The Thoughtful Blogger

For all the bloggers out there, have you ever analyzed what blogging means to you and how it influences what you write? You could learn a lot. Recently, I did just that for Esther Prokopienko, a grad student at the College of Saint Rose. Researching both the act and platform of blogging, she incorporated the following answers into her research and posted the resulting paper, The Scholarly Writer/Blogger: A New Discursive Space, on her own blog, Esther’s Space.

1. How long have you been blogging? Why did you choose to begin? Do you notice any changes in your writing/thinking process from before you were a blogger to now, as an active blogger? Do you use blogging as a way of thinking through ideas? How do you use the different mediums (journals, blogs, livejournals, etc) for thinking and writing?

While spending a great deal of time overseas as a flight attendant (1997-2001), I had begun a blog of sorts, The Lincoln Street Chronicles, to keep friends and family updated on my personal activities and observations. I’d also share pre-digital, scanned photos of my layovers. That primitive HTML site was hosted by Geocities and I would add entries to the top of a free, single and static web page. There was no mechanism for readers to enter comments, but I sometimes posted interesting email replies under the main post. I certainly wasn’t the only person doing this, but I suspect that blogs, as they are known today, stemmed from this type of “web logging.”

I have been blogging officially since January 2007 when required to do so for a college literary theory class. Transitioning to a more sophisticated data entry system and the access to an extensive, searchable catalogue of Google Images added for multi-layered meaning was quite exciting. After I resigned from flying, my writing had become private again, hand written within various small, decorative journals. I had forgotten how much I missed my online interactions until assigned my first class task, to write an introduction about myself, a task that included a carefully selected picture of a toilet.

I thought, initially, that the informal style I used to record thoughts and feelings about places I had visited would not translate well to academic theory analysis. I was wrong. I quickly realized that it was the perfect tool to express my frustration with my lack of quick and easy understanding. In fact, while venting about how difficult Bakhtin’s theory was to grasp upon first reading, I had a bit of fun creating dialogue as if I were speaking with him. His picture looks down upon my own as he encourages me to take another look at what he has to say. When I do, I gain more understanding and share that understanding with my classmates. In this and later posts, I draw parallels between the material and various pop cultural phenomena such as Madonna’s affinity for sparkly things and Star Trek’s arch enemy of assimilation, the Borg.

Creating written content, through blogging or any other kind of writing, forces me to engage more thoroughly with the material. Fleeting thoughts must be carefully molded into cohesive ideas. In my mind, because blogs are designed for a wider audience than that of a private scholastic paper read by a single professor, the inherent design infuses an added responsibility to entertain (or at least engage) a larger audience. It also adds importance, when presenting interpretations publicly, to ensure accuracy. To get sloppy is to risk public humiliation on the world stage. This is the additional pressure of academia in the blogosphere, a place where unknown professors are looking for lesson plans, students are looking for clues in order to grasp difficult topics, and, in the case of a particular international literary journal that pirated one of my posts, editors are looking for material to publish.

2. Describe what you write. What makes the blog an appropriate avenue for exploring your topic? Do you have a separate personal blog and a more academic blog, or are they one? Do you think of your blog as a personal space, or as a space to engage in discussion with others?

The majority of my blogging tends to focus on class discussion topics or to stem from assignments. As my collection grew, I decided to make this a repository for all my academic writing. I have since added and back dated assignments from other classes in order to keep a mind-expansion record of sorts.

To talk of academic writing alone would only portray half of the story. At some point, after talking with two friends about the first and last time I ate haggis, I pulled an old journal entry from that day, posted it to my blog and shared the link. When I first did this, I knew that classmates would also be able to read about my adventure. This was the day I discovered a use for categories and tags, an easy way to delimit the personal from the scholastic within the same blog. From then on, Daily Drivel became the category of choice for anything personal.

The terms “personal space” and “blog” are incongruous to me. The fact that readers from all walks of life and from all over the world have the ability to comment make this space public. In fact, I have learned to limit the presence of my personal snippets, or at least writing that is meaningful to me, thanks to the advent of Google AdSense. It seems that the new trend for “entrepreneurs” is to steal posts from other blogs, post them to their own site, sign up with Google AdSense and have Google place topic specific advertisements in their sidebars. When people land on these sites and click the sidebar ad, the blog thief capitalizes on writing that is not their own. This has happened twice, putting the onus on me to prove my identity by sending a copy of my passport as well as the original site of authorship prior to Google shutting down the culprit. Apparently blogging is no longer enough. Now one most police their posts as well.

