Even without a single Marshall McLuhan reference, a semi-recent Associated Press article manages to make some interesting points about our contemporary selfie craze, even quoting a "personal brand consultant" who channels the late media theorist: "In the era of the Kardashians, everyone has become their own paparazzi."
The article offers two perspectives. Carole Lieberman (Beverly Hills psychiatrist) represents the Narcissus Critique: "The rise of the selfie is a perfect metaphor for our increasingly narcissistic culture. We're desperately crying out: Look at me!" Pamela Rutledge (Media Psychology Research Center director) responds with an Historical Parallel Justification: "Albrecht Durer's self-portraiture is these incredible self-reflections and explorations of technique, and then when Rihanna snaps her picture it's just self-aggrandizement, or it's promotion, so you have a fairly interesting double standard based upon who's taking the self-portrait."
The article explains the "ie" at the end of selfie as a diminutive indicator, a "little self" that signifies an intentionally transitory, incomplete articulation of personhood, before concluding with a thoughtful reminder (quoting Rutledge) that while few folks critique school portraits, family snapshots, and other methods of self-presentation, "we don't know how to think about this mass production of self-reflection."
Recently I was asked to offer some comments about photography for a Hawai'i Pacific University graduate student. Given that ongoing projects have forced a slowdown in my blogging habits, I figured I might as well post my replies here too.
Why do people share photographs?
Initially I would note the distinction between the acts of “taking” and “sharing” a photograph, observing how mobile phones blur two previously discrete actions into a singular gesture. In this context, to “share” a photograph is to offer an ironic proof of life. We intend to convey something like “I am here,” yet the receiver’s impression is usually (though certainly not always), “[that person] was there.” While one may discern a wide range of surface-level objectives in the sender’s action (to demonstrate success, to evoke envy, or, borrowing from Susan Sontag, to affirm labor), I imagine the deeper goal is to strengthen tenuous strands of connection.
Is the experience of sharing photographs different between print, email, and social media?
Let us begin with the notion that our photographs are increasingly ephemeral. Snapchat, for an obvious example, is designed to share a purposefully transient experience. Ten seconds: the image is present; then it is gone. So I would begin with the proposition that the sort of permanence one would seek in a yearbook or photo album – the sort of totem one might rescue from a fire – becomes abandoned for the pleasure of immediacy. Consider Facebook's Timeline feature. While a few folks have dutifully scanned old photographs from birth until their first post, most users ignore that feature. Maybe they hope that Facebook will do it for them, using databases and intelligent agents to populate the otherwise empty years of their lives. In this case we become less confident in our ability to say (as did Peter Gabriel), “This is the picture.” Our lives become streams.
Do you think social media comments change how we view photographs?
Social media promises an obvious addition of expanded feedback opportunities, the hopes that otherwise esoteric photographic hobbies (I specialize in architectural ruins, neon signs, and street art) will find audiences, maybe even friends and collaborators. In this way social media’s various iterations of the “like” feature surely impacts our expectations of photography. I also imagine that the artifact will mutate, such that an image becomes one point in an expanding constellation of comments and other images. In this process of unlimited semiosis, we become less concerned with the “authorship” of a unique image and more focused on an image’s utility as a meme. Maybe that’s why the internet is made of cats.
OK, let's get this out of the way: I'm gonna trash some words, phrases, and things as being so clichéd and hackneyed that they should be banned in 2013. Problem is, "Banned Lists" are themselves a cliché. So beware. This post is so overdone, it might consume itself and set off a self-referential chain reaction that turns the universe inside out. That proviso aside, we'll proceed.
"Where's my jetpack?" Remember the turn of the century? The Year 2000? That's when we were promised flying cars, robot butlers and, of course, jetpacks. We got George Bush, jr. instead. Naturally we're all disappointed. Problem is we've been inundated with that "Where's my jetpack?" lament ever since. "Where's my jetpack?" has become an all-purpose stand-in for all manner of Great Disappointment. It's been 13 years, folks. There's no jetpack in your future. Let it go.
"Double-down" Every politician these days is a gambler, announcing some initiative or policy and then, faced with opposition, actually sticking with their idea. It sounds daring, but mostly the "double down" comes across as a screw-you to political foes. GOP: "You thought you hated us when we threatened to send us over the cliff? Just wait until we close down the whole government!" Lame Commentator: "Looks like they're doubling down." Doubly stupid.
Baby Bump In celebrity culture, pregnancy seems like the ultimate product spin-off ("This fall we're releasing a new movie, my first album is dropping, and, oh!, I'm having a baby!"). Turns out, producing an Actual Human Being is kind of a big deal. Labeling it a "bump" makes the kid sound like an add-on feature, something you complain about when the hotel tries to charge extra at check-out. We're already doomed to follow Every Moment Of Kim Kardashian's Pregnancy. Let's at least give her kid a break.
Selfie When our future robot overlords look back upon today's society, these happy years before machines become sentient and start sporting baby bumps of their own, they'll remember the one thing that made their rise possible: We were so busy taking "selfies" (most egregiously holding up iPhones and, ye Gods, iPads in the bathroom to take duckface portraits) that we never saw them coming. Let's cut back on the selfies, or at least get a tripod.
