How I spent my New Year's Eve

5:00pm: Realize that all friends already have plans for New Year's Eve and that I should have made plans, too.

5:30pm: Have eaten only a Powerbar, a handful of nuts, and some alcohol-filled chocolates all day since 5am. Must have burrito.

5:40pm: Arrive at favorite burrito place, find it's closed.

5:50pm: Try second-fav place. No parking.

6:03pm: Decide to try new burrito place. It closed at 6pm.

6:13pm: Find yet another burrito place (I'm determined) and bring it home to enjoy a celebratory meal alone.

7:00pm: Feel like going to sleep from jet lag. Eat more alcohol-filled chocolates instead.

7:22pm: Get text message from friend in Europe. He had a great party, hope I did, too. My air purifier shrieks, and decides to take the rest of 2002 off. Probably 2003, too.

8:00pm: Begin working on music composition, "Auld Lang Sign." Have a full four hours to finish and post it before midnight, no expected interruptions.

8:47pm: Friend from Holland calls. He just got back from an awesome New Year's Eve bash. So what am I doing home, he asked? I eat more chocolates.

9:10pm: E-mail: "You have a new bill [from American Express]." I realize I may have to sell my remaining European chocolates to avoid bankruptcy.

9:11pm: E-mail: "Get a bigger c.o.c.k. now!!!!!" Like I have a lot of use for that tonight.

10:05pm: Friend IM's me. He's depressed. He's really, really depressed. His ex-girlfriend told him that she hates him, she doesn't know why she ever got with him, and she wouldn't care if she dies. At least she can't be faulted for beating around the bush. So he absolutely positively knows where he stands, but he can't stop crying. For three months.

11:45pm: My friend, currently on the east coast, decides to cry on his pillow and says goodnight to me. Realizing that I can barely help myself, much less my friend (and so many other folks who seem to depend upon me for advice and comfort), I decide to cry sitting up. I can be more productive that way at least. Besides, I do my best music composing when I cry.

Midnight: Happy New Year... my first anti-social one in more than 5 years. My song isn't finished. I'm tired. My floor is still strewn with the stuff (mostly chocolates) I dumped from my luggage on Tuesday. My bed is serving as a combination desk and clothes hamper. And I realize I have so much yet to say and do.

2003 will be better. It must.

Winning a girl's heart... almost

So I was in this loud and fun bar in Germany last week with a couple of friends, and this one really cute girl somewhat nearby me kept looking at me and smiling, poking her friends to say something, looking back, and so on.

I smiled back, of course, and was tempted to actually go over and buy her a drink or something equally chivalrous/stereotypical/dumb, when she leaned over and said something to me.

I understand some German, but it's been years since I lived in Germany and it was hard to hear her over the din. I politely asked her to repeat what she said, and she did so, but I was still puzzled.

One of the friends I was with noticed the confusion and helpfully translated. "She wants you to take a picture of her and her friends" he said.

Now I was even more confused. I didn't have a camera (my wonderful Olympus 3030z was stolen in Estonia and not yet replaced), so I didn't know what she could be talking about.

Then, as I realized that I was holding my somewhat-biggish Palm phone in my hands, it hit me. She thought I had one of those camera phones!

I explained back to her that, sorry, it was a Palm phone, not a camera phone. Blank look. I clarified, no, it cannot take pictures.

She looked at me with an expression of distinct disappointment after learning that I had a geek phone, not a camera phone. It was clear that being able to surf the net and access my appointments and to do list and even play Bejeweled wouldn't win back her interest or attention.

I went back to drinking with my friends, humbled, saddened, and single.

Candy man

This picture shows my crazy candy purchasing from Germany from Christmastime 2001, but this year was much the same... perhaps even worse. Over $80 worth of candy. Just don't tell mama, er, don't tell my dentist!

So WHY do I bring so much chocolate back from Europe twice yearly? That's easy!

1) It's GOOD chocolate! Once you try European chocolate, you'll never go back to (ugh!) Hershey's crap.
2) It's not that expensive when you buy it in Europe. An entire pack of Hanuta (a 12'er) is $1.43 at the Walmart in Germany. That's just 12 cents per delightfully delicious chocolate wafer cookie.
3) It's a great way to make new friends ;-). Trust me, I'll have a sack-full of Hanutas when I go dancing this week, and for every charming follow I dance with, there'll be a little chocolate offering.

