Is anyone really surprised at this? Arnold a racist. You could knock me over with a feather. The racial slurs are one thing, but what up with not paying the $10K lil Arnold? [[yes, i believe the reports.]]
September 07, 2003
At different times, different things
Blogging means different things at different times to me. Tonight, it is a complete procrastination tool.
Mostly, blogging is breathing. It's something I have to do, to write, to hear my voice, to know I'm alive, you're alive. It's about hearing heart beats. And when I go away from it, the world sounds so loud, but not with beating hearts. More with backfiring cars and pound-pound-pound from the rennovations on the house up the street. How many cars really need to back out of driveways every day? Don't they know?
Tonight though, pure and simple, I'm procrastinating here. I have copy to write. I don't want to write it. I want to hear hearts beating instead.
This is not good.
Looming deadline.
Lots of pages to write.
Why am I hear?
The question is, why do we have to be anyplace else. Darnit.
Okay, I have to do my work now.
More later.
Mostly, blogging is breathing. It's something I have to do, to write, to hear my voice, to know I'm alive, you're alive. It's about hearing heart beats. And when I go away from it, the world sounds so loud, but not with beating hearts. More with backfiring cars and pound-pound-pound from the rennovations on the house up the street. How many cars really need to back out of driveways every day? Don't they know?
Tonight though, pure and simple, I'm procrastinating here. I have copy to write. I don't want to write it. I want to hear hearts beating instead.
This is not good.
Looming deadline.
Lots of pages to write.
Why am I hear?
The question is, why do we have to be anyplace else. Darnit.
Okay, I have to do my work now.
More later.
September 05, 2003
Ketchum Comes Unclued
Lest you think I exaggerate the sad state of BigPR, and its obvious lack of understanding about how to relate to markets on behalf of clients or on behalf of themselves, check out this new Kudos Confidential blog from Ketchum.
I point to this blog because it is a public weblog on blogspot, a place where I've hosted my own blogs for two years plus, a place where I earn my living in ways I'm really beginning to understand, a place where I started the first blogspot resident team weblog back in 2001.
For those who do not know, let me state that Kudos are awards bestowed by Ketchum on "Ketchumites" with the purpose of rewarding employees for delivering results for clients. At least that's how I remember them. I could be wrong. I do remember that the best entries uncoverd during the time-intensive Kudos nomination process were also often submitted for PR Week's Silver Anvil Awards--again, more awards bestowed by those with a vested interest in BigPR to those working in BigPR.
How do you spell, "Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."
The fact that the first official Blog Ketchum has launched on blogspot serves as a back-patting interoffice circle jerk (sorry for the mixed metaphor--I thought it might give you all something to ponder as you drift off to sleep)--masquerading as a hip controversial PR Real World episode--is laughable.
And that's being kind.
It's actually tragic.
It demonstrates perfectly the tragic state of BigPR: The mighty have fallen; get out the violins.
Meanwhile, in the ranks at Ketchum, I know of a few bloggers who do not have an AAE, AE, SAE, VP, SVP or Director title. In fact, they work in a capacity where most of the folks with those titles on their business cards wouldn't think to ask these workers' opinions about marketing, business, and the Internet.
Yet, I would wager that these individual bloggers are tied into more voices, knowledge, business-related interactions, and personal relationships of value by genuinely participating in this space than the highest ranking, highest billing PR Strategist in that same organization.
You see? That is how it's working.
And they don't have a clue.
You may be wondering if I'm risking anything by discussing a former employer this way. Maybe. But I don't see this post that way. I am discussing a Ketchum weblog launched in a public medium--one in which I am a stakeholder. My weblog is an integral part of how I earn a living doing what I do.
In that respect, it is my job to comment on relevant happenings here. Do you see? That any large PR firm would come here with a flawed concept would beg my pointing it out to allied readers.
That's how I see it. And you?
Stupid Tactics from The World of Big-PR Part Deux:
PR spamery alert from Dan Gilmore
And Mitch Kapor weighs in too.
I point to this blog because it is a public weblog on blogspot, a place where I've hosted my own blogs for two years plus, a place where I earn my living in ways I'm really beginning to understand, a place where I started the first blogspot resident team weblog back in 2001.
For those who do not know, let me state that Kudos are awards bestowed by Ketchum on "Ketchumites" with the purpose of rewarding employees for delivering results for clients. At least that's how I remember them. I could be wrong. I do remember that the best entries uncoverd during the time-intensive Kudos nomination process were also often submitted for PR Week's Silver Anvil Awards--again, more awards bestowed by those with a vested interest in BigPR to those working in BigPR.
How do you spell, "Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."
The fact that the first official Blog Ketchum has launched on blogspot serves as a back-patting interoffice circle jerk (sorry for the mixed metaphor--I thought it might give you all something to ponder as you drift off to sleep)--masquerading as a hip controversial PR Real World episode--is laughable.
And that's being kind.
It's actually tragic.