LOL We laugh. And most of the time we laugh out loud. That's lovely. Laughing is lovely, and we should let loose at least one good guffaw each day. But every time I see someone comment on a Facebook post with LOL (or worse, lol), I just think to myself, "No you didn't. You did not laugh out loud. Why would you lie to me? You're supposed to be my friend!" What's worse, by the way, is when folks append this acronym to something snarky ("Your duckface Selfie looks like someone tried to iron your lips lol."). Please, no more.
The 2012 election was an endless dinner party whose guests showed up drunk, puked on the pets, and set the rug on fire. Now it's morning in America, and the house is trashed. There's a big screen TV on the lawn, there's a copy of Atlas Shrugged in the toilet, and there's pudding in the blender [Who the hell put pudding in the blender?]. I'm trying to coax the cats back into the living room. I'm saying, "It's over, kitties. Those awful people are gone." The felines know better though; the guests are still here. Some are sleeping, snoring, drooling. Yet a few are pre-gaming for the next big bash, God love 'em. They are, after all, us.
We voted (some of us, at least) on November 6th, but we also expressed our every thought on this grand debate, extolling our opinions all over Facebook, Twitter, and, for all I know, Instagram. We posted and we tweeted and we exclaimed, loudly, that these two candidates somehow reflect the Manichean cosmos of America, blithely ignoring our quiet doubts that the candidates never really debated, not in a meaningful way. Somehow we know that this election cycle was a war between pundits and handlers and flaks who battle only for their own aggrandizement. Party politics as reality television. Here Comes Honey Boo Boo in '16.
Yes, Barack Obama and Mitt Romney offered distinct agendas. And I preferred one to the other. I still do. Yet I know - and you know it too - that the parties who sustain them represent nothing more than a singular culture industry, a machine that produces little more than sound and fury, bread and circuses. At times it felt like we were watching a Coke-vs.-Pepsi Taste Test and actually caring about which sugar water quenches our thirst. It's a game of dissemination, not dialogue, and we're rotting with every corn syrup swig.
A few folks eschewed the vitriolic attacks and bumper sticker discourse that marked this sad, silly season. Jenny, to great credit, attempted a sane and responsible conversation over the past few months, even as some of her Facebook friends became increasingly unhinged. She explored the issues, read broadly, and struggled to make the right call. She tried to vote for both faith and facts. All too frequently, though, many of us abandoned our better angels. I certainly did.
More than once I said to some pals how much I hated Mitt Romney. Hated him. Not just for his policies (whatever they were that particular week) but for his pandering, his cynicism, and that sanctimonious half-smile that invariably preceded a lie. I hated him for the day, years ago, when he supposedly led a pack of prep school bullies to beat up a kid and cut his hair. I hated him for that dismissal of 47 percent of Americans as too lazy and too weak to be born a millionaire. And I hated his cowardly genuflection to the likes of Rush Limbaugh and Donald Trump. I admit it, I sometimes enjoyed how much I hated Mitt Romney, the clarity of it all.
And now the party's over and we're stuck with the mess. Mitt Romney will probably find a way to make a few more millions. But he'll still hang around too, if only because those Americans who voted for him aren't going anywhere. His partisans are no less sure of their votes now than before election night, and I can't blame them. We could take a walk of shame, but we'd wind up together, right (and left) where we started. It's our house, after all. Honestly I'm not sure how to start cleaning up the mess we've made. The cats are still freaked out, a stench is beginning to rise, and that gunk in the blender? I'm not sure it's pudding. At least I can take some solace in a few wise words I heard on Tuesday night:
"This is a time of great challenges for America, and I pray that the president will be successful in guiding our nation… The nation, as you know, is at a critical point. At a time like this, we can’t risk partisan bickering and political posturing. Our leaders have to reach across the aisle to do the people’s work… This election is over, but our principles endure."
Those are good words, decent words. They remind us of our obligation to be a little kinder to each other, a bit more tolerant of our different beliefs, and a lot more humble. We Americans are a contentious bunch. Always have been, always had to be. We've faced imperial constraint, civil war, economic collapse, and totalitarian advance - and somehow we've stuck together. Better yet, somehow we've managed to expand the sphere of public life, slowly, to include more and more of us. We've been better than this past four years, and we can be better again.
It's a rainy morning on a hot, stuffy bus, and we're waiting to depart for the Great Wall. Students are buzzing with plans to take trains to Hong Kong and Shanghai over the next two weekends. I am naturally stressed at the prospect of those folks throwing themselves even further afield. At least we're together now, preparing to join a water-logged traffic jam. Blue sky visions of hiking those ancient stony steps have given way to the gradual acceptance that today's excursion, while not dismal, will certainly be damp.
Passing through the city's central business district, we spot signs that pronounce Beijing values: "Patriotism Innovation Inclusiveness Virtue." Since our arrival I've seen this phrase hanging from overpasses, clambering from metro stations, and shouting from construction sites: a nearly ubiquitous cheerleader for the joys of central planning. And signs of Beijing planning are everywhere. Towers of rebar poke through low-hanging clouds while older Cold War era apartment complexes are pulverized. These will be the new skyscrapers, the new parking lots, and the new malls of the new city. And alongside them all, hastily built workers' hotels summon up images of all those millions of lean and ruddy immigrants who've left their provincial homes to find their own futures in China's new capital of confidence.
