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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 always write every day?
I am trying harder. I promise. Please don't hurt me.
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.
Praise for Daily Blah:
"It is fun to watch the author's navel-gazing joy." - Sunday Times (UK)
"It's really funny and informative." - Dave Eggers, author
"The Blah is becoming a daily destination for me." - Richard Marsh, Playwright
"I like it, and I don't." - Fiona Hogg, Teacher
"Better than Xanax." - Lessley Andersen, journalist
"Dude, lay off the crack pipe." - Souris Hong-Porretta, gamesmith
Friends, Bloggers, Countrymen ... lend your ears to these people. I come not to bury them, but praise them.
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Wonkette
My TIME articles
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Online column index
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Daily Blah for... Thursday, May 16, 2002
Splinter of the Minds, eh?
An early but seemingly unassailable contender for freakiest flash animation of the year (which really should be a Webby category): Flashback.
Type in the Birds You're Looking For
Ever wondered why Google is such a great search engine? The answer is not what you might expect.
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.
Daily Blah for... Monday, May 13, 2002
Shaking All Over
Sometimes the universe has a twisted sense of humor. Tonight I experienced my first San Francisco earthquake -- 5.2 on the richter scale, enough to make the news -- and it came right in the middle of a dinner for the launch of a September 11th photography exhibit. The exhibit is in the atrium of One Market; a location which, we had earlier been reminded, is very similar to the atrium in the World Trade Center. Now guests and staffers from Time, which sponsored the showing, were having dinner in the adjoining restaurant. There were several September 11 survivors in the room with us -- including Salty, a guide dog who helped lead his owner down 70 flights of stairs to escape from the North Tower. We were onto the creme brulee and Time publisher Ed McCarrick was regailing us with his 9/11 story.
Suddenly the floor turned to jelly. It was like nothing I'd ever experienced. My first instinct was to grab onto the table, as if that would stop the room shaking from side to side (it's in times like these that you find out how much of a control freak you are). We felt a deep rumble. McCarrick, a well-built man, was still walking and talking. "Earthquake," people piped up.
"Is it?" said McCarrick. "I thought that was just me, moving around."
Cool as anything, he waited a few moments for the shaking and the chatter to cease, then kept right on talking. The quake had lasted about 15 seconds. It was exaggerated for us, because One Market is right by the Bay, built on sand and landfill. Poor Salty -- he had a look on his face that said "Is this happening again? Hey, people, shouldn't we be getting out of here right about now?"
For me, the quake had lasted just long enough for a few troubling thoughts to pass across the brain: What happens if this gets worse? Will we be safe here with all this glass around? Will my home be safe? Will my friends be safe? I looked around and saw the same questions flashing across other faces, although the experienced San Franciscans quickly laughed it off -- that, they said, was nothing. But just for a moment there, we had a sense of shared powerlessness, a vast vulnerability. It was, in short, very September 11.
Daily Blah for... Sunday, May 12, 2002
Self-promotion, Part 94
There's nothing like tooting one's own horn, and there's nothing that enables said horn-tooting like getting three hefty stories in this week's issue of Time. There's my six-page Global Business special on the worldwide music slump, including a sidebar on dealing with download guilt. There's this week's Personal Time technology column on Graffiti vs. keyboards. (My mother, at least, will find this one interesting, since she's featured in it -- although I'm not sure how she'll take to having her name Americanized throughout, to "mom." What a gum-chewing, baseball cap-wearing embarrassment I must be ... just kidding, "mom.")
And then there's a three-page expose on Enron's dirty dealings in the Golden State, wonderfully titled California Scheming. Now just because I've given you links to all the stories doesn't absolve you from the responsibility of going out and buying the magazine itself. There are lots of nice pictures you're missing out on, and besides, someone's got to pay my salary.
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