opening up

"I tried reading but I realized that the book I’m reading, In Other Rooms, Other Wonders, is not..."

Mon, 14 Dec 2009 15:14:00 +1000

“I tried reading but I realized that the book I’m reading, In Other Rooms, Other Wonders, is not actually about Pakistan, but about how men choose land over women over and over again. How could I be in the middle of this book the week the farmer dumps me? The world aligns itself in shockingly horrible ways.”

- http://blog.penelopetrunk.com/2009/12/11/how-to-bounce-back/

Grooming talking, Facebook, Twitter

Mon, 14 Dec 2009 14:05:34 +1000

claytoncubitt:

“In linguistics, a phatic expression is one whose only function is to perform a social task, as opposed to conveying information. The term was coined by anthropologist Bronislaw Malinowski in the early 1900s.

For example, “you’re welcome” is not intended to convey the message that the hearer is welcome; it is a phatic response to being thanked, which in turn is a phatic whose function is to be polite in response to a gift.”

•

“Speech patterns between women tend to be more collaborative than those of men, and tend to support each other’s involvement in the conversation. Topics for small talk are more likely to include compliments about some aspect of personal appearance. For example, “That dress really suits you.” Small talk between women who are friends may also involve a greater degree of self disclosure. Topics may cover more personal aspects of their life, their troubles, and their secrets. This self-disclosure both generates a closer relationship between them, and also is a signal of that closeness.

By contrast, mens’ small talk tends to be more competitive. It may feature verbal sparring matches, playful insults, and putdowns. However, in a way these are also both creators and signals of solidarity — the men are signalling that they are comfortable enough with each other’s company to be able to say these things without them being taken as insults.” -Phatic communication

•

“Jerry Michalski and Pip Coburn were recently talking about the puzzle of “exhaust data.” These are data that pass between friends on Facebook and Twitter…as when someone tells me they’re doing their nails, or I tell them I’m entertaining my cat.

Who on earth cares? What kind of communication is this? Can it be that we are using the internet to issue trivial facts about ourselves? Facts? The “fact” that I am entertaining the cat is so staggeringly unimportant it fails to interest even the cat.

But there is another, anthropological, point of view. Exhaust data is, I think, a clear case of “phatic communication.” This is communication with little hard, informational content, but lots of emotional and social content. Phatic communications doesn’t get much said, but it has social effects so powerful, it gets lots done.” -How social networks work: the puzzle of exhaust data

The world tastes like salt and iron.

Sat, 05 Dec 2009 21:34:04 +1000

jackscoresby:

I remember sitting in the room with my father’s body.

My brother had come from Texas as our father’s health was deteriorating. In his final few hours our father would take 2 breaths every minute. Huge racking lungfuls of air, each one a giant intake like a drowning man coming up for air. His whole 75 pound body would move with each one, then be far too still until the next.

My father had a hole in his back that looked like a caveman had thrown a spear into him then yanked it out and the wound never healed. It got there when the doctors removed a 22 pound mass from inside his chest that was collapsing his left lung.

After the brain surgery you could see the tube under his skin that went from his skull down into his body and into his stomach. A magnetic lever could be released periodically that would relieve fluid building up pressure in his brain and empty it into his stomach. He was bed ridden, and could hardly walk.

Right after the surgery I saw him asleep in his hospital bed. Mouth wide open and false teeth removed. I remember feeling horrified.

When he had fallen down before first going to the hospital I had just got back from Texas. I hadn’t returned home yet when I got the call. I got home as they were taking him out on a gurney. I argued with police officers who took my drivers license because I was angry and asking too many questions.

I came home once to find my father with scratches on his arms and face. He had fallen in the backyard behind the shed and it had taken him over two hours to get up and back into the house. I had been with my friends. It was July.

My father would drive me around the lake when I asked, and he’d let me sit on the passenger windowsill so I could be outside the car and feel the wind over me. I used to imagine I was flying.

At the lake we used to live at I would swim for 5 or 6 hours a day during the summer. My father would sit at a picnic table the whole time watching, making small talk with anyone who came by. He always watched, no matter what I did. I never had to ask him to.

When I was 5 I would run from the school bus and to my father who waited in the driveway for me. I would jump into his arms and he’d pick me up and twirl me in the air and over his shoulders and then hold me upside down. The bus used to wait so the other kids could watch before it left. My first time performing for an audience.

I use the same aftershave he did. The same laundry detergent. Sometimes I can imagine one of my shirts smells just like his did.

I remember everything.

"Pretty much everything I do kinda starts out with a plan and quickly becomes “season to taste and..."

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 00:05:27 +1000

“Pretty much everything I do kinda starts out with a plan and quickly becomes “season to taste and then cook with some amount of fire until it’s done but not burned” or “hit it with a wrench until it stops making that noise and apologizes or it at least starts making some more pleasing noise” or “if nothing seems to be working that probably means it’s time to pop open another Red Bull.” None of which really works well for instructions or documentation. Besides, I strongly doubt you want to make things that look like things I made, anyway.”

- http://www.arianaosborne.com/?p=716

dementes: luxembourg:deepdownsouth kel: stick your dick in...

Thu, 03 Dec 2009 23:56:18 +1000

dementes:

luxembourg:deepdownsouth

kel: stick your dick in it?
kel: who’s posting that?

me: luxembourg?

kel: why aren’t you reblogging it?

"They copied all they could follow, but they couldn’t copy my mind, so I left them sweating and..."

Thu, 03 Dec 2009 13:14:51 +1000

“They copied all they could follow, but they couldn’t copy my mind, so I left them sweating and stealing a year and a half behind.”

- Rudyard Kipling (via claytoncubitt)

dementes: claytoncubitt: ‘The Truth About Women’ from the...

Thu, 03 Dec 2009 12:57:46 +1000

dementes:

claytoncubitt:

‘The Truth About Women’ from the pages of a c1950’s book.

"Pornography hits the blind corner of reason. It directly addresses our primitive fantasies,..."

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 23:14:35 +1000

“Pornography hits the blind corner of reason. It directly addresses our primitive fantasies, bypassing words and thought. The hard-on or wetness comes first, wondering why follows behind. Self-censorship reactions are shaken. Porn images don’t give us any choice: here’s what turns you on, here’s what makes you respond.”

