Yeah, so. TypePad had some issues this month. Mena and Ben explain it best over here.
I hate when bad things happen to good servers, but I do love being able to use the flexibilty of blogging to communicate to the users who are feeling our pain. My favorites so far have been Diva Marketing (how apropos, after the Diva post), and the user who said "system adminstrators everywhere are feeling your pain" or something to that effect.
It makes me think back to my PR case studies class (I was a comm major, go figure) and wonder what future classes will use as examples of damage control, or how my digital communication class must have changed since then. Whose blog will they use as an example of damage control, held up like the speedy reaction of PR gurus in the Tylenol case, or the Pizza Hut case?
Everyone knows a diva. There's the funny hairstylist who reschedules your appointments around dinner plans, but does better color than anyone, ever, so you keep going to him. There's that diva cocktail waitress who thinks because she's hot, she
can throw a temper tantrum in the middle of a wall-to-wall Saturday night rush, but she
still gets the best shifts. They are the epitome of the Squeaky Wheel - they whine, cajole, do things their own way, and never seem to get punished for bad behavior.
Does it seem to anyone else like Judith Miller is just a big ol' newsroom diva? No one at the NYT seems to be able to explain why they accept her mistakes, her disobeying of direct orders, and then she pulls the biggest move of all:
"Hi, did you totally hear? I went jail, can you believe it? For my principles. Because, you know, I am principled! And I lost weight too, of course. Wait til my book deal comes out, bitches."
or: Things I Learned in a Week Away from All Yall Lovely People:
I have not only forgotten what used to be mad parallel parking skillz, but also forgotten how to drive like an east coaster. Merging onto Key Bridge was suddenly an exercise in Frogger. Damn, I'm a woos.
My two surviving uncles are exactly like Statler and Waldorf. If you have a Very Serious Function to attend, in which you, by all means, are supposed to be quiet and respectful, do not look the uncles in the eye, because they will lean over and crack a joke and then you will dissolve into a giggle fit, which you have to try to hide by looking as though you are just crying very hard. When, in actuality, you may have sprained some internal laughter-related organ. And then you will cry some anyway, and that is just how this family deals with a tragedy. Oh, and add eleventy-brazillion bottles of booze and forget to drink any water.
My friends have an incredible sense of humor and I've missed them all terribly, especially Culocho, who is not only funny, but super-hosptiable as well, sharing both couch and pug-as-space-heater.
Hello, pulled pork BBQ. And hello to you, mac-n-cheese. Ooo, is that another hot wing there next to the chili dip? And HELLO, cheese grits and grilled shrimp. *snarfle*
The drive from Chicago to Detroit has many more strip clubs than Starbucks. Some of you may think this is a good thing, but honestly, on a road trip, I know I need more latte, less fake boobie.
I'm traveling back east somewhat unexpectedly for my uncle's funeral. I'll be flying into Chicago early Saturday morning and driving over to my cousin's in Michigan, in a town that is in the middle of approximately nowhere. Good times to be had in flyover country, yall.
So we're all gathering for the death of man we admittedly thought was an asshole in life. It's a lesson in "you love your relatives, but you don't necessarily like them". However, a funeral is never actually for the person who died, since they're past the point of caring. It's for the rest of the family to process what's happened, and disliking the person doesn't make that any less important. The folks who are coming are the sarcastic, wine-quaffing, pun-making part of the family, including my cousin's new in-laws, so it could actually be
some fun, in a macabre Six Feet Under sort of way.
It's such a strange thing to suddenly speak and write about someone in the past tense.
I'm once again on the prowl for a new place to live. I hate the ambiguity of not knowing where I'm going to live, but the actual _looking_ is pretty fun. It's interesting to see where people call their home, what kind of neighborhoods are out there, trying to picture what my walk to the park would be like, or a bike ride to work. Change is afoot, and while that's super-scary, I'm going to try to make the best of it, whether it be just knuckling down and getting a place by myself or finding some happenin' roomies.
So if you hear of anyone/ anywhere who would welcome someone sarcastic with a
penchant for cooking, as well as a big silly dog, please let me know.
To the surprise of exactly no one, Stella is not very good at staying still and letting her leg heal.
Up at 1 am. Up at 3 am. Up at 5 am. Parents of newborns will have no sympathy - except for that to take her out, I have to brave both the neighbor's tough-ass cat and the raccoons.
After two days of constant whining, chewing and peeing I asked the vet for something to knock her out. (I think my exact words were "please, save me, I would really like to leave my house") Now she's stumbling around all drunk-like, and her eyes are even redder than normal. It hurts me terribly to see her so miserable, but if she doesn't stay still, she runs the risk of ruining the surgery, wasting time and pain. Poor stoned girl.
Operation Eden is a blog by Clayton James Cubitt, who is one of the best young photographers in America - at least according to Surface Magazine and your personal taste. You may have seen his work with Nerve.com, suicide girls, Metropop Magazine and various Brooklynite fashion shoots.
He's a New Orleans native, a kid raised by a pot runner and a go-go dancer, with a keen eye for detail and a fierce love of his home. Click here, scroll to the bottom, and take a trip through the faces of hurricane survivors.
Update: you can also buy prints of his photos to help support his family - I bought one of the still lifes.
The vet just called and said that Stella is in recovery from her surgery, and is on a continuous morphine drip through the night, but should be just fine. The first two weeks of her recovery are probably bound to be the hardest - she's not supposed to use stairs, and nothing but trips to the bathroom for the outside world. There's also going to be a long period of time where she can't be off-leash, but she's been really good about it so far, and I've got high hopes.
Thanks to everyone who contributed to the Stella fund. The amazing generosity of people - even those she has barked at/left hair on/rooted through their garbage astounds me. Thanks also to all my friends for being there to listen to me and my drama-queen self, who let me get all teary, and who sent me music. All yall rock.