(original post-date: March 2, 2011)
My former neighbor Debbi – of the younger-than-40 neighbor set – teased me once.
“That should be your mantra,” she said.
I knew she was referring to the three words I had just uttered during our telephone conversation. But I hadn’t realized, until she mentioned it, that Say that again? was something I said so frequently that it qualified as a mantra.
“I say that a lot?” I asked.
“All the time.”
When our telephone conversation was over, I thought about what Deb had said. I thought about my apparent overuse of Say that again?, and then I thought about the mechanics of the telephone conversation we had just had. Deb was on her cell phone; I was on my land line. My needing to ask her to repeat what she had just said was a reflection of the technology, not of my hearing nor of my attention span.
When she had suggested my mantra, I asked Deb if other people didn’t do the same thing. (I.e., if other people didn’t occasionally make the request: say that again?) But Debbi was assured in her response. Among all the people with whom she spoke on the telephone, I was the only one who asked that statements be repeated.
As I continued to think about Deb’s and my telephone conversation, I became sadder.
But I wasn’t sad for me.
Rather, I felt sad for the under-40s, whose telephone conversations – cell phone to cell phone – are so regularly interrupted that they don’t even acknowledge it when they’ve missed something.
They don’t even think to inject, Say that again?
I’m guessing, too, that the people who don’t acknowledge missed dialogue are multi-tasking in the moment.
They could be driving or shopping.
Maybe they’re at a restaurant, having dinner with a friend.
Perhaps they are updating their Facebook page or glancing at the television.
They could be watching one of the 24/7 news networks.
They could be watching both the story and the crawl.
The story and the crawl…
In my opinion, we need to lose the crawl.
We need to get back to the story.
Showing posts with label technology. Show all posts
Showing posts with label technology. Show all posts
Monday, March 5, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Monday Reruns: An Open Letter to Some People Who Attended the UCLA-Live Event This Past Saturday
(original post-date: January 26, 2011)
Greetings from another member of the audience:
Before I address you individually, I should probably provide a little background regarding my experiences with live theatre…
Throughout my childhood, my parents were actively involved in two community theatre groups. One group staged three plays during the school year, while the other – an open-air venue – had a summer season comprising five plays. When my parents first became involved, they signed on to do props for one of the summer productions. Within a few years, though, they both had moved on to the stage, where they would, over the years, fine-tune their acting skills with style and grace.
When my sister and I were old enough to participate, we, too, volunteered for assignments, and while Martha would certainly accept production work, she really enjoyed acting more. (And, like my parents, she was quite good.) I, on the other hand, never got bit by the bug, and so – with the exception of a few very small roles that I performed quite poorly – I preferred to make my contributions as part of the backstage crew.
More often than not, though, I was in the audience, and I learned, at a young age, that the audience of a live performance should be respectful of the time, energy, passions, and talent that have gone into the mounting of a theatre production. Which is to say, the audience should give its full attention to the stage.
When I lived in New York, I continued to enjoy attending theatrical events. Broadway was affordable then, and with the option of placing the word “off-” in front of that concept, and then repeating it – as many times as you please – there was never a shortage of productions taking place in smaller venues throughout the City. I probably saw more than 50 plays and musicals during my 15 years in New York.
My theatre attendance in Los Angeles has been a bit more spotty. While I have seen several remarkable shows at some of the area’s larger venues, my having to be a bit more careful with money in recent years has put a dent in my theatre-going. Part of the problem is that I have “open space issues.” In most theatres, the balcony area (that is, where the cheap seats are) is way too high for me, and the grade is much too steep. I simply cannot enjoy what’s happening on the stage when I fear I will topple over my fellow patrons as I make my way, headfirst (and quite fatally), into the orchestra section.
(I realize, by the way, that there are terms for these “issues:” acrophobia, in regard to the fear of heights; and agoraphobia, in regard to the fear of open spaces. But I prefer simply to call the combination a profound and deep respect for the concept of gravity.)
Anyway, because of the economy, I’ve curtailed my theatre-going in recent years, and I even had to think about it for a minute, last week, when my friend Maria asked if I were interested in attending the Wallace Shawn performance at UCLA’s Royce Hall. But I’ve admired the writer/actor ever since I saw My Dinner With Andre back in the 80s, and the $45 ticket price didn’t seem like such a huge amount after three busy weeks of billable hours.
Which brings me to you people: you five or six people who also had forked over some money for tickets; you five or six people who were sitting nearby…
Some words first to the couple three rows ahead. I am very happy that you found each other. Your common need to fondle the hair and ear of your partner will probably make for a long relationship. But, seriously, get a room. Even with the house lights down, it was impossible not to be distracted by your public displays of obsession, and you need to cop to the fact that, because neither of you is petite (especially not you, sir), you will never be able to enjoy this shared fetish in a manner that is discreet.
Now to the two young ladies sitting behind my friend and me. Yes; you two. I appreciate that you probably got a student discount to attend the event, but that doesn’t mean you are entitled to chatter away while the performer is on stage. I am glad that when I turned around and glared at you, you stopped talking. I also was pleased when the man across the aisle silently got up from his seat, approached you both, and let you know – in a stage whisper – that the light emanating from your blackberry was bothering him and others. But don’t think for a moment that I didn’t notice your continued attempts to sneak back into that little machine and do whatever technological task apparently could not wait. I noticed it, and it bothered me.
As to the dude sitting in the row in front of us... Yes; you -- with the bright and distracting handheld device. My friend shared with me later that you were playing a video game on your little machine. Really? So, what happened? Did you win? And, why, by the way – if you were wanting to play computer games – did you choose to do so in a theatre?
As for the folks down the row, my peripheral vision also caught your illuminated screens. Was there an emergency? Was that the deal? Or maybe your text simply stated: yeah, I’m at the theatre.
To the five or six of you and whoever else was multitasking in Royce Hall, shame on you. Not behaving properly at a public event is equivalent to having a lack of social skills. And, in my opinion, you people are lacking in social skills.
Shame on you.
…Of course, before Shawn took the stage, the usual announcement was made. You know the one – it’s the same as is made in movie theatres: please turn off cell phones, pagers, and any illuminated handheld devices, [etc.] What’s interesting is that, while this request was being abused all over Royce Hall on Saturday night, I have rarely seen it abused in movie theatres.
Maybe people just need to see what they see on screens. And if that’s true, then what that means, I guess, is that a movie can replace those handheld devices, but a live human cannot.
Hmm, are we really so screen-addicted?
I realize, of course, that I am looking at one now.
And so are you.
But I also am not pretending to do, hear, or see something else simultaneously. And I hope the same goes for you.
…After his performance, which included readings (from his own work and others) around the theme of Real World, Fake World, Dream World, Wallace Shawn entertained some questions from the audience. A few of those questions provided him with an opportunity to elaborate on what a mess our world has become and how we should, in fact, be worried.
I appreciate his perspective.
And if he was aware – during his 90 minutes on stage – of the multi-tasking that was occurring in the audience, I also appreciate his ability not to give it any power. I could not have done that. Had it been me behind the lectern, I would have stopped in my tracks, shut my mouth, and refused to continue talking until the collective rudeness had virtually left the room.
Good thing, I guess, that I’ve always preferred the backstage assignments.
Greetings from another member of the audience:
Before I address you individually, I should probably provide a little background regarding my experiences with live theatre…
Throughout my childhood, my parents were actively involved in two community theatre groups. One group staged three plays during the school year, while the other – an open-air venue – had a summer season comprising five plays. When my parents first became involved, they signed on to do props for one of the summer productions. Within a few years, though, they both had moved on to the stage, where they would, over the years, fine-tune their acting skills with style and grace.
When my sister and I were old enough to participate, we, too, volunteered for assignments, and while Martha would certainly accept production work, she really enjoyed acting more. (And, like my parents, she was quite good.) I, on the other hand, never got bit by the bug, and so – with the exception of a few very small roles that I performed quite poorly – I preferred to make my contributions as part of the backstage crew.
More often than not, though, I was in the audience, and I learned, at a young age, that the audience of a live performance should be respectful of the time, energy, passions, and talent that have gone into the mounting of a theatre production. Which is to say, the audience should give its full attention to the stage.
When I lived in New York, I continued to enjoy attending theatrical events. Broadway was affordable then, and with the option of placing the word “off-” in front of that concept, and then repeating it – as many times as you please – there was never a shortage of productions taking place in smaller venues throughout the City. I probably saw more than 50 plays and musicals during my 15 years in New York.
My theatre attendance in Los Angeles has been a bit more spotty. While I have seen several remarkable shows at some of the area’s larger venues, my having to be a bit more careful with money in recent years has put a dent in my theatre-going. Part of the problem is that I have “open space issues.” In most theatres, the balcony area (that is, where the cheap seats are) is way too high for me, and the grade is much too steep. I simply cannot enjoy what’s happening on the stage when I fear I will topple over my fellow patrons as I make my way, headfirst (and quite fatally), into the orchestra section.
(I realize, by the way, that there are terms for these “issues:” acrophobia, in regard to the fear of heights; and agoraphobia, in regard to the fear of open spaces. But I prefer simply to call the combination a profound and deep respect for the concept of gravity.)
Anyway, because of the economy, I’ve curtailed my theatre-going in recent years, and I even had to think about it for a minute, last week, when my friend Maria asked if I were interested in attending the Wallace Shawn performance at UCLA’s Royce Hall. But I’ve admired the writer/actor ever since I saw My Dinner With Andre back in the 80s, and the $45 ticket price didn’t seem like such a huge amount after three busy weeks of billable hours.
Which brings me to you people: you five or six people who also had forked over some money for tickets; you five or six people who were sitting nearby…
Some words first to the couple three rows ahead. I am very happy that you found each other. Your common need to fondle the hair and ear of your partner will probably make for a long relationship. But, seriously, get a room. Even with the house lights down, it was impossible not to be distracted by your public displays of obsession, and you need to cop to the fact that, because neither of you is petite (especially not you, sir), you will never be able to enjoy this shared fetish in a manner that is discreet.
Now to the two young ladies sitting behind my friend and me. Yes; you two. I appreciate that you probably got a student discount to attend the event, but that doesn’t mean you are entitled to chatter away while the performer is on stage. I am glad that when I turned around and glared at you, you stopped talking. I also was pleased when the man across the aisle silently got up from his seat, approached you both, and let you know – in a stage whisper – that the light emanating from your blackberry was bothering him and others. But don’t think for a moment that I didn’t notice your continued attempts to sneak back into that little machine and do whatever technological task apparently could not wait. I noticed it, and it bothered me.
As to the dude sitting in the row in front of us... Yes; you -- with the bright and distracting handheld device. My friend shared with me later that you were playing a video game on your little machine. Really? So, what happened? Did you win? And, why, by the way – if you were wanting to play computer games – did you choose to do so in a theatre?
As for the folks down the row, my peripheral vision also caught your illuminated screens. Was there an emergency? Was that the deal? Or maybe your text simply stated: yeah, I’m at the theatre.
To the five or six of you and whoever else was multitasking in Royce Hall, shame on you. Not behaving properly at a public event is equivalent to having a lack of social skills. And, in my opinion, you people are lacking in social skills.
Shame on you.
…Of course, before Shawn took the stage, the usual announcement was made. You know the one – it’s the same as is made in movie theatres: please turn off cell phones, pagers, and any illuminated handheld devices, [etc.] What’s interesting is that, while this request was being abused all over Royce Hall on Saturday night, I have rarely seen it abused in movie theatres.
Maybe people just need to see what they see on screens. And if that’s true, then what that means, I guess, is that a movie can replace those handheld devices, but a live human cannot.
Hmm, are we really so screen-addicted?
I realize, of course, that I am looking at one now.
And so are you.
But I also am not pretending to do, hear, or see something else simultaneously. And I hope the same goes for you.
…After his performance, which included readings (from his own work and others) around the theme of Real World, Fake World, Dream World, Wallace Shawn entertained some questions from the audience. A few of those questions provided him with an opportunity to elaborate on what a mess our world has become and how we should, in fact, be worried.
I appreciate his perspective.
And if he was aware – during his 90 minutes on stage – of the multi-tasking that was occurring in the audience, I also appreciate his ability not to give it any power. I could not have done that. Had it been me behind the lectern, I would have stopped in my tracks, shut my mouth, and refused to continue talking until the collective rudeness had virtually left the room.
Good thing, I guess, that I’ve always preferred the backstage assignments.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Monday Reruns: WORK, Dammit!
(original post-date: October 13, 2010)
Several months ago, through the disputable wonder that is Facebook, I reconnected with an old friend. And the timing was fortuitous. As it happened, she was only weeks away from traveling to the L.A. area to see her Dad. So, we made plans to get together.
