Jerry Brown joins the blogosphere

Jerry Brown, the former California governor who was my mayor during the five years I lived in Oakland, CA. now has his very own blog. Neat! Oddly, it took an AP Reporter rather than a local paper to break the news.

I am not a "real journalist"!

My friend David Pescovitz recently appeared on a panel addressing the question of whether bloggers were "real journalists." Then I had one of those experiences that made that abstract question all too shockingly real.

I was preparing my application for a USC Annenberg School for Communication media fellowship, which paid tuition for a weekend seminar on "Covering Entertainment in the Digital Age." I noticed that the application required a lot of information to come from my "supervisor," so I called them up to ask how I as a freelancer should handle this. I'd already obtained a letter of recommendation from my editor of six years at Photo District News, for whom I've written dozens of features about how digital technology was transforming the visual arts. Several years ago when I was awarded two media fellowships from CASE, including one on art and technology, they were extremely accommodating, so I was not prepared to hear that while USC would accept applications from people like me, I might as well not bother because they really couldn't prove I was a "real journalist." When I listed all the publications I've written for over the years, they said it didn't matter. If I didn't work in a newsroom, I apparently wasn't a real journalist in their book.

I was angry at first, of course. But on further contemplation, it made a little sense. The "real journalists," newsroom reporters who are responsible for some of the sloppiest, most fear-mongering reporting around when it comes to the digital/information age we live in, are probably more in need of a thoughtful, informative seminar than writers such as myself, who cannot cruise by knowing my paycheck will come every two weeks no matter what half-assed dreck I publish. It made me realize that the most thoughtful, provocative journalism today is, in fact, coming from independents writing for magazines, writing books, an in some cases maintaining blogs. That's not to say all television and news reporters suck, of course, but I'm not the first to intimate a serious decline in standards.

In fact, I can't even remember the last time I referred to myself as a journalist. In my view, the word has an almost tawdry ring to it. I consider myself an independent writer who, in addition to writing fiction, doing some creative consulting and fun stuff like this blog, provides high-quality journalism for some great publications. If USC doesn't think that's even worth investing in, then I hope they enjoy going down with the sinking ship they've chosen to cast their lot with.

Confessional art project

Since January, I've been engaged in a research project on the social function of confession, so I was thrilled to be sent a link to this ongoing art project on Blogspot in which people write personal secrets onto postcards and upload them for the world to see. The combination of visual and textual elements really makes these confessions potent. I know what I'll be reading all day.

Unfortunately, I can't seem to make the image link to one of my favorite postcard confessions work! Grrr. You'll just have to go and see for yourself.

Birdies!

For the past week or so I've been wallowing in a pit of my own self-invented despair, but thanks to my dear friend Marc Herman, I am less sad. He sent me this link to this excellent webcam pointed at a nest of baby Peregrine Falcons in downtown San Francisco.

From the site FAQ:
Q. What do Peregrine falcons eat? How do they obtain food?
A. Peregrines eat primarily birds they catch in the air. A Peregrine will typically fly above its prey, then fold its wings and dive or "stoop" at the other bird and strike it. The falcon then retrieves the stunned or dead bird in mid-air. Peregrines can also fly up behind their prey and catch it in mid-flight.

Now I can look at sweet little chicks all day, knowing that one day they'll be ravenous, blood-thirsty killers. Enjoy!

Dear Email

Dear Email,
Has it really been 13 years since we first met? I remember it so clearly. A bright summer afternoon. I was visiting my friend in Germany. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” she’d said, then led me down to the basement of her university, where the computers were kept. And there you were.

I cannot say it was love at first sight, but neither can I deny that I was instantly intrigued. Your demonstrable flair for the epistolary form, so romantic! So sophisticated! Yet in those revealing fluorescent lights, I could also appreciate your elegant simplicity. The balanced curves of your ASCII figures defined by a sea of pristine white space. My god, you were lovely. Unpretentious, unadorned, and above all highly practical--that was you, Email, through and through.

“Don’t be fooled. He was born of the military-industrial complex,” my friend hissed. But I didn’t listen. Instead I dreamed of you with every stamp I licked. Longing tugged at my heart each time the telephone’s shrill ring shattered my consciousness. Would it be inaccurate to say that I PINEd for you? No it would not. And was it my imagination, or did you PINE for me, too?

