Perhaps you guessed, but I haven't been posting lately because i'm employed--that's right, employed. No longer on house arrest due to lack of money, I spend my spare time getting out and seeing things. This gives me more fodder for my blog (blodder, says little thinker) but it also gives me less time to write. Or, it appears, no time to write. I'll try to be better.
On Friday, the warmest day of the year so far, my friend met me in the Loop for lunch. Being pasty winter white and warm fresh air deprived, we stepped outside with our lunches and went in search of sun. It was harder than it sounds to find. But we did, eventually, find a spot of sun in a little plaza next to the second-tallest building in Chicago. It was covered with concrete. But at least there was sun--and it was warm.
I must confess I don't actively think about all the time I spend in the shade--walking through the streets of downtown, traveling via the train, working in my cubicle, hanging out in my garden apartment. But when I realize there's no place in Chicago to escape like I used to in Santa Barbara, to the beach, or to Campus Point, or even to the grass by the lagoon, I feel a little claustrophobic. The benefits of living in a city are many, but I miss being able to sit by the beach and loose myself in the waves, and the blue sky, and the salt water smell. I could sit by the lake, but it's never really possible to escape the sound of traffic by the lake, unless I left the city. If I had a car I could leave the city occasionally, but living car-less is one of the main benefits of living in a city.
The only place I can really escape is when i'm on my bicycle, with the morning sun on my face as i'm riding to work. There are cars and streetlights and asphalt, but there's also wind, moderately fresh air, and a wonderful feeling of freedom. But today it poured. And my bike seems to ride worse every time I get on it, and yesterday I had to leave it locked somewhere on my way home from work because it was becoming increasingly evident, the closer home I got, that it needed some work.
I guess i'm making due without nature. But I wish it wasn't so difficult to find.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
more on communication
Joel Stein from the Los Angeles Times wrote a lovely--I mean, scathing--critique of the "25 Random Things" Facebook trend.
Patrick Reardon at the Chicago Tribune writes a nicer article.
I still haven't posted mine, nor do I think I'm going to.
OK--maybe I'll post the first five here, just for fun. Even though Stein hates them, he still posts 25 of his own:
1. I am currently obsessed with blood oranges, dark leafy greens, hearts of palm, cheesy grits, and vanilla tea. Or, really, any kind of black tea with milk. But especially vanilla. I never liked—or tried—any of these things before I moved to the Midwest.
2. I still can’t believe sometimes that I live, and have lived for quite sometime now, in the Midwest. It often pains me that I live so far away from family and friends, but I’m pleasantly surprised that I’ve created such a nice makeshift family for myself here. Having this doesn’t make it quite so difficult and, I really do like living here and the independence it encourages.
3. I do miss nature, though.
4. I like to drink caffeine in the form of black tea with milk almost every morning, and sometimes, if I’m cold or bored, every afternoon. Despite this, I refuse to become dependent on caffeine. I don’t know whether it’s this refusal that has made me not become dependent on it, or it’s that I’ve unknowingly keep my intake sporadic enough to counteract addiction, but I have thus far managed to avoid dependence.
5. Incidentally, I stick to tea because I refuse to become dependent on coffee. Every once in awhile, I have a love affair with coffee or espresso (recently, I discovered the wonders of café au laits), but I always go back to tea (more recently I discovered the wonders of tea lattes). Mostly because I can’t handle the caffeine in coffee. Someone—I don’t remember who—once told me that I couldn’t be a journalist if I didn’t drink coffee all the time. I’m not sure if I can be called a journalist, but even so, I think I’ve done OK without it.
Patrick Reardon at the Chicago Tribune writes a nicer article.
I still haven't posted mine, nor do I think I'm going to.
OK--maybe I'll post the first five here, just for fun. Even though Stein hates them, he still posts 25 of his own:
1. I am currently obsessed with blood oranges, dark leafy greens, hearts of palm, cheesy grits, and vanilla tea. Or, really, any kind of black tea with milk. But especially vanilla. I never liked—or tried—any of these things before I moved to the Midwest.
