Skip to content

Category Archives: best of

Container for Best of Blog posts.

Your Author, Then & Now

One last 10th Anniversary post…

Your Author, August 26, 2000
Age: 18
Occupation: College Student / Orientation Leader / Barista
Education: One year of college
Residence: Double-occupancy dorm room
Roommate: Viktor, a despicable Eastern European cad
Music collection: about 2,500 songs
Songs written: 100
Girls dated: 0

As a performer: High school and college plays. Maybe an open mic.

Recording rig: Pinhole mic in PC monitor, into Real Producer

Blogging platform: Free account on freespeech.org; Blogger via FTP

Media experience: Hung out at Philly Weekly for the day. Wrote for a little-viewed e/n site (remember those?)

.

Your Author, August 26, 2010
Age: 28
Occupation: Communications Account Manager
Education: BA Communications, minors in Theatre & Music
Residence: Single tudor house
Roommate: Elise, charming wife and rock star
Music collection: about 18,000 songs
Songs written: 262
Girls dated: 2

As a performer: A few hundred open mics and a burgeoning number of full gigs; public speaking for groups >4000

Recording rig: Multi-track digital home studio

Blogging platform: Pro account on Dreamhost; installed WordPress

Media experience: Copywriting for local and national publications & brochures; managing multi-platform ad campaigns; brand identities for two non-profit startups; 10 years of blogging

Happy Birthday To This

A tenth anniversary post in five parts, accompanied by ten years of photos from the blog.

One of CK's earliest mastheads, from 2000-2001.

I. The Measure of a Decade - what do ten years really mean?
II. My Random Niche - how CK began, and what it became
III. Excelsior, Alwaysmy year in review
IV. The Unhealthy Habit - how CK changed my life (finally) (again)
V. Past Is Prologue - my gratitude for the past ten years
Continue reading ›

10 posts from Year 10 for my 10th anniversary

In a few short hours it will be the tenth anniversary of my first post on Crushing Krisis.

As you might expect, I have a lot to say about that. Before I do, I wanted to share ten of my favorite posts from this past year. (Actually, it’s 13 posts, but the pairs are pairs for a reason – not out of indecisiveness).
Continue reading ›

House Concert Highlights: Madonna, Mieka, & Elise

OMG you guys, you missed the best night ever. But don’t worry – I recorded it all for you!

Last night I supported Mieka Pauley at our first ever house concert, which was also ostensibly the CK 10th Anniversary Show. It was amazing. I had a great time playing songs I usually think are pretty hard, and Mieka was both flawless and real several feet away from my sofa.

Here’s two highlights I will treasure forever…

<a href="http://petermarinari.bandcamp.com/track/ray-of-light-live">Ray of Light (live) by Peter Marinari</a>
I cover “Ray of Light” for the first time ever, on my baritone guitar, which I had only figured out how to do about 24 hours prior.

.


Mieka plays her spectacular tune “Colossal” with impromptu, unrehearsed harmony from Elise, my wife and lead singer of Filmstar.

.

There’s way, way more where that came from. Also, my blog turns 10 in three days.

Did I mention that all happened IN MY LIVING ROOM.

CRAZY.

paint chips, forks, and vomitoriums

The non-extreme portion of Memorial Day weekend found E and I in Home Depot, contemplating paint chips for a redress of our new dining room. Or, rather, E was contemplating paint chips while I idly examined the paper quality and die cuts of the paint brochures.

“What colors do you think the dining room should be?” E queried, fist full of colored slips of high-end paper.

“You know me – everything spartan.”

(I pronounced “spartan” as “spahttan,” a Buffy in-joke about Faith and her seedy apartment.)

While reductive (and an in-joke), as a statement it’s essentially true – the colors I like in a home are white, hardwood, and bricks. That’s it. When pressed for a choice I will always pick the bluest option, unless it’s navy. Oh, and I enjoy stainless steel, where applicable. That’s about the extent of my home decor color preferences.

(Not coincidentally, our wedding colors were sapphire and platinum.)

I continued my careful examination of the paper samples for a moment, at which point E perhaps shot me a look, so I reluctantly joined the color browsing and continued the conversation.

“Well, the wood in that room is pretty blond, so there’s that to keep in mind. Not everything goes with that. You don’t want to pick something that would turn it into a vomitorium.”

Pointedly ignoring my last statement, E produced a deep purple chip. “What about this?”

“No, that would make me vomit.” Here the older couple standing next to us at the paint display began to eye me with caution.

“Can you possibly describe the qualities a color could have that would make you vomit?”

“Well, really there’s two different facets of vomitous colors.”

Having long since grown familiar with my peculiar brand of insanity, E braced for impact.

“First, there’s context. Like, when I was a teenager my mom had our back bedroom refinished for me, and I picked this seafoam-ish green for the walls. It had context – it was part of a palette with the ceiling, the hardwoods, and my area rug. But when you live in a room you’re not always seeing the entire palette, or looking at the walls in the context of the rug. Sometimes you are just staring at the wall and you realize it’s not ‘seafoam’ so much as ‘mint,’ like mint chocolate chip ice cream and, while it made for a beautiful palette, it’s not necessarily the most pleasant-to-look-at color all on its own, but now you’re surrounded by mint chocolate chip ice cream for the next three years.

“Suddenly my room had become a vomitorium.”

At this point the older couple, who had skirted me widely to continue to browse the paint colors, put down their samples and moved to a different display.

I continued. “Then, there are colors that are pretty in the short term but will be vomitous over a longer period of time. Like, see this ‘eggplant’ chip? I love this color. But I can tell it’s like ‘fork.’”

E perhaps thought she had reached an absolute apex of exasperation during my first monologue. However, here she seemed to discover a heretofore unknown height.

“Like a fork?” She said this with a slight steeliness to her voice, like she might abandon me here in Home Depot if I wasn’t the one with the GPS phone. However, I was wound up and could not be stopped.