- Virginie Despentes (via nightmarebrunette)

Conversation once had.

Fri, 27 Nov 2009 23:41:09 +1000

jackscoresby:

Me: (Upon hearing something awesome and borrowing an expression I had heard earlier that day) That puts blood in my dick.

Her: (Her face contorting) That is fucking disgusting.

Me: Well that’s what an erection is. I mean it’s exactly what’s happening.

Her: Well you don’t hear me saying things like “That puts snot in my pussy.”

Me: Oh god.

http://www.arianaosborne.com/?p=643

Fri, 27 Nov 2009 19:39:21 +1000

POD: Let’s back up a sec, here.

Posted on November 17th, 2009 in making things

Whoo, that last one was a bit of a rant, wasn’t it? But I needed to get that out of my system, because I’m tired, I’m just dead tired of the “everything’s broken/too hard/scary/etc so why bother trying?” nonsense. And I know it’s not new, but a few years back it just started snowballing because here’s the truth of it: It’s a million billion times easier to tell people what’s wrong than it is to try and make something right.

I’m am well self-aware enough to recognize that following a ranty post with that last statement is comedy gold, yes.

But now I’m going to switch gears and go a little hearts and flowers and rainbows on you. Because I do honestly get that it’s honestly hard to start something, and it’s even harder to finish it. Yeah, I know, I really do. But now’s the time to do it, isn’t it? Haven’t you noticed how many people — complete strangers, even – are getting genuinely and creatively excited about Doing Stuff? Part of it’s very likely the end-of-the-decade rush — it’s hitting some people like a ton of bricks, but it’s infecting even more people with cabin fever. Folks are dusting off projects they first started thinking about in 2005 or 1999, or just finally flipping the switch and starting on something completely new.

And if the feedback I’m getting is any indication (and I’ve got comments disabled here because they don’t suit me, but I do pay attention to Twitter and I read everything on Whitechapel) — there are a LOT of you right. on. that. cusp. of taking the first step. So look, I know I’ve been giving you lot a hard time about “just getting it done,” but before I get into my list of Stuff What I Learned Working With POD sometime tomorrow, I wanna back up a step and talk to you.

Here’s what you need to do, right now, tonight. No, NOT tomorrow morning, or this weekend, or once your work rush has let off a little, or after the holidays, or sometime in the New Year: Right. Fucking. Now.

Decide what you want to make.

And I’m talking about the single most complicated and ridiculous creation you can think of…

NO STOP IT I DIDN’T SAY HOW or WHY or WHEN, I only said WHAT.

Just the THING. That’s all. Is it a book? Is it a script? A necklace? A toaster-cozy? A shirt? What is it? What do you want to make?

And oh I mean it when I say ridiculous and complicated. Look, if you want to take 365 photos of your toaster, one for every day of the next year, sometimes with toast and sometimes with a bagel and sometimes with an English muffin and one shot with a Very Dangerous Fork, and you want to blow those images up to 8.5×11” and put them into a monthly magazine with no words and just a picture of the appliance in its knitted cozy on the front and that’s what you want to make? Then that’s what you want to make.

That’s what you want to make.

I SAID STOP THINKING ABOUT THE HOW OR THE LOGISTICS OR THE MONEY OR THE TIME. STOP IT.

This moment, right now, this THING that you’re deciding to make, this thing exists independently of the fiddly bits for now. This, what you’re doing here, is something that back in the olden days — before the slagosphere wasted all your time telling you how not to do things — they called a goal. It’s a beautiful and magical thing that doesn’t need money or time or effort to believe in. It’s only different from a dream in that you made it yourself, instead of letting your subconscious do all the work while you sleep.

Now, okay, here’s the little-bit harder step, are you ready?

Look at that THING you just said you wanted to make. Really look at it. Now, right now, tonight, NOT tomorrow morning, or this weekend, or once your work rush has let off a little, or after the holidays, or sometime in the New Year: Right. Fucking. Now.

DECIDE WHETHER YOU’RE GOING TO DO IT, OR NOT.

Period. This is it. You’ve been putting it off, or you’ve been planning to get around to it, or you know that once you get a little spare time it’s at the top of the list… for HOW long now? I’m looking at you. I know you’re already taking a breath to rattle off the list of all the things standing in your way. and what’s more, I know you know they’re just excuses.

And it needs to end, now. Your life is never going to GET less stressful. It’s honestly not. That’s not how life works. When we put off the things we want to do, the stress of that adds into the stress of life. You’re not going to GET more hours in the day. You’re never going to have enough money to put aside spare time. You’re not going to suddenly have That Moment where it all gels and you suddenly break out and start doing what you want to be doing… unless you MAKE that moment, right here, right now.

Oh I’m making a sappy speech right now, sure I am. Imaginary music should be swelling on my cue. But I’m telling you the absolute truth, okay? If you say, right now: “Oh whatever, I’ve heard that before, but it’s different for me, I’ve got different troubles and it’s not going to hurt me to wait until 2010″ — then you’re already out of the game, and I’m sorry, but that was that. You might get there in ten years, sure, anything’s possible… but it’s going to have to be a different you that gets you there. Because you, right now, haven’t got it. And that’s fine — not everyone does — but it’s really time for you to put your energies into whatever you think is more important than Making What You Want.

The rest of you, well, you just signed on for a metric fuckton of work, and tomorrow you’re going to start realizing how much — but you’re all going to make it. As long as you’re telling the truth, as long as you’ve decided you’re going to make your Thing, as long as you’re not shitting yourself just so you can feel like this paragraph is for you — you’re in. It truly is just that easy — you make your goal and then you do every damned thing you can to get it done. You’re making a THING. What, you think you can’t make a little Time? Time isn’t half as hard as making a Thing! If you can write a book, you can make time. If you can sculpt, you can create the moments to do it. If you can make pictures or music or knit or anything, then a little jiggery-pokery of space-time is nothing at all.

(That’s all a lie. It’s hard as all fuckity, honestly. But you said you weren’t lying when you said you wanted to do this thing, so you’re fucking well in it, now.)

