11 Jun 09 It’s Just and Owie

LIfe comes hard and it is filled with pain. Yet, somehow we manage to ignore it all and we keep swinging from day one to day dead.

I was just about 4 when I first got an inkling of this fact. I had hurt my thumb, just an owie, and it had a bandage. I was looking forward to when it would heal and I would feel all fine again. Imagine that: feel all fine again! There actually was a time when I could remember having no pain at all.

Well, the thumb healed, but by then I had skinned my knee in a Stingray wipeout on Edge Hill in NE Portland. It was a great strawberry and it turned black around the edges. Hurt like heck. I was looking forward to when it would heal and I would feel all fine again.

By the time it was just about 100 percent healed, I had a cold. I was looking forward to it clearing up and feeling all fine again.

Then it struck me, as I walked down to Brandell’s Market on 29th and Prescott (NE Portland) to get a Payday and a Hires root beer. I would always have some niggling owie or something going on.  I was never going to feel “all fine” again.

For a moment, just a moment, I had a sense of horror, thinking that I had a lifetime of healing and pain ahead of me. It was just a moment, and then, quite easily, my mind turned to my walk, my coming treat from the store, and the Detroit Tigers. 

We know the pain is there. We know life comes hard. But we whistle a tune and go to the store anyway.

04 Feb 09 The Visit: Chapter 04

45 degree 55.84 minutes 55.84 seconds North by 122 degrees 42 minutes 28.55 seconds West…

Jim Dunkirk straddled his 15-speed bike and watched the sun rise from behind Mr. hood. it had rained overnight, but it was solid clear now and steamy mist rose from the hill below Council Crest. He adjusted his gloves and slipped his feet into the toe clips. Today, he was sure, he would break his record. He took three deep breaths, squeezed the dog tags around his neck, and rocked the bike like a bobsledder at the top of a run. then, with one strong push, he was off the mark and quickly moving downhill.

He turned right onto the circle road and sped around t ohis left and then a hard right onto Council Crest Dr. This was the start of the long downhill and he pedaled hard to reach maximum speed, keeping to his left to decrease the disance on the long sweep down to Greenway Avenue. Jim had beenn doing this ride every Sunday morning for two years. It started when his brother Devon succumbed to cancer. The last hour of his life he handed Jesse his dog tags from the Army. “I won’t forget you,” he told Jim. “I won’t forget you,” he had answered. That night, the dog tags hanging around his neck, Jim churned the bike on black road without destination.  by morning, he was forty miles away from Portland, panting and exhausted in a city park in McMinnville. He staggered into a nearby motel, got a room, and fell face-first on the bed, the tags still tight ih his right hand. he slept all day.

Now he crossed Talbot terrace and jangled a bit on some bad pavement. That would slow his time, he thought. He pedaled harder to make up. He banked on the long right turn and then flew through the intersection of Talbot Road and stayed to the left on Greenway, passing two cars. Soon, he was at the chicane where Greenway teed-in to Patton Road. This was one of the trickiest spots on the course. Jim had to enter patton blind, at speed, jog hard to the right and then another hard left onto Vista Avenue. He executed it perfectly, dodging an oncoming car, and was flying down the narrow stretch of Vista to Buena Vista, where it made a sharp, decreasing radius turn to the right. Jim’s heart was throbbing now, in that wonder, endorphine producing rush that he lived for. The whirring chain and the hiss of the tires on dry pavement were like a familiar song. He picked his line and, leaning almost to the pavement, he blasted through the turn, tires breaking just a bit and the bike flexing powerfully. “Yes,” he thought, “I’m on this time, this is it.”

He zipped through the turns, in and out of the shadows of the trees, approaching the most dangerous spot on the run, Spring Street. Vista makes a sharp downhill just before it and there is a stop sign at the intersection. Just before the drip, Jim could catch a glimpse of Spring and oncoming cars. this was always the decision point. Usually, as he always rode a daybreak, the road was empty. Today, thought, a car was coming into the intersection. Jim knew he was on target to smash his personal best. To slow now wouldd mean…well, he couldn’t have it. He clenched the bars, put his head down, and pumped the pedals. he flashed past the stop sign, and for an eye blink, he was in the path of the car. He heard tires protest and saw the bumpeg withing a finger of his foot. He wobbled a moment, straightened out, and was through the crossing, the car horn blasting behind him.

