The Pros and Cons of Blogging by iPad and Other Stories

I can be resistant to new technology, which is why I am writing my first blog from an iPad this morning. Overall the experience is going well. To be fair I have only written two lines, though.

The big transition is proving to be the one from clunky, touchable keys to on screen keys. I have always had a problem with this, being the kind of guy who is prone to fumbling and dropping. Don't meet me for lunch unless you fancy spending the rest of the day as a spaghetti hologram. I have no idea what a spaghetti hologram is but it sounds like fun. I fear I digressed again. The rather groovy thing about the Apple iPad is the fact it's great at correcting misspellings as you write them, which makes up for some of that fumbling. It even knows how to correct the spelling of groovy, a word which I always imagined anchored in the days when we hung out in VW campers, daubed with peace symbols, smoked pot and engaged in free lurve to the backdrop of San Francisco
Bay.  And suddenly I found a downside of the spell check - lurve became purveyors,

Come to think of it, I never had the chance to do that unwashed free love thing. I was born in the Summer of Love (yeah look it up, no clues) although I doubt if my parents realized it. They were too busy collecting Green Shield stamps to get money off tins of baked beans. I doubt if the hippies were rad enough to do that, which is probably just as we'll because you don't want a baked bean heavy diet if you are packed into a VW camper.

This brings me back to the march of technology, something the countermovement was keen to stifle. I am thinking back to the proud moment a teacher wheeled in a gigantic silver device and shoved a plastic brick in it. The school had invested more than $12000 in a video player. We watched the pre-mating ritual of hippos through the horizontal lines of Betamax. It was a great moment. It was the future. It felt awful, though.

I remember the time too when David C- he of the truly awful halitosis - set me up on the Worldwide Web for the first time, frightening me with names like Yahoo and Alta Vista. "Click through the categories," he implored.

"Can I do it later," I replied. I just wanted him to go away because his breath was about to make me pass out.

Colleagues crowded around me expressing amazement at this bold new world I had entered.

"Is there a category for pornography?" asked Willy Woodencock. "I'm doing an article about the effect of pornography on society and would like to see what's out there on the Information Super Highway."

"I doubt if it has that kind of thing," I replied. "It's the Information Super Highway, not the Smut Highway."

So, in some ways I was ahead of the curve and in some ways behind. I didn't get my hands on a BlackBerry until It was obsolete. It was like showing up in the age of gunpowder, boasting of my smart new weapon - the club. I will so be upgrading to an iPhone once I've sorted out those pesky parking fines.

Overall I'm thinking the transition to iPad is going quite well - it even adds apostrophes which is no mean thing in today's apostrophe illiterate society. This may catch on. At this rate I'll have to do something about my Sony recorder that comes equipped with real cassettes and 2x record time and tends to alarm people every time I pull it out.

The Wedding That Went Down a Bomb

I'm not one for recommending anybody makes spurious bomb threats, but it's hard not to feel some sympathy for would-be bridegroom Neil McArdle.

The Liverpudlian for some inexplicable reason had decided to get married to a woman described in reports as his fiancee.

There was one small hitch. On the morning of the ceremony McArdle remembered he had forgotten to fill in the paperwork required for the wedding.

Such dilemmas suggest a number of possible courses

1 Jump off the eighth floor of a building
2 Leave your clothes on the beach and disappear for 200 years
3 Make a bomb threat at the aforementioned non marrying venue.

McArdle chose the latter, reports Britain's Guardian newspaper. He could not face telling his fiancee because she had been talking the hind legs off a donkey about the wedding for the last six months to anyone crazy enough to listen.

As she slipped into her white dress, he slipped into a phone box - one of those quaint red things they still have here and there in England.

He called Liverpool register office and said: "This is not a hoax call. There's a bomb in St George's Hall and it will go off in 45 minutes."

When McArdle, his bride and the happy families arrived at the building in the center of Liverpool, nobody was in the mood to throw flowers, although the police had thrown a cordon around the place.