That’s it. Do it, or don’t. Shit, or throw out the pot. Pick one, and stick with it.

And if you come back tomorrow, I’ll be here helping the folks that, just like you, decided to Make Something.

Criteria for Rejection

Fri, 27 Nov 2009 18:57:00 +1000

trixiebedlam:

I. Parts Incompatible

We do not fit together;

your shoulder inhospitable.

We try and align

but your hipbones bruise the insides of my thighs

and I am always thinking.

II. Unexpected Shut-Down

There is no room for progress

when every time I make you smile

you overload, require maintenance.

III. Low Battery Life

I’m too tired to finish

and you’re not wired

to recharge me.

Do it yourself;

I am taking a shower

and will fall asleep facing away from you.

IV. Rational Disconnect

We wouldn’t have so many problems

if you could accept

that I am not programmed

to arrive at logical conclusions.

V. Total System Failure

The sound of you chewing

makes me want to destroy everything in the world

that has ever known what it is

to be happy.

"Instead of making a 21st-century apology, South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford decided to take it “old..."

Thu, 26 Nov 2009 19:07:33 +1000

“Instead of making a 21st-century apology, South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford decided to take it “old school,” comparing his extramarital affairs to that of King David. Why not just say you find Pinocchio’s story interesting? Or, let’s see—Bill Clinton, Eliot Spitzer, John Edwards, John Ensign would have also worked! That would have been a surprising admission in an age where extramarital affairs no longer seem to grab our attention. Americans act so shocked when they hear about politicians, celebrities, and athletes having affairs, but I have to believe that many women who are married to men with power are aware of affairs, and accept it. Don’t ask, don’t tell; as long as they receive something in exchange from their husband—whether that exchange be children, money, material items, or sex. We create our own morals. It’s once the affair goes public that morals change. The wife feels shame and humiliation because of public awareness, yet felt no desire to speak out prior. She allowed this affair to go on, or allowed herself to stay in the relationship. She probably was more ashamed that her husband was such a moron, and thought he could get away with flying to Argentina on a commercial flight and claim he was hiking the Appalachian Trail. We live in one of the most liberated countries in the world, yet we are still conflicted with Bible Belt-infused guilt. Consensual sexual preferences shouldn’t govern our politics, media, or way of life. Ideally, we should all openly have something extra on the side.”

- http://2010.newsweek.com/top-10/sex-scandal-details/mark-sanford-appalachian-adventure.html

http://www.arianaosborne.com/?p=685

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 13:18:11 +1000

This is a quick (for long-winded values, I’m sure) segue from my ongoing (and going, and going) POD notes and rantings to a bit that may seem a little ahead of itself: Telling people that you’re Making Something.

Because you’re going to have to, when you’re done, you know. And you’re likely going to have a little bit of an uphill time of it, because the internet’s half broken, isn’t it. Oh, you know what I mean — you’ve got a blog, probably, but (Wil and Warren, you’re not to answer this one, because I’m not talking about you, yet) how many people read your blog? I’m not being mean about it — this isn’t supposed to put you off before you even start, trust me — but how many people do you pull over, and worse, how many of those people do you interact with?

That’s where the internet is half broken, right there, that last bit: Comments are shit.

And people keep trying to find ways to fix what is an inherently crap system is the main problem. I mean, how many fucking ways are there to leave a comment, these days? You can log into a wordpress or typepad blog, only maybe some of your readers don’t have (or want to make) accounts for either, so there are OpenID plugins and trackbacks and ShareThis and Stumble and Delicious and Technorati (and oh there’s one that went to fucking weed, innit) and All Manner of networking and feedback and pingback and chatback and every-damned-thing-else to address a “problem” that’s, honestly? Not solvable.

Most of the time, people aren’t going to have anything to say in response.

But, without that feedback, a lot of us lose steam, because how else will we know we’re being heard, or that anyone even cares?

Which is how the internet’s half broken, of course. Because one half, the Social Networking half, revolves around the idea that he who has the most friends, wins. And the other half, the Individual and Personal half, revolves around the idea that a single person should have a comments form on every page, and somehow the magic of connectivity will fill the lower half of every post with feedback and community.

Hahaha. But no.

I mean, yesterday I asked my 400ish twitter followers a direct question: What are you making? And I got, as expected, about 20 responses. Warren and Wil probably would have gotten about 100 (in fact, you can go look at the comments to Wil’s post on Making Things to see I’m absolutely right in that estimate), but they’ve both got HYUGE audiences. And that’s responses to a direct question. So what hope is there of building an interactive community around just general discussion and feedback?

Well… there’s really not. Not if you insist on using just one bit of the half-broken internet out of the box.

But then what the hell DOES work? See, here’s my crazy thought (and I got it from Warren who’s cleverer than you and me put together, so you know it’s true): We really could try interacting with Internet People like they’re real, you know, People.

Oh stop huffing, I haven’t even explained yet, and when I do, whatever you were about to shoot back will sound retarded.

Look, imagine you’ve got four friends over, or the five of you are out at the pub or whatever. How amazingly awkward would the conversation go if, every time you made any statement, you then paused until each person responded directly. Only once each person had said something could you move onto the next bit.

Like this:

PERSON ONE says “Rough weather today!”
PERSON TWO says “Yes”
PERSON THREE says “Yeah it’s kinda blowing out there.”
PERSON FOUR says “I had a rough day at work.”
PERSON TWO says “Don’t hijack the conversation! We’re talking about the WEATHER right now”
PERSON FOUR calls person two a Nazi
PERSON ONE gets into a long, involved attempt to mediate between PERSONS TWO and FOUR
PERSON FIVE says “Too long, didn’t listen. But it is cold out…”
PERSON ONE says “Okay, good, we’ve all discussed the weather and I can see PERSON TWO is just going to pout until we move on to the next dedicated topic: How were our days at work?”

I mean, honestly, that’s a worst-case comment scenario, true — but it’s also just fucking ridiculous to think about EVER doing in “real” life, isn’t it?

Oh, I of course forgot the part where PERSON ONE is obsessively checking to see if weather.com has pinged his phone with a forecast that agrees with his initial statement. And is also staring at the table next to them, hoping some strangers will come over and agree, too.