3. When writing a blog post, how do you imagine yourself as the writer? How much of your writing is ‘real you’ and how much is a portion of you- writer you, blogger you, academic you?

I have heard this question asked before and still don’t know how to reply. I do not picture myself compartmentalized in such clear terms. My humor almost always enters into my academic writing, for better or worse, so that could probably be read as “the real me” shining through. Since the academic scope of my writing is based in deep-seated curiosity, even that is “the real me.”

What I can say about writing, in any format, is that I am far more confident using the written word than I am with engaging in the messy act of unleashing my ideas verbally. I am more apt to express my actual thoughts in writing than when under the gun to speak in public, a task that strikes terror into the depths of my soul. In fact, when speaking, I often cannot find those words most important to conveying my idea at all.

4. When you are writing, do you imagine an audience? Do you know your audience personally? Has your blog provided opportunities for you to meet others with the same interests? Have you ever consciously chosen to write/not write something because of concern over your readers’ possible responses? Do you ever use blog feedback to generate new blogs?

My audience, beyond my classmates, is typically envisioned as a big, black void. Brave confidence in writing only goes so far when I never know what is coming at me from the dark recesses of the internet. Some expert can come along and tell me I’ve got it all wrong, which I would actually welcome, but I am careful not to write much about politics for fear of a giant slamfest. My political opinions are only now becoming part of the majority point of view. The past eight years have been a different story.

I broke this political silence recently when I received a friend’s response to my Facebook tagline that sparked a political discussion. Moving the discussion from one platform to another, I transferred it to my blog and kept my correspondent-in-crime anonymous. This would be the closest I have ever come to generating new posts from blog feedback.

Post inspiration is most likely to come from my in-depth comment on other blogs rather than blog feedback. When I receive a comment, of course that sparks conversation. I simply tend to keep topic conversations confined to a single post, sometimes replying with as much as an essay-length response rather than breaking out a new post.

5. What are your blog stats? What is an average number of visitors to your blog per day? What areas of your blog are the most popular? Are there particular topics that elicit a higher readership? How has your readership changed over time?

My most famous blog post of all time is called “Foucault, Foot Lickers, & 7 Foot Sex Symposium.” This post is a Foucaultian interpretation of a college faculty reading in which one essay examined how wrong the fetish of foot-licking seems to be while another explored the ways housing a seven foot tall painting of a bikini clad couple for a friend changes one’s life. Both essays had, in my mind, proven Foucault’s point that in all the ways we try to avoid talking about sex, a discourse is thus created.

Search terms for this particular post are less than academic: foot lick, foot licking, lick foot, licking feet, lick feet, feet lick, feet licker, sex foot, sex feet, feet sex, foot sex, footsex, and so on… 2008 has yielded 2,736 hits for this post alone, up from a measly 300 from May-Dec. in 2007.

Close seconds include posts on Cindy Sherman and Linda Hutcheon, both of the postmodern persuasion.

Oddly, political posts get the fewest hits so perhaps it’s time to shelve that unfounded fear of a slam fest from folks who disagree with my views. Good to know.

One Recollection of September 11th

In memory of this day seven years ago, I offer a clarified adaptation (pulled from frantic writings) of my personal account. The majority of this was written to reassure family and friends of my safety, to reach out to those I hadn’t heard from, and to attempt to process the day’s events in some way that made sense, if only chronologically.

September 13, 2001
Tuesday and Beyond

Hi all,
For those who have have written and called to ask if I was okay, I am slowly recovering. Thank you for your concern. Still, I am in shock, a state in which I know I am not alone.

I was glad to hear that most everyone I was concerned about is alright. I hope that those I haven’t heard from are safe and sound… Max, Dan, and the rest of the NYC contingent.

I can’t repeat this story much more than I have, so this is it in one big shot. I’m shipping this letter out to everyone on my email list.