We pass a fake Disneyland on our way to the Great Wall. Rain drips through rusty girders, grass grows from the foundations, and misty metal shapes evoke lost German castles. The traffic has begun to loosen up at least. The skies are still dreadful but we eventually start to spot green hills in the haze.Finally we arrive at Juyongguan Pass and promptly begin buying everything in sight: scrolls, sweatshirts, miniatures, and ponchos. Clouds obscure the ridgeline so that each guard tower looks like something out of Brigadoon. We've got about two hours for this excursion, so we begin our own little "long march." The steps are steep and slippery, and only a few hardy souls climb higher than the tenth guard tower. Still we are happy, chatting with other tourists and gazing into the pea soup valley.
Following lunch at a "Friendship Store," we head back into town to visit the Summer Palace. The drizzle has subsided at this point, allowing for a more relaxed stroll through ornate gardens and stunning monuments [Well, as relaxed as a stroll can be while trying to move 14 students, each determined to shoot as many Facebook-friendly photos as possible, from place to place]. We walk slowly down the crowded Long Corridor, peering upward at detailed paintings of beloved Chinese stories. Behind us, visiting school children belt out cheerful songs. Later we board a dragon boat to carry us across the lake.
Another tasty meal (topped off by some American dessert from a McDonald's across the street) prepares us for our evening adventure: The Peking Opera. Actually there is little that can prepare American ears for that particular musical style. Suffice to say that we end an eventful day with lots of laughter and shared experience, sampling enough culture to inspire conversations long after our return to the States.
I enjoyed the opportunity to participate in an interview with Sue McAllister a few weeks back about the tendency for folks to adopt differing communication strategies for "text-friends" and "talk-friends." Some of our conversation found its way into a San Jose Mercury News article that appeared this week. Here are a couple relevant quotes:
"We've been developing these devices that allow us this ubiquitous communication, and on the one hand it is remarkable and exciting. But we haven't quite caught up with the problems this revolution has unleashed," said Andrew Wood, a professor of communication studies at San Jose State.
…
San Jose State's Wood says much of personal communication comes down to being courteous to the people you're interacting with and gauging which method will be the right choice for the situation. For example, "In certain contexts I'm an email person," he says. "When I'm answering a question, I like email because I have the time to reflect on an answer."
But when it comes to real discussion, he says, his favorite medium is a time-honored one that many people still crave in our digital society.
"It's one-on-one conversation, in a diner," he says, "just two people talking. That's when I'm at my best."
Evgeny Morozov's article, The Death of the Cyberflâneur (NYT, Feb 4, 2012) conveys a greatest-hits version of some my personal passions: urban design, modern art, retro-futurism, and a critique of the contemporary public sphere. Heck, there's Caillebotte's "Paris Street; Rainy Day" right at the top! Before I finished reading the piece, I'd already shared it on Facebook. And that, the author says, is the problem.
Launching with a brief description of flânerie, Morozov argues that while today's social networking aggregations fill our screens with countless threads of endless content, they squash the pleasure of wandering through the web's funkier outskirts - and of being present where we are. One source of particular concern: frictionless sharing, that seamless transformation of impulse to flow that anesthetizes conscious engagement:
"This is the very stance that is killing cyberflânerie: the whole point of the flâneur’s wanderings is that he does not know what he cares about. As the German writer Franz Hessel, an occasional collaborator with Walter Benjamin, put it, “in order to engage in flânerie, one must not have anything too definite in mind.” Compared with Facebook’s highly deterministic universe, even Microsoft’s unimaginative slogan from the 1990s — “Where do you want to go today?” — sounds excitingly subversive. Who asks that silly question in the age of Facebook?"
I get the idea, but only to a point. While I appreciate the article's clever allusions, I don't share Morozov's nostalgia for 90s-era modem-screech. Yes, those lengthy periods of waiting for a page to download produced a Yoda-like sense of where-I-was-and-what-I-was-doing [Do you remember your first time?], I don't recall enjoying that moment at all. Nor do I agree that we are bounded into vacuum-sealed mediocracy by our increasingly efficient search tools. Indeed, I found this essay through precisely the kind of flânerie that Morozov celebrates, using Zite to wander electronic boulevards of chance and serendipity.
Even so I agree with broader claim of this piece, that we are less inclined to wander these days, less able to enjoy the pleasures of getting lost in the labyrinth. In my own meanderings through various omnitopian portals, I find this phenomenon less a cause than an effect. Our fear of ambiguity leads us to seek the blandly familiar. And this fear is borne, I think, in something more substantial than the transformation of our tools.
Forgoing further contemplation along those lines [this is a blog-post; the blog is the book], I still think that Morozov makes a reasonable point. We do not "surf" the web, and few of us care to become cyberspace pilots. We prefer the simulacrum of the world to the real thing, customizing it into our own cocoons, mirrors of our preferences and our delusions, as we passively receive the flow. And from time to time we click "like" as a wave (or a courtesy), knowing that our ripples do not run too deeply.
As Facebook rolls out its new interface to a wary public, the company has teamed up with a marketing agency called Definition 6 to enable the creation of a brief video that transforms some of your pictures and stories into a commercial (both for you and for the companies involved).
Yeah, the whole thing is self-indulgent, maybe even a little creepy [in an earlier version of the movie, Facebook automatically selected a map showing where I live, followed by a picture of my house]. But when you see your own first draft, you'll want to start editing and tweaking. The video-app doesn't allow much customization, but the result is still kind of cool.
