Just… damn them.
*schniffles*
Okay, you wanted some advice, so here it is.
Listen, for fuck’s sake. Don’t just pretend to listen. Don’t make listening-face. Don’t start nodding two words into what she’s saying and start formulating your response. You don’t multi-task for shit (something you’re oh-so-proud of), so Just. Listen.
She doesn’t like numbers as much as you. Compared to her, you love numbers. (Which you don’t, but compared to her, you’re like fucking Rainman with the number-love.) Quit being such a dick about it.
The thing where you do all the laundry and take care of the house perfectly fine and get all that domestic stuff done like tumbling dominoes whenever she’s out of town for two weeks and you’re on your own? MMMMaybe you could do that a little bit more when she’s actually home. That might be nice.
Seriously, shut the fuck up sometimes. You’re current obsession is not that interesting when you bring it up the fourth time in two hours.
If it has elastic in it, and it’s hers, it doesn’t go in the dryer. Ditto if it’s anything the feels like you might accidentally tear while handling it, wet.
And don’t bitch about her having stuff that fragile. It’s probably there for you. Jackass.
Don’t be the reason you’re late for anything.
In a disagreement, you can be happy, or you can be right. Consciously decide which you want to be, before it becomes too late to be either.
Pick “happy” like… 9 times out of 10. Maybe 11 of 12.
Very, very rarely, you get to be happy and right, but you never get to pick when those times are.
Very small gifts, often.
Don’t say you will if you won’t. C’mon. Be a grown up.
Never fucking lie. You’ve done well on this so far. Keep it up. It’s good.
Reduce your vocabulary and pronunciation corrections by, like, half. And by 100% when people are around.
“Your friends” count as “people.” (So do hers, should it come up.)
The things you do show how much you care about the Stuff That’s Important To Her so much more than the things you say. Her stuff is just as important as your stuff. Moreso, if she’s her. Which she is.
You don’t call enough. Call more. Without being creepy or annoying, obviously.
Settle for cuddling sometimes, yah big dumby.
Again, ad infinitum, listen. Fucking primate.
—
I’m thinking of calling this post
Catchy, innit it?
Or, as some would have it: “Shut the Internet off and clear your Google reader cache at midnight” day.
If you need me, I’ll be writing up some thoughts on the last couple Diaspora sessions.
First of all, this is me:
Except I’m not a little red-haired girl, and there’s more swearing. Christ, allergies? Really? It’s still snowing, for fuck’s sake.
Ah, March in Colorado.
Anyway.
So, although I’ve technically been laid off, I’ve got a couple projects going on that make it seem a whole lot like I’m gainfully employed.
The first and foremost is a deal where I’m creating a bunch of online courses for my old job. I’m churning out about one interactive course every four days or so, which looks impossibly fast until you know that the material has already been tidily assembled, and all I need to do is write the script, voice it, assemble imagery to go with it, and code all the quizzes and final tests.
Then it just looks almost-impossibly fast.
It does provide a nice pattern, though, which has helped me with my aforementioned “when do I know I’m done for the day?” problem. On day one, I write the script. On day two, I voice it. On day three, layout, animation, and whatnot. One day four, quizzes. When I’m done with the stuff needed for that day, I stop. Voila.
That gives me time to work on the other project, which… well, it takes me back.
Mini-storytime
The first website I ever made was (it should surprise no one) for a game I was playing at the time. Like most things on the internet, even back then (this would have been around… 1992), I wasn’t the person who built it — I was just the guy who was asked to go in and fix it.
I’d never touched html before. I had to figure it all out as I went, and of course I didn’t have a manual or anything. Hell, I didn’t even have Google. I’d just poke around at stuff and figure out what I wanted to do, then horribly break something, figure out how to fix it, learn, and move on.
That website (and that game) disappeared into the mist of internet death a long long time ago; my first forays into web coding are mercifully lost in time, but that marked the beginning of my presence on the internet, and the start of my ongoing relationship with building websites. 18 years and counting. bears-cave. average-bear. random-average. Raw html in notepad. Frontpage. Blogger. Movable type. WordPress. mysql. Wikis. Forum installs, apache, php, bbcode, and god knows what else.