Regarding #3, I have experience in this area, and I've also learned an important lesson. Witness this pivotal conversation from last year:

BEAUTIFUL GIRL: Hey, I remember you! You're the one who gave me that vodka chocolate.
ME, BLURTING STUPIDLY: Uh, um... yeah, I gave that to lots of people. What's your name again?

As Homer Simpson would say... D'oh!

Returning from Europe soon

I'm in Germany now, and will add entries here when I return in a few days.

In the meantime, I wish you all the best for the holiday season and the coming New Year!

Brief injury update

Since I'm leaving for Europe tomorrow, I decided to see a doctor to make sure I'm all a-ok after getting slugged in the jaw.

Aside from the expected bruising and the related pain, I'm fine. And I got a flu shot and tetanus shot for good measure.

Disbelief, anger, pain in a Moby moment

I was assaulted tonight.

I'm angry. I'm confused. And I hurt, despite the ice and double dose of Aleve pills.

I was walking back to my car this evening after a really fun dance, and just as I turned the corner, a random group of guys approached me and one of them slugged me hard on the side of my face.

I went down hard on the cement. Tore up my new slacks. And I look like a lopsided chipmunk right now.

But more than anything, I'm just asking myself WHY. At the risk of sounding whiney, it's just unfair. I had a great night. I was nice to people. They were nice to me. I didn't do anything to provoke getting punched. I didn't try to kiss anyone's girlfriend, I didn't cop an attitude to people passing by, nothing. It seems just so, well, random to turn a corner and BAM!

And then there's the anger. I don't want to kill these guys, but I'd enjoy practicing some of my kickboxing moves on them, one by one. I want to teach them a lesson. I want them to hurt. Even though I know this wouldn't work, I want them to be sorry, dammit.

But at the bottom of it all, maybe I just want to ask them why. Was I just a random yuppie target-with-a-tie? Did I look too happy? Why did they feel the need to lash out like that?

And why do I care anyway? Why is WHY so important? Would I really feel that much better if I could piece together order and reason out of this violent mini-chaos? Would it make any difference in the way I live my life?

Perhaps this is merely a reminder that life is not only not 'fair'... it's not logical. I'm not sure if there's a moral somewhere in that, but at least it's good to know and take to heart.

Lindy Hop Greatness

A friend of mine recently posted a note on the Bay Area Lindy Hop board called SwingTalk, asking who people thought were "Lindy Hop Greats."

I responded with the following, which -- although it contains the names of some local (San Francisco) talent -- should still serve as an interesting view into what I perceive as Lindy Hop 'greatness.'

---

Greatest Lindy Hoppers... damn, that's a toughie.

For starters, it's very hard and controversial to define "great."

Looks great
There are those who just LOOK amazing no matter what they're dancing to or who they're dancing with.
Example: Jennifer Balderama. With her ballet background, broad smile, and super styling, she's great fun to watch.

Feels great
Some folks may look less flashy, but have the most incredibly solid and comfortable lead in the world.
Example: Chad Kubo. Every follow I know that has danced with him raves about his lead. And I've seen him lead the most absolute-beginners and make them totally shine.

Acts great
There are those who make you feel like a million bucks when you're dancing with them. A combination of natural warmth, well-placed and sincere compliments, and general friendliness does the trick.
Example: Brandee Selck. Any leads that haven't danced with her... you're missing out. One other guy I know that took private lessons lessons with her marveled, "It's like therapy. I go in depressed and I come out feeling good."

Interprets great
Musicality. Some folks have it, some don't. The folks that REALLY have it are able to play with both their partners and their own bodies in a way that complements the music without being a boring 'slave' to the breaks.
Example: The Donnelly Brothers, Elliot and Owen. These two make Lindy fun by entertaining their partners (and onlookers) with creative yet leadable interpretations of the music.

---

So, given all this, Randy, I find it hard if not impossible to pin a label of All Time Great(s) on folks, given the diverse aspects of 'greatness.' In particular, I think it'd be disingenuous to give such praise to someone my friends and I have never danced with. After all, I think we've all experienced "amazing" dancers who look fab on the dance floor but can't lead/follow worth a damn. Or who can't seem to smile. Or who are so arrogant that they make dancing with them a DISpleasure.

Greatness is subjective and complex. Personally, I think all of us must find 'greatness' within ourselves and those we connect most tightly with. :-)

The Sacramento Lindy Exchange 2002

This past weekend, I went to something called a Lindy Exchange in Sacramento, California.