It demonstrates perfectly the tragic state of BigPR: The mighty have fallen; get out the violins.
Meanwhile, in the ranks at Ketchum, I know of a few bloggers who do not have an AAE, AE, SAE, VP, SVP or Director title. In fact, they work in a capacity where most of the folks with those titles on their business cards wouldn't think to ask these workers' opinions about marketing, business, and the Internet.
Yet, I would wager that these individual bloggers are tied into more voices, knowledge, business-related interactions, and personal relationships of value by genuinely participating in this space than the highest ranking, highest billing PR Strategist in that same organization.
You see? That is how it's working.
And they don't have a clue.
You may be wondering if I'm risking anything by discussing a former employer this way. Maybe. But I don't see this post that way. I am discussing a Ketchum weblog launched in a public medium--one in which I am a stakeholder. My weblog is an integral part of how I earn a living doing what I do.
In that respect, it is my job to comment on relevant happenings here. Do you see? That any large PR firm would come here with a flawed concept would beg my pointing it out to allied readers.
That's how I see it. And you?
Stupid Tactics from The World of Big-PR Part Deux:
PR spamery alert from Dan Gilmore
And Mitch Kapor weighs in too.
Bye Bye Big PR
Big PR is not quite dead, but it is dying an agonizing death that's getting difficult to watch. At least for anyone who's suffered through the cubes and brainstorms of large agency life for any time at all. Those of us who remember when what we did really did matter. Just a little. Never a lot. But still, some.
The reason for Big-PR's demise is quite simple: They can't afford to operate without charging inflated rates. That's a pickle. Because those of us out on the market now--the higher-priced talent separated (voluntarily or involuntarily) from Big PR over the last two years--can offer better services at half the price or less.
Where once Big PR boasted about best practices and a global network of communications professionals, they don't have that anymore. Instead, we are the ones creating nimble networks among one another, which are growing larger and more valuable. We are nimble enough (most of us working out of our homes) and lean enough to charge much less and deliver much more. A network of one-off specialists, experts in their areas, linked through the power of the Web and personal contacts.
Voice to voice, we are changing the face of PR and marketing. You heard it here first.
I'm not sure where BigPR thought most of us would go--the army separated veterans. Because many are owned by fat-cow parent companies, my hunch is that their layers of blubber have made it impossible for them to look that far down the organizational food chain. But a whole bunch of us are out here. And we're starting to eat well. And we're working with the clients we used to work with there.
Clients who are old friends. Clients who are happy to pay our rates and get the same work they got for a hell of a lot less.
Yes, it's really happening.
Even the largest of companies are growing tired of BigPR staffing projects with fresh-out-of-college, inexperienced, lower-level people (that is the only category of PR flacks large agencies can afford to keep only partially billable, you see), yet charging as if they were staffing the project with brain surgeons--or attorneys.
It's common for BigPR to bill out an assistant account executive--which is the administrative assistant of PRville--at $120 to $140 an hour. VP's are billing out at nearly $200 an hour, and SVPs commonly around $250 or more per hour.
You tell me.... Why would anyone pay it in a tight economy when they can get smart, senior level people out on their own for around $100 an hour. And thanks to the Web, the same clients who are paying inflated rates to BigPR can tap into an entire network of loosely joined ex-agency talent that shares leads, news, and really cool gossip I wouldn't even tell you about here. We're self organizing, and it ought to scare the pants off of them.
But it doesn't.
Because they can't afford to see that the emperor is walking around butt naked.
The reason for Big-PR's demise is quite simple: They can't afford to operate without charging inflated rates. That's a pickle. Because those of us out on the market now--the higher-priced talent separated (voluntarily or involuntarily) from Big PR over the last two years--can offer better services at half the price or less.
Where once Big PR boasted about best practices and a global network of communications professionals, they don't have that anymore. Instead, we are the ones creating nimble networks among one another, which are growing larger and more valuable. We are nimble enough (most of us working out of our homes) and lean enough to charge much less and deliver much more. A network of one-off specialists, experts in their areas, linked through the power of the Web and personal contacts.
Voice to voice, we are changing the face of PR and marketing. You heard it here first.
I'm not sure where BigPR thought most of us would go--the army separated veterans. Because many are owned by fat-cow parent companies, my hunch is that their layers of blubber have made it impossible for them to look that far down the organizational food chain. But a whole bunch of us are out here. And we're starting to eat well. And we're working with the clients we used to work with there.
Clients who are old friends. Clients who are happy to pay our rates and get the same work they got for a hell of a lot less.
Yes, it's really happening.
Even the largest of companies are growing tired of BigPR staffing projects with fresh-out-of-college, inexperienced, lower-level people (that is the only category of PR flacks large agencies can afford to keep only partially billable, you see), yet charging as if they were staffing the project with brain surgeons--or attorneys.
It's common for BigPR to bill out an assistant account executive--which is the administrative assistant of PRville--at $120 to $140 an hour. VP's are billing out at nearly $200 an hour, and SVPs commonly around $250 or more per hour.