2. I still can’t believe sometimes that I live, and have lived for quite sometime now, in the Midwest. It often pains me that I live so far away from family and friends, but I’m pleasantly surprised that I’ve created such a nice makeshift family for myself here. Having this doesn’t make it quite so difficult and, I really do like living here and the independence it encourages.
3. I do miss nature, though.
4. I like to drink caffeine in the form of black tea with milk almost every morning, and sometimes, if I’m cold or bored, every afternoon. Despite this, I refuse to become dependent on caffeine. I don’t know whether it’s this refusal that has made me not become dependent on it, or it’s that I’ve unknowingly keep my intake sporadic enough to counteract addiction, but I have thus far managed to avoid dependence.
5. Incidentally, I stick to tea because I refuse to become dependent on coffee. Every once in awhile, I have a love affair with coffee or espresso (recently, I discovered the wonders of café au laits), but I always go back to tea (more recently I discovered the wonders of tea lattes). Mostly because I can’t handle the caffeine in coffee. Someone—I don’t remember who—once told me that I couldn’t be a journalist if I didn’t drink coffee all the time. I’m not sure if I can be called a journalist, but even so, I think I’ve done OK without it.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
on communication
In the process of trying to adjust and learn as much as I can about my new workplace, I have been reading as many articles about communication as I can get my hands on. Communication—which I define, basically, as PR and marketing, whether inside a company or coming out of the company—is a field that I’ve always observed and been vaguely interested in due to its similarities to its sometime friend and perhaps moreoften enemy, the media. (I have written about the media before)
Our position in either field is rather indeterminate. For the most part, my colleagues, like me, are journalists and have never been a part of the industry we are writing for. We are, as the media always ideally is, outsiders looking in. And even though we’re outsiders, journalists are usually good at getting inside whatever they’re writing about. Though good journalists by training, we, as opposed to most of our media counterparts, are usually a friend to our readers, the communicators, so we can’t very well get lumped in with the rest of the media. I have gotten way off topic here, but I might as well explain the apparent antipathy that I have illustrated that the media feel toward the communicators. Perhaps it’s not antipathy so much as wariness—the media (again, ideally) seeks to tell the truth about what they see whereas the communicators seek to spin what they see in favor of their organizations. So, as you see, the two usually don’t have the same goals.
So, because I come from a media background and am not used to being friends with the communicators nor really trying to understand how they think, I am now doing my research. My research takes me to a lot of different websites that I frequent, or wish I frequented, or have never seen before. I have learned about Twitter, which I still don’t really understand, but most importantly I have learned about PR and marketing in the Internet age, which is supremely interesting because it not only affects the communicators themselves, but also the media, because the only income newspapers can somewhat rely on right now is their advertising revenue, and it isn’t enough.
The past few weeks, there’s been a note going around Facebook called “25 Random Things About Me.” The concept is simple. You write 25 random things about yourself, tag 25 friends in the note, and these friends in turn write their own 25 things and tag their own 25 friends, and so on. It’s the new age chain letter or chain email, without the threats. I’ve been tagged a couple times now, and I haven’t responded. Why would people want to read 25 things about me? People won’t read them anyway. I can’t think of that many things about me. I don’t have time for this. But yesterday I was feeling particularly introspective, and after having skimmed several of my friends’ versions, I was thinking of a lot of random things about myself that I could write. So I did. But then I felt silly and overly divulegent (Word says this is not a word, and so does Merriam-Webster, but it should be) and juvenile and I didn’t post it. Now it appears I’m too late—Slate says I’ve missed the bandwagon, though perhaps their article will spark a new round.
As Slate says, communicators would be interested in this phenomenon because it illustrates just what can happen if a few people think something is cool and then tell their friends about it. The way to start a viral/grass-roots marketing campaign, the article says, “is to introduce a wide variety of schemes into the wild and pray like hell that one of them evolves into a virulent meme (good word).” So there’s really no guarantee at all that any of their schemes will work in this new Internet world. Tough break for them and newspapers both.