On the day of our scheduled reunion, I found myself cleaning my apartment in anticipation of catching up with someone I hadn’t seen in 30 years. While reloading the Swiffer Duster, I thought about priming the CD player for a song that was part of our adolescent experience back in the mid-70s. But then I got sidetracked by the vacuum cleaner…
Later, after her arrival – which found us jumping up and down outside my apartment building as we squealed and hugged and squealed some more – we were settled on my living room couch in rapid-fire catch-up mode. On the one hand, it seemed as if we had been talking together only yesterday. On the other hand, we each had three decades worth of personal history to share.
At a certain point, I remembered the idea of providing a soundtrack from our youth.
“Hold on!” I said, interrupting our conversation. “I gotta find a CD.”
I then ran to my bedroom to retrieve the disc, and I quickly returned to set it up in the living room player.
My sound system, though, would not be cooperative. Sure, it would make busy moves, and it would click to convey that busy-ness, but no song was delivered as a result of its efforts.
I tried a few maneuvers that, in the past, had helped to kick the CD player into submission.
And then… I simply took a few steps back, looked at the machine intently, and yelled, “WORK, Dammit!”
Immediately, we heard the tender opening notes of Harry Chapin’s Taxi.
“I’ve got it on voice command,” I told my friend, smiling smartly.
If only.
(Voice command, my ass.)
The fact of the matter is this: I have a love/hate relationship with anything that involves a cord.
The love comes from what I get from the technology: music; netflix; the opportunity to share my writing in cyberspace; quick communication with my clients; and so on. The hate comes from the possibility that, at any moment, something could go wrong with that technology, and I feel completely powerless in those moments of malfunction.
More than two weeks ago, I bought an external hard drive, and then… I let it sit on the table for 10 days. I dreaded opening the box and going through the procedure of setting it up. Why? Because I might confront a problem.
(I’m still hoping to meet and fall in love with an IT Guy, but until that happens, I’m screwed.)
Finally, the other night, I got bold and took on the project of setting up the external hard drive. And as I was going through the install procedure (and, for the most part, it wasn’t difficult), I had an AHA! moment regarding technology and me. It is this: I don’t CARE how it works! Technology is simply not something I want to LEARN.
And that is very much the problem.
I am absolutely learning-oriented, and technology flies directly into the face of my modus operandi.
If I don’t care, then I’m not interested.
And if there is not a learning opportunity (that I care about – from my gut), then I’m definitely not going to stick around for all the hairy details.
Period.
End of discussion.
I don’t care what’s making the damn computer and all its software work. I don’t care if it’s a microchip or a fucking hamster on a treadmill. I don’t know megas from gigas, and I don’t even want to hear about them. You can just take that chatter to another Gates.
And speaking of names… the other night, after I plugged in the external hard drive and had moved on to the screen that allowed me to backup (but not to the 60s, unfortunately), the window indicated that the computer from which the hard drive was retrieving files was KATIENEW.
Seeing that title really jarred me for a minute. I swear, I have no idea where it got my name. (I know I didn’t introduce myself!)
But… maybe I shouldn’t complain.
It could have said KATIEOLD.
... I recently was sent an hysterical YouTube video that speaks to my frame of mind. It's about a Medieval Helpdesk, and the subtitles are therefore in English.
I just tried to load the YouTube here, and I am growing increasingly impatient. So, here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pQHX-SjgQvQ&feature=channel
... I'm over it. I'm just.. over it!
Several months ago, through the disputable wonder that is Facebook, I reconnected with an old friend. And the timing was fortuitous. As it happened, she was only weeks away from traveling to the L.A. area to see her Dad. So, we made plans to get together.
On the day of our scheduled reunion, I found myself cleaning my apartment in anticipation of catching up with someone I hadn’t seen in 30 years. While reloading the Swiffer Duster, I thought about priming the CD player for a song that was part of our adolescent experience back in the mid-70s. But then I got sidetracked by the vacuum cleaner…
Later, after her arrival – which found us jumping up and down outside my apartment building as we squealed and hugged and squealed some more – we were settled on my living room couch in rapid-fire catch-up mode. On the one hand, it seemed as if we had been talking together only yesterday. On the other hand, we each had three decades worth of personal history to share.
At a certain point, I remembered the idea of providing a soundtrack from our youth.
“Hold on!” I said, interrupting our conversation. “I gotta find a CD.”
I then ran to my bedroom to retrieve the disc, and I quickly returned to set it up in the living room player.
My sound system, though, would not be cooperative. Sure, it would make busy moves, and it would click to convey that busy-ness, but no song was delivered as a result of its efforts.
I tried a few maneuvers that, in the past, had helped to kick the CD player into submission.
And then… I simply took a few steps back, looked at the machine intently, and yelled, “WORK, Dammit!”
Immediately, we heard the tender opening notes of Harry Chapin’s Taxi.
“I’ve got it on voice command,” I told my friend, smiling smartly.
If only.
(Voice command, my ass.)
The fact of the matter is this: I have a love/hate relationship with anything that involves a cord.
The love comes from what I get from the technology: music; netflix; the opportunity to share my writing in cyberspace; quick communication with my clients; and so on. The hate comes from the possibility that, at any moment, something could go wrong with that technology, and I feel completely powerless in those moments of malfunction.
More than two weeks ago, I bought an external hard drive, and then… I let it sit on the table for 10 days. I dreaded opening the box and going through the procedure of setting it up. Why? Because I might confront a problem.
(I’m still hoping to meet and fall in love with an IT Guy, but until that happens, I’m screwed.)
Finally, the other night, I got bold and took on the project of setting up the external hard drive. And as I was going through the install procedure (and, for the most part, it wasn’t difficult), I had an AHA! moment regarding technology and me. It is this: I don’t CARE how it works! Technology is simply not something I want to LEARN.
And that is very much the problem.
I am absolutely learning-oriented, and technology flies directly into the face of my modus operandi.
If I don’t care, then I’m not interested.
And if there is not a learning opportunity (that I care about – from my gut), then I’m definitely not going to stick around for all the hairy details.
Period.
End of discussion.
I don’t care what’s making the damn computer and all its software work. I don’t care if it’s a microchip or a fucking hamster on a treadmill. I don’t know megas from gigas, and I don’t even want to hear about them. You can just take that chatter to another Gates.
And speaking of names… the other night, after I plugged in the external hard drive and had moved on to the screen that allowed me to backup (but not to the 60s, unfortunately), the window indicated that the computer from which the hard drive was retrieving files was KATIENEW.
Seeing that title really jarred me for a minute. I swear, I have no idea where it got my name. (I know I didn’t introduce myself!)
But… maybe I shouldn’t complain.
It could have said KATIEOLD.
... I recently was sent an hysterical YouTube video that speaks to my frame of mind. It's about a Medieval Helpdesk, and the subtitles are therefore in English.
I just tried to load the YouTube here, and I am growing increasingly impatient. So, here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pQHX-SjgQvQ&feature=channel
... I'm over it. I'm just.. over it!
Monday, August 8, 2011
Monday Reruns: This is Going to Sound Weird, but...
(original post-date: August 4, 2010)
Last week, one of my favorite clients sent me an email. She let me know that they’d soon be “adding a sub-domain to their splash page,” and so… she might need my help with some language. Before ending her missive, she commented on the jargon she was using, and I could sense that her eyes were rolling with irony and amusement as she typed.
I appreciated what drove her comment about the jargon. The fact of the matter is, she and I have laughed – for a few years now – over our common (and often reluctant) emergence from the luddite trenches. Both of us baby boomers, we are doing our best to keep up with the times.
That same day last week, I sent an email to another client. This particular email was sent to assuage my client’s concerns. I wanted to ensure her that I had not missed a prospective grantmaker’s automatic reply to our online Stage One application. In fact, I had retrieved that reply from my “Suspect Mail” just an hour before my client sent her relatively alarmed message.
“Don’t worry,” I shared, typing quickly before hitting SEND, “I check my spam at least four times a day.”
And that’s when it hit me.
Imagine, for a minute…
Imagine if, 15 years ago, someone had said to you, “I check my spam at least four times a day.”
How many red flags?
Okay, the first and most obvious one is the OCD flag. And, mind you, I’m not belittling that issue; I’ve got some of my own OCD manifestations. I’m big on expiration dates, for example. (Don’t get me started.) And, the checking thing? There’s a pre-departure routine that revolves around my kitchen; I always do it at least three times.
So, okay, that’s one way the statement might have seemed alarming 15 years ago. The “checking” … The “four times a day”…
But what about the reference to spam?
And what's in those cans, anyway? Does that weird meat concept even exist anymore?
(Pardon me while I do a Google search...)
I’m back, folks, and guess what. Spam does exist anymore. Not only that, it was the first hit!
Forward-thinkers, those meat canners. How smart they were to grab the domain of “www.spam.com” and make it their own before the cyber-geeks had a chance to take it and run with it. Damn. Good for Spam. But still, I’m not quite sure what it is… And, that site of theirs (however primary on the search results page) isn’t helping.
(Pardon me while I go to Wikipedia…)
Okay, I can’t possibly paraphrase (nor do I want to, really), so I’ll just share here what we might as well call the Wiki Executive Summary of Spam. (And if this whets your appetite, I strongly suggest a nutrition counselor.)
Spam is a canned precooked meat product made by the Hormel Foods Corporation. The labeled ingredients in the classic variety of Spam are chopped pork shoulder meat with ham meat added, salt, water, modified potato starch as a binder, and sodium nitrite to help keep its color. Spam’s gelatinous glaze, or aspic, forms from the cooling of meat stock. The product has become part of many jokes and urban legends about mystery meat, which has made it part of pop culture and folklore.
Pop culture and folklore, huh?
It’s kinda nice to know those concepts have a shelf life in our fast-paced cyberworld.
… I’ve never eaten Spam, and I don’t think I ever will (despite its undoubtedly seductive gelatinous glaze). And so I am especially glad that there aren’t seven or eight cans of it confronting me when I peer into the kitchen cupboard. If there were, I’d have to throw those cans in the trash. I’d have to make room for the seven or eight more that are likely to appear out of nowhere in the next several hours.
Last week, one of my favorite clients sent me an email. She let me know that they’d soon be “adding a sub-domain to their splash page,” and so… she might need my help with some language. Before ending her missive, she commented on the jargon she was using, and I could sense that her eyes were rolling with irony and amusement as she typed.
I appreciated what drove her comment about the jargon. The fact of the matter is, she and I have laughed – for a few years now – over our common (and often reluctant) emergence from the luddite trenches. Both of us baby boomers, we are doing our best to keep up with the times.
That same day last week, I sent an email to another client. This particular email was sent to assuage my client’s concerns. I wanted to ensure her that I had not missed a prospective grantmaker’s automatic reply to our online Stage One application. In fact, I had retrieved that reply from my “Suspect Mail” just an hour before my client sent her relatively alarmed message.
“Don’t worry,” I shared, typing quickly before hitting SEND, “I check my spam at least four times a day.”
And that’s when it hit me.
Imagine, for a minute…
Imagine if, 15 years ago, someone had said to you, “I check my spam at least four times a day.”
How many red flags?
Okay, the first and most obvious one is the OCD flag. And, mind you, I’m not belittling that issue; I’ve got some of my own OCD manifestations. I’m big on expiration dates, for example. (Don’t get me started.) And, the checking thing? There’s a pre-departure routine that revolves around my kitchen; I always do it at least three times.
So, okay, that’s one way the statement might have seemed alarming 15 years ago. The “checking” … The “four times a day”…
But what about the reference to spam?
And what's in those cans, anyway? Does that weird meat concept even exist anymore?
(Pardon me while I do a Google search...)
I’m back, folks, and guess what. Spam does exist anymore. Not only that, it was the first hit!
Forward-thinkers, those meat canners. How smart they were to grab the domain of “www.spam.com” and make it their own before the cyber-geeks had a chance to take it and run with it. Damn. Good for Spam. But still, I’m not quite sure what it is… And, that site of theirs (however primary on the search results page) isn’t helping.
(Pardon me while I go to Wikipedia…)
Okay, I can’t possibly paraphrase (nor do I want to, really), so I’ll just share here what we might as well call the Wiki Executive Summary of Spam. (And if this whets your appetite, I strongly suggest a nutrition counselor.)
Spam is a canned precooked meat product made by the Hormel Foods Corporation. The labeled ingredients in the classic variety of Spam are chopped pork shoulder meat with ham meat added, salt, water, modified potato starch as a binder, and sodium nitrite to help keep its color. Spam’s gelatinous glaze, or aspic, forms from the cooling of meat stock. The product has become part of many jokes and urban legends about mystery meat, which has made it part of pop culture and folklore.
Pop culture and folklore, huh?
It’s kinda nice to know those concepts have a shelf life in our fast-paced cyberworld.
… I’ve never eaten Spam, and I don’t think I ever will (despite its undoubtedly seductive gelatinous glaze). And so I am especially glad that there aren’t seven or eight cans of it confronting me when I peer into the kitchen cupboard. If there were, I’d have to throw those cans in the trash. I’d have to make room for the seven or eight more that are likely to appear out of nowhere in the next several hours.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Whither Penmanship?