You tell me.... Why would anyone pay it in a tight economy when they can get smart, senior level people out on their own for around $100 an hour. And thanks to the Web, the same clients who are paying inflated rates to BigPR can tap into an entire network of loosely joined ex-agency talent that shares leads, news, and really cool gossip I wouldn't even tell you about here. We're self organizing, and it ought to scare the pants off of them.
But it doesn't.
Because they can't afford to see that the emperor is walking around butt naked.
it's okay Hossein
The status for us YACCS comments users: he's working on it. No problem, Hossein. YACCS has been a reliable comment facility for me for two years. I can wait a few days. Hope it all goes smoothly.
September 04, 2003
Trying
I have just four spare minutes to write. And really, so much, that I'm not sure what to write. I'm trying, you know? I really am. And it is trying. I haven't had five seconds to decompress since the Hospital adventure. For better, I guess, not worse, the work I had basically none of during the past month has all come in at once. And it's hard stuff, not easy stuff.
Jenna's going through some changes. You know? To be expected. She has every right. But the screaming.... Everything at once for her too: start kindergarten, so sick, hospital, needles, daddy home to see her, back to kindergarten, cat gone. All within a week. No wonder she's screaming a lot. She can go from joyous laughter to shrieking in five seconds flat. It's trauma. I know that. And it's also traumatizing.
When will I sleep? Soon I hope. Right now sleep is something I have to have before I can blog more. My mind is muddy, and what little clarity I do have must be savored and saved for Jenna and my paying clients.
So that's it.
Summer winds down and I wonder if things will ever be any different.
Bet you wish I had just stayed quiet.
Jenna's going through some changes. You know? To be expected. She has every right. But the screaming.... Everything at once for her too: start kindergarten, so sick, hospital, needles, daddy home to see her, back to kindergarten, cat gone. All within a week. No wonder she's screaming a lot. She can go from joyous laughter to shrieking in five seconds flat. It's trauma. I know that. And it's also traumatizing.
When will I sleep? Soon I hope. Right now sleep is something I have to have before I can blog more. My mind is muddy, and what little clarity I do have must be savored and saved for Jenna and my paying clients.
So that's it.
Summer winds down and I wonder if things will ever be any different.
Bet you wish I had just stayed quiet.
August 30, 2003
August 29, 2003
the rocky ride with jenna
where do I start? where everything starts and ends: with Jenna. This is my third day at the children's hospital with Jenna. We landed here early wednesday--i think it was wednesday--after three trips to the pediatrician's this week. she wasn't getting better, you see, just worse and worse. by tuesday night she wasn't able to turn her neck at all. the lamebrain 20-something-year-old female doctor sent us home tuesday with the second of two antibiotics to try, which I had to beg her for, the script for which she begrudgingly tossed at me on her way out the door. "I think she should have the opportunity to have what everyone else has--it doesn't have to be something out of the ordinary." This after my saying, "She's getting worse not better." This after her asking me, "What is it that you want?" This prior to me saying, "I WANT you to find out what's wrong and get her better. That is your job."
No, not better. worse. SO back to the peds on weds to see the head doctor of the bunch, who finally did work, who finally announced her white cell count was high, who finally said, "there's something going on here. we should admit her. it's the smart thing to do. she'll be comfortable and they can get the right people on the case."
This prior to me launching into a high gear I didn't know I had, after only three hours sleep the night before, zooming home with her in the back, 102 fever still after days of it, me calling George and having him talk to her while I raced up and down three flights of stairs like a maniac trying to remember what to take to the hospital--medicine, some clothes, the care bear family, some toys. Toss some food out the door to the dogs, hurry hurry. I asked the doctor if I could stop home to pick up some things to take. His words echoed: "Yes, but don't wait too long. Best to get her there. They will be waiting."
This he said before me driving like a mad woman down 75, across 285, her throwing up in our pool towel in the back seat. God, just let me get her there, then I can crumble up.
We made it. She was admitted. This facility is perhaps the most amazing healthcare secret in the U.S. More about that in another post.
To get to where we are...
We've been here for three days, her on antibiotics and fluids via IV, me in the couch bed beside her, them running tests, her turning the corner, starting to get better. Thank you. God, thank you.
Our children are, as parents, all that matters. Really all. Nothing else. No. Not even yourself.
It appears--preliminary findings--that she is responding well to treatment for the BITE (not scratch as I originally thought) Hunter the cat inflicted on her neck three weeks ago. I cleaned it with alcohol. I neosporined it. But none of that mattered. Apparently cat bites are serious things, and apparently this one led to a staph infection. She's been fighting it off for some weeks, but not til yesterday, when the Ancef started working and the fever disappeared, did I notice that she has not seemed this lively, this alert, in a very long time.