My friend, little thinker, goes the philosophical route he often does, and thinks it’s just further proof that our generation loves to talk about ourselves. (He hasn’t written about this yet, but maybe he will now). Maybe we do like to talk about ourselves. I’ve talked, or wrote, a whole lot about myself in the form of blogs since 2000 (!!). Or maybe we’re just tired of staring at computers and reading emails and using cell phones and limiting our face-to-face interactions with people and we want some good, old fashioned attention.
I guess that’s what Valentine’s Day is for.
Look at me, still staring at my computer.
Note: I have included a lot of good links that I don't explain, like bloggers are known to do. The links are to a lot of interesting articles that relate to what I talk about in the post. You should click on them.
Our position in either field is rather indeterminate. For the most part, my colleagues, like me, are journalists and have never been a part of the industry we are writing for. We are, as the media always ideally is, outsiders looking in. And even though we’re outsiders, journalists are usually good at getting inside whatever they’re writing about. Though good journalists by training, we, as opposed to most of our media counterparts, are usually a friend to our readers, the communicators, so we can’t very well get lumped in with the rest of the media. I have gotten way off topic here, but I might as well explain the apparent antipathy that I have illustrated that the media feel toward the communicators. Perhaps it’s not antipathy so much as wariness—the media (again, ideally) seeks to tell the truth about what they see whereas the communicators seek to spin what they see in favor of their organizations. So, as you see, the two usually don’t have the same goals.
So, because I come from a media background and am not used to being friends with the communicators nor really trying to understand how they think, I am now doing my research. My research takes me to a lot of different websites that I frequent, or wish I frequented, or have never seen before. I have learned about Twitter, which I still don’t really understand, but most importantly I have learned about PR and marketing in the Internet age, which is supremely interesting because it not only affects the communicators themselves, but also the media, because the only income newspapers can somewhat rely on right now is their advertising revenue, and it isn’t enough.
The past few weeks, there’s been a note going around Facebook called “25 Random Things About Me.” The concept is simple. You write 25 random things about yourself, tag 25 friends in the note, and these friends in turn write their own 25 things and tag their own 25 friends, and so on. It’s the new age chain letter or chain email, without the threats. I’ve been tagged a couple times now, and I haven’t responded. Why would people want to read 25 things about me? People won’t read them anyway. I can’t think of that many things about me. I don’t have time for this. But yesterday I was feeling particularly introspective, and after having skimmed several of my friends’ versions, I was thinking of a lot of random things about myself that I could write. So I did. But then I felt silly and overly divulegent (Word says this is not a word, and so does Merriam-Webster, but it should be) and juvenile and I didn’t post it. Now it appears I’m too late—Slate says I’ve missed the bandwagon, though perhaps their article will spark a new round.
As Slate says, communicators would be interested in this phenomenon because it illustrates just what can happen if a few people think something is cool and then tell their friends about it. The way to start a viral/grass-roots marketing campaign, the article says, “is to introduce a wide variety of schemes into the wild and pray like hell that one of them evolves into a virulent meme (good word).” So there’s really no guarantee at all that any of their schemes will work in this new Internet world. Tough break for them and newspapers both.
My friend, little thinker, goes the philosophical route he often does, and thinks it’s just further proof that our generation loves to talk about ourselves. (He hasn’t written about this yet, but maybe he will now). Maybe we do like to talk about ourselves. I’ve talked, or wrote, a whole lot about myself in the form of blogs since 2000 (!!). Or maybe we’re just tired of staring at computers and reading emails and using cell phones and limiting our face-to-face interactions with people and we want some good, old fashioned attention.
I guess that’s what Valentine’s Day is for.
Look at me, still staring at my computer.
Note: I have included a lot of good links that I don't explain, like bloggers are known to do. The links are to a lot of interesting articles that relate to what I talk about in the post. You should click on them.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
not so special
I wrote this last Monday, on my first day commuting to my new ( temporary) job:
I’d forgotten how humbling commuting is. I woke up early this morning—earlier than I’ve woken up in probably 7 months—thinking while I was showering, getting dressed, doing my hair, putting on makeup, getting my lunch ready, and eating breakfast that I was lucky to have secured a job for myself, even with millions of others out of work.