“No, like ‘fork.’ Like, ‘fork’ makes sense. It’s a tidy little word – four prongs, four letters. But ‘fork’ is one of those words that can get weird. Like, if you say it too many times? Fork. Fork. Fork. Fork. Fork. After a while it begins to sound made up. Fork. Fork. Fork. Fork. It doesn’t seem like it could possibly have any meaning. Fork. Fork. Fork. Eventually it starts getting uncomfortable in your mouth. Fork. Fork. Why does it have to sound so quacky? Fork. That ‘k,’ it’s so unwieldy, it kind of unsettles your stomach. It kind of (fork) makes you (fork) nauseous (fork) to even say (fork) the (fork) word (fork).

“After a while,” I intoned, gravely, “you feel like you will vomit if you even see one, let alone say the word.”

“The word for…”

“No,” I interrupted, “please, don’t say it. I’ve already said it too much.”

We stood in silence at the paint display, E staring at me in glassy disbelief.

“You see, ‘eggplant’ as a color is just like f… just like that word. As a paint chip it’s lovely. In a web palette I adore it. On a wall … every day? Eventually it’s just going to wear me down. It will turn that room into a vomitorium.”

“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

“I know exactly what it means, honey. It means a room that would make me vomit whenever I walked into it.”

That was pretty much the end of our browsing for paint chips.

.

(PS: This post is dedicated to my dear friend, SLska. Or, I should say, Master SLska.)

Major Themes of the NYC #140conf

The #140conf was a lot to absorb in just two days – over a hundred speakers across dozens of talks. I took copious notes to aid my absorption, many of which found their way onto the blog.

As I captured my minute-by-minute notes, I realized that organizer Jeff Pulver didn’t put together a mix tape of information – he composed a symphony. The major themes that emerged were developed, transposed, restated, and transformed by an orchestra of characters on the stage.

I’ve recapped those five major themes below. If you attended (or watched online), do you agree that these ideas were prevalent and consisten?

Did you also hear other prevailing melodies in the symphony? If so, what were they?

1. Twitter has proven its power as a instrument of change on both the macro and micro levels.
Over the course of the conference we heard about single people freed from rubble in Haiti and entire nations where governments were held accountable for their actions (including our own!). When it comes to changing our world, Twitter has moved past the proof-of-concept stage.

2. Education must become digitally native and socially connected.
Every day that parents and educators rely on the existing pedagogic paradigm and ignore the ubiquity of social technology in the lives of our students is a day they are under-serving them. This isn’t a change that is constrained by the digital divide – kids in Tanzania learned socially on the playground!

3. Journalism is not dead, but it’s undergoing a metamorphosis.
In a world of countless citizen reporters we need still journalists and editors to help us locate the underexposed stories and shape them into coherent, impactful narratives. If anything, journalists have more power than ever to expose the public to truth – especially if they can bridge the gap from existing broadcast vehicles to socially sourced and shared stories.

4. We’ve only begun to witness the power of contextual information to make social media hyper-local and hyper-personal.
FourSquare is the tip of the iceberg of new social technology that will harness your contextual information to provide a more localized and personalized experience based on the data you choose to reveal. There is a risk to privacy inherent in these technologies, and we must accept the responsibility of managing that risk even as the rules that define it continue to shift.

5. Brands and business models that translate themselves seamlessly to Social Media find their truest advocates there – both existing and new.
The power of consistent branding is more important than ever, and so is brand strategy. Whether you sell credit card, houses, or comic books, your enthusiastic audience is awaiting engagement that’s true to your brand.

Oh, and more anecdotally:

The majority of professionals use Tweetdeck and/or Co-Tweet.
Seriously, every laptop screen at every seat seemed to be viewing one or the other.

Social media people are the easiest people to network with – especially at #140conf.
Everyone has a story and everyone is genuinely interested in your story. Walking up to strangers can be scary, but the vast majority of them will be happy you did.

The Abridged #140conf (in video)

All of the #140conf panels are now available online in video!

#140conf was a lot to digest, and so were my nearly two dozen posts on the subject. I know not everyone has time for either, and definitely not both.

In the 140 spirit of brevity, below I present my abridged version of the conference as told by just 14 can’t-miss talks. I left out a lot of panels I really loved or learned from in favor of the ones that pack the most punch as videos, and that help to tell the surprisingly consistent narrative I drew from the event.

Watching my abridged version will take a bit longer than 140 minutes, as the panel chats are 15-20 minutes in length.

Even if you aren’t on the list I likely still loved your talk, because I loved the entire event. If you want to see the entire conference and you have the time to watch one video a day for the next few months it would be time well spent.

Continue reading ›

The Future of Privacy @ #140conf: Day 2, pt. 6

This talk goes on my highlights list – amazing content that all social media users should consider.

Privacy, Secrecy, Publicy – Stowe Boyd, Analyst, Advisor, and Futurist (@stoweboyd)

“We have secrecy for secret, privacy for private” but no word for things that are made (or made to remain) public.”

Every paragraph of this talk has a notable quotable. I encourage you to read it and consider what it means to you. It was easy to summarize rather than transcribe, because it was organized very well – the words are mine, but the content entirely belongs to Stowe.

Continue reading ›

It’s good enough for whales, dude.

We just got through sitting in our parked car eating dumplings, a queer little Saturday night date in the midst of this insanity of rock shows and serious theatre and made up awards.

Based on two visits, I love nearly everything from Vanessa’s Dumpling House on Eldridge Street, but my shrimp dumplings were not what I expected. I’m not sure what that expectation was, but it wasn’t a dumpling with dozens of teeny shrimp all nestled inside with no seasoning to speak of.

Ever since I saw District 9 I’ve been a little leery of shrimp eating, and the dumpling of a thousand shrimps was not making the shrimp-eating experience any less ooky.

I turned to E for some comfort.

P: These dumplings have, like, thousands of tiny shrimp inside of them. It’s a little creepy.
E: Like sea monkeys!
P: You’re not helping.
E: Or krill!
P: Okay, now I’m done.
E: Hey, it’s good enough for whales, dude.

E and the band were pretty good, although I can already tell she’s not going to like the video because she wasn’t happy with her vocals (she’s been pretty sick since Thursday). Every time I mention a good spot she has a bad spot to match.

I’m always inconsolable after a performance, for better or for worse. Either I know in my heart it was awful, and no coaxing can convince me otherwise, or I’m sure I was excellent and need no further discussion on the topic (Monday being a prime example).