The grade increased at this point as he entered the six block section of Vista that runs down the western hill to Portland’s zero, east-west street, Burnside. The hill is terraced, so Vista runs a steep downhill for each block and levels off at each intersection. It’s a favorite for hill-hopping teenagers in cars and like a roller coaster for cyclists. This section of Vista is also jammed with some of the most beautiful, grandiose homes in Portland: stately, old, and adorned with lush, well-kept yards and gardens. But Jim didn’t care about the homes, the view, or anything else. All he cared about was the ride and his personal best and his brother, Devon.

Maybe that was why he did this ride. It was reckless, edgy, and being so close to death made him feel close to him. After Devon died, Jim had quit law school, much to the despair of his mother, and had focused all his energy on riding his bike. he supported himself by waiting tables at a trendy restaurant in the Pearl district in old northwest Portland. This gave him time to ride, always with the dog tags around his neck. After a few years, he started to enter races, and did very well. so well, that a local custom bike maker had recently offered him a sponsorship. it was true what his Dad had said, “Do what you love and the living will follow.” Ah, Dad, he thought, why did you have to get divorced and move to L.A.? Maybe it was Devon for him, too. It seemed so unfair, two tours of Iraq, a Silver Star, a young man devoted to service, truth, and helping others. a soldier and a servant. The best little brother a man could have. Then, just like that, brain cancer. Dead. That’s it. Gone. Why?

By now, Jim had finished the six blocks and he was nearing the end of the course. Just a long left below the huge house and then another sweeping right and left along the stone wall.  After that, Vista bridge, fondly called Suicide Bridge in Portland, and then the steep hill down to Burnside.

Vista Bridge is an old, elegant, iron span over Jefferson Street. From the bridge is one of the best views of Portland and Mt. Hood. Many souls have leapt from its railing to their deaths 150 feet below. Maybe they like the grand view just before they die. Maybe it’s the mountain, which feeds the city with the melting ice from its broad shoulders. Maybe the view makes them so alone they can accept the leap. People say if you sit on the stone bench at the southern end after midnight, and you’ve had enough to drink, you will see thhe ghosts of all the leapers, pacing the walkway, climbing the rail, pausing for that last view, and stepping off. Jim doubted it. He did not believe n ghosts. In fact, these days, he believed in little of anything.

By now, Jim was approaching the bridge. The twisting turns were over and, from here to the finish– a telephone pole about 100 feet from Burnside– it was flat out on the crank. By the end of the course he would drop 1,000 feet in elevation.

The bike shuddered on the uneven pavement, but he kept his line. Approaching the midway point of the bridge, he noticed a young girl, maybe 16, standing on the railing, one foot in the air. her hair was dark, in short waves, and hung long down her gold-almond face. Her loose tunic flapped in the breeze. Jim looked up, their eyes met, and the girl smiled as she stepped off the bridge.  Jim pulled hard on the brakes and the front wheel slipped, catching on a crack in the pavement. He flipped over the bars and bounced on the pavement, head first at over 50 miles per hour. Then, black.

21 Jan 09 TV still king in advertising

E-marketer has released its data for the last quarter of 2008, showing which media most influences buying decsions in Brazil, Germany, Japan, UK, and USA.

The winner is, again, TV, by a very wide margin.

In the USA it was:

TV- 88%
Magazine- 49%
Online- 48%
Newspaper- 42%
Radio- 27%
Billboard- 10%
Online Social Networking- 8%
All rest- the remainder!

Of course, it still depends on what you are selling. Some products, especially those that require a lot of research to make decisions, will not sell well on television. And I notice direct mail is not even in the mix. What’s with that? Direct mail is one of the most powerful advertising mediums. I see e-mail is not mentioned either, unless its bundled with Online Marketing? Shouldn’t be…

Here is the story: http://www.emarketer.com/Article.aspx?id=1006872

19 Jan 09 My dad at the gas pump

09 Jan 09 Haiku Life 001

Life is exquisite; coming in millions of itsy bytes.

As we all learn at some point, it’s the little pieces that make the biggest difference.

That’s why I love “War of the Worlds,” by H. G. Wells. What saves the world? Microbes. Bacteria. Wells was a historian, a good one, and history had taught him that the most monumental changes are brought by seemingly small or even insignificant things.