There’s a really campy movie that was produced in 1956. Based upon the 1954 novel by William March, The Bad Seed was also produced as a play. I’ve read both the novel and the play, and I've seen the movie two or three times. Knowing the plot line has never ruined it for me, but if you think it will do that for you, consider this your spoiler alert.
Otherwise:
The “bad seed” exists within -- and becomes an appropriate moniker for -- Rhoda Penmark, the story's pivotal character. Although Rhoda behaves like a lovely little girl much of the time, her mean streak is also pretty obvious. As it turns out, she inherited a homicidal gene from her mother’s side of the family. And in addition to killing the building caretaker (who seems to be aware of Rhoda’s evil side), she also is guilty of killing Claude Daigle, a classmate.
And why did she kill Claude Daigle, you might ask?
Because: HE WON THE PENMANSHIP MEDAL!
(And Rhoda clearly believed that she should have won.)
...Remember penmanship?
I do.
I even remember that it was called the Palmer Method.
I remember penmanship being a part of third and fourth grade curriculum, and I remember excelling at it. I could mimic the strokes easily, and so I had it down. Always an A+ on that particular line of my report card.
But what I never told my teachers back then was that I couldn’t wait to be done with penmanship grades. I couldn’t wait because I wanted to experiment. And so, beginning in the 5th grade or so, I began exploring my options. I tried all kinds of possibilities, often imitating the penmanship of those who seemed to have found a unique and expressive world when they put pen to paper. It was probably my sophomore year in college before I found a penmanship that suited me.
The penmanship I’ve used since I was 19 or so doesn’t resemble the Palmer Method in the least. It’s more up and down than slanted. There’s not a whole lot of fanciness to it. But my energy is apparent. My penmanship reflects my personality.
… I heard on NPR recently that schools are no longer teaching penmanship (which we also used to call “real writing”).
I understand their decision, I guess.
After all, with computers being the place where people write, why teach such archaic strokes of the pen? I mean, typing is pretty much everything a kid needs to know these days, right?
Yes.
Maybe.
But.
There’s something truly satisfying about “finding” your penmanship. There’s something about that moment – of knowing you’re there – that tells you that a part of you has settled at last.
...There’s also the issue of signatures.
This part I really don’t get.
These kids growing up today. Kids who are not being taught “real writing”… How the hell are they supposed to sign their names?
...Of course, Rhoda Penmark signed her name in quite a unique way, didn’t she? Killing a classmate over a penmanship medal.
I’m not saying I want the topic to engender all kinds of competitive angst.
I just want to believe that kids can know from “real writing.”
I want them to experience what I did – finding my penmanship.
Otherwise:
The “bad seed” exists within -- and becomes an appropriate moniker for -- Rhoda Penmark, the story's pivotal character. Although Rhoda behaves like a lovely little girl much of the time, her mean streak is also pretty obvious. As it turns out, she inherited a homicidal gene from her mother’s side of the family. And in addition to killing the building caretaker (who seems to be aware of Rhoda’s evil side), she also is guilty of killing Claude Daigle, a classmate.
And why did she kill Claude Daigle, you might ask?
Because: HE WON THE PENMANSHIP MEDAL!
(And Rhoda clearly believed that she should have won.)
...Remember penmanship?
I do.
I even remember that it was called the Palmer Method.
I remember penmanship being a part of third and fourth grade curriculum, and I remember excelling at it. I could mimic the strokes easily, and so I had it down. Always an A+ on that particular line of my report card.
But what I never told my teachers back then was that I couldn’t wait to be done with penmanship grades. I couldn’t wait because I wanted to experiment. And so, beginning in the 5th grade or so, I began exploring my options. I tried all kinds of possibilities, often imitating the penmanship of those who seemed to have found a unique and expressive world when they put pen to paper. It was probably my sophomore year in college before I found a penmanship that suited me.
The penmanship I’ve used since I was 19 or so doesn’t resemble the Palmer Method in the least. It’s more up and down than slanted. There’s not a whole lot of fanciness to it. But my energy is apparent. My penmanship reflects my personality.
… I heard on NPR recently that schools are no longer teaching penmanship (which we also used to call “real writing”).
I understand their decision, I guess.
After all, with computers being the place where people write, why teach such archaic strokes of the pen? I mean, typing is pretty much everything a kid needs to know these days, right?
Yes.
Maybe.
But.
There’s something truly satisfying about “finding” your penmanship. There’s something about that moment – of knowing you’re there – that tells you that a part of you has settled at last.
...There’s also the issue of signatures.
This part I really don’t get.
These kids growing up today. Kids who are not being taught “real writing”… How the hell are they supposed to sign their names?
...Of course, Rhoda Penmark signed her name in quite a unique way, didn’t she? Killing a classmate over a penmanship medal.
I’m not saying I want the topic to engender all kinds of competitive angst.
I just want to believe that kids can know from “real writing.”
I want them to experience what I did – finding my penmanship.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Monday Reruns: Some Thoughts from North of Brazil
(Original post-date: June 23, 2010)
Several months ago, I had an appointment on the west side of Los Angeles. While I know that general area quite well, the address I had been given included the name of a street I’d never heard of. So: two hours or so prior to my appointment, I logged onto Mapquest. I typed in the address and immediately was presented with a small, neighborhood map. Within that map, a red star indicated my destination. Helpful, but… the map was still a little too small. I needed to see the names of some major thoroughfares. I needed a sense of orientation.
I chose the Zoom Out option.
I guess I was a bit overzealous when I clicked my mouse on a line closer to the (-) sign. The next map that appeared – the Zoom-Out map – included Brazil.
When I saw it, I laughed at the screen.
“Thanks, Mapquest,” I said. “That’s really helpful! So, the place I’m going is north of... Brazil.”
Ah yes, zooming in and out. What handy functions. For folks with fancy cameras and other image-capturing instruments, the opportunities to virtually move forward or step back are familiar. But for me, these are options I never consciously entertained. At least, not until I started using the internet and its maps.
More recently, I’ve come to appreciate the metaphoric value...
Zoom out: the BP spill in the Gulf
Zoom in: the kitty litter box in the middle hallway closet
Zoom out: the national unemployment statistics
Zoom in: my need for two or three more consulting clients
Zoom out: the situation in the Middle East
Zoom in: the gangbangers who keep tagging the cement wall at the corner intersection
Zoom out: the crisis on Wall Street
Zoom in: my bank account balance
There’s a lesson in the zoom option, I think. A lesson about perspective.
If you find yourself, as I do, listening to way too much NPR, then maybe you just need to turn it off for a bit. Clean out the kitty litter, take a walk around the neighborhood, balance your checkbook, and be glad you don’t have to worry about stepping on any landmines as you walk from your car to the grocery store.
If, on the other hand, you are engaged in too much self-involvement, then I suggest you get away from yourself and whatever concerns you might be entertaining about your latest pedicure. Turn on the real news. Read a reliable paper. Remember that the world outside of you is dealing with issues that may never, ever be resolved.
Thinking about this stuff leads my mind to the adage attributed to Dale Carnegie: When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.
In the case of that adage, I think of the lemons as the Zoom In; the lemonade, the Zoom Out.
A lovely thought, but Carnegie was living in a different time.
These days, I wonder if the sentiment he expressed is possible to achieve. Are there enough good lemons left?
I consider myself a decent person, and I am fortunate to know a lot of other good people. People who are kind and generous. People who were lucky to be born with a healthy intelligence. But does that make us lemons? I don’t know. It seems that without huge handfuls of cash or an abundance of tangible possessions, our status is inconsequential.
As for the existing lemonade, it is beyond toxic. There’s an oil slick covering its surface, and everything below it is about to go into some kind of foreclosure.
So I sit at my computer, mouse in hand, zooming in and out.
Hoping to find that happy place in the middle.
A happy place in the middle… somewhere between the dreams I’ve always entertained and the realities of the day.
Zoom in.
Zoom out.
Several months ago, I had an appointment on the west side of Los Angeles. While I know that general area quite well, the address I had been given included the name of a street I’d never heard of. So: two hours or so prior to my appointment, I logged onto Mapquest. I typed in the address and immediately was presented with a small, neighborhood map. Within that map, a red star indicated my destination. Helpful, but… the map was still a little too small. I needed to see the names of some major thoroughfares. I needed a sense of orientation.
I chose the Zoom Out option.
I guess I was a bit overzealous when I clicked my mouse on a line closer to the (-) sign. The next map that appeared – the Zoom-Out map – included Brazil.
When I saw it, I laughed at the screen.
“Thanks, Mapquest,” I said. “That’s really helpful! So, the place I’m going is north of... Brazil.”
Ah yes, zooming in and out. What handy functions. For folks with fancy cameras and other image-capturing instruments, the opportunities to virtually move forward or step back are familiar. But for me, these are options I never consciously entertained. At least, not until I started using the internet and its maps.
More recently, I’ve come to appreciate the metaphoric value...
Zoom out: the BP spill in the Gulf
Zoom in: the kitty litter box in the middle hallway closet
Zoom out: the national unemployment statistics
Zoom in: my need for two or three more consulting clients
Zoom out: the situation in the Middle East
Zoom in: the gangbangers who keep tagging the cement wall at the corner intersection
Zoom out: the crisis on Wall Street
Zoom in: my bank account balance
There’s a lesson in the zoom option, I think. A lesson about perspective.
If you find yourself, as I do, listening to way too much NPR, then maybe you just need to turn it off for a bit. Clean out the kitty litter, take a walk around the neighborhood, balance your checkbook, and be glad you don’t have to worry about stepping on any landmines as you walk from your car to the grocery store.
If, on the other hand, you are engaged in too much self-involvement, then I suggest you get away from yourself and whatever concerns you might be entertaining about your latest pedicure. Turn on the real news. Read a reliable paper. Remember that the world outside of you is dealing with issues that may never, ever be resolved.
Thinking about this stuff leads my mind to the adage attributed to Dale Carnegie: When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.
In the case of that adage, I think of the lemons as the Zoom In; the lemonade, the Zoom Out.
A lovely thought, but Carnegie was living in a different time.
These days, I wonder if the sentiment he expressed is possible to achieve. Are there enough good lemons left?
I consider myself a decent person, and I am fortunate to know a lot of other good people. People who are kind and generous. People who were lucky to be born with a healthy intelligence. But does that make us lemons? I don’t know. It seems that without huge handfuls of cash or an abundance of tangible possessions, our status is inconsequential.
As for the existing lemonade, it is beyond toxic. There’s an oil slick covering its surface, and everything below it is about to go into some kind of foreclosure.
So I sit at my computer, mouse in hand, zooming in and out.
Hoping to find that happy place in the middle.
A happy place in the middle… somewhere between the dreams I’ve always entertained and the realities of the day.
Zoom in.
Zoom out.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Maybe Really Ready Damnit – My Experience Building an eBook
I cleared a major hurdle last week when I created a Kindle version of my novel. It’s something that had been on my to-do list for months. It’s also something I avoided because I knew that, at a certain point, I’d have to do some technological things I’ve never done before.
The whole process took about 40 hours, and that time might have been cut in half had I had a final copy of the manuscript in Word format. But, alas, I didn’t. You see, back in the summer of ’08, the last few rounds of editing were done during the time that the novel was with the PDF chick. Accordingly, the only final copy I had was in PDF. And so, beginning a few weeks ago, I had the great pleasure (not!) of copying the entire manuscript into a Word document, and then going through it, line by line, reformatting the text to ensure each paragraph filled the page from left to right. And offline, I had to keep a copy of the paperback open so I could capture the formatting of the dialogue correctly.
It goes without saying that it is impossible to catch every line break when doing this sort of exercise on a manuscript that represents a 332-page book. So, when I embarked on the final several steps Sunday before last, I knew that I still had quite a few hours ahead of me.
Make that 15 or so…
Consulting the Easy Instructions provided on the Amazon site, I saved my newly formatted manuscript as a Web, Filtered (HTML) document (but not before copying it, so as to still have access to the Word document). I believe I called this first HTML (and its corresponding Word doc) “MSS Sunday afternoon.”
Then, I downloaded the software (Mobio-something-or-other) that would take me on the next leg of my journey.
You need to know something about me: any time I am required to download a new software, I get very nervous. (Seriously; I physically shake.) I’m just not sure it will work, and I am convinced that when it doesn’t, my computer will blow up in my face, the world will stop spinning on its axis, and George W. Bush will be reinstated into the White House before the end of Obama’s first term. No, it’s not that I have a tremendous sense of power. Quite the contrary – it’s pure, unadulterated paranoia.
But, wonder of wonders, I was able to download and install the software without a glitch.
One small step for most people; one giant leap for me and my kind.
Then, I followed the instructions to “build my ebook.” And I gotta say, people, these really are easy instructions.
Once I’d done that, I then had to confront my download/install fears again – this time to enable access to the Kindle Previewer. I was not yet feeling entirely confident as I hit all the correct buttons (but at least I had stopped shaking).
