Showing posts with label rants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rants. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
2013's Banned Words and phrases (Part 2 of 2)
Following up on yesterday's rant, let's wrap up 2013's list of words, phrases, or things that need to be banished to the land of wind and ghosts.
Honey Boo Boo Alana Thompson portrays this gawdawful character on TLC, a station once called The Learning Channel (former actual slogan: "A Place for Learning Minds"). When the cameras are off, I'm sure Alana's pretty much like any other kid. I hope so. So I'm not dissing a little girl. Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, though: that show's got to go. No less a D-lister than Kathy Griffin said as much while working to elicit girlish giggles from Anderson Cooper this past New Year's Eve. And when Kathy Griffin says your time is up, your time is up.
"_____ on steroids" I'm not sure what's worse about this phrase, the sense that its user has simply stopped caring about saying anything original, or the icky images conjured by its use. Either way, unless we're talking about bulging muscles, leathery skin, and bad acne, let's ban steroids from all future political and pop culture commentary.
Record Needle Scratch So you're sitting in a movie theater, watching the trailers. Let's see, there's that new blockbuster about comic book heroes (in 3D!), there's another Fast and Furious sequel (just how furious can these people be? Too much fury just makes me sleepy), and, ah, there it is: the Cute Family Comedy involving meddling mothers-in-law, adorable kids, and a scene where the family dances in the kitchen to "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" -- but there's a twist, something like, "Except. Everyone. Is. A. Robot... In 3D!" That's when we hear the dreaded Scratch, the Wilhelm Scream of movie trailers. Note to Hollywood Producers On Cocaine: Most folks in your audience have never played a record. Lose the scratch.
"At the end of the day" TV talk shows about politics and the economy are one of my guilty pleasures. I've got a crush on Rachel Maddow, of course, but I switch things up too. I give Bill O'Reilly a listen from time to time, and I've been known to watch an entire Ann Coulter segment without piercing my eyeballs. But no matter the network, I want to throw my remote at the screen every time someone says, "at the end of the day." For many politicians, journalists, and commentators, the phrase seems to bolster otherwise trite analysis with some sort of credibility, as if one person's words can summon forth the debate's closure. Each time someone says, "at the end of the day," that person's IQ drops 10 points. Every time.
YOLO This is a sign of my age, but I don't know a single person who has said or written YOLO, which is an acronym for "You only live once." Suddenly I'm reminded of Pauline Kael's response to Nixon's 1972 election: "I don't know how he won. None of my friends voted for him." Anyway, I only read about YOLO in articles who've texted the phrase before attempting a stupid feat ("I'm going to produce a shot-by-shot remake of Jackass: The Movie. Looking for a shopping cart. YOLO!"). So I guess the phrase works as a gene pool scrubber. Hmmm… Maybe YOLO can stay.
Monday, January 7, 2013
2013's Banned List (Part 1 of 2)
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.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Morozov's "Death of the Cyberflaneur"
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.
What would our lives be like if we expected more?
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Tonight's State of the Union
Wary promises that some members of congress might break tradition and deign to organize themselves in groups not aligned solely to exacerbate our deep cultural divide do little to assuage the sense that the state of our union is anything but strong. No, we're not in Civil War-mode, not really. Heck, I imagine that folks who endured the 60s could point to even more profound fissures in our nation a mere four decades ago. Still, President Obama faces a large and rowdy contingent of lawmakers who seem more indebted to Tea Party bombthrowing than to managing the people's business.
Health care reform (remember that?) is getting wound up for a second serving of anything-goes partisanship. Threats of a government shutdown are echoing through the halls of Congress (as opposed to the plodding of tourists who are now safely isolated from much the Capital Building - another loss to our grim post-9/11 world). And then there are various wingnut committee chairs bent on raining two years of nonstop investigatory fury on a president they'd cheerfully send to a Guantanamo Bay if they could. They presume, I suppose, that all this poison will bleed dry once the other side takes over, that then they'll do half the things they promised their constituents ("Department of Education? Sold to the University of Phoenix. IRS? New headquarters for the Chamber of Commerce!"
Pundits will opine that tonight's State of the Union will mark a major milestone in the Obama presidency - maybe one of those "make or break moments." Yeah. Problem is, they all are. Each speech is a crisp, clear moment of clarity that somehow blurs into the muddy maw of legal wrangling, vicious brinksmanship, pious grandstanding, and guilty handwringing that defines American politics these days. Just how screwed up have things become? Here's a clue: Some people say that Ronald Reagan couldn't get the GOP nomination now; he'd be damned for being too liberal. If that's not a sign that the state of our union is really a mess, I don't know what is.
So good luck, Mr. President. We need it.
Health care reform (remember that?) is getting wound up for a second serving of anything-goes partisanship. Threats of a government shutdown are echoing through the halls of Congress (as opposed to the plodding of tourists who are now safely isolated from much the Capital Building - another loss to our grim post-9/11 world). And then there are various wingnut committee chairs bent on raining two years of nonstop investigatory fury on a president they'd cheerfully send to a Guantanamo Bay if they could. They presume, I suppose, that all this poison will bleed dry once the other side takes over, that then they'll do half the things they promised their constituents ("Department of Education? Sold to the University of Phoenix. IRS? New headquarters for the Chamber of Commerce!"
Pundits will opine that tonight's State of the Union will mark a major milestone in the Obama presidency - maybe one of those "make or break moments." Yeah. Problem is, they all are. Each speech is a crisp, clear moment of clarity that somehow blurs into the muddy maw of legal wrangling, vicious brinksmanship, pious grandstanding, and guilty handwringing that defines American politics these days. Just how screwed up have things become? Here's a clue: Some people say that Ronald Reagan couldn't get the GOP nomination now; he'd be damned for being too liberal. If that's not a sign that the state of our union is really a mess, I don't know what is.
So good luck, Mr. President. We need it.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Draft Policy on Mobile Devices
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:
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.
"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.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Text-Talk, Like Kudzu, Continues to Colonize
Earlier this month, I came across a CNN story [link] about a reality show performer named Kandi Burruss whose fiance, Ashley "A.J." Jewell, was beaten to death at a strip club called "Body Tap."
You can't make these names up, but that's not my point.
What struck me (so to speak) was CNN's inclusion of Kandi's Twitter posts about her loss. Here's the copy/paste:
But I can't wrap my head around Kandi's choice to share news of her genuinely painful suffering in the language of text-talk. To reiterate: "im bout 2 giv my swollen eyes sum rest now... i just wanted to say thanks 2 every1"
Really?
Your fiance just got his head pulverized, and you're too bereaved to spell "everyone"?
Maybe the matter is the medium. Twitter demands brevity; the 140 character-cap doesn't allow for encyclopedic bloviation [that's what blogs are for]. And then there's the matter of personal choice. No doubt, anyone seriously calling herself "Kandi" is going to write however she darn well pleases.
Still, if I were sharing heartbreaking news, in any form, I'd take a break from trendy-chat. I'd certainly differentiate between "sum" and "some." But that's just me.
What about the larger trend? Well, it's hardly news that people -- "ppl," in text-talk -- increasingly resort to telescoped language. It's quick and it's popular, yet it could also represent a problem, especially as functional and fashionable choices continue to blur our willingness, if not our ability, to convey complex ideas in meaningful ways.
At some point I fear that we're creating a world where public discourse is little more than a cacophony of car honks and fart noises, the verbal equivalent of typing (or saluting) with one middle finger. And when it transforms from clever technique to ubiquitous practice, all this rapi-tapping pushes us further along into the din.
No, I'm not railing for some abstract principle of "decorum" or "etiquette." I'm just advocating the more basic principle of "not sounding like an 14 year old who just discovered Prince," at least when writing about the loss of a loved one. That's my hopelessly outdated dream.
wats urs?
December 20, 2009 update: Here's a copy/paste from CNN's report of Ashton Kutcher's Twitter Post following the death of Brittany Murphy: "2day the world lost a little piece of sunshine. My deepest condolences go out 2 Brittany's family, her husband, & her amazing mother Sharon."
January 5, 2010 update: Here's a copy/paste from one of Tila Tequila's Twitter Posts following the death of Casey Johnson: "R.I.P my Angel. @caseyjonsonJnJ u will forever be in my heart! I love u so so much and we will Marry when I see U in Heaven my Wifey."
September 16, 2010 update: Creepy loser Wisconsin prosecutor sends repeated come-on texts to crime victim, including this gem: "Are you the kind of girl that likes secret contact with an older married elected DA ... the riskier the better?" followed by the kicker: "I would not expect you to be the other woman. I would want you to be so hot and treat me so well that you'd be THE woman! R U that good?" Really. R U that stupid?
December 30, 2010 update: Raz-B tweets his displeasure at Chris Brown: "@chrisbrown u victimize victims, ur a homophobe, ur on the down low & a woman beater. Merry Christmas & thx 4 showin every1 ur true colors."
January 17, 2012 update: Some idiot ignores a restraining order: "Even though u r mad at me will u still marrier [sic] me? ... I love you!"