Later when the staff tried to go ahead with the "delayed" ceremony, it came to light that no booking for the wedding had been made. McArdle's would-be in-laws were already suspicious about him. And this was before the couple had tied the knot. The bride's sister was overheard telling McArdle in fine Liverpudlian grammar: "You probably done the bomb scare yourself."

It didn't take long for police to trace the call and the hapless wannabe groom was arrested, confessing to his "embarrassment and shame."

McArdle has just been sentenced to a year in jail. Apparently he's still with his fiancee, but the story did not allude to any future wedding plans.

Excerpt from Reportage - Chad's Party

There really are times in our lives when we know the only solution is to have a great, messy out of control party where really bad but exciting things happen. Like the ones we had 10/20 years ago...fill in the blanks.

There's not to much point for me as the house usually looks like the aftermath of a party, anyhow. Defeats the object, really. Still there are a million party triggers and they do tend to go off with an alarming regularity.

Those were the days - reporters get a bit excited about the surrender of Japan - National Archives and Records Administration

My second novel Reportage has proved to be slow going, but I have been reassured by the fact that when I get down to writing I can churn out large chucks of maybe 2,000 words at a time. I have no idea really where I am going. That makes it more fun but at times leads to mental road blocks I fear. Ones patrolled by big hairy border guards who yell: "You shall not pass." I usually do but it can take a few weeks.

I am still thankful to have completed my first novel Red Savannah. Indeed if I can find out the makers of that cheap brandy I may write to them to thank them. My search for an agent has so far been unsuccessful and lackluster. If I continue to drag my feet any longer, agents may be abolished and I can hit on the new thing. There was a nice lady in New York who looked terribly well-to-do in her twinset and pearls who led me on - in a literary way only do dismiss me, but at least it was a polite dismissal. Wannabe writers will clutch at any straw.

This is a small snippet from Reportage.

Chad Schmultz tried not to get into arguments with his ex-wife on most days. This was not one of those days.

Usually in his dealings with Amanda,  Schmultz aimed to maintain an air of professional indifference. It was not always easy. On this particular Wednesday he hadn’t eaten much and had been disaffected by his daughter’s general indifference and her constant wittering about the softball team.

He was late picking her up which meant he was late dropping her off with her mother. Later that day he was to recall the scene as if in slow motion. He watched his hands turn the steering into West Thomas Street. He was in control of his car. He was perfectly in control of his neat reversing action into a space. But as soon as Amanda came out of the house and stood with her arms folded he knew he would no longer be in control of the scene because the gesture infuriated him.

There was no precursor before her onslaught. “Where have you been?”

“I would have thought that was obvious. Usual place.”

“But not usual time Chad.”

“I’m a bit late. Granted.”

Gary’s coming round to take use to the movies. I haven’t even washed my hair.

“Oh you’ll be fine. He works in a fast food place. He’s used to grease.”

Chad found the constant Gary name dropping was a surefire recipe for him to revert to sarcasm.

“Fuck Chad. I suppose you think you are funny. You play with words at your stupid newspaper and use them against people.”

“At least I use them Amanda.” It was clearly another dig at the monosyllabic Gary.

“You think so much of yourself don’t you Chad? Gary may only work at a restaurant but he’s made management now and he earns more than you ever did at your dumb paper. Look at you. You bum around doing God-knows-what, pick up Jessica and hang out at your paper all night. The same useless thing every day. At least Gary’s going places.”

“To the wholesaler to pick up more cancer burgers I suspect?”

A vein was bulging in Amanda’s forehead. Chad noticed with some satisfaction that her hair did look greasy but couldn’t find a way of weaving the observation back into the conversation.

“Just go back to your sad life and leave me along,” snapped Amanda, shooing Jessica back into the house.

Chad caught a tiny sad wave and a sheepish expression from the girl as he drove away. A small feeling of triumph rose inside him but it had subsided by the time he had driven two blocks.