What is a Lindy Exchange?

Basically, one town insanely decides to invite the rest of the world to visit its weekly dance venues, adding in some special events to sweeten the deal. Individual dancers in that town offer to host visitors at their homes, and also plan various dance and non-dance events throughout the weekend. Sleep is something people joke about, but don't partake in too much during these weekends, and when they do, it's usually of the afternoon nap variety, followed by another 9pm-2am dance, 2am-6am "afterhours party" (which, gee, also usually includes dancing AND watching videos of dance competitions), which is then sometimes followed by an "afterhours party breakfast." Rinse, repeat, over the course of three days.

Not surprisingly, a great many of the victims, er, participants of these exchanges happen to be young vibrant college kids. However, there are also a good number of us old(er) farts who think that the young whippersnappers are nuts, and greatly enjoy being nuts alongside them.

Why would anyone want to spend dozens of hours doing dance-related things in a weekend? Hell if I know! Despite mysteriously having a joyous time over the weekend, I'm still trying to logically analyze the allure.

Perhaps there's just something infectious about being surrounded by AND acting upon music music music , along with sweaty bodies and reduced inhibitions... more from exhaustion than drunkeness (though, admittedly, there's a smattering of that, too). Throw in the fact that there are gobs of attractive, talented, and extroverted late teens and 20somethings (and those who fit right in), and you've got one scandalous, exciting, goofy, entertaining, and generally fulfilling weekend.

Sleep-deprived and generally giddy folks manage to come up with some of the most amusing and surprising moves... and their dancing, too, somehow becomes more creative as well. Blacks flirt with whites, 18 year-olds hang with 30 year olds without being looked down upon, girls kiss girls without enduring any more teasing than those girls kissing guys, and so on.

And oh yes, the dancing! Along with the enjoyable social dancing, there are usually some performances by the Rock Stars of Lindy, some of whom you might be lucky enough to dance with yourself later that night. One particularly insane trio performed something that could best be described as gymnastical Jungle Lindy... with one guy dressed (credibly) as Tarzan rhythmically whooping it up with an amazingly talented Jane and crazily limber Monkey. Lifting, flipping, flying, splatting, dragging, flinging... oh, and dancing... wonderous dancing! I hope to soon have a copy of their performance online to show off to you humble readers. And to think that I've now danced with two of the three of those performers! Woo hoo!

Heck, why don't I go all out and detail the exchange bit by bit.

Friday afternoon, the skies opened up, and God Cried. Or he decided to take a hell of a blustery long cold shower. Or both. I debated whether to take Amtrak up to Sacramento or brave the roads... post-work and ski-weekend traffic (to Tahoe) and crazed-drivers-in-rainstorm all rolled into one. Tempting fate, I chose the latter.

At 10:30, or so, I arrived into Elk Grove (the near-Sac location of the first evening dance) and finally arriving at the correct street, I searched for an elegant ballroom, or at least a 2-story edifice that looked like a Place of Dance.

I drove back. And forth. And back again. No dice. Finally, as the storm intensified further, I decided to pull into a the parking lot of a local strip mall and call 411. No listing. Frustrated and dejected, I rolled my head back, and peered out the window, only to notice... oh man... here's the Elk Grove Ballroom... in a STRIP MALL! The entrance looked no different than the doors usually labeled, "SmallTown Dental Care" or "Betty Sue's Sewing Shop." Luckily, the interior was at least a bit more grand. And dry. And warm. Mmmmm :-)

I walked in, and that's when it hit me. HIGH SCHOOL! I was back in high school. I've walked into this crowd of a couple hundred attractive young people dancing, and I've got to get up my guts to somehow break in, ask someone to dance. I did.

My mission was also to find Katy, the Housing Coordinator who was also, perhaps uncoincidentally, the host for one woman and four guys, including me. I had never met Katy before... I had no idea what she looked like, and also no idea how to get to her home. Luckily, I did manage to find her at the ballroom.

But I wasn't ready to go "home" yet, no sirree! There was still the Afterhours party at Peter's Palace. Actually, a large wharehouse area converted into a strangely catacomb'ish multi-room multi-floor Bachelor Pad, the legendary home not only of Peter and his Plentiful Parties, but also of the aforementioned Tarzan and one other guy I never remember meeting. Plus a hot tub that has, as legend has it, been 'blessed' by large sometimes-naked crowds and little cleaning. Hmm.