I uploaded this video because most people won't go through the initial clicking process until they see what one of these things look like [I used Snapz Pro to grab the video; any glitchiness comes from the conversion process]. So check out the video and then go get your own: http://www.timelinemoviemaker.com/
Pamela Paul writes in the New York Times about the declining role of the telephone in our lives, at least when it comes to its formerly singular purpose: talking.
"In the last five years, full-fledged adults have seemingly given up the telephone — land line, mobile, voice mail and all. According to Nielsen Media, even on cellphones, voice spending has been trending downward, with text spending expected to surpass it within three years."
At this point I must invoke that most frustrating counter-example, homegrown anecdotal evidence. My spouse receives many phone calls per day. But these are generally associated with her various duties at church. Otherwise, neither one of us regularly receive calls - other than from longtime friends.
"For the most part, assiduous commenting on a friend’s Facebook updates and periodically e-mailing promises to “catch up by phone soon” substitute for actual conversation. With friends who merit face time, arrangements are carried out via electronic transmission."
J.P. Mangalindan has written an interesting article about Zynga's Cityville phenomenon by interviewing Yick Kai Chan, the architect hired to help design the game's buildings. As you'd imagine, this fellow faces some bewildering constraints when trying simulate a complex and dynamic urban environment on a computer screen:
"It's about exaggerating the important real-world elements, blowing up the gestalt of the building, like a caricature artist would do when drawing people."
With an estimated 95 million monthly active users (a drop from a recent high of around 100 million) Cityville continues to draw attention for its clever intersection of fauxcale and easy altruism.
OK, I admit it: I got suckered into playing Cityville, lured into the snare by a friend's Facebook invite. I suppose Jenny would label the past three days a "lost weekend." True, I helped string Christmas lights, organized our family's holiday newsletter, responded to student queries about a looming assignment, and left the house to see a movie. I lived my life. But most of my attention was drawn to Cityville.
Ostensibly I took the Cityville plunge to research how Zynga is leveraging social networking techniques to produce an experience that keeps users clicking. After all, this is the company behind Farmville, Mob Wars, and similar time-sucks. Zynga knows what it's doing. At the same time, miniature cities have always appealed to me (cue obligatory Logan's Run reference). While I couldn't care less about managing a cartoon farm, I'd love to run my own tiny town. I had to give Cityville a try.
If you've ever lost a night to SimCity you have a pretty good idea of how Cityville works. Borrowing liberally from Sid Meier's blockbuster urban simulation game, Zynga allows players to produce their own villages by laying out streets, erecting houses, starting businesses, and launching civic projects. There are no taxes in Cityville (no plumbing either, thankfully). Frustrated citizens won't riot in the streets if you fail to build a post office. And I've yet to see a building toppled by a natural disaster. But this game still produces a SimCity-like high, starting with the pleasure of the God's eye view.
Acting as an urban deity, you design your city, watch its tiny inhabitants wander about (sometimes they wave up at you), and survey the growth of your creation from tiny burg to bulging metropolis. Better yet, you can be a merciful god by helping others. Indeed, sociability is fundamental to the Cityville experience. Want to plunk down a few houses and start a business or two? All you need is a computer and a halfway decent internet connection. Wanna complete quests and expand your borders? You're going to need "neighbors."
Neighbors, you see, can help you secure vital resources like energy, supplies, and currency. Energy allows a player to perform an action (build a house, pick a crop, collect some rent, or reap profits from a business). Supplies, typically from harvested crops, allow businesses to keep serving customers and thereafter produce profits. Currency follows when businesses make money or when residents pay rent. [It's not incidental that Cityville has been called a mashup of SimCity and Monopoly.]
Energy is the prime mover of this game; it's necessary to do just about anything. The good news: it accumulates by itself, one unit every five minutes. That's the sweet spot, an increment that is endurable - at first. The bad news is that the pace of replenishment feels absolutely glacial after a while. That's where neighbors become essential. They can share their energy with you, generally at no cost to themselves. And that's just the beginning of their utility.
Neighbors can also share supplies, collect rent, and increase growth by allowing you to plant franchise businesses in their cities. That's right: Cityville is an omnitopian expanse in which every locale becomes a doorway to a shared perception of community. With neighbors, you can staff buildings without being forced to pay employees' salaries. Salaries? You betcha. Unless you've got neighbors willing to help, you must use in-game currency to pay wages. Once that money runs out, you're forced to buy bucks with real money. Neighbors equal growth.
Returning to my city, I smile. One neighbor (a pal in Texas) has revived a crop that I'd neglected to water. Another neighbor (in Florida) has visited my houses and collected rent. Adding to the sense of community, I observe a tiny picture of a neighbor hovering over my city. The icon hops from place to place, a dancing deity come to sprinkle gifts from heaven. Perhaps the Cityville universe is polytheistic. So while I planned to limit my stay for a couple minutes, I'm now happy to return the favor. I'll need my neighbors to staff a hospital later. Just five minutes more. Click, click, click.
Minutes turn into hours, especially when waiting for that ultimate kick, the gambling high: a rainbow-reward of clinking coins. Ahhhh, the sound of money popping from a slot machine. Then there is the burst of colorful icons forming "collections" that I can trade for still more energy, more supplies, more currency. Best of all, I get an extra boost when I scoop my prizes quickly. More coins, more clinking, more energy, more experience points, more life. Oh, and I can't forget the cheers of happy residents that greet every wise decision I make. I love that sound. My Cityville advisor tells me that I might even be elected mayor!