On Tuesday I arrived at the Continental Training Center across the river from lower Manhattan at 8:30 a.m. My three hour drive from Albany that morning was basked in sunlight. Bands of fog, like webs of spun gold, stretched between the trees. By the time I reached the skyline of New York, it was shimmering with the warm hues of sunrise against a crisp blue sky. I cursed myself for leaving my camera on the kitchen counter.

Upon my arrival, I sat in the Continental Training Center’s cafe reviewing for the FAA’s annual training. As I tried to recall things not published in our manual or elsewhere, things like weapons identification and hijacking procedures, people approached the windows with urgency saying, “You can’t see it from here.” I asked what they were looking for and couldn’t believe what I was told.

I joined them and we ran to the nearest glass walled classroom. Others were filing in fast. From our position just across the river from the World Trade Center we faced the horrific sight of smoke and flames coming from several of the tower’s upper floors. Snippets of hushed conversation revealed the general and naive assumption that this plane crash was an accident. A dismissive fellow said, “Don’t worry. The Trade Center was built to withstand that kind of shock.” Insensitive jerk. I shot him a look of disgust.

The flight attendant in me felt an immediate sense of loss for the crew and the passengers. It took a slow moment to process of the scope of the tragedy, for the sense of loss to extend toward the people in that burning building. When I became aware of my own insensitivity, my heart flooded with guilt.

A television adjacent to the windows aired the news in Spanish through grainy bands of reception. Someone in the room was interpreting poorly. A plane hit the WTC… accident… building on fire. It was nothing I didn’t already know by looking at the scene. My chest clenched with frustration. I wanted information. I wanted answers.

My hands and knees were trembling when someone yelled, “There’s another plane!” My eyes shifted slightly to the right. Locking onto the oncoming jet, its trajectory automatically computed in my mind. My left hand, with a will of its own, shot up as if to say “Stop!” Impotent, impotent hand.

A picture etched in my memory, one of that hole engulfed in flames where the plane entered or perhaps (and I still can’t make sense of it) where the side had blown out. Mine is nothing like any news camera angle I’ve seen. I’ve spent hours watching perpetual loops playing across every TV channel trying to find the perfect match. I don’t know why I need to find it but I do. I still find myself continuing to search.

After the second strike, I heard someone yelp, “The plane is burning inside.” Several people dug for their cameras. I reached for the space in my handbag where mine typically resides. In that single moment my disappointment for forgetting it mingled with the sour taste of shame for wanting to preserve this moment forever. My thoughts did battle. How could these people! How could I?

The woman next to me said in disbelief, “Maybe that plane couldn’t see through the smoke from the first.” It made no sense. Nothing made sense, not to me, not to anyone.

Because those moments were inextricably fused in the heat of the situation, I learned just today that I had left a frantic voicemail with my friend Erin as the second plane hit. She recounted me saying, “Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my GOD! NO! Oh Jesus…” Click. I don’t remember being on the phone.

I ran out of the room and tried repeatedly to call my mother. The line was perpetually busy. Stupidly, I imagined her sitting in front of the television in her apartment six blocks from the Empire State Building chatting away with a friend. A flash of anger charged through me. The more desperately I needed to talk to her and the more I hit redial just to hear a busy signal, the more out of control I felt. Of course my mother is smarter than to keep her lines tied up. It didn’t occur to me until a short while later that the lines were jammed. Selfish, selfish girl.

I wanted to talk with someone I knew yet I was surrounded by a mixture of hysterical strangers or people who were entirely too calm. I never felt more alone, disconnected, scared, and helpless.

I called my friend Sandy and couldn’t calmly tell her co-workers who I was, “Um, Sandy is going to be my roommate, I’m in New Jersey. I need to talk to her.” I was shaking and choking on sobs. I think I spit out that I had just watched the WTC in person. She made no inference of understanding. A suspicious voice replied with caution, “Um, Sandy isn’t available. Can I have her call you back?” I hung up.

My father wasn’t home. I left no message, had no words.

I dialed another friend. Robbin. I reached her hard-of-hearing father who all too slowly explained why she wasn’t home. She had taken her daughter shopping at the mall for a pair of new sneakers. He ended with “So, when will you fly out to see us?”