Related Posts
• Text-Speak and the New Discourse - Djelloul Marbrook has written an interesting piece about the impact of online communication on what counts as good writing, and he offers a provocative thesis, that today's electronic writing, often a lazy mishmash of lazy and hackneyed tripe, may yet unfold into something new and transformative.
• Dont h8: Keyboard Got Me LOLing - A fullsize keyboard for folks who write in LOLs has arrived. It's called the Fast Finger Keyboard, and it offers a host of TextTalk options under the function keys, everything from ASAP to TTYL. The keyboard also allows you to switch from QWERTY to A-Z formats.
You can't make these names up, but that's not my point.
What struck me (so to speak) was CNN's inclusion of Kandi's Twitter posts about her loss. Here's the copy/paste:
"im just in one of those moods where i dont wanna talk, i dont wanna b held & told its gonna b ok. i just wanna cry myself 2 sleep, alone," she says.Look, I don't mean to trivialize this tragedy. Anyone deserves compassion in Kandi's situation. Perhaps we should leave this as a live-and-let live situation (except for the dude who inflicted blunt force trauma on A.J.).
"i could never n a million years imagine this happening. please pray for AJ's children. that's who im the most concerned 4."
"im bout 2 giv my swollen eyes sum rest now. i just wanted to say thanks 2 every1 for their prayers."
But I can't wrap my head around Kandi's choice to share news of her genuinely painful suffering in the language of text-talk. To reiterate: "im bout 2 giv my swollen eyes sum rest now... i just wanted to say thanks 2 every1"
Really?
Your fiance just got his head pulverized, and you're too bereaved to spell "everyone"?
Maybe the matter is the medium. Twitter demands brevity; the 140 character-cap doesn't allow for encyclopedic bloviation [that's what blogs are for]. And then there's the matter of personal choice. No doubt, anyone seriously calling herself "Kandi" is going to write however she darn well pleases.
Still, if I were sharing heartbreaking news, in any form, I'd take a break from trendy-chat. I'd certainly differentiate between "sum" and "some." But that's just me.
What about the larger trend? Well, it's hardly news that people -- "ppl," in text-talk -- increasingly resort to telescoped language. It's quick and it's popular, yet it could also represent a problem, especially as functional and fashionable choices continue to blur our willingness, if not our ability, to convey complex ideas in meaningful ways.
At some point I fear that we're creating a world where public discourse is little more than a cacophony of car honks and fart noises, the verbal equivalent of typing (or saluting) with one middle finger. And when it transforms from clever technique to ubiquitous practice, all this rapi-tapping pushes us further along into the din.
No, I'm not railing for some abstract principle of "decorum" or "etiquette." I'm just advocating the more basic principle of "not sounding like an 14 year old who just discovered Prince," at least when writing about the loss of a loved one. That's my hopelessly outdated dream.
wats urs?
December 20, 2009 update: Here's a copy/paste from CNN's report of Ashton Kutcher's Twitter Post following the death of Brittany Murphy: "2day the world lost a little piece of sunshine. My deepest condolences go out 2 Brittany's family, her husband, & her amazing mother Sharon."
January 5, 2010 update: Here's a copy/paste from one of Tila Tequila's Twitter Posts following the death of Casey Johnson: "R.I.P my Angel. @caseyjonsonJnJ u will forever be in my heart! I love u so so much and we will Marry when I see U in Heaven my Wifey."
September 16, 2010 update: Creepy loser Wisconsin prosecutor sends repeated come-on texts to crime victim, including this gem: "Are you the kind of girl that likes secret contact with an older married elected DA ... the riskier the better?" followed by the kicker: "I would not expect you to be the other woman. I would want you to be so hot and treat me so well that you'd be THE woman! R U that good?" Really. R U that stupid?
December 30, 2010 update: Raz-B tweets his displeasure at Chris Brown: "@chrisbrown u victimize victims, ur a homophobe, ur on the down low & a woman beater. Merry Christmas & thx 4 showin every1 ur true colors."
January 17, 2012 update: Some idiot ignores a restraining order: "Even though u r mad at me will u still marrier [sic] me? ... I love you!"
Related Posts
• Text-Speak and the New Discourse - Djelloul Marbrook has written an interesting piece about the impact of online communication on what counts as good writing, and he offers a provocative thesis, that today's electronic writing, often a lazy mishmash of lazy and hackneyed tripe, may yet unfold into something new and transformative.
• Dont h8: Keyboard Got Me LOLing - A fullsize keyboard for folks who write in LOLs has arrived. It's called the Fast Finger Keyboard, and it offers a host of TextTalk options under the function keys, everything from ASAP to TTYL. The keyboard also allows you to switch from QWERTY to A-Z formats.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Connecticut Lawmakers Hard at Work
This AP photo illustrates that while the economy continues to limp along, lawmakers are still working hard to fulfill their sworn duties. Confused? Let me translate this image (photographer unknown).While the screens to the left appear to depict time-wasting games of solitaire, I'm certain the playing cards are symbolic of how Connecticut legislators are prioritizing their stacks of budget priorities. Hearts for social programs, Spades for construction projects, that sort of thing.
The baseball website to the right? Not what it seems. Actually, you can clearly see one of Connecticut's elected officials researching how to "hit the budget deficit out of the park." This objective requires consultation with experts, what with all the balls lawmakers must keep in the air. Better check with a ballplayer.
Note: While the related story is posted here, Senate Approves Budget, the image comes from the front page of the Connecticut Courant. That's a weird word to spell, so here's a hint: You can't spell "Courant" without rant. Also, I must admit, I found this image on Drudge.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Street Art and Public Life
Anticipating a future iteration of COMM 149 Rhetoric and Public Life, a class I've taught since 2000 but still continue to revise and rethink semester after semester, I've been planning to develop a module on street art, paying special attention to graffiti, tagging, and the use of stickers used to alter public or private places in a manner not intended by their designers.Right away, I flash on Michel de Certeau's distinction between place (planned, authorized, formalized) and space (momentary, unscripted, creative), a perfect introduction to the post-place approach I bring to my own inquiries into public life. I also imagine that William Gibson's dictum "The Street finds its own uses for things" will appear somewhere in this new class discussion. Of course, I need to smarten myself up about few topics first, and maybe even rethink some of my biases.
Owing partially to my ignorance, I possess a visceral and somewhat simplistic response to much that is called "street art." Put simply, I don't like it. To illustrate, I recall a highway 17 bus commute onto campus a couple months ago when we passed a well-known painting that indicates the entrance to a San Jose dive called Cinebar. I've visited the bar a few times, but I'd hardly call myself a regular. Still, I always liked the mural on the outside wall. It's a colorful and rare burst of creativity in a what is (all too often) a bland, corporate desert.
Then one day that mural was covered with a spray-painted scrawl: someone's idea of creativity, or rebellion, or personality, or whatever. Wow, that pissed me off. And while I was thrilled when the Cinebar image was repainted a few days later, I wondered how much it cost the small business owner to remove the tag and repaint the mural, recognizing that the unauthorized artist could simply return to inflict his or her damage again. Moreover, the new mural possessed much less detail than the previous version. The result is a sign of diminishing communication. Maybe next time the owner of Cinebar will conclude that beautifying this piece of private property is simply not worth the hassle at all, leaving us with yet another blank wall amid urban corridors. And if the tagger returns then? Well, whitewash is cheap.
I used that example in a summer offering of Rhetoric and Public Life to illustrate how the individual and (sometimes) group marring of public places reflects a problem of contemporary urban life. I figured this was a conventional point, one that would earn polite head-nods. I was wrong, naturally. One especially bright and challenging student pivoted to an intriguing question: How do you feel about billboards? Don't they mar public life? Hmm... My initial response was less than useful: Sure, I replied. I don't like tagging, but I don't like billboards much either. Many are ugly and few contribute much that is meaningful to our shared environment. Perhaps there was some relationship between the two, I considered.
Only later did I recall on the fact that billboards are typically located on private property. In other words, let's say that a farmer agrees to host a billboard and is paid for the exchange. Those advertisements can be seen in public by passing motorists, but they are not imposed on the public in the same manner as one person's graffiti on another person's private property - or on property owned by the public in common (such as a tax-supported civic building). Whether through ownership or rental agreement, if a billboard is located on a private place that is merely adjacent to public life its owner enjoys a high degree of freedom to use it as desired. The same cannot be said for most cases of tagging.
The key issue concerns the rights of ownership [But wait, you might reply: who owns the image at the top of this post? I'll get to that point at the end of this piece]. That's why I have a real problem when I observe the results of a student tagging (owning?) the public university campus where I teach. Any student conceivably contributes to the operation of the campus through taxes, fees, and other supports, but the student hardly owns the campus as private property; the student may not unilaterally alter its design without some form of public consent. The results of that student's tagging, therefore, is not art; it may not be forgiven as harmless "expression" either. It's vandalism.
Can you guess my age? Yep, I'm over forty.