That's the fun of Cityville: its clever concoction of giddy anticipation, the hope that imminent reward waits beyond the next click. Learning from Las Vegas, Zynga creators have crafted a game that requires little strategy and virtually no effort. You can keep it running in the background, like the buzz of a receiver turned low. Dip in and out whenever you choose (plant strawberries and you don't even have to worry about withering crops). If you feel like swooping into your friends' towns, you get a quick charge of easy altruism. You did some good, and you can expect some good in return. Return, or not. It's your choice. Only, you want to return. That's the point.
Keep playing, the game teaches, and you will build that library, which will allow that population increase, which will allow that tall building, which will justify that territory expansion, which will yield that bigger crop, which will enable that big harvest, which will earn that next level, which will reap that burst of coins, which will… It never ends (at least not yet).
Just remember, the longer you play, the more neighbors you need. The more neighbors you have, the longer you must play - if only to keep watering your friends' crops. The cycle is virtuous when you're having fun with friends. Yet there's something vicious at work too. At its worst, Cityville becomes something less like a game and more like a virus, an addiction. I'm reminded of E.B. White's evaluation of the General Motors Futurama exhibit at the 1939-40 New York World's Fair: "There is a strong, sweet poison which infects the blood."
My daughter is immune to this poison but my wife graciously founded a city to help me complete a police station [There is no crime in Cityville - yet]. She announced that her urban planning career would be short lived, but she was back in town today, clicking for friends and family. Jenny kindly sent tourists by the busload to my thriving Level 19 town a few hours ago. I'm glad she did, because I'm just about to reach the next level! Just 118 experience points until I become a Level 20. So close.
Sure, I could wait for my own energy supplies to replenish themselves, but it's so much easier when neighbors chip in. Now I'm so close to opening the school for which my citizens have been clamoring. I'm so close to turning the sad icon (a sign of their impatience) into a happy face. I'm so close to leveling up! My citizens will be happy. I will be happy.
Then I can quit. Really.
(Screencaps are for purposes of academic comment and criticism. No ownership is implied.)
This YourTango video is 15 types of awesome: a satire of social media addiction done as a cheesy 70s-style after school special: "Did I just laugh out loud? Dan, I just laughed out loud!" Just watch out for the downer ending: "Ohhh, Daddy like Boing Boing!"
Lately I've been thinking about how and why students use electronic gadgets in class. A fair amount of research and anecdotal evidence shows that students are using mobile phones (and other devices) far more than most faculty recognize. Quoting Wilkes University research:
"95 percent of students bring their phones to class every day and 91 percent have used their phones to text message during class time. Almost half of all respondents indicated that it is easy to text in class without their instructor being aware. In fact, students frequently commented on the survey that their professors would be 'shocked' if they knew how much texting went on in class."
I certainly remember taking a community college refresher course last year and observing that roughly one third of my fellow students seemed more interested in updating their Facebook pages than in focusing on the topic at hand.
My initial response to the notion of students fiddling with their machines in my classroom is to propose a draconian rule: no mobile devices, ever. I didn't use them in my college classes, I figure; students don't need them today. Upon reflection, though, that approach strikes me as being shortsighted.
So now I've developed a more nuanced response, one that affirms my basic respect for the autonomy of adults while trying to maintain a minimal standard of decorum and practicality.
My plan is to share a revised version of this note with my students this spring [here's the current draft]. It's over-written, I admit it, and it's crafted in a more legalistic tone than I'd prefer. But my written policy is merely a supporting document for a conversation I intend to conduct with my students.
Few students (if any) will actually read these words. I just want to have something written down. At a minimum, a message like this signals that I've considered the issue carefully. Better yet, this note might help us avoid frustration later on.
Here's a draft.
Any thoughts? Concerns? Recommendations? Please post a comment.
Also, fellow faculty members, do you have a mobile device policy that you'd like to share? I'd love to see it.
Mobile Devices in Class
You may use mobile devices (phones, laptops, etc.) in my class so long as you follow basic social and ethical guidelines.
To explain those guidelines, let me first explain why I created a mobile device policy at all. Like it or not, virtually all students bring electronic gadgets to class. And why not? You want to stay connected to friends and family, and sometimes important news just can't wait until the end of class. Moreover, these devices aren't toys; they're tools.
Today's mobile devices enable you to check notes, update your calendar, or perhaps get a second opinion on assertions I may offer. Additionally, mobile devices play an essential role in our university's emergency notification network. It therefore seems silly to mandate that you cannot access your phones, laptops, and other electronic tools in class.
That being said, there are three obvious exceptions to this policy, related to testing, privacy, and distraction. In these cases I must adopt a hard line.
1. You may not use any mobile device while any student is taking a quiz or test in the classroom. Restricting the use of mobile devices in a testing environment is a matter of integrity, both practical and perceptual. And I would be well within my rights to interpret any such usage (without my express permission) as a sign of cheating.
2. You may not use any mobile device to record sound or images in class without my consent. Why? Well, for starters, even though you are attending a public university, my classroom is not located in the "public domain." No one in this class has authorized you to record their images or voices. Doing so without gaining permission thus constitutes an invasion of privacy - and potentially a form of theft.