Tonight, though, most people were largely ignoring the hot tub (except for a couple of lucky guys enjoying the company of several buxomly-bikini'd babes), instead opting to -- eeek! -- dance some more and also order drinks for the ridiculously well-stocked bar upstairs. Much later into the night (actually morning), we retired to the Red Room to listen to Peter and his Posse sing about, ahem, Pussy, aided by the sharp vocal skills and fine lyrical memory of his ex-girlfriend. Peter, I posit, will not become President. Then again...

Finding my way to the neighboring city of Davis, I drove to the home of Katy (who had just recently left the party as well) around 6am, still wired from and bewildered by my first-evening exchange-de-virginizing experience. Tiptoeing quietly up to her room and trying unsuccessfully to squeeze into a clearly-junior-sized borrowed sleeping bag, I managed to wake up my poor hostess, who then -- much to my amazement, generously invited me to jump into bed with her and her crazy feline. Yes, this is the same cat I described in an earlier journal entry that had a cranium fetish.

Seriously, though, I was and am amazed and grateful at the trust of Lindy women like Katy, inviting guys they don't know into their home and -- at least until I was ousted the following night to trade spots with one of the other guests -- in their bed. And in case it's not already perfectly clear, let me clarify that sleeping was all we did. While it's been said that "it's not really a Lindy Exchange unless you exchange more than dancing"... for my part I was content to have beautiful women in my arms vertically during waking hours, and then sandwich myself amongst warm blankets and a pillow horizontally in my limited sleeping hours.

Given the continuing downpour outside, the picnic scheduled for Saturday afternoon was cancelled and replaced by an afternoon dance and a few bouts of laser tag. Though I was tempted to attend one or both events, I opted to lol around in bed for a while, take a leisurely shower, and then chat with my roommates for a bit, resting up for another big night.

Apparently, a great many ants were interested in similar activities, deciding to join me in the bathroom while I showered, likely sharing pleasantries with one another all the while.

"Gee, Herman, isn't this bowl of cat food delicious? And all this water! It's much warmer than that wintry ickiness outside!"

"Oh yes, Berman, what a delightful party! Don't you just love Lindy Exchanges? So who brought the boombox? I'm all ready to enjoy some.... !!!!!!!!!!!RAID?!?!?!?!?!?! OH NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

With a spring in my step and a crunch of dead ants under my feet, I met my roommates downstairs for some tea and shared powerbars, figuring out directions to the evening venue in Sacramento.

Once again, I had the joy of dancing with plentiful talented, friendly, and attractive women, including some who fled their native snowy New York for the blastfully wintry Sacramento. This is where we were treated to the earlier-described Jungle Lindy performance, along with a blues routine by Peter and Kristin that recently won them 1st or 2nd place in a national dance competition. Lastly, we were awed by a hip-hop-lindy performance by the incomparable Owen and Katie, of the fantastic dance troupe Loose Change.

After a live band and yet more social dancing, this Saturday evening party finished up around 4am. It was proposed that I party at Peter's Palace again, but I was at least partially pooped, preferring not to push myself, so I plodded back to Katy's place, hoping ants were not having an afterhours party in my sleeping bag.

Fate shined on me, and the Sunday afternoon party was being held at Katy's Casa! I marveled as this fella Mark made incredibly delicious and complex sushi from scratch, along with heavenly crispy tempura with a batter made from home-brewed beer!

Aside from eating sushi, we did what I began to notice was rather prevalent at Lindy parties: We watched videos of dance competitions. Now I can understand this to some degree; we've all got a common Love, and besides, many of our friends and colleagues are actually FEATURED (and sometimes featured winners) in these videos. But at the same time, it seems a bit much. At least on my end, there's only so much swing music and dancing I can take in a weekend. So for the most part, I turned my back on the tele, and was proud to consistently and reliably offer my services as a sushi taste tester, chatting and munching, munching and chatting, and yeah, flirting at least a little bit. What's a Lindy Exchange without flirting?!

Then the idea was floated to go do some bowling before the evening dance and afterhours party, and I thought to myself, ah ha! Something non-dance related. This is good, even though I suck at bowling even worse than I suck at dancing.

Luckily, I was in sucky company, so to speak. Excepting the maddeningly-striking Jeremy, whom we all rightly suspected as being an expert the minute we saw his bowling bag, we were pretty much equally "talented" and had no less fun because of it.

