Brooke's Birthday

Nice pic.

A Crawl to Action

Stranded content. It pisses me off.

Back when I was writing for a San Francisco city blog, I garnered a number of contacts across many disciplines -- a couple cops, tech execs, controversial figures, etc. And after I left that site, many kept pinging me with news and other items of interest -- little of which I could use at my new, highly-handcuffed (subject-wise and editorial-wise) gig.

Stranded content. Couldn't do anything with it. Potentially interesting items just gone. Possibilities wasted.

Most especially the comics-related stuff, which is one of my first loves and passions. But then came an opportunity to write about comics for a pretty keen site. I turned in one article. Just one. Totally blew my chance.

My current gig is very specific, content-wise. And the content is interesting, but, again, there's very little room for writing creatively or incisively about things that are personal passions. So I started writing about comics for a print pub, a new one, that was taking contributions as long as they were gratis. I had three pieces published before the thing went kaput. Two articles I turned in never were published. I don't care so much about my time being wasted, but it upsets me that the artists/creators who took the time to talk to me won't get anything out of it.

More stranded content.

So what to do about it? Can I possibly be naive enough to take matters into my own hands and try to start an online magazine of sorts? With a fairly clear (yet open to evolving) editorial direction?

Why, yes. Yes I am that naive. Now I just have to see how many suckers I can convince to write about an article a week for free.

Why? Because generating cool content you can be passionate about is worth it, even if nobody's going to see it. (And after working on web properties this long, you can bet I'll get it in front of a couple eyeballs, but still, the point stands).

And, as important, doing projects with your friends is the best (especially if money's not involved). Like I told my entrepreneurial buddy Rob, who started his own company recently, when he asked for my take on some publishing and PR matters: "I'm happy to do that for you, and do it for free -- I don't charge my friends. At least not at first."

Because working with people you have strong relationships with cuts through a large amount of the formalities and awkwardness and communication bullsh*t. Hard to put on airs to guys and gals who've seen you at your best and worst.

Well, that's my attitude anyway; I don't expect others to necessarily share it. But I would like to give a little go to a side project with people I know I like "projecting" with.

When it comes to a midlife crisis, domain names are cheaper than sports cars.

file-o-file

I was tasked with giving a technology column a name. Not that "techno-file" was such a wonderful name, but I thought it was funny when I was told no because it sounded too much like "pedophile."

So I submitted like 20 other names and the editor at the time picked something generic and serviceable.

I'm a little concerned. Content-dependent business strategies shouldn't be dependent on "generic and serviceable." Of course, a column name is less important than the content. The writing in the almost-monthly column is surely not scintillating (I am the writer, after all), but it's progressively gotten better purely based on the people sending me gadgets and such to review. The more I like the device -- or the more I'm disappointed with it, in the case of a negative review -- the better it tends to be. Because average devices spawn serviceable writing, while noteworthy (positively or negatively) tech inspires passion.

Should passion be a key determinant in how well the stories I file are written? I suppose that's less than professional of me, but I am afraid that's the case. I had a great conversation with a woman that owns a string of McDonald's stores back east. I loved writing the piece. Hope it shows.

Not sure what I am getting at here, except perhaps trying to square a few things in my brain.

Valuation

Found myself contemplating my worst work experience, circa 2000/early 2001

I don't think anybody wants to be in a situation where he or she doesn't feel valuable.

To my thinking, it's the difference between sticking it out through the hard times -- knowing that there's something tangible and worth saving -- and running for the door at your first opportunity, because it's hard to place honest, emotional value in something that doesn't give a crap about you. This is life -- relationship or career.

Think about it: at your worst positions, have you ever been treated like a valued member of the team? And at your best, weren't your generally positive contributions generally posited on?

I guess that's where entrepreneurship has a leg up. Right? Because if you're calling the shots, doing all the work, and reaping the consequences (whether success or lack thereof), you know your own value. And only the customer -- and their dollars -- can prove you wrong. Not nearly as subjective as, say, proving yourself to the third boss to the left, two levels up, in a major corporation.

As I get older, I find that my job satisfaction is far more keyed to mutual respect and the accomplishment of agreed-upon goals than it is "making a difference" or fulfilling some personal artistic need. The primary responsibility of my most rewarding job to date was akin to watching paint dry, yet I did it, did it well, and loved the consequences of doing it: an environment of appreciation and respect, if somewhat subdued and formal due to the nature of the business.

When I initially conceived of writing about the above, I meant for this to be much longer, but there's really not much else to say.

The Wonderful Mystique of Magazines

Dan Baum says: "The New Yorker, while a very good magazine, is just a magazine."

I'm not quite sure that's true. The thing is, anything that you see up close and, heaven forbid, participate in, loses much of its sheen. At least to my experience.