As he joined the interstate to make his way to the newspaper the sense of having made this drive too many times hit him. He resolved to do something different to prove he wasn’t half dead. He resolved to have a party.

Robbie Williams is "Gutted" After Being Told He's Too Old for Radio 1

Call me old and all that. OK just call me old - wheel out a contraption that old people use and leave me alone in a corner to dribble on myself.

Yes the rather sobering news is Robbie Williams has been deemed too ancient for Radio 1.

 

Feel by Robbie Williams

You may not realize the importance of this if you are Stateside but when we grew up Radio 1 was the epitome of cool youf when I was growing up. So were HMV record stores and they have all closed down now.

Radio I embraced Take That when they emerged in the early 1990s as the first of a generation of manufactured boy bands. Even then I felt a tad old, looking down on Take That as lightweight, although they were far more accomplished than what followed.

Robbie Williams, now 39, was the most high profile member of the band and made a name through his bad boy antics. He fell out with the band, went solo, packed on the pounds and appeared to be destined to disappear into obscurity when his star unexpectedly soared.

He's since sold more than 70 million records and is Britain's biggest selling contemporary solo artist.

Nevertheless, Robbie is said to be "gutted" that he's no longer being played on Radio 1. Bosses have decided he's getting on a bit and have shoved him in the Perry Como file with the carpet slippers.

Radio 1's breakfast DJ Nick Grimshaw has said Williams, 39, was "not relevant" to his target audience of 15-29 year olds.

"I liked Take That when I was little, but I'm not little anymore," he told Five news.

So there you go. Robbie has a rather less impressive profile Stateside. I recall having a conversation with a colleague about him once.

 

Back for Good - Take That

"I've never found him funny," she said.

Erm. And then she went on to mention Good Morning Vietnam and I realized she was talking about Robin Williams.

I haven't listened to Radio 1 for a very long time, owing to my presence in a different country. Needless to say I wouldn't recognize the station anymore.

Chilling on the Eastern Shore of Virginia

It had been a while since I last drove to the Eastern Shore of Virginia, but I had to make the trip to attend a Harvest Festival this week. I have had worse working days - grazing as much seafood as you can eat in exchange for getting a few people to sign up to a newsletter and taking a video, beats a usual day in the office.

And after the festival was over I got the chance to drive around a bit and check out the scenery.

The Eastern Shore is connected to Hampton Roads by the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel which is 20 miles long and is known as one of the seven engineering wonders of the modern world. By the bridge's own website anyhow. The others include the Channel Tunnel, the CN Tower in Toronto, the Hoover Dam and Dolly Parton's bra.

The Eastern Shore seems to have eschewed the cutesiness of much of the coastline around these parts. It's known for hardy fisher folk, half abandoned villages and artists who toil away in fly filled cottages battling mental illness. As such it has a rustic charm that has been lost in much of the Outer Banks. There are deserted white beaches and historic taverns off the beaten track that can feel like a find when you stumble on them.

Only Chincoteague with its famous wild ponies embraces some of the trappings of tourism. Here are some of the places I checked out.

We love the giant love chairs at Kiptopeke State Park

 

 

House set back off the highway, Cape Charles

 

 

 

With a tug in tow

 

 

 Fishing pier in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay

 

 

A strange place for a souvenir shop - store on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel

 

Alanis Morisette and When You Oughta Know It's About You

Have you ever got the uncomfortable impression someone was talking about you?

These days when we can make oblique references to people on social networks or blogs can be a surefire recipe for paranoia.

I recall a friend S. who I had been exchanging a few emails with in relation to a delicate situation she had found herself in with a none too important politician. My advice had mostly been tactful but I recall firing off a one line joke that was possibly sailing too close to the wind.

I received no reply which was uncharacteristic. Then I noticed a rant appearing on her Facebook page about outrageous advice from hypocritical people. Naturally I assumed she was not referring to me but I had this uncomfortable feeling it might indeed apply to me.