So we are, I pray, on the road to recovery. She doesn't know yet, but her daddy is also on the road back to see her. What a surprise that will be for her--I'm having fun today thinking about the different ways I can spring it on her. ;-)
She is off to school today at the hospital. They have a school here. Students get credit for attending class and are marked present for days they miss at their real schools if they attend here. More importantly, she loves going. It gives her something to do. Classes are two hours long. Little kids attend with their IV poles, or just their little tape-and-board-wrapped hands. Jenna calls it her "Ivey."
The hospital, as I said, is superb. An anomalie in today's horrid healthcare scene, which is part of the reason we ended up here. But more on that another time, when I can think, and write. I am so tired.
Prayers welcome. I have no idea of my comments are working or not. Dean said they weren't the other day. Anyway, if not, I'll be on the case as soon as we're home. Hopefully by tomorrow. I'm in no rush as long as they get her better.
Thanks friends. As you can imagine I've been blogging in my head the whole time. But my heart has been elsewhere.
No, not better. worse. SO back to the peds on weds to see the head doctor of the bunch, who finally did work, who finally announced her white cell count was high, who finally said, "there's something going on here. we should admit her. it's the smart thing to do. she'll be comfortable and they can get the right people on the case."
This prior to me launching into a high gear I didn't know I had, after only three hours sleep the night before, zooming home with her in the back, 102 fever still after days of it, me calling George and having him talk to her while I raced up and down three flights of stairs like a maniac trying to remember what to take to the hospital--medicine, some clothes, the care bear family, some toys. Toss some food out the door to the dogs, hurry hurry. I asked the doctor if I could stop home to pick up some things to take. His words echoed: "Yes, but don't wait too long. Best to get her there. They will be waiting."
This he said before me driving like a mad woman down 75, across 285, her throwing up in our pool towel in the back seat. God, just let me get her there, then I can crumble up.
We made it. She was admitted. This facility is perhaps the most amazing healthcare secret in the U.S. More about that in another post.
To get to where we are...
We've been here for three days, her on antibiotics and fluids via IV, me in the couch bed beside her, them running tests, her turning the corner, starting to get better. Thank you. God, thank you.
Our children are, as parents, all that matters. Really all. Nothing else. No. Not even yourself.
It appears--preliminary findings--that she is responding well to treatment for the BITE (not scratch as I originally thought) Hunter the cat inflicted on her neck three weeks ago. I cleaned it with alcohol. I neosporined it. But none of that mattered. Apparently cat bites are serious things, and apparently this one led to a staph infection. She's been fighting it off for some weeks, but not til yesterday, when the Ancef started working and the fever disappeared, did I notice that she has not seemed this lively, this alert, in a very long time.
So we are, I pray, on the road to recovery. She doesn't know yet, but her daddy is also on the road back to see her. What a surprise that will be for her--I'm having fun today thinking about the different ways I can spring it on her. ;-)
She is off to school today at the hospital. They have a school here. Students get credit for attending class and are marked present for days they miss at their real schools if they attend here. More importantly, she loves going. It gives her something to do. Classes are two hours long. Little kids attend with their IV poles, or just their little tape-and-board-wrapped hands. Jenna calls it her "Ivey."
The hospital, as I said, is superb. An anomalie in today's horrid healthcare scene, which is part of the reason we ended up here. But more on that another time, when I can think, and write. I am so tired.
Prayers welcome. I have no idea of my comments are working or not. Dean said they weren't the other day. Anyway, if not, I'll be on the case as soon as we're home. Hopefully by tomorrow. I'm in no rush as long as they get her better.
Thanks friends. As you can imagine I've been blogging in my head the whole time. But my heart has been elsewhere.
August 26, 2003
oh no negro!
Why the hell did they eat in Alpharetta? Don't they still have separate water fountains ova dere?
Okay, we're talking bout bobby & whitney. But still.
Okay, we're talking bout bobby & whitney. But still.
sick kid and too much work to do
jenna's still sick--home for the third day since school started, and as coincidence would have it, my business, which was dry for last three weeks, is now in high gear. I mean really high. I mean I'm swamped. I mean tan is gone.
I would love to have something witty to say, but I'm just plodding through the days and nights right now--working, soup making, lying next to, video watching, researching, typing, stepping out on the porch for con calls, back in, patting the back of, downloading, editing, writing some more, editing some more, emailing, deleting sobig.f, writing again, crying with, giving medicicne to, and commiserating with jenna.
there are bigger problems, yes. but not for me this day. these are them. send get well thoughts to the baby blogger.
I would love to have something witty to say, but I'm just plodding through the days and nights right now--working, soup making, lying next to, video watching, researching, typing, stepping out on the porch for con calls, back in, patting the back of, downloading, editing, writing some more, editing some more, emailing, deleting sobig.f, writing again, crying with, giving medicicne to, and commiserating with jenna.
there are bigger problems, yes. but not for me this day. these are them. send get well thoughts to the baby blogger.