With that step behind me, I was on to the next: retrieving the ebook so I could review it on the Previewer.
I hit the necessary buttons and voila, my novel appeared before my eyes as an ebook. Immediately, I realized I needed to lower the minimal content on the title page, so I made a note of that. Within several pages, though, I realized that note-taking was not the way to go. So, I retrieved the document entitled “MSS Sunday afternoon,” and I went back and forth between it and the version in the Previewer. I caught a few formatting issues as well as dozens of premature line endings that I’d missed the first time around. When I reached the final page, I thought I was good to go.
I closed the Previewer, returned to “MSS Sunday afternoon,” and I saved it, this time calling it, “MSS Ready Maybe.”
I then returned to Mobio-whatever, created a new ebook from this second version and uploaded it into the Previewer.
Damn! More issues I hadn’t overlooked!
So, I once again retrieved the document, but even as I did, I had a bad feeling… when I saved it as an HTML, I did so without also saving it as a Word document.
Sure enough: I could not make changes within the saved HTML document. I’d have to return to “MSS Sunday afternoon” (though it was about 9pm at this point) and find the newest issues as well as the dozens of old ones. But this time, I made a copy first. I called it “MSS Sunday Night.”
Back to the Mobio, I created a new ebook and returned to Kindle Previewer.
My eyes were starting to glaze over, but I was at least achieving some kind of rhythm.
A few hours later, I had a new version, in both Word and HTML. I called this one “MSS Ready Damnit.”
But it wasn’t. I’d have to wait until Monday to pick up where I’d left off. There was no trusting my brain-eye-hand coordination at this point. I was fried.
On Monday afternoon and evening, I went through two more reviews. I called the first of the two “Maybe Ready Now,” and I dubbed the second “Really Really Ready.”
And what that ultimate “really really ready” status meant was this: I’d have to hit the scariest buttons of all. The ones that put my novel out there to the Kindle-reading public.
The final steps were pretty simple in terms of key strokes. I had to register an account, name my price, etc. And when all was said and done, I hit that final button.
And I immediately freaked.
What if I hit the wrong button? What if I had sent “Ready Maybe” or “Ready Damnit” instead of “Really Really Ready?” Or what if I totally erred and just uploaded a grant proposal that I recently drafted for one of my clients? What if a nasty note sent to my landlord is now an ebook entitled The Somebody Who?
People with Kindles (I’m not one of them) will have to let me know. I imagine the reviews will be some indicator. I.e., if a review states that the grant request is valid, but the competition is too severe at this time given the Foundation’s limited resources, then I’ll know I hit the wrong button. Likewise, if someone, reviewing the ebook, lauds my use of expletives when describing a plumbing problem, then that also will indicate a user error on my part.
But I think it should be okay…
And, may I add, now that those hours are behind me, I think it’s quite remarkable what technology allows us to do. I also am grateful for the learning curve I recently scaled. In retrospect, it wasn’t such a bad process because I gained knowledge through my mistakes.
In fact, the next time I want to create a Kindle ebook, I may act downright cocky.
I might even do it with my eyes closed.
(God knows, they need the rest!)
The whole process took about 40 hours, and that time might have been cut in half had I had a final copy of the manuscript in Word format. But, alas, I didn’t. You see, back in the summer of ’08, the last few rounds of editing were done during the time that the novel was with the PDF chick. Accordingly, the only final copy I had was in PDF. And so, beginning a few weeks ago, I had the great pleasure (not!) of copying the entire manuscript into a Word document, and then going through it, line by line, reformatting the text to ensure each paragraph filled the page from left to right. And offline, I had to keep a copy of the paperback open so I could capture the formatting of the dialogue correctly.
It goes without saying that it is impossible to catch every line break when doing this sort of exercise on a manuscript that represents a 332-page book. So, when I embarked on the final several steps Sunday before last, I knew that I still had quite a few hours ahead of me.
Make that 15 or so…
Consulting the Easy Instructions provided on the Amazon site, I saved my newly formatted manuscript as a Web, Filtered (HTML) document (but not before copying it, so as to still have access to the Word document). I believe I called this first HTML (and its corresponding Word doc) “MSS Sunday afternoon.”
Then, I downloaded the software (Mobio-something-or-other) that would take me on the next leg of my journey.
You need to know something about me: any time I am required to download a new software, I get very nervous. (Seriously; I physically shake.) I’m just not sure it will work, and I am convinced that when it doesn’t, my computer will blow up in my face, the world will stop spinning on its axis, and George W. Bush will be reinstated into the White House before the end of Obama’s first term. No, it’s not that I have a tremendous sense of power. Quite the contrary – it’s pure, unadulterated paranoia.
But, wonder of wonders, I was able to download and install the software without a glitch.
One small step for most people; one giant leap for me and my kind.
Then, I followed the instructions to “build my ebook.” And I gotta say, people, these really are easy instructions.
Once I’d done that, I then had to confront my download/install fears again – this time to enable access to the Kindle Previewer. I was not yet feeling entirely confident as I hit all the correct buttons (but at least I had stopped shaking).
With that step behind me, I was on to the next: retrieving the ebook so I could review it on the Previewer.
I hit the necessary buttons and voila, my novel appeared before my eyes as an ebook. Immediately, I realized I needed to lower the minimal content on the title page, so I made a note of that. Within several pages, though, I realized that note-taking was not the way to go. So, I retrieved the document entitled “MSS Sunday afternoon,” and I went back and forth between it and the version in the Previewer. I caught a few formatting issues as well as dozens of premature line endings that I’d missed the first time around. When I reached the final page, I thought I was good to go.
I closed the Previewer, returned to “MSS Sunday afternoon,” and I saved it, this time calling it, “MSS Ready Maybe.”
I then returned to Mobio-whatever, created a new ebook from this second version and uploaded it into the Previewer.
Damn! More issues I hadn’t overlooked!
So, I once again retrieved the document, but even as I did, I had a bad feeling… when I saved it as an HTML, I did so without also saving it as a Word document.
Sure enough: I could not make changes within the saved HTML document. I’d have to return to “MSS Sunday afternoon” (though it was about 9pm at this point) and find the newest issues as well as the dozens of old ones. But this time, I made a copy first. I called it “MSS Sunday Night.”
Back to the Mobio, I created a new ebook and returned to Kindle Previewer.
My eyes were starting to glaze over, but I was at least achieving some kind of rhythm.
A few hours later, I had a new version, in both Word and HTML. I called this one “MSS Ready Damnit.”
But it wasn’t. I’d have to wait until Monday to pick up where I’d left off. There was no trusting my brain-eye-hand coordination at this point. I was fried.
On Monday afternoon and evening, I went through two more reviews. I called the first of the two “Maybe Ready Now,” and I dubbed the second “Really Really Ready.”
And what that ultimate “really really ready” status meant was this: I’d have to hit the scariest buttons of all. The ones that put my novel out there to the Kindle-reading public.
The final steps were pretty simple in terms of key strokes. I had to register an account, name my price, etc. And when all was said and done, I hit that final button.
And I immediately freaked.
What if I hit the wrong button? What if I had sent “Ready Maybe” or “Ready Damnit” instead of “Really Really Ready?” Or what if I totally erred and just uploaded a grant proposal that I recently drafted for one of my clients? What if a nasty note sent to my landlord is now an ebook entitled The Somebody Who?
People with Kindles (I’m not one of them) will have to let me know. I imagine the reviews will be some indicator. I.e., if a review states that the grant request is valid, but the competition is too severe at this time given the Foundation’s limited resources, then I’ll know I hit the wrong button. Likewise, if someone, reviewing the ebook, lauds my use of expletives when describing a plumbing problem, then that also will indicate a user error on my part.
But I think it should be okay…
And, may I add, now that those hours are behind me, I think it’s quite remarkable what technology allows us to do. I also am grateful for the learning curve I recently scaled. In retrospect, it wasn’t such a bad process because I gained knowledge through my mistakes.
In fact, the next time I want to create a Kindle ebook, I may act downright cocky.
I might even do it with my eyes closed.
(God knows, they need the rest!)
Monday, June 20, 2011
Monday Reruns: And That Would Mean...?
(original post-date: June 16, 2010)
Old-fashioned gal that I am, I still keep a thick, tangible, small-fonted, page-infested dictionary within reach of my workstation. (Okay, maybe I’m not so old-fashioned. I didn’t call where I sit a “desk,” right?) I like going into the tome to double-check the meaning of a relatively abstruse word. Other times, I enjoy looking up a word I’ve taken for granted for most of my literate years.
Today, because of an issue I’d like to explore in this post, I looked up the word “word.”
According to my copy of the New Webster’s Dictionary and Thesaurus of the English Language, the primary definition of “word” is this: “a speech sound or combination of sounds having meaning and used as a basic unit of language and human communication” [then there are two vertical parallel lines followed by] “the written or printed symbol of one of these basic units of language.”
Nothing new there, right?
Okay, so against that definition, here’s a list that may be of interest.
hornu
poolume
malitza
reddedi
undeverr
irlati
roudom
pedine
opsion
derminte
afretrim
See any words in there?
Neither do I.
And yet, those are some of the “words” I have had to “verify” lately when posting comments on blogs and making other online maneuvers that involve the use of my email address and various passwords.
Word Verification, they call it.
I don’t think so.
The administrators of cyberspace need to reconsider that phrase. If they want to keep “Word,” they should lose “Verification.” If they want to keep “Verification,” they need to come up with something other than “Word.” I mean, come on, who are we kidding here!
On the other hand, I’m always one to rise to a creative challenge, so I thought I’d come up with some definitions for these alleged “words.” Some possibilities:
hornu (n.): a prostitute-in-training
poolume (v.): (from the French; accent on the final e): to strut about as if one has the feathers of a peacock
malitza (adj.): simultaneously sick and adorable
reddedi (n.): a spiral-shaped pasta made from radishes (hence, the scarlet hue)
undeverr (n.): German lingerie
irlati (n.): short-temperedness resulting from the consumption of too much coffee
roudom (adj.): appearing to be random, but actually passive-aggressive
pedine (n.): the shine emanating from nail polish freshly applied to the toes
opsion (n.): a choice available only to the pretentious
derminte (n.): a skin condition generally caused by an overdose of Altoids
afretrim (n.): an over-the-counter weight-loss supplement whose common side effects include, but are not limited to, an inability to find one’s tweezers
I don’t know. Should we compose a new dictionary for modern times?
The list above is by no means exhaustive. Following are several more “words” I’ve had to verify lately. Please feel free to suggest some definitions for:
verspen….. agies….. amoli….. gloggist….. boopy….. culne….. peedio….. devokers….. plopread….. fulneu….. hewsent….. oraver….. elebod….. lessessi….. sylshimi….. eleaun….. entsmana….. cowsesse….. untous….. amideamp….. mytor….. nomaersl….. patoxe….. donsphe….. recophoa….. phedlge….. wanin….. phythe….. hanki….. fitypep….. hohotagg…..
Oh, and to be perfectly fair, I should confess that, recently, I did have to verify a word that was really a word. And here’s the best part. The word was: mistype.
I cannot begin to tell you how tempted I was…
Old-fashioned gal that I am, I still keep a thick, tangible, small-fonted, page-infested dictionary within reach of my workstation. (Okay, maybe I’m not so old-fashioned. I didn’t call where I sit a “desk,” right?) I like going into the tome to double-check the meaning of a relatively abstruse word. Other times, I enjoy looking up a word I’ve taken for granted for most of my literate years.
Today, because of an issue I’d like to explore in this post, I looked up the word “word.”
According to my copy of the New Webster’s Dictionary and Thesaurus of the English Language, the primary definition of “word” is this: “a speech sound or combination of sounds having meaning and used as a basic unit of language and human communication” [then there are two vertical parallel lines followed by] “the written or printed symbol of one of these basic units of language.”
Nothing new there, right?
Okay, so against that definition, here’s a list that may be of interest.
hornu
poolume
malitza
reddedi
undeverr
irlati
roudom
pedine
opsion
derminte
afretrim
See any words in there?
Neither do I.
And yet, those are some of the “words” I have had to “verify” lately when posting comments on blogs and making other online maneuvers that involve the use of my email address and various passwords.
Word Verification, they call it.
I don’t think so.
The administrators of cyberspace need to reconsider that phrase. If they want to keep “Word,” they should lose “Verification.” If they want to keep “Verification,” they need to come up with something other than “Word.” I mean, come on, who are we kidding here!
On the other hand, I’m always one to rise to a creative challenge, so I thought I’d come up with some definitions for these alleged “words.” Some possibilities:
hornu (n.): a prostitute-in-training
poolume (v.): (from the French; accent on the final e): to strut about as if one has the feathers of a peacock
malitza (adj.): simultaneously sick and adorable
reddedi (n.): a spiral-shaped pasta made from radishes (hence, the scarlet hue)
undeverr (n.): German lingerie
irlati (n.): short-temperedness resulting from the consumption of too much coffee
roudom (adj.): appearing to be random, but actually passive-aggressive
pedine (n.): the shine emanating from nail polish freshly applied to the toes
opsion (n.): a choice available only to the pretentious
derminte (n.): a skin condition generally caused by an overdose of Altoids
afretrim (n.): an over-the-counter weight-loss supplement whose common side effects include, but are not limited to, an inability to find one’s tweezers
I don’t know. Should we compose a new dictionary for modern times?