“I don’t know. I’ll call back later.”

“I can’t hear you, honey. Call back later.”

Okay.

I called my machine for messages. My mother’s voice. Continental wouldn’t tell her where I was in the name of security. While they reassured her that Continental’s planes were not involved, she knew I sometimes traveled through partner perks on other airlines. The final words on the tape were, “Call me.”

I dialed again. Busy.

The training staff entered as a collective to round us up for an announcement. Talking. Frantic talking everywhere. I remember yelling “Shut the **** up” in a highly unprofessional yet effective manner. The trainers nodded something between disapproval and gratitude.

They had just heard from Continental’s headquarters and were asked to have us stay put. They wanted to bus us to Newark Airport to help accommodate thousands of grounded passengers. We were, after all, on the clock. “Sit tight until we know if airport access is even possible.” I later found out that the airport was evacuated.

Hotel rooms were suggested for the night. We should book before they were gone. I added my name to the list.

Another man entered the room with a piece of paper. Finally. Information. One plane was an American Airlines flight out of Boston. The other was still unclear.

Each of the four pay phones had lines of seven to ten people. I overheard a clean-cut twenty-something explain to the girl behind him that he was trying to reach his father in the burning tower. He turned away when the secretary answered. Some words. He hung up and turned back with a look of deep concern. “She said that people are evacuating and she is leaving. She had hoped I was her daughter. My father isn’t there. She doesn’t know where he is.”

Back in the classroom, trainers passed out water and single serving pretzels. Ridiculous, but it was something. I was in and out of the room, unsure where to go or what to do. Entering once more, I heard the news. People were jumping.

I imagined the heat, having to make the choice to leap or burn. What kind of choice is that?

I ran out into a hall filled with so many people and still felt so very alone. Several women curled up in armchairs and cried. Others listened to snippets of their cell phone conversations in horror. I stepped over them on my way to… where? 

As the elevator doors opened, two young girls unburied their faces from the others’ shoulder. They were in a fit of tears. I entered. One the way down, the brunette said that she and the redhead had rebooked their friends from an oversold Continental flight to the American flight out of Boston. They were supposed to meet at South Street Seaport for dinner after class. She didn’t seem to be talking to me so much as convincing herself of their loss. An unwarranted but very real sense of guilt had washed over each of their mourning faces.

I entered the glass enclosed tunnel to the parking garage alone. Through the windows I saw a column of smoke and the outline of the building. So much was burning. Down to the base? How?… As I understand it now, the first tower had collapsed. I had never entertained the thought of it being gone, just on fire. Looking directly at the destruction, my mind still couldn’t embrace it.

A helicopter hovered overhead. I crouched behind a green pick-up in the parking garage. The last I had heard was that we are a nation under attack… all aircraft had been grounded… terrorists may be using remote controls. Who was above me? Us? Them?

In a panic, I left more hysterical, muttering messages on Erin’s voicemail. I threw my address book on the cement peeling through pages for anyone who would be home… Marty, Todd, Deb and Dana. My cell cut out and came back. Every line now came up busy.

In desperation, I thought of Tom, my ex-boyfriend. Being so recently exed and having him vacate the apartment just last month, I didn’t have his new number. I called his father to get it. He had to fire up his extremely slow computer to get the number off of an email. I was on speaker phone. I HATE speaker phones. I tried to joke with no success, “Don’t you keep a REAL address book?” Tom’s poor father was taken aback. My tone just couldn’t muster any lightening effect. For that I felt awful.

“Is Tom in New York City?” he asked.

He assumed I was in Albany watching everything on TV. He must have been scared out of his mind thinking his son was at a rehearsal in New York. It took a few attempts to clarify that circumstances were reversed. “Tom is in Albany, I am in New Jersey. I need to reach him.”

There were no windows between me and the scene now. More helicopters circled over my head and then disappeared. Sirens were sounding in several directions. What was going to happen next? What I gleaned from the news replayed in my head. Suicide bombers… hijacking… Was all of NYC under attack? I froze behind the truck under four floors of steel and cement.