Oh, I see
Exquisite post from Halley about what it's like to see the world through a new and improved eye--one of two that she is having corrected via cataract surgery. This post is simply Halley.
August 24, 2003
see it.
Antwone Fisher.
A review.
And a poem:
Who will cry for the little boy, lost and all alone?
Who will cry for the little boy, abandoned without his own?
Who will cry for the little boy? He cried himself to sleep.
Who will cry for the little boy? He never had for keeps.
Who will cry for the little boy? He walked the burning sand.
Who will cry for the little boy? The boy inside the man.
Who will cry for the little boy? Who knows well hurt and pain.
Who will cry for the little boy? He died and died again.
Who will cry for the little boy? A good boy he tried to be.
Who will cry for the little boy, who cries inside of me?
--Antwone Quentin Fisher
A review.
And a poem:
Who will cry for the little boy, lost and all alone?
Who will cry for the little boy, abandoned without his own?
Who will cry for the little boy? He cried himself to sleep.
Who will cry for the little boy? He never had for keeps.
Who will cry for the little boy? He walked the burning sand.
Who will cry for the little boy? The boy inside the man.
Who will cry for the little boy? Who knows well hurt and pain.
Who will cry for the little boy? He died and died again.
Who will cry for the little boy? A good boy he tried to be.
Who will cry for the little boy, who cries inside of me?
--Antwone Quentin Fisher
Oh, you're Killing Me with this one...
Nathan Newman posts on this study from Northwestern University, which finds, among other things, that, all things being equal (pun intentional), white convicted felons get more job interviews than black non-offenders. That is, corporate America would rather hear from a white rapist than an honest black man or woman.
We've come a long way, baby.
We've come a long way, baby.
August 23, 2003
Virus Conspiracy Theory 101
Okay, so here's my guess. It's a bit hard to follow, but all good conspiracy theories are. They also require some leaps of faith. But that's nothing new to you guys.
So.
SOBIG.F apparently had its genesis on a porn usenet group. (No, it's not a link to the porn. so-so-sorry.)
Okay, you're with me so far--good name: so big / porn usenet site.
Actually, good branding job by the evildoers.
So, here's my theory.
It's the Bushes.
Jenna Bush and Barbara Bush, the President's daughters.
Yes. You see, my guess is that there were some, well, interesting videos of the girls on that usenet site. REALLY interesting. And, you see, my guess is that they were doing a thing or two with a folk or two that could make Monica and Bill look like celibacy poster children.
Uh-huh.
And MY guess is the powers found out--and I mean powers, not Powers, and they planted the SOBIG.F virus to bring down the net and to make it a national emergency such that they could come and seize the computers of every man, woman, and child until government geeks can figure out how to dismantle the GIANT BIG SCREEN Bush Girls Video that's coming to a screen near you (if you still have a screen near you) this September 11th.
So, what'd you think? Has all the good earmarkings of a 21st Century conspiracy theory doesn't it?
Or so it would seeeeem... ;-)
So.
SOBIG.F apparently had its genesis on a porn usenet group. (No, it's not a link to the porn. so-so-sorry.)
Okay, you're with me so far--good name: so big / porn usenet site.
Actually, good branding job by the evildoers.
So, here's my theory.
It's the Bushes.
Jenna Bush and Barbara Bush, the President's daughters.
Yes. You see, my guess is that there were some, well, interesting videos of the girls on that usenet site. REALLY interesting. And, you see, my guess is that they were doing a thing or two with a folk or two that could make Monica and Bill look like celibacy poster children.
Uh-huh.
And MY guess is the powers found out--and I mean powers, not Powers, and they planted the SOBIG.F virus to bring down the net and to make it a national emergency such that they could come and seize the computers of every man, woman, and child until government geeks can figure out how to dismantle the GIANT BIG SCREEN Bush Girls Video that's coming to a screen near you (if you still have a screen near you) this September 11th.
So, what'd you think? Has all the good earmarkings of a 21st Century conspiracy theory doesn't it?
Or so it would seeeeem... ;-)
August 22, 2003
it's just us
When I open my email, I feel if I'm shouting into a deeeep canyon, "Hello?" and I don't even get the echo back to keep me company. I get the feeling it's SOBIG.F, the mother of all bandwidth-hogging viruses. Where'd everybody go? Even the spammers are going easy on me. Have the FBI and Rumsfeld disconnected everyone but me?
Has everyone been knocked back into the real world? If so, where are we meeting and what are we supposed to bring with us?
Imagine being one of the so-called 20 computers that the virus sought out as its host. Personal computers, supposedly in people's homes here in the U.S., in Canada, and in Korea.
Imagine the knock at your door.
If you think they'd bother to knock.
*****************
"We're taking you down, missus."
"Huh?"
"Your PC--please show us where it is. We know it's here."
"Um?"
"YOUR PC--SHOW US WHERE YOUR PC IS AND NOW! JENNA BUSH CAN'T GET TO MTV.COM! BESIDES, THE GLOBAL ECONOMY DEPENDS ON IT!"