I won’t rattle her cage any further about it being good or not. We’re off to peek into bro’s cast party to catch up with various sibling units before bed.

I #blamedrewscancer for being a Philebrity

I have a story to tell you.

I met half of the #blamedrewscancer crew at Fuzion at around seven for the Philadelphia Area New Media Association (PANMA) holiday party.

That is not the story.

We were at PANMA for some brief networking and catching up with friends, but our end destination was The Trocadero, where Philly blog fixture Philebrity was holding their non-denominational X-Mas party slash year end awards.

Blame Drew’s Cancer was up for the “Outstanding Do-Gooders of the Year” award. Polling had been open and transparent, so it was easy to see that we were getting creamed by Phillies’ Shane Victorino from day one. As such, we didn’t marshal much of a vote – eventually coming in fourth, behind even Mayor Nutter for his ballsy budget bluff.

The four of us – Britt, Mikey, Libby, and I (plus Libby’s awesome husband, another Peter) rolled in to the Troc fashionably late, and occupied the “Reserved” table closest to the stage. Our innate rowdiness took over shortly, and we were hooting at the house band (shout out to BC Camplight) and yelling “Hut!”at any reference to Lady Gaga.

Okay, maybe that was just me.

Suddenly, it was time for our award category. Philebrity Captain and one of my personal Journalist heroes Joe Sweeney read down the list of nominees. When he hit #bdc we cheered, the crowd cheered for us, and he continued down the list.

End of story? Not quite.

Joey Sweeney: So, Shane isn’t here tonight, so we’re going to give this award to Blame Drew’s Cancer.

Team Blame Drew’s Cancer: ???

No, he was not joking. Suddenly we’re being gestured at and motioned towards to the stage and then we’re on the stage and then I’m hugging Joey Sweeney and then, inevitably, I am standing in front of a microphone gaping at a rather large crowd seated at round tables all Golden Globes style and I am like, omg I think now they want me to talk.

Luckily, there is video to document my surprising coherent trip through award show aphasia:

(Take note of my neck-bobbing walk down the stairs, as it figures in to the next bit pretty heavily.) Continue reading ›

Daily Demo: Crashing

Song #77: Crashing (live demo) ["Save As" to download from that link]
Last recorded for Blogathon 2002.

10 years ago this weekend I went to my first college party, still very much a purposefully-naive, dewy-eyed teen.

I came home having had my first vodka cranberry and my first inklings of adult romance, drifting to sleep wrapped in the blissful denouement of each.

The following Monday morning was a decidedly dreary day, and I found myself locked out my dorm room in my pajamas. Instead of heading to French 103 I sat down in our common room – five stories from the ground with a two-story windowed wall staring out into Center City Philadelphia.

I pulled out a pad and wrote “Crashing.”

Later that day, having been let back into my room, I recorded its first rough demo and transferred the lyrics to the first page of the crisp new book I bought for my collegiate songs. Up until then I wasn’t sure how I would know it was time to start using it, but I suddenly did.

“Crashing” made frequent appearances at parties and late night hangouts throughout my Freshmen year, resulting in the first complements on my voice I had ever heard. They came as a great shock to me, as they still do. Later that autumn I recorded it for my first full length demo, Other Plans – shakily, in the middle of the night, trying not to wake up my mother in the process.

As a dreary fall turned to winter I moved on to add other songs to my slim gray book – many of which I still play to this day. Yet, it was “Crashing” I would play between classes as I sat at the dinged, old upright piano in the theatre green room. I would hypnotize myself with the rolling two chord verse, learning how to play piano in increments (and maybe a little bit about what the song really meant, as well).

It took the entire intervening decade to learn how to play piano well enough to demo it that way, and it seems apropos that it wound up recorded just as shakily and late as its original demos were, respectively.

 

Why I #blamedrewscancer, pt. 4

(This is the last part of my story. You should read Parts 1, 2, and 3.)

It is a Saturday afternoon, and I am staring out into pure blue, 14,000 feet above the ground, through the open hatch in the side of our tiny plane.

On the ground my partner ran through it with me. Twice. Duckwalk to door. Head leaned back on shouder. One two three go. Or is it one two go-on-three? Tip back and forward, arch your body. Arms out. Keep your mouth closed if you feel like you can’t breathe.

Fly.

Staring out the open side of the plane, his instructions dissolve. Did it matter how I arched my back? Niceties, to placate a nervous jumper.

No matter what, we would fall – flying downward, into the embrace of gravity.

“One.”

“Two.”

.

Here is #blamedrewscancer, as it’s root: we are talking about cancer.

Yes, it is inane. Yes, it is about Drew – for now. The point is, Drew gave us that – he gave us his struggle to make as silly or as serious as we need it to be.

Drew doesn’t really care if we say his name or what we blame. He just cares that we are talking about cancer. He wants to harness that conversation to raise awareness, hope, and donations. He wants to bring cancer into our daily dialog so we can work together to erase it rather than willfully ignore it until it touches our lives.

His plan is working. People are talking to Drew about his chemo treatments. I am talking to my friends about my grandmother. My co-workers are talking to each other about someone we lost, and how we can honor the fight that she won.

Blaming Drew’s cancer is inspiring us to live stronger, to be frank and hopeful about fighting cancer, and to show the love and support we may be feeling but afraid to say.

Inspiring us to win our battles.

Inspiring us to leap out of planes.

.

I have dreamt for years that I can fly, so much that I halfway believe it. It’s not an occasional foray – I can fly in every one. The rush of air past my ears and my body, weightless and free. The feeling is familiar, tucked safely under my skin.

I’ve tried to capture it outside of my dreams on playground swings and amusement park rides. I’ve looked down from trade centers, massive arches, and wrought-iron towers. I’ve ridden on airplanes and have been towed behind a boat, limbs caught up in the wind.

The closest I’ve ever come was riding my bike. It was October 12, 1998, and I was three blocks north of here in Jefferson Square park. Biking home from Anastasia’s house, I sped up until the pedals offered no more resistance. Closed my eyes and held out my arms. It only lasted for a second, but that was my first waking flight – a feeling I already knew intimately.