The list above is by no means exhaustive. Following are several more “words” I’ve had to verify lately. Please feel free to suggest some definitions for:
verspen….. agies….. amoli….. gloggist….. boopy….. culne….. peedio….. devokers….. plopread….. fulneu….. hewsent….. oraver….. elebod….. lessessi….. sylshimi….. eleaun….. entsmana….. cowsesse….. untous….. amideamp….. mytor….. nomaersl….. patoxe….. donsphe….. recophoa….. phedlge….. wanin….. phythe….. hanki….. fitypep….. hohotagg…..
Oh, and to be perfectly fair, I should confess that, recently, I did have to verify a word that was really a word. And here’s the best part. The word was: mistype.
I cannot begin to tell you how tempted I was…
Monday, May 23, 2011
Monday Reruns: Reconsidering the Names of Things
(original post-date: May 19, 2010)
When I conduct funder research for my nonprofit clients, I use a software that amuses me with its typos. Regarding those typos, I don’t necessarily fault the folks behind the software. It is their job, after all, to enter absolutely every grant over $4,000 for which they have a foundation profile (and they have thousands of profiles). That kind of work has got to make a person a bit cross-eyed.
So: when I see that a grant went to the “Skrewball Cultural Center,” I don’t conclude that the data entry specialist was trying to make a joke. Rather, she or he is probably super tired. (I also know, because the grantee is here in L.A., that the listing should say Skirball Cultural Center.)
Likewise, when I see that the purpose of a grant was for developing “literracy cumfculum,” I don’t immediately assume that the person entering that information is illiterate (or even illiterrate.)
The other day, I conducted a new search on the software in question, and when I perused the results, I smiled for a reason having nothing to do with typos. This time, I smiled because the name of a grantee leapt out at me. The grantee is called the OMG Center for Collaborative Learning.
I’m sure I could do some googling and learn what the OMG stands for, but… we all know what it stands for, right? OMG! The Oh My God Center for Collaborative Learning got a grant!
I’m also sure I could do some googling and discover whether the OMG Center has undergone a name change in the past couple of years. (The grant listed in the search was issued in 2001.) God knows, if it were my nonprofit organization, I’d come up with something a little less meaningful to cyber-communicators.
On the other hand, this discovery gave me an idea. Why not create some nonprofit organizations with names that are not only appropriate to the nonprofits’ missions but also are significant to texters and others? I have a few suggestions:
* The IMO Center for First Amendment Freedoms
* The FWIW Interjection Partnership (and its pet project, the BTW Summer Institute)
* The BFF Pen Pal Project (okay, that one is totally ironic)
* The LOL Program on the Study of Humor
* The B/C Corporation for Research in Reasoning
* The NNTO Brevity Collaborative
and, drum roll, please…
* The WTF Coalition on Environmental Issues in the Gulf Coast
So, that’s what I got, people. Your suggestions are welcome.
TTFN!
P.S. It’s highly unlikely that you know less than I do about text-speak, but if you’re stumped by the list above, here’s the legend:
IMO = In My Opinion
FWIW = For What It’s Worth
BTW = By The Way
BFF = Best Friends Forever
LOL = Laugh Out Loud
B/C = Because
NNTO = No Need To Open (used on the subject line of emails when the subject line says it all)
WTF = What The F&%k (most often followed by an exclamation point or question mark)
TTFN = Ta Ta For Now
When I conduct funder research for my nonprofit clients, I use a software that amuses me with its typos. Regarding those typos, I don’t necessarily fault the folks behind the software. It is their job, after all, to enter absolutely every grant over $4,000 for which they have a foundation profile (and they have thousands of profiles). That kind of work has got to make a person a bit cross-eyed.
So: when I see that a grant went to the “Skrewball Cultural Center,” I don’t conclude that the data entry specialist was trying to make a joke. Rather, she or he is probably super tired. (I also know, because the grantee is here in L.A., that the listing should say Skirball Cultural Center.)
Likewise, when I see that the purpose of a grant was for developing “literracy cumfculum,” I don’t immediately assume that the person entering that information is illiterate (or even illiterrate.)
The other day, I conducted a new search on the software in question, and when I perused the results, I smiled for a reason having nothing to do with typos. This time, I smiled because the name of a grantee leapt out at me. The grantee is called the OMG Center for Collaborative Learning.
I’m sure I could do some googling and learn what the OMG stands for, but… we all know what it stands for, right? OMG! The Oh My God Center for Collaborative Learning got a grant!
I’m also sure I could do some googling and discover whether the OMG Center has undergone a name change in the past couple of years. (The grant listed in the search was issued in 2001.) God knows, if it were my nonprofit organization, I’d come up with something a little less meaningful to cyber-communicators.
On the other hand, this discovery gave me an idea. Why not create some nonprofit organizations with names that are not only appropriate to the nonprofits’ missions but also are significant to texters and others? I have a few suggestions:
* The IMO Center for First Amendment Freedoms
* The FWIW Interjection Partnership (and its pet project, the BTW Summer Institute)
* The BFF Pen Pal Project (okay, that one is totally ironic)
* The LOL Program on the Study of Humor
* The B/C Corporation for Research in Reasoning
* The NNTO Brevity Collaborative
and, drum roll, please…
* The WTF Coalition on Environmental Issues in the Gulf Coast
So, that’s what I got, people. Your suggestions are welcome.
TTFN!
P.S. It’s highly unlikely that you know less than I do about text-speak, but if you’re stumped by the list above, here’s the legend:
IMO = In My Opinion
FWIW = For What It’s Worth
BTW = By The Way
BFF = Best Friends Forever
LOL = Laugh Out Loud
B/C = Because
NNTO = No Need To Open (used on the subject line of emails when the subject line says it all)
WTF = What The F&%k (most often followed by an exclamation point or question mark)
TTFN = Ta Ta For Now
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Can You Hear Me Now?
My former neighbor Debbi – of the younger-than-40 neighbor set – teased me once.
“That should be your mantra,” she said.
I knew she was referring to the three words I had just uttered during our telephone conversation. But I hadn’t realized, until she mentioned it, that Say that again? was something I said so frequently that it qualified as a mantra.
“I say that a lot?” I asked.
“All the time.”
When our telephone conversation was over, I thought about what Deb had said. I thought about my apparent overuse of Say that again?, and then I thought about the mechanics of the telephone conversation we had just had. Deb was on her cell phone; I was on my land line. My needing to ask her to repeat what she had just said was a reflection of the technology, not of my hearing nor of my attention span.
When she had suggested my mantra, I asked Deb if other people didn’t do the same thing. (I.e., if other people didn’t occasionally make the request: say that again?) But Debbi was assured in her response. Among all the people with whom she spoke on the telephone, I was the only one who asked that statements be repeated.
As I continued to think about Deb’s and my telephone conversation, I became sadder.
But I wasn’t sad for me.
Rather, I felt sad for the under-40s, whose telephone conversations – cell phone to cell phone – are so regularly interrupted that they don’t even acknowledge it when they’ve missed something.
They don’t even think to inject, Say that again?
I’m guessing, too, that the people who don’t acknowledge missed dialogue are multi-tasking in the moment.
They could be driving or shopping.
Maybe they’re at a restaurant, having dinner with a friend.
Perhaps they are updating their Facebook page or glancing at the television.
They could be watching one of the 24/7 news networks.
They could be watching both the story and the crawl.
The story and the crawl…
In my opinion, we need to lose the crawl.
We need to get back to the story.
“That should be your mantra,” she said.
I knew she was referring to the three words I had just uttered during our telephone conversation. But I hadn’t realized, until she mentioned it, that Say that again? was something I said so frequently that it qualified as a mantra.
“I say that a lot?” I asked.
“All the time.”
When our telephone conversation was over, I thought about what Deb had said. I thought about my apparent overuse of Say that again?, and then I thought about the mechanics of the telephone conversation we had just had. Deb was on her cell phone; I was on my land line. My needing to ask her to repeat what she had just said was a reflection of the technology, not of my hearing nor of my attention span.
When she had suggested my mantra, I asked Deb if other people didn’t do the same thing. (I.e., if other people didn’t occasionally make the request: say that again?) But Debbi was assured in her response. Among all the people with whom she spoke on the telephone, I was the only one who asked that statements be repeated.
As I continued to think about Deb’s and my telephone conversation, I became sadder.
But I wasn’t sad for me.
Rather, I felt sad for the under-40s, whose telephone conversations – cell phone to cell phone – are so regularly interrupted that they don’t even acknowledge it when they’ve missed something.
They don’t even think to inject, Say that again?
I’m guessing, too, that the people who don’t acknowledge missed dialogue are multi-tasking in the moment.
They could be driving or shopping.
Maybe they’re at a restaurant, having dinner with a friend.
Perhaps they are updating their Facebook page or glancing at the television.
They could be watching one of the 24/7 news networks.
They could be watching both the story and the crawl.
The story and the crawl…
In my opinion, we need to lose the crawl.
We need to get back to the story.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
An Open Letter to Some People Who Attended the UCLA-Live Event This Past Saturday
Greetings from another member of the audience:
Before I address you individually, I should probably provide a little background regarding my experiences with live theatre…
Throughout my childhood, my parents were actively involved in two community theatre groups. One group staged three plays during the school year, while the other – an open-air venue – had a summer season comprising five plays. When my parents first became involved, they signed on to do props for one of the summer productions. Within a few years, though, they both had moved on to the stage, where they would, over the years, fine-tune their acting skills with style and grace.
When my sister and I were old enough to participate, we, too, volunteered for assignments, and while Martha would certainly accept production work, she really enjoyed acting more. (And, like my parents, she was quite good.) I, on the other hand, never got bit by the bug, and so – with the exception of a few very small roles that I performed quite poorly – I preferred to make my contributions as part of the backstage crew.
More often than not, though, I was in the audience, and I learned, at a young age, that the audience of a live performance should be respectful of the time, energy, passions, and talent that have gone into the mounting of a theatre production. Which is to say, the audience should give its full attention to the stage.
When I lived in New York, I continued to enjoy attending theatrical events. Broadway was affordable then, and with the option of placing the word “off-” in front of that concept, and then repeating it – as many times as you please – there was never a shortage of productions taking place in smaller venues throughout the City. I probably saw more than 50 plays and musicals during my 15 years in New York.
My theatre attendance in Los Angeles has been a bit more spotty. While I have seen several remarkable shows at some of the area’s larger venues, my having to be a bit more careful with money in recent years has put a dent in my theatre-going. Part of the problem is that I have “open space issues.” In most theatres, the balcony area (that is, where the cheap seats are) is way too high for me, and the grade is much too steep. I simply cannot enjoy what’s happening on the stage when I fear I will topple over my fellow patrons as I make my way, headfirst (and quite fatally), into the orchestra section.
(I realize, by the way, that there are terms for these “issues:” acrophobia, in regard to the fear of heights; and agoraphobia, in regard to the fear of open spaces. But I prefer simply to call the combination a profound and deep respect for the concept of gravity.)
Anyway, because of the economy, I’ve curtailed my theatre-going in recent years, and I even had to think about it for a minute, last week, when my friend Maria asked if I were interested in attending the Wallace Shawn performance at UCLA’s Royce Hall. But I’ve admired the writer/actor ever since I saw My Dinner With Andre back in the 80s, and the $45 ticket price didn’t seem like such a huge amount after three busy weeks of billable hours.
Which brings me to you people: you five or six people who also had forked over some money for tickets; you five or six people who were sitting nearby…
Some words first to the couple three rows ahead. I am very happy that you found each other. Your common need to fondle the hair and ear of your partner will probably make for a long relationship. But, seriously, get a room. Even with the house lights down, it was impossible not to be distracted by your public displays of obsession, and you need to cop to the fact that, because neither of you is petite (especially not you, sir), you will never be able to enjoy this shared fetish in a manner that is discreet.
Now to the two young ladies sitting behind my friend and me. Yes; you two. I appreciate that you probably got a student discount to attend the event, but that doesn’t mean you are entitled to chatter away while the performer is on stage. I am glad that when I turned around and glared at you, you stopped talking. I also was pleased when the man across the aisle silently got up from his seat, approached you both, and let you know – in a stage whisper – that the light emanating from your blackberry was bothering him and others. But don’t think for a moment that I didn’t notice your continued attempts to sneak back into that little machine and do whatever technological task apparently could not wait. I noticed it, and it bothered me.
As to the dude sitting in the row in front of us... Yes; you -- with the bright and distracting handheld device. My friend shared with me later that you were playing a video game on your little machine. Really? So, what happened? Did you win? And, why, by the way – if you were wanting to play computer games – did you choose to do so in a theatre?