For me, it’s like math: I don’t know very much of it — I don’t carry the knowledge around, close at hand, the way I do knowledge of other things — but give me a few hours to refresh my memory and I can figure out a surprising amount.
Poke around random-average.com or this site or fireflywiki.org, and you might be under the impression I know what I’m doing. Or ktliterary.com, which marked something of a high point in both web design and wordpress kung-fu for me.
Until now.
One of Kate’s clients, who also happens to be a dear friend who spoke at great and hilarious length at our wedding, has this website. It’s beautifully and professionally designed, and the one time I ever looked at the code (while I was helping her set up a Ning site for her fans — Nings: did I forget to mention nings? Nings are cool), it scared the shit out of me. The layout was accomplished entirely through tables — tables nested four and five levels deep in some cases — positively labyrinthine. A sort of massive, intricate structure composed of nothing but pixie-stix filled with nitroglycerin: do so much as sneeze and the whole damned thing would explode in your face. Intimidating, is the word.
Turns out, Maureen felt pretty much the same way. As a result, with the exception of the (blogger hosted) blog, nothing really got updated on the site because it was too damned easy to break something. Badly.
So a little while ago, Maureen guest-blogged on someone else’s site and got a taste of WordPress.
You can see where this is going.
It didn’t take long before she decided she wanted some of that wordpress goodness on her own site, and she asked me if I could take the blogger template, make a wordpress equivalent, port the whole thing over to be hosted on her actual website – where all those delicate, explodey static pages were – and… you know… make it all work.
I said sure, because… well, Maureen’s a little crazy, and sometimes crazy rubs off.
This little story is getting long, so let me sum up: I didn’t port over the blogger site.
Well, I didn’t just port it over. In order to make use of the the nice widget sidebars, modular headers and footers, and really everything else that embodies WordPress Cool, I had to take apart that scary nitro-pixie-code and rebuild it in neat little parcels.
… and when I was done with that, well… it really wasn’t THAT much more work to port in all those static pages as wordpress pages, make them less explodey, and put them where they could be, you know, updated.
… and get the flash-laden front page working as part of all that…
And… you know… just port the whole damned site into wordpress, where MJ could actually have a site she could touch without losing a finger.
So I did that. It’s over here. Yeah, I know it’s pink. I know it’s not “me”. (It is Maureen, though, which is rather the point.)
It’s not my design – I’m honestly not much of a designer – but if Mordin Solis has taught me only one thing, it’s this: it’s just as hard to modify an existing Deadly Thing without fucking it up as it is to create the thing from scratch in the first place.
So I’m pretty proud of it. You should see the “Edit Pages” display; it’s tidy. I learned a LOT of cool WordPress stuff.
Best of all, MJ seems happy with it.
And I don’t know if I’d have found the time to do this much work on it if I hadn’t been in my current weird employment situation.
So, there you go: bright spot.
Now then: back to work.
(Author’s Note: Chuck has a calmer assessment of this situation. I get worked up about this stuff. If that offends, I highly recommend his post.)
All right. Wow. There’s a lot to talk about here.
Once upon a time, the five major publishers in the country decided they wanted to sell their ebooks for about 15 bucks, give or take. Their reasoning and justifications given for this price point were (and continue to be) insultingly disingenuous; the real reason (in my opinion) I will sum up in this trite opening paragraph as “this new technology scares the holy fuck out of us, and we’d like to erect a price barrier around it to ensure that only wealthy early-adopters make use of it until about 2022, when we hope we will finally understand it.” (I will address their reasons in a more detailed manner below. Promise.)
Amazon took a look at this and decided to sell those books for ten bucks, instead. Given that they still have to pay publishers the same amount as they always did, and still owe the publisher the same percentage of fifteen dollars that they always have, it’s fair (if mildly mathematically inaccurate) to say that, by doing so, they were voluntarily losing 5 bucks on each ebook sale.
(“Losing” is a poor way to say it; they were setting themselves up to make considerably less per sale, but they hardly started hemorrhaging money.)