My suspicion gained some ground when I was unceremoniously defriended. Then six months later I was suddenly emailed out of the blue by S. who informed me I was forgiven. Which was kind of big of her.

It's bad enough to think you are being written about on Facebook. But it must be much worse when you are the antagonist in a popular song that's on every radio station.

There are few more vitriolic songs than Alanis Morisette's 1995 hit "You Oughta Know." There was much speculation at the time that it was written about her ex-boyfriend Dave Coulier.

Just this week Dave revealed he also has a bit of a hunch it was about him.

“There was a lot of familiar stuff,” he said. “But the one that got me was, ‘I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner.’”

“We had already broken up,” he said. “She called and I said, ‘Hey, you know, I’m right in the middle of dinner. Can I just call you right back?’ And so I remembered that line when I heard ‘You Oughta Know,’ and it was more like, ‘Uh-oh.’”

That would certainly be an uh-oh  moment particularly as the lyrics of the song are not particularly charitable to Dave and include the verse.

Did you forget about me Mr. Duplicity
I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner
It was a slap in the face how quickly I was replaced
Are you thinking of me when you f*** her?

Yeah sorry I don't have an adult content button on my blog. I've thought about it but most of the content is too juvenile for that.

Dave seemed to take it in good spirit saying his ex was really a good natured person who was not vindictive in the slightest. As Morisette's former nanny can testify - in a court of law, most likely.

Another famous song that has long been seen as a way to get back at an ex was You're So Vain by Seventies singer Carly Simon.

Quite a few of her ex-lovers thought the song was about them as well as fitting well into the lyrics - including  Mick Jagger, Kris Kristofferson, Cat Stevens and Warren Beatty. Indeed Beatty was said to be convinced the song was about him.

So it was something of an anticlimax when the singer revealed in 2010 the song wasn't about an ex at all but openly gay record producer David Geffen.

For those from a younger generation a record is ... never mind.

Tunnels

I tend to write poetry infrequently. I blog it even less. Now I realize why.

There are tunnels in our minds

high in the hills, whistling with the wind

from darkness to light

from hope to gloom.

 

There's the glory then, the thrill of the parade

The touch, the smile

The stops and the starts

Clouds that drift and hot blood of the chase.

 

The light is brighter here

And the air more keen,

Where the trees are bent double

And the pale moon is stripped.

 

But we err in this Eden

Turn our backs on the dales

As we head down to earth

Where the heavy soil swallows.

 

There are tunnels and mines

Where the air is too thick

And the visions of clouds

Are dashed in this place.

The Week I Forgot About My Blog

I usually try to keep this blog fed in the same way as I chuck some food the way of the cats every now and then because it makes life easier. Not feeding felines can lead to painful scratches while not feeding a blog is somewhat less serious although I can suffer something close to physical pain at the sight of the views graph falling off a virtual north face of the Eiger.

This week, for the first time I can remember, I actually forgot about my blog for a while. The week was punctuated in series of mini crises which seem rather petty with the benefit of hindsight and a quick glimpse at the news headlines which comprise of people being blown up in various parts of the world.

 

Crystal City, Arlington (Woogers)

I have also been at a legal marketing conference in Arlington which immersed me in a strange new world. I finally have an idea what I had been doing wrong, what I should be doing and how I could become like those people who have all the answers. Whether I want to be like them is another matter.

You can finally understand the system but whether you want to be part of it is a different question, like that time when you are at the lodge making odd hand signals in funny clothes, lifting up your trouser leg in a certain way and you learn you have finally been accepted into a Masonic order. Clearly I have never been accepted into a Masonic order, hence the probably wholly inaccurate description.

I'm not sure if I ever aspired to mastermind the system. I had a lowly aspiration to write and that was as far as it went.

But something I learned from the conference was - with a couple of exceptions - lawyers are human too. And while they may make more money than most of us, many of them seem rather harassed and unhappy.