As for the folks down the row, my peripheral vision also caught your illuminated screens. Was there an emergency? Was that the deal? Or maybe your text simply stated: yeah, I’m at the theatre.
To the five or six of you and whoever else was multitasking in Royce Hall, shame on you. Not behaving properly at a public event is equivalent to having a lack of social skills. And, in my opinion, you people are lacking in social skills.
Shame on you.
…Of course, before Shawn took the stage, the usual announcement was made. You know the one – it’s the same as is made in movie theatres: please turn off cell phones, pagers, and any illuminated handheld devices, [etc.] What’s interesting is that, while this request was being abused all over Royce Hall on Saturday night, I have rarely seen it abused in movie theatres.
Maybe people just need to see what they see on screens. And if that’s true, then what that means, I guess, is that a movie can replace those handheld devices, but a live human cannot.
Hmm, are we really so screen-addicted?
I realize, of course, that I am looking at one now.
And so are you.
But I also am not pretending to do, hear, or see something else simultaneously. And I hope the same goes for you.
…After his performance, which included readings (from his own work and others) around the theme of Real World, Fake World, Dream World, Wallace Shawn entertained some questions from the audience. A few of those questions provided him with an opportunity to elaborate on what a mess our world has become and how we should, in fact, be worried.
I appreciate his perspective.
And if he was aware – during his 90 minutes on stage – of the multi-tasking that was occurring in the audience, I also appreciate his ability not to give it any power. I could not have done that. Had it been me behind the lectern, I would have stopped in my tracks, shut my mouth, and refused to continue talking until the collective rudeness had virtually left the room.
Good thing, I guess, that I’ve always preferred the backstage assignments.
Before I address you individually, I should probably provide a little background regarding my experiences with live theatre…
Throughout my childhood, my parents were actively involved in two community theatre groups. One group staged three plays during the school year, while the other – an open-air venue – had a summer season comprising five plays. When my parents first became involved, they signed on to do props for one of the summer productions. Within a few years, though, they both had moved on to the stage, where they would, over the years, fine-tune their acting skills with style and grace.
When my sister and I were old enough to participate, we, too, volunteered for assignments, and while Martha would certainly accept production work, she really enjoyed acting more. (And, like my parents, she was quite good.) I, on the other hand, never got bit by the bug, and so – with the exception of a few very small roles that I performed quite poorly – I preferred to make my contributions as part of the backstage crew.
More often than not, though, I was in the audience, and I learned, at a young age, that the audience of a live performance should be respectful of the time, energy, passions, and talent that have gone into the mounting of a theatre production. Which is to say, the audience should give its full attention to the stage.
When I lived in New York, I continued to enjoy attending theatrical events. Broadway was affordable then, and with the option of placing the word “off-” in front of that concept, and then repeating it – as many times as you please – there was never a shortage of productions taking place in smaller venues throughout the City. I probably saw more than 50 plays and musicals during my 15 years in New York.
My theatre attendance in Los Angeles has been a bit more spotty. While I have seen several remarkable shows at some of the area’s larger venues, my having to be a bit more careful with money in recent years has put a dent in my theatre-going. Part of the problem is that I have “open space issues.” In most theatres, the balcony area (that is, where the cheap seats are) is way too high for me, and the grade is much too steep. I simply cannot enjoy what’s happening on the stage when I fear I will topple over my fellow patrons as I make my way, headfirst (and quite fatally), into the orchestra section.
(I realize, by the way, that there are terms for these “issues:” acrophobia, in regard to the fear of heights; and agoraphobia, in regard to the fear of open spaces. But I prefer simply to call the combination a profound and deep respect for the concept of gravity.)
Anyway, because of the economy, I’ve curtailed my theatre-going in recent years, and I even had to think about it for a minute, last week, when my friend Maria asked if I were interested in attending the Wallace Shawn performance at UCLA’s Royce Hall. But I’ve admired the writer/actor ever since I saw My Dinner With Andre back in the 80s, and the $45 ticket price didn’t seem like such a huge amount after three busy weeks of billable hours.
Which brings me to you people: you five or six people who also had forked over some money for tickets; you five or six people who were sitting nearby…
Some words first to the couple three rows ahead. I am very happy that you found each other. Your common need to fondle the hair and ear of your partner will probably make for a long relationship. But, seriously, get a room. Even with the house lights down, it was impossible not to be distracted by your public displays of obsession, and you need to cop to the fact that, because neither of you is petite (especially not you, sir), you will never be able to enjoy this shared fetish in a manner that is discreet.
Now to the two young ladies sitting behind my friend and me. Yes; you two. I appreciate that you probably got a student discount to attend the event, but that doesn’t mean you are entitled to chatter away while the performer is on stage. I am glad that when I turned around and glared at you, you stopped talking. I also was pleased when the man across the aisle silently got up from his seat, approached you both, and let you know – in a stage whisper – that the light emanating from your blackberry was bothering him and others. But don’t think for a moment that I didn’t notice your continued attempts to sneak back into that little machine and do whatever technological task apparently could not wait. I noticed it, and it bothered me.
As to the dude sitting in the row in front of us... Yes; you -- with the bright and distracting handheld device. My friend shared with me later that you were playing a video game on your little machine. Really? So, what happened? Did you win? And, why, by the way – if you were wanting to play computer games – did you choose to do so in a theatre?
As for the folks down the row, my peripheral vision also caught your illuminated screens. Was there an emergency? Was that the deal? Or maybe your text simply stated: yeah, I’m at the theatre.
To the five or six of you and whoever else was multitasking in Royce Hall, shame on you. Not behaving properly at a public event is equivalent to having a lack of social skills. And, in my opinion, you people are lacking in social skills.
Shame on you.
…Of course, before Shawn took the stage, the usual announcement was made. You know the one – it’s the same as is made in movie theatres: please turn off cell phones, pagers, and any illuminated handheld devices, [etc.] What’s interesting is that, while this request was being abused all over Royce Hall on Saturday night, I have rarely seen it abused in movie theatres.
Maybe people just need to see what they see on screens. And if that’s true, then what that means, I guess, is that a movie can replace those handheld devices, but a live human cannot.
Hmm, are we really so screen-addicted?
I realize, of course, that I am looking at one now.
And so are you.
But I also am not pretending to do, hear, or see something else simultaneously. And I hope the same goes for you.
…After his performance, which included readings (from his own work and others) around the theme of Real World, Fake World, Dream World, Wallace Shawn entertained some questions from the audience. A few of those questions provided him with an opportunity to elaborate on what a mess our world has become and how we should, in fact, be worried.
I appreciate his perspective.
And if he was aware – during his 90 minutes on stage – of the multi-tasking that was occurring in the audience, I also appreciate his ability not to give it any power. I could not have done that. Had it been me behind the lectern, I would have stopped in my tracks, shut my mouth, and refused to continue talking until the collective rudeness had virtually left the room.
Good thing, I guess, that I’ve always preferred the backstage assignments.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Monday Reruns: The Subtext of Texting
(original post-date: December 16, 2009)
I’ve said I’m not gonna do it, and I really hope I stick with that plan.
Of course, I said I’d never buy a cell phone. I said it for years. Now, I have one. (I still prefer my landline, though. I like the way the phone feels. And I’m not fooled for a second by the concept of “free minutes.” If they were free, I wouldn’t get a $40-plus bill every month, right?)
I also resisted the blogging thing. Yet – here I am, doing what I know I have to do as a writer. …Looking for an audience. …Hoping that some agent will drop by and want to know more.
Texting, though? Not sure I’ll get into that… I like my thumbs too much. After all, isn’t it our thumbs – and what we can do with them – that set us apart and put us further up the evolutionary chain? It worries me that the generations younger than I might work their thumbs so hard that they fall off…
When I was in Virginia recently, I caught the local eleven o’clock news one night. They showed footage of a community parade and a particular school’s banner within that parade. If you close your eyes and imagine that picture, you might envision the scene: Ten students have been selected to represent their school. As a team, they proudly carry the banner, contributing equally to its even, horizontal display – holding it, in unison, somewhere between their chests and their ankles.
Not so in the footage I saw. In the footage I saw, only the kids at either end had hands on the banner. The group in between were all texting. No faces could be seen. Just the tops of heads. Looking down.
As tempted as I am to curse technology, I can’t do that. In many ways, I am extremely grateful for it. As a person who earns money by helping nonprofit organizations find funders, I am so happy to have advanced from the days of large foundation directories. When I think of the hours I used to spend sifting through those tomes – the pages as thin as onion skin, the typeface easily a six-point font... Now, when I need to find a funder’s guidelines, I just go to their website. And when I need to learn about funders I might not otherwise know, I can use software. The Internet is my friend in these moments.
Likewise, as a writer researching agents’ interests, perusing their websites is so much more helpful than reading the profile in a published directory. The websites are current, colorful, and complete. The information is firsthand.
As for querying those agents, I am grateful that I can use email. Back in the old days, I would have sent slews of queries out by “snail mail,” and for each I sent, I would have enclosed a self-addressed stamped envelope. That’s a lot of paper, a lot of postage, and in the end… a bit of money.
So, yes, technology has its merits. No doubt about it. But… every time some new trend emerges, I ask myself the same question: why can’t we evolve as remarkably as the machines we create?
As I go about my day and see so many people texting, I fear for all the thumbs that might soon fall off. And I wonder: with so many heads cast down… will anybody notice?
I’ve said I’m not gonna do it, and I really hope I stick with that plan.
Of course, I said I’d never buy a cell phone. I said it for years. Now, I have one. (I still prefer my landline, though. I like the way the phone feels. And I’m not fooled for a second by the concept of “free minutes.” If they were free, I wouldn’t get a $40-plus bill every month, right?)
I also resisted the blogging thing. Yet – here I am, doing what I know I have to do as a writer. …Looking for an audience. …Hoping that some agent will drop by and want to know more.
Texting, though? Not sure I’ll get into that… I like my thumbs too much. After all, isn’t it our thumbs – and what we can do with them – that set us apart and put us further up the evolutionary chain? It worries me that the generations younger than I might work their thumbs so hard that they fall off…
When I was in Virginia recently, I caught the local eleven o’clock news one night. They showed footage of a community parade and a particular school’s banner within that parade. If you close your eyes and imagine that picture, you might envision the scene: Ten students have been selected to represent their school. As a team, they proudly carry the banner, contributing equally to its even, horizontal display – holding it, in unison, somewhere between their chests and their ankles.
Not so in the footage I saw. In the footage I saw, only the kids at either end had hands on the banner. The group in between were all texting. No faces could be seen. Just the tops of heads. Looking down.
As tempted as I am to curse technology, I can’t do that. In many ways, I am extremely grateful for it. As a person who earns money by helping nonprofit organizations find funders, I am so happy to have advanced from the days of large foundation directories. When I think of the hours I used to spend sifting through those tomes – the pages as thin as onion skin, the typeface easily a six-point font... Now, when I need to find a funder’s guidelines, I just go to their website. And when I need to learn about funders I might not otherwise know, I can use software. The Internet is my friend in these moments.
Likewise, as a writer researching agents’ interests, perusing their websites is so much more helpful than reading the profile in a published directory. The websites are current, colorful, and complete. The information is firsthand.
As for querying those agents, I am grateful that I can use email. Back in the old days, I would have sent slews of queries out by “snail mail,” and for each I sent, I would have enclosed a self-addressed stamped envelope. That’s a lot of paper, a lot of postage, and in the end… a bit of money.
So, yes, technology has its merits. No doubt about it. But… every time some new trend emerges, I ask myself the same question: why can’t we evolve as remarkably as the machines we create?
As I go about my day and see so many people texting, I fear for all the thumbs that might soon fall off. And I wonder: with so many heads cast down… will anybody notice?
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
WORK, Dammit!
Several months ago, through the disputable wonder that is Facebook, I reconnected with an old friend. And the timing was fortuitous. As it happened, she was only weeks away from traveling to the L.A. area to see her Dad. So, we made plans to get together.
On the day of our scheduled reunion, I found myself cleaning my apartment in anticipation of catching up with someone I hadn’t seen in 30 years. While reloading the Swiffer Duster, I thought about priming the CD player for a song that was part of our adolescent experience back in the mid-70s. But then I got sidetracked by the vacuum cleaner…
Later, after her arrival – which found us jumping up and down outside my apartment building as we squealed and hugged and squealed some more – we were settled on my living room couch in rapid-fire catch-up mode. On the one hand, it seemed as if we had been talking together only yesterday. On the other hand, we each had three decades worth of personal history to share.
At a certain point, I remembered the idea of providing a soundtrack from our youth.
“Hold on!” I said, interrupting our conversation. “I gotta find a CD.”
I then ran to my bedroom to retrieve the disc, and I quickly returned to set it up in the living room player.
My sound system, though, would not be cooperative. Sure, it would make busy moves, and it would click to convey that busy-ness, but no song was delivered as a result of its efforts.