On my list of five things to do before I die, “fly” was first. Fly for more than those fleeting seconds of eleven years ago. Fly like my dreams.

When Drew and Chris asked if I wanted to skydive with the team, it seemed insane. I met these people online. On Twitter. Was I really going to live my dream with a bunch of strangers from the internet?

It was not insane. It was kismet. It was Drew’s whole point. Live Strong. You want to fly? What’s stopping you? Jump out of a damned plane. You want to be a singer? Don’t make an excuse. Use your voice with confidence.

You want to beat cancer? Blame it and battle it and beat the hell out of it every day with all of the power and positive energy you can muster from yourself and from everyone you’ve ever met until you defeat it.

You have cancer, but cancer does not have you.

.

“Three.”

FreefallingWe lean back and pitch forward, falling from plane. I arch. For a second it feels like nothing – the velocity of our bodies moving at the speed of the plane and the pull of gravity countermanding each other

Then, acceleration. Real flight, but towards the ground instead of up, up, and away like Superman or Neo.

In my mind I shrug off the man strapped to my back and the photographer waving in my face – unconsciously throwing him rock signs as he gestures towards his camera.

It is what I know beneath my skin, and more. There is no plane above or ground below. There is the rush of air past my ears and my body, weightless and free. There is limitless blue in every direction – I can’t see the ground. Gravity is for the weak-willed and falling is flying, hurtling, easy like love.

Wind blasts my limbs, buffeting my torso like a cascade of water. I feel strangely supported by the air, as if I could stand delicately on it, like snow.

That lasts for about a minute, or for the eternity of every dream I’ve ever had, depending on how I measure.

A whisper in my ear isn’t the wind, it’s my partner, long-since forgotten. I cross my arms, clenching my harness in my fists, and he pulls the cord. The parachute rides up above us, catching the wind. The harness bucks hard, and gravity is countermanded again. My stomach suspends itself.

This is a different kind of flying. Floating, perfectly controlled. Now I see the ground, and it is minuscule below us. Philadelphia rises in the distance, and i feel like we could just tip forward and head that way.

BDC Skydiving I break the silence.

“I should tell you something.”

“Hmm?”

We are having a conversation, circa 7,000 feet.

“I dream that I can fly. Not just some of the time. Like, every dream. It’s just something I can do.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And it’s just like this.”

We hang in the restored silence, falling slowly. As the ground becomes nearer I scream my trademark soprano wail and listen as it fades away with nothing to reflect against.

Eventually there is a field and a landing strip, and we have a shadow, and it grows larger and larger until our bodies meet it, wrapped once again in gravity’s close embrace and a puddle of mud.

.

Tonight at midnight Drew’s Blame-a-Thon begins – the reason I wound up sitting across the table from him at an Applebee’s two months ago.

In two months I have seen people and businesses do amazing things to encourage Drew and to support LiveStrong, all culminating in tomorrow’s event.

It’s about awareness and fundraising, but to me it feels halfway like faith-healing. Like, maybe if we all focus we can blame the cancer away.

Probably not. Not in one day, at least. But blaming cancer can change lives. It’s a chance to reassign the pain and bullshit in your life to something that really deserves it so you can stop making excuses and just live strong.

Blame cancer and change your life. Blame cancer and change someone else’s.

I blame Drew’s cancer for any second that I’m not living my ideal life as a stronger, faster, fiercer me.

And I am thankful for every moment that I am.

Happy Birthday To This

I. The 27-Club.

Last September I turned 27.

It made me nervous.

Being a major music fan and devout lifetime subscriber to Rolling Stone, I am all too aware of the so-called “27 Club” – a musical super-group headlined by Robert Johnson, Brian Jones, Jimi, Janis, Jim, and Kurt, all of whom met their untimely ends at age 27.

My nervousness wasn’t an actual, rational fear. Just a fringe anxiety. Still, it hung there. The 27 hurdle. A year it would be a challenge to survive.

In the months after my birthday the challenge of surviving gave way to the challenge of getting from one day to the next. Honestly, I was so preoccupied with life that the whole 27 Club concept didn’t reoccur to me until I was getting ready to jump out of an airplane last month. And, since that failed to kill me, I assumed I was in the clear with regard to the whole untimely end angle.

I continued thinking that until the past few days, when I began re-reading my entries from the past year in anticipation of the ninth anniversary of Crushing Krisis.

It was then I realized that it happened. I died.

If that sounds like hyperbole, it’s meant to be, but only a little bit. Truly, the past year of my life was so vastly different than any that came before that it was hardly lived by the same person.

If that sounds like hyperbole, it’s not. One of the benefits of your blog celebrating it’s ninth birthday is having the ability to make frequent, sweeping, and entirely-accurate generalizations about the state of your life.

In fact, that’s my favorite thing to do on August 26, the birthday of Crushing Krisis. Continue reading ›

9 posts from Year 9 for my 9th anniversary

Today is the ninth birthday of Crushing Krisis.

I have hundreds more words to share on that topic, but they’re still simmering. In the meantime, I am counting down my top nine posts from Year 9 of the blog on Twitter, adding them to this post as I go.

#9: Groom Team Style, pt. 1, wherein I am nearly ejected from David’s Bridal. Twice.

I love having this sort of madcap adventure so I can present it in a slightly-enhanced-reality post (surely influenced a bit by my love of H. S. Thompson). This one is made all the more amusing by how little I had to enhance the reality. All of the dialog is real, except for maybe the bit about the cloven hoof (although E claims I might have actually said that).

#8: “I’m not old,” and other stories from my actual life, wherein I meet @brimil, watch a house burn down, and have way-out dreams about the impending financial holocaust.

I followed the seemingly disparate thread of my day through a post to something coherent – a story disarmingly framed by an unlikely pair of Kelly Clarkson references. I love that blogging can tie together the themes of our lives, and here they really did come together to something larger … and maybe a little poignant.

#7: … – – – …, a brief SOS wherein we are stranded in London on our honeymoon.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard as much in-person feedback on a post as I did on this one. It was certainly meant to be funny, but the actual direness of the accommodation situation made the situation (and the post) even more ridiculous. All of the Honeymoon posts rank pretty high on my list of favorites.