I left the house in business casual, even though just casual was recommended, vowing this time with the makeup and the heels and the black pants and the sweater to dress for the position I want and not the one I have (which is, for the moment, no position at all really). I left myself 30 minutes because the commute was a familiar one, I got to the train at 8:35 and realized that lots of other people—hundreds, thousands, millions even—have jobs in the Loop they need to get to by 9:00. Lots of them were wearing black pants. Leather shoes. Heels. Makeup. The first train went by—completely full. I hoped that the next one would spare me from having to kick myself for forgetting that other people work too. Or worse—taking a cab.
I thankfully got on the next one, and when I got to my stop I followed the lines of the other business-clad clad folks up the escalators, through the turnstiles, and out into the street, walking briskly toward my new temporary workplace. We’re all lucky to have jobs, I guess.
I have ditched the makeup since, and given myself a little more time to get to work than I should need. There are millions out of work, but there are still millions going to work, just like usual. And for them, it’s nothing special. But for me, well, I’m thankful.
I’d forgotten how humbling commuting is. I woke up early this morning—earlier than I’ve woken up in probably 7 months—thinking while I was showering, getting dressed, doing my hair, putting on makeup, getting my lunch ready, and eating breakfast that I was lucky to have secured a job for myself, even with millions of others out of work.
I left the house in business casual, even though just casual was recommended, vowing this time with the makeup and the heels and the black pants and the sweater to dress for the position I want and not the one I have (which is, for the moment, no position at all really). I left myself 30 minutes because the commute was a familiar one, I got to the train at 8:35 and realized that lots of other people—hundreds, thousands, millions even—have jobs in the Loop they need to get to by 9:00. Lots of them were wearing black pants. Leather shoes. Heels. Makeup. The first train went by—completely full. I hoped that the next one would spare me from having to kick myself for forgetting that other people work too. Or worse—taking a cab.
I thankfully got on the next one, and when I got to my stop I followed the lines of the other business-clad clad folks up the escalators, through the turnstiles, and out into the street, walking briskly toward my new temporary workplace. We’re all lucky to have jobs, I guess.
I have ditched the makeup since, and given myself a little more time to get to work than I should need. There are millions out of work, but there are still millions going to work, just like usual. And for them, it’s nothing special. But for me, well, I’m thankful.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
the noble dukes of york
I don’t remember the last time I held a baby. I’m sure I must’ve held a cousin or a family friend’s baby in the last 16 years, but the last time I’m sure I held a baby was when my little sister was a baby—over 16 years ago. And when my little sister was a baby, I, too, was young, and when I held her it was on the couch, with two blue pillows under my arm that was supporting her neck and one under the arm that was supporting her feet. Really, she was more just lying on my lap.
So, imagine my surprise this morning when the father I was babysitting for plopped his four-month-old baby girl in my arms and said, “Here, why don’t you hold her?” and proceeded to head down the steep, spiral, iron staircase and continue my tour of the house. When I hesitated, he rescued his daughter, but deposited her back in my arms when we got to the bottom. “I guess it’s tricky when you’re not used to it.”
The baby was warmer, and heavier, and softer that I thought she would be, and after I stopped her from screaming, fed her, got spit up on a couple times, and reluctantly changed a poopy diaper, I discovered that she smiled toothlessly when I sang and gave her the same ride on my knees that I must’ve watched my mother give 100 times to my sisters. When I got tired of singing the same tune, I hummed it, and when I got tired of humming it, I racked my brain for other songs and games I remembered my mother playing with my sisters, and when I ran out, I hummed a songless tune as she danced on my knees, still smiling.