Anyway, while thinking about this topic I recalled an online essay by Rex Thomas called Street Art and Civic Space that has inspired some reflection about the broader topic. Particularly as it relates to my evolving college course, I wonder how I might develop a more sophisticated understanding of street art. Thomas' thesis offers some insight and is amply illustrated with this excerpt:
"Street art is tied into a larger urban culture, and expresses the visual aspect of this larger milieu. As Western mainstream culture retreats from the street into the air-conditioned, connected bubbles of the suburbs, street art and its culture expands to fill the empty space."Tagging, graffiti, stickers: these are nothing less than meaningful social commentary then, right?
Maybe, but I'm not yet sure. Intriguingly, this commentary championed by Thomas may be revolutionary, but it could also be profoundly regressive. Indeed, Thomas suggests that street artists borrow from the language of advertising: "branding" their identities with "logotypes." Yet he also appears to reject the "culture of consumption" that demeans public life (citing architect Daniel Libeskind to support this point). One imagines that Thomas sees no contradiction in these ideas. Rather, he might say that street artists like Barry McGee and Banksy are appropriating commodity tools to reject the corporatization (and related privatization) of public life.
Thomas proceeds to employ Marshall McLuhan (we all do at some point) to emphasize the role of the medium in defining the message of street art: Given that the art is generally done illegally, "[t]he content of the piece is almost irrelevant; the viewer's reaction is the same regardless of the tag's content or author." In other words, what is uttered is less important than where and how. Even so, one wonders: How can an illegal message inspire meaningful contemplation or dialogue, as Thomas would hope? The author appears to reply: How can it not? Illegal messages inevitably call us to question the nature of legality itself. Who decides?
Thomas shifts to some comments about permission walls, heterotopian spaces that are both uncensored (one might believe) and yet authorized, before concluding with his analysis of how street art signifies a larger aesthetic process. At this point we observe the reduction of "meaning" as a site of communication or method for its evaluation:
"Artists first threw out figure, then form, then color, then the frame, and then wandered into their process itself as an art form. Graffiti artists begin with the end: their signature, or tag, becomes the art, and by using this as the starting point, and the city as their canvas..."I must admit that this statement about the steady reduction of communication, and its presumably concomitant loss of detail and subtlety, reminds me of George Orwell's claim that language in a coercive environment ends up sounding like the quacking of a duck, or at least becomes valued accordingly.
From this perspective, I continue to ponder: What is really being said on the urban canvas? Thomas seems to reply that street art reveals the crisis and collapse of public life, the consequences of a "privileged few" retreating into their physical and rhetorical enclaves, leaving the rest of society in ruins. To those who flee from public life, excepting armored incursions from the safety of their cars, street art shows what they will not otherwise see. OK, that seems like a fair argument, but this is where I must do some serious thinking. After all, what if the message of street art -- all those tags on interstate highway barriers, all those stickers on suburban stoplights, all those spray-painted faces on urban ruins -- is much more simple and much less meaningful than its defenders ask us to believe?
What if street art simply says, "Look at me"? Yes, that statement "says something" about public life. But does the message offer any promise of change?
Learn More: For me as much as anyone else, it's time to research this topic more thoroughly. Here are some sites I hope to investigate (I have not visited these sites in detail, and I do not necessarily recommend them). Please feel free to post comments on your thoughts and/or recommendations for sites I should add or subtract:
• Art Crimes: "a gallery of graffiti art from cities around the world"
• Situationist International Archive: collection of essays - a particularly useful site to learn more about Guy Debord
• Street Use: "This site features the ways in which people modify and re-create technology"
Note: The image above is borrowed from Banksy's website. I wasn't sure I could use his image for my blog - the risk of hypocrisy is too great - until I read the artist's online manifesto, a quotation from Emo Philips: "When I was a kid I used to pray every night for a new bicycle. Then I realised God doesn’t work that way, so I stole one and prayed for forgiveness."
Update: This article has been republished under the author's own name (Rex Thomas is a pen name) at New Geography.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Wood Writing Guide - Use vs. Utilize
The desire to craft and read decent prose (or similarly utter and hear good words) confronts distressing trends of text-speak and over-writing. Text-speak, the abandonment of correctness in place of convenience, is a topic I'll address some other time. But over-writing deserves some attention now. One example of over-writing? Folks who use the word "utilize" when they mean "use."
Read enough corporate or academic memos (there's still a difference between the two, no matter how increasingly small) and you will encounter the words "use" and "utilize" employed interchangeably. And if the author is attempting to establish her or his credibility, you can guess what word will appear more often: "utilize."
Why? Perhaps "utilize," with its three syllables, sounds more impressive than "use" with its mere one syllable. And we all want our words to bolster our credibility, right? However, if your goal is precision rather than puffery, you might want to know the difference between "use" and "utilize."
• "Use" refers to the typical employment of something or someone.
• "Utilize" refers to a novel employment of something or someone.
Examples:
"I used my computer to write this blog."
"I utilized my computer as a paperweight."
See? The "use" is expected. The "utilization" is unexpected.
In reading other blog posts that tackle this topic, I encountered a rebuke to another author's call to distinguish between "use" and "utilize." The respondent said something like this: "Don't get so caught up with rules, dude! Writing is about sharing, not about regulation." Fair enough. No one wants to kill language with pointless rules. But I still advocate for precision in language. To that end, I invite you to consider the subtle variances between commonly conflated words. You might as well start with "use" and "utilize."
Know of any others? Please post a comment.
Read enough corporate or academic memos (there's still a difference between the two, no matter how increasingly small) and you will encounter the words "use" and "utilize" employed interchangeably. And if the author is attempting to establish her or his credibility, you can guess what word will appear more often: "utilize."
Why? Perhaps "utilize," with its three syllables, sounds more impressive than "use" with its mere one syllable. And we all want our words to bolster our credibility, right? However, if your goal is precision rather than puffery, you might want to know the difference between "use" and "utilize."
• "Use" refers to the typical employment of something or someone.
• "Utilize" refers to a novel employment of something or someone.
Examples:
"I used my computer to write this blog."
"I utilized my computer as a paperweight."
See? The "use" is expected. The "utilization" is unexpected.
In reading other blog posts that tackle this topic, I encountered a rebuke to another author's call to distinguish between "use" and "utilize." The respondent said something like this: "Don't get so caught up with rules, dude! Writing is about sharing, not about regulation." Fair enough. No one wants to kill language with pointless rules. But I still advocate for precision in language. To that end, I invite you to consider the subtle variances between commonly conflated words. You might as well start with "use" and "utilize."
Know of any others? Please post a comment.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Highway 17 Bus Rant
As longtime readers know, I'm a regular on Highway 17, the express bus that connects Santa Cruz and San Jose. Heck, Jenny and I chose to buy our house partially due to its proximity to mass transit. And so I ride the bus every weekday during Fall and Spring semesters and often over the summer, even on those occasions when I'd much prefer to zip "over the hill" in my own car.
Most of these trips are OK. A little noisy, a little smelly, and little slow, but OK. Most passengers are cool; they just want to get to their destination with a minimum of hassle. Pretty much, the 17 is a good deal. But every once in a while the trip is marred by a variety of folks who need a good rant. Perhaps you recognize 'em?
To the guy asking the bus driver for trip-planning tips: Listen up, the folks who run the bus system offer online planning tools and phone-based planning advice. They plaster route maps all over the place, too. You know why? Because the driver is paid to drive the bus, not serve as your travel agent. Similarly, when you get on a bus that says, "San Jose," which is northbound, why are you shocked that the bus is not heading to Santa Cruz, which is southbound? And why do you have to confirm several times with the bus driver that you're trying to get somewhere else. You're new here? That's cool. Welcome to California. But do us all a favor and spend a moment with a map or a schedule before you get to the bus. Heck, chat with us in line. We'll happily advise you. But don't show up at the last minute and ask the entire bus to wait for you to get your act together.
To the gum-smacking BFFs burbling with pithy conversation while sitting across the aisle from each other: Did you notice that you're the only two people talking this loudly on the bus? Most everyone else is reading or writing or sleeping. Everyone but you who interject each sentence with a minimum of two or three "likes" as if they're hot air to keep your words aloft. Bring me the sweet embrace of death, if only you two would quiet down just a little. Oh, and to the guy who switched places so these two can sit closer together (but still across the aisle): thanks, dude. You just wrecked an hour of peace and quiet.
To the guy jaywalking on the intersection in front of us: I know that you're late for a meeting. I know that you're important; I can see that by your snazzy cell phone. And I'm glad that you're saving 15 seconds from your trip. But there are about 30 people on this bus who also have places to go and people to see. And we can't get anywhere because you're blocking the road. No, we don't want you to get hit by a car, but - well - there's no good way to complete this sentence.
To the girl placing her book bag on the seat next to her: Unless you paid double, you bought access to one seat, not two. And the good folks who run this operation have seen fit to cut routes sufficiently to ensure standing-room only conditions, certainly on miserable, rainy Mondays. Placing your book bag on the empty seat, you offer a challenge - one that I happily accept. I will take that seat, despite all of your eye-rolls and your barely concealed huffs of displeasure. Feel free to look behind you. Yes, I also see that there's an empty seat snug against the window a few rows back. Yes, I could theoretically keep walking down the aisle. But I won't. It's you and me, kid. Oh, and you're annoyed that you have to stow your bag on the shelf above us? I'm sorry to frustrate you, but that's what the shelf is for. Here, let me help you with that.