"oh. well. um. you mean I'm one of the 20? No. That can't be. All my life I've wanted to win the lottery, but this isn't the right one."
"I'm afriad we got your ticket right here Ms. Sessum."
"Oh. Dear. Well, can I back up some files--I have to get my work files off or I can't send the stuff I have due. It will only take me a couple of minutes. I have a CD burner. Look, you can watch me do it. I have to--my clients are waiting for it."
"I'm afraid not. This computer is now the property of the U.S. Government. You've been infected, and we must quarantine you to ensure this SARS, errrr, I mean SOBIG.F doesn't spread to other unsuspecting victims like yourself or to President Bush's friends in Texas... I mean, global enterprises."
"But I'm an unsuspecting victim. And I have years' worth of work files on this machine--NO PLEASE--don't GRAB it like that!!"
"Woof Woof GRRRRR!" [[ed note: plainted wail of Bando the mutt.]]
"GERRY, GRAB THE WOMAN. TAKE HER DOWN!"
"No, please, I was in the middle of a post. Please just let me finish!"
"Listen, little lady--you may think we're fooling around here, but you got the A-Rabs trying to kill us and those damn Rusians who never got over the cold war--and don't get me started on them 'AfrikanAmerikans' -- don't you see, WE HAVE ENEMIES, and THEY are knocking!"
"But I swear, I'm not the enemy. Please don't take me down--not yet--give me two more minutes! I haven't posted yet! I haven't pressed publi...."
**********
So here we are.
Here.
As the uni-directional flood of email conversation crashes into serious roadblocks this week, the voice of blogging becomes even more important. Our words haven't slowed. We don't need no stinkin' cootie shots. The Web's heart is still beating. We're its pulse. We'll keep posting.
Unless, of course, there are more than 20.
Like, say, 20,000,000.
Has everyone been knocked back into the real world? If so, where are we meeting and what are we supposed to bring with us?
Imagine being one of the so-called 20 computers that the virus sought out as its host. Personal computers, supposedly in people's homes here in the U.S., in Canada, and in Korea.
Imagine the knock at your door.
If you think they'd bother to knock.
*****************
"We're taking you down, missus."
"Huh?"
"Your PC--please show us where it is. We know it's here."
"Um?"
"YOUR PC--SHOW US WHERE YOUR PC IS AND NOW! JENNA BUSH CAN'T GET TO MTV.COM! BESIDES, THE GLOBAL ECONOMY DEPENDS ON IT!"
"oh. well. um. you mean I'm one of the 20? No. That can't be. All my life I've wanted to win the lottery, but this isn't the right one."
"I'm afriad we got your ticket right here Ms. Sessum."
"Oh. Dear. Well, can I back up some files--I have to get my work files off or I can't send the stuff I have due. It will only take me a couple of minutes. I have a CD burner. Look, you can watch me do it. I have to--my clients are waiting for it."
"I'm afraid not. This computer is now the property of the U.S. Government. You've been infected, and we must quarantine you to ensure this SARS, errrr, I mean SOBIG.F doesn't spread to other unsuspecting victims like yourself or to President Bush's friends in Texas... I mean, global enterprises."
"But I'm an unsuspecting victim. And I have years' worth of work files on this machine--NO PLEASE--don't GRAB it like that!!"
"Woof Woof GRRRRR!" [[ed note: plainted wail of Bando the mutt.]]
"GERRY, GRAB THE WOMAN. TAKE HER DOWN!"
"No, please, I was in the middle of a post. Please just let me finish!"
"Listen, little lady--you may think we're fooling around here, but you got the A-Rabs trying to kill us and those damn Rusians who never got over the cold war--and don't get me started on them 'AfrikanAmerikans' -- don't you see, WE HAVE ENEMIES, and THEY are knocking!"
"But I swear, I'm not the enemy. Please don't take me down--not yet--give me two more minutes! I haven't posted yet! I haven't pressed publi...."
**********
So here we are.
Here.
As the uni-directional flood of email conversation crashes into serious roadblocks this week, the voice of blogging becomes even more important. Our words haven't slowed. We don't need no stinkin' cootie shots. The Web's heart is still beating. We're its pulse. We'll keep posting.
Unless, of course, there are more than 20.