Even though she couldn’t tell me what she wanted when she screamed, I preferred her company to her brother’s, who could tell me what he wanted, but most often chose to tell me what he didn’t want. And when I cleaned up his bodily fluids, they were on the carpet, and when he screamed at naptime (rather, an hour later than naptime) and I picked him up and put him in his room, I worried that he would try to run back to his toys, his couch-cushion fort, and the TV. But he was tired like his sister usually was, and finally gave me nearly an hour and a half of peace. And when I heard his door squeak, and his little feet padding up the spiral staircase, I dreaded his return. But he woke up from his nap milder than when he went down, and I got to spend some quality time with him, though he was much more interested in running around and squirming around on the couch cushions with a few of his stuffed animals than he was in playing.
Nevertheless, when their father finally came home, I gave the baby and her brother both hugs, and thankfully left. And when I got home I showered, changed clothes, and napped for an hour and a half. I may not babysit again til I have babies of my own—and hopefully then I will be more prepared. I haven’t changed a real poopy diaper more than a couple times in my life, and I’ve never prepared a bottle of formula. It’s funny, because girls much younger than I have babies, and many families have been started when the mother is my age or younger. But my 7.5 hours today acting as mother were more effective in deterring pregnancy than flour babies or health class or that electronic crying baby I took home in junior high. They’re fun to visit, but right now I’m quite enjoying my peace.
So, imagine my surprise this morning when the father I was babysitting for plopped his four-month-old baby girl in my arms and said, “Here, why don’t you hold her?” and proceeded to head down the steep, spiral, iron staircase and continue my tour of the house. When I hesitated, he rescued his daughter, but deposited her back in my arms when we got to the bottom. “I guess it’s tricky when you’re not used to it.”
The baby was warmer, and heavier, and softer that I thought she would be, and after I stopped her from screaming, fed her, got spit up on a couple times, and reluctantly changed a poopy diaper, I discovered that she smiled toothlessly when I sang and gave her the same ride on my knees that I must’ve watched my mother give 100 times to my sisters. When I got tired of singing the same tune, I hummed it, and when I got tired of humming it, I racked my brain for other songs and games I remembered my mother playing with my sisters, and when I ran out, I hummed a songless tune as she danced on my knees, still smiling.
Even though she couldn’t tell me what she wanted when she screamed, I preferred her company to her brother’s, who could tell me what he wanted, but most often chose to tell me what he didn’t want. And when I cleaned up his bodily fluids, they were on the carpet, and when he screamed at naptime (rather, an hour later than naptime) and I picked him up and put him in his room, I worried that he would try to run back to his toys, his couch-cushion fort, and the TV. But he was tired like his sister usually was, and finally gave me nearly an hour and a half of peace. And when I heard his door squeak, and his little feet padding up the spiral staircase, I dreaded his return. But he woke up from his nap milder than when he went down, and I got to spend some quality time with him, though he was much more interested in running around and squirming around on the couch cushions with a few of his stuffed animals than he was in playing.
Nevertheless, when their father finally came home, I gave the baby and her brother both hugs, and thankfully left. And when I got home I showered, changed clothes, and napped for an hour and a half. I may not babysit again til I have babies of my own—and hopefully then I will be more prepared. I haven’t changed a real poopy diaper more than a couple times in my life, and I’ve never prepared a bottle of formula. It’s funny, because girls much younger than I have babies, and many families have been started when the mother is my age or younger. But my 7.5 hours today acting as mother were more effective in deterring pregnancy than flour babies or health class or that electronic crying baby I took home in junior high. They’re fun to visit, but right now I’m quite enjoying my peace.
My Marble Cupcake
"Remember, we are not journalists, we are... we are serious scholars."
He said it quietly, as something of an afterthought to underscore his suggestion that I not mire myself (or, more precisely, my thesis) in a catalog of Taiwanese political squabbles.
To be fair, my senior thesis adviser always speaks quietly, but this bit of hushed advice he added to the end of a brief exhortation to transcend. Yes, he asked that I find a larger issue whereby my thesis about Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall could transcend journalistic observation and rise to some level of removed, eternal, divine scholarship. "Take an Olympian view," he said. "Detach yourself."