#6: Tattooed/Colorblind & Shake It Off, my best audio and video recordings, respectively.

My favorite single recording of the year is definitely “Saving Grace,” but its post didn’t make the cut for my list. The “Tattooed/Colorblind” double A-Side still kinda blows me away – recorded them both in a matter of hours.

#5: whiling away the hours, wherein Gina and I discuss the ramifications of Malcolm Gladwell’s book Outliers and sing harmony to Hezekiah Jones.

Not all of my favorite posts are flashy, funny, or memorable. Some of them simply document moments in time. Many of my favorites occur in the company of Gina, my best friend and bandmate in Arcati Crisis.

#4: Nothing But Rock & Why I Blame Drew’s Cancer, pt. 1, my skydive photo and the start of the story behind it.

It’s impossible to exaggerate the effect #blamedrewscancer has had on my year, which included me leaping out of a plane with a bunch of people I met on Twitter.

#3: right now, wherein I live-blog my wedding vows. (not really) (but kinda)

The last thing I did before Team Groom left my hotel suite was set this post to go live when Elise and I would be saying our vows. Unfortunately, it does not capture the hilarity of my ad-lib Battlestar Galactica vow, delivered to the great amusement of E and our collected geeky friends.

#2: pipes and glass, a stream of consciousness on my childhood drug-addict neighbor.

Blogging gives you so much power over formatting and media richness, but sometimes the most powerful evocation of a memory is words arranged in just the right way.

#1: President Obama, wherein I (& my mother) react emotionally to the election of our 44th president.

I was extremely hesitant to make a post about Obama my top post of the year. However, it’s a not a post about his politics, or really even about him as a person. It’s a post about me, my family, and America, and I’m proud to have written it.

My traditional birthday post will be up tonight.

 

above the clouds

.

nothing but rock

.

Rocking Midair

(I was the third skydiver out of a blame plane filled with the organizers of #blamedrewscancer‘s upcoming Blame-a-Thon on 9/9/9.)

The Happinomics of Magneto

Today on the bus an attractive, muscle-bound, black man was sitting across from E and I rocking to an unknown sort of music. He was wearing a muscle-shirt version of this Magneto t-shirt.

I turned to E and said, “That guy’s shirt is awesome.” She nodded in agreement.

Then I motioned to the man to take off his headphones.

“Your shirt is awesome.”

“You know who it is?”

“Magneto!”

“Yeah!”

We chuckled at each others fanaticism. He replaced the headphones in his ear and I went back to talking to E.

He smiled until we got off the bus.

.

Happinomics is an Ad Busters article about how small changes to the way we interact with the strangers around us can make us tangibly happier. In their example, the interaction is talking on the bus.

very serious donuts

It is almost ten in the morning, and I am eating a bacon donut.

Kat and Jeremy currently farm enough to support three or four families, but they have enough eggs to stock said three families, a small market, and a donut shop.

Conveniently, Kat works at a donut shop. It’s actually the nearest landmark to their house, which was convenient on Thursday when we had been driving for eight hours and discovered that state roads in Vermont don’t have a lot of clearly labeled cross streets.

If my biggest weak spot of culinary frivolity is ice cream, donuts are not too far behind. As a kid I would clench my entire body in genuflecting hope every time our car passed the Dunkin’ Donuts. I was under the impression that was the only source of donuts. Like, in the world.

Now, I know better – I know that homemade donuts are a different beast entirely. On certain Fridays my boss brings in a particular kind that – if I should be bold enough to eat a filled variety – causes me to lose my voice for over an hour.

They are serious donuts.

So, when Kat mentioned that she worked part time at (and supplied eggs to) the donut shop down the road, my Fouth of July plans solidified: I would spend the morning eating donuts, perhaps bookended by a tacit jog to and from the shop to give the illusion of offsetting the 1000+ calories of breakfast I’d be consuming.

Such is the story, and here I am at Trademark-Infringement Donuts. I don’t want to advertise the name, as they’ve been flying under the legal radar thus far. Let’s call them “Funkin’ Donuts.”

Here is today’s Funkin’ Donuts menu:

  • Cinnamon Sugar
  • Honey Glaze
  • Maple Caramel
  • Plum Homer *
  • Beet Homer *
  • Chocolate
  • Maple-Bacon
  • Lemon-Poppyseed
  • Orange Sourcream
  • Cake

    * Homer donuts are crafted to look as similar to the legendary Simpson’s donut as possible. The Beet Homer has beet icing. I am eating it presently. It’s great.

    However, it is the Maple-Bacon donut that approaches the donut hall-of-fame. It is a plain, circular donut with a middle hole, iced liberally with light-brown maple icing, and sprinkled with bacon sprinkles from local pigs.

    My meat-avoidance is pretty specifically predicated on a distaste for pork, but when we’re talking about less than an ounce of bacon from a local pig probably well-cared-for enough that he had a name I can make a brief exception.

    And that exception was really, really good.

    I’m going to spend the rest of the morning celebrating America by seeing how many donuts I can eat in one day (previously: 10), talking to Kat about her neighbor’s diabetic cat, and plotting a concert I’m going to play in the donut shop when I come back in the fall.

  • Broadcasting live for 12for12k!

    The internet had the chance to see and hear the first ever live web concert of my original songs and familiar covers, plus help to raise donations for Unicef’s Believe in Zero campaign for 12for12k

    My 12for12k Setlist with demo downloads (if available)…

    Like a Virgin – Madonna
    Small & Lonely
    Icy Cold
    Saving Grace (w/Paris monologue)
    Shake It Off (w/ “Shake Your Body” outro)
    Since U Been Gone – Kelly Clarkson
    Something Real
    High & Dry – Radiohead (per Danny Brown’s request of Fake Plastic Trees)
    Bucket Seat (an Arcati Crisis song)
    Real You
    Man In the Mirror – Michael Jackson (cried on every chorus – WTG, rock star)
    Granted
    Love Me Love Me Not (an Arcati Crisis song)
    Space Oddity – David Bowie

    Also, a few I planned to play but cut (or just forgot)…
    What It Is
    Unengaged
    Gone Baby Gone

    For people who watched and said they’d be interested in buying a CD (a) you are wonderful, and (b) download what you will and make a donation to this month’s charity, Unicef’s Believe in Zero. As a bonus, you can also grab my duo’s most recent Live @ Rehearsal album.