That’s really just no way to have a conversation, is it?

But we want our blogs and our internet communication to be interactive, so we go with the half-broken system, even though none of us are so socially stunted that we think that’s how it should work — just because that’s the system that comes built on to the tools we’re using.

And you’ll note I’ve lopped that system right off my blog, because I’m no fan of tech that solves a problem that isn’t really there.

Conversations don’t happen in blogs. (There are, of course, exceptions to that rule. There are little networks of the faithful that do hang out in the comments sections of some of the bigger blogs, sure.) Conversations happen in forums, or on Twitter, and probably in GoogleWave while people figure out what to do with it, and in stranger places like FaceBook walls and roll-your-own networks, sort of.

(That last never really took off in the direction I expected, but then again, Cafepress have been around for ten years and we’re pushing for an uptick there, too, so I may just need to be patient)

But blogs aren’t social networks — they’re stations — and no matter how much crap we tack on to try and make them more interactive, they aren’t going to be (that definition of) networks because, ostensibly, a blog is a place where you talk and people dial in to listen.

That was a segue of its own, so let’s circle back to the original point: How do you get people to come listen?

Well, unless you’re very attractive and taking out 50-feet restraining orders on a daily basis, I don’t imagine you’ve got people peeking in your windows to hear you singing in the shower. And when you go out to grab a drink, I somehow doubt hundreds of people walk over to you to find out what you’re thinking.

If you’ve got any friends at all, I’d imagine you went out and found them, or got introduced by other people, or met them at work, or school, or by bumming a light 15 feet away from the bus stop.

If you’ve got online friends, I reckon you brought them over from the meat-filled world, or you met them over on Whitechapel, or someone on Twitter RT’d them, or you went looking for something in particular and found them by happy google chance.

And if you — and by extension, your Thing You’re Making — want an audience, you’ve got to tell those people when you’ve got something to show them, and lead them back.

Which is why, even though FREAKANGELS has been running into its third volume, now, Warren still twitters, blogs, and mails you a link, every week. It’s why I sweep off the sidewalk and tell everyone the new discussion thread is open — and also ask everyone how they’re doing, because it’s a forum that’s tacked on to a comic, but it’s also a forum of people I know and want to hear from.

And it’s why Whitechapel is all everything else the other 6 days and 23 hours of the week, because no community is there for just one thing. They’re there for each other, and themselves, too. And that’s why you can hit 9 out of ten threads on Whitechapel and find links and directions out to other people’s blogs and stores and projects… and you’re far more likely to see comments in the thread than you are on the individual pages, just to hit that point a little more home.

So. How do you find an audience for the Thing You’re Making?

You don’t.

You find people you like. And if you can’t find any, you find people that like the things you do. And you join their community — or, if there isn’t one, you make it and you tell everyone that’ll listen until four people show up — and you find out what they’re doing and you tell them what you’re doing. And you pay fucking attention to someone instead of your Google Analytics page of “unique yet nameless visitors” and maybe you end up buying their project before you even get around to selling your own.

And before you know it, you’ll have five friends who really probably don’t often comment on your blog, but they’ll all RT the link to your Thing You Made when you Twitter it’s live.

Oh, and also, you’ll have five friends, and you won’t be that guy that bitches about how hard it is to make connections online. That’s a win, too.

.. bizarre.

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 18:24:06 +1000

.. bizarre.

http://www.arianaosborne.com/?p=639

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 17:52:29 +1000

POD: If You’re Not Warren Ellis

Oh, I spent some time trying to craft the single most condescending post title I could think of, yes. I also considered “for the common man” and “little guy” and — my personal favorite abandoned only because it was a touch too long — “for all those losers who really have no right even trying.”

Turns out, I only had to hit up the internet comments buzzing around the release of Shivering Sands to find the most patronizing qualifier. Because all sorts of people, it turns out, would just love to try out POD, except they just “aren’t Warren Ellis.”

If you haven’t guessed yet, this post is going to be a little bit mean. But, see above: people were asking for it.

So, okay, yes — let’s go ahead and talk about this terrifying and insurmountable hurdle to publishing/creating/selling through an online Print on Demand service: Let’s brainstorm and try to find some solution to our pitiful state of not being Ellis. We can do it together, I think, if we try really hard — we can shut our leaking cry-holes for a second and consider a kinder world, with possibilities even for us.

All right. Here we go.

We have already, I assume, ruled out the possibility of going back in time to before Warren started his writing career and attempting to become Warren Ellis before he can get there. Time travel is, after all, fiddly business. And, frankly, if any of us had already built a time machine, I’d imagine that using it to get a book published wouldn’t be our top priority. Except maybe for you, over there in the back — I see you’d like to make a DINOSAUR PHOTOS coffee-table book, so yeah, you’re going to need to work on a time machine. And best of luck to you, I’m ready to buy your book if you’re not torn apart by raptors on your way back to the console.

But the rest of us are going to have to think outside the temporal displacement box, bah.

Well, there’s the fake it ’til we make it option, I suppose — which I’d certainly usually advocate… except I’ve been modding Warren’s forums for a lot of years now, and I gotta tell you: there’s few things that annoy me more than people putting on a lo-fi Ellis-lite persona to get attention. In fact, it’s one of those things that makes me hit the ignore/ban button faster than almost anything — and I’ve got a pretty high internet-nutter tolerance, so that might just end up losing you those imaginary book sales you haven’t even made yet.

Oh this is just looking hopeless, isn’t it? I mean, clearly the steps to POD success are as follows:

Be Warren Ellis
Have a hugenormous audience
Sell them all your book
Profit

But what, oh what can we do if we’re not Warren Ellis?

…

… no. That… that couldn’t work.

It’s too crazy. I don’t even want to say it.

What if, what if step one is… be [your name here]?

I mean, that’s just crazy-talk, innit? I mean„ there’s a long list we haven’t exhausted yet. I mean, we could try being Wil Wheaton, or Jamais Cascio, or Lee Barnett, or our next-door neighbors, or that guy at the bus stop. Surely we’re not to the point of desperation that leads to trying to make a go of it ourselves.