Let me explain: My lectures and other classroom activities are my intellectual property. And while I recognize that student fees help pay for the costs of this room (and for my services) I do not wave my right to create and distribute classroom content as I see fit. That's why you must ask my permission (ideally in written form) to photograph a slide, record a lecture, or distribute my likeness in any way.
3. You may not use any mobile device in a manner that distracts other people. If your use of a mobile device disturbs other folks (especially with ringtones or loud buzzing) - or if attention paid to your device means that you cannot participate meaningfully in our conversations - you may be required to leave the class.
That regrettable action may seem harsh. But ultimately it's a matter of respect. You deserve my full attention in the classroom; I ask for a reasonable portion of the same. If you want to send a quick text or perform a brief web search, feel free. Just be discrete. If you need a gentle reminder about this policy, I'll provide one. Thereafter my approach must become much more strict.
After all, our classroom is a community. What we do and say here matters. There's an anxious, busy world beyond our walls, I know. But that world can wait, at least for the brief time we share together. And when it can't, you can always quietly step outside. I merely ask you to remember that this class - indeed, your choice to seek a degree - is ultimately your choice. And with that choice comes certain responsibilities. One of them: contributing to a respectful learning environment.
Otherwise, there's really no point in coming to college at all.
After more than 20 years of talking about it, Jenny and I went skydiving on Saturday. She got a pretty decent discount deal for an outfit called Skydive Hollister (the ones with the cheesy web address, http://1800funjump.com and a promise for the "cheapest slots in the bay"). That's right, we gleefully invited our own deaths with a discount skydiving company! Actually, from what I've heard - and definitely from what we saw - these folks know what they're doing. The jump was professionally handled, and we were in good hands all the way down. I never felt anything but safe, considering that we purposefully hurled ourselves out of an airplane at 15,000 feet.
So, what's it like to skydive?
Well, it begins with some preparation. Maybe a month and a half before our jump, I was working at home when I got an email from Jenny: "Hey, wanna skydive?" Honestly I was too busy to dwell on the idea. But after two decades of saying we'd have to try it "someday" I couldn't say no. She had a "Groupon" and was willing to handle the arrangements; I had no excuses. The training and jumps themselves would be relatively cheap. Add videos and photos (a much more complex operation for all concerned, since individual jumpers would memorialize our exploits) and the total was around $450.
Waiting for our jump-day to arrive, both of us continued to be inundated with work and travel. There just wasn't any time to contemplate the gravity of our situation (sorry 'bout that). Only in the final days did I occasionally think: "You're really doing this. You know that, right?" I had some trouble sleeping the night before, especially when I did the math and realized: "Dude, you're jumping from 15,000 feet. That's almost three miles!" That morning my joints felt a little creaky, and I pondered, "I'm going to throw this body out of an airplane." Putting on some antiperspirant, I really slathered the stuff on. I figured it could get a little hot today.
Jenny joined me in feeling a little wired about our day's adventure, so she suggested that we pump ourselves up for the drive to Hollister by playing some suitable music. Our trip-list: Foo Fighters' "Learn to Fly," Pink Floyd's "Learning to Fly," along with U2's "Vertigo," "Elevation," and "Beautiful Day." We also downloaded Kenny Loggins' "Danger Zone" but forgot to play that one. Our weirdest but most appropriate choice? Styx's "Come sail away."
Arriving at about ten, we had little clue what to expect. Well, we knew of one thing: We were going to hang around for a while. The Hollister folks had warned us to anticipate a two to four-hour wait from arrival to jump time. Some snippy Yelp reviewers had moaned of daylong drags in a boring facility without much to do. Fortunately the schedule seemed to be moving along smoothly. We paid our fee and were invited to select three pieces of music to accompany the videos they'd make. Not so amazingly (knowing Jenny and I) we chose the same three pieces from their list (Foo Fighters' "Learn to Fly," U2's "Elevation," and some knock-off version of ELO's "Mr. Blue Sky").
We also signed "You can die doing this stuff, but you can't sue us" paperwork, which included an obligation to write out a phrase signifying our knowledge that this activity can end in "injury or death." To reinforce the message, we also sat through a video hosted by tandem parachute equipment pioneer Bill Booth (a guy whose epic beard earned him the nickname of "ZZ Top guy"). Staring into the camera, ZZ Top promised us that litigation is futile even in cases of a staff member's "gross negligence." Reflecting on that warning, I imagined myself in court: "But my instructor held me up at gunpoint. He stole my wallet!" - only to have some smirking defense attorney hold my signed waiver up for all to see: "But you were in a parachute, correct?"
We locked our stuff in the car after being assured that anything in our pockets would be lost in the air, and we waited. I'd dutifully brought some papers to grade, but couldn't muster an ounce of energy for that task. Instead I flipped through a book about surfing and occasionally joined some smalltalk with Jenny and another woman making her first jump. Our new pal's boyfriend was making his eighteenth solo flight, and he projected only the most subtle trace of swagger as he described how he'd advanced through the Accelerated Freefall training program over a few weekends. When one of the jump instructors walked by, he offered a hearty shout-out: "Didya hear about that new suit?" - naming an otherwise random assemblage of letters and numbers. I flashed back to that scene in Star Wars, when one stormtrooper asked another, "Have you seen the new BT-16?" I felt strangely still, waiting.