    Also, we had a high of 40 unique users in the room at one time, so that’s what I donated ;)

    whiling away the hours

    (1) A few years ago I saw Malcolm Gladwell deliver a speech at the New Yorker Festival that is largely recapitulated in the second chapter of Outliers, called “The 10,000 Hour Rule.”

    In it, Gladwell draws our attention to a data point converged upon by countless studies of experts in a variety of fields. He says, “In fact, researchers have settled on what they believe is the magic number for true expertise: ten thousand hours.” He goes on to quote neurologist Daniel Levitin:

    In study after study, of composers, basketball players, fiction writers, ice skaters, concert pianists, chess players, master criminals, and what have you, this number comes up again and again. … It seems that it takes the brain this long to assimilate all that it needs to know to achieve true mastery.

    Gladwell supports the rule using Mozart, Bill Gates, Bill Joy, and the Beatles as his examples. Not to say that their genius and success is purely a result of 10,000 hours of practice – the book as a whole explains other facets – just that it was an essential component of their expertise.

    .

    (2a) 10,000 hours is a long time.

    If as a child starting at age five you had piano lessons two times a week (an hour each) and also practiced an hour a day, you would clock nine hours a week. 468 hours a year. 4,680 hours a decade.

    If you kept that up until age 26 you’d finally have served your time.

    (2b) 10,000 hours can go by before you know it.

    Maybe you got into video games at age 11. You played them every night after homework and dinner, let’s say from 7:30 to 11:00 p.m. on most nights, plus extra on the weekend. That’s more than 25 hours a week. 1,300 plus a year.

    You’d be a master by the time you started college. Most kids are.

    (2c) Time is relative.

    .

    (3) In the car today Gina and I were singing in harmony to the amazing Hezekiah Jones album Hezekiah Says You’re A-OK, on the way to see his band split a bill with the equally fantastic Up the Chain.

    “You know, Gina,” I said, breaking from my lead vocal, “I’ve been thinking about this 10,000 hour thing. Not everyone’s an expert at something. I mean, what do most people spend 10,000 hours doing by the time they’re 25? Watching teevee, I suppose.”

    “More than likely,” she replied.

    “But, think about me. I watched a lot of television, sure. Mostly, though, I read until I was old enough to write, and then I wrote and read. That’s what I spent my 10k on.”

    (Perhaps she interjected, “Oh, I remember.”)

    “And, you know, is it any surprise that I’m good at communications? I’m not an expert, but no wonder it’s my calling. I spent my whole life practicing for it.”

    We sat and sang for a moment, contemplating that.

    “What about you?”

    Gina paused in her harmony. “Hmm, me?”

    “Yeah. What did you spend 10,000 hours doing?”

    “This. Listening to music. Singing harmony.”

    “Really your whole life, right? Your mother singing, your father playing guitar…”

    “Yeah, since I can remember.”

    “Right. So, no matter how much I rehearse, you’ll always have the edge. It’ll always come easier to you, until I reach that threshold.”

    “I suppose.”

    We paused as the song wound down.

    “What do you think Hezekiah spent 10,000 hours doing?”

    We thought on that for a few moments, and then sang together to “Albert Hash.”

    .

    (4) We’re not all Mozart. I might not ever be Hezekiah Jones. But, we’ve all spent 10,000 hours doing something other than sleeping, and hopefully other than watching television. Maybe something incidental that we do out of necessity or habit. Driving? Social-networking? Cleaning? Taking care of children?

    I’ve put in more than my share on communications – reading cereal boxes and trashy fantasy novels, writing stories at eight on my manual typewriter and almost nine years of blogs.

    I got an early start on 10,000 hours of being Gina’s best friend, which I keep padding. I’m really good at that. More recently I’ve attained well-in-excess of 10,000 hours of being in love with Elise.

    I hope eventually I’ll reach my 10,000th hour of serious focus on music. It’s a large piggy-bank of time to fill.

    What about you? What have you spent your life mastering, intentionally or unintentionally?

    The Gospel of Network Agnosticism

    Being “Network Agnostic” is a practice I’ve been preaching over the past few months as my business and personal lives converge on social networking.

    It’s a simple concept: don’t let the technology dictate your content, and make sure your content adapts across multiple technologies.

    While the concept is simple, the ensuing conversation is huge. How worried should an individual be about the permanence of their social network content? How responsible is a marketer to keep their business connected with users across a host of different networks?

    Here are a few thoughts on the matter.

    .

    Social Content Isn’t Forever

    Imagine the following scenario:

    You spend years adding content to a free social network. Links, blogs, photos, videos – anything. The network gets popular, gets acquired or goes public, and the features begin to change – sometimes for better, and sometimes for worse.

    You eventually migrate to another network, and a few years later you receive a curt eviction notice via email. Turns out, everybody left, and the network isn’t financially viable anymore. Now your content will disappear in a matter of months – evacuation is now or never.

    The first half of that example probably sounds familiar – I could easily be describing Facebook or MySpace.

    If you think the second half is just hyperbole then you were never a GeoCities user.

    GeoCities was the best way to get a free website off the ground in 1996, and even in 2000 it was still in the game. Now the clock is ticking on that content – it’ll all disappear by the end of the year.

    This isn’t a very dire example. GeoCities was always FTP-based, so it was easy to create your own content mirror. Plus, it was crawlable, so your content is cached at Archive.org. If you created something awesome on GeoCities, chances are you could evacuate it before the impending network apocalypse.

    Next time you might not be so lucky.

    .

    Social Networks Constantly Reinvent a Similar Wheel

    Friendster was the first prominent Social Network in America. Now it doesn’t even factor into the domestic conversation – 90% of its use comes from Asia.

    People didn’t know that in 2003, so they gamely wrote their bios and uploaded their photos on Friendster. Many of those people migrated to MySpace, where they posted more photos and wrote on a ton of walls. A lot of that same crowd also started to use FaceBook, where they posted yet more photos, wrote on a whole new network of walls, and penned pithy third-person status updates.