Of course, I should have known better than to assume that we could somehow go without Lindy for a full hour or two. Andrew, clearly sympathizing with the personable Tiffany who was, to put it bluntly, sucking bowling-wise even more than the rest of us, decided to utilize her as part of a bowling-Lindy experiment. Everything was fun and fine, until the Andrew and Tiffany combo resulted in a ball being slung-shot into a neighboring gutter at somehow miniscule traveling speeds. Not wanting to wait 37 minutes for the ball to complete its run down the wrong lane, Tiffany deftly danced after it, one leg in each gutter, only to be faced with a polite yet firm and stunned admonishment from one of the bowling hall's staff. Tiffany, a rather fair-complexioned beauty, turned a shade of red more tomato'y than I've seen a human turn before. This did not, however, put a stop to her bowling-dance-mate's experimentations, which -- miraculously -- did not involve lanes other than their own after that. Furthermore, Andrew's Flying Squirrel(tm) maneuver resulted in actually knocking over a couple of pins, though still not enough to beat Jeremy's score... which was approximately the same as the combined scores of the rest of us. In fairness, though, Jeremy would not win any dance awards from HIS bowling.

Afterwards, we mosied on over to the Davis "Grad" -- a local bar that looked like something out of one of those movies. Yeah, that one. With people dancing on the tables, too, except we weren't pouring water or beer or anything like that on ourselves. Just wet from lots of sweat. Lindy is, after all, a rather athletic dance. We ended up our night -- there, at least -- with the obligatory group photo (warning: large half-meg file!), followed by a mad dash to our rain-pounded cars.

My ride, Rebecca, had the good sense to have us warm up via the In-n-out Drive thru. For those of you unblessed enough to not know about In-n-Out, it's a fast-food burger place, but unlike any fast food you've ever had. It's fresh, cheap, and, well, not really all that fast. And their menu is wonderously small yet satisfying: Hamburgers, fries, shakes, and sodas. That's it. Period. And no fancy avocado-bacon-chili-froo-froo burgers or anything like that. Just got ol' solid burgers with basic trimmings and fries that are actually made from three ingredients: potatoes (sliced when you order), vegetable oil, and salt. Yum!

Then we were off to the place of Ria, Dan and (the other) Adam for what was to be a strange and revelatory night. After hours of munching, dancing, and watching dance videos, the power flickered off and we were left, pretty much, with just each other and no music.

Well, the no-music part was short-lived, because the Rock Star (violinist, singer, award-winning dancer party palace guy) Peter decided to start us off on an ad-libbed a cappella version of the jazz standard "Fever" which we executed with great flare and goofiness combined. From there, things went downhill -- or uphill or sideways, depending upon your point of view, I suppose.

With many girls laying on top of guys (which is less dirty than it sounds, honest) at around 5 or 6 in the morning, we were treated to an oral history of the Sacramento Swing scene, which -- according to testimony -- was starkly similar to non-dancing "swing" scenes during and around the "'98 Summer of Love." "Let's face it," professed/bragged a former 21-year-old-fresh-out-of-Christian-college virgin, "A lot of us got into this because we could break the ice and get close to girls. When you go to a Bump and Grind [non-Lindy] club, it's a lot harder to ask for someone's number. But here, you see the same people every week! Then it's not a big deal to, hey, let's go hang out at my place..."

In order to prove his point, this fella took increasingly baudy polls of the present populace, asking questions like, "Who here has kissed more than two people in one Lindy evening?" ... "...two people of different genders...?" then approaching worse-dom with questions like, "Who has had sex [with someone in the Sac Lindy scene] in someone else's bed? No, not your partners!"

This was trailed closely by increasingly naughty tales of debauchery, egalitarian "conquest" (equally practiced by men and assertive women alike), and mistaken identity. The lights soon came back on, people shrieked, and it was a mere few seconds until they were shut off again, plunging us back into candlelight and non-ghost-story oratory.

Reinvigorated by the renewed darkness, one of the guys inexplicably bragged about the sizeable size of his manhood, offering -- just in case there were sagging doubts -- solid references.

Perhaps playing off the unspoken "would you like your eggs fertilized or unfertilized," some kindly soul -- likely made hungry by the prolonged storytelling -- volunteered to make breakfast for everyone. "Give me money," he suggested, "and I'll go buy as much stuff as I can and come back here and cook for everyone."

This being around 7am, my sleep instincts were stronger than my hunger impulses, so I decided not to stick around. From what I understand, though, this guy was indeed good to his word.