And then, as though fate had willed it, I moved to Seattle to attend the University of Washington and my PINEing gave way to blissful celebration. For there you were! You hadn’t changed a bit. Every morning I awoke with the expectation of turning you on, stroking you with my fingers as you lay on my laptop, clicking your delightful buttons, with a mere POP, sending you into previously unknown realms of pleasure that we naively referred to as “cyberspace.”

Those were good times, weren’t they? It was college, after all. Like so many, you’d gone PC but none-the-less allowed me to MAC on you. You claimed you couldn’t sustain attachments, yet we were inseparable soon enough. Remember? I’ll always hold fond memories of those late nights passed drinking beer with you and all your friends. Their silly nicknames and charming commands still bring a smile to my face. Oh Usenet, gopher, UNIX--where are you now? The world wide web was our oyster! We developed our own protocols! Stayed up well past our bedtimes chatting about nothing and everything! I should have known it wouldn’t last. Before I’d even gotten my degree, I’d caught you flirting with Mosaic. Yet, how could I have known what would lie ahead?

We graduated from college. I shuffled off the Doc Martin’s for higher, chunkier heels. You abandoned your minimalism for flashy emoticons, animated gifs, fancier fonts, and background images. I obtained an internship as a content provider, content to start at the bottom and work my way to the top. Your ambition, on the other hand, was astonishing. Your ascent to the top, unprecedented. While I slaved away for minimum wage, you were already hobnobbing with the CEO. Late at night, I still PINEd for you, but you had a whole new Outlook. And how could I not support you? You were an Explorer, while I was content to just Netscape on by.

Who was I to question your success? I was proud of your accomplishments. Who wouldn’t be? The way everybody seemed to know you and talk about you in such reverential terms. It wasn’t easy, sharing you with so many, the rapid decline in intimacy, the frustrating clogging of the invisible pipeline that connected you to me. But at least I could say I knew you back in the day. It meant something to me, Email. It still does.

Let’s face it. The Church of Universal Life may not have kept any record of it, but we were wed. When I gave you my password, I gave you my heart. And fool that I am, I remained faithful to you through every stage, each awkward upgrade, the endless moves from one IP address to another. I pretended not to notice when you slipped that DNS server your cookie. When you wanted to swing with the browsers, I complied even though their unabashed solicitations made me feel so exposed, so used. When you invited your pals from Madison Avenue over for drinks, I shrugged and said I didn’t mind. After all, it was nice to get the scoop on low airfares from such well-connected sources. The offers, the everyday low prices, the invitations, the coupons--how could I have known there would be no end to these people you called your friends? And my god, the truncated sentences, the misspelled words, the sudden explosions of angry back-and-forth, the long silences, your snide putdowns, RTFM--I put up with them all. Why, Email? Because you were worth it.

Oh, but you scoundrel! Did you have to go and get addicted to pills? Cialis, Viagra, Vioxx, Valium. It’s a miracle you’re able to send anymore! And the women. And the men. Barely legal, most of them are, with penises extended by mighty pumps and breasts enhanced with miracle creams. With all your philandering, your all-night partying ways, did you really believe we could keep up with a MORT($%^)GAGE? I can’t even count the number of times I’ve had to call the Spam Cops on you, you dirty little bastard And speaking of dirty, you are truly disgusting these days! Viruses, worms, even your Trojans are riddled with infectious disease. It seems every time I turn around, you’re hacking up new unpleasantness. If that weren’t enough, you took my deepest most private information and shared it with some sleazy thug in the former Soviet Republic!

Dr. Norton’s inoculated me and, thanks to therapy, I’m more AdAware than ever, but do you really expect me to put on protective gear each and every time you are near? And now, they’re even saying that you make people stupid! With all your rude intrusions, your flamboyant displays for attention at all ours, you’re worse than drugs, Email! 13 years ago, I’d never have believed it. But now, Email. But now.

Still, I can never stay mad at you for long. Is it our long history? Your unflappable charisma that keeps drawing me back into your arms? Or the fact that I need you more than I can say? All I know is that not a day goes by when I don’t long to touch you again, to hear your voice whispering in my ear, “You’ve got mail, baby. You’ve got mail.” Without you, there is such loneliness, such despair. My hands thrust about, reaching for your slender keys, but you’re not there. I listen for your lovely chimes, and hear only silence. I’m nostalgic for the good old days, Email. I can’t deny it. So what do you say? Let bygones be bygones, dispense with the cache of yesteryear. If we can no longer be lovers, can’t we at least be friends?

Yours truly,
jennfo@jennshreve.com