Sitting crossed legged on the concrete between the truck and the wall, I finally reached my ex. He filled me in on the Pentagon and the unaccounted for planes in the air. I just kept pleading for an answer, “What the **** is going on? This is so ****ing BIG!”

“Breathe. Calm Down. You okay? The Pentagon was hit too. All they keep saying is ‘America is under attack,’ but not much else.”

I rocked back and forth hugging my knees like a scared child. “Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus.”

There was a long silence between us. I eventually looked up through my tears. A new plume of smoke. “Wait. Where did it go? Where is it?!?”

Nothing was more sobering than hearing, “It’s gone, Kim. It’s just gone.”

All those people in one fell swoop. All those souls. Unfathomable.

Gibberish. That was all I could produce. In hysterics, I relived coming in via Rt. 3 and how, near Giants’ Stadium, the view of Manhattan was glazed in gold light so glorious that I wished I had film. As I calmed myself, I realized that it would have been my last picture of the unaltered skyline, an opportunity sorely missed. I noted the failed and unbelievably ironic plan to review hijacking procedures on this particular day. I would have gone on but, just then, five people quickly fled from the training center. I followed their lead. I had to move, to do something.

Where do I go? Tom said the tunnels and bridges were closed so I couldn’t get to my mother’s. I frantically searched the garage in a hurry to nowhere. “Where are the ***ing stairs? I have to get out of here!”

The stairs were right where I had been sitting. Concerned for my sanity, Tom made me stay on the line until I found my car.

The roads were swamped and I finally got my father on the phone. f***ing @$$hole!!!” I could feel my father flinch. Some guy had passed me at high speed on the left shoulder of the road. Sirens went off. Flashing lights.

“This is crazy! Where is it safe? They hijacked a plane to PITTSBURGH! What the HELL is in PITTSBURGH???”

Misinformation or misunderstanding, it didn’t matter. My father understood nothing I said. He, like Tom’s father, thought I had seen it all on TV. He wanted to tell me about the geese he saw in the park that morning. I hung up.

People on cell phones drove by, some crying like idiots just like me. Small accidents and fender benders went unacknowledged. The definition of lanes meant nothing.

It took a half hour before I reached clearer roads. Distracted by the haze clouding my mind, I missed 287 and had to circle around. What had been at my back was now in my face, the hideous sight of a burning skyline minus two towers. Smoke. Everywhere. Erin called from her cell while waiting to hear on her land line from two city friends, people who worked in the towers. Worked. Past tense.

Gassing up at the nearest rest area, people flocked to pay phones. The news was filled with images of plane crashes. The newscaster said the first plane hit 4 hours ago. 4 hours? I was still stuck in that first minute. He then said that the planes struck within 5 minutes of each other. 5 minutes. Infinity.

Still wearing my Continental I.D., I got a few odd looks before getting back in the car. Driving as Howard Stern clammored for anger, retaliation, war, I jammed my finger into a random button. Shut that freak up. 

That’s how my father heard the news – on the radio. I learned later that he thought it was another War of the Worlds. My frantic message was his first clue that this was very, very real. Even then it didn’t sink in.

Life in the streets of Albany was going on as usual. Cops along 87 looked for speeding drivers. People laughed on the corner of Madison and Pearl. I wanted to scream “Don’t you people have ANY idea???” It was as if nothing had happened.

Sandy left work early to communicate with my mother. She then took me to Washington Park when I returned home. The gardens there were in full bloom, blossoms worshipping the sun and sky. The towers of Empire Plaza stood solid and white against deep blue. This place was untouched. I felt suspended.

I went to SUNY Albany yesterday morning where they held a memorial and a unity march. Erin took me. We only caught the tail end as students, faculty and locals sang “America the Beautiful.” A single tear streamed down my cheek. I shook. Unable to sing. Coming unglued.

Erin quickly escorted me to the health center and found a crisis counselor. Skeptical, I went inside. “I’ve never seen a counselor so I don’t know where to start…” and then my mouth couldn’t run through everything fast enough.

I was the first to have seen the attack and come back. Most people did it in reverse, hearing the news on campus and leaving for the city to be with their families. As more people return, SUNY plans to match us up even though I’m not a student there. I think that might be good, although I’m feeling less need to talk at the moment.