To the guy bringing an extra bike onboard: Congratulations for being environmentally conscious. And you're clearly a serious biker, what with your helmet mirror and spandex pants and all. But there are already two bikes on the outside rack and you insist on lugging your bike inside, which is fine - except for the fact that three people must be booted from their chairs to accommodate you and your bike. Me, I stood in line for an extra ten minutes to snag this seat because it's one of the few on this bus that offer a little legroom. An elderly person needs it? It's theirs; I'm gone. A person with physical challenges needs it? Outtahere with a smile. And you? Well, OK, I'll move - if you ask nicely. But remember: I don't have to say yes.
To the girl asking if anyone can break a $20: Seriously? See the sign on the side of the bus, "express"? That means that passengers are trying to get from one distant spot to another in the shortest amount of time possible. We've paid our fares and want to get on our way. But because you couldn't spend a moment to think, "Hmm, this bus is going to cost money, and chances are it's less than $20," we're expected to rip through wallets and purses to help you make change? There's a 7-11 a few blocks away, and I'm pretty sure the nearby grocery store will make change if you buy something. But please don't just show up to the bus, expecting us to wait for you to get your finances in order.
To the guitar-strumming dude smelling of pot and body odor: I kind of envy you, guy. You've struck up a conversation with that pierced UCSC girl about your "journey." You know, takin' it easy, travelin' cross country, hangin' out with friends, crashin' on couches. And you sure do love strummin' that guitar. Just a flick of your fingers adds a bit of musical accompaniment to your Kerouac narrative. It sure does remind me of the dull, empty conformity of my staid middle class life. Oh, did you hear? The hippy girl just offered you a place to sleep tonight! Nothing serious, just some cool friends who like to chat late into the night. For some ungodly reason, you said no. Just gotta keep ramblin' on, I guess. Thanks for showing me a world beyond houses made of ticky-tacky. You've blown my mind a little, you, the first adventurer choosing to "see America." I dig it. But damn, dude, could you soap up your armpits once in awhile?
Finally, to the person in the wheel chair: no rant for you. I'm sorry you've got to endure so much hassle to get on this godforsaken bus. Transportation for most of us is a convenience that requires so little: some thought, some planning, some courtesy. For you, it's a much bigger deal. So take your time and get yourself settled, safe, and comfortable. And ignore the jerks who give you dirty looks because they have to move to accommodate your chair. One day they may know what it's like for you. You hope they won't. I hope they won't. But karma doesn't mess around. In the meantime, take all the time you need and enjoy the ride.
Most of these trips are OK. A little noisy, a little smelly, and little slow, but OK. Most passengers are cool; they just want to get to their destination with a minimum of hassle. Pretty much, the 17 is a good deal. But every once in a while the trip is marred by a variety of folks who need a good rant. Perhaps you recognize 'em?
To the guy asking the bus driver for trip-planning tips: Listen up, the folks who run the bus system offer online planning tools and phone-based planning advice. They plaster route maps all over the place, too. You know why? Because the driver is paid to drive the bus, not serve as your travel agent. Similarly, when you get on a bus that says, "San Jose," which is northbound, why are you shocked that the bus is not heading to Santa Cruz, which is southbound? And why do you have to confirm several times with the bus driver that you're trying to get somewhere else. You're new here? That's cool. Welcome to California. But do us all a favor and spend a moment with a map or a schedule before you get to the bus. Heck, chat with us in line. We'll happily advise you. But don't show up at the last minute and ask the entire bus to wait for you to get your act together.
To the gum-smacking BFFs burbling with pithy conversation while sitting across the aisle from each other: Did you notice that you're the only two people talking this loudly on the bus? Most everyone else is reading or writing or sleeping. Everyone but you who interject each sentence with a minimum of two or three "likes" as if they're hot air to keep your words aloft. Bring me the sweet embrace of death, if only you two would quiet down just a little. Oh, and to the guy who switched places so these two can sit closer together (but still across the aisle): thanks, dude. You just wrecked an hour of peace and quiet.
To the guy jaywalking on the intersection in front of us: I know that you're late for a meeting. I know that you're important; I can see that by your snazzy cell phone. And I'm glad that you're saving 15 seconds from your trip. But there are about 30 people on this bus who also have places to go and people to see. And we can't get anywhere because you're blocking the road. No, we don't want you to get hit by a car, but - well - there's no good way to complete this sentence.
To the girl placing her book bag on the seat next to her: Unless you paid double, you bought access to one seat, not two. And the good folks who run this operation have seen fit to cut routes sufficiently to ensure standing-room only conditions, certainly on miserable, rainy Mondays. Placing your book bag on the empty seat, you offer a challenge - one that I happily accept. I will take that seat, despite all of your eye-rolls and your barely concealed huffs of displeasure. Feel free to look behind you. Yes, I also see that there's an empty seat snug against the window a few rows back. Yes, I could theoretically keep walking down the aisle. But I won't. It's you and me, kid. Oh, and you're annoyed that you have to stow your bag on the shelf above us? I'm sorry to frustrate you, but that's what the shelf is for. Here, let me help you with that.
To the guy bringing an extra bike onboard: Congratulations for being environmentally conscious. And you're clearly a serious biker, what with your helmet mirror and spandex pants and all. But there are already two bikes on the outside rack and you insist on lugging your bike inside, which is fine - except for the fact that three people must be booted from their chairs to accommodate you and your bike. Me, I stood in line for an extra ten minutes to snag this seat because it's one of the few on this bus that offer a little legroom. An elderly person needs it? It's theirs; I'm gone. A person with physical challenges needs it? Outtahere with a smile. And you? Well, OK, I'll move - if you ask nicely. But remember: I don't have to say yes.
To the girl asking if anyone can break a $20: Seriously? See the sign on the side of the bus, "express"? That means that passengers are trying to get from one distant spot to another in the shortest amount of time possible. We've paid our fares and want to get on our way. But because you couldn't spend a moment to think, "Hmm, this bus is going to cost money, and chances are it's less than $20," we're expected to rip through wallets and purses to help you make change? There's a 7-11 a few blocks away, and I'm pretty sure the nearby grocery store will make change if you buy something. But please don't just show up to the bus, expecting us to wait for you to get your finances in order.
To the guitar-strumming dude smelling of pot and body odor: I kind of envy you, guy. You've struck up a conversation with that pierced UCSC girl about your "journey." You know, takin' it easy, travelin' cross country, hangin' out with friends, crashin' on couches. And you sure do love strummin' that guitar. Just a flick of your fingers adds a bit of musical accompaniment to your Kerouac narrative. It sure does remind me of the dull, empty conformity of my staid middle class life. Oh, did you hear? The hippy girl just offered you a place to sleep tonight! Nothing serious, just some cool friends who like to chat late into the night. For some ungodly reason, you said no. Just gotta keep ramblin' on, I guess. Thanks for showing me a world beyond houses made of ticky-tacky. You've blown my mind a little, you, the first adventurer choosing to "see America." I dig it. But damn, dude, could you soap up your armpits once in awhile?
Finally, to the person in the wheel chair: no rant for you. I'm sorry you've got to endure so much hassle to get on this godforsaken bus. Transportation for most of us is a convenience that requires so little: some thought, some planning, some courtesy. For you, it's a much bigger deal. So take your time and get yourself settled, safe, and comfortable. And ignore the jerks who give you dirty looks because they have to move to accommodate your chair. One day they may know what it's like for you. You hope they won't. I hope they won't. But karma doesn't mess around. In the meantime, take all the time you need and enjoy the ride.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Robot-Vox
I was at a local pizza joint yesterday when I heard T-Pain's "Can't believe it." I know the song's been around since July 2008, but I'd somehow missed it.
And there it was again, the "Cher effect" that has sullied so much of contemporary pop music. I listened and wondered: what's the best way to explain the sound?
And there it was again, the "Cher effect" that has sullied so much of contemporary pop music. I listened and wondered: what's the best way to explain the sound?
- A cat being strangled by Robby the Robot?
- An 8os-synth band chewed up by a food processor?
- The auditory culmination of all that is conventional and trite in pop music?
"At this late date, it’s hard to see how the invisible use of tools could imply an inauthentic product, as if a layer of manipulation were standing between the audience and an unsullied object. In reality, the unsullied object is the Sasquatch of music. Even a purely live recording is a distortion and paraphrasing of an acoustic event."Read the entire piece: The Gerbil's Revenge
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Exhibiting the 3G Family
Note: This post is inspired by an original essay by Theresa Walsh Giarrusso (cited below). Her piece was published before mine, and I explore a number of themes that she first raised.
Sprint's new "3G Family" ad celebrates the ways in which mobile phones allow us to drift off into our own little enclaves, ignoring places and people around us.
Maybe you've seen it. The ad portrays a nuclear family walking through some sort of natural history museum, you know, with dinosaurs and lions and such. Nothing's real. Everything's a fake.
Perhaps it's a trick of camera framing, but the group appears at first to walk closely together.
Then we see a sideways view, the mother walking backward while aiming her camera phone at the family. They ham it up, waving at her. The little boy twirls for the camera.