Like, say, 20,000,000.
home
burnt red cedar
etched with lines
paintings of insects
tunnels trace paths
across shingles
making a road home.
this house it breathes.
aches and stretches
groans harmonies to the
rumbling of night
thunder.
door knobs give way
six bulbs blown
cupboard hinges hang
just one
garage door left
to rise and fall,
seal us safely in.
what more can come undone
in the heat of the summer.
and still,
signature fingerprints
along hallways remind me
how small she was,
imprints of life
the art of time passing
quietly
strokes of white baby shoes
and strawberry-stained fingers.
there isn't much
I would change
if I could,
except maybe
everything.
etched with lines
paintings of insects
tunnels trace paths
across shingles
making a road home.
this house it breathes.
aches and stretches
groans harmonies to the
rumbling of night
thunder.
door knobs give way
six bulbs blown
cupboard hinges hang
just one
garage door left
to rise and fall,
seal us safely in.
what more can come undone
in the heat of the summer.
and still,
signature fingerprints
along hallways remind me
how small she was,
imprints of life
the art of time passing
quietly
strokes of white baby shoes
and strawberry-stained fingers.
there isn't much
I would change
if I could,
except maybe
everything.
the sky is falling
this worm, this SOBIG and it's infectious friends, are just what we don't need.
i'm on the phone with a client at a big global technology company and she mentions the emails she's been sending me today, and I say, um, no, I didn't get them. Neither did I receive a critical email from one of her colleagues. Surprisingly, my bellsouth.net is hanging in there, delivering me all the spam I don't need and then some, while my clients' networks are griding to a halt, suffering email grande mals at a rate I can hardly track.
No, I'm not alone today. But I am a little scared.
I may also be one of the few who wanted to tell this client, we have two options when email dies: instant messaging and collaborative workspaces.
This is an emergency. You do what you have to do. I wanted to tell the client with whom I'm collaborating on this particular white paper project that boasts a fast approaching deadline, "Let's go start a team blog, mark it private, and do it like that. Just for today. I can't afford e-room, but blogger's free. We can make due. When we're done, we'll kill the blog. Google won't have time to spider it--and no, I'm not sure all of the technicalities on how blogger keeps private blogs private, but why worry--it's Friday and we can delete it by end of day tomorrow. We can post back and forth, leave comments, pull in links to relevant materials, and get the job done behind the backs of those motherfucking, spamloving, email-killing viruses."
That's what I didn't say.
What I did, in reality, was to send him an invitation to Yahoo Messenger hoping that he can sign on, add me as a friend, copy text out of his sent mail, paste it into an IM for me, from which I will copy it out and paste it into our MSWord document.
That will work for the edits.
But...
Let's hope everything's up and running once I plug the changes into the layout and have to turn around the 20-page MSWord file.
'Cause that's when I get to send the invoice.
i.e., that's how I eat.
Fuck you, infectors and spammers.
i'm on the phone with a client at a big global technology company and she mentions the emails she's been sending me today, and I say, um, no, I didn't get them. Neither did I receive a critical email from one of her colleagues. Surprisingly, my bellsouth.net is hanging in there, delivering me all the spam I don't need and then some, while my clients' networks are griding to a halt, suffering email grande mals at a rate I can hardly track.
No, I'm not alone today. But I am a little scared.
I may also be one of the few who wanted to tell this client, we have two options when email dies: instant messaging and collaborative workspaces.
This is an emergency. You do what you have to do. I wanted to tell the client with whom I'm collaborating on this particular white paper project that boasts a fast approaching deadline, "Let's go start a team blog, mark it private, and do it like that. Just for today. I can't afford e-room, but blogger's free. We can make due. When we're done, we'll kill the blog. Google won't have time to spider it--and no, I'm not sure all of the technicalities on how blogger keeps private blogs private, but why worry--it's Friday and we can delete it by end of day tomorrow. We can post back and forth, leave comments, pull in links to relevant materials, and get the job done behind the backs of those motherfucking, spamloving, email-killing viruses."
That's what I didn't say.
What I did, in reality, was to send him an invitation to Yahoo Messenger hoping that he can sign on, add me as a friend, copy text out of his sent mail, paste it into an IM for me, from which I will copy it out and paste it into our MSWord document.
That will work for the edits.
But...
Let's hope everything's up and running once I plug the changes into the layout and have to turn around the 20-page MSWord file.
'Cause that's when I get to send the invoice.
i.e., that's how I eat.
Fuck you, infectors and spammers.
August 21, 2003
loving moms grow children who love effortlessly
Doc said goodbye to his Mom yesterday. He shared her last words with his readers.
It was actually just one word: Love.
Love.
Let that settle in, and consider the type of person she must have been, the way she must have lived her life, to have that message waiting on her lips as she said goodbye.
Love=one another
Love=your neighbor, your brother
Love=yourself
Love=I love you
Love=unconditionally
Love=should be enough; if not that, then what?
If you know Doc, he is testimony to his mother's life and love, her ability to show that love genuinely, unconditionally. He has shared that with us not only in his postings about his mother and his family, but through that place Doc writes from. His mother informs his voice, and she always will.
That is evidence of a life fully lived.
Blessings, Doc.
It was actually just one word: Love.
Love.
Let that settle in, and consider the type of person she must have been, the way she must have lived her life, to have that message waiting on her lips as she said goodbye.
Love=one another
Love=your neighbor, your brother
Love=yourself
Love=I love you
Love=unconditionally
Love=should be enough; if not that, then what?