That night, all my friends met at Lark Tavern to debrief. They expressed relief having heard from loved ones, although one of those loved ones was nearly crushed by a falling jet engine in flames. As they quietly and personally celebrated their good fortune, I was inundated by images on the wide screen TV. It was too big. I was too close. I went home.

Later, planes flew over Albany. I sat up. Who is that? Aren’t all air carriers supposed to be grounded. Military? Enemy? I didn’t sleep.

I thought, my job is so screwed. I had no idea what the airline was doing for itself or what it planned on doing with me. After two days of voicemail tag, I got through to my supervisor, Joanna, the next morning. The most reassuring words I heard were not to think about coming back yet. Just keep in touch. I wonder how long I can keep that up.

The FAA’s position has always been that certain procedures and codes can halt a hijacking. Training films have always portrayed crashes as mechanical accidents. We studied previous mistakes and learned to survive from them. I prepared mentally at every take-off and landing. That’s my job. If your a flight attendant, you know what I mean. Terrorism was only ever at the very back of my mind.

Many questions nag at me now. How do you keep this from happening on any flight? How do you combat a suicide mission? If you can’t use reason, the only other option is force. Is this my new job? How do I do it? Will I be able?

I can no longer step into that uniform and carry the responsibility of what wearing it means. I had the hardest time just taking it out of my bag. The stripes hang in my closet and that’s where they’ll remain for now.

My father says, “Get back on the horse” but a horse isn’t being threatened by terrorists. Think about that, tough guy. The rest of my family isn’t as cut and dried. They’re scared to see me go back. It makes me feel much less stupid for being so afraid.

I was scheduled to fly into London today. I can’t be more thankful that flights world-wide are canceled. I’m on call for the next three days. If they call, they’ll just have to find some one else. I need  time to think. I’ve heard others are calling in sick. I might have to do the same.

How can I believe this is over? Last night my heart jumped into my throat as the Empire State building was evacuated for a bomb threat. Phone lines to NYC were jammed again. After 20 redials, my mother answered. They called off the evacuation right after that.

Not to be so untrusting but, well, I’m untrusting. I don’t trust airport security measures even after reports of improvement. They can’t fix things that fast. And who wants to man the planes??? Contractually, we aren’t allowed to speak about airline matters, the news can’t cover those who cannot speak, so I have no word on how the others in my field feel. I wonder.

My story is just one point of view. Everyone has been, is and will be affected in different ways. I imagine the terror of climbing through rubble to walk down flights of flooded stairwells in a collapsing building, those people on the plane, the flight attendants who had their throats slit. So many stories. All I know is that talking about it both helps and exhausts me. If you were involved in any way and haven’t unloaded your feelings, find someone to listen. Even if you weren’t in it, talk. Write me, call me, talk to somebody… and most of all, don’t think anything you feel is invalid.

Peace, health, safety, and much love to everyone. I’m going to go update my address book now. I hadn’t realized how out of date it was until Tuesday.

Kim

To conclude, I’d like to share something I read today. 

And on this anniversary of 9/11,  your editor [Benjamin Marvin at the College of Saint Rose] would like to share with you this thought from his daughter, a brand-new middle school music teacher in Indiana:

Today is the 7th anniversary of 9/11.  On September 11, 2001:
My 8th Graders were in 1st Grade.
My 7th Graders were in Kindergarten.
My 6th Graders were in preschool.
The 5th Graders here probably don’t remember it – they were about 3.

It’s so strange for me to think about the fact that 9/11 isn’t a current event for everyone – for some students, it’s a historical event that has little personal meaning.

Off to Ghana

Hello my fellow lit, film and social justice heads,

I am off to the small village of Have, Ghana to volunteer for four weeks and won’t be updating this blog while I’m away. I do hope to share my daily experiences at my travel blog, Alfajiri: Destination Africa, electricity permitting. Stop by and say hello. It’ll be nice to converse with familiar folks from home.

