Imagine Bill Gates launching into a full-on voodoo rhythm rant about how much time is wasted fiddling with his company's software, doing needless but mentally-masturbating tasks... ok, maybe that's too close to reality. Try this: Imagine one of the developers of a popular news aggregation site putting his own creation in the cross-hairs of his cursor and blasting away.

That's exactly what Aaron Swartz does in a Raw Thought "rage against the machine" missive that takes us all to task for wasting time for all the right reasons.

While we were developing Reddit, we always used to run into people who'd recognize us and come up to say hi. "Oh, wow," they'd say to us. "I can't tell you how much your site has killed my productivity. I check it a hundred times every day." At first, we just laughed these comments off. But after a while, I begun to find them increasingly disturbing. We'd set out to make something people want -- but what if they didn't want to want it?

For too long, simple popularity has been the only metric of a startup's success. Another startup, known as Twitter, has recently broken into the mainstream. And I constantly hear people saying things like "Yeah, well, I know it seems like a pointless waste of time. But it's so popular!" As if anything so popular had to be worthwhile.

Swartz makes the claim that while we are really capable, and maybe even desirous of reading War & Peace, what we end up doing is reading blogs and hitting the browser bookmark for Twitter because it's just so damn easy.

The same goes for reading stories on Reddit or your friends' pointless twits about their life. Looking at photos of sunsets or reading one-liners takes no cognitive effort. It's the mental equivalent of snack food. You start eating one and before you know it you've gone through two cans of Pringles and become a world expert on Evan Williams' travel habits.

Swartz, well into a full-on lather now, goes right for the virtual jugular: We need to stop pretending that this is automatically a good thing. Perhaps Procter & Gamble doesn't care if they're making us into a nation of fat slobs, but there's no reason why programmers and the rest of the startup world need to be so amoral. And no doubt, as pictures of cats with poor spelling on them become all the rage, people are beginning to wonder about where all this idiocy is leaving us. Which is where apologists like Doctorow and Steven Johnson step in, assuring us that Everything Bad is Good For You.

It isn't. YouTube isn't going to save us from an Idiocracy-style future in which everyone sits at home and watches shows like "Ow! My Balls!" (in which a man is repeatedly hit in the balls) -- YouTube's damn-near creating that future. As I write this, YouTube's #1 featured video is titled "Farting in Public".

Is all this beginning to make you squirm just a bit? Good. Back in the "good old days" of the Internet, circa the mid-1990's, I hung with a crowd that began to question all the time "everyone" was spending online (forgetting the fact that we were all on dial-up lines at a scorching 9,600-bps... and if that is greek to you, well, wiki it) and wondering if it were an "addiction."

We got over that... the Blackberry was invented and our "crackberry" addiction just became a running joke because when everyone paints their nose green only those with purple hair are outcasts... or something like that.

Point is, Swartz is sounding a goddamn clarion call here and it deserves some attention... just as soon you IM your BFF and send her a link to this article. TTYL.

With the nation, natch, the world, still listing from the worst mass murder in U.S. history, emotions have risen to the surface and lay exposed, like a raw nerve.  People are sad, depressed, confused and underlying all of it, they are pissed off.  And they have no place to channel that anger, some will drink it away, others will lash out at loved ones and friends, most will just swallow it where it will lay buried, like some roadside improved explosive device, waiting to explode at the most inopportune time. 

This is a dangerous time, there is little oxygen in such an emotional climate and yet crucial, life changing decisions and laws have life breathed into them.  We saw the same type of over reaction in the aftermath of 9/11. 

Step back and just breathe.

Meanwhile, consider the following report from Newsday reporter Tom McGinty who side-stepped the pack journalism that typically surrounds such events and did some worthy reporting that really puts Monday's tragedy in perspective.

Think you've heard it all when it comes to the writing and story-telling about war? Think again....

Death at a distance is doable. At least that's what I always told myself as a foreign correspondent, even as bullets tore through bodies left and right of me as I traveled with the Afghan rebels in early 1989. You keep your head clued in--and down--watch your back and, when rockets start to rain down from the sky, well, you just hold your breath and pray. But death isn't doable, it's merely tolerated or kept at bay, it is never denied.

Death came calling today, literally, at 7:08 a.m., when the phone rang and I learned that the sister of my youngest son's close friend had died Monday in the Virginia Tech massacre. The news was raw and brutal. And I always thought there had to be six degrees of separation for these types of things. Hell, there's less than six blocks of separation. My son can walk to his friend's house in less time it takes me to shave. This kid was on my son's Little League team; he's been in my house too many times to count; he's tracked mud on my floor, and apologized, and now the dragon has come.