"If your family were a 3G family you could post your trip on YouTube before you even get home."
Ah, great. Another unedited, self-absorbed, look-at-me YouTube video.
Then the scene shifts. The mother is pointing out something on display while the father hides around a corner. Is he downloading porn? There's something creepily self-satisfied about his smile.
"Or surprise your wife with tickets to a broadway show."
OK. It's not porn, probably.
The little boy is now peering into a display for a stuffed tiger. He roars at the animal before shifting his gaze onto the phone screen. Spielberg's framing a shot.
"Email grandma a T-Rex one second and a tiger the next."
The family hasn't visited Grandma since last Thanksgiving, or was it the one two years ago? But that's probably for the best. Grandma smells kind of funny and her "candy" is a bowl filled with tooth-shattering peppermint nubbins that have congealed into a sold mass untouched since Reagan announced Morning in America.
Of course, the boy's sister is text-messaging the entire time, keeping her head down, tapping on those tiny keys. Something like, "OMG! IM soooo BORD!" (That's my generic example for all text messages. Sorry).
"All at 3G speed."
The end of the spot shows the family departing the scene. Each member is spaced further apart from each other than we saw in the establishing shot. The girl is still texting her silent frustration at being stuck with these losers and the boy appears to be left behind. He stares at the painted lions on the wall.
The 3G family needs to ditch the phones and go to a park.
Theresa Walsh Giarrusso's original essay: I don't want to be a 3G Family
Sprint's new "3G Family" ad celebrates the ways in which mobile phones allow us to drift off into our own little enclaves, ignoring places and people around us.
Maybe you've seen it. The ad portrays a nuclear family walking through some sort of natural history museum, you know, with dinosaurs and lions and such. Nothing's real. Everything's a fake.
Perhaps it's a trick of camera framing, but the group appears at first to walk closely together.
Then we see a sideways view, the mother walking backward while aiming her camera phone at the family. They ham it up, waving at her. The little boy twirls for the camera.
"If your family were a 3G family you could post your trip on YouTube before you even get home."
Ah, great. Another unedited, self-absorbed, look-at-me YouTube video.
Then the scene shifts. The mother is pointing out something on display while the father hides around a corner. Is he downloading porn? There's something creepily self-satisfied about his smile.
"Or surprise your wife with tickets to a broadway show."
OK. It's not porn, probably.
The little boy is now peering into a display for a stuffed tiger. He roars at the animal before shifting his gaze onto the phone screen. Spielberg's framing a shot.
"Email grandma a T-Rex one second and a tiger the next."
The family hasn't visited Grandma since last Thanksgiving, or was it the one two years ago? But that's probably for the best. Grandma smells kind of funny and her "candy" is a bowl filled with tooth-shattering peppermint nubbins that have congealed into a sold mass untouched since Reagan announced Morning in America.
Of course, the boy's sister is text-messaging the entire time, keeping her head down, tapping on those tiny keys. Something like, "OMG! IM soooo BORD!" (That's my generic example for all text messages. Sorry).
"All at 3G speed."
The end of the spot shows the family departing the scene. Each member is spaced further apart from each other than we saw in the establishing shot. The girl is still texting her silent frustration at being stuck with these losers and the boy appears to be left behind. He stares at the painted lions on the wall.
The 3G family needs to ditch the phones and go to a park.
Theresa Walsh Giarrusso's original essay: I don't want to be a 3G Family
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
I don't wish to sound like a twit, but...
For the life of me, I don't yet "get" Twitter.
I was thinking about this as I read an story this morning about how Facebook and Twitter have attempted to work a deal to combine their companies: Facebook, the increasingly ubiquitous social networking platform that must be making money hand over fist thanks to advertisers who yearn to connect with 40 year old male Ayn Rand fans, and Twitter, which has yet to figure out how to make a dime.
Certainly, Twitter provides an elegant application, the means to convey 140 character missives to "followers" via web and mobile phone. And the recent terrorist attacks in Mumbai showed just how much information can be shared in 140 character bursts as Twitter-users updated friends and family around the world with eyewitness accounts of the assaults as they unfolded. Twitter, I'm told, is coming of age in a world when we don't seem to have much time or inclination to send long messages.
Ever willing to experiment, I started a Twitter account sometime last year, even though none of my friends seemed to be interested in receiving "tweets." It wasn't too long, though, before strangers started asking me to follow them and for them to follow me. And, yes, I did follow Mad Men's "Don Draper" for a while too. But nothing about the experience resonated with me.
Perhaps I'm using the wrong platform.
I carry a MacBook with me most of the time. It's thin enough to fit in an interoffice envelope, and its battery-life lasts long enough for a medium-sized airplane flight. I like the click of the keys and the size of the screen. My mobile Mac is my primary window on the world. When I want to check the web (which is pretty much all the time), I use a web browser. Heck, I even send regular "status updates" though my Facebook account. And when I want to write something more developed than that, I use a word processor. Thus I tend to write in paragraphs, not in "tweets." I have an iPod touch, too, and it comes in handy in a pinch - as long as I'm in a wireless hotspot. But I'm used to using a full sized and full-powered computer.
That said, I get the sense that Twitter is best used on a mobile phone. And I can see why.
These days on campus, I must navigate a shifting maze of phone-tapping students who shuffle from class to class, eyes locked on those tiny screens. I can't imagine one of them reading this blog post on her phone; she'd walk into a wall. But mobile telephony is how younger folks seem to stay connected to each other and to the world. Twitter was made for those phones. I so want to know what those messages entail, whether they are Tweeted or simply texted. What do people tap on those tiny devices? Are the messages anything more than a ceaseless flow of updates? "Leaving class." "Hungry. "Bored. "Lonely."
Here's my concern: I fear that those short screens and short messages lead to short attention-spans, the same kind of limitation that produces panic at the prospect that someone will actually answer us honestly when we ask, "How ya doing?" in passing. We've been practicing Twitter-speak for a long time; the technology is finally catching up.
Now I hear that Twitter is best understood as part of the micro-blogging phenomenon, sending bursts of witty repartee everywhere at once and processing an endless stream of witticisms, rejoinders, and bon mots in return, each of us wandering amid our own private Wordles. In this world, an essay of multiple paragraphs might seem as archaic as a thank you note. Readers who still write thank you notes may therefore share my unease at Twitter and what it represents.
Here, I should note my own diminishing horizons of thought.
I write blog-posts mainly while riding the bus. It's a nearly one-hour trip. Thus, I dedicate about one hour to my most developed entries. Sure, I'll do some editing later, and I'll add updates as events warrant. But I can hardly presume to write a meaningful essay in an hour. And if that's so, how can I censure Twitter and the whole micro-blogging craze? All of us have come to tolerate ever more constricted bursts of data, we who drown in the stuff. Maybe Twitter is an inevitable next step.
Moreover, my tech-geek friends will admonish me to avoid writing in generalities, "Twitter leads to short attention-spans, blah, blah, blah." One may write books, compose articles, whip out blog-posts, and jot tweets, each medium fit for each message, they'll say. Twitter does not kill thoughtful prose, it simply augments our day-to-day lives. This seems reasonable to me.
But around campus, on the bus, in airports, in coffee shops, and elsewhere in public life, I see fewer people reading books or even perusing newspapers. I see more folks tappa-tappa-tapping on their phones. Maybe they're reading War and Peace. Maybe they're writing something equally dense and meaningful. Maybe they live lives of thoughtful inquiry and deep reflection.
I just don't quite see it yet.
Follow-up: OK, I kind of get it now
I was thinking about this as I read an story this morning about how Facebook and Twitter have attempted to work a deal to combine their companies: Facebook, the increasingly ubiquitous social networking platform that must be making money hand over fist thanks to advertisers who yearn to connect with 40 year old male Ayn Rand fans, and Twitter, which has yet to figure out how to make a dime.
Certainly, Twitter provides an elegant application, the means to convey 140 character missives to "followers" via web and mobile phone. And the recent terrorist attacks in Mumbai showed just how much information can be shared in 140 character bursts as Twitter-users updated friends and family around the world with eyewitness accounts of the assaults as they unfolded. Twitter, I'm told, is coming of age in a world when we don't seem to have much time or inclination to send long messages.
Ever willing to experiment, I started a Twitter account sometime last year, even though none of my friends seemed to be interested in receiving "tweets." It wasn't too long, though, before strangers started asking me to follow them and for them to follow me. And, yes, I did follow Mad Men's "Don Draper" for a while too. But nothing about the experience resonated with me.
Perhaps I'm using the wrong platform.
I carry a MacBook with me most of the time. It's thin enough to fit in an interoffice envelope, and its battery-life lasts long enough for a medium-sized airplane flight. I like the click of the keys and the size of the screen. My mobile Mac is my primary window on the world. When I want to check the web (which is pretty much all the time), I use a web browser. Heck, I even send regular "status updates" though my Facebook account. And when I want to write something more developed than that, I use a word processor. Thus I tend to write in paragraphs, not in "tweets." I have an iPod touch, too, and it comes in handy in a pinch - as long as I'm in a wireless hotspot. But I'm used to using a full sized and full-powered computer.