The printing press, one little tool, changed the world on as grand a scale as the Internet. What has truly changed our world profundly now? One symbol says it all: @. Examples like this abound, and we can find them in our own lives as well. When we pause and ponder, we know it is the little things, a word at just the right time, the touch of someone’s skin, the eyes of your true love, the laughter of your child, the chores you do for your family every day; these are the things that have the deepest meaning.

Life comes in itsy bytes. They are exquisite. They are your meaning. It’s a haiku life.

04 Jan 09 No such thing as writer’s block

There I was, staring at the screen. How long had I been working on this article? Three hours? How many words had I written? Two? Well, probably hundreds, but they had all been deleted over and over. Hmm. Writer’s block. Or, is it?

 

I was writing an article for a day care center. They wanted to position themselves as educators for the community by providing tips for keeping kids safe and healthy in winter. I had talked to several staff people and a few moms who were dropping off their kids. I had some tips: make sure your kids wear warm coats, tell them to wash their hands and not pick their nose, and drink plenty of water. I had material. Why couldn’t I write?

 

I tried to write again:

 

The Captain Hook day care center provides many, rich, educational experiences for your children. The staff there also cares about the health and safety of your children. Here are some tips to keep them safe and healthy during these cold winter months….(yawn).

 

Then I realized the problem. I had nothing to write about. The three measly tips were dead obvious ones that anyone should know. How did that position the day care center? I could write those tips in one sentence. Not much of an article.

 

Think about the times you have had so-called writer’s block. Was it really a block? Was it because you couldn’t think of what to say about a topic? Or was it that you had nothing to write about? I don’t mean no notes—though no notes will hamper your content, duh– but no THING. Now think about a time the writing came quick and easy. I bet you had a clear idea of what you were going to say, what the point was, and how you were going to say it.

 

So here is my advice to you. If you are stuck, it’s probably because you have nothing to say. Go back to your topic, and your notes, and find out what they say. As a reporter once told me, don’t force a topic or a theme onto your material, you will get stuck. Instead, look at your material and determine what it supports, what it actually says. If that turns out to be very different from what your client wants, then go back to your client and share your discovery. “Hey, I know we set out to say X, but what I am seeing here now is something different. How about…?” If that does not satisfy your client, then look for new content that will support the main idea or theme your client wants.

Remember, if you force a message onto your content your are spinning…and that means you are lying. Good PR is telling the truth.

Tags: Writer's Block

31 Dec 08 Bloggers for Hires…OK?

This from Business Week…

A Modest Blogging Proposal 

Many are asking, should bloggers be paid for their opinions by the company selling the product? Charles Brogan, ace blogger, says yes (and he happens to be part owner in a venture to do exactly that)…

“The advertising challenge is real, Brogan says, so marketers must test new formats. “As click and banner ads don’t work anymore, how do we get a closer relationship where you feel something about the product?” he asks. It’s only normal that firms such as Izea or the more recent German-British startup Be-A-Magpie experiment with putting sponsored thoughts inside consumer Web communications. Be-A-Magpie, for example, lets consumers get paid for ads inserted into their 140-character Twitter text stream. 

However, the answer should be, duh…no.

1. What works will win. Ethics in marketing only win when dollars follow. Arguing about the moral ground on this is moot. If it works, everybody will do it. If consumers backlash, it will stop. So bloggers leveraging their influence to get money for telling other people about a product is wrong. But it might work.

2. Bloggers love to present themselves as the replacement of “old” media. If they start taking bribes to write, pro or con (Shoeless Joe took money to throw the series and batted over 300 and made no errors)they are not the news. They are the tool. What do you want to be? I hear bloggers bragging constantly how they are the real news people. If so, then really be a news person and report like one.

09 Dec 08 The Visit: Chapter 3

It was only April, and there was still some snow at the higher elevations. It was stark clear, midday, and the rock of the cliff was dusty. Two climbers, at least 80 miles from the nearest village, struggled up the cliff, about 200 feet in elevation between them. It was the border of Turkey and Iran. To be precise, they were at 37 degrees, 45 seconds north by 44 degrees, 36 minutes, 0.38 seconds east. The top of the cliff was both the summit  of the range, 8,365 feet, and the border.