Fifteen minutes later, with the sleep barely wiped from his eyes, I have to sit down and tell my son the news. He is unblinking, then his eyes start to rim with tears and I'm trying to be brave but feel a dam about to burst down my cheeks as well. "Stephen's going to really need a friend now," I say; my mind is screaming, admonishing me: "Is that the best you can fucking do?!"

I'm wondering that myself because I am no stranger to death; in Afghanistan a man died on my back as I tried to carry him to safety. Three times death has circled my door, as three times a son of mine has tried to ride the dragon straight into hell. Three times he has failed, but each time his journey took him further and the effort to pull him back proved more tenuous. No parent should have to bury their child. And maybe that's what has me numb this morning.

No Parent Should Have to Bury a Child
I fear few things, but the thought of having to bury one of my children settles in my bones; it horrifies and torments me (in October one of my four sons, a Navy corpsman, is heading to Iraq with the Marines).

And I am immediately sad for Peter, Stephen's dad. We haven't spoken yet but just imaging the emotional ordeal he endured on Monday breaks my heart, as I piece together some details from other friends and neighbors. After a thousand and one attempts to reach his daughter, Mary, a freshman at Va Tech, Peter decides a little after 6 p.m. to make the four-hour drive to Blacksburg, VA, where the university is located. Pedal to the metal, it's a race against time that he fears he may have already lost... about the time he arrives on campus an official from the university is pulling into his driveway back at home, knocking on his door, and telling his wife that their daughter is dead.

By luck, or chance or some inspired move in the great cosmic chess game, Stephen's grandparents are visiting this week. Stephen's mother left this morning for Blacksburg; meanwhile, Stephen and his other siblings are staying home from school, they still haven't been told the news. But Stephen is a bright 11-year old kid--he and my son both attend a "gifted" program at school--he's got to be thinking the worst.

When I was a little kid, just about my son's age, a friend of mine who lived three houses down, Jim, lost his brother; he drowned on his honeymoon. I never did hear the full story, hell I was only 10 or 11 and I just didn't care about details. But I do remember trying to ask Jim about it and remember him exploding; he started yelling at me, spittle flying everywhere and collecting in the corners of his mouth, all the while denying his brother was dead. And then he just collapsed on his bed, shuddering as he wept. I'd never seen anything like it, and I felt embarrassed, even ashamed. We never, ever, spoke about that day. For the rest of the time I knew Jim, through our high school graduation, he was never quite right. He withdrew and then just slipped into the anonymous margin of our hometown.

So now I wonder how this will all effect my son and his friend. I wonder if I'll have anything worthy of passing on to my son that might help him, help his friend and allow them to muddle through the experience and find that death, at some level, is doable.

Photo credit: AP Photo/The Roanoke Times, Stephanie Klein-Davis

Royalty-free stock photography is becoming a huge market these days. And king amoung such royalty-free stock houses are the so-called "micro-stock" photography houses, such as iStockphoto and Fotolia, among a host of others.

At these stock photography sites you can find fair to pretty damn good to real damn good photography for a buck; yes, that's right, for less than a cup o'Joe down at McD's you can snag yourself a few photos to dress up your web site, your next presentation or create a custom card for your significant other (trust me, this last one scores huge bonus points and will get you laid. Ah, double bonus!)

These microstock houses are creating quite a stir among professional photographers who believe people that contribute to microstock are too eager to sell their photos for "next to nothing" and that it hurts the industry when people sell so cheap.

I suppose there's a good point there; however, I know of many people, who are not "pros" but very talented amateurs, that are making enough coin each month to pay for a new car or two, or pay for that new deck or hot tub. I mean, would you kick a grand or a grand and half a month to curb? Neither would I. Meanwhile, there are some (very few, granted) microstock shooters that are making $10,000 or more per month. And like any venture, the best rise to the top; the mediocre, well, they stay mediocre.

I'm just starting to dip my toe into the microstock explosion. And, truth is, you can help me out if, when you're looking for a cool photo and don't know here to turn, click on that Fotolia banner in the right there. It'll take you to their web site and if you happen to buy an image or two or three, well then, I'll get a cut. I don't get anything for you just clicking that banner and yes, it's totally cool if I pimp my own Fotolia banner. I have a few photos on that site myself as well as on iStock, but like I said, I'm just getting and I have been making sales, despite my abysmal lack of photos I've uploaded for sale.

And this brings to mind another kind of "micro" phenom that's hitting the art world: the nascent Daily Painters movement. This is a group of dedicated painters that crank out small (for the most part), original paintings and sell them pretty darn cheap, either on their web sites or via eBay. I have no idea how many "daily painters" there are; I know the quality of their artwork varies greatly--some of these paintings I wouldn't hang in my bathroom--however, some of the painters are extremely talented and you can pick up an excellent work of art at bargain basement prices.