That said, I get the sense that Twitter is best used on a mobile phone. And I can see why.
These days on campus, I must navigate a shifting maze of phone-tapping students who shuffle from class to class, eyes locked on those tiny screens. I can't imagine one of them reading this blog post on her phone; she'd walk into a wall. But mobile telephony is how younger folks seem to stay connected to each other and to the world. Twitter was made for those phones. I so want to know what those messages entail, whether they are Tweeted or simply texted. What do people tap on those tiny devices? Are the messages anything more than a ceaseless flow of updates? "Leaving class." "Hungry. "Bored. "Lonely."
Here's my concern: I fear that those short screens and short messages lead to short attention-spans, the same kind of limitation that produces panic at the prospect that someone will actually answer us honestly when we ask, "How ya doing?" in passing. We've been practicing Twitter-speak for a long time; the technology is finally catching up.
Now I hear that Twitter is best understood as part of the micro-blogging phenomenon, sending bursts of witty repartee everywhere at once and processing an endless stream of witticisms, rejoinders, and bon mots in return, each of us wandering amid our own private Wordles. In this world, an essay of multiple paragraphs might seem as archaic as a thank you note. Readers who still write thank you notes may therefore share my unease at Twitter and what it represents.
Here, I should note my own diminishing horizons of thought.
I write blog-posts mainly while riding the bus. It's a nearly one-hour trip. Thus, I dedicate about one hour to my most developed entries. Sure, I'll do some editing later, and I'll add updates as events warrant. But I can hardly presume to write a meaningful essay in an hour. And if that's so, how can I censure Twitter and the whole micro-blogging craze? All of us have come to tolerate ever more constricted bursts of data, we who drown in the stuff. Maybe Twitter is an inevitable next step.
Moreover, my tech-geek friends will admonish me to avoid writing in generalities, "Twitter leads to short attention-spans, blah, blah, blah." One may write books, compose articles, whip out blog-posts, and jot tweets, each medium fit for each message, they'll say. Twitter does not kill thoughtful prose, it simply augments our day-to-day lives. This seems reasonable to me.
But around campus, on the bus, in airports, in coffee shops, and elsewhere in public life, I see fewer people reading books or even perusing newspapers. I see more folks tappa-tappa-tapping on their phones. Maybe they're reading War and Peace. Maybe they're writing something equally dense and meaningful. Maybe they live lives of thoughtful inquiry and deep reflection.
I just don't quite see it yet.
Follow-up: OK, I kind of get it now
Friday, November 14, 2008
Friday Fun Post - Keith Olbermann in a Minute
A clever collection of Keith Olbermann special comments
Trouble seeing the video? Visit this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7MaJLbJDuAc
Trouble seeing the video? Visit this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7MaJLbJDuAc
Thursday, October 30, 2008
The First Day of Rain
It's been a while since I've used this blog to rant, but today seems like a good time.
After all, today marks the first rain of the fall season, which means...
Everyone forgets how to drive.
Why is that?
Why is it that the same road, the same traffic, the same curves, produce such drastically different results with a few drops of rain?
I'm not talking about a squall or a storm. I'm talking about the kind of semi-drizzle that makes you feel embarrassed to use an umbrella.
Of course, I had to use an umbrella because the Highway 17 bus driver - who arrived ten minutes late - decided to park a block away so he could take his break.
While we stood in the rain.
No, he couldn't allow us to board "early" - which actually means late. So we stood and waited to board the bus.
The driver smiled and laughed. "It's going to be a long trip," he promised as he lurched us onto the highway, regaling us with tales of endless traffic to come.
On the road, we confronted the threatened convergence of a few drops and a few clueless motorists, the promise of wrecks in both directions over a mountain that separates work from home. And we found...
A smooth ride with no delays.
I hate the first day of rain.
After all, today marks the first rain of the fall season, which means...
Everyone forgets how to drive.
Why is that?
Why is it that the same road, the same traffic, the same curves, produce such drastically different results with a few drops of rain?
I'm not talking about a squall or a storm. I'm talking about the kind of semi-drizzle that makes you feel embarrassed to use an umbrella.
Of course, I had to use an umbrella because the Highway 17 bus driver - who arrived ten minutes late - decided to park a block away so he could take his break.
While we stood in the rain.
No, he couldn't allow us to board "early" - which actually means late. So we stood and waited to board the bus.
The driver smiled and laughed. "It's going to be a long trip," he promised as he lurched us onto the highway, regaling us with tales of endless traffic to come.
On the road, we confronted the threatened convergence of a few drops and a few clueless motorists, the promise of wrecks in both directions over a mountain that separates work from home. And we found...
A smooth ride with no delays.
I hate the first day of rain.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Still Undecided?
As an independent voter I should not feel nausea over last night's Democratic primary results in Pennsylvania, but I do -- and not only because I'm an Obama supporter. There's just something wrong about the ability of so many people standing on the sidelines to decide the election for the rest of us. Here I'm referring first to those famed "undecided voters" who after dozens of debates and countless hours of television ads can't quite seem to make up their minds. And yes, these folks largely broke Clinton's way in yesterday's Pennsylvania primary.
That's pretty annoying since Clinton has run such a ragged and insulting race, adding "Kitchen Sink Campaign" to the lexicon of our Hall of Political Shame. Certainly she's forced the Obama camp to face issues that might otherwise have festered and metastasized until fall. But the condescending manner of her attacks, which undeniably worked in the large states, suggests that something is far more troubling about the state of our electorate. Call me an "elitist" (in the laughable vein of one attack against Obama) but reading a New York Times op-ed piece yesterday about the state of education in America inspires me to wonder just what kind of voters are gumming up the works. Here's a snip:
And yet about 300 superdelegates remain undecided ("uncommitted" in their somehow less obnoxious terminology). Again, the candidates have had months to pummel each other, and these folks can't decide? We haven't heard nearly enough about Clinton's White House "experience" and Obama's promise of "change"? I'd just as soon have a series of regional popular votes and be done with the whole primary system. Of course, I'd ultimately prefer neither the folks who can't find China on a map nor party hacks obsessed with their own perks to make this call. Can't we depend upon a broad enough center of reasonably educated and engaged citizens to decide this race? No matter, the Democrats have chosen to assign their fate to an endless round of primaries and the caprices of the superdelegates. Thus even at the risk of contradicting my own despair at rule by the few on either pole, it's time for leadership.
Superdelegates must make up their minds. Now. Not next week or next month or in August. If they are going to earn their elite status, these VIPs have to stop testing the winds, get in front of the parade, and lead their party out of this mess. Otherwise, "undecided" may as well mean GOP.
That's pretty annoying since Clinton has run such a ragged and insulting race, adding "Kitchen Sink Campaign" to the lexicon of our Hall of Political Shame. Certainly she's forced the Obama camp to face issues that might otherwise have festered and metastasized until fall. But the condescending manner of her attacks, which undeniably worked in the large states, suggests that something is far more troubling about the state of our electorate. Call me an "elitist" (in the laughable vein of one attack against Obama) but reading a New York Times op-ed piece yesterday about the state of education in America inspires me to wonder just what kind of voters are gumming up the works. Here's a snip:
Ignorance in the United States is not just bliss, it’s widespread. A recent survey of teenagers by the education advocacy group Common Core found that a quarter could not identify Adolf Hitler, a third did not know that the Bill of Rights guaranteed freedom of speech and religion, and fewer than half knew that the Civil War took place between 1850 and 1900.To be fair, some very bright and engaged people are also working overtime to produce an electoral result that is so convoluted that we may yet see a Republican victory in November. Here, I'm referring to the superdelegates who wait and watch while Clinton continues to grind herself and her party into the ground. As I've written before, the Democratic Party's policy of allowing each VIP-vote to count for about 13,000 "regular voters" is ridiculous. Moreover, I continue to believe that any result produced by the superdelegates that overturns the popular vote may destroy the party altogether.
And yet about 300 superdelegates remain undecided ("uncommitted" in their somehow less obnoxious terminology). Again, the candidates have had months to pummel each other, and these folks can't decide? We haven't heard nearly enough about Clinton's White House "experience" and Obama's promise of "change"? I'd just as soon have a series of regional popular votes and be done with the whole primary system. Of course, I'd ultimately prefer neither the folks who can't find China on a map nor party hacks obsessed with their own perks to make this call. Can't we depend upon a broad enough center of reasonably educated and engaged citizens to decide this race? No matter, the Democrats have chosen to assign their fate to an endless round of primaries and the caprices of the superdelegates. Thus even at the risk of contradicting my own despair at rule by the few on either pole, it's time for leadership.
Superdelegates must make up their minds. Now. Not next week or next month or in August. If they are going to earn their elite status, these VIPs have to stop testing the winds, get in front of the parade, and lead their party out of this mess. Otherwise, "undecided" may as well mean GOP.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Closing the Loop
I can never quite understand why some people write emails, receive responses, and choose not to send any kind of acknowledgment. Maybe it's the apparent anonymity of internet communication, the sense that we can ignore necessary and productive courtesy in a way we'd never tolerate in person. Thus, many people fail to "close the loop."
You might be thinking: So?