Why would they do this? Well, they haven’t said why, officially, but there are three main schools of thought on the subject:
I have listed these theories in descending order of likelihood/connection to reality. (Also, #2 is basically a fake-out: it doesn’t exist without either #1 or #3 as a motivator.)
Full disclosure: I have believed each of these three theories at some point in the past, though I’m currently standing by Theory #1, because (generally speaking) any theory about a corporation that ascribes the least amount of moral compunction and the highest amount of profit-mindedness is probably going to be the most accurate.
Within the last 48 hours or so, all the books (paper or electronic) published by Macmillan or any imprint of Macmillan (Tor, St. Martins, etc) became unavailable for direct purchase via Amazon.com. (I say ‘for direct purchase’, because you can still buy em, but only from third-party businesses that sell through Amazon.) The NY Times talks about it here.
Basically what happened is that Macmillan struck a deal with Apple, in which Macmillan gets to set ebook prices at whatever price they want in the iBooks store, and in exchange, Apple gets a bigger chunk of the profit. Once that deal was set, they went to Amazon and proposed the same deal. This was Strong Arm Negotiation Move #1 (or #2, if you count the 9.99 pricing that Amazon adopted as String Arm Move #1, but that only works if Theory #2 is correct, and I don’t think it is — for Amazon, it’s not (primarily) about ebook pricing — it’s about selling Kindles.)
Then, Macmillan told Amazon that if they didn’t accept that proposal, Macmillan wouldn’t give them access to their ebooks until about six months after other distributors (read: B&N, iBooks) had it.
Amazon said no to this deal, and after what I can only imagine was an acrimonious end to the meeting, pulled all Macmillan stuff from their site. This was Strong Arm Negotiation Move #2.
I managed to stay out of the “debate” surrounding this for the better part of Saturday, until my wife (who is a bright and shining star in the industry, and thus gets industry communications brought right to our doorstep by scantily-clad delivery ‘boys’) brought it up after she got a panicked “special weekend edition” message from Publishers Marketplace, penned by John Sargent of Macmillan. At the time, it was an industry-only thing, but PW sensed the potential newsiness of the topic and made the letter freely available to the unwashed masses here. An excerpt:
I regret that we have reached this impasse. Amazon has been a valuable customer for a long time, and it is my great hope that they will continue to be in the very near future. They have been a great innovator in our industry, and I suspect they will continue to be for decades to come.
I want to parenthetically point something out here. Mr. Sargent is making a huge mistake in these two sentences:
I’m not trying to make some point with that — I just want to call out that the scale of this move on either side is not the same.
The debate on this event, such as it is, boils down to these two points:
Dear Proponents of Either Side: You’re both wrong.
I’m going to go after “The cost to publish e-books Oh My God, Woe” side first, because it’s the next thing in the list of quotes I grabbed from various sites.
Over on The Harper Studio, we have this gem from 2009 explaining to all the unwashed why e-books cost just as much to make as hardbacks. Excerpt:
We still pay for the author advance, the editing, the copyediting, the proofreading, the cover and interior design, the illustrations, the sales kit, the marketing efforts, the publicity, and the staff that needs to coordinate all of the details that make books possible in these stages.
What an incredibly disingenuous pile of crap. I’m actually insulted that people think I’m so dim as to swallow this.
Yes, Harper, you have all those costs, but you only pay those costs once. You don’t get to claim those costs as justification for the price of ebooks when you’ve already paid those costs during normal dead-tree print-and-production — those costs are already your justification for high-priced hardbacks; by the author’s own statement, actually paper-printing a book costs about 2 bucks per unit, and it’s these production costs that drive hardback price points up. Don’t tell me you need to roll these expenses into ebook costs as well to make ends meet, because before ebooks existed, you were making money hand-over-fist without that revenue stream.
I’ve said it before, and I will keep saying it: once the process has been completed for printing a hardback, 90% of the production work necessary to create an ebook version of the same book is ALREADY DONE. The cost has already been paid. If you try to sell me the same thing a second time, I’ll tell you to fuck off.