My best friend, Dave Darrow, is one of these "daily painters" and he's also helped start the "Daily Painters Guild." You can find a link to their web site in the left hand column of this blog. If you click that link you'll see a bunch of paintings from the Guild members and you might even be tempted to score yourself a nice piece of artwork... and no, I get nothing out of sending you their way, except the satisfaction that perhaps I'll have pointed you in the direction of Darn Good Art. And that never hurt anyone... even if you decide to hang it in your bathroom.

Meet Jake Burton, one of the most influential sports figures you've never heard about.

Born in 1954, he went on to ski competitively at the U. of Colorado until injuries cut short his career. With big dreams and a small inheritance, he headed to Vermont to fulfill a dream: manufacturing his own snowboards. The dream lived but Jake blew through his cash and in just 12 months, he was $100,000 in debt. But Jake never gave up and now he's a global figure in snowboarding, sitting atop an a business empire and his snowboards are famous worldwide.

Below is a very nicely done video about Burton that is really an advertisement for the Wall St. Journal. But don't let that put you off. If you're into video making at all, this piece has some great techniques; if you just like a good ol' fashioned "follow your dreams" story, this will do it for you to. And if your just a digital photography ho, yeah, this vid has something for you to just watch and goof on: the extensive coverage of a Burton photo shoot where they are actually using (gulp) flim. They even show the art director checking out the Polaroid test shots.

Today is my 51st birthday. I can't say this with any amount of celebration in my voice, or in my writing. Writing out "51" is hard enough; I nearly choke when saying it out loud.

This past year has been a tough one, and in ways I didn't foresee. I walked away from a good great paying job and have little or nothing to show for nearly a year's "time off." There is a "good excuse," I'm just not ready to let the world in on it... yet.

I had a nagging feeling last year when I hit the half-century mark that "everything would change," and it has. Oh, it hasn't all been dire; it hasn't all been black clouds and pending doom. For example:

My second grandchild was born just a week ago, again to my eldest son. Jake Shamgar is his name (no, I'm not kidding).

I completed a cross-country trip that saw me drive 18,000-plus miles from sea to shining sea and then some. That picture above is mine, taken somewhere in the high plains of Colorado. I have a ton of wonderful stories to tell, in both photography and audio I collected on my way. Just don't ask to see it because, frankly, it feels like I'll never get it out into the world for others to see (this relates directly to the "good excuse" mentioned earlier).

My second son has launched a vigorous and respectable freelance writing career; meanwhile he has completed a pretty good, though very raw, novel. In fact he has rewritten said novel; he's begun to launch into the real world of agents (and rejections). This is something his old man has dreamed of and never, ever, even gotten close to. I'm incredibly proud of him, even if it never gets published.

My eldest, besides becoming a father for the second time has also published a book, of his photography, again, beating his old man to a dream.

My youngest son from my first marriage looks more like he grew up in the corn-fed fields of Nebraska than the rain soaked suburbs of Seattle; he's broad-shouldered, a bit arrogant and worth every bit of respect he's due as Navy Corpsman. He's now training for the killing fields of Iraq, where he will soon be deployed with a company of Marines, who will call him "Doc," whose lives he will literally hold in his hands. I am bursting proud of him and I am scared shitless for him at the same time. I can't imagine what my days and nights will be like when he's finally deployed. Perhaps the thing of which I'm most scared is that once he goes to The Suck, as the Marines call who've been there call it, he will never be the same. The person he is today will not be the person that returns...

And so 51 is here; I will, at some point, sooner rather than later, be employed again, though in what capacity I can't say. I'll have to keep the wolf from the door very soon now; there is little financial cushion left. I've chewed it up and spit it out... what a mess.

Thankfully, each day is a reprieve; it's something I no longer take for granted.

If there were any romanticism in sailing for my middle son then mother nature has most assurdadly kicked the crap out of any such notions. 

This week my son set off as a member of Greyhawk, a 1980's vintage 34-foot Person sailing boat.  The new owner of the boat, a New Hampshire university professor, bought her for $12,000 and is sailing her from Maryland to Maine.  My son is part of a six member crew helping with the passage.

You can see Greyhawk in the picture to the left; it's the small one on the left hand side of the pier.

But the weather has conspired against the good ship Greyhawk and her crew from the very start.  A storm front set against the Northeast and hunkered down all week like a huskie on a cold night; the storm just refused to leave the coast. 

Greyhawk, which already was looking small for six men for a week at sea, must have seemed like little more than a postage stamp at times during her passage. 

They are due in July 1st and I anxiously await the details.  In the meantime, here's a little slideshow of the Greyhawk and her preparations.

No news is better than bad news and good news is, well, better than no news.  See how creative I'm getting while on sabbatical?  What?  You didn't know I was actually on sabbatical?  Um... well, that's what I'm telling people these days. 