I tried a few maneuvers that, in the past, had helped to kick the CD player into submission.
And then… I simply took a few steps back, looked at the machine intently, and yelled, “WORK, Dammit!”
Immediately, we heard the tender opening notes of Harry Chapin’s Taxi.
“I’ve got it on voice command,” I told my friend, smiling smartly.
If only.
(Voice command, my ass.)
The fact of the matter is this: I have a love/hate relationship with anything that involves a cord.
The love comes from what I get from the technology: music; netflix; the opportunity to share my writing in cyberspace; quick communication with my clients; and so on. The hate comes from the possibility that, at any moment, something could go wrong with that technology, and I feel completely powerless in those moments of malfunction.
More than two weeks ago, I bought an external hard drive, and then… I let it sit on the table for 10 days. I dreaded opening the box and going through the procedure of setting it up. Why? Because I might confront a problem.
(I’m still hoping to meet and fall in love with an IT Guy, but until that happens, I’m screwed.)
Finally, the other night, I got bold and took on the project of setting up the external hard drive. And as I was going through the install procedure (and, for the most part, it wasn’t difficult), I had an AHA! moment regarding technology and me. It is this: I don’t CARE how it works! Technology is simply not something I want to LEARN.
And that is very much the problem.
I am absolutely learning-oriented, and technology flies directly into the face of my modus operandi.
If I don’t care, then I’m not interested.
And if there is not a learning opportunity (that I care about – from my gut), then I’m definitely not going to stick around for all the hairy details.
Period.
End of discussion.
I don’t care what’s making the damn computer and all its software work. I don’t care if it’s a microchip or a fucking hamster on a treadmill. I don’t know megas from gigas, and I don’t even want to hear about them. You can just take that chatter to another Gates.
And speaking of names… the other night, after I plugged in the external hard drive and had moved on to the screen that allowed me to backup (but not to the 60s, unfortunately), the window indicated that the computer from which the hard drive was retrieving files was KATIENEW.
Seeing that title really jarred me for a minute. I swear, I have no idea where it got my name. (I know I didn’t introduce myself!)
But… maybe I shouldn’t complain.
It could have said KATIEOLD.
... I recently was sent an hysterical YouTube video that speaks to my frame of mind. It's about a Medieval Helpdesk, and the subtitles are therefore in English.
I just tried to load the YouTube here, and I am growing increasingly impatient. So, here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pQHX-SjgQvQ&feature=channel
... I'm over it. I'm just.. over it!
On the day of our scheduled reunion, I found myself cleaning my apartment in anticipation of catching up with someone I hadn’t seen in 30 years. While reloading the Swiffer Duster, I thought about priming the CD player for a song that was part of our adolescent experience back in the mid-70s. But then I got sidetracked by the vacuum cleaner…
Later, after her arrival – which found us jumping up and down outside my apartment building as we squealed and hugged and squealed some more – we were settled on my living room couch in rapid-fire catch-up mode. On the one hand, it seemed as if we had been talking together only yesterday. On the other hand, we each had three decades worth of personal history to share.
At a certain point, I remembered the idea of providing a soundtrack from our youth.
“Hold on!” I said, interrupting our conversation. “I gotta find a CD.”
I then ran to my bedroom to retrieve the disc, and I quickly returned to set it up in the living room player.
My sound system, though, would not be cooperative. Sure, it would make busy moves, and it would click to convey that busy-ness, but no song was delivered as a result of its efforts.
I tried a few maneuvers that, in the past, had helped to kick the CD player into submission.
And then… I simply took a few steps back, looked at the machine intently, and yelled, “WORK, Dammit!”
Immediately, we heard the tender opening notes of Harry Chapin’s Taxi.
“I’ve got it on voice command,” I told my friend, smiling smartly.
If only.
(Voice command, my ass.)
The fact of the matter is this: I have a love/hate relationship with anything that involves a cord.
The love comes from what I get from the technology: music; netflix; the opportunity to share my writing in cyberspace; quick communication with my clients; and so on. The hate comes from the possibility that, at any moment, something could go wrong with that technology, and I feel completely powerless in those moments of malfunction.
More than two weeks ago, I bought an external hard drive, and then… I let it sit on the table for 10 days. I dreaded opening the box and going through the procedure of setting it up. Why? Because I might confront a problem.
(I’m still hoping to meet and fall in love with an IT Guy, but until that happens, I’m screwed.)
Finally, the other night, I got bold and took on the project of setting up the external hard drive. And as I was going through the install procedure (and, for the most part, it wasn’t difficult), I had an AHA! moment regarding technology and me. It is this: I don’t CARE how it works! Technology is simply not something I want to LEARN.
And that is very much the problem.
I am absolutely learning-oriented, and technology flies directly into the face of my modus operandi.
If I don’t care, then I’m not interested.
And if there is not a learning opportunity (that I care about – from my gut), then I’m definitely not going to stick around for all the hairy details.
Period.
End of discussion.
I don’t care what’s making the damn computer and all its software work. I don’t care if it’s a microchip or a fucking hamster on a treadmill. I don’t know megas from gigas, and I don’t even want to hear about them. You can just take that chatter to another Gates.
And speaking of names… the other night, after I plugged in the external hard drive and had moved on to the screen that allowed me to backup (but not to the 60s, unfortunately), the window indicated that the computer from which the hard drive was retrieving files was KATIENEW.
Seeing that title really jarred me for a minute. I swear, I have no idea where it got my name. (I know I didn’t introduce myself!)
But… maybe I shouldn’t complain.
It could have said KATIEOLD.
... I recently was sent an hysterical YouTube video that speaks to my frame of mind. It's about a Medieval Helpdesk, and the subtitles are therefore in English.
I just tried to load the YouTube here, and I am growing increasingly impatient. So, here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pQHX-SjgQvQ&feature=channel
... I'm over it. I'm just.. over it!
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Tweetle-Dee-Dee
Last week, I was heading to my usual Thursday afternoon gig.
And I was taking my usual route: Hollywood Boulevard to Fairfax, at which point I’d head south and over to Sunset.
Within two miles from home, the traffic on the Boulevard slowed. Not an unexpected dynamic. After all, that’s where Grauman’s Chinese Theatre is. That’s where, on any given day, there are scads of day-players dressed as movie figures, cartoon characters, and assorted icons. They mill about and make an occasional buck by posing with tourists. Click, click. Another five dollars. (Or whatever they charge.)
But, on this particular day, the crowd was larger than usual, and the traffic was especially slow. As I inched ahead, I noticed a lot of cameras held up in the air. The tourists weren’t shooting their family members in one posed shot. They were shooting a moment.
Soon enough, I discovered what the moment was: Batman and Spiderman, in conference with two cops. Batman and Spiderman, both in handcuffs.
WHAT HAS THE WORLD COME TO?
And here’s the part that really blew me away. The first thing I thought was this: I’ve never wanted to tweet so badly.
Oh my God, am I really “going there?”
What might I have said, in 140 characters or less?
***Superpowers headed to jail! News at eleven.
***Be particularly vigilant, people. The protectors have been taken IN!
***Sorry, tourists. Your Grauman’s photo options have been depleted. Until further notice, it’s Marilyn or Homer Simpson.
… Maybe that’s why I’ve never been inclined to “tweet.” I fail to see a dynamic entry in the mix, and I am not even interested in continuing this exercise.
I don’t know; maybe, too, I’m just not a fan of little newsbytes. Maybe I’m also not convinced that the collective “we” should be encouraged to provide them and/or spend our time tracking them.
… A few days before the heroes’ arrest at Grauman’s, I watched a rerun of the Letterman show. Miley Cyrus was the guest, and boy, was she charming. That girl is smart and awesomely mature. I was surprisingly impressed, and I sensed that Dave was, too. At one point, he asked her if she twittered, adding that people have been telling him he needed to.
Miley disagreed. After stating that she hates twitter, she added, “You already have a show, so you don’t need a twitter.”
She also shared that she had tried it for a moment, but she felt stupid. One tweet: “I lost my lucky bracelet.” Subsequent tweet: “Woo-hoo. I found my lucky bracelet.”
Really? Do we need to know?
Miley doesn’t think so, and neither do I.
But here’s the more important question:
Do we care?
If we do, well… I pity us.
It’s sad enough that Batman and Spiderman are getting hauled off to the County Jail. Can we at least stop wasting our time with these quasi-updates?
Feel free to leave your comments, and please, don’t limit yourself to 140 characters.
And I was taking my usual route: Hollywood Boulevard to Fairfax, at which point I’d head south and over to Sunset.
Within two miles from home, the traffic on the Boulevard slowed. Not an unexpected dynamic. After all, that’s where Grauman’s Chinese Theatre is. That’s where, on any given day, there are scads of day-players dressed as movie figures, cartoon characters, and assorted icons. They mill about and make an occasional buck by posing with tourists. Click, click. Another five dollars. (Or whatever they charge.)
But, on this particular day, the crowd was larger than usual, and the traffic was especially slow. As I inched ahead, I noticed a lot of cameras held up in the air. The tourists weren’t shooting their family members in one posed shot. They were shooting a moment.
Soon enough, I discovered what the moment was: Batman and Spiderman, in conference with two cops. Batman and Spiderman, both in handcuffs.
WHAT HAS THE WORLD COME TO?
And here’s the part that really blew me away. The first thing I thought was this: I’ve never wanted to tweet so badly.
Oh my God, am I really “going there?”
What might I have said, in 140 characters or less?
***Superpowers headed to jail! News at eleven.
***Be particularly vigilant, people. The protectors have been taken IN!
***Sorry, tourists. Your Grauman’s photo options have been depleted. Until further notice, it’s Marilyn or Homer Simpson.
… Maybe that’s why I’ve never been inclined to “tweet.” I fail to see a dynamic entry in the mix, and I am not even interested in continuing this exercise.
I don’t know; maybe, too, I’m just not a fan of little newsbytes. Maybe I’m also not convinced that the collective “we” should be encouraged to provide them and/or spend our time tracking them.
… A few days before the heroes’ arrest at Grauman’s, I watched a rerun of the Letterman show. Miley Cyrus was the guest, and boy, was she charming. That girl is smart and awesomely mature. I was surprisingly impressed, and I sensed that Dave was, too. At one point, he asked her if she twittered, adding that people have been telling him he needed to.
Miley disagreed. After stating that she hates twitter, she added, “You already have a show, so you don’t need a twitter.”
She also shared that she had tried it for a moment, but she felt stupid. One tweet: “I lost my lucky bracelet.” Subsequent tweet: “Woo-hoo. I found my lucky bracelet.”
Really? Do we need to know?
Miley doesn’t think so, and neither do I.
But here’s the more important question:
Do we care?
If we do, well… I pity us.
It’s sad enough that Batman and Spiderman are getting hauled off to the County Jail. Can we at least stop wasting our time with these quasi-updates?
Feel free to leave your comments, and please, don’t limit yourself to 140 characters.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
And That Would Mean…?
Old-fashioned gal that I am, I still keep a thick, tangible, small-fonted, page-infested dictionary within reach of my workstation. (Okay, maybe I’m not so old-fashioned. I didn’t call where I sit a “desk,” right?) I like going into the tome to double-check the meaning of a relatively abstruse word. Other times, I enjoy looking up a word I’ve taken for granted for most of my literate years.
Today, because of an issue I’d like to explore in this post, I looked up the word “word.”
According to my copy of the New Webster’s Dictionary and Thesaurus of the English Language, the primary definition of “word” is this: “a speech sound or combination of sounds having meaning and used as a basic unit of language and human communication” [then there are two vertical parallel lines followed by] “the written or printed symbol of one of these basic units of language.”
Nothing new there, right?
Okay, so against that definition, here’s a list that may be of interest.
hornu
poolume
malitza
reddedi
undeverr
irlati
roudom
pedine
opsion
derminte
afretrim
See any words in there?
Neither do I.
And yet, those are some of the “words” I have had to “verify” lately when posting comments on blogs and making other online maneuvers that involve the use of my email address and various passwords.
Word Verification, they call it.
I don’t think so.
The administrators of cyberspace need to reconsider that phrase. If they want to keep “Word,” they should lose “Verification.” If they want to keep “Verification,” they need to come up with something other than “Word.” I mean, come on, who are we kidding here!
On the other hand, I’m always one to rise to a creative challenge, so I thought I’d come up with some definitions for these alleged “words.” Some possibilities:
hornu (n.): a prostitute-in-training
poolume (v.): (from the French; accent on the final e): to strut about as if one has the feathers of a peacock
malitza (adj.): simultaneously sick and adorable
reddedi (n.): a spiral-shaped pasta made from radishes (hence, the scarlet hue)
undeverr (n.): German lingerie
irlati (n.): short-temperedness resulting from the consumption of too much coffee
roudom (adj.): appearing to be random, but actually passive-aggressive
pedine (n.): the shine emanating from nail polish freshly applied to the toes
opsion (n.): a choice available only to the pretentious
derminte (n.): a skin condition generally caused by an overdose of Altoids
afretrim (n.): an over-the-counter weight-loss supplement whose common side effects include, but are not limited to, an inability to find one’s tweezers
I don’t know. Should we compose a new dictionary for modern times?