I, on the other hand, spent a few blissful hours in dreamland (sans cranium-hugging cat), and the next day (Monday), drove home, appreciating the lack of afternoon traffic and pondering the wonders of my first-ever Lindy Exchange. Like a college party but without the annoying frat-boy atmosphere, like a long late night dance but with performances and more craziness, like a sleepover without parents but with dance videos instead of pornos or horror films, Lindy Exchanges clearly defy succinct explanation and definition. You must simply live them to understand.

In the meantime, I hope this blog entry has managed to inform and entertain without disclosing too much. And no, I will not give out Scottie's phone number. He currently has a charming girlfriend. Sorry.

Worshipping others, hating yourself?

A Chinese friend of mine living in San Francisco has long lamented that he's at a significant dating disadvantage, because so many of his female Asian peers insist upon dating White Guys.

This friend has now, thankfully, found a wonderful (and Chinese) girlfriend, but out of curiosity, I checked out some personal listings on the Bay Area Community site Craigs List and -- to my surprise and dismay -- found that this fella has a legitimate gripe.

Again and again, I saw comments like, "I'm asian, and I'm looking for a white guy between 23-30." Some even apologized in advance for their 'preference' but -- unsurprisingly -- no explanations were forthcoming.

Sure, you hear about the occasional blonde girl with the black fetish, but it seems to me that most of this "diverse" love is one-way... minorities seeking white men and women.

Is this a form of self-hate? And how much of this is caused or exacerbated by media images?

According to Malaysian officials, who recently rejected an advertisement featuring the very white Brad Pitt, the media plays a role in "humiliation against Asians."

Is this a case of chicken and egg? Is the media (over)representation of whites a symptom or a cause of much of the attraction minorities profess for non-minorities?

And either way, who -- if anyone -- should have a hand in 'correcting' these biases? The media? Governments? Independent advocacy groups?

As with so many complex issues, it seems there are no simple solutions.

Jackhammer on my head

I recently got back from a big Lindy Exchange and have much to talk about.

But for the moment, let me raise the unique issue of a Cranium-Fetish'd Cat.

When sleeping over at some random girl's place (more on that later), I suddenly felt something warm and fuzzy attach itself to my cranium, whereupon I heard loud jackhammering noises. Attempting to move my head was futile (the cat was stuck), and forcibly lifting the cat resulted in the feline repositioning herself on the back of my neck where her "purring" was like a heavy vibrating furry dust brush, though I admit I haven't actually slept with a heavy vibrating furry dust brush to make a fair comparison. Anyway, is this cat normal, or did my otherwise charming hostess happen to raise a mutant creature?

Loving computer viruses

Virus! You have done me a great service, and I thank you. You have humbled me and exalted me, both. Virus, you are the gift that keeps on giving. You are the Santa of the e-generation. Your viral nature has made my holiday season, and I will never forget you, Virus. I will also never again install a plug-in from a Web site I?ve never heard of, and I thank you for that as well.

Merry Christmas, Virus. Let's have lunch.

- Salon.com writer Nick Altebrando, extolling the not-oft-seen benefits of computer viruses.

HOW much spam?

I went away for a weekend, and in just two-and-a-half days, I received 487 spams. *487!*

I had turned off spam pre-filtering, but still... 487 spams. Even when my main spam filter (SpamNet) is activated, 30% of spams still get through and at least 5-10% of my non-spam e-mails are marked as spam, so it's a lose-lose situation.

I wish I knew what the right solution would be.

Is it technical? Could we conceivably charge people one-tenth of a cent for every e-mail they send? Or perhaps charge senders $1 by default, unless they are listed in our addressbook or we affirmatively waive the fee?

Or are legal moves (at the federal level) the answer? Would spamming be a civil offense? Criminal offense? And what would the degree of 'consent' look like?

Definitely no easy answers :-(

Is it real or is it Photoshop?

I'm wondering how much of this is real vs. photoshopped silliness.

With news agencies increasingly coming under fire for "embellishing" news and entertainment videos and photographs, is anyone else worried about what's Real and what isn't?

In the meantime, though, check out the link above. Even if only a fraction of the photos are genuine, it's still good for quite a laugh. As the title says, Only in America! :-)

I hate technology

About an hour ago, I had just written a brilliant entry for this blog. Insightful, funny, and all that other stuff that I may be exaggerating about just a tad, but... hey, it doesn't really matter anymore...