Here's why it matters: Closing the loop reflects a practical rule that we learn from nature. It's one thing to chop down a tree for its wood. It's another thing to plant several trees after felling one. The first approach works at first but leaves an ugly hole in the ground. The second approach creates a renewable resource, the promise of more to come.
Simple, right? And yet many people don't close the loop online.
Here's my perspective: I regularly receive email-questions related to my academic job, often dozens a day. Students seek advice on homework, strangers request professional expertise, that sort of thing. Each email asks for my time, which I'm happy to give, even if my effort spent on emails exceeds the expectations of my paid employment.
But what happens if someone chooses not to close the loop?
To me, that choice is similar to a person entering my office, asking me a question, receiving a reply, and then leaving wordlessly. How would you feel? Days later I'll wonder: "Did that student find my advice to be helpful?" or "Did that researcher get my reply?" I have no idea whether my time was well spent. And I have little time to waste.
Then I wonder: Why expend energy with no noticeable outcome?
To some folks, closing the loop makes no sense. Maybe it's a corporate mentality that presumes that "thank you" messages are inefficient, a waste of time. Heck, if I email "thank you," and you reply, "thank YOU," and I follow-up, "seriously, thank YOU," the consequence could be an endless loop, a real time-suck. Civilization would soon collapse, right?
Well, no. Courtesy is a foundation for civilization - and productivity.
A person or organization that ignores basic courtesy conserves time now, but ultimately sows the seeds for time-consuming communication failure: people feeling no desire respond meaningfully to each other, ignoring "strangers" who don't appreciate their efforts. Wasted energy and lost productivity result from that momentary savings of time.
Still, we must consider: What about the time it takes to close the loop?
Certainly you don't need to compose a book-length acknowledgment or drip your email with flowery prose. But you've got to say something, if only a brief "thank you," or "got it," or even "cool." The goal is to recognize the gift of personal attention, a gift that is rare these days as efficiency replaces courtesy as our dominant expectation.
I conclude with Ohio University Dean Gregory Shepherd's (Wired, 17.08) observation: "Communication is not just about accomplishing tasks . . . it's about managing relationships." Sure, I'd quibble with Shepherd's utilitarian notion of "management," but I share his focus on relationships. I therefore offer this advice to anyone sending an email:
Ask a question? Get an answer? Close the loop.
You might be thinking: So?
Here's why it matters: Closing the loop reflects a practical rule that we learn from nature. It's one thing to chop down a tree for its wood. It's another thing to plant several trees after felling one. The first approach works at first but leaves an ugly hole in the ground. The second approach creates a renewable resource, the promise of more to come.
Simple, right? And yet many people don't close the loop online.
Here's my perspective: I regularly receive email-questions related to my academic job, often dozens a day. Students seek advice on homework, strangers request professional expertise, that sort of thing. Each email asks for my time, which I'm happy to give, even if my effort spent on emails exceeds the expectations of my paid employment.
But what happens if someone chooses not to close the loop?
To me, that choice is similar to a person entering my office, asking me a question, receiving a reply, and then leaving wordlessly. How would you feel? Days later I'll wonder: "Did that student find my advice to be helpful?" or "Did that researcher get my reply?" I have no idea whether my time was well spent. And I have little time to waste.
Then I wonder: Why expend energy with no noticeable outcome?
To some folks, closing the loop makes no sense. Maybe it's a corporate mentality that presumes that "thank you" messages are inefficient, a waste of time. Heck, if I email "thank you," and you reply, "thank YOU," and I follow-up, "seriously, thank YOU," the consequence could be an endless loop, a real time-suck. Civilization would soon collapse, right?
Well, no. Courtesy is a foundation for civilization - and productivity.
A person or organization that ignores basic courtesy conserves time now, but ultimately sows the seeds for time-consuming communication failure: people feeling no desire respond meaningfully to each other, ignoring "strangers" who don't appreciate their efforts. Wasted energy and lost productivity result from that momentary savings of time.
Still, we must consider: What about the time it takes to close the loop?
Certainly you don't need to compose a book-length acknowledgment or drip your email with flowery prose. But you've got to say something, if only a brief "thank you," or "got it," or even "cool." The goal is to recognize the gift of personal attention, a gift that is rare these days as efficiency replaces courtesy as our dominant expectation.
I conclude with Ohio University Dean Gregory Shepherd's (Wired, 17.08) observation: "Communication is not just about accomplishing tasks . . . it's about managing relationships." Sure, I'd quibble with Shepherd's utilitarian notion of "management," but I share his focus on relationships. I therefore offer this advice to anyone sending an email:
Ask a question? Get an answer? Close the loop.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Springtime 17
Written on the bus - heading home from work...
This afternoon I find myself on a one-hour one-way trip on the Highway 17 bus with no wireless internet connection, misplaced earphones - thus no iPod - and recognition that this very morning I declined to pack two recent issues of Newsweek, not wanting to overload my travel bag. No media stimulation for me this hour, nothing but an empty page and plenty of time to write. I'm on a supposedly "express" route, watching as folks step onto the bus and discover, shockingly, that this ride costs money, and that they ought to have some. "Does anyone have change for a twenty?" one elderly woman asks. "This stinker won't let me on the bus." One hour to go until I'm in my easy chair, petting our cat who still thinks she's a kitten, and negotiating with Jenny about where we'll go for dinner tonight.
We pass through the last major intersection before we pour into the interstate which guides us to the mountainous and curvy road that drains toward the Pacific. The warm afternoon is cooled by spring breezes. Green and blue flags wave nearby, announcing a car wash. We roll alongside a billboard for Disneyland, and I catch sight of yet one more little girl who thinks she should be a "princess." It's easy, so long as you're willing to ride the rides, watch the movies, purchase the clothes, and convince your parents to cash out some of their 401k to visit the castle now and again. I shake my head and the billboard is gone. We're on the road heading out of town. A passenger sitting next to me reminds our driver to pull out his pilot's license. "Huh?" he asks. "You know, because you drive so fast." He's a young guy with spiky hair and long sideburns, but he answers with calm nonchalance: "I don't drive fast, I fly low."
Heading toward the dark green hills, I see signs for Los Gatos, and I smile a tight-lipped smile that would appear sheepish to anyone looking. I remember when I first came to San Jose, interviewing for a job back in 1998. I had done some basic research on the area, learning about the nearby towns. I anticipated that someone might ask, "so, where might you want to live?" and I wanted to have an answer, to sound like I'd done my homework. And sure enough, someone asked. I replied in my best middle school Spanish accent. "I'd like to live in Los GOT-tos." My guides chuckled, both at the impossible high standard I sought - telling me something of the insane housing market in that area - and at my silly pronunciation. "Oh," one said, "You mean Lazgatas." Passing Lexington Reservoir, I recall maybe a half-dozen times I've visited that town since moving to California.
Ascending the hill, cars dart around us, panicked at the thought of being caught behind a bus around here. The hills tumble into the road with loose rocks, some caught by netting, others unprotected. A fierce winter storm shuts this highway down at least once or twice a year, but the rainy season seems to be over. Our climb slows to a crawl, and I read hand-written signs posted in the grass. We're heading for the summit, nine miles to Scotts Valley now. We pass a northbound bus and our driver waves to his colleague in the other lane. I like that tradition, bus drivers recognizing each other, even if they can't see each other for sure in the blur of rapid passing. At the summit I spot the nice restaurant that advertises the world's best ribs. Honestly, they're not that good, but they're much better than they have right to be. Jenny and I sometimes dine there, and we're almost always one of merely two or three parties in the entire place.
Now we descend and the driver works that accelerator. Weaving through tight curves, we pick up some decent speed, and I flop left and right in my seat. We pass cops scouting for speeders and tow trucks ready to remove wreckage from the road. Highway 17 is notorious for the number of accidents it attracts, mostly due to lunatic drivers who overestimate their skills. One decent crash and this road backs up for miles with rubberneckers sniffing for blood. There are no accidents on the road today, though, just the risk of deer darting among the cars.
At last we pass the billboard for Ocean Honda, the sign that home is nearby. The town of Scotts Valley (population slightly over 11,000) stretches beyond the trees, hidden. It's a tiny enclave in so many ways. We turn onto Mount Hermon road and I breathe in deeply. San Jose is a lifetime away, hard to remember exactly. My home is here in this small place with a couple of decent restaurants and a movie theater whose owner sometimes chats about upcoming releases with the audience. I pass a gas station advertising cheap(!) stuff for $3.53, but I don't mind. I'm not going anywhere else tonight. Or if I am, I'm not going far.
Follow-up: Reading an article about the efforts of some Scotts Valley residents to protest efforts by Target to place a store in city limits, I was intrigued by Brian Seals's description of my town, the "business-friendly high-tech enclave of Scotts Valley, where khaki-pants wearing programmers are as common as sandal-clad middle-aged hippies are in Santa Cruz." In that article, Seals quotes the Scotts Valley 6 Cinema co-owner's position on people seeking to place anti-Target ads on his screens: "We sell popcorn, Cokes and hope you have a good time," [Don] Rudger said. "We run movies. We're not involved in the political schemes of life."