Except…

What if the steps were:

Be [your name here]
Write a bloody book instead of whining about what you’ll do with it when you’re done
Get an audience
Profit

Now, I know that mixing up steps 2 and 3 like that just FLIES in the face of internet logic, but I might be on to something here. Because now we’re talking about a fantastic world where, when you introduce yourself to people, you can actually say you’re a writer — and be telling the truth — instead of your usual “And I’ve got a bunch of clever ideas I’m going to write someday as soon as I get an agent and/or wake up one morning in an alternate reality where I’m Warren Ellis.”

How mad is THAT? I mean, the possibilities get really wild after that! When people ask you what your book’s about, you can actually tell them, instead of hinting about how you don’t really want to get into it because they might steal your idea! And then, OH MY GOD, you could — oh this is incredible — you could direct them to the site where your book is ready to be printed and mailed off! Do you realize what this means? They might buy your book! This could… my god this could actually work!!

Yes, I am the biggest bitch you’re going to read today.

I’m also right. And if one person reading this finally got the shake they need to stop talking and start doing, then the massive traffic drop-off I’m going to get now is completely worth it.

And if one person did finally get it, you should come back tomorrow when I’m going to have some not-so-bitchy advice about the POD system I’ve picked up in the past little while. Because if you’re going to actually use it instead of making excuses, then I’ve got time for you.

Things Said on a Saturday

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 18:31:05 +1000

trixiebedlam:

In the late afternoon, on her way home from the laundromat with a 17-pound bag of clean materials balanced atop her shoulder and against the left side of her neck, Molly spoke to another person for the first time that day. It was Saturday and the person was a boy of perhaps 10, who veered into her immediate path skirting a playful jab from another boy to her right. Their roughhousing forced her to perform a rapid reconnoiter of the sidewalk, a feat made precarious by the ungainly bag of laundry skewing her balance. What Molly said was, “Watch it, kid.”

Prior to that, Molly had participated in two nonverbal exchanges this Saturday. First, in the morning as she purchased a carton of apple juice at the deli, she acknowledged the return of proper change with a nod to the man behind the counter. He knew her, inasmuch as he was aware that she frequented his deli on a near-daily basis, but they had never addressed a word to each other, and her nod went unreturned. The second interaction was an hour later, with a man on the street who expressed his appreciation for her physical appearance by giving her a lengthy once-over and muttering, “Beautiful, beautiful,” as they passed on the sidewalk. Molly had responded with a noise in her throat, intended to communicate disgust for this man and his actions.

When Molly got home, she deposited the bag of laundry onto her unmade bed and looked around for an excuse not to put it away immediately. She went into the living room, turned on the light in the fishtank, and made fish faces at the tank’s sole occupant. There had been two fish until recently. Buddy – smaller, gold-and-black, and though she tried not to think in those terms, Molly’s favorite – had slowly died over the course of the last week from a swim bladder infection that caused him to float inevitably upside-down, despite his fervent efforts to remain upright. The remaining fish, Princess – larger, orange-and-white, and somehow devoid of the personality Molly had seen in Buddy – seemed healthy enough, but now Molly felt mild apprehension whenever she approached the tank. Molly had often talked to Buddy, but she’d only spoken once to Princess, two days ago. She had said, “Stop it!” when she’d found Princess nibbling at Buddy’s dead body. She had shouted it. She said nothing to Princess today.

Molly went into her office to check her e-mail. While she did this, she had a conversation via Instant Messenger with her mother, during which she communicated her decision to accept a counter-offer from her current place of employment rather than taking a job at a new agency that had been courting her. Her mother volunteered advice on the subject, which Molly ostensibly considered but privately discounted as coming from a limited viewpoint, as her mother had worked as the bookkeeper for her father’s business for the last 30 years and never been courted by an agency of any kind. She also conveyed the occurrence, but not the details, of a first date over drinks with an actor named Michael, which had taken place four days prior. At the end of the date, the actor had asked to see her this weekend. Molly had said, “That sounds nice.” She had meant it. She was reluctant to view his pursuit of a second date as a romantic success, but passed the information on to her mother to act as a preemptive strike against any inquiries as to the status of her “love life.” It was a status that Molly had trouble evaluating on her own, let alone to others, particularly her mother. At the conclusion of their silent conversation, Molly replied to her mother’s farewell declaration of love by pressing the ‘X’ and ‘O’ keys several times in succession, and signed out of Instant Messenger.

She returned to her bedroom, where she put away the laundry, setting aside clean sheets and several pieces of the outfit she intended to wear when she went out with Michael the actor that night. From the small, gilded shopping bag set on the vanity, she produced three new pairs of underwear, purchased at a lingerie store three days ago. At the time of her purchase, the woman who rang her up had said, “For someone special?” and though Molly had declined to reply, the way she blushed made her fully aware that she liked Michael the actor. Now she selected the one that was light pink with black ribbon highlights, and removed the tags before placing it with the rest of the date outfit, laid out on a tiny pink chair that was uncomfortable for sitting, but an aesthetically pleasing place to lay clothing out, or discard it upon removal. Then Molly put fresh sheets on the bed. She did this without consciously recognizing that she planned to sleep with Michael the actor at the end of their date tonight. Yesterday she’d said to a friend that she had, “A feeling about this one.”

The plan was for Michael the actor to call her around five in the evening. When Molly hadn’t heard from him by six, she began to feel anxious. Her date outfit was donned, and she had been sitting on the edge of her neatly-made bed, using the vanity mirror to make minute adjustments to her hair and make-up. Now regarding her own appearance, ready for a date who was not calling, made her feel sad and foolish. Molly stood abruptly, and moved to sit in the armchair in the living room. She left the phone on the table, to create distance that would prevent her from answering too quickly, and watched Princess circle the perimeter of the fishtank. She smoothed her skirt over her legs and tried to sit as straight and still as she possibly could.