The lead climber was very skilled, getting a perch on even the slightest edges, and she traversed the face of the cliff efficiently, each time finding just enough path to get more elevation. The second climber struggled to keep pace, but had the advantage of following the path of the lead. He had to catch her, his sould depended on it, he was sure. Several times he drew his pistol in hopes of getting a clear shot, but the rocky cliffs denied him every time.

The climbers continued their chase through the afternoon and into the evening light. By dark, she had opened the distance; at least 300 feet between them now. But, the chill night was moonless, and with the sun dying over the summit to the west, both climbers were forced to find cover where they could.

She was perched on a tiny ledge and she drove pitons into cracks in the rock and belayed herself. Below, her pursuer had found a place wider and more suited to his inexperience. The man pulled a small  book of prayers from a pocket and sang them in rythmic chants that filled the night. She drew her I-Pod from a zippered pocket and put on the ear buds. The sounds of Rock and Roll filled her ears, drowning the chants below. She munched on a power bar and prepared her mind for sleep at 7,800 feet while tied to a cliff. She had just 665 feet to go, but she need to be refreshed. She hoped her pursuer would tire, that he was not in  shape for a chase like this. But his zealous faith did seem to sustain him. Well, she thought, so would hers. She fell asleep in prayer.

She awoke to the thin, morning light. It was very cold, probably in single digits. She immediately went to work to un-belay herself and resume her climb. To the eastern sky over Iran she saw an odd, blue streak of light. It raced over her head and disappeared over the summit. “Less time than I realized,” she thought.

A bullet glanced off the rock just below her. Her pursuer had risked the climb in the gray morning light. He was a mere 50 feet below her. She could barely see him inhis dark clothes and headdress, but the glint of his pistol was unmistakable.

She cursed her confidence and cut her belay line, grabbed the tiny ledge above her and deftly swung up, just as another bullet whizzed off the rock. “There,” she hoped, “that should put something between us.” It was a free-climb race to the top now; no time for pitons, rope or testing a purchase. She scrambled along the stone, and began to put a few more feet between them. She hit a spot where the narest 1/2 inch of rock to grasp was nearly two feet out of reach. She tried to swing a foot across, but missed, causing her to lose her footing. Suddenly, she was hanging by her fingertips; over 1,000 feet of cliff below her.

The man was moving faster now, sensing she was at a dead end. She rocked her body, her fingers quaking, and managed to get her left foot on a tiny spike of rock. She reached for her hammer and started banging on the cracks, breaking some chunks free to shower down ont he man. One struck him in the face and, now only 25 feet away, he howled in pain. She jammed her right foot into the gash she had just created in the rock and bunched her thigh muscles for a leap.

The man fired again. She felt a hot stinging at the back of her head. She blinked, she felt OK. Must have nicked her. He fired again, and this time the bullet went right through her left hand, causing her to lose her grip on the ledge. It had to be now. She pushed off with her feet, and with her right hand stretched to the limit, she leapt across space to the next purchase. The rock slapped against her good palm and her fingers clenched. They held. She hung by one arm, her tendons quivering in the cold morning air. She got her wounded hand on the rock as well, but it was wet with blood and slippery. She swung her legs around, got a solid purchase, and slipped around an outcropping, away from the line of fire. The man shouted in Farsi, somehting about her being a witch and a whore. Huddled behind the rock, she looked at her hand, now quaking in shock. The bullet had gone clean through, but had somehow missed bone and blood vessels. But, did it hurt; like a son of a bitch. She ripped her kercchief from her neck and wrapped it. She would have to get moving agian, fast, and try to keep the outcropping between them. Or maybe…

By now, the man had reached the spot she had leaped from. The purchase was also out of his reach. He paused. This was certainly a greater climbing feath than he had tried. He looked the other way along the cliff. Peerhaps he could take a different route; head her off. There was nothing. He would have to make the leap. The man put his pistol in his belt, gathered himself, called to Allah, and sprang across the chasm, his right hand stretched. His body arced through space, losing elevation quickly. He judged his hand would land below the tiny outcropping, and he shoved a foot out toward a lower, tiny piece of rock sticking from the cliff. His heel slammed into it, breaking his fall for just a moment and he stretched up, thrusting his hand at theledge above. His fingers took hold, and he quickly scrambled with his feet, pusing himself up and getting a second hand on a solid grip. He smiled and hoisted himself up, praising God in his heart.