(Note: if someone wants to publish a new book as nothing but an ebook, then yes, they totally get to claim all the costs of copyediting and so forth, and I have no beef whatsoever with paying 15 or 20 or 25 bucks for said book — I do it ALL THE TIME with independently published, ebook-only, roleplaying games and think nothing of it. But when ebooks are merely one part of a book’s list of available formats? No.)
And here’s some costs that paper books incur that ebooks don’t:
So let’s look at a normal, big-publisher ebook; one which is being produced along with hardback and paperback editions:
(Also: writers? If this “agency model” becomes the norm? Renegotiate your contracts, because you’re getting screwed.)
Anyway: I think it’s fair to say that fifteen bucks for an ebook, when the paperback edition incurs more production/distribution cost and is priced for half as much, appears to be, as they say, “fucking robbery”. Readers aren’t stupid. It doesn’t take much to look at the justification for current ebook prices and think “that’s just not fair.”
Especially when you don’t even end up owning the ebook the way you own a paper book.
Which brings me to Amazon.
The very idea of Amazon being portrayed as some kind of consumer-rights advocate when it comes to ebooks is insulting. Amazon’s Digital Rights Management (DRM) for the Kindle is a slap in the face to the traditions that surround the act of buying, reading, and most-of-all owning books. Amazon’s ebooks are locked to the Kindle (or to Kindle-simulating software, also available from Amazon), and even if the book has no ‘official’ DRM, it’s still in a Kindle-only file format that no one is legally allowed to create a translator microbe for.
Thus, the grave-pissing level of insult that the Amazon ebook setup inflicts on readers. Now, you need a license agreement to read your new book. Now, you can’t share a good book with a friend. Or your wife. Or your kid. Copyright recognizes the reader’s rights to own, loan, gift, resell and read your books any way you want. But now, they aren’t ‘your’ books; you don’t own a book — you lease it.
Amazon wants that. They can fuck off, too.
Listen: you want to charge 15 bucks for an ebook? Fine.
If the market sustains it, fine. I don’t think the market will. I think you can sell an ebook for half the price of the paperback and still be essentially printing your own money. (And I am not alone in this opinion.)
I think it’s telling that readers are coming down on Amazon’s ‘side’ on this whole thing, even though Amazon clearly gives fuck-all for the reader’s rights. In as much as I can be said to have a side in this, I’m also on that side.
But I’m not standing too close to Amazon when I take that side. I would suggest the same level of care for anyone standing with either of these combatants.
Because those big bastards will trample you if you’re not careful, and they don’t care if they do.
“When elephants fight it is the grass that suffers.” — Kikuyu Proverb
Martin Luther King Jr. will never mean the same thing to me that he means to my brother-in-law Reggie, nor will he have the same impact on me as on my nieces and nephew.
Close as we are, I can’t even claim Reverend King’s impact to the same degree as my sister.
I’m just a liberal white boy, full of liberal white-boy guilt, who tries real hard to do the right thing and tries too hard to say the right thing (and who ends saying too much of the right thing, and trying too hard, and just… embarrassing himself). I’m the one who thinks, deep down, no matter what I do, I’m somehow part of the problem.
But if nothing else, I can see the dinosaurs of our past dying out, year by year; replaced by children who are better than the generations past. Better than me. It is a glacially slow change, but likewise inexorable, and it gives me hope.
And when I read too much of today’s news, and hear too many quotes from too many stupid, scared, old white men, and my faith in the glacier starts to fade, I look at pictures like this…
… and I think that maybe I can see the change happening. Maybe I even do a (very) small amount to help.
And I am very, very lucky that this is so.
“I submit to you that if a man hasn’t discovered something he will die for, he isn’t fit to live.” – Martin Luther King, Jr.
Short post today; I love you (I do, really. Put this mask on.), but I have other writing to do.
So last night, I spoke to Twitter and said:
I love my new bowling ball. My new bowling ball hates me and is filing for a restraining order. I think I’ll name her ‘Carla’.
Yeah. I’m going to talk about bowling again.