At seven-thirty the phone rang. She had felt it was bad luck to add Michael the actor to her Caller Identification so soon, but she recognized it was him by the number. She answered on the third ring, and in a way that she intended to betray neither hope nor irritation, said “Hello.” “Hello, Molly,” said Michael the actor. “Hello,” she repeated, implying that she did not know the identity of the caller because he was not yet included in her Caller Identification. “This is Michael,” the caller said. “Hello, Michael,” said Molly, a little unevenly because a feeling in her stomach told her what was coming next. “I meant to call sooner,” said Michael, and Molly didn’t know how to respond to that, so she simply said, “Oh.” It must have sounded skeptical to Michael because he said, “No, I really mean that – I did mean to call earlier. I know I said I’d call, and I meant it. I had a really nice time with you when we were out together. I mean, a really nice time.” He sounded sincere, but not in a way that made the feeling in Molly’s stomach improve. She sat back down in the armchair, and smoothed her skirt over her legs again. He seemed to be waiting for her to respond, so she said, “Thanks. I did too,” and she meant it, but not the way she had meant it when she had said it would be nice to go out with him tonight. Michael said, “I didn’t call when I said I would because, the thing is, and I mean – I did have a really great time with you – there’s this old girlfriend of mine who has sort of come back into the picture, and we have a lot of history, you know how it is.” Here he paused to allow Molly to say that she did know how it was, and she did know – she had known for perhaps a quarter of an hour before she picked up the phone - but she didn’t say so. She didn’t say anything, so Michael continued, “And I knew it would be, I mean – God, awkward, just like this – but I wanted to call because I really did like you, and I didn’t want to not-call. So I guess that’s what I called to say, that I’m not going to call.” He laughed in way that expressed how much he regretted calling.

When it was clear that he wasn’t going to say anything else, Molly said, “Well, that was very responsible of you, Michael. Is there anything else you’d like to let me know?” She tried to say it without intimating her feeling that the biggest problem with actors was their need for useless dramatics. Without intimating any of her feelings, she tried to say it as neutrally as possible, but a note of sarcasm or injury must have crept into her tone because Michael drew a deep breath as though to explain some more, and Molly, not wishing to hear the words, “like you”, “good time”, “you know”, or “I mean” again, quickly said, “Take care, Michael,” and hung up the call without waiting for his reply. Molly sat very still in the armchair, her feet planted delicately but deliberately on the floor. She looked at the fishtank and said to Princess, “Why does this always happen?”

Princess, if she could have spoken, would have said that she didn’t know why, but that for several days she had felt something was wrong. That despite her efforts to maintain her position in the water, she was constantly and inextricably drawn upside-down towards the surface.

Replicant

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 18:21:20 +1000

trixiebedlam:

My boyfriend took two weeks off to go home for Christmas, while my commitments and the still-fledgling state of our involvement kept me city-bound. It was the first prolonged separation of the relationship and I was a little nervous about it - the visit home had sometimes marked the end of affairs in the past.

He called to let me know his plane landed, as we’d agreed, but after that I didn’t hear from him at all. My concern grew as the days since I’d heard from him stretched to a week. When I finally called to check on him, he replied shortly by text message. For the duration of the two weeks I didn’t hear from him, and my distress and confusion increased as he made no effort to contact or console me. He finally got in touch with me upon his return, and rather stiffly asked me to meet him for a drink the following day. By now I had understandable reservations about his level of commitment, but I pushed them aside and agreed to the date. I had missed him, after all.

He stood as I entered the bar, and even in my relief at seeing his face, I felt that something had changed about him. Once I sat down it became clear very quickly that I was dealing with a robot replacement. I made no immediate attempt to reveal this imposter – though governed by rigid protocol, robots can be unpredictably violent when challenged. Instead, I tried to raise the issue of our spate of non-communication to assess, if possible, whether or not my boyfriend was still alive somewhere. The replacement was tight-lipped on the subject, merely stating that the trip had been “hectic” and, “You know how it is with family.”

When it became clear that the indirect approach wasn’t getting me anywhere, I tried another tactic. “Where do you see this going?” I asked. I was closing in on the grim conclusion that my boyfriend was far beyond help or harm at this point, and my thoughts had turned to my own safety.

“Let’s go for a walk,” it said. I felt my plan backfiring, but saw no way of exiting the situation, graceful or otherwise. I resolved to stick to well-lit, busy streets and hoped the opportunity to escape would arise.

“I see things getting very serious with us,” the robot said, as we stepped outside into the frigid January evening. “Neither of us are getting any younger, and I think the time is right for us to take steps forward.” I froze mid-step; not only had the mechanical fiend killed my boyfriend, now it wanted to use me in a sick attempt to populate the planet with human/cyborgs. “What’s wrong?” it said. “I thought you’d be happy.”

“It’s just that you’ve been a little cold lately,” I faltered, mind racing. All those night classes I’d taken on the subject of robot detection and elimination, and now when it counted I couldn’t remember a single evasive maneuver.

“It’s time to get serious, Ellen,” the machine repeated. “It can’t always be romantic. We have to think about our functions, our responsibilities.” He knelt down in the snow and opened a small, black box. “Here, I have bought you a diamond, in accordance with social protocol.”

I ran for it. I knew it was stupid - practically the first thing they teach you in these classes is that you’re not going to outrun a robot, and it’s a waste of energy to even try. It caught up with me easily, slamming into me from behind and bringing me to ground beneath it. I kicked and tried to scream, but was muffled by the snowbank it was pressing me deeper into. My extremities were already starting to go numb, but I could still feel it uncurling my clenched left hand, trying to force the ring onto my finger.

“Just stop struggling,” it said. “Just stop struggling.”

Psychiatric Tales: Last Chapter

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 02:03:58 +1000

Psychiatric Tales: Last Chapter

http://boss.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/10/29/one-hundred-things-restaurant-staffers-should-never-do-part-one/

Sat, 07 Nov 2009 22:57:00 +1000

100 Things Restaurant Staffers Should Never Do

By Bruce Buschel

1. Do not let anyone enter the restaurant without a warm greeting.

2. Do not make a singleton feel bad. Do not say, “Are you waiting for someone?” Ask for a reservation. Ask if he or she would like to sit at the bar.

3. Never refuse to seat three guests because a fourth has not yet arrived.

4. If a table is not ready within a reasonable length of time, offer a free drink and/or amuse-bouche. The guests may be tired and hungry and thirsty, and they did everything right.