Right about then, geared-up instructors and googly-eyed jumpers walked past. I knew it: These folks had just gone up and it was our turn next. Like turning a dial to ten, things sped up. I was called by name and directed to a guy wearing an Army t-shirt who looked just like a young Tom Sizemore. Another fellow joined us, describing how he'd be shooting video and reminding me that I might want to grab onto his feet at some point. "Grab onto your feet?" I wondered to myself. My mind spun. I was trying to remember the names of these folks; it seemed like a good thing to know.
I learned that my trainer - the guy who'd be attached to my back the whole way down - was nicknamed "Mr. Rogers." His attitude was reassuringly no-nonsense. He explained the procedure of tandem parachuting and emphasized my role in this relationship: my job was to arch my back and to relax my arms. I didn't feel the slightest desire to point out the contradiction. For good measure Mr. Rogers instructed me to get on the deck and practice. Ever the studious learner, I tried once, got an OK, and then asked if I could try it again. "I'm thinking it, but I'm not feeling it."
"Oh man," my instructor was surely thinking. "This guy's going to be a handful."
Then we got harnessed up. Tight. Tighter than you'd imagine. I looked over at Jenny who was enduring the same process. She was laughing. I just wondered how much more squeezed my jiggly-bits would be with every adjustment. Time was racing now. We were getting suited up. We were walking outside. We were boarding a small plane. We were packed in to a tiny cabin. We were aloft. I was sitting between Mr. Rogers' legs; he was adjusting my gear tighter and tighter. Videographers were asking us questions for the shows they'd later produce, and Jenny and I somehow managed to answer. We were performing our parts: high-fiving, fist-pumping, woo-hooing. All the while my instructor counted off adjustments, hooking us ever closer together. "One. Two. Three. Four." [squeeze, clinch, shove, pull]. "Did you feel those?" Oh yeah. Then he told me on three separate moments, "I'm gonna ask you, 'Are you ready to skydive?' What are you going to say?"
The door was open and I felt cold. We circled higher and higher, watching the blue curve of Monterey Bay arch away from the Pacific. Someone else in the plane had forgotten their antiperspirant. I was focused on the bloody handprint stuck to the window. Halloween is coming, and someone thought it'd be funny to place a plastic reminder on the glass. I realized then that the only truly terrifying part of this adventure was the physical process of jumping. I still couldn't quite fathom what we were going to do. Would we stand up? Does one person go first, followed by the other? What if the wind snaps us against the plane? Oh, and what if all those adjustments fail and I plummet to a fast and violent death?
I reminded myself that I can't control what's going to happen. I'm going to be hurtling toward the ground with only confidence that my instructor knows what he's doing. I could only presume that this dude also, you know, wants to live. As we continued our climb, Mr. Rogers told me about his experience, that he'd made thousands of jumps and was the instructors' supervisor that day. I felt calm enough, I guess, even as I watched Jenny scoot toward the door. She and her instructor were going first. I patted her shoulder and we smiled at each other. They took their positions. They rocked - forward, back, forward - and were gone.
"Are you ready to skydive?" Mr. Rogers asked. "I am ready to skydive," I replied. What else could I say? We edged up to the open door. My feet dangled crazily out of the plane. I thought for a second that we might fall accidentally, just slip off the edge. How bad could that be? We're going out anyway. Then I thought more about what it'd be like to slam against the side of the plane or to cartwheel off into the air due to some micromoment of error. Just a second or two to go. We shifted our position as my instructor made his last adjustments. I thought about all those straps and connections. All that work, just for this. Then we rocked. Forward, back, out.
An explosion of wind blew my mouth open. I didn't feel velocity so much as pressure. The air pounded against my chest and I yelled for the thrill of it all. I knew we were falling at a rate of about 120 miles per hour, but I felt no fear. Nothing but exhilaration. My mouth grew stale with the storm rattling my tongue; I didn't care. We plunged and I shouted "Hell yeah!" I loved the feeling of racing toward the ground, daring it to grab me. I arched my back and held onto the straps when my instructor checked his altimeter. I remembered that he had a helmet, but that I didn't. I wondered why. The wind beat against my goggles. Then, a jolt. The canopy deployed and we hung in sudden stillness.
At this point we had a few moments to enjoy the ride. I looked down mostly, fascinated by the miniature buildings and the grand scale. Mr. Rogers then started teaching me how to turn, and we were soon whooshing left and right. He told me to pull one cable down beneath his knee and we began to twirl in sharp horizontal loops. I guess he felt that I was doing OK, because he let me navigate toward a church. We'd be landing somewhere nearby. I loved the feeling of controlling our descent, maneuvering us toward the ground. I removed my goggles and took it all in. Only at 1000 feet to go did Mr. Rogers regain the controls. The speed had become a tangible thing now. My bones would hit the ground one way or the other.
Mr. Rogers didn't curse, but I could tell he wasn't happy with the speed and angle of our final approach. Something about the wind. We were falling toward a field at a sharp pitch, heading directly for a fence topped with barbed wire. He yelled, "Kick your feet up!" I figured we'd land hard. I thought about speed, time, and direction. I was sure we'd plow into that fence. I wasn't frightened, though, just aware. My job was to kick my feet up; Mr. Rogers' job was to land us. One second, maybe two, and the canopy flared above our heads. We hit the ground and began to slide feet-first toward the fence, unearthing a plume of dust. There was nothing to do but to wait it out. I wondered if we'd get tangled in the barbed wire, how much it would hurt. Then, without so much as a flex of muscle, we stopped - maybe six feet before the fence. My heart was rattling. We didn't get a scratch.