One of the speakers told a similar story of how doctors would tell him their lives were abject before driving off in their new Mercedes.

Money is perhaps a hollow allure, although we crave it when we are forced to live on Ramen noodle. The same speaker said his real aim in life was to visit all of the wine regions of the world, an aspiration I can relate to, although I'll probably have to be a bit more analytical when I write up my notes for Monday.

Now my head is full of visions of Crystal City and wealth for its own sake; upscale restaurants and glass fronted hotels that look like they were built last week and that juddery feeling of waking myself with too much coffee at 6 a.m. By the time I left the hotel rain was falling down in sheets. I abandoned by plan to head into DC to stroll around the monuments for half a hour. Two hours later I found myself eating at some chain steakhouse near Richmond in which they forgot to bring me my steak.

At this stage you would expect me to tell you about a 250 pound waitress who grunted at me and spat out an inarticulate apology. But the waitress was charming and found my steak, even informing me the sauce on my table was terrible and bringing me some better stuff. Small details like this can make a difference. In the same way I spoke to many lawyers who failed to conform to stereotypes and were perfectly affable.

Even so, as the drinks reception got under way it didn't take me long to realize I'd rather be drinking with journalists.

Retro Culture from Gangnam Style to Brotherhood of Man

I can't tell you how happy I was when my son downloaded Gangnam Style on a tablet and tried to horse dance this week.

You can see his efforts here, although you might be forgiven for thinking he was having a fit and turning a fire extinguisher on him.

Oh and for those people who might accuse me of being a hypocrite for posting a kid vid after going on about people who post their kids pictures on Facebook in my recent (spoof) blog I have a confession to make. I'm a horrible hypocrite.



At least Jackson's sudden fondness for massive one hit wonder PSY's (erm) massive one hit, comes a year too late. Which makes it more retro cool. Right. A year is a long time in the fast moving world of YouTube. Already the Korean looks date.

Although not as retro as Rolf Harris. When I was not much older than Jackson we crept across the parking lot and looked into the local gym of the school to see Rolf doing questionable things with his didgeridoo on the Rolf on Saturday show.

 

Rolf Harris

The guest act was Brotherhood of Man. Let's just say the winners of the 1976 Eurovision Song Contest were not letting fame go to their heads. Four huge Rolls Royces were parked heavily on the weeds of the parking lot. The band sauntered into the school sports hall wearing real fur coats.

I'm not sure what happened to the Rollers but Brotherhood of Man failed to become the next ABBA. They didn't even become the next Buck's Fizz.

Curiously I was checking out reconditioned washing machines in a back street lot in Portsmouth, Virginia the other day and the salesman started talking to me. He became animated when he heard my accent.

The salesman told me he used to be married to one of the female singers in Brotherhood of Man. It didn't seem like a happy experience but the guy took to me. I was the first person who had walked into the store in years who had heard of Brotherhood of Man. If I had hung around he may have given me a discount on a recondition washing machine.

Rolf Harris had a longer shelf life, probably much longer than PSY ever will. His fame lasted for three decades. Then last month he was charged with  13 child sex offences in the UK including the indecent assault of two teenage girls in the 1980s.

Am I Too Old to Post on Facebook and Other Social Media Questions?

In my ulterior life role as Dr. Dave - Social Media Guru I receive a vast amount of correspondence from people who want my tips on how to network, wot with me being so cutting edge and all that. Here's a small sample of questions and answers for your edification...

Q Is It Possible to Update my LinkedIn Profile on My Typewriter?

A No


Q My Mother has sent me a Facebook friends request. Should I accept?

A No. Under no circumstances accept a Facebook request from a parent. Not only will it allow them to keep tabs on your life but they may start posting pictures of you the year they didn't let you get your hair cut for six months or with food all round your mouth and on your bib. Aunts and uncles are a more difficult call. I have developed the Suck Test in these circumstances. Ask yourself if they suck. If the answer is 'no' consider accepting.