5. Tables should be level without anyone asking. Fix it before guests are seated.

6. Do not lead the witness with, “Bottled water or just tap?” Both are fine. Remain neutral.

7. Do not announce your name. No jokes, no flirting, no cuteness.

8. Do not interrupt a conversation. For any reason. Especially not to recite specials. Wait for the right moment.

9. Do not recite the specials too fast or robotically or dramatically. It is not a soliloquy. This is not an audition.

10. Do not inject your personal favorites when explaining the specials.

11. Do not hustle the lobsters. That is, do not say, “We only have two lobsters left.” Even if there are only two lobsters left.

12. Do not touch the rim of a water glass. Or any other glass.

13. Handle wine glasses by their stems and silverware by the handles.

14. When you ask, “How’s everything?” or “How was the meal?” listen to the answer and fix whatever is not right.

15. Never say “I don’t know” to any question without following with, “I’ll find out.”

16. If someone requests more sauce or gravy or cheese, bring a side dish of same. No pouring. Let them help themselves.

17. Do not take an empty plate from one guest while others are still eating the same course. Wait, wait, wait.

18. Know before approaching a table who has ordered what. Do not ask, “Who’s having the shrimp?”

19. Offer guests butter and/or olive oil with their bread.

20. Never refuse to substitute one vegetable for another.

21. Never serve anything that looks creepy or runny or wrong.

22. If someone is unsure about a wine choice, help him. That might mean sending someone else to the table or offering a taste or two.

23. If someone likes a wine, steam the label off the bottle and give it to the guest with the bill. It has the year, the vintner, the importer, etc.

24. Never use the same glass for a second drink.

25. Make sure the glasses are clean. Inspect them before placing them on the table.

26. Never assume people want their white wine in an ice bucket. Inquire.

27. For red wine, ask if the guests want to pour their own or prefer the waiter to pour.

28. Do not put your hands all over the spout of a wine bottle while removing the cork.

29. Do not pop a champagne cork. Remove it quietly, gracefully. The less noise the better.

30. Never let the wine bottle touch the glass into which you are pouring. No one wants to drink the dust or dirt from the bottle.

31. Never remove a plate full of food without asking what went wrong. Obviously, something went wrong.

32. Never touch a customer. No excuses. Do not do it. Do not brush them, move them, wipe them or dust them.

33. Do not bang into chairs or tables when passing by.

34. Do not have a personal conversation with another server within earshot of customers.

35. Do not eat or drink in plain view of guests.

36. Never reek from perfume or cigarettes. People want to smell the food and beverage.

37. Do not drink alcohol on the job, even if invited by the guests. “Not when I’m on duty” will suffice.

38.Do not call a guy a “dude.”

39. Do not call a woman “lady.”

40. Never say, “Good choice,” implying that other choices are bad.

41. Saying, “No problem” is a problem. It has a tone of insincerity or sarcasm. “My pleasure” or “You’re welcome” will do.

42. Do not compliment a guest’s attire or hairdo or makeup. You are insulting someone else.

43. Never mention what your favorite dessert is. It’s irrelevant.

44. Do not discuss your own eating habits, be you vegan or lactose intolerant or diabetic.

45. Do not curse, no matter how young or hip the guests.

46. Never acknowledge any one guest over and above any other. All guests are equal.

47. Do not gossip about co-workers or guests within earshot of guests.

48. Do not ask what someone is eating or drinking when they ask for more; remember or consult the order.

49. Never mention the tip, unless asked.

50. Do not turn on the charm when it’s tip time. Be consistent throughout.

51. If there is a service charge, alert your guests when you present the bill. It’s not a secret or a trick.

52. Know your menu inside and out. If you serve Balsam Farm candy-striped beets, know something about Balsam Farm and candy-striped beets.

53. Do not let guests double-order unintentionally; remind the guest who orders ratatouille that zucchini comes with the entree.

54. If there is a prix fixe, let guests know about it. Do not force anyone to ask for the “special” menu.

55. Do not serve an amuse-bouche without detailing the ingredients. Allergies are a serious matter; peanut oil can kill. (This would also be a good time to ask if anyone has any allergies.)

56. Do not ignore a table because it is not your table. Stop, look, listen, lend a hand. (Whether tips are pooled or not.)

57. Bring the pepper mill with the appetizer. Do not make people wait or beg for a condiment.

58. Do not bring judgment with the ketchup. Or mustard. Or hot sauce. Or whatever condiment is requested.

59. Do not leave place settings that are not being used.

60. Bring all the appetizers at the same time, or do not bring the appetizers. Same with entrees and desserts.

61. Do not stand behind someone who is ordering. Make eye contact. Thank him or her.

62. Do not fill the water glass every two minutes, or after each sip. You’ll make people nervous.

62(a). Do not let a glass sit empty for too long.

63. Never blame the chef or the busboy or the hostess or the weather for anything that goes wrong. Just make it right.

64. Specials, spoken and printed, should always have prices.

65. Always remove used silverware and replace it with new.

66. Do not return to the guest anything that falls on the floor — be it napkin, spoon, menu or soy sauce.

67. Never stack the plates on the table. They make a racket. Shhhhhh.

68. Do not reach across one guest to serve another.

69. If a guest is having trouble making a decision, help out. If someone wants to know your life story, keep it short. If someone wants to meet the chef, make an effort.

70. Never deliver a hot plate without warning the guest. And never ask a guest to pass along that hot plate.

71. Do not race around the dining room as if there is a fire in the kitchen or a medical emergency. (Unless there is a fire in the kitchen or a medical emergency.)

72. Do not serve salad on a freezing cold plate; it usually advertises the fact that it has not been freshly prepared.

73. Do not bring soup without a spoon. Few things are more frustrating than a bowl of hot soup with no spoon.

74. Let the guests know the restaurant is out of something before the guests read the menu and order the missing dish.

75. Do not ask if someone is finished when others are still eating that course.

76. Do not ask if a guest is finished the very second the guest is finished. Let guests digest, savor, reflect.

77. Do not disappear.

78. Do not ask, “Are you still working on that?” Dining is not work — until questions like this are asked.

79. When someone orders a drink “straight up,” determine if he wants it “neat” — right out of the bottle — or chilled. Up is up, but “straight up” is debatable.