Of course, I'm not much of a fan of The New Yorker as a magazine. Who has the time? It's long, man, and, as my co-worker put it today, "they just shoot those things at you." Bap-bap-bap-bap, like it's coming out of an assault rifle. Content-wise, I actually prefer The Atlantic. I love The Atlantic. It must be true: a Facebook status of mine several days ago was something like: "the fact that the Atlantic is providing so much free online content is as mind boggling as it is schedule disrupting." Like, I don't even have to pay for the damned thing anymore, so I don't feel guilty that I read all the Coates and Fallows and maybe skip some of the other stuff.

But I digress. Back to the point.

I like The New Yorker fine, especially those rare occasions that I get my hands on the fiction issue. But its real resonance to me is as a character of sorts: a mythical institution. A subject of fiction and non-fiction. And even personal fiction.

About 7-8 years ago, Heather ordered a book from this discount catalog. "About Town" by Ben Yagoda. The origins of The New Yorker. I picked it up reluctantly, hoping for at least an anecdote of a favorite author. I ended up devouring it, everything from the Algonquin Round Table to William Shawn to Joseph Mitchell to Tina Brown. Etc. The vibrancy and wit and humor and slapdash beginnings and cultural impact . . . This look behind the curtain cemented the magazine -- both this specific one and magazines as a whole -- as primary points of interest for me. I read "Bright Lights, Big City," to get the nuggets of an insider's view within the fiction. I read the collected works of the aforementioned Mr. Mitchell, as well as John Cheever and a bunch of the others mentioned in "About Town."

And then, on one weird day in San Francisco, I met an ex-stripper at a bar that claimed to be David Remnick's daughter (not that I asked) and told me the inside scoop on the Las Vegas topless scene. It was a hell of an interesting afternoon.

Cut to about a month ago. After having our stuff in storage for about a year, Heather unpacked all the books and put them on the shelves. "About Town" kept staring at me. But I really didn't have time to read it. Or, rather, I maintained my position of late: since I read and write all day for work, the last thing my brain wants to do when I get home is read anything long-form. Pathetic, yes. So I stuck with blog entries, comic books, and Twitter feeds.

Yes, Twitter feeds. I was led somehow to Dan Baum's Twit-story on how he left The New Yorker a few years back. Fascinating reading -- again, the magazine as a character/antagonist captured my fancy. As did a little of the bitching/fallout that followed Mr. Baum's airing of the mildly soiled. And when all that died down, I picked up "About Town," and started reading it once again.

And it's still a really good story. Even if sorta true.

I work at a magazine; I'm the Web editor, and I arrived at this position sort of, as my mother might put it, "by way of China." The job started about a year and a quarter ago -- around the time the 'About Town' and all my books were in boxes. And the view from the inside has been interesting and educational. But I can't imagine anyone outside would find even our most amusing characters and trying situations and occasional triumphs half as interesting as Mr. Baum's recent "war stories."

Partly because Mr. Baum seems to be a highly talented individual. And partly because The New Yorker, even to casual fans like me, is hardly "just a magazine."

Nisens in San Diego

Courtesy of Melanie Marsh, via Facebook:

Wee Folk

Jude, St. Patty's-style:

Pretty Hilarious

What kind of resources does Slate Mag. have that they can recreate Asteroids with Jim Cramer's head as the ship and John Stewart/Blodget/bear market symbols as the asteroids? Kind of hilarious . . .

What can be sweeter . . .

. . . than fruit from your own trees?

Below, an orange (exotic, I know), and white I believe is a "white sapote."

Haven't eaten the orange yet, but the sapote was pretty damned delicious. Like pear-flavored pudding . . . or maybe a pear-flavored mini-mango. Hard to describe.

Can't wait to move.

Three!

Happy B-day to my little guy, who turned three today.

We spent the weekend with friends down in SD . . . friends with an 8-month old. Jude was pretty good with the baby. I was hoping he'd get a good feel for having a baby around, in anticipation of the pending sibling.

He was unfortunately in a crappy mood today, brought on by a weekend of eating too little (super picky; eats even more poorly on trips), a minor illness late last week, and overexcitement. But we did have great fun over the weekend.

Yay California

So, I screwed up. Big time. Got into a little accident in a rental car last October when we were in Florida. Covered through my credit card's insurance, rather than the car co.'s. Called and reported it to the credit card co., they sent paperwork.

4 months later the bill comes. I'm all "great, time to check out the paperwork from the credit card co." only problem: that paperwork clearly says "must be turned in within 45 days." No reason to wait for the bill.

Frack.

So I get on the phone with a very nice agent who sounded very sad to tell me I was out of luck, but then she asked if I live in Calif. Which, of course, I do.

California residents, because of state law, are not subject to that limitation. $1400 I don't have to spend. Thank the freakin' lord.

And the great state of California.