See you in August!
- AtticFox

I’ve Been Robbed

I learned last week through the WordPress pingback feature that a substantial number of Brain Drain posts had been mentioned on another site. As any blogger would probably agree, to see a pingback to what you’ve written is an honor of sorts, a hat tip to your brilliance or at least a mockery of something quirky you’ve said. You smile, feel full of yourself for a minute (sometimes two) and move on. Instead, this list of pingbacks aroused suspicion. This is a partial view:

• literature linked here saying, “Silence Speaks Louder In response to Richard Barsa …”
• literature linked here saying, “Anne Finch: Creating Her Own Space The poem “The …”
• literature linked here saying, “Quills: Voyeur as the Voice of Reason The Voyeur a …”
• literature linked here saying, “Objectivity: A Question of Perspective In referenc …”

Although I’d like to think I’m that important, nobody is worthy of being legitimately quoted twelve times in a single day.

I followed the pings to their source. There, a solid, orange banner bore the photo of a young woman-child. She wore a skimpy, green silk halter and cowboy hat. Her long, blonde highlights were seductively fanned by some off-screen electronic device yet there was an innocence about her that threw me. The small image was cocked to one side and framed as if it were a film negative but that didn’t produce the negative feeling in my gut as much as the title ”literature” in bold letters (with a lower case L and quotes included) under which were all my latest posts. Only one, Aisha in Rwanda: In Need of Humanity, had been offered up for redistribution, NOT MY WHOLE DAMN BLOG.

While one knows that to blog is to run the risk of having your thoughts hijacked, still, the kicker was seeing a copyright symbol at the bottom of the page alongside the words “posted by Smite jonz.” Funny, Smite, you look a lot like ME in that picture linking to an article all about ME in the Saint Rose Chronicle.

Smite chose Blogger to host his (?) site, which works hand in hand with Google’s AdSense Program. From the look of it, this thief stole material from all over the web for two months, increasing the chances of drawing site traffic through numerous keywords. Cha-ching. Any visitor clicking through a sidebar ad generated a small pittance for Smite. The problem is this (as if there is only one here). The last time I looked at Smite’s tracking widget by Geovisite.com, new visitors were pouring in by the minute from all over the world to read my material and with no kickbacks to me. 

Ad-ing insult to injury, the kind of advertisements I was generating was astonishing. According to Google:

AdSense for content automatically crawls the content of your pages and delivers ads (you can choose both text or image ads) that are relevant to your audience and your site content—ads so well-matched, in fact, that your readers will actually find them useful.

How does my text translate to “Pro-Republican” in bot speak???? There were seven Republican spots on “my” page.

I notified the folks at Blogger last week, following their procedure by attaching a copy of my passport photo for proof of identity. By using my real name and photo, not just my screen name, Smite may have temporarily dealt a heavy blow to my identity but he also gave me legal leverage in persuing him. I’ve been watching to see how Blogger would deal with the offender and the site was finally removed today.

Of course, I’m pleased to be me again. More than that, this experience has taught me that it’s possible to make some dough off my own work. It’s been proven by Smite and his boatload of field testing, field testing that I’ve already paid for and learned a great deal from. Thanks for all the hard work, Dude. I’ll use it wisely.

Then again, perhaps the wiser choice is to stick with WordPress whose policy states:

We have a very low tolerance for blogs created purely for search engine optimization or commercial purposes, machine-generated blogs, and will continue to nuke them, so if that’s what you’re interested in WordPress.com is not for you.

It seems, once more, capitalism has been proven to gum up the works of free speech.

Its All About Me

Meg Polson at The College of Saint Rose Chronicle did a very nice senior profile on me called “Graduates life anything but ordinary.” It was distributed in print at graduation on May 10th with the following picture (credit: Tim Clune).

Read the full story here.

PS: The title’s typo was produced by the paper’s editor, not Meg. He also added the humorous tagline “Senior Clune has settled in East Nassau with her husband and looks forward to walking.” How old does he think I am? Did I simply settle with my husband? AND, contrary to my pose for the picture, I do walk occasionally. I wonder where he thought I looked forward to walking to?

To clarify a few factual problems, college was my only option after high school and it was my father, not both parents who threatened the “teach or starve” approach to study back in the late ’80s. Actually, it was “teach or I’m buying you waitress shoes.” Also, as a transfer student, I was at Saint Rose for two and half years, not four. But hey, they didn’t mistake my 4.0 for something like a 3.8. That’s something.