Tuesday, November 24, 2009


I googled it. It doesn't exist. And now it's mine. Here's my stab at an Oxford's definition, if I can get this thing to catch on.

Loginesia /ˈlɔgˌɪniʒə/
1. Complete or partial loss of memory of website login username and password information. 2. Having a large number of unrelated usernames and passwords such that an individual becomes incapable of remembering them. 3. An independent virtual state consisting primarily of internet-related detritus, files or data recorded or written in versions of software no longer in common use, and multiple digital photographs that are not intended for print. (see 'Photoblivion')

That's mine too.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Beware of Fraud on Facebook

This is NOT a conversation between me and my friend Matthew. It is a conversation between me and someone claiming to be my friend Matthew. Luckily I'm of the generation that still calls mothers at the crack of dawn to verify the location of their sons.

But in all seriousness, please be aware of this fraud tactic. I'll be contacting the FTC and InterPol today.


Need's Urgent Assistance!about an hour ago
Clear Chat History
hey there
How are u doing?
hi matthew. it's early! I'm just fine. how are you?
Am not good
what's wrong
Im in some kind of deep mess right now
how so?
Im stranded in London
I got mugged at a gun point last night
holy shit?
where are you?
All cash,credit card and phone was stolen
did you go to the police?
Im in a public Library
what credit cards do you need to notify?
i have reported to the local cops here.Investigation is going on
who do you need called?
I really need your urgent assitance
Thank God i still have my Life and passport
sure - how can I help?
The US embassy is helping me with my return flight home
My return flight leaves in few hour but having trouble sorting out the hotel bills
what hotel are you staying at?
Wondering if you could loan me some few $$$ to pay the hotel bills and take a cab to the Airport
I will def refund you when i return home
Would you loan me some cash?
what's the quickest way to do that, western union? it might be easier if I call the hotel with a credit card
and then western union some cash
you can wired it to me via western union
can you go to the hotel so I can call you there and help sort that part out?
Do you know any western union outlet around?
where are you in london?
Kentish town
what hotel?
You can wired the money to my full name as written on my passport
I checked in with cash...
what hotel?
Sector Inn...
can you go back there so we can talk?
Would you call the hotel Manager on my behalf?
I have limited time here
Yes, I can do that - are you going back there before the airport?
I cant go back to the hotel now..I need to return with cash Jessyca
How much can you spare me with right now?
hold on a sec
I'm on the phone with your mom
who is certain you're in mississippi
and that you're reporting to teach today.
want to tell me who the hell this is really?

See recent report on CNN


Saturday, August 01, 2009

the (little) devil in the details

In Praise of
The Second Nine Months by Vicki Glembocki

At about 5 months along in my own pregnancy, I read The Second Nine Months with a bit of trepidation but with great recommendation from a friend of the author’s who insisted that I would enjoy it. I did. The trepidation had come not from worrying that it would be too negative or sarcastic, or whiny and insufferable as “Operating Instructions,” (the voice of which smacks of bitterness from not having a partner with whom to venture into parenthood among other meanderings about drugs and religious hooey) but out of a fear of my own feelings. I get annoyed at the neediness of the dog, how will I ever be a mother? It is the unabashed, unapologetic look at self doubt that makes The Second Nine Months a success – not in delivering us a new trend in baby-and-pregnancy-related books (though it will likely result in a string of copycats).

I have a brutally honest friend who announced early in her first pregnancy that she thought the whole thing was gross – including the idea of having an infant – and while at the time I confused her portrayal of motherhood as a bit cold and unemotional, what I missed in the statement was the very emotion in it, the questions in herself she’s willing to face, and the strength to say, “it’s not complicated, or it is, but the fact that I’m straightforward with myself about it is not.” She’s right, it’s gross. Not admitting it is more gross. Not being able to speak the truth can literally make one sick and further – for what I’d like to think is the urbane woman – makes us slaves to the marketing empire that is salivating for us to drop our precious load on the economy, oddly, making us “consumers” while really we are producers.

Pregnancy makes you do weird things, like steal fruit from business breakfast buffets and google “why men find pregnant women so hot.” It makes you fierce and wilting a the same time. It conjures up all sorts of strange nightmares that progress with the pregnancy, of deformed babies and a deformed self image, coupled with a growing realization that while it may all be worth it in the end, the poopy parts might also have to be as good as it gets. It’s also a vibrant, pulsating time when you feel like there’s a beam of light on you wherever you go, a fecund image of life, family, sex and of loving a parasite. It’s confusing.

What I take most from Second Nine Months is that I know that deep, irrational love, the kind I feel for the first time with my future spouse and father of my child, and what I expect to feel for my child, comes with the capability to hate, a dark repose and broiling anger for the whole mess, the whole lot, and anyone that would dare step in my way as I couple with it. The balance between the two makes for a complicated woman, a light and darkness that defines us all, and a worthwhile life.