Q How many pictures of my baby should I post on Facebook and Twitter?

A This question is a very relevant one. I have a Facebook friend called Ponceroy (not his real name) who has recently had twin boys (more accurately his Missis actually had them). He has taken to posting pictures of his kids on a daily basis. Now he has gone one step further and posts status updates saying he is going to do a photo shoot of new images which will be posted soon, just to let us know what a treat we have in store.

The fact is other people's babies all look the same and even though he seems to think he's Anne Geddes, Ponceroy's babies are exceptionally ugly. My aunt had a pug... I digress. He is now defriended. Post your baby pics sparingly - I would suggest two a month.

Q I just turned 50 and am wondering if there's a cut off age for posting on social networks.

A You should not worry yet. The cut off age is 51. There's a retired home improvement correspondent type woman I know who is constantly posting a drivel of updates on Facebook. The other day I made a rare visit to Twitter-land and found another stream of Tweets from her at 10 p.m. I am now wondering if this woman has any kind of life away from social networks. Look if you are 18 and you are constantly Tweeting, you may still be cool because you are probably hanging out at some bar and multi tasking. if you are sitting at home banging out this stuff all night at the age of 65, you probably need someone to take away your laptop and place yourself in a potting shed to sniff geraniums.

Q Is Quora for nerds?

A I'm  not sure. I have been too busy answering the question about whether the Thirty Years War really ended with the Treaty of Westphalia.

Q I Have a MySpace account - Am I correct in assuming this is new, up and coming social media site?

A I am assuming you take a lot of meth and watch Betamax. I've heard it's a good site for gang members.

Q I am contacting you for advice about my embarrassing fetish involving vacuum cleaners. Can you assure me you will treat my issue with utmost confidentiality?

A You can rest assured the confidentiality of your correspondence is guaranteed Mrs. Gertude Dobbins of 3485 Havover Driver, Great Snoring, Ohio is your email still Gdobbins@dyson.com BTW ?

Twerking, FOMO And The Curse of Miley Cyrus

I have an invite to a soiree over at the Civic League this weekend so am desperately hunting for a party piece to make me relevant again.

It seems twerking is all the rage, in that I have been hearing rather a lot over the last couple of weeks. Maybe I can get lessons in time to knock over some fine bone china with my rear end on Saturday night.

Seriously, though, I feel bad writing about twerking. I've come to the party so late that the empty bottles are being thrown out and the garbage truck cometh.

So apparently twerking is where a persona "usually a woman is shakng her hips in an up and down bouncing mtion, causing the dancer to shake, wobble and jiggle."

Sounds a trifle rude if you ask me...

It is practiced primarily in poor, black areas, which doesn't adequately explain why it has been made famous by Miley Cyrus, a rich white girl.

Miley Cyrus' sexually suggestive twerking performance at the VMAs caused widespread outrage across the media, maybe due to the fact it's less heavy than Syria. If reports are to be believed, even the maker of the giant hand she was sporting, has criticized her.

The sort of subtext here is Miley was a Disney girl, who influenced lots of small kids, and she's now gyrating her hips suggestively with her tongue out. And Disney girls don't do that sort of thing - right Britney and Christina.

As someone with a daughter who grew up sporting a Hannah Montana wig spouting the Best of Both Worlds, this does not bother me really - namely because I thought Miley was a talentless publicity seeker then as now.

Also America always seems to get so uptight about this kind of thing, as demonstrated by Janet Jackson's Nipplegate scandal at the Super Bowl.

Miley's just doing what Madonna and Lady Gaga did before her, only with less talent. The worst aspect of this is she seems to have propelled the word 'twerking' into the Oxford dictionary, along with selfie and FOMO, although red lines still appear on all of these words on my retro spell check.

FOMO is fear of missing out - like when you realize everyone is going on about a phrase such as twerking and feel obliged to blog about it two weeks later.