And he'd throw in a handfull of chocolate chips, or he'd mean to anyway, but usually it was coffee beans. Gary was never good at telling those things apart. And then Mike would go off on the thing. And I mean off. Just off and run with it. Jesus. For the love. He would ramble and gamble and put in "print" things that'd make us say, mostly, "Oooooo. Eeeeeks." And how the hell are we supposed to download that, freak? Then Frank, you know, he'd toy with Mike, usually with a joyful zest, but Frank, man, you don't know, he can go off, you just don't see it much, well more now than then. Frank, he'd take it and recap the ingredients so far and then flip the thing right over. Just turn it over. Til you said, OH, I thought it was a pancake, but it's a bison burger! HA! where's my syrup? So Tom would come along, and by crap if he didn't take the damn burger and mold it into the finest fucking filet you've ever seen--and we're going, "Shit, we made this pancake-burger and look at Tom's filet with all that red juice, see he did it again." At which point Marek would walk in and just sit down on that piece of meat. I mean just sit the hell down on it as if he were planting his behind in a leather-backed office chair. As if that's what you do every single day with a fine piece of filet--you just sit your ass on it. And if we were all truly blessed that day, Rageboy would rouse himself long enough to come fuck up the whole works by using the creation as high-gloss latex paint, not as food at all, and we'd go--HA! It's all colors now! And then we'd start all over looking at the entire room, not just the frying pan.
My blog brothers. We made lots of things together out of posts back then.
That would have been a really long quote.
.
The Business of Shelley
Touched by an angel--or a burning bird--I have been fortunate enough to have Shelley Powers doing the redesign for the Sessum homepage. Right now it lives here on Shelley's server. But it should be uploaded soon to our world at sessum.com or gesproductions.com -- depending on how much you feel like typing.
It has been a pleasure to work with Shelley and see our world the way she sees it. The sessum world, as you can see, is a multi-linked place and it has been a hard one for me to organize. I think Shelley's simple, organized, yet elegant design brings structure and light (love the halftone look) to our scattered homes on the web.
Thanks Shelley for everything!
It has been a pleasure to work with Shelley and see our world the way she sees it. The sessum world, as you can see, is a multi-linked place and it has been a hard one for me to organize. I think Shelley's simple, organized, yet elegant design brings structure and light (love the halftone look) to our scattered homes on the web.
Thanks Shelley for everything!
May 05, 2005
Why the Good Lord Gave Us Servers
To stick Chris Rock's Ass Beating video clip on, which has been going around by email in all it's hysterical and multi-meg glory.
What? I had to keep it someplace safe.
What? I had to keep it someplace safe.
Happy To Report...
That the original viral (think mad cow) bovineunite.com site was not the brainchild of Chick-fil-a, as I had anticipated, but instead, of the Maryland State Lottery, or an agency thereof. Tonight this intro page went up.
WTF?
I'm like ready to mooooove to MD.
WTF?
I'm like ready to mooooove to MD.
A Standing O.
Mega kudos for new beta and startup Simply Hired. Search results were on target for writing jobs around here. The blog is nicely done. They're adding features at the speed of Flickr. They've even got a LinkedIn connection for weaving that web of influence. Now THAT'S making use of a social network.
They even have personality:
And while our code reviews may have all the tenderness of an alien probe on your favorite South Park character, we manage to get along with each other pretty well. In fact, we enjoy playing practical jokes around the office with such enthusiasm and regularity that our HR department operates pretty much in a continual state of abject terror.
My My. I'm begining to feel all dot-comish this month. There's a lot of this new energy zipping across the net. It's a beautiful thing.
Thanks, Ev.
Only sorta naked -- you'll thank me later
Proud to be among the panelists for blogHer's personal bloggers' panel. I remembered saying something I liked about blogging naked, so I searched my archives. This was a good one from 2003.
There is, it seems, a constant undercurrent of rumination in the blogworld over how much we say about ourselves, how much we tell, what we show, how far we go, what we don’t disclose, what we hide, where we pull up.
In other words: how public should we be?
I’m noted for being a blogger who’s pretty public, open, honest. I think I am. I hope so, because practicing being real in my blogging has helped me become moreso in my offline life… One feeds the other. I gain insight from the things I say here, insight that helps me be more real with myself.
My archives are testimony to me, they are me looking into my own rear view mirror, thinking things like: “What was I THINKING?” or “Wow, yes, it was like that,” or “I can’t believe I wrote that out loud…How many people read it?” The pattern of re-examination informs me. I grow because of it.