    For a single user the musical chairs of social networks can be mildly annoying. Do you even have your own copy of those photos? Do you really feel like hunting down all of those high school classmates again?

    For a business or a band, annoyance transforms to hindrance. Those 10k fans or 100k plays you mustered up on MySpace? You just have to do them again on FaceBook, Twitter, and whatever comes next. And, as people migrate away from networks that are on the decline, you lose a hard-won audience that was once captive.

    Not only that, but you’re putting in time on content that is invisible to many current and potential customers! Social Networks don’t get crawled and archived the same way as typical websites. They are closed loops, by design. That means limited traffic from outside the network, limited benefits from search engine crawling and long-term page rank, and no easy way to export your content in aggregate.

    The only solution is to stop treating each network as the be-all and end-all of your online life, whether you’re a person or a brand. You need to diversify. You need to be network agnostic.

    .

    Case Study: The Twitter Titanic

    The hottest social network of the moment is Twitter. After many months of mushrooming growth the micro-blogging platform hit the zeitgeist like a wrecking ball – even on Oprah. Suddenly, everyone and their mother was on Twitter – literally!

    Individuals and businesses are in a hurry to have a conversation, but will that conversation have any value in five years, or even six months?

    As more and more people pile on to Twitter, there are more demands made of the network. It isn’t fast enough. It needs a better search feature. Can we get threaded conversations? What about groups? A post archive would be nice, and so would an export feature.

    All of it would be nice, but that doesn’t mean it will occur.

    Twitter currently operates with no revenue model. It’s run by the brains behind Blogger, who have been there before, and they learned from past lessons. Twitter is purposefully lithe, farming out feature development to apps mining their API. Facebook made itself more addictive by doing the same thing – allowing outsiders to code apps, spawning legions of waring zombies and mafiosos.

    Still, open-source doesn’t equal impervious-to-obsolescence. Twitter could easily fizzle like Friendster or fall slowly from favor like MySpace. Every titanic has an iceberg.

    When the iceberg hits, what happens to your followers? What about your favorite conversations?

    .

    The moral of the story (so far):
    the sky isn’t falling, but there’s a strong chance of rain

    Here’s what this argument is not.

    It is not suggesting that you ignore the online sea change that is social networking. It is not saying all Social Networks are unreliable. It is not about being sparse or overly-protective of your content. It is not downplaying the value of personal connections.

    It is encouraging you to be nimble, to rely on some (intentionally) redundant content, and to remember that you get what you pay for. It is reminding you that strategy comes before technology, and that connections come before objectives.

    Two years ago we were all on MySpace. Last year we were all on Facebook. Today we’re talking about Twitter. In two years it’s going to be something else. There’s only so much the networks are (or can be) responsible for our content, and the responsibility we have to them is to accept that and be willingly mobile.

    Your content strategy can extend across multiple technologies. A intriguing Tweet can also be a FaceBook discussion or the inspiration of a blog. You can host your own snapshot and share it on other networks instead of uploading it separately to each of them. Your users can connect with you across multiple networks, via email, or with profiles on your own site, so that they don’t slip away when a network goes south.

    That is network agnostiscm.

    .

    This a big topic – so big that it took me two months of note-taking to even arrive at this post.

    This is just a fraction of what I hope it can be part of a lasting conversation about what we can do as responsible bloggers and communicators to make sure our content doesn’t become obsolete.

    I’m very interested in your comments, further examples, or rebuttals.

    v. Jackie’s Strength

    “I started to look to Jackie and how that woman held the country together after she watched her husband get cut down right in front of her.” (Uncredited, Here. In My Head)

    This song is a super-8 movie of suburban lawns in a line, each with an identical mother wrapped around a nascent daughter, together sending transmissions of prayer to Ms. Onassis.

    All of those girls had pillbox dreams, and none of them turned out the way they had planned. Jackie never showed some more. But these girls, they just want to be real. They will hike up their skirts and show some more if that’s what it takes.

    Each verse takes us back to the childhood narrative. Lunchboxes and sleepovers. Getting high and starving ourselves pretty. Just to be real.

    There’s nothing real here; this is about masquerade. Girls masquerading as women. Skin masquerading as trust. Sex masquerading as magic.

    Those perfect virgins get backstage while the rest of us are already busy spinning lies. Crystalline, candy lies. Trying to lie enough to sustain our love.

    In the end, did it turn out so bad? Those virgins will learn. Eventually they’ll trade their mystery in to be real. Every single girl.

    Except Jackie O.

    You are sitting next to my wife.

    I’ve now been married for a little over a quarter of a year.

    It’s been really swell, aside from the part where I was really pissed off in France for a day or two. And the quality of gouda there more than made up for it.

    We’re still the newest newlyweds in most of our social circles, so we’re still getting those ever-so-nebulous questions: “How’s married life treating you? / Is married life any different?”

    At first I thought there was inherent comedy in the idea that something so simple as a wedding would have fundamentally altered the nature of our unbroken seven-year relationship.

    On second thought, I realized that some things are different. People treat us as more of a team than they used to. I feel more responsible to be a (dys?)functional part of her family. We own a car!

    Really, the biggest difference is the way we look at each other when we’re at home watching a movie. I can’t describe it. There’s just something knowing in the glance, like, “I married you just so we could sit around and do this for the rest of our lives.”

    That’s a little too intangible of a nuance for elevator chat, so I usually tell people the biggest difference is that now when people sit down next to Elise on the train I say, “Excuse me, but you are sitting next to my wife.”

    They usually move.

    “I’m not old,” and other stories from my actual life.

    Before we head into a week of Kelly Clarkson coverage (just kidding!) (but not really!), here’s a brief interlude from real life.

    .

    (1) Today at work we had a meeting about social networking.

    I make it a point not to talk about work so much, but this seems like a big milestone. After all of my years of harping about dragging ourselves into a new digital era I was in a meeting about figuring out how to drag ourselves into a new digital era. My work life has officially merged with my home life.

    In said meeting was a hyper-intelligent new employee from elsewhere in the company who joined to chip in her expertise. I expect to be her employee by 2013.