Having mentioned to several that I'm "unemployed," you would have thought I said something more along the lines of: "Oh, by the way, you might want to wash your hand after shaking with me, you see, I have leprosy," by the look of horror on their faces.  As if they could "catch" unemployment just being in my orbit.

And so there is a trifecta of good news running through the Meeks clan these days.

First up, my oldest son's photography is getting recognized beyond a small circle of friends and family.  He has an absolutely dynamite looking exhibit set up in a Nicaraguan cafe in San Juan del Sur.  The El Gato Negro is run by a couple of expatriates down there trying to make a go of it.  The other, bigger news, for my son is that his photos have been noticed by the biggest magazine in Central America and because of that, they are doing a full on profile of him and running several of his pictures full size in their magazine.  Well done, son.

And, oh yeah!  Sometime early next year, he (and his lovely wife) will make me a grandpa twice over! 

Stepping Up Her Game
The newest member of the Meeks clan, my daughter-in-law Ashley, is moving up to the world of daily newspaper journalism, this after having paid her dues working on a small weekly newspaper up in Maine.  And she's done it at lightening speed, having gone from interview to job to out of the job in about 14 months.

Jumping into the world of daily newspapering is more psychological than anything else, at least at this level.  If she were jumping to the New York Times, or even the Toledo Blade, it would be a hell of a leap; instead she's making a smaller but significant transition to the Roswell Daily Record, a paper whose most significant story to date was probably the 1947 page one article seen here.

I'm as proud of her as if she were my own kid; well done, Ashley, you're destined for much bigger papers, if you so choose. 

Another Notch in the Belt
Completing this trifecta?  Well, that would be me.  I've won a National Press Club award for having produced the Best Online Journalism for 2005.  Ok, it wasn't just me, the award  was given to a small group of reporters (four of us) and photographers (three) that produced the "Rising from the Ruin" series for my previous employer, MSNBC.com.

Here's what the judges said in presenting us the award:

"MSNBC's excellent blend of outstanding journalism and comprehensive use of technology continues to lead this category. Their superior blend of text, graphics, interactivity, streaming audio and video in personally configurable formats, combined with solid journalism covering an important problem - the recovery after Hurricane Katrina - and the various perspectives of journalists, readers, and those who experienced (and continue to struggle through) the post-hurricane Katrina recovery, created the winning entry.  Overall, an excellent work from a powerful site that leverages web technology effectively to explore what is arguably the nation's biggest problem of 2005."

This is actually my second award from the National Press Club.  I won my first NPC award ages ago working for Communications Daily and I won for a series of investigative stories I did back then.

And here's the kicker: my old boss didn't even have the decency to send me an e-mail and let me know about the award; I heard it second hand from another reporter sending me a "congratulations" message.  And that's about all I have to say about that...

 In the coming months this how you're much more likely to find me, rather than hanging out in the Washington bureau of NBC News.  No, I haven't been reassigned.  I have resigned.

I am scared, I am nervous and a huge part of me feels like a fool for casting my net into uncharted waters.

And for all the fear and trepidation, I have to say, I feel at peace with my decision.  I can no longer hide behind the excuse that "I'm just a coward," for not moving ahead with my dreams and ambitions.  Change is coming; hell change is here.

 

A few nights ago we were invaded by horny toads, not to be mistaken with "horned toads." No, this isn't a joke.

And not just any toads, oh no, these are toads with cool scientific names:  Bufo Americanus.  That's "American toad" to you and me and grade-school science books.

Over night it seems our serene fish pond turned into a toad orgy; again, I'm not kidding.And the sounds these toads make!  Good grief!  Click here to listen to the toads that I recorded just this afternoon. 

And this goes on and on and on, throughout the night.  So, not wanting to be driven crazy by what I assumed as a single toad in my pond, I went out, flashlight in hand and promptly nabbed the offender in nothing flat.  And just as I was congratulating myself, the sound was back and this time I noticed there was a kind of "call and answer" rhythm to the sounds. 

Sure enough, over the course of just a half hour I pulled 15 toads out of that pond... I obviously missed a dozen or so more! 

Here's what assorted official "we really study toads for a living" web sites have to say about the American Toad:

The male's advertisement call is a long, dreamlike, musical trill lasting from several seconds to 30 seconds or more (average duration around 10-15 seconds). Each male in a chorus sings at a slightly different pitch, with males alternating and overlapping their calls in a pleasing manner.

American toads are mainly nocturnal, and are most active when the weather is warm and humid. They are solitary, congregating only at breeding ponds in the early summer and late spring. During the day American toads hide under rocks or logs or dig into dead leaves and soil. In regions with a cold winter, American toads dig deeper to hibernate. When digging they back in, pushing out dirt with their back legs.