Did you get your football schedule promo yet?
Closeout and outlet deals await!
Your klout score went up!
These nuggets, among many others, were awaiting my immediate response this morning in the email channel
I’m always disappointed in the email channel.
Praps the old admonishment about snail mail holds true here.
Gotta send letters to get letters.
Or elementary school.
Gotta be a friend to have a friend.
Wonder what their open rates are? These UN bidden emails. And since delete, or even ignore, are easier than unsubscribe, wonder how many actually get read. How many get the desired calls to action.
None. Such a small percentage that if there were a cost even a fraction of a cent each spam email sent, the charade of interruption marketing would implode.
It would collapse like the house of cards it is.
well, at least they’re trying. Bless their hearts.
No you didn’t.
That vapid ‘please RT!’
That ten thousandth invitation to join your mafia mob, tend your farm, or crush your candy.
The request for a LinkedIn recommendation that you copied and pasted to at least a metric shit ton of my mates, and me, about topics I’ve never discussed with you, procured from you, or even really knew that you did for a living.
That contest you needed votes for. Last minute like, but the votes don’t matter all that much because there’s an essay and video component too. Not that you put that much time, thought, or effort in either of those either.
Like your fb page?
Follow your automated Twitters feed? Check in on your foursquare?
Share your Instagram?
Snapchat you shots of what again?
Watch your you tube?
I think you’ve missed the point of this medium.
Sitting between where I’d like to be and looking at where I should be.
Looking for a sign. Looking for Nudge.
Duty calls. There is plenty of time for want to do.
Yep. It’s churchcamp time.
You know how I feel about it, so why beat the horse?
Cause I can.
It’s the jumpstart of the summer at our house. Sugarmouse is entirely too excited, which means her expectations are too high.
Lower yours, you’ll be glad ya did.
timid kids always have unrealistic expectations.
Calm. Before the storm.
It’s scholarship award day. In which the authors middle son may or may not have scored some quan to help defray the looming tuition of his wished for school.
Several years ago, the oldest one scored a halvsie scholarship to same school, and it was a major mixed reaction. The other half was still a painful bite, and we ARE paying for the government school anyway.
Death and taxes. ~~~Shaky fist!~~~
But we manned up and paid up. Dunno if it was a good investment or not. Yet. Seems to be. Sortakinda.
But at seventeen, it’s hard to say that anything is actually a good investment.
So, as popkinator turns fourteen in the next few days, we gotta decide. Government or private?
Without regard to total out of pocket, Izzit money well spent?
Related- our private school of choice has a strict ‘no free rides’ policy. That’s prolly a good thing, as everyone has skin in the game, even those of us not quite tall enough to ride their ride.
We wait with baited breath for the inevitable. A number. We have a walk away number in our heads, but the slightest daylight and I think we’ll throw everything at this caper. Small classes of motivated students surrounded by great instructors.
No metal detectors or gangs. Plenty of sex and drugs. But that’s America.
Kids these days.
Touch wood we get good news today.
Right place. Right time. Right sandwich.
It all started with a grilled cheese sandwich and an orange coat.
It’s funny now, in retrospect. I was boxed in a corner, as we started laying out tables, cutting boards, and griddles. I was at Orange coat, having a beer.
And a party was getting started. Rather than get out of the way,I just started making sandwiches.
Grilled cheese sandwiches.
Artisan bread, quirky cheeses, and some heat. Bam, sandwiches.
I don’t think there was soup. Just sammys. Was a cold and rainy night.
but there, in the corner, back to the wall,I met everyone. Bear, Evan, Jim, Frenchy, muffin, bit, Baron, Dr meg, maxim. Et al. By the time it en, Barry,ded we were standing room only.
Elbow to elbow, Sammy to beer.
I dunno if I consciously realized the elegance of the room fulla friends engaged in a slow food thingy. But there it was. Something we’ve tried to replicate, with varying degrees of success, for over five years now.
In which the author eats pie. #pieapalooza
First of all, it’s got nothing to do with pie.
Yes, there IS pie available.
But that’s a ruse. A red herring, although red herring would make a lousy pie.
It’s about third space.
Neither home, which most people’s first space. Nor work, which is most people’s second place.
Third. A non threatening, casual feeling, friendly place.
Yes we sell stuff and services. Yes, we could certainly make room for one and only one new client. But this caper, like most of our capers, has another aim.
We’re not gonna try to trick you. Into eating something nasty like the fake chef did the other day on daytime tv. We’re going with the penultimate comfort food. And rather than supplying the buffet, it’s collaborative.
That’s how we work, too.
Doubt you lot even eat pie, that’s how you stay so rail thin.
Doubt you need help telling your story, too.
We likes both pie and stories. Like a fat kid likes cake.
Blimey. I’ve broken the internets.
Finally got me swim mojo back. It’s neither fast nor elegant, yet it feels right. Feels fluid and kinda powerful.
Hope to get the bike mojo back soon, but what with the weirdly winteresque weather and cornucopia of good excuses to NOT be on the bike… Well, you know the drill.
I wonder what’s cooking under the surface. What capers inside of capers are coalescing inside me while I swim. While I think and dream.
It’s been a long time coming, and it’s hard not to regret the time spent in the desert. Away from the water. Away from the dreams.
In which the author makes a diff. Where Intimate,authentic,&unexpected trump that vapid crapassery that runs rampant. In our industry. And our planet.
It was just a dream? Or a dream of a dream.
Knowing what dreams matter is step one. Or splash one.
Glad to be making it.
A man wears a hat like THAT?
Walking down the street? He’s afraid of nothing.
Nary a thing in this golram universe. Not the bread and circuses driven media and governments that rule. Not the #kooziemongercorporateassclowndouchecanoecatalogcarpetbombinggladhandhashtagjackingcreepystalkersweatervestguys and charlatans that keep on their endless vapid spew.
Not the creditors who really, really want their two dollars.
It’s not hate that holds us, and binds us to inaction. Or worse, to incorrect action. It’s fear.
Ask the hard questions. Don’t be a shill.