I think too many bloggers get trapped in a catch-22 over self-exposure, though. They start out with a few self-telling, honest, often painful posts, and suddenly put pressure on themselves to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth in all manner of all things on their blogs. Some of us who tend toward very public expression of very private places begin to feel an unreasonable responsibility for 24/7 exposure. Even begin to resent blogging. And who wouldn’t.
Perhaps pure-personal-truth-telling can be sustained, but does it need to be? Who puts the pressure on—-our readers or ourselves?
Unless we’re going to live here, naked, all of us, with a real time voice recording of the goings on inside our heads and hearts, we can’t sustain the open-wound model. And we shouldn’t have to.
At the same time, I’ve cycled through the next part of the honesty phase many times. The next phase is where I pull up. Don’t really have anything to say. Start thinking of deep dark secrets to reveal because the need to name and share these things is still present, but I’ve already told you most of what I want to tell you about the place I’m in.
Generally from there, I gravitate toward humor and absurdity, because that is a universal language. And even in those things, my state of mind is revealed to you.
We don’t need to share everything, you and I.
The important part for me is not writing about those edgy, private, risky places. It’s writing from those places. I have said that before. When deeply personal and volatile things—-real or imagined—-are going on in my life, my inclination is to share them here. But not always. What I do, when life issues are too close to the bone to share, is use the energy and passion and, yes, even panic and pain, to drive what I write here.
You see, so, it’s not writing about the events, it’s letting the associated emotions wash over you, digging down into them, and then writing from that place. Stepping down, as Cixous would say.
So maybe this post is my way of saying to those who have been wondering whether or not they’ve gone too far--those who are anxious about what they’ve written, not written, who knows, who doesn’t—-that you can use that very angst to power your writing. Even when you’re not writing about your current state of mind and heart, we can feel when you’re writing from it. Every single time.
Well, that’s how I do it. Or try to.
May 04, 2005
Outsource to Hamsters
Here's the thing about our hamsters--they work all night. While we sleep, they run the wheel, carry bedding from one place to another, pee outside the cage, and then get back on the wheel and run some more. I was just falling asleep typing and I thought, man, if I could give m hamsters a little analysis capability, we would make the perfect team--like connect their wheel to a keyboard and teach them (by zapping when incorrect--hell what do I care the bitch ate 13 babies) how to type often used phrases over and over again. They could easily seque into a career as a Spam Hamster, making money as they go. Spamsters for short. This new breed--we could engineer them to be perfect at what they do. While we sleep, the Spamsters use their wheel time to spin spam blogs out like butter.
i think it can work. I am half alseep. My eyes are closed. You should know that.
i think it can work. I am half alseep. My eyes are closed. You should know that.
lucid
I had to drive to a client meeting today that was all the way up toward Cumming, which, if you know where kennesaw is, well then you know that is a bottom-line stinky commute, picturing the Pepridge Farm man saying, "You can't get there from hea." And I'm driving and driving and thinking and mostly looking for landmarks in Alpharetta, which, if you know anything about Alpharetta and me, you'd know that the place scares me. Not because it's a "bad area" but because it's a baaaad area. It's affluent and well kept and actually perfect, except that it feels tenuous and not real and like the dead people are just under the roots of the grass waiting to spring to life and eat you like a hamster baby.
That's how Alpharetta feels to me.
I ate a jalapeno cheese burger at sonic. Okay, it rocked pretty well but it was $3.29. And I ran all day and not til 8 did I get to eat dinner, which was a Checker's burger George brought me, which only cost like a buck and tasted better than the Sonic burger.
So that was pretty much my day. It included too much meat and a long drive through a pretend town.
That's how Alpharetta feels to me.
I ate a jalapeno cheese burger at sonic. Okay, it rocked pretty well but it was $3.29. And I ran all day and not til 8 did I get to eat dinner, which was a Checker's burger George brought me, which only cost like a buck and tasted better than the Sonic burger.
So that was pretty much my day. It included too much meat and a long drive through a pretend town.
Brain Closed for Maintenance
Too many ideas. Blew a circuit. Called the head janitor. Kombinat has 24 hour support. I should be up and running shortly.
May 03, 2005
J. Maybe Elvis Downsized By New Pope...
Takes Helm at Kombinat!, the world's first public domain corporation. Allied to help with PR strategy and tactics at Kombinat! - using the patented "First 100 Days of a CEO" quickstart executive blitz learned during Sessum's days at The Agency to help Elvis transition into his new role.
During the first 100 days, Elvis plans to: "basically implement our growth strategies across the entire global business landscape blah blah blah."
###
During the first 100 days, Elvis plans to: "basically implement our growth strategies across the entire global business landscape blah blah blah."
May 02, 2005
May 01, 2005
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)