Archaeology

I was clicking aimlessly on things and – completely unexpectedly – the login screen to this old blog of mine popped up… with the password filled in!

I stopped blogging here for two of two reasons, one of which was that i’d forgotten my password.

So i went in and changed the password to something that i did know.

That’s one good thing about WordPress: if you’re already logged in, they don’t ask you to provide your existing password.

That’s one bad thing about WordPress: I you’re already logged in, someone else can come along and change your password without knowing your existing password.

The very first thing i did was to change the theme of the blog. It’s now purple, for no really good reason.

If you refer to the ABOUT page, you’ll see that this blog isn’t about anything. Or, if it is about something, then whatever that something is doesn’t really matter.

That’s a challenge, that is. Writing a blog that isn’t about anything, almost two years after leaving it for dead.

Let’s see how i go.

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Bloggers are not Journalists, and Journalists are not Bloggers

There’s something very wrong when professional Journalists suddenly think they can be bloggers.

They can’t.

Blogging is a reaction against ownership of the media by the Man.

Journalists work for the Man.

Thus, when a journalist writes what he or she (or the Man) calls a “blog”, what he or she (or, in reality, the Man) is really doing is writing an online column, sanctioned, owned, and controlled by the Man.

If I want to read what the Man has to say, I’ll buy a newspaper, and just stop thinking for myself.

A little while ago, some Journalist moaned and bitched in what he (and the Man) thought was a blog about the unkind anonymous comments of his readers. Look at me, he wailed, I’m a professional Journalist and I’m putting my actual name to my rantings (i.e. opinions paid for and sanctioned by the Man), and that’s what makes me so special.

Journalists don’t belong in the blogosphere, any more than professional athletes belong at the Olympics.

When Time Magazine condescendingly made all us out here the Person of the Year, it wasn’t because we were doing a good job at being little try-hard journalists: it was because we were taking over control of the media, and taking it away from Journalists.

Or that’s what the Man said, anyway.

So, it’s like this, Journalists: get yourselves out of the blogosphere. Now. Go back to reporting scandals and sports, like we expect you to.

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It’s official: everyone is finally over blogs and blogging

Turns out that everyone who might ever have been interested in keeping a blog has now tried it, and they’ve either decided that

  • it’s just the very thing they’ve always wanted to have take over their lives, or
  • they’ve decided that it’s tedious and pointless, and that they’d do just about as well whispering their thoughts into an empty box that they keep under their bed.

You can read more about this here, or you could not, since you probably haven’t read this in the first place. It’s ok, I understand: with 100 million blogs to get through, one gets picky pretty quick.

Tomorrow, I’ll be sating your stalky needs with an exciting account of my most recent toe-nail clipping adventures. Make sure you RSS for that one, huh.

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Orange brick road

The sky is this unwell orange colour, like it’s eaten too many carrots, and so is the ground where the sunlight filters down onto it.

It’s like Melbourne’s been wrapped in orange cellophane, a big, gaudy xmas present, left in the car to overheat.

Everyone is a little unsettled by the colour of the light, and by the smell of the smoke that is everywhere: in the air; in your clothes; in your significant-other’s hair; sharper in rooms left closed for a few days; breathing from car vents.

Safely over in the United States, where the skies are red, white, and blue, NASA looked up and found a sunspot. They used millions of US dollars’ worth of equipment to find this sunspot, but, with the sun gauzed over by the smoke of two hundred thousand burning hectares, we here found it days ago for free.

It’s large enough to swallow the Earth, this sunspot, and to suck the whole lot of us right down to the Sun’s thermonuclear core without a moment of discomfort on its part, or on the part of the Sun. I imagine that we, however, would be fairly uncomfortable with the process (even if not for long).

It’s an electromagnetic tornado, spinning darkly within frenzied clouds of whitehot fusion.

NASA were so worried that when they launched the Space Shuttle Discovery, they launched it at night, so that it had less chance of bumping into the Sun and being sucked down that sunspot without a trace.

They can stand to not lose any more shuttles. Not even if the shuttle ends its days by dropping benevolently (for the Solar munchkins, at least) onto some wicked witch at the centre of the Sun.

Posted in Bushfires, Space. Comments Off on Orange brick road

Bushfires and the media

I can’t help the feeling that everyone in the media is a little annoyed that the weekend bushfires weren’t the cataclysm that they were expecting. And advertising.

Friday night, on the Channel 7 News, Jennifer Keyte anounced in stentorian tones,

“Victorians will live and die this weekend, depending on the weather.”

Personally, I think that <generalisation>the media</generalisation> is totally irresponsible about reporting on bushfires.

They want to terrify us. It’s good for their business.

The warnings and portentous threats that were coming out of the commercial media in the lead up to the weekend were obscene. See, thing is, once we know that the fires are about, there’s not much we can do about it. Worrying won’t actually help.

During our little fire back in ’97, the authorities set up a phone counselling service for people traumatised by the fires. Most of the people who rang in lived nowhere near the flames.

Posted in Bushfires, TV. Comments Off on Bushfires and the media

Fishheads

I was driving to work this morning and there was this guy came fishtailing out of a sideroad onto the highway. It was this old Ford, one of the old square ones. He (and I assume it was a ‘he’, but it may have been a ‘she’) put too much oomph into powering through the slight change of direction from the sideroad onto the highway, and the Falcon’s tail started sliding out. The driver seemed to enjoy this effect, judging by how he continued it for sometime, all the while getting larger and larger in my rear vision mirror.

I was so busy monitoring his sideways hijinks and contemplating their consequences for me, that I was distracted from the traffik in front of my own car. When I’d focused my tunnelvision back onto the car next in line from me to the City, I saw that it was very much stationary. I clutched and hit the brakes.

The thump that came alarmingly from behind was only my Melways hitting the back floor, having slid off the rear seat. I’d stopped in plenty of time, and without major incident, but my car did nosedive somewhat in the process.

I looked at the stationary tradesman’s vehicle before me, the one that I’d avoided missing. Sticking out the back of it like a lance, wrapped in a warning pink t-shirt, was a pair of steel beams.

Had I not stopped, the steel beams would have gone right through my face.

The dancing Falcon continued on up the road, as if nothing had happened.

Posted in Cars, People. Comments Off on Fishheads

Lately at all

I make it a policy to not write about work or work colleagues, so here goes.

A work colleague is leaving.

We used to be friends, a long time ago, but I haven’t heard from her lately at all.

Which is my fault.

The scuttlebutt is that she’s going to be much happier at her new workplace.

That’s good.

I think people should be happy at work.

We spend enough time there.

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