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Add one part satire to two parts sincerity. Sprinkle on a couple of rants. Stir liberally.
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Daily Blah FAQ
Who are you?
I'm the newly-appointed Future editor at Business 2.0 and the former San Francisco correspondent for Time Magazine.
Wow, so does this mean everything you write reflects Time Inc's opinion? Or do you perhaps have some sort of standard disclaimer to the effect that it doesn't?
Naturally, the opinions contained in this blog are not those of my employers. In fact, some opinions may be the polar opposite of my employers. Some may be the same, for all I know. Hey, it's not like I ask my employers their opinions about everything in the news, okay? Let's just say that if this were a Venn diagram with one circle marked "my opinions" and the other one marked "my employers' opinions", there would doubtless be some overlap. But neither I nor my employers are able to pinpoint exactly where that overlap is.
What is this Daily Blah thing?
An experiment for a column I wrote about blogging back in December 2001. All these years later, I haven't been able to kick the habit.
If it's called Daily Blah, how come you don't ... hey, wait, you're writing every day!
See? Told you I'd try harder.
Mister, you talk funny. Are you one of them furrners?
Why yes I am, as it happens. I was born, raised and educated in Great Britain. I've been living in the U.S. since 1996 and identify as British.
I say, old chap, you forgot the "u" in "colour."
No I didn't. I may identify as British, but I am also an American journalist writing for an American audience about mostly American issues. These two different sides of me are a constant source of tension. Nevertheless, Daily Blah will adhere to American English grammar and spelling.
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Daily Blah for... Tuesday, May 14, 2002
Blame San Andreas. It's His Fault.
It turns out last night's quake was not the most powerful since Loma Prieta. There was one two years ago up in Napa that beat it. But as long as the vines stay up and the oak barrels are secure, who the hell cares about Napa? The epicenter of this one was Gilroy, garlic capital of the world, just south of San Jose, so more people felt it. It was very shallow, four miles underground, so people felt it more. And worst of all, the rumble came from our old friend San Andreas, the bastard responsible for 1906. Apparently there's a 10% chance of him getting angry again in the next couple of weeks. Then again, it's better to see him blow off steam like this than to have him bottle it up and wait for the Big One.
I've been feeling very unsatisfied with my description yesterday, the one about the floor turning to jelly. Not only does it confuse my American friends (I mean Jell-O, folks, not jam), but the metaphor is terribly overused. When I was an earthquake virgin, I'd ask experienced Bay Area residents to describe exactly what it felt like, and that was all they could say: "It was like standing on Jell-O." I was skeptical: What, you mean concrete and clay liquefies? How is that possible? Do ripples go up and down the street, as if it were built on a giant waterbed? The only reason I used it last night, and perpetuated the cycle of bad metaphors, is that I could remember saying to myself: yes, I see what they mean now.
No, there is no liquefication involved, not as such. No, it's not like being on a waterbed (that would be much more fun). It's more of a perceptual thing. See, we're used to solid ground being solid: rigid, unbending. It makes sense for us to perceive it that way, to imagine that the concrete and the rock extends all the way to the Earth's core, to ignore the fact that we live on enormous floating rafts of crust. When the rafts begin to scrape and wobble a little at the edges, it is so completely contrary to everything in our evolution that our brains freak out. There's a certain queasiness, the kind you get when you're seasick, or if you've fallen asleep on an airplane and imagine yourself to be in your armchair back home when, all of a sudden, you run into turbulence. You look out of the window and there are the wings, these supposedly solid hunks of metal, bending and bouncing like Dumbo's ears.
Same with last night's earthquake. From what little I can remember now of that blurry, adrenaline-filled moment, there was a bad feeling at the deepest, most primal part of my brain: this is wrong. Ground should not behave like this. The pattern of shaking made no sense: it was heavier, then lighter, then heavier in another part of the room, as if someone underground was playing a giant upside-down keyboard. It was all new information, a new form of perception, a mind-altering rush. And in as much as I love new experiences, new ways of thinking, I suppose I should thank Mr. Andreas for that. Next time, whenever that is, I'll be ready.
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