And that was it. I stood up and Mr. Rogers congratulated me on being a good student. We shook hands and I turned to find Jenny. She was thrilled but a little shaky. Her descent had been a little rough on her stomach. We hugged gently. The mood was buoyant as our little group collected the gear and climbed into a tiny yellow bus. Once more we were squeezed in tight for the 20 minute drive back to Hollister. My videographer showed me photos and footage of the flight; I was grateful for his work. But almost immediately the moment seemed to grow abstract. I knew that Jenny and I had jumped out of an airplane - we'd just done it! - but seeing it all on those tiny screens made the whole experience seem almost artificial. I felt the dust on my pants and the icky pallor in my mouth. That was real enough.
We returned to the airport to get unhooked. Walking through the set-up area, it was fun being on the other side of this moment, enjoying the cocky feeling of strolling back from a jump. I thanked Mr. Rogers for his patience and expertise, and left a reasonable tip. I mean, really, I'd put my life in this guy's hands. Jenny and I then shared lunch at the nearby Ding-A-Ling Cafe while we waited for our videos to be completed. I ate a hamburger and contemplated the rest of our day, how we'd go home to look through our photos and maybe later see that new movie, The Social Network. Everything on the ground seemed smaller than it did before. And now for the big question: Will we do it again?
At this point I'd say, we probably will. Jenny loved skydiving, and I've got to admit that I'd like to try once more, if only for the opportunity to be more "present." All day I dwelled too much on minutiae and not enough on the feeling of being there. Moreover during the flight I tended to look downward too much, staring at the details of the ground. Next time I'd focus more on the horizon. And I'd like to arch my back more. And should relax my arms more… Ooops - there's that instructor over my shoulder again. Maybe the coolest part of going back, ultimately of getting certified, is the possibility of jumping alone. Oh, to feel that abyss of reality rushing toward me, with nothing but faith, equipment, and training to keep me safe. It's an expensive hobby, skydiving. It's also a hardcore way to die. But a life in the air (at least on weekends) would be a remarkable thing. We've gone once - and that's the hard part.
Yeah, we'll do it again.
(Special thanks to Skydive Hollister for the photographs and raw footage.)
I'm still processing a semi-popular uprising against Facebook as privacy advocates continue to profess shock that the social networking site is using information about user-habits to make money, and even worse, doing so in ways that users can't control. I suppose my confusion about all this consternation stems from the fact that I try not to post anything on the site that I wouldn't cheerfully see on the front page of the New York Times. And while I am fairly vigilant about updating my privacy settings, I have largely abandoned hope in safeguarding all my info from prying eyes.
Perhaps I've been too easily indoctrinated into the electronic panopticon. With each loyalty card I use, each internet transaction I engage, each time I participate in another geo-tagged activity, more of my data is sucked into the infosphere - often for purposes I cannot anticipate or influence. Bit by bit I measure the risks that my data will be used to harm me against the rewards I receive from this kind of accessibility. So far, at least for now, the rewards outweigh the costs.
This is a slightly revised version of the speech I presented last month as keynoter for the Rocky Mountain Communication Association's 2010 conference in Denver. The trip was a delight, especially the opportunity it provided to photograph farm relics and neon signs. But the best part was the chance to meet some really cool folks (including some outstanding faculty members and graduate students at The University of Northern Colorado). I just thought it'd be useful to archive my RMCA remarks, if only to bring back some happy memories...
Think back to the last time you were several places at once.
Visualize the moment.
Imagine you're chatting on a mobile phone while scanning a website on your laptop. Perhaps you catch a glimpse of video on another screen nearby. Maybe you're doing these things on the same device.
South Park sometimes hits. Sometimes it misses. And then sometimes it perfectly captures the zeitgeist. And this time, the show manages to skewer the Facebook craze in a way that reveals real insight and thoughtful critique about how social networking sites can transform friendship into commodity.
If you're interested in Facebook, and you don't mind taking some pop culture side-trips through Chatroulette, Farmville, Mad Money, and the cheesy Disney flick Tron, you will love this episode.
Check out the episode: You Have 0 Friends (Warning: Unedited Adult Language)
I just read a fascinating article about how Facebook may be inspiring us to stop caring about printing our photos. Writing for The Washington Post, Caitlin McDevitt cites IDC projections that a third fewer photos will be printed in 2013 than in 2008, a trend launched with the introduction of cheap digital cameras but now increasingly propelled by social networking sites.
One potential problem with all that cloud-based photo sharing? Facebook doesn't store images at their optimal resolution for printing. The images are only good enough for computer screens. Yet many folks apparently presume that once they upload a picture to a social networking site there's no point to archiving a high resolution version for future purposes.
Indeed, McDevitt quotes Photo Marketing Association research that concludes, "nearly 40 percent of households with digital cameras no longer print out their pictures." While I don't see sufficient evidence to relate this statistic to the author's broader point about Facebook, I am nonetheless intrigued by the suggestion that physical media are becoming less important to a growing number of photographers.