This afternoon I find myself on a one-hour one-way trip on the Highway 17 bus with no wireless internet connection, misplaced earphones - thus no iPod - and recognition that this very morning I declined to pack two recent issues of Newsweek, not wanting to overload my travel bag. No media stimulation for me this hour, nothing but an empty page and plenty of time to write. I'm on a supposedly "express" route, watching as folks step onto the bus and discover, shockingly, that this ride costs money, and that they ought to have some. "Does anyone have change for a twenty?" one elderly woman asks. "This stinker won't let me on the bus." One hour to go until I'm in my easy chair, petting our cat who still thinks she's a kitten, and negotiating with Jenny about where we'll go for dinner tonight.
We pass through the last major intersection before we pour into the interstate which guides us to the mountainous and curvy road that drains toward the Pacific. The warm afternoon is cooled by spring breezes. Green and blue flags wave nearby, announcing a car wash. We roll alongside a billboard for Disneyland, and I catch sight of yet one more little girl who thinks she should be a "princess." It's easy, so long as you're willing to ride the rides, watch the movies, purchase the clothes, and convince your parents to cash out some of their 401k to visit the castle now and again. I shake my head and the billboard is gone. We're on the road heading out of town. A passenger sitting next to me reminds our driver to pull out his pilot's license. "Huh?" he asks. "You know, because you drive so fast." He's a young guy with spiky hair and long sideburns, but he answers with calm nonchalance: "I don't drive fast, I fly low."
Heading toward the dark green hills, I see signs for Los Gatos, and I smile a tight-lipped smile that would appear sheepish to anyone looking. I remember when I first came to San Jose, interviewing for a job back in 1998. I had done some basic research on the area, learning about the nearby towns. I anticipated that someone might ask, "so, where might you want to live?" and I wanted to have an answer, to sound like I'd done my homework. And sure enough, someone asked. I replied in my best middle school Spanish accent. "I'd like to live in Los GOT-tos." My guides chuckled, both at the impossible high standard I sought - telling me something of the insane housing market in that area - and at my silly pronunciation. "Oh," one said, "You mean Lazgatas." Passing Lexington Reservoir, I recall maybe a half-dozen times I've visited that town since moving to California.
Ascending the hill, cars dart around us, panicked at the thought of being caught behind a bus around here. The hills tumble into the road with loose rocks, some caught by netting, others unprotected. A fierce winter storm shuts this highway down at least once or twice a year, but the rainy season seems to be over. Our climb slows to a crawl, and I read hand-written signs posted in the grass. We're heading for the summit, nine miles to Scotts Valley now. We pass a northbound bus and our driver waves to his colleague in the other lane. I like that tradition, bus drivers recognizing each other, even if they can't see each other for sure in the blur of rapid passing. At the summit I spot the nice restaurant that advertises the world's best ribs. Honestly, they're not that good, but they're much better than they have right to be. Jenny and I sometimes dine there, and we're almost always one of merely two or three parties in the entire place.
Now we descend and the driver works that accelerator. Weaving through tight curves, we pick up some decent speed, and I flop left and right in my seat. We pass cops scouting for speeders and tow trucks ready to remove wreckage from the road. Highway 17 is notorious for the number of accidents it attracts, mostly due to lunatic drivers who overestimate their skills. One decent crash and this road backs up for miles with rubberneckers sniffing for blood. There are no accidents on the road today, though, just the risk of deer darting among the cars.
At last we pass the billboard for Ocean Honda, the sign that home is nearby. The town of Scotts Valley (population slightly over 11,000) stretches beyond the trees, hidden. It's a tiny enclave in so many ways. We turn onto Mount Hermon road and I breathe in deeply. San Jose is a lifetime away, hard to remember exactly. My home is here in this small place with a couple of decent restaurants and a movie theater whose owner sometimes chats about upcoming releases with the audience. I pass a gas station advertising cheap(!) stuff for $3.53, but I don't mind. I'm not going anywhere else tonight. Or if I am, I'm not going far.
Follow-up: Reading an article about the efforts of some Scotts Valley residents to protest efforts by Target to place a store in city limits, I was intrigued by Brian Seals's description of my town, the "business-friendly high-tech enclave of Scotts Valley, where khaki-pants wearing programmers are as common as sandal-clad middle-aged hippies are in Santa Cruz." In that article, Seals quotes the Scotts Valley 6 Cinema co-owner's position on people seeking to place anti-Target ads on his screens: "We sell popcorn, Cokes and hope you have a good time," [Don] Rudger said. "We run movies. We're not involved in the political schemes of life."
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Hula-Texting
It happened again last night, that eerie silence.
Jenny and I were at our beloved Hula's -- I was digging into a faux coconut shell filled with wasabi mashed potatoes, along with a Caesar salad and four steak skewers -- when we noticed a sudden quietude from the table closest to us.
Just a few minutes before, three teenaged girls were laughing and chatting. One announced loudly, "I have to tinkle" and Jenny and I shared a silent eye-roll (kind of like an egg roll, but more tasty).
Then it got quiet.
At first we didn't notice, settling back into our own conversation. But then we picked up on the strange wordlessness coming from our neighbors.
Jenny spotted them first: two remaining girls text-messaging on their phones.
Both were facing each other, but each was intently staring at individual screens.
Jenny whispered to me, "Why would they be texting when they're out to dinner with each other?"
To our middle-aged sensibilities, this was a weird performance.
Gazing upon the texting masses, I often wonder: just what do people say when they're mashing those tiny buttons? Occasionally I'll text Jenny or Vienna if I'm attending a meeting that's running late. Sometimes my phone's texting feature helps me send a quick message when I don't want to disturb my surroundings.
But the idea of texting someone else while enjoying a meal with a friend strikes me as bizarre.
Sure, I can imagine all sorts of reasons why it made sense to these folks. And, of course, it's really none of my business why a stranger chooses to send a text message.
But I think that many, many folks text as a sort of nervous tic, a technological parallel to saying "like" every three words while speaking.
Awkward silence? Send a text. Boring surroundings? Send a text. Insufficient stimulus? Send a text.
Really, I wonder what percentage of all the texts sent throughout the world simply announce, "OMG, IM soooo bord!!! :-(" (don't get me started on the impact of text messaging on spelling).
Doubtlessly, my rant reads like the complaint of an old fogey hearing The Beatles for the first time: "You call that music? It's caterwauling!" Yeah, OK, gramps...
But for the life of me, I just don't get texting.
(Cartoon borrowed from Savage Chickens)
Jenny and I were at our beloved Hula's -- I was digging into a faux coconut shell filled with wasabi mashed potatoes, along with a Caesar salad and four steak skewers -- when we noticed a sudden quietude from the table closest to us.
Just a few minutes before, three teenaged girls were laughing and chatting. One announced loudly, "I have to tinkle" and Jenny and I shared a silent eye-roll (kind of like an egg roll, but more tasty).
Then it got quiet.
At first we didn't notice, settling back into our own conversation. But then we picked up on the strange wordlessness coming from our neighbors.
Jenny spotted them first: two remaining girls text-messaging on their phones.
Both were facing each other, but each was intently staring at individual screens.
Jenny whispered to me, "Why would they be texting when they're out to dinner with each other?"
To our middle-aged sensibilities, this was a weird performance.
Gazing upon the texting masses, I often wonder: just what do people say when they're mashing those tiny buttons? Occasionally I'll text Jenny or Vienna if I'm attending a meeting that's running late. Sometimes my phone's texting feature helps me send a quick message when I don't want to disturb my surroundings.
But the idea of texting someone else while enjoying a meal with a friend strikes me as bizarre.
Sure, I can imagine all sorts of reasons why it made sense to these folks. And, of course, it's really none of my business why a stranger chooses to send a text message.
But I think that many, many folks text as a sort of nervous tic, a technological parallel to saying "like" every three words while speaking.
Awkward silence? Send a text. Boring surroundings? Send a text. Insufficient stimulus? Send a text.
Really, I wonder what percentage of all the texts sent throughout the world simply announce, "OMG, IM soooo bord!!! :-(" (don't get me started on the impact of text messaging on spelling).
Doubtlessly, my rant reads like the complaint of an old fogey hearing The Beatles for the first time: "You call that music? It's caterwauling!" Yeah, OK, gramps...
But for the life of me, I just don't get texting.
(Cartoon borrowed from Savage Chickens)
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Crazy High School Lady
My daughter received one of those full color-glossy advertisements for high school graduation junk: rings, announcements, diploma frames, you know the drill. There's long been a multi-million dollar business of selling "souviners" to commemorate the graduation experience, not to mention those increasingly expensive and extravagant breakfasts and parties and trips, all designed to transform each day of a person's senior year into a big deal.
And it's true that completing a high school diploma is an important milestone in a person's life. I just have a problem with the excessive and tacky flotsam that has been glommed onto the achievement, the sense that you haven't really celebrated your moment unless you've purchased the Cherished Memories Gold-Embossed Limited Edition Graduation Back Scratcher. That's what I see when I view the close-up of this frighteningly ecstatic "mom" practically caught in mid-shriek as her precious snowflake departs for a world of adult consumer opportunities.
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