    At one point I was trying to articulate how some social networks make a certain amount of sense to me, while others do not. My overly long introduction to that thought was, “It’s not that I think I’m so old (maybe I am), but… [insert communications nonsense here].”

    Meeting newbie came back with, “Oh, I don’t think you’re old.”

    I should mention that I shaved prodigiously this morning and look about 12.

    Somewhere in NJ Kate is still laughing at me.

    .

    (2a) Is it just a given at this point that we’re all having nightmares about an imminent, complete, worldwide, economic collapse?

    I mean, I am certainly not denying the existence of a recession, as the evidence is all around me in my group of close friends. Those nightmares were already existent, thank you very much.

    No, this is more global, and more systemic. Like, I just had a dream that I was camping in a derelict, foreclosed row home (possibly just down the street from here), and that the banks were going house to house to take the squatters prisoner to work in their slave camps. They were executing the infirm and the socialists on sight.

    Something like that, anyhow. Are you having those nightmares too?

    (2b) I generally hate when people blog about dreams. Isn’t real life wonderful and terrifying enough? Dream posts are really the only things I ever redact – I write them all out and then think, Who in god’s name is going to stick around after hitting this tripe off of a Google search?

    .

    (3) As to my sudden subconscious fixation with us going the way of Mad Max (before subsequently going the way of Waterworld), maybe it’s just because I was reading about motel homeless earlier.

    Okay, honestly? It’s more because of my trip to F.Y.E. to buy the Kelly Clarkson album, which is the only reason I would ever set foot into that abomination of a retail establishment.

    I detest F.Y.E. on principal – that a chain with so little relevance or personality could supplant Tower Records as the sole national record-seller is inherently offensive to me. Seriously, they could be a chain specializing in argyle socks and turn-of-the-century coffee pots and I feel like the retail experience would be exactly the same.

    Anyway.

    This afternoon the sales floor was barren. A group of teenagers were lazily playing Rock Band off in one corner. There was a single cash register open, doing no business whatsoever.

    I was accosted by five employees in quick succession within 90 seconds of entering the store. Each of them asked if they could help me find anything, with a certain lingering desperation in their eyes. Like, “for the love of god let me help you find something; if I don’t sell at least two CDs every hour they’ll fire me.”

    I started assigning them trivial tasks, just to clear the cannon fodder. One lad I engaged with couldn’t find an explicit version of a Pink album and mumbled some mea culpa like, “You know I could just burn that for you or something did you want maybe a Pink Floyd album instead you know I went to college to get this job please just kill me.”

    I did a lot of nodding and backing away, and found myself cornered by another sales associate in the classical section.

    It took a while to escape with my Kelly, who always leaves me feeling obligated to stimulate the economy by purchasing music at irrelevant brick and mortar retailers.

    .

    (4a) The house at the end of our block burnt down last week. The debris is still on the sidewalk, giving off a certain hickory flavor.

    Last week I wouldn’t leave the house for work until the firemen stopped looking concerned. In row homes that’s only eight doors from here.

    (4b) I spend all this time (and money) acquiring Kelly Clarkson albums and guitars and French graphic novels, and all of that could burn away in a matter of minutes. Or the renegade banking enforcement brigade could kick down my door and take everything in the financial holocaust.

    It makes me think about the intangible things in my life that have value. I guess in that way social networking is a beautiful matrix, containing all of the memories you might have lost in the flames.

    My songs can never burn down. My blog can never burn down.

    .

    (fin) I’m just going to keep living my life, going to meetings, and creating things.

    And listening to Kelly Clarkson albums.

    pipes and glass

    A long time ago I had a neighbor, freebasing cocaine at his kitchen table.

    That came later, though.

    Curled around my first guitar on the front step, maybe? Must’ve been. I don’t remember how else he knew I could play. I remember our porch, and his hammers on Ziggy. That’s exactly what I wanted.

    We became a pair in his basement from time to time, him showing me barre chords, my explaining why you might retune.

    I didn’t have that in my life at the time. I had Gina, still several months of skepticism about my guitar playing before she’d be of much help. No one else to take an interest. Certainly not an adult example.

    (My mother’s boyfriend had played guitar, maybe, in the 70s? Some distantly removed time. He had sliced the tendon on his pointer, and could no longer play barres. Useless to me. He had a clumsy way of making a C chord, remembering it a half-fret at a time.

    Inwardly I swore: no forgetting.)

    So there I was, in the neighbor’s basement. We had known him forever, anyway. He was fifteen years older? Feels like he was much older than I am now. At least seventeen, if he remembered Bowie like that.

    I noodled on his ancient synthesizer and he restrung his Yamaha 12-string. “Like Bowie’s.” And he told his story.

    He was heavy into music, writing his own all of the time. He went on a cruise ship or some other inane vacation, to play. And someone said, one night, to him – very serious about his music. They said to him he sounded like something or some other thing. It was probably the 80s, so probably some other awful thing. Richard Marx, let’s say.

    And he said, “Peter.” He said my name in this very convivial way, like, we’re just two Italian guys shooting the shit. It was not a way men usually said my name. Still not.

    “Peter, I didn’t know if it was a compliment. I hadn’t heard anything new in a year. All I would listen to was myself.”

    I was incredulous, still a fan more than a musician. How could he turn off everything else? It seemed likely a lie.

    I got too familiar, I guess. The whole family lived there, and I got used to poking my head in if I got home late from rehearsal and the light was on.

    I put my head in, and there they were, him and his best friend. Hardware on the table, but not the tool box like usual. Pipes and glass?

    Pipes and glass, and he said, “do you want any” or maybe “you don’t want any,” and I, numb, just walked back across the porches to my door.

    Figures, the one guy who could say my name like that and mean it and play those little hammers. But I knew what my goal was – I would have to learn my barre chords before there’d be any excess.

    I forget him for a year or so, here and there. There are other stories – driving to the music store in South Philly, the time I almost cut my finger off and he came over because my mom was at work. That bass in pieces in my closet.

    I’ve still never been that freebaser at the kitchen table. I must not be good enough at barres. But, now I know what it’s like to only listen to myself, to not want or need anything else.

    I understand him that much.