If you know Doc, he is testimony to his mother's life and love, her ability to show that love genuinely, unconditionally. He has shared that with us not only in his postings about his mother and his family, but through that place Doc writes from. His mother informs his voice, and she always will.
That is evidence of a life fully lived.
Blessings, Doc.
August 20, 2003
long2days
It's been a long couple of days with Jenna sick and home from school, which, as you well know, barely got started. The good news is she has meds for a wicked right ear infection and possibly strep, but the lame-o's at the doctor's didn't swab her because her ear was bad enough that she needed antibiotics. Puss and such. ewwww!
The whole thing put me in a funk, which was made a bit funkier because the nurse practitioner, whom we saw, only RX-ed FIVE days of omnicef instead of the usual 10. Two phone calls later and I had some bullshit mumbo-jumbo non-answer about why, but the damage was done--$25 to the wallet with a likelihood of being back there next week to see a REAL doctor who knows that this particular strepmonger doesn't cure easily, and that it's worse to NOT knock it out entirely, because it comes back (what class? that's right:) stronger.
In a side note, there has to be a carrier here in this house. There just has to be. After some Web research, I've determined it's either me or Hunter. Problem is, I have to live here, so if it's me, well, WTF? But Hunter on the other hand... he's losing his balls next week anyway, and I think I've talked the vet into putting him on antibiotics in case he's the strep-spreader, since the strep culture which would tell us for certain costs $110. Upon hearing I'd have to part with a c-note I don't have, I used my cunning linguistic capabilities to convince the dear receptionist that a few bucks and a few pills won't kill me, them, or the little fucker, so let's all pretend he's the carrier and treat him as such, shall we?
So, does this mean we're making progress?
I would like to believe that. Really.
Meanwhile, Ms. Jenna is perking right up on the meds--the asthma is simmering down and she even mopped the kitchen floor for me today and LIKED it. OH YES--this is a good thing. I told her she mops like her Daddy, who is incredibly thorough and painstakingly, um, careful when he takes on a project that needs elbow grease and a bit of strategy. She got that floor cleaner than it's been in three months, and she enjoyed squeegying the mop head more than any human being should.
So, the end of a long day (or thousand) and I think we're going to try school tomorrow. Nebulizer in tow to give to the nurse with what I hope is a sigh of relief from me, and some words like: "You can do her meds today. Thank you. I love you."
I'm not sure what the school nurse might make of this declaration from me, but being that she is the first school nurse I've laid eyes on since I was in eighth grade, I'm mighty bloody happy to see her. Peace of mind, you're almost mine.
I've been wanting to blog, writing in my head and then posting. Problem is, there's no server back there in the grey matter amusement park that is my brain. So everything gets lost.
So now I'm gonna get lost and go to sleep.
or at least count sheep.
thank you.
The whole thing put me in a funk, which was made a bit funkier because the nurse practitioner, whom we saw, only RX-ed FIVE days of omnicef instead of the usual 10. Two phone calls later and I had some bullshit mumbo-jumbo non-answer about why, but the damage was done--$25 to the wallet with a likelihood of being back there next week to see a REAL doctor who knows that this particular strepmonger doesn't cure easily, and that it's worse to NOT knock it out entirely, because it comes back (what class? that's right:) stronger.
In a side note, there has to be a carrier here in this house. There just has to be. After some Web research, I've determined it's either me or Hunter. Problem is, I have to live here, so if it's me, well, WTF? But Hunter on the other hand... he's losing his balls next week anyway, and I think I've talked the vet into putting him on antibiotics in case he's the strep-spreader, since the strep culture which would tell us for certain costs $110. Upon hearing I'd have to part with a c-note I don't have, I used my cunning linguistic capabilities to convince the dear receptionist that a few bucks and a few pills won't kill me, them, or the little fucker, so let's all pretend he's the carrier and treat him as such, shall we?
So, does this mean we're making progress?
I would like to believe that. Really.
Meanwhile, Ms. Jenna is perking right up on the meds--the asthma is simmering down and she even mopped the kitchen floor for me today and LIKED it. OH YES--this is a good thing. I told her she mops like her Daddy, who is incredibly thorough and painstakingly, um, careful when he takes on a project that needs elbow grease and a bit of strategy. She got that floor cleaner than it's been in three months, and she enjoyed squeegying the mop head more than any human being should.
So, the end of a long day (or thousand) and I think we're going to try school tomorrow. Nebulizer in tow to give to the nurse with what I hope is a sigh of relief from me, and some words like: "You can do her meds today. Thank you. I love you."
I'm not sure what the school nurse might make of this declaration from me, but being that she is the first school nurse I've laid eyes on since I was in eighth grade, I'm mighty bloody happy to see her. Peace of mind, you're almost mine.
I've been wanting to blog, writing in my head and then posting. Problem is, there's no server back there in the grey matter amusement park that is my brain. So everything gets lost.
So now I'm gonna get lost and go to sleep.
or at least count sheep.
thank you.
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