BECAUSE THE DAMN ENTRY HAS GONE POOF INTO THAT GREAT E-NIGHT!

Do you ever wonder whether we're actually saving much time or effort overall with technology vs. that good ol' pen and paper we used to use?

Sure, there are some wonderful things we take for granted now that we'd be very sad without. Like Google. And blogs like this, of course!

But if I actually totaled up the number of hours I spent monthly in Frustration, it'd... well, let's just say it'd be a lot of hours.

- Updating software.
- Troubleshooting why software doesn't work like it's supposed to.
- Trying to translate godawful help documents (if they exist).
- Calling or e-mailing [ISP / Wireless phone company / online music service] to correct overbilling or (justifiably) bitch about lousy service or frequent service outages.
- Realizing that 3 months of your Outlook calendar has just been erased.
- Realizing that the last backup you did was 2 months ago, before entering in a couple dozen holiday-oriented dates.
- Dealing with spam.
- Apologizing to friends you didn't reply to because their note got buried amidst and/or deleted with spam.

I know, I know... this is all hardly part of a novel gripe, that computers were supposed to make our lives easier but they end up causing us to kick random objects nearby instead.

But I'm an uber-geek. I'm supposed to LOVE technology. I evangelize this stuff, teach this stuff, share this stuff.

And yet, on evenings like this when my creative efforts go poof with little warning, I hate technology. And I hate being a hypocrite.

Say my name, say my name!

You know how some stuff goes better with butter?
Or with Van Halen?
Or with snowflakes?

I think greetings and compliments go better with one's name.

Let me explain.

When dancing, I think it's much nicer to hear "Thanks for the dance, Adam" instead of just the more-common "Thanks." It seems to flowly nicely at the invitation-end, too... as in, "Donna, would you like to dance?"

When it's someone I don't know well, I'm flattered that they remember my name, and it seems I'm not the only one who feels this way. I recently saw two beginning follows (dancers) and greeted them by name, and both were surprised and clearly happy that I remembered them.

I think it's nice to hear one's name even from friends or people that have known you for a while. I'm not sure why, but to me at least it does feel good... hearing "Hey Adam!" rather than just "Yo!" or "Hey!" Maybe it brings me back to a time when sitcoms were actually funny, and people shouted, "Norm!"

And while some may disagree, I'm not hurt at all when people ask my name for the second or seventh time. If they care enough to know my name, I think that's great. And I don't think anything less of folks who have trouble remembering names, since I know this is one of my weaknesses (I'm working on it!) and yeah, it's tough when you dance with 30+ people in an evening!

What do you think? Do you feel similarly good when people refer to you by name, or do you instead cringe, visualizing your mom chastising you "Marvin K. Mooney, will you PLEASE GO NOW!"?

A naked suggestion

I always knew that Europeans were pretty casual about nakedness, but as seen by this sign in a Spanish youth hostel, they're even encouraging people to flash their toilets!

Thiller Amnesia

Not that I recall.

- Michael Jackson's response in court when asked if he had a memory problem, as noted in this AP story.

Lawyers, 938; Personal Responsibility, 0

For example, an employee crossing the street might be typing so vigorously into a two-way pager that he would never notice an approaching bus. Would that employee be covered by workers' compensation?

Probably, unless a company policy forbade wandering around typing into pagers, said Lawrence Lorber, a partner at Proskauer Rose in Washington.

- from a New York Times article which suggests to me that soon employee handbooks will also warn against typing on a laptop while biking to work

Beware the Googlewock, my son!

So I was applying to work at Acme. Inc., a fitness-related company that specializes in stuff that is close to my heart (no pun intended). I checked out their Web site and while I didn't find a current job opening that was appropriate for me, I decided to send a cover letter to the HR address listed to suggest some specific online community work I could do for them (and why it'd help their bottom line). I figured that even if my specific offer didn't interest them, they could at least keep my info 'on file,' right?

"pcanthos@acme.com" was the e-mail address listed on their site, and being the enterprising soul I am, I decided to Google "pcanthos." Up came several hits for "Paul Canthos" in a context that clearly demonstrated this was the same guy... with many forum posts dealing with triathalons and nutrition issues! Woo hoo! With such a (likely) rare name unmasked, I could now smartly write, "Dear Mr. Canthos," instead of the more gender neutral, "To whom it may concern."

And I did.