80. Never insist that a guest settle up at the bar before sitting down; transfer the tab.

81. Know what the bar has in stock before each meal.

82. If you drip or spill something, clean it up, replace it, offer to pay for whatever damage you may have caused. Refrain from touching the wet spots on the guest.

83. Ask if your guest wants his coffee with dessert or after. Same with an after-dinner drink.

84. Do not refill a coffee cup compulsively. Ask if the guest desires a refill.

84(a). Do not let an empty coffee cup sit too long before asking if a refill is desired.

85. Never bring a check until someone asks for it. Then give it to the person who asked for it.

86. If a few people signal for the check, find a neutral place on the table to leave it.

87. Do not stop your excellent service after the check is presented or paid.

88. Do not ask if a guest needs change. Just bring the change.

89. Never patronize a guest who has a complaint or suggestion; listen, take it seriously, address it.

90. If someone is getting agitated or effusive on a cellphone, politely suggest he keep it down or move away from other guests.

91. If someone complains about the music, do something about it, without upsetting the ambiance. (The music is not for the staff — it’s for the customers.)

92. Never play a radio station with commercials or news or talking of any kind.

93. Do not play brass — no brassy Broadway songs, brass bands, marching bands, or big bands that feature brass, except a muted flugelhorn.

94. Do not play an entire CD of any artist. If someone doesn’t like Frightened Rabbit or Michael Bublé, you have just ruined a meal.

95. Never hover long enough to make people feel they are being watched or hurried, especially when they are figuring out the tip or signing for the check.

96. Do not say anything after a tip — be it good, bad, indifferent — except, “Thank you very much.”

97. If a guest goes gaga over a particular dish, get the recipe for him or her.

98. Do not wear too much makeup or jewelry. You know you have too much jewelry when it jingles and/or draws comments.

99. Do not show frustration. Your only mission is to serve. Be patient. It is not easy.

100. Guests, like servers, come in all packages. Show a “good table” your appreciation with a free glass of port, a plate of biscotti or something else management approves.

http://www.bleedingcool.com/2009/10/27/do-anything-022-by-warren-ellis/

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 16:36:00 +1000

From up here, maybe we can see what we’ve been talking about this whole time. A world that, from up here, looks like Jack Kirby’s Ego The Living Planet, but instead of its face being a wizened old man, it does of course strongly resemble the robot head of Jack Kirby.

Our parachute opens, billowing, capturing the air of comics and slowly bringing us back to this strange earth. From up here, we get the overview, and descend and decelerate into the details.

From up here, you can only see the geographical details of Jack Kirby’s face. There’s no sense of what weather cut those features into the topography, those lines and trenches and pits.

Since I began writing this, other comics creators have come to me with stories of Jack. Jack the angry man, Jack the wall-puncher, Jack the bitter man, Jack the betrayed. Jack the furious, who never raised a hand to anyone but never left any building he resided in without the pockmark of fist-shaped holes, they say. He was all these things, people tell me. And there’s the thing that is mentioned without being mentioned, if you see what I mean: Jack the killer. When we write that Jack went to war, and Jack was in the field of combat, what we mean is that Jack took a gun and killed people he didn’t know. We make it a small thing, a historical footnote. Particularly us, me, my generation and the generations around mine who’ve lived in what we call “peacetime.” We’ve never been conscripted, we’ve never had to fight a war, particularly not a world war against an evil we have since defused through parody, an enemy safely consigned to a past by defeat and death.

My grandad, my mother’s father, would never talk about the war. Neither would my nan, his wife. Their marriage was forty years of painful, bruised, borderline tolerance. My dad once told me that Nan had said to him, just the once, that Grandad hadn’t come back from the war the same man who left for it. His was one of those cliched changes that becomes a cliche precisely because it’s true so often. Even I, as a kid, could see a fundamental difference between the innocent-eyed, open-faced man of his wedding photo with the gimlet-eyed man in the spiv’s fur coat who I grew up with. And loved. Crazy bitter lying bastard though he was. He wasn’t the same man. He had killed.

And so had Jack Kirby. He had killed the soldiers of a foe that we now forget was this vast and surreal thing. Even their flags were the size of office buildings, and bore only an alien-looking, jagged black symbol upon them. It’s worth watching Leni Riefenstahl’s TRIUMPH OF THE WILL, to grasp exactly how strange Nazi Germany was. My daughter’s great-Nana was German, and she’d speak sometimes of those days in Germany, when Hitler arriving in your German town was the cause of utter hysteria, people losing control to the extent of pissing themselves or (also recalled by sf writer Algis Budrys, who also worked on the comics magazine HELP!) having seizures and literally shitting themselves.

Just from the single sheer presence of a man built up by art as much as politics: a man whose very appearance caused body-wrenching awe and fear, this ultimate villain, this enemy of life who had no compunction about stamping out Jacob Kurtzberg’s life along with that of his entire race.

Someone said to me, during the writing of this book, how does Jack Kirby go from the kid from the Lower East Side — and here’s Kirby –

“It was on the lower east side of New York, and what I mean by active is that anything could happen. There was usually a fight – some guy would come up from the next block and you would fight. If you knocked him out, you and the guys would lay him out near his mother’s door and vice versa. There were a lot of street fights, but we never used weapons of any kind, just our fists.”

– how does Jack Kirby go from the kid from the Lower East Side to the guy who moved inexorably towards drawing nothing but angels and gods? And yet, here’s Kirby’s Fourth World, featuring Orion, whose ordinary placid human face is a facade of technology hiding a shorter, stockier man who is nothing but fury, an angry man who can kill. And whose ultimate villain, the enemy of life, the actual Dark Side of humanity is a figure of awe and religious terror. The key Fourth World story is “The Glory Boat,” from NEW GODS. It is, in Kirby’s typically blunt, slightly clumsy and off-kilter way as a writer, a rumination on the concepts of heroism, pacifism and sacrifice. It is perhaps notable that someone therein dies as a faceless soldier.

Jack Kirby wrote about angels and gods and vast machines because, from the parachute view from up here and from the view down there in the trenches, it was the only way to make sense of the vast and towering and terrible things that surrounded him.