As I’ve mentioned previously, my bowling game has improved quite a bit in the year since I got started in a league with some other gamer nerds in the area. Good times and steady improvement led to a pretty surprising second-place finish for the fall season. Our team was edged out of 1st place in a nail-biter of a final game, our salty tears diluted somewhat by the fact that Kate and I were first in the Most Improved categories for our respective genders and we both got second place in our “High Handicap Series” categories.
Oh, and the prize money. That helped too.
I decided to farm the filthy lucre back into the habit that spawned it and get myself a new bowling ball.
See, for the last 18 months or so, I’ve been using a ball generously given to me by Chris (the guy who got us into the league in the first place). It’s an old ball of his, drilled for both his hand measurements and for a ‘beginner’s’ grip. It’s a little beat up, and I have to kind of crook my thumb a bit to wedge it into its hole well enough, but… well, it works. It doesn’t do anything too fancy, but clearly I can make it hit the pins.
So why get a new ball? Well, I can turn in a very nice score with the Old Ball, but it doesn’t really let me do those fancy curving shots that you see the pro guys put out, and those fancy curving shots actually help the ball hit the pins in a way that makes it more likely they’ll fall down and go cracka-boom.
So I dug around a bit, and took some suggestions from Chris, and ordered up a nice new ball. It’s pretty. It does lovely curvy things. I named it Carla. You know, just in my head. As a joke. Totally a joke.
Before the new season started last night, I went in and got the ball drilled. Oh, shush: quit snickering.
Okay, fine: “I got new finger grips added to the ball.” Happy now?
The guy at the shop told me that he would allow no stinking beginner’s grip on a ball like that, so I drilled me up a ‘fingertip’ grip.
Which is fine; that’s kind of what I was expecting. When he was done, the ball was finally ‘finished’. Ready.
And damn she was pretty.
But there’s a saying in bowling: “Pretty balls don’t throw strikes.”
The ball curves, yeah. WAY more than I’m used to, but that hardly matters, cuz I can’t get the damn thing to come off my hand; that fancy fingertip grip basically means that everything I’ve trained myself to do with Old Ball is wrong wrong wrong. So wrong that I damn near hurt myself last night. I’m going to have to completely relearn how to play, pretty much from the ground up.
So after an abysmal first game (95 pins! Woo!) during which I threw more gutter balls than I think I ever have in a game, and air-balled a fifteen-pound hunk of stone more than I’d like to admit (encouraging many nearby bowlers to look around for the moron noob who didn’t know how to play), I put Carla back in my bag, mumbling something like “It puts the lotion on its skin…” and pulled out Old Ball. My security blanket. Security ball. Whatever. Shut up.
Old Ball didn’t fail me. The approach I used was simpler. Crude. Basic.
But the pins fell down and went cracka-boom.
Frustrating, to have the New Pretty Thing and to have to actually WORK before it produces… well, forget about ‘something better than the old ball’; I’ll be happy with ‘something comparable to the old ball’.
Is this about writing? It might be. I’m a pretty basic guy when it comes to putting words down. As Papa said “I know the 10 dollar words, but there are older words; better, simpler, and those are the ones I use.” Could be that the thing I’m working on right now also includes some fancy-schmancy tricks that I’ve seen used by writers I admire, and I thought “I can do that. How hard can it be? It’s just writing.”
Yeah. Gutterball.
So what happens to Carla now? Do I stick with Old Ball and my respectable-but-maybe-not-as-good-as-it-could-be game?
No. This weekend, I go to the lanes and I practice. A lot. First I figure out how to simply deliver the damn thing, then I’ll figure out how much that changes the roll, until finally, maybe, I’ll get the results I want. Practice practice practice. Lots of people throw tricky balls like mine; they do just fine, and dammit, they aren’t any better than me.
But last night I bought a bowling bag that holds two balls. Old Ball will never be very far away.
Sometimes you need old and simple and crude and ugly. I see no reason to give up the simple things that work, just because I’m working on a fancy new thing.
None at all.
Inspired by Kate’s post, In the Past Year, I…
In 2010, I want to:
Bonus: Finish, and finish podcasting, Adrift.
How about you?