I wrote a passionate and extremely targeted note to Mr. Canthos, detailing how I could increase Acme's profitability by extending their online community and creating valuable e-mail newsletters for them to send to their large and loyal customer base.

And I received a very curt two line reply.

Please check our website for currently open positions. When you find a position posted that you'd like to be considered for, please send your resume at that time.

And it was from a PAMELA Canthos.

Oops.

Did I mention that I hate job searching?

A new twist to the 'surprise party' idea

This one guy in the Lindy Hop scene that I know is a nationally renowned and universally respected DJ. He's also got a hell of a cool core set of friends, who helped make a 'surprise Web site' for his 30th birthday:

http://www.jesseis30.com/

While I'm sure many of you reading this blog don't know who Jesse is, I just thought might find the concept of a Web-site-as-gift to be as amusing and fascinating as I do.

So THAT'S why they're applauding so loudly!

You turn on the TV and the enthusiasm seems so natural, but, my God, it's a wonder they don't stick a hot pepper up your ass.

- the mom of a Salon.com commentator remarks on the excitement on the set of the Dr. Phil talk show

Eggroll, European style

When my wonderful friend that I was staying with in Venray (The Netherlands) suggested that we have eggrolls for dinner, I was a bit skeptical. Surely she knew my appetite was typically bigger than appetizer-size, especially after not eating since lunch!




But wow, those wacky Dutch! To the right you can see just what their idea of an eggroll is. When was the last time YOU saw an eggroll that fills up an entire good-sized plate?!?

Cellophane... Mr. Cellophane

[ As usual, personally identifying info is often obscured to protect the privacy of my friends ]

A dance acquaintance of mine just came back from a Lindy Hop exchange and publicly posted a gushing note with shout-outs to all the guys she fell in Lindy-Love with.

This is not uncommon. On swing boards all over the country, you can read, "Oh man, [so-and-so], I can't wait to dance with you again! And [another person], you can Blues[dance with] me any time, day or night..." and so on and so on ad nauseum.

It really wouldn't be 'nauseum' except for the sour grapes that my name is -- barring exceptional circumstances with odds approximating those of winning the lotto twice in a row -- never going to appear in this context.

It's made all the more frustrating because I have a friend who has at least half-a-dozen women falling in love with him wherever he dances. His list of women who have Lindy Crushes is bigger than my current to-do list. And that's large. Really large. "Oh, Bryant, I am framing that pic of us! You're so hot!" "Bryant, mmm... you're so amazing, four dances in a row with you isn't enough!" "Bryant, when are you coming back to Portland?" And Bryant -- bless his heart -- excitedly tells me about each and every new girl that he has unwittingly under his spell, as if I should be surprised. Maybe Bryant was once dorky and fat and awkward and still can't get over his current success(es). I know he's not rubbing all of this fame and love in out of spite... he's actually a nice fella. But it doesn't make it go down any easier.

In contrast, I'm simply the nice-guy dancer that doesn't pull your arm, doesn't grab your boobs, and, well, doesn't leave much of an impression at all.

I'm not bad. I'm not great. I'm, well, not very memorable on the dance floor.

I'm Mr. Cellophane*. And it's damn depressing.

I'm surrounded by Lindy Rock Stars and I've even had the good fortune to dance with many of them. At a recent dance competition Finals round with 20 of the best dancers in the Bay Area, I noticed with amusement that I had danced with at least half of the women featured.

But that doesn't mean they remember my name. Or ask me to dance. More often, they look right through me, walk right by me.

I admit, this whining entry is in direct contradiction to my earlier entry in which I noted that I had made blissful peace with my dancing mediocrity. So sue me. I'm sick, I'm cranky, and I'm in a DanceSlump as of late.

It happens to the best of us, I know. Plateaus and all. But is it really that common to feel as if you're getting WORSE? Blah.

Right now, I'd even settle for being a controversial figure in dance... you know, one of those guys that people hate to love and love to hate and so on. At least I'd be known for SOMETHING.

*A human bein's made of more than air
With all that bulk, you're bound to see him there
Unless that human bein' next to you
Is unimpressive, undistinguished
You know who...

Cellophane
Mister Cellophane
Shoulda been my name
Mister Cellophane
'Cause you can look right through me
Walk right by me
And never know I'm there!

- Lyrics from the musical Chicago

So until I either drop someone on her head or cuss someone out or win a competition or do a quadruple spin without falling on my ass, I'm going to just be known for... not being known. Lindy Hop's Mr. Cellophane.