Now before Lindsey gets her panties in a twist, let's consider this. I once had a dream of being a noble journalist as well, but I don't think I have the wherewithal. (Another thing he told me was that I should be less judgmental in my writing--it seems that I make neither a very good scholar nor a very good journalist.)
My thesis is about the Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall: a formal analysis of its original plan, an evaluation of the design competition which yielded the plan, and with some luck, some comment on the social and cultural realities of the Republic of China post-1950 that manifested their particular troubles in the marble cupcake that sits in the middle of Taipei.
But it was an article in the New York Times that first alerted me to the trouble of its renaming in 2007. I felt, at the time, that this was an appropriate moment in which to catch this issue: Taiwan, on the cusp of a regime change;Taipei, in light of Beijing's rising stardom; a particular building, in the midst of a squabble over its meaning and moniker. To me, the topic and the building were made relevant by the news articles that every day chronicled the living and breathing folks--the protestors, the legislators, the tai-chi practitioners--that looked upon the cupcake as something more than a tourist trap.
A year later, I see, though, that particular moments do lose their shine, no matter how bright the spark at the time of touchdown (there is a reason why, I guess, newspapers are eventually used to pack china and as a streak-free alternative to cotton rags for cleaning glass): a new president has been elected and protested against, Beijing's Olympic performance did not make everyone forget about its human rights record, the issue of the memorial's name was quietly settled in a January legislative meeting.
The most vividly written section I have at the moment is a mini-chronicle of that recent battle. But I see now that relying on that moment can't make for the foundations of a 20,000-word paper. The marble cupcake has faded back into the Taipei landscape, its 70 meters--once making it the tallest edifice in Taipei--are now dwarfed by new symbols of Taiwan's international status.
==
He said it quietly, as something of an afterthought to underscore his suggestion that I not mire myself (or, more precisely, my thesis) in a catalog of Taiwanese political squabbles.
To be fair, my senior thesis adviser always speaks quietly, but this bit of hushed advice he added to the end of a brief exhortation to transcend. Yes, he asked that I find a larger issue whereby my thesis about Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall could transcend journalistic observation and rise to some level of removed, eternal, divine scholarship. "Take an Olympian view," he said. "Detach yourself."
He can be so dramatic.
Now before Lindsey gets her panties in a twist, let's consider this. I once had a dream of being a noble journalist as well, but I don't think I have the wherewithal. (Another thing he told me was that I should be less judgmental in my writing--it seems that I make neither a very good scholar nor a very good journalist.)
My thesis is about the Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall: a formal analysis of its original plan, an evaluation of the design competition which yielded the plan, and with some luck, some comment on the social and cultural realities of the Republic of China post-1950 that manifested their particular troubles in the marble cupcake that sits in the middle of Taipei.
But it was an article in the New York Times that first alerted me to the trouble of its renaming in 2007. I felt, at the time, that this was an appropriate moment in which to catch this issue: Taiwan, on the cusp of a regime change;Taipei, in light of Beijing's rising stardom; a particular building, in the midst of a squabble over its meaning and moniker. To me, the topic and the building were made relevant by the news articles that every day chronicled the living and breathing folks--the protestors, the legislators, the tai-chi practitioners--that looked upon the cupcake as something more than a tourist trap.
A year later, I see, though, that particular moments do lose their shine, no matter how bright the spark at the time of touchdown (there is a reason why, I guess, newspapers are eventually used to pack china and as a streak-free alternative to cotton rags for cleaning glass): a new president has been elected and protested against, Beijing's Olympic performance did not make everyone forget about its human rights record, the issue of the memorial's name was quietly settled in a January legislative meeting.
The most vividly written section I have at the moment is a mini-chronicle of that recent battle. But I see now that relying on that moment can't make for the foundations of a 20,000-word paper. The marble cupcake has faded back into the Taipei landscape, its 70 meters--once making it the tallest edifice in Taipei--are now dwarfed by new symbols of Taiwan's international status.
==
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