Something flashed in the morning sun. It was the glint of the woman’s rock hammer as it buried into his hand. She  slipped out from the outcropping, tethered on her line and she struck his hand again. He shrieked in pain, lost his grip, and fell from the ledge. He glanced off the cliff face, grabbing at the rock, but it gave him no mercy, and he went tumbling out of site to the chasm some 1,200 feet below.

She watched him disappear, swinging slowly like a pendulum on her tether. The pain rushed back to her throbbing hand. It would not be easy to make the summit, but she had all day now. Shee thought of the artifact in her pack and smiled. It would be a long trek through the Turkish wilderness, but she and the relic were safe now. She put her wounded hand over the Rosary around her neck and prayed.

05 Dec 08 First Look: Why Facebook Connect Is Bound For Success

this post on PC World, “First Look: Why Facebook Connect Is Bound For Success,” gushes over the new Facebook feature, Facebook Connect, but it makes a huge error of omission.

Facebook Connect gives you a single sign-on to every site on the Internet that is cooperating with Facebook. Gee, what a cool feature. Wrong. Every site, say “City Search,” that puts a Facebook icon on the site so you can automatically join the site with the same login as Facebook, becomes a tracker of you. Now Facebook knows everywhere you go, everywhere you sign in, and every shred of content you see, post or download.

Gee, what a cool feature.

Yes, it’s a winner all right, but not for you. Giving up your privacy and, frankly, you for convenience is a fool’s paradise. Manage your own sign-ons.

03 Dec 08 The Visit: Chapter 2

Lera stood on the outcropping,high above the valley. It was early spring, and the valley was green and quiet. The sky was clear and the sun wasjust about to rise over the snorwy mountains of central Uzbekistan. Lera was trained in the art of chanting, and she loved to hear her voice rise and fall and echo in the mountains. She often performed at religious ceremonies and traditional festivals, but all alone, on her outcropping, just her voice, the mountains, and God, was something she cherished. Today she was dressed in a thick, yellow, layered tunic and pants, red brocade adorning it, and black and green beads sewn in rows allabout. She had the classic Uzbek skin, slightly yellow, almost a gold, and long, red hair. She came to this spot when she was joyful, when she was troubled, and when she was lonely. Today it was lonely.

It was a week since the funeral. Her father was killed by the Uzbek army for cimes against the state, mostly for speaking to suspected rebels. She had held his hand as he bled to death on the dark road outside their home.

Father had always promised she would choose her husband. Now he was gone and her mother too, as she had died giving birth to her little brother. Lera was now at the mercy of her uncle, and he was already taling about marriage. “You are 18,” he said. “Past time for you to be wed.” And he hinted he preferred she marry Haliz. He had land and good family, and their marriage would settle some old disputes. “I will not be the gift to settle an argument,” she thought.

She raised her arms, the slender fingers of her left hand held her father’s necklace. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth, singing a long, low, warbling note with her powerful voice. She remembered all the pitcutres her father had shown her from his days in the Russian service. When he traveled to Europe. “people are free there,” hehad said. “Soemday, we will be too.” She chanted now, up and down the scale, a slight vibrato, and she could hear her voice echoing back. She opened her mind to her father’s spirit and asked what she should do. Then came a memory. A time when she and her father stood at this spot, not long after her mother died. She was eight then.

“Death tears us aprt,” he had said, his hand gently on her head. He knelt toher eyes. “Lera, sadness will heal you, but only if you do not give in. God called your mother to him. we grieve, but we cannot change his will. But your mother was a beautiful person and she brought beauty to this hard world; especially you.”

Lera had cried then. “I want to die,” she had said.

“Yes, you do, we all do at times,” her father answered. “But we are each here to do at least one beautiful thing. we must stay and live and be there for that moment.”

“When will I know?”

“You will see the sign, if your eyes are open,” he had said.

Lera continued her chant. The mountains sang back. She opened her eyes and there in the sky, still with a few stars in it, was a brilliant, blue light. It streaked like a meteor to the West and then, as fast as it had appeared, it was gone. At the same time, she started to chant a song she had never heard before. She marveled. Where did it come from?

Sun rays streaked over the mountain and into the valley. Lera ceased her chanting. She shivered. She did not know what the streaking, blue light meant, but she did know that today was the last day she would come to this place. She walked down the mountain path to her village, already making plans for her escape.