The list above is by no means exhaustive. Following are several more “words” I’ve had to verify lately. Please feel free to suggest some definitions for:
verspen….. agies….. amoli….. gloggist….. boopy….. culne….. peedio….. devokers….. plopread….. fulneu….. hewsent….. oraver….. elebod….. lessessi….. sylshimi….. eleaun….. entsmana….. cowsesse….. untous….. amideamp….. mytor….. nomaersl….. patoxe….. donsphe….. recophoa….. phedlge….. wanin….. phythe….. hanki….. fitypep….. hohotagg…..
Oh, and to be perfectly fair, I should confess that, recently, I did have to verify a word that was really a word. And here’s the best part. The word was: mistype.
I cannot begin to tell you how tempted I was…
Today, because of an issue I’d like to explore in this post, I looked up the word “word.”
According to my copy of the New Webster’s Dictionary and Thesaurus of the English Language, the primary definition of “word” is this: “a speech sound or combination of sounds having meaning and used as a basic unit of language and human communication” [then there are two vertical parallel lines followed by] “the written or printed symbol of one of these basic units of language.”
Nothing new there, right?
Okay, so against that definition, here’s a list that may be of interest.
hornu
poolume
malitza
reddedi
undeverr
irlati
roudom
pedine
opsion
derminte
afretrim
See any words in there?
Neither do I.
And yet, those are some of the “words” I have had to “verify” lately when posting comments on blogs and making other online maneuvers that involve the use of my email address and various passwords.
Word Verification, they call it.
I don’t think so.
The administrators of cyberspace need to reconsider that phrase. If they want to keep “Word,” they should lose “Verification.” If they want to keep “Verification,” they need to come up with something other than “Word.” I mean, come on, who are we kidding here!
On the other hand, I’m always one to rise to a creative challenge, so I thought I’d come up with some definitions for these alleged “words.” Some possibilities:
hornu (n.): a prostitute-in-training
poolume (v.): (from the French; accent on the final e): to strut about as if one has the feathers of a peacock
malitza (adj.): simultaneously sick and adorable
reddedi (n.): a spiral-shaped pasta made from radishes (hence, the scarlet hue)
undeverr (n.): German lingerie
irlati (n.): short-temperedness resulting from the consumption of too much coffee
roudom (adj.): appearing to be random, but actually passive-aggressive
pedine (n.): the shine emanating from nail polish freshly applied to the toes
opsion (n.): a choice available only to the pretentious
derminte (n.): a skin condition generally caused by an overdose of Altoids
afretrim (n.): an over-the-counter weight-loss supplement whose common side effects include, but are not limited to, an inability to find one’s tweezers
I don’t know. Should we compose a new dictionary for modern times?
The list above is by no means exhaustive. Following are several more “words” I’ve had to verify lately. Please feel free to suggest some definitions for:
verspen….. agies….. amoli….. gloggist….. boopy….. culne….. peedio….. devokers….. plopread….. fulneu….. hewsent….. oraver….. elebod….. lessessi….. sylshimi….. eleaun….. entsmana….. cowsesse….. untous….. amideamp….. mytor….. nomaersl….. patoxe….. donsphe….. recophoa….. phedlge….. wanin….. phythe….. hanki….. fitypep….. hohotagg…..
Oh, and to be perfectly fair, I should confess that, recently, I did have to verify a word that was really a word. And here’s the best part. The word was: mistype.
I cannot begin to tell you how tempted I was…
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Reconsidering the Names of Things
When I conduct funder research for my nonprofit clients, I use a software that amuses me with its typos. Regarding those typos, I don’t necessarily fault the folks behind the software. It is their job, after all, to enter absolutely every grant over $4,000 for which they have a foundation profile (and they have thousands of profiles). That kind of work has got to make a person a bit cross-eyed.
So: when I see that a grant went to the “Skrewball Cultural Center,” I don’t conclude that the data entry specialist was trying to make a joke. Rather, she or he is probably super tired. (I also know, because the grantee is here in L.A., that the listing should say Skirball Cultural Center.)
Likewise, when I see that the purpose of a grant was for developing “literracy cumfculum,” I don’t immediately assume that the person entering that information is illiterate (or even illiterrate.)
The other day, I conducted a new search on the software in question, and when I perused the results, I smiled for a reason having nothing to do with typos. This time, I smiled because the name of a grantee leapt out at me. The grantee is called the OMG Center for Collaborative Learning.
I’m sure I could do some googling and learn what the OMG stands for, but… we all know what it stands for, right? OMG! The Oh My God Center for Collaborative Learning got a grant!
I’m also sure I could do some googling and discover whether the OMG Center has undergone a name change in the past couple of years. (The grant listed in the search was issued in 2001.) God knows, if it were my nonprofit organization, I’d come up with something a little less meaningful to cyber-communicators.
On the other hand, this discovery gave me an idea. Why not create some nonprofit organizations with names that are not only appropriate to the nonprofits’ missions but also are significant to texters and others? I have a few suggestions:
* The IMO Center for First Amendment Freedoms
* The FWIW Interjection Partnership (and its pet project, the BTW Summer Institute)
* The BFF Pen Pal Project (okay, that one is totally ironic)
* The LOL Program on the Study of Humor
* The B/C Corporation for Research in Reasoning
* The NNTO Brevity Collaborative
and, drum roll, please…
* The WTF Coalition on Environmental Issues in the Gulf Coast
So, that’s what I got, people. Your suggestions are welcome.
TTFN!
P.S. It’s highly unlikely that you know less than I do about text-speak, but if you’re stumped by the list above, here’s the legend:
IMO = In My Opinion
FWIW = For What It’s Worth
BTW = By The Way
BFF = Best Friends Forever
LOL = Laugh Out Loud
B/C = Because
NNTO = No Need To Open (used on the subject line of emails when the subject line says it all)
WTF = What The F&%k (most often followed by an exclamation point or question mark)
TTFN = Ta Ta For Now
So: when I see that a grant went to the “Skrewball Cultural Center,” I don’t conclude that the data entry specialist was trying to make a joke. Rather, she or he is probably super tired. (I also know, because the grantee is here in L.A., that the listing should say Skirball Cultural Center.)
Likewise, when I see that the purpose of a grant was for developing “literracy cumfculum,” I don’t immediately assume that the person entering that information is illiterate (or even illiterrate.)
The other day, I conducted a new search on the software in question, and when I perused the results, I smiled for a reason having nothing to do with typos. This time, I smiled because the name of a grantee leapt out at me. The grantee is called the OMG Center for Collaborative Learning.
I’m sure I could do some googling and learn what the OMG stands for, but… we all know what it stands for, right? OMG! The Oh My God Center for Collaborative Learning got a grant!
I’m also sure I could do some googling and discover whether the OMG Center has undergone a name change in the past couple of years. (The grant listed in the search was issued in 2001.) God knows, if it were my nonprofit organization, I’d come up with something a little less meaningful to cyber-communicators.
On the other hand, this discovery gave me an idea. Why not create some nonprofit organizations with names that are not only appropriate to the nonprofits’ missions but also are significant to texters and others? I have a few suggestions:
* The IMO Center for First Amendment Freedoms
* The FWIW Interjection Partnership (and its pet project, the BTW Summer Institute)
* The BFF Pen Pal Project (okay, that one is totally ironic)
* The LOL Program on the Study of Humor
* The B/C Corporation for Research in Reasoning
* The NNTO Brevity Collaborative
and, drum roll, please…
* The WTF Coalition on Environmental Issues in the Gulf Coast
So, that’s what I got, people. Your suggestions are welcome.
TTFN!
P.S. It’s highly unlikely that you know less than I do about text-speak, but if you’re stumped by the list above, here’s the legend:
IMO = In My Opinion
FWIW = For What It’s Worth
BTW = By The Way
BFF = Best Friends Forever
LOL = Laugh Out Loud
B/C = Because
NNTO = No Need To Open (used on the subject line of emails when the subject line says it all)
WTF = What The F&%k (most often followed by an exclamation point or question mark)
TTFN = Ta Ta For Now
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
The Subtext of Texting
I’ve said I’m not gonna do it, and I really hope I stick with that plan.
Of course, I said I’d never buy a cell phone. I said it for years. Now, I have one. (I still prefer my landline, though. I like the way the phone feels. And I’m not fooled for a second by the concept of “free minutes.” If they were free, I wouldn’t get a $40-plus bill every month, right?)
I also resisted the blogging thing. Yet – here I am, doing what I know I have to do as a writer. …Looking for an audience. …Hoping that some agent will drop by and want to know more.
Texting, though? Not sure I’ll get into that… I like my thumbs too much. After all, isn’t it our thumbs – and what we can do with them – that set us apart and put us further up the evolutionary chain? It worries me that the generations younger than I might work their thumbs so hard that they fall off…
When I was in Virginia recently, I caught the local eleven o’clock news one night. They showed footage of a community parade and a particular school’s banner within that parade. If you close your eyes and imagine that picture, you might envision the scene: Ten students have been selected to represent their school. As a team, they proudly carry the banner, contributing equally to its even, horizontal display – holding it, in unison, somewhere between their chests and their ankles.
Not so in the footage I saw. In the footage I saw, only the kids at either end had hands on the banner. The group in between were all texting. No faces could be seen. Just the tops of heads. Looking down.
As tempted as I am to curse technology, I can’t do that. In many ways, I am extremely grateful for it. As a person who earns money by helping nonprofit organizations find funders, I am so happy to have advanced from the days of large foundation directories. When I think of the hours I used to spend sifting through those tomes – the pages as thin as onion skin, the typeface easily a six-point font... Now, when I need to find a funder’s guidelines, I just go to their website. And when I need to learn about funders I might not otherwise know, I can use software. The Internet is my friend in these moments.
Likewise, as a writer researching agents’ interests, perusing their websites is so much more helpful than reading the profile in a published directory. The websites are current, colorful, and complete. The information is firsthand.
As for querying those agents, I am grateful that I can use email. Back in the old days, I would have sent slews of queries out by “snail mail,” and for each I sent, I would have enclosed a self-addressed stamped envelope. That’s a lot of paper, a lot of postage, and in the end… a bit of money.
So, yes, technology has its merits. No doubt about it. But… every time some new trend emerges, I ask myself the same question: why can’t we evolve as remarkably as the machines we create?
As I go about my day and see so many people texting, I fear for all the thumbs that might soon fall off. And I wonder: with so many heads cast down… will anybody notice?
Of course, I said I’d never buy a cell phone. I said it for years. Now, I have one. (I still prefer my landline, though. I like the way the phone feels. And I’m not fooled for a second by the concept of “free minutes.” If they were free, I wouldn’t get a $40-plus bill every month, right?)
I also resisted the blogging thing. Yet – here I am, doing what I know I have to do as a writer. …Looking for an audience. …Hoping that some agent will drop by and want to know more.
Texting, though? Not sure I’ll get into that… I like my thumbs too much. After all, isn’t it our thumbs – and what we can do with them – that set us apart and put us further up the evolutionary chain? It worries me that the generations younger than I might work their thumbs so hard that they fall off…
When I was in Virginia recently, I caught the local eleven o’clock news one night. They showed footage of a community parade and a particular school’s banner within that parade. If you close your eyes and imagine that picture, you might envision the scene: Ten students have been selected to represent their school. As a team, they proudly carry the banner, contributing equally to its even, horizontal display – holding it, in unison, somewhere between their chests and their ankles.
Not so in the footage I saw. In the footage I saw, only the kids at either end had hands on the banner. The group in between were all texting. No faces could be seen. Just the tops of heads. Looking down.
As tempted as I am to curse technology, I can’t do that. In many ways, I am extremely grateful for it. As a person who earns money by helping nonprofit organizations find funders, I am so happy to have advanced from the days of large foundation directories. When I think of the hours I used to spend sifting through those tomes – the pages as thin as onion skin, the typeface easily a six-point font... Now, when I need to find a funder’s guidelines, I just go to their website. And when I need to learn about funders I might not otherwise know, I can use software. The Internet is my friend in these moments.
Likewise, as a writer researching agents’ interests, perusing their websites is so much more helpful than reading the profile in a published directory. The websites are current, colorful, and complete. The information is firsthand.
As for querying those agents, I am grateful that I can use email. Back in the old days, I would have sent slews of queries out by “snail mail,” and for each I sent, I would have enclosed a self-addressed stamped envelope. That’s a lot of paper, a lot of postage, and in the end… a bit of money.
So, yes, technology has its merits. No doubt about it. But… every time some new trend emerges, I ask myself the same question: why can’t we evolve as remarkably as the machines we create?
As I go about my day and see so many people texting, I fear for all the thumbs that might soon fall off. And I wonder: with so many heads cast down… will anybody notice?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)