Thank you, Vicki. I will almost certainly give it a second read. If I have time. Which I have a feeling I will not. But I’ll want to.

The one thing I would change if I could in the story? Wouldda sent that email and then FIRED her ass.

Sunday, July 05, 2009

o kentucky

Recently I went to a Louisville Bats game at Slugger Field. The opposing team was somewhat irrelevant – let’s call it Bats v Gnats. I was impressed by the diligence of the seat steward, guarding the “diamond club” seats, all ten of them, with pride though the entire section lay empty. I sat at the periphery, the lone fan in my section, near first base. It was also called the “first base club” which I connect with Louisville’s air of innocence. The kissing and hands-on-top-of-blouse section, as it were. When a young barista offered me a “hot passion,” pronounced “pay-shun” I felt the blush push up past my cheeks and through my scalp. Kentucky people are deliberately slow, not to stave off heat or the shadow of oppression as in your deep southern states, but to make sure you know they’re trying really, really hard to please you. They talk like bourbon here, and it makes you want to confess all your secrets and be done with it.

If I looked deeper, if I moved my clothes and my life here (which includes a significant other that looks and talks like he should be here anyway) and settled into a neighborhood outside the candy fleur de lis shell, I do wonder what I would find. Kentucky is at once rich and destitute, a crossroads where horse people meet piss poor. There is a fantasy of wealth in Louisville and a romance that is shocking for a town in a state that borders Indiana, so far my least favorite state in the union – I lived in Valparaiso and no one had ever heard of Mardi Gras – something tells me they know about Mardi Gras in Louisville. In my experience, what lies across the border is in the boring belt. Kentucky, the rolling, pretty bluegrass south, is so far away from the beer gut that is most of the middle of the country. Taking in Kentucky one does not guzzle. One sips.

There are tremendous problems here, just as in the middle and the sides and the bottom and top of our country. There are pockets of poverty and ugliness, there are uneducated, abusive people, there is racism and intolerance, there is probably a serious issue with evolution and terrible corruption. That just makes it normal. There are piles of coal on the river. I could overlook those. Because it’s gorgeous here and the accents just kill me. The architecture is solid. There’s a serious take on preservation, a growing interest in sustainability, and an established dedication to stay local and buy American. People smile here, and there has been little reason to smile lately. I will admit I am still clueless about the complexities of life in this state. But I leave wanting to know more.

When I was thirteen I had a mysterious encounter under the blazing hot New Braunfels sun. There was a black bottom reservoir, a green eyed bathingbesuited boy a few years older than me (and about a foot taller) and an opportunity. We had this silly and polite adolescent-intellectual conversation under a tree for an hour, and I took his picture doing a swan dive into the deep water. I never saw him again but I will always be able to recall with great accuracy the romantic buzz I had for the rest of that muggy Texas summer. He had this funny southern accent I didn’t recognize and touched my hair and cheek sweetly and kissed me goodbye, first base nowhere in sight.

Kentucky sorta makes me feel that way.

Tuesday, May 05, 2009

led by strangers

well, I wouldn't want to stand there and wait for a conductor.

He was so patient, seeming to look at a point just off my shoulder as I reached him in line, a steady stream of besuited ants marching by him and out the train door.
- one woman, the one that sat next to me and spoke staccato
words in a language I did not recognize, stepped off, turned around and
said, "does he need help?" and then before I could advise, disappeared.

"I only see one conductor and he's way down at the first car [helping
people who are perfectly capable of getting out of the train all by their
big-boy selves...] - why don't I take you where you need to go" I said hopefully to him, above the din and shuffle.

"aren't you nice. thank you" he offered and we stepped over the threshold, a gap that I normally
ignore completely, but of which today I made a verbal presentation. "we're stepping over now" I said eagerly and when our right feet hit the platform in unison, he took hold of the heel of my hand and launched down the ramp to the station with more conviction than me. His command of the space - limitless to him and bound to me by hundreds of bodies and obstacles, caught me off guard and I momentarily hesitated - he was leading me, for a moment, and then I rebounded to finish the job as I thought I should.

This could be my realizing that I take too much for granted - vision, among other natural 'gifts' but I'll refrain, and it would be untrue. Mostly in those moments I had with him, I thought about whether or not he could do things better than me, like smell and feel. If it's annoying waiting on arms to hitch rides, and if he could tell by my voice that I am a nice person - and an idea for a love story. Certainly he can't tell his gentle grip on the heel of my hand and great purpose with which he took his steps made me think about falling in love without seeing someone. No, you can't tell that from a walk and a chat about the daily commute - so banal and chatty a chat about the acronyms that follow us like stray dogs through our days in DC.

No I'd have to tell him that, I suppose. And many